The Kill - Emile Zola [29]
The next day he turned up at his brother’s door. Eugène lived in two chilly rooms, barely furnished, which made Aristide’s blood run cold. He had expected to find his brother living in the lap of luxury. Eugène was at work behind a small black desk. He smiled and, speaking slowly as always, said only, “Oh, it’s you. I was expecting you.”
Aristide betrayed a deep bitterness. He accused Eugène of having allowed him to vegetate, of not having sent him so much as a word of advice back when he was still floundering about in the provinces. He would never forgive himself for having remained a republican right up to the day of the coup: this was his open wound, a source of eternal embarrassment. Eugène, meanwhile, had quietly returned to his writing. When Aristide finished speaking, he said, “Bah! Mistakes can always be fixed. You have a bright future ahead of you.”
He spoke these words in such a clear voice, accompanied by such a penetrating gaze, that Aristide bowed his head, sensing that his brother had plumbed the very depths of his being. Eugène continued in a friendly but blunt manner: “You’ve come to me because you expect me to find you a position, have you not? I’ve already given some thought to the matter but haven’t yet come up with anything. Not just any post will do, you see. You’ll need a job where you can do your business without danger to you or to me. . . . Save your protests. We’re alone. We can speak frankly.”
Aristide thought it best to laugh.
“I know you’re intelligent,” Eugène continued, “and that you wouldn’t do anything foolish without a good reason. The moment the right opportunity arises, I’ll get you your place. Between now and then, if you find yourself in need of twenty francs, come and see me.”
They conversed briefly about the insurrection in the south, which had enabled their father to land the tax collector’s job. While they talked, Eugène dressed. In the street below he detained his brother a moment before parting company and said, in a lowered voice, “I would be much obliged if you would refrain from idling about and wait quietly at home for the job I’ve promised you. . . . It would be disagreeable for me to see my brother spending his days in someone’s outer office.”
Aristide respected Eugène, who struck him as a man of unparalleled vigor. Yet he found his suspicious nature and rather brusque candor unforgivable. Nevertheless, he docilely returned home and shut himself up in the apartment on the rue Saint-Jacques. He had arrived in Paris with 500 francs borrowed from his father-in-law. After paying all his traveling expenses, he was left with 300 francs, which he managed to stretch for a month. Angèle was a big eater. And she just had to spruce up her party dress with mauve ribbons. To Aristide the month of waiting seemed interminable. He burned with impatience. When he stood at the window and sensed the gigantic labor of Paris below, he was seized by a mad impulse to leap into