The Disappearance of Émile Zola Page 22

  ‘Ah! why? Why? Can I tell? People say so many things.’

  I was doubtless beginning to inspire her with some confidence. Besides, at heart she must have been burning to tell me the many things that people said. She began by relating that not one of the girls of the neighbouring village ever dared to enter La Sauvagiere after twilight, for rumour had it that some poor wandering soul returned thither every night. And, as I expressed astonishment that such a story could still find any credit so near to Paris, she shrugged her shoulders, tried to talk like a strong-minded woman, but finally betrayed by her manner the terror she did not confess.

  ‘There are facts that can’t be denied, monsieur. You ask why the place is not sold? I’ve seen many purchasers arrive, and all have gone off quicker than they came; not one of them has ever put in a second appearance. Well, one matter that’s certain is that as soon as a visitor dares venture inside the house some extraordinary things happen. The doors swing to and fro and close by themselves with a bang, as if a hurricane were sweeping past. Cries, moans, and sobs ascend from the cellars, and if the visitor obstinately remains, a heartrending voice raises a continuous cry of “Angeline! Angeline! Angeline!” in such distressful, appealing tones that one’s very bones are frozen. I repeat to you that this has been proved, nobody will tell you otherwise.’

  I just own that I was now growing impassioned myself, and could feel a little chilly quiver coursing under my skin.

  ‘And this Angeline, who is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah! monsieur, it would be necessary to tell you all. And once again, for my part I know nothing.’

  Nevertheless, the old woman ended by telling me all. Some forty years previously – in or about 1858 – at the time when the triumphant Second Empire was as ever en fête, Monsieur de G., a Tuileries functionary, lost his wife, by whom he had a daughter some ten years old – Angeline, a marvel of beauty, the living portrait of her mother. Two years later, Monsieur de G. married again, espousing another famous beauty, the widow of a general. And it was asserted that, from the very moment of those second nuptials, atrocious jealousy had sprung up between Angeline and her stepmother; the former stricken in the heart at finding her own mother already forgotten, replaced so soon by a stranger; and the other tortured, maddened by always having before her that living portrait of a woman whose memory, she feared, she would never be able to efface. La Sauvagiere was the property of the new Madame de G., and there one evening, on seeing the father passionately embrace his daughter, she, in her jealous madness, it was said, had dealt the child so violent a blow, that the poor girl had fallen to the floor dead, her collar-bone broken. Then the rest was frightful: the distracted father consenting to bury his daughter with his own hands in a cellar of the house in order to save the murderess; the remains lying there for years, whilst the child was said to be living with an aunt; and at last the howls of a dog and its persistent scratching of the ground leading to the discovery of the crime, which was, however, at once hushed up by command of the Tuileries. And now Monsieur and Madame de G. were both dead, while Angeline again returned each night at the call of the heartrending voice that ever cried for her from out of the mysterious spheres beyond the darkness.

  ‘Nobody will contradict me,’ concluded Mother Toussaint. ‘It is all as true as that two and two make four.’

  I had listened to her in bewilderment, resenting certain improbabilities, but won over by the brutal and sombre strangeness of the tragedy. I had heard of this Monsieur de G., and it seemed to me that he had indeed married a second time, and that some family grief had overclouded his life. Was the tale true, then? What a tragical and affecting story! Every human passion stirred up, heightened, exasperated to madness; the most terrifying love tale there could be, a little girl as beautiful as daylight, adored, and yet killed by her stepmother, and buried by her father in the corner of a cellar! There was more here more matter for horror and emotion than one might dare to hope for. I was again about to question and discuss things. Then I asked myself what would be the use of it? Why not carry that frightful story away with me in its flower – such indeed as it had sprouted from popular imagination?

  As I again sprang upon my bicycle I gave La Sauvagiere a last glance. The night was falling and the woeful house gazed at me with its dim and empty windows akin to the eyes of a corpse, whilst the wail of the autumn wind still swept through the ancient trees.

