French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
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Chapter XIII
CLORINDE’S REVENGE
During the ensuing week, Rougon heard a growing clamour rise around him. Everything else might have been forgiven: his abuse of power, the grasping greed of his band, and the choking grip in which he held the whole country; but to have sent gendarmes to poke about the cells of the Sisters was so monstrous a crime that the ladies of the Court affected to shudder when he passed them. Then, too, Monseigneur Rochart was creating a terrible commotion throughout the official world, and it was said that he had even complained to the Empress herself on the subject. Moreover, the scandal was doubtless kept alive by a few wily individuals, who were bent on making the most of it; for orders and suggestions circulated, and the same complaints were raised at once in every quarter. Amidst all these furious attacks, Rougon at first maintained a perfectly serene and smiling demeanour. He shrugged his broad shoulders and spoke scoffingly of the whole matter. At an evening reception at the Ministry of Justice he even remarked: ‘By the way, I never told you that they found a priest hidden in the convent.’ However, when this sally circulated there was a fresh outburst of anger, and then he on his side at last became impassioned. People were making him quite sick with all their foolish talk, he said; the Sisters were certainly thieves, for silver cups and saucepans had been discovered in their possession. And he actually showed an inclination to take further steps in the matter, made inquiries, and threatened to overwhelm the whole clergy of Faverolles with confusion in the law-courts.
Early one morning, however, the Charbonnels presented themselves before him; at which he was much astonished, for he did not know that they were even in Paris. As soon as he saw them, he exclaimed that matters were proceeding most satisfactorily, and that he had sent instructions to the prefect to compel the public prosecutor to take active steps. But at this M. Charbonnel assumed an expression of consternation, and Madame Charbonnel replied: ‘No, no! we don’t want that! You have gone too far, Monsieur Rougon. You have quite misunderstood us.’
Then they both began to sing the praises of the Sisters of the Holy Family, who were extremely good women, they said; though they themselves had for a moment gone to law against them, they had never ventured so far as to accuse them of anything base. Such a charge would have produced the greatest amazement in Faverolles, where everyone in society held the Sisters in such high esteem.
‘You will do us the greatest injury, Monsieur Rougon,’ Madame Charbonnel said, in conclusion, ‘if you continue to show such violence towards religion. We have come to pray you to desist from further action. Down yonder people don’t understand the real state of affairs, but think that it is we who are hounding you on; so, if you don’t stop, they will end by stoning us…. We have made a handsome present to the convent, an ivory crucifix, which used to hang at the foot of our poor cousin’s bed.’
‘Well, we’ve warned you now,’ added M. Charbonnel, ‘and the responsibility rests with you. We have nothing further to do with the business.’
Rougon let them talk on. They seemed to be very much displeased with him, and gradually raised their voices in indignation. As the minister looked at them he felt a slight chill and sudden lassitude, as though some portion of his strength had again been ravished from him. However, he made no attempt to discuss the subject, but dismissed his visitors, promising that he would take no further steps in the affair; and, indeed, so far as he was concerned, he let the whole matter die out.
During the last few days his name had been indirectly mixed up in another scandal. A frightful tragedy had taken place at Coulonges. Du Poizat, obstinately intent upon getting the better of his father, had again one morning knocked at the old miser’s door. Five minutes afterwards the neighbours heard the sound of gun-shots in the house, accompanied by fearful shrieks. When they made their way inside, they found the old man stretched at the foot of the staircase with his head split open. Two discharged guns were lying on the hall floor, and Du Poizat told them, with a livid face, that his father, upon seeing him advance towards the staircase, had suddenly shouted, ‘Thieves!’ as though he were mad, and had fired upon him twice, almost touching him with the muzzle of his gun. In proof of this, he even showed them a bullet-hole in his hat. However, said he, just as his father was advancing still nearer, he had fallen and broken his skull against the bottom step. This tragical death, this mysterious, unwitnessed drama, had given rise to the most unpleasant rumours throughout the department. The doctors said it was clear that the old man had died of an attack of apoplexy. Nevertheless, the prefect’s enemies insinuated that he must have given his father a push, and the number of these enemies increased day by day, owing to the harshness of his rule, which oppressed Niort as with a reign of terror. Stern and pale, with his teeth clenched and his hands twitching, Du Poizat had to check the gossips on their doorsteps with a glance from his fierce grey eyes as he passed along the streets.
