Though he entertained no very high opinion of himself,
he certainly held fate responsible for his natural
deficiencies. He was poor, he reasoned, and therefore
had no right to fall in love. Ah! if only he
were wealthy and familiar with all the things idle,
prosperous people know, how entirely the splendour
of his material surroundings would be in harmony with
the splendour of his passion! What blundering,
ferocious god of cruelty had immured in the dungeon
of poverty this soul of his that so overflowed with
desires?
He opened his window and caught sight of his father’s
apprentice on his way back to the workshop. The
lad stood there on the pavement talking with naive
effrontery to a little book-stitcher of his acquaintance.
He was kissing the girl, without a thought of the
passers-by, and whistling a tune between his teeth.
The pretty, sickly-looking slattern carried her rags
with an air, and wore a pair of smart, well-made boots;
she was pretending to push her admirer away, while
really doing just the opposite, for the slim yet broad-shouldered
stripling in his blue blouse had a certain townified
elegance and the “conquering hero” air
of the suburban dancing-saloons. When he left
her, she looked back repeatedly; but he was examining
the saveloys in a pork-butcher’s window, never
giving another thought to the girl.
Jean, as he looked on at the little scene, found himself
envying his father’s apprentice.
XVI
He read the same morning on the posters that she
was playing that evening. He watched for her
after the performance and saw her distributing hand-shakes
to sundry acquaintances before driving off. He
was suddenly struck with something hard and cruel in
her, which he had not observed in the interview of
the night before. Then he discovered that he
hated her, abominated her with all the force of his
mind and muscles and nerves. He longed to tear
her to pieces, to rend and crush her. It made
him furious to think she was moving, talking, laughing,—in
a word, that she was alive. At least it was only
fair she should suffer, that life should wound her
and make her heart bleed. He was rejoiced at
the thought that she must die one day, and then nothing
of her would be left, of her rounded shape and the
warmth of her flesh; none would ever again see the
superb play of light in her hair and eyes, the reflections,
now pale, now pearly, of her dead-white skin.
But her body, that filled him with such rage, would
be young and warm and supple for long years yet, and
lover after lover would feel it quiver and awake to
passion. She would exist for other men, but not
for him. Was that to be borne? Ah! the deliciousness
of plunging a dagger in that warm, living bosom!
Ah! the bliss, the voluptuousness of holding her pinned
beneath one knee and demanding between two stabs:
“Am I ridiculous now?”
He was still muttering suchlike maledictions when
he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. Wheeling
round, he saw a quaint figure—a huge nose
like a pothook, high, massive shoulders, enormous,
well-shaped hands, a general impression of uncouthness
combined with vigour and geniality. He thought
for a moment where this strange monster could have
come from; then he shouted: “Garneret!”
Copyrights
The Aspirations of Jean Servien from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
