The Rush for the Spoil (La Curée): A Realistic NovelZola, Émile
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The Rush for the Spoil (La Curée): A Realistic Novel
Zola, Émile
Paris (France) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
One night, in an hour of anguish, the young woman had compelled her
lover to go and fetch one of the black bearskins. Then they had
stretched themselves on this inky fur, at the edge of an ornamental
basin in the large circular pathway. Out of doors it was freezing
terribly amid the limpid moonlight. Maxime had arrived shivering,
with frozen ears and fingers, and the conservatory was heated to such
a point that he fainted on the bearskin. Coming from the dry biting
cold, he entered into so heavy a flame that he felt a smarting as if he
had been whipped with a rod. When he recovered himself, he saw Renée
kneeling, leaning over him with fixed eyes and a brutish attitude
which frightened him. With her hair down and her shoulders bare, she
was resting herself on her fists, with her figure stretched out, and
looking like a huge cat with phosphorescent eyes. Above the shoulders
of this adorable, amorous animal gazing at him, the young fellow,
lying on his back, perceived the marble sphinx, with her glistening
hips lighted by the moon. Renée had the attitude and the smile of the
feminine-headed monster, and in her loosened skirts, she looked like
the white sister of this black deity.
Maxime remained supine. The heat was suffocating; it was a dull heat,
which did not fall from the sky in a rain of fire, but trailed on the
ground, like some unhealthy exhalation, and its steam ascended like a
storm-charged cloud. A warm humidity covered the lovers with a kind
of dew, an ardent sweat. For a long time they remained motionless
and speechless in this bath of flame, Maxime flat and inert, Renée
quivering on her wrists as on supple nervous hams. Outside, through
the little panes of the conservatory, one caught glimpses of the Parc
Monceaux, of the clumps of trees with fine black outlines, of the grass
lawns as white as frozen lakes--quite a dead landscape, the delicate
light tints of which reminded one of bits of Japanese engravings. And
this spot of burning soil, this inflamed couch on which the lovers were
stretched, boiled strangely amid the great mute cold.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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