Read Online The Flood by Émile Zola - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Émile Zola
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the sand. That way he could be with his brother. Deep down, he was frantic, always thinking that Louis would be killed.
Even now I can’t work out why war frightened Julien so much. He was no coward. He just disliked anything physical, setting it far below the life of the mind. To live like a scholar or a poet, in a shuttered study, seemed to him our true goal on this earth. The mayhem out on the streets, the fistfights and the duelling – the stuff that puts muscle on you – seemed to him evidence of savagery. At the circus, the strongmen and acrobats and lion-tamers all deserved contempt. And he was in no way patriotic, let me tell you this now. We used to give him a lot of stick, finding it shameful; I can still see him smile, shrugging his shoulders.
One of my most vivid memories of that time is the fine summer’s day when news of the victory at Magenta spread through Paris. 5 It was June – a gorgeous June, unlike what we usually get in France. It was a Sunday. We had planned the day before, Julien and I, to go for a walk on the Champs-Elysées . He was very anxious about his brother – he had sent no letters – and I wanted to distract him. I called for him at one o’clock, and we sauntered down to the Seine, with the lazy scuff of pupils who no longer have the warden watching over them. You don’t really know Paris if you haven’t been there on of these incredibly hot summer days. Houses cast sharp black shadows on the white pavement. Between the shuttered façades you saw nothing but a solid stripe of blue sky. When Paris is hot, I don’t know anywhere that’s hotter. It’s a furnace; stifling, suffocating. Some corners of the city are deserted, like the quays, which layabouts abandon for the cooler groves on the outskirts. Yet how pleasant it is to stroll along the wide, quiet quays with their rows of little leafy trees, overlooking the great flowing river, buoyant with its bobbing throng of boats!
So, we were at the Seine, walking quayside, shaded by trees. Faint sounds could be heard from the river, its water rippling in the sun with sweeping silvery glimmers. There was something in the air that Sunday. Paris was getting ready to hear the big news that everyone – every
thing
even – seemed to be waiting for. The Italian campaign, which ended so quickly as we all know, had begun successfully; but so far there had been no decisive battle, and Paris had spent two days waiting for just such an encounter. The great city listened, rapt, for the faraway sound of shelling.
This memory has stayed with me very clearly: I had just told Julien how odd I felt, saying that Paris seemed spooky,when we reached the Quai Voltaire and saw, in the distance, a tiny group of people standing outside the office where they printed
Le
Moniteur
. 6 There were seven or eight people, reading a poster. From the other side of the street we could see them talking animatedly, laughing. We crossed eagerly. The poster was a handwritten telegram; it said, in four lines, that Magenta was taken. The wax fixing it to the wall was still wet. That Sunday, we were clearly the first to know, in all of Paris. People came running, so desperate to find out! Complete strangers shook hands, chatting away. A gentleman with a ribbon in his buttonhole explained to a workman how the battle must have unfolded. Women laughed enticingly, and looked as if they were tempted to throw themselves at anyone who passed. The huddle grew. Passers-by were beckoned over; coachmen pulled up and climbed down from their seats. By the time we left, more than a thousand people were there.
It was a great day. In a few minutes the news had crossed the entire city. We thought we’d be the ones telling everybody, but it overtook us; we couldn’t turn a corner or walk down the road without seeing happy faces. The news floated in the sunshine; it was carried on the breeze. In half an hour, the atmosphere had changed; tense anticipation had given way to jubilant
Even now I can’t work out why war frightened Julien so much. He was no coward. He just disliked anything physical, setting it far below the life of the mind. To live like a scholar or a poet, in a shuttered study, seemed to him our true goal on this earth. The mayhem out on the streets, the fistfights and the duelling – the stuff that puts muscle on you – seemed to him evidence of savagery. At the circus, the strongmen and acrobats and lion-tamers all deserved contempt. And he was in no way patriotic, let me tell you this now. We used to give him a lot of stick, finding it shameful; I can still see him smile, shrugging his shoulders.
One of my most vivid memories of that time is the fine summer’s day when news of the victory at Magenta spread through Paris. 5 It was June – a gorgeous June, unlike what we usually get in France. It was a Sunday. We had planned the day before, Julien and I, to go for a walk on the Champs-Elysées . He was very anxious about his brother – he had sent no letters – and I wanted to distract him. I called for him at one o’clock, and we sauntered down to the Seine, with the lazy scuff of pupils who no longer have the warden watching over them. You don’t really know Paris if you haven’t been there on of these incredibly hot summer days. Houses cast sharp black shadows on the white pavement. Between the shuttered façades you saw nothing but a solid stripe of blue sky. When Paris is hot, I don’t know anywhere that’s hotter. It’s a furnace; stifling, suffocating. Some corners of the city are deserted, like the quays, which layabouts abandon for the cooler groves on the outskirts. Yet how pleasant it is to stroll along the wide, quiet quays with their rows of little leafy trees, overlooking the great flowing river, buoyant with its bobbing throng of boats!
So, we were at the Seine, walking quayside, shaded by trees. Faint sounds could be heard from the river, its water rippling in the sun with sweeping silvery glimmers. There was something in the air that Sunday. Paris was getting ready to hear the big news that everyone – every
thing
even – seemed to be waiting for. The Italian campaign, which ended so quickly as we all know, had begun successfully; but so far there had been no decisive battle, and Paris had spent two days waiting for just such an encounter. The great city listened, rapt, for the faraway sound of shelling.
This memory has stayed with me very clearly: I had just told Julien how odd I felt, saying that Paris seemed spooky,when we reached the Quai Voltaire and saw, in the distance, a tiny group of people standing outside the office where they printed
Le
Moniteur
. 6 There were seven or eight people, reading a poster. From the other side of the street we could see them talking animatedly, laughing. We crossed eagerly. The poster was a handwritten telegram; it said, in four lines, that Magenta was taken. The wax fixing it to the wall was still wet. That Sunday, we were clearly the first to know, in all of Paris. People came running, so desperate to find out! Complete strangers shook hands, chatting away. A gentleman with a ribbon in his buttonhole explained to a workman how the battle must have unfolded. Women laughed enticingly, and looked as if they were tempted to throw themselves at anyone who passed. The huddle grew. Passers-by were beckoned over; coachmen pulled up and climbed down from their seats. By the time we left, more than a thousand people were there.
It was a great day. In a few minutes the news had crossed the entire city. We thought we’d be the ones telling everybody, but it overtook us; we couldn’t turn a corner or walk down the road without seeing happy faces. The news floated in the sunshine; it was carried on the breeze. In half an hour, the atmosphere had changed; tense anticipation had given way to jubilant
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