However, another misfortune befell him. He was obliged to remove Gilquin, who had compromised himself by taking a bribe to procure a conscript exemption from the service. It was his wont to promise exemption to peasants’ sons on being paid a hundred francs a head. All that Du Poizat could do for Gilquin in the matter was to save him from prosecution and then disown him. So far the sub-prefect had relied entirely upon Rougon, and had tried to make him more and more responsible for every matter that went wrong. Now, however, he probably divined something of the minister’s critical position, for he came to Paris without giving him any intimation of his intention to do so. He felt his own position to be very much shaken, and, fearing the collapse of the power which he had so largely helped to ruin, he was already on the look-out for the support of some influential hand. He contemplated asking permission to change his prefecture in order to escape certain dismissal. Indeed, since his father’s death and Gilquin’s knavery, Niort was becoming quite impossible for him.
‘I just met Monsieur Du Poizat in the Faubourg Saint Honoré,’ Clorinde mischievously said to the minister one day. ‘Aren’t you good friends now? He seems very bitter against you.’
Rougon avoided making any reply. After being compelled to refuse several favours to the prefect, he had become conscious of increasing coldness between them, and they now simply confined themselves to official intercourse. The desertion was becoming general. Even Madame Correur had abandoned Rougon. On certain evenings he again experienced that feeling of loneliness which he had formerly felt in the Rue Marbeuf when his friends were doubting his star. At the close of his busy days, amidst the crowd of visitors who besieged his drawing-room, he felt alone and lost and heart-broken, because his old familiar friends were not there. And he once more began to feel an overwhelming craving for the continuous praises of the colonel and M. Bouchard, for all the vitalising warmth with which his little court had once encompassed him. He even regretted M. Béjuin’s silence. And so he made an attempt to win his old associates back again, by showing himself very pleasant and amiable, writing to them and even venturing to call on them. But the ties were broken, and he could never succeed in getting them all around him. If he contrived to piece up the links at one end of the chain, some mischance kept those at the other end broken; the chain remained imperfect in spite of every endeavour; some of his old friends were invariably absent. At last they all abandoned him. This was the death-agony of his power. He, strong as he was, was bound to those foolish weaklings by the long labour of their common fortune; and, as each deserted him, a piece of his being seemed to be ravished away. His strength and abilities remained as it were useless in this lessening of his importance; his big fists only struck the empty air. On the day when his shadow alone showed in the sunshine and he could no longer add to it by an abuse of power and patronage, it seemed to him as if he held but little room in the world; and he began to dream of a new incarnation, a resurrection in the shape of some Jupiter Tonans, with no band at his feet, but ruling by the sole power of his voice.
However, Rougon did not yet feel that his position was seriously threatened. He treated with disdain the bites that scarcely touched his heels. He went on governing with stern decision, unpopular and solitary. His great reliance was on the Emperor. His only weakness was his credulity. Each time that he saw his Majesty he found him kindly disposed and amiable, ever preserving his impenetrable smile; and the Emperor invariably renewed his expressions of confidence, and repeated the instructions which he had so frequently given before. This seemed quite sufficient to Rougon. His sovereign could have no thought of sacrificing him.
