A Love Story by Emile Zola

Author:Emile Zola
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oxford University Press
Published: 2017-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

The convalescence lasted for months. In August Jeanne was still in bed. She got up for an hour or two towards evening and it tired her dreadfully to walk even as far as the window, where she remained lying back in an armchair, looking at Paris ablaze in the setting sun. Her poor legs refused to carry her. As she said with a faint smile, she did not have as much blood as a little bird, they should wait until she could eat a lot of soup. They cut up raw meat and put it in her broth. She had got to liking that in the end because she wanted to go down and play in the garden.

Those weeks, months, went by, in a dull but pleasant routine and Hélène was not aware of time passing. She no longer went out, she forgot everything when looking after Jeanne. No news from elsewhere reached her. With its view over Paris, that filled the horizon with its smoke and noise, it was a retreat that was more remote and secluded than the holy hermitages of the saints deep in the rocks. Her child was saved, this certainty was enough for her, she spent her days watching for any improvement in her health, happy at any subtle change, a bright glance, a happy wave. Every hour her daughter was growing a little more like her old self, with her lovely eyes and hair that was shiny again. She felt as if she was giving birth to her a second time. The slower the resurrection, the more she appreciated its delights, remembering when she had fed her from her breast long ago, and when she saw her regain her strength, she felt an emotion even more powerful than in those days, when she had measured the two tiny feet in her clasped hands to find out if she would be walking soon.

But she was still worried about something. On several occasions she had noticed a shadow come over Jeanne’s face and render it mistrustful and fierce. Why in the midst of gaiety did she suddenly change like that? Was she suffering, was she concealing some recurring pain?

‘Tell me, darling, what’s the matter? You were laughing just now, and now you are sad. Answer me, do you hurt somewhere?’

But Jeanne turned violently away, burying her face in her pillow.

‘I’m all right,’ she snapped. ‘Please leave me alone.’

And for afternoons at a time she was resentful and obstinate, her face to the wall, falling into some dreadful trough of despair that her stricken mother could not fathom. The doctor was baffled. The attacks always occurred when he was present, and he attributed them to the nervous disposition of the sick girl. Above all they should avoid crossing her, was his advice.

One afternoon, Jeanne was asleep. Henri, who had found her doing very well, had stayed in the bedroom chatting to Hélène, once more busy with her never-ending sewing in front of the window. Ever since

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