The Fortune of the Rougons | Page 7

Emile Zola
path stretched away like a dark trench, except
that the moonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber,
then streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness
and light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe
the calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the
path, and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form
an angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might be
coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stooped
down, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.
An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the
burial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a high
and slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss was
slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an
inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might
still have been distinguished in the moonlight: "/Here lieth . . . Marie . . .
died . . ./" The finger of time had effaced the rest.
When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened
attentively, and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone.
The wall being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He
could, however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the
row of mulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the
Jas-Meiffren spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of
unbleached linen; a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its
outbuildings formed a still whiter patch. The young man was still
gazing anxiously in that direction when, suddenly, one of the town
clocks slowly and solemnly struck seven. He counted the strokes, and
then jumped down, apparently surprised and relieved.
He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared to wait
some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remained
motionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of the
cold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placed
himself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had
gradually reached him, and at last his head was in the full light.

He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and soft
delicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen
years of age, and was handsome in a characteristic way.
His thin, long face looked like the work of some master sculptor; his
high forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad flat chin, and
protruding cheek bones, gave singularly bold relief to his countenance.
Such a face would, with advancing age, become too bony, as fleshless
as that of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and
cheek lightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was
attenuated by the charming softness of certain contours which had
remained vague and childlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth,
also lent delicacy to his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young
fellow would probably not have fascinated all women, as he was not
what one calls a handsome man; but his features, as a whole, expressed
such ardent and sympathetic life, such enthusiasm and energy, that they
doubtless engaged the thoughts of the girls of his own part--those
sunburnt girls of the South--as he passed their doors on sultry July
evenings.
He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, and
apparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell upon his
chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick-set, with over-
developed arms and a labourer's hands, already hardened by toil; his
feet, shod with heavy laced boots, looked large and square-toed. His
general appearance, more particularly the heaviness of his limbs,
bespoke lowly origin. There was, however, something in him, in the
upright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes,
which seemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual
labour which was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was, no
doubt, an intelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of
race and class; one of those delicate refined minds embedded in a rough
envelope, from which they in vain struggle to free themselves. Thus, in
spite of his vigour, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of
unconscious shame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was,
whose very ignorance had generated enthusiasm, whose manly heart
was impelled by childish intellect, and who could show alike the

submissiveness of a woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening
in question he was dressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy.
A soft felt
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