His feeling of security led him to venture on a deep stroke of policy. To silence his enemies and place his authority on a firmer footing than ever, he sent in his resignation couched in the most dignified terms. He spoke of the complaints which were being circulated against him, and asserted that he had strictly obeyed the Emperor’s commands, but at the same time he felt the need of his Majesty’s undoubted approval before further continuing his labours for the public weal. Moreover, he undisguisingly championed a stern policy, posed as the representative of merciless repression. The Court was at Fontainebleau at the time, and the resignation having been despatched, Rougon awaited the result with the confidence of a cool gamester. All the recent scandals, the tragedy at Coulonges, the perquisition at the convent of the Sisters of the Holy Family, would be blotted out, he thought. At any rate, if he were destined to fall, he wished to fall boldly like the strong man he was.
On the day when the minister’s fate was to be decided, it so happened that a bazaar was held at the Orangery in the Tuileries gardens in support of an orphanage which the Empress patronised. All the palace circle and the high officials would certainly attend out of respect for their Majesties. And Rougon resolved that he also would go and show them his unruffled face. It was quite a piece of bravado, this idea of boldly confronting the people who cast furtive glances at him, of thus exhibiting his contemptuous unconcern amidst their hostile whispers. Towards three o’clock, while he was giving a final order to his chief subordinate, his valet came to tell him that a lady and gentleman particularly wished to see him in his private rooms. The card which the servant brought bore the names of the Marquis and Marchioness d’Escorailles.
The two old people, whom the valet, deceived by their almost shabby appearance, had left in the dining-room, rose ceremoniously when Rougon appeared. He hastened to lead them into the drawing-room, feeling some emotion at their presence and also a thrill of disquietude. However, he spoke of their arrival in Paris as an unexpected pleasure, and tried to appear as amiable as possible. But the Marquis and his wife remained cold and stiff and sullen.
‘Monsieur,’ at length said the Marquis, ‘you will excuse, I hope, the step we have considered it necessary to take. It concerns our son Jules. We wish him to retire from the administration; we ask you to keep him no longer about you.’ Then, as the minister looked at him with extreme surprise, he added: ‘Young people are not to be depended upon. We have twice written to Jules telling him our reasons, and desiring him to send in his resignation. As he has not obeyed our instructions, we at last determined to come ourselves. This is the second time, monsieur, that we have come to Paris in thirty years.’
Then Rougon began to protest. Jules had the most promising future before him, said he; they would simply ruin his career. But the Marchioness made a gesture of impatience, and began to explain her reasons with more animation than her husband had shown. ‘It is not for us, Monsieur Rougon, to judge you,’ said she, ‘but there are certain traditions in our family. Jules must not be mixed up in any abominable persecution of the Church. Everyone at Plassans is amazed already. We should embroil ourselves with the whole nobility of the neighbourhood.’
Rougon at once understood what was amiss. He was going to reply, but the Marchioness silenced him with an imperious gesture.
‘Let me finish!’ she said. ‘Our son entered the public service in spite of our protests. You know what grief we felt at seeing him take office under an illegitimate government. It was all I could do to keep his father from cursing him. However, our house has been in mourning ever since, and when we receive our friends, the name of our son is never mentioned. We had sworn that we would trouble ourselves about him no longer; but there are limits to everything, and it is intolerable that an Escorailles should be mixed up with the enemies of our holy faith. You hear me, do you not, monsieur?’
Rougon bowed. He did not even think of smiling at the old lady’s pious fibs. She and her husband once more stood before him proud and haughty and disdainful, as in the old days when he had prowled about Plassans pinched with hunger. If anyone else had used such language to him, he would certainly have had them turned out by the lackeys. But now he felt wounded, distressed, shrunken as it were. He again thought of his youth of sordid poverty, and for a moment could almost have fancied that he was wearing his old worn-down shoes once more. However, he promised that he would use his influence with Jules to make him conform with his parents’ wishes; and then alluding to the reply which he was awaiting from the Emperor he just added: ‘It is quite possible, madame, that your son will be restored to you this very evening.’
When he was alone again, Rougon felt a thrill of fear. That old couple had succeeded in disturbing his hitherto unruffled placidity. He now hesitated about going to the bazaar where all eyes would read his perturbation on his face. He felt ashamed, however, of this childish fear, and so passed through his study on his way out. Then he asked Merle if anything had come for him.