  Why did this story so fix itself in my brain as to lead to real obsession, perfect torment? This is one of those intellectual problems that are difficult to resolve. In vain I told myself that similar legends overrun the rural districts, and that I had no direct concern in this one. In spite of all, I was haunted by that dead child, that lovely and tragic Angeline, to whom every night for forty years past a desolate voice had called through the empty rooms of the forsaken house.

  Thus, during the first two months of the winter, I made researches. It was evident that if anything, however little, had transpired of such a dramatic disappearance, the newspapers of the period must have referred to it. However, I ransacked the collections of the National Library without discovering a line about any such story. Then I questioned contemporaries, men who had formerly had intercourse with Tuileries society; but none could give me a positive reply, I only obtained contradictory information. So much so that, although still and ever tortured by the mystery, I had abandoned all hope of getting to the truth, when chance one morning set me on a fresh track.

  Every two or three weeks I paid a visit of goodfellowship, affection, and admiration to the old poet V., who died last April on the threshold of his seventieth year. Paralysis of the legs had, for many years previous, riveted him to an armchair in his study of the Rue d’Assas whose windows overlooked the Luxembourg gardens. He there peacefully finished a dreamy life, for he had ever lived on imagination, building for himself a palace of ideality, in which he had loved and suffered far away from the real. Who of us does not remember his refined and amiable features, his white hair curly like a child’s, his pale blue eyes, which had retained the innocence of youth? One could not say that he invariably told falsehoods. But the truth is that he was prone to invention, in suchwise that one never exactly knew at what point reality ceased to exist for him and at what point dreaming began. He was a very charming old man, long since detached from life, one whose words often filled me with emotion as if indeed they were a vague, discreet revelation of the unknown.

  One day, then, I was chatting with him near the window of the little room which a blazing fire ever warmed. It was freezing terribly out of doors. The Luxembourg gardens stretched away white with snow, displaying a broad horizon of immaculate purity. And I know not how, but at last I spoke to him of La Sauvagiere, and of the story that still worried me – that father who had remarried, and that stepmother, jealous of the little girl; then the murder perpetrated in a fit of fury, and the burial in the cellar. V. listened to me with the quiet smile which he retained even in moments of sadness. Then silence fell, his pale blue eyes wandered away over the white immensity of the Luxembourg, whilst a shade of dreaminess, emanating from him, seemed to set a faint quiver all around.

  ‘I knew Monsieur de G. very well,’ he said. ‘I knew his first wife, whose beauty was superhuman; I knew the second one, who was no less wondrously beautiful; and I myself passionately loved them both without ever telling it. I also knew Angeline, who was yet more beautiful than they, and whom all men a little later would have worshipped on their knees. But things did not happen quite as you say.’

  My emotion was profound. Was the unexpected truth that I despaired of at first hand, then? At first I felt no distrust, but said to him, ‘Ah! what a service you render me, my friend! I shall at last be able to quiet my poor mind. Make haste to tell me all.’

  But he was not listening, his glance still wandered far away. And he began to speak in a dreamy voice, as if creating things and beings in his mind as he proceeded with his narrative.

  ‘At twelve years of a
ge Angeline was one in whom all woman’s love, with every impulse of joy and grief, had already flowered. She it was who felt desperately jealous of the new wife whom every day she saw in her father’s arms. She suffered from it as from some frightful act of betrayal; it was not her mother only who was insulted by that new union, she herself was tortured, her own heart was pierced. Every night, too, she heard her mother calling her from her tomb, and one night, eager to rejoin her, overcome by excess of suffering and excess of love, this child, who was but twelve years old, thrust a knife into her heart.’

  A cry burst from me. ‘God of heaven! Is it possible?’

  ‘How great was the fright and horror,’ he continued, without hearing me, ‘when on the morrow Monsieur and Madame G. found Angeline in her little bed with that knife plunged to its very handle in her breast! They were about to start for Italy; of all their servants, too, there only remained in the house an old nurse who had reared the child. In their terror, fearing that they might be accused of a crime, they induced the woman to help them, and they did indeed bury the body, but in a corner of the conservatory behind the house at the foot of a huge orange-tree. And there she was found on the day when, the parents being dead, the old servant told the story.’