‘No, your excellency,’ respectfully replied the usher, who had been on the look-out all the morning.
The Orangery in the Tuileries Gardens, where the bazaar was being held, had been sumptuously decorated for the occasion. Crimson velvet hangings with fringes of gold concealed the walls, and transformed the huge bare gallery into a lofty gala hall. Towards one end on the left, large curtains, also of crimson velvet, were stretched across the gallery, cutting off a portion of it. They were, however, looped up with bands ornamented with huge golden tassels so as to afford free communication between the chief section of the hall, where the stalls were ranged on either side, and the smaller division where a refreshment counter had been fitted up. The floor was strewn with fine sand; and in each corner stood majolica pots containing rare plants. In the middle of the square space formed by the stalls there was a low circular settee upholstered in velvet and with a very sloping back; and from the centre of it a huge column of flowers shot up, a sheaf of stems amongst which drooped roses, carnations, and verbenas, like a shower of dazzling drops. On the terrace overlooking the Seine, in front of the folding glass-doors, which had been thrown wide open, some grave-looking ushers in black dress coats glanced at the cards of the invités as they arrived.
The lady patronesses did not expect many people before four o’clock. Erect behind their stalls in the great hall they waited for customers to arrive. Their wares were spread out on long tables covered with crimson cloth. There were several stalls of Parisian and Chinese fancy goods; two of children’s toys; a florist’s kiosk crammed full of roses; and, lastly, inside a tent, a lucky-wheel, like those to be seen at the fairs in the Parisian suburbs. The stall-holders, in low-necked theatre dresses, assumed all the persuasive graces of shopkeepers, the seductive smiles of modistes trying to palm off old-fashioned goods, and they modulated their voices alluringly, as they prattled and puffed their wares. They made themselves quite familiar with everyone who came to purchase of them. A Princess presided over one of the toy stalls, and in front of her, on the opposite side of the hall, a Marchioness sold purses which had cost twenty-nine sous for twenty francs a-piece. These two were rivals, each seeking to make a larger sum of money than the other. They seized hold of customers, called out to the men, and asked the most shameless prices; and, after bargaining as greedily as thievish butchers, they would throw in the tips of their fingers or a glimpse of their bosoms to turn the scale and complete some remunerative transaction. Charity was, of course, their excuse.
Little by little the hall gradually filled. Gentlemen calmly halted and examined the stall-holders, as though the latter formed part of the goods for sale. Fashionably dressed young fellows crowded round certain stalls, laughing and flirting, while the lady-sellers flitted from one to another with inexhaustible complacence, offering all their wares in turn with the same charming expression. It seemed quite an enjoyment to them. Sales by auction could be heard proceeding, interrupted by joyous peals of laughter, amid the low tramping over the sanded floor. The crimson hangings softened the bright light from the lofty windows, and diffused a ruddy glow, which here and there set a pinky touch on the stall-holders’ bare necks and shoulders. And in the space between the stalls six other ladies, a baroness, two bankers’ daughters, and the wives of three high officials, threaded their way among the public with light baskets hanging from their necks. These darted upon each new arrival, crying cigars and matches.
However, Madame de Combelot met with particular success. She was the flower girl, and sat on a high seat in the rose-crammed kiosk, a carved and gilded affair which looked like a great pigeon-cote. She was dressed in a tight-fitting rose-coloured dress, the corsage of which was very low. And she wore no jewellery, but simply the regulation bunch of violets nestling on her bosom. To make herself as much like a genuine flower-girl as possible, it had occurred to her to tie up her bouquets in public, holding the wire between her teeth and twisting it round a full-blown rose, a bud, and three leaves, which she sold at prices ranging from one to ten louis, according to the appearance of her customers. And her bouquets were in such demand that she could not make them quickly enough, while every now and then she pricked herself in her haste and quickly sucked the blood from her fingers.