  Doubts had come to me while he spoke, and I scrutinised him anxiously, wondering if he had not invented this.

  ‘But,’ said I, ‘do you also think it possible that Angeline can come back each night in response to the heartrending, mysterious voice that calls her?’

  This time he looked at me and smiled indulgently once more.

  ‘Come back, my friend? Why everyone comes back! Why should not the soul of that dear dead child still dwell in the spot where she loved and suffered? If a voice is heard calling her ’tis because life has not yet begun afresh for her. Yet it will begin afresh, be sure of it; for all begins afresh. Nothing is lost, love no more than beauty. Angeline! Angeline! Angeline! She is called, and will be born anew to the sunlight and the flowers.’

  Decidedly, neither belief nor tranquillity came to my mind. Indeed, my old friend V., the child-poet, had but increased my torment. He had assuredly been inventing things. And yet, like all visionaries, he could, perhaps, divine the truth.

  ‘Is it all true, what you have been telling me?’ I ventured to ask him with a laugh.

  He in his turn broke into gentle mirth.

  ‘Why, certainly it is true. Is not the infinite all true?’

  That was the last time I saw him, for soon afterwards I had to quit Paris. But I can still picture him, glancing thoughtfully over the white expanse of the Luxembourg, so tranquil in the convictions born of his endless dream, whereas I am consumed by my desire to arrest and for all time determine Truth, which ever and ever flees.

  Eighteen months went by. I had been obliged to travel; great trials and great joys had impassioned my life amidst the tempest-gust which carries us all onwards to the Unknown. But at certain moments still I heard the woeful cry, ‘Angeline! Angeline! Angeline!’ approach from afar and penetrate me. And then I trembled, full of doubt once more, tortured by my desire to know. I could not forget; for me there is no worse hell than uncertainty.

  I cannot say how it was that one splendid June evening I again found myself on my bicycle on the lonely road that passes La Sauvagiere. Had I expressly wished to see the place again, or was it mere instinct that had impelled me to quit the highway and turn in that direction? It was nearly eight o’clock, but, those being the longest days of the year, the sky was still radiant with a triumphal sunset, cloudless, all gold and azure. And how light and delicious was the atmosphere, how pleasant was the scent of foliage and grass, how softly and sweetly joyous was the far-stretching peacefulness of the fields!

  As on the first occasion, amazement made me spring from my machine in front of La Sauvagiere. I hesitated for a moment. The place was no longer the same. A fine new iron gate glittered in the sunset, the walls had been repaired, and the house, which I could scarce distinguish among the trees, seemed to have regained the smiling gaiety of youth. Was this, then, the predicted resurrection? Had Angeline returned to life at the call of the distant voice?

  I had remained on the road, thunderstruck, still gazing, when a halting footfall made me start. I turned and saw Mother Toussaint bringing her cow back from a neighbouring patch of lucerne.

  ‘So those folks were not frightened, eh?’ said I, pointing to the house.

  She recognised me and stopped her beast.

  ‘Ah, monsieur!’ she answered, ‘there are people who would tread on God Himself! The place has been sold for more than a year now. But it was a painter who bought it, a painter named B., and those artists, you know, are capable of anything!’

  Then she drove on her cow, shaking her head and adding: ‘Well, well, we must see how it will all turn out.’

  B. the painter, the delicate and skilful artist who had portrayed so many amiable Parisiennes! I knew him a little; we shook hands when we met at theatres and shows, wherever, indeed, people are apt to meet. Thus, all at once, an irresistible longing seized me to go in, make my confession to him, and beg him to tell me what he knew of this Sauvagiere, whose mystery ever haunted me. And without reasoning, without thought even of my dusty cycling suit, which custom, by the way, is now rendering permissible, I opened the gate and rolled my bicycle as far as the mossy trunk of an old tree. At the clear call of the bell affixed to the gate a servant came; I handed him my card and he left me for a moment in the garden.