In the canvas tent opposite the flower stall pretty Madame Bouchard presided over the lucky-wheel. She was wearing a charming blue peasant-costume, high waisted and with a fichu-shaped bodice; indeed almost a disguise which gave her quite the appearance of a vendor of cakes and gingerbread. She also affected a pretty lisp and a guileless air which was very original. Over the lucky-wheel were displayed the different prizes; some hideous trifles in leather, glass, and china, worth four or five sous a-piece. And every few moments, whenever there was a lack of patrons, Madame Bouchard called out, in her pretty innocent voice, which suggested some simple Susan fresh from her village: ‘Try your luck, gentlemen! Only twenty sous a time! Try your luck, gentlemen!’
The refreshment room, which, like the larger hall, had its floor sanded and its corners decorated with rare plants, was furnished with little round tables and cane-seated chairs. It had been made to resemble a café as much as possible. At one end, behind a massive counter, were three ladies who fanned themselves while waiting for orders. Decanters of liqueurs, plates of cakes and sandwiches, sweetmeats, cigars and cigarettes, were set out in front of them, recalling the kind of display which one sees at the buffets of questionable dancing saloons. Every few moments the lady in the middle, a dark and petulant Countess, rose and bent forward to pour out a glass of something or other, seeming quite bewildered amidst all those decanters, and dashing her bare arms about at the risk of breaking everything. It was Clorinde, however, who was the real queen of the buffet. It was she who handed the customers the refreshments they ordered, when they sat down at the little tables. She looked like Juno masquerading as a waiting-maid. She wore a yellow satin robe slashed slant-wise with black satin, a dazzling, extraordinary arrangement which suggested a blazing star with a comet’s tail sweeping after it. Her bodice was cut very low, and she sailed about majestically amidst the cane-seated chairs, carrying her glasses on a pewter tray with all the serenity of a goddess. Her bare elbows brushed against the men’s shoulders, and her bosom showed conspicuously as she bent down to take their orders, evincing no haste as she did so, but answering every one with a smile, apparently quite at her ease. When the refreshments had been consumed, she received in her queenly hand the silver and copper coins tendered in payment, and, with a gesture that had already become familiar to her, dropped them into a bag hanging from her waist.
At last M. Kahn and M. Béjuin came into the buffet and sat down. The former jocosely rapped the zinc table at which he installed himself just as he might have done at a café, and called: ‘Two beers, madame.’
Clorinde hastened up, served the two glasses of beer, and then remained standing near the table, to snatch a little rest, as just then there happened to be very few customers. And while she wiped her fingers on which some beer had trickled, M. Kahn noticed the peculiar brightness of her eyes, the expression of triumph with which her whole face shone. He blinked at her for a moment, and then asked: ‘When did you get back from Fontainebleau?’
‘This morning,’ she replied.
‘You’ve seen the Emperor, then, I suppose? Well, what is the news?’
Clorinde smiled, compressed her lips in a peculiar fashion, and then in her turn looked at M. Kahn. The latter thereupon noticed that she was wearing an eccentric ornament which he had never seen before. It was a dog-collar encircling her bare neck; a real dog-collar of black velvet, with buckle, ring and bell. The bell was of gold, and a pearl tinkled inside it. Upon the collar there were two names in letters of diamonds, oddly twisted and interlaced. And from the ring a thick gold chain fell over her bosom, and then rose again, ending in a gold plate fastened to her right arm, on which were these words: I belong to my master.
‘Is that a present?’ softly asked M. Kahn, pointing to the ornament.
Clorinde nodded assent, still keeping her lips compressed with a cunning, sensual expression. She had desired this servitude and she paraded it with shameless serenity, as though she felt honoured by a sovereign’s choice, an object of envy to every other woman. When she had made her appearance with this collar round her neck, on which the keen eyes of rivals fancied they could decipher an illustrious name interlaced with her own, every woman present had understood the truth, and had exchanged significant glances with her acquaintances.