  My surprise increased still more when I glanced around me. The house-front had been repaired, there were no more cracks, no more disjointed bricks; the steps, girt with roses, were once more like a threshold of joyous welcome; and now the living windows smiled and spoke of the happiness behind their snowy curtains. Then, too, there was the garden rid of its nettles and brambles, the flower-bed reviviscent, resembling a huge and fragrant nosegay, and the old trees, standing amid the quietude of centuries, rejuvenated by the golden rain of the summer sun.

  When the servant returned he led me to a drawing-room, saying that his master had gone to the neighbouring village, but would soon be home. I would have waited for hours. At first I took patience in examining the room, which was elegantly furnished, with heavy carpets, and window and door curtains of cretonne similar to that which upholstered the large settee and the deep armchairs. The hangings were indeed so full that I felt astonished at the sudden fall of daylight. Then came darkness almost perfect. I know not how long I stayed there; I had been forgotten, no lamp even was brought me. Seated in the gloom, I once again yielded up to my dreams and lived through the whole tragic story. Had Angeline been murdered? Or had she herself thrust a knife into her heart? And I must confess it, in that haunted house, where all had become so black, fear seized up on me – fear which was at the outset but slight uneasiness, a little creeping of the flesh, and which afterwards grew, froze me from head to foot, till I was filled with insane fright.

  It seemed to me at first that vague sounds were echoing somewhere. ’Twas doubtless in the depths of the cellars. There were low moans, stifled sobs, footsteps as of some phantom. Then it all ascended and drew nearer, the whole dark house seemed to me full of that frightful anguish. All at once the terrible call arose, ‘Angeline! Angeline! Angeline!’ with such increasing force that I fancied I could feel a puff of icy breath sweep across my face. A door of the drawing-room was flung open violently, Angeline entered and crossed the room without seeing me. I recognised her in the flash of light which came in with her from the hall, where a lamp was burning. ’Twas really she, the poor dead child, twelve years of age, so marvellously beautiful. Her splendid hair fell over her shoulders, and she was clad in white; she had come all white from the grave, whence every night she rose. Mute, scared, she passed before me, and vanished through another door, whilst again the cry rang out farther away, ‘Angeline! Angeline! Angeline!’ And I – I remained erect, my brow wet with perspiration, in a state of horror, which made my hair stand
on end, beneath the terror-striking blast that had come from the Mysterious.

  Almost immediately afterwards, I fancy, at the moment when a servant at last brought a lamp, I became conscious that B., the painter, was beside me, shaking my hand and apologising for having kept me waiting so long. I showed no false pride, but, still quivering with dread, I at once told him my story. And with what astonishment did he not at first listen to me, and then with what kindly laughter did he not seek to reassure me!

  ‘You were doubtless unaware, my dear fellow, that I am a cousin of the second Madame de G. Poor woman! To accuse her of having murdered that child, she who loved her and wept for her as much as the father himself did! For the only point that is true is that the poor little girl did die here, not, thank heaven! by her own hand, but from a sudden fever which struck her down like a thunderbolt, in suchwise that the parents forsook this house in horror and would never return to it. This explains why it so long remained empty even in their lifetime. After their death came endless lawsuits, which prevented it from being sold. I wished to secure it myself, I watched for it for years, and I assure you that since we have been here we have seen no ghost.’

  The little quiver came over me again, and I stammered, ‘But Angeline, I have just seen her, here, this moment! The terrible voice was calling her, and she passed by, she crossed this room!’

  He looked at me in dismay, fancying that my mind was affected. Then, all at once, he again broke into a sonorous, happy laugh.

  ‘It was my daughter whom you saw. It so happens that Monsieur de G. was her godfather; and in memory of his own dear daughter he chose the name of Angeline. No doubt her mother was calling her just now, and she passed through this room.’

  Then he himself opened a door, and once more raised the cry, ‘Angeline! Angeline! Angeline!’

  The child returned, not dead, but living, sparkling with juvenile gaiety. ’Twas she in her white gown, with her splendid fair hair falling over her shoulders, and so beautiful, so radiant with hope, that she looked like an incarnation of all the springtide of life, bearing in the bud the promise of love and the promise of long years of happiness.