However, business in the refreshment room was suddenly becoming brisk. ‘A glass of beer, madame, please,’ said a fat gentleman wearing a decoration—a general—as he looked at Clorinde smiling.
When she had brought the beer, two deputies asked her for some Chartreuse. A crowd was now pouring into the buffet, and orders were given on all sides for liqueurs, lemonade, biscuits, and cigars. And the men, while staring at Clorinde, repeated in whispers the various stories which were current. For her part she turned her neck in all serenity, the better indeed to show her dog-collar and the heavy gold chain which tinkled as she moved. That she had been a queen of the left hand imparted additional piquancy to her present assumption of the part of a waiting-maid, who, answering every one’s beck and call, dragged statuesque feet—which had been passionately kissed by august moustaches—over the floor of a mock café, amongst pieces of lemon-peel and biscuit-crumbs.
‘It’s really quite amusing,’ the young woman said, as she came back and stood by M. Kahn. ‘One of the gentlemen actually gave me a pinch just now! But I didn’t say anything. What would have been the good? It’s all for the sake of the poor, isn’t it?’
M. Kahn motioned to her to stoop, and when she had done so, he whispered: ‘Well, what about Rougon?’
‘Hush! You’ll know everything soon,’ she replied, in equally low tones. ‘I have sent him an invitation card, and I am expecting his arrival.’ Then, as M. Kahn wagged his head, she added, with animation: ‘Yes, yes, I know him, I’m sure he’ll come. And besides he knows nothing of what has happened.’
M. Kahn and M. Béjuin then began to look out anxiously for Rougon’s appearance. They could see the whole of the large hall through the opening in the curtains. The crowd there was increasing every minute. On the circular settee several men were lounging with their knees crossed and their eyes sleepily closed, while a continual flow of visitors brushed against their feet as it streamed past. The heat was becoming excessive; and the hubbub grew ever louder in the roseate haze that floated over the forest of black silk hats. Every few moments, too, the grating, rattling sound of the lucky-wheel could be heard.
Madame Correur, who had just arrived, was going slowly round the stalls. She looked very fat, in her gown of grenadine striped white and mauve; and there was a shrewd expression on her face, the calculating air of the customer who looks about her with the intention of making some advantageous bargain. There were plenty of such to be made, she said, at these charitable bazaars, for the ladies often did not know the value of their wares. However, she never bought anything of such stall-holders as were friends of her own, for they always tried to take advantage of her. When she had been all round the hall, moving the different goods about, examining them and putting them back in their places again, she returned to a stall where some fancy articles in leather were displayed for sale, and here she remained for fully ten minutes turning everything over with an air of perplexity. At last, she carelessly took up a Russian leather pocket-book, on which she had really cast her eyes a quarter of an hour previously.
‘How much?’ she asked.
The stall-holder, a tall, fair, young woman, who was joking with two gentlemen, scarcely turned as she replied: ‘Fifteen francs.’
The pocket-book was worth at least twenty. These ladies, who contended with each other in wresting extravagant prices from the men, generally sold their goods to visitors of their own sex at cost price, actuated in the matter by a sort of freemasonry. Madame Correur, however, laid the pocket-book on the stall again, and put on an expression of alarm. ‘Oh, it is too expensive,’ she said. ‘I want something for a present, but I don’t wish to give more than ten francs. Have you got anything nice for ten francs?’
Then she began to turn all the goods over again. Nothing, however, seemed to suit her. What a pity it was that the pocket-book was so dear! She took it up again and poked her nose into the pockets, whereupon the stall-holder, growing impatient, at last offered to sell it to her for fourteen francs, and then for twelve. That, however, was still too much, according to Madame Correur, who, after much keen bargaining, succeeded in getting it for eleven.
‘I prefer selling things if I can,’ said the tall young woman. ‘All the ladies bargain and not one of them buys anything. If it weren’t for the gentlemen I don’t know what we should do!’
As Madame Correur went off she had the satisfaction of finding inside the pocket-book a ticket denoting that the real price was twenty-five francs. Then she strolled about again, and finally installed herself behind the lucky-wheel, by the side of Madame Bouchard, whom she called her ‘pet,’ and whose side curls she began to arrange.
‘Ah! here comes the colonel!’ suddenly exclaimed M. Kahn, who was still sitting in the refreshment room with his eyes fixed upon the entrance.
The colonel had come because he could not very well help doing so. He hoped, however, to get off with the expenditure of a louis, though the thought of even that small outlay was already making his heart bleed. As soon as he made his appearance he was surrounded and attacked by three or four ladies, who repeated: ‘Buy a cigar of me, monsieur! A box of matches, monsieur!’
The colonel smiled, and politely extricated himself from their skirts. Then he looked round him and coming to the conclusion that he had better spend his money at once, he went up to a stall presided over by a lady high in favour at Court, of whom he inquired the price of a very ugly cigar-case. Seventy-five francs! The colonel could not suppress a gesture of alarm, and dropping the cigar-case he hurriedly escaped; while the lady, flushing red and feeling offended, turned her head away as though he had been guilty of some shocking impropriety in her presence. Then the colonel, desirous of preventing any unpleasant comments, went up to the kiosk where Madame de Combelot was still manufacturing her little bouquets. These, at any rate, could not be so very expensive, he thought. However, he would not even venture upon the purchase of a bouquet, for he felt sure that Madame de Combelot would put a fairly good price upon her handiwork; so from amongst the heap of roses he chose a cankered bud, the poorest and most insignificant he could see.
‘What is the price of this flower, madame?’ he then inquired, with a great show of politeness, as he took out his purse.
‘A hundred francs, monsieur,’ replied the lady, who had been stealthily watching his manœuvres.
The colonel began to stammer, and his hands trembled. This time, however, he felt that retreat was impossible. There were several people watching him. So he reluctantly paid his money and then sought refuge in the refreshment room.
‘It is an abominable swindle, an abominable swindle!’ he muttered, as he took a seat at M. Kahn’s table.
‘You haven’t seen anything of Rougon in the hall, have you?’ asked M. Kahn.
The colonel made no reply. He was casting furious side-long glances at the stall-holders. Then, hearing M. d’Escorailles and M. La Rouquette laughing loudly in front of one of the stalls, he ground out between his teeth: ‘Ah! it’s all very well for those young fellows! They manage to get something for their money!’
M. d’Escorailles and M. La Rouquette certainly seemed to be amusing themselves. The ladies at the stalls were struggling to get possession of them. As soon as they had made their appearance, all hands had beckoned to them and they were called on every side: ‘Monsieur d’Escorailles, you know that you promised me—’ ‘Now, Monsieur La Rouquette, do buy this little horse of me! No? Well, you shall buy a doll, then! Yes, a doll: a doll’s exactly what you want!’
The two young men were walking arm in arm for mutual protection as they playfully asserted. They advanced radiant, enraptured through the attacking battalion of petticoats, greeted with a caressing chorus of sweet voices. Every now and then they disappeared amidst a wave of bare shoulders, against which they pretended to defend themselves with little cries of alarm. And at every stall they allowed themselves to be attacked. Then they began to affect miserliness and to assume the most comical expressions of surprise. What! a louis for a doll that wasn’t worth more than a sou! Oh, that was quite beyond their means! Two louis for three pencils! What! did the ladies want to reduce them to starvation? The ladies were immensely amused and their pretty laughter rippled on in flute-like strains. They grew keener than ever, quite intoxicated by the shower of gold raining around them, and trebled and quadrupled their prices in their craving for plunder. They passed the young men on from stall to stall with significant winks; and such remarks as ‘I’ll squeeze them well!’ or ‘You can stick it on with them!’ were bandied about; remarks which the two young fellows heard and acknowledged with playful bows. Behind them the ladies triumphed and boasted one to the other. The cleverest and most envied was a girl of eighteen, who had sold one of them a stick of sealing wax for three louis. However, when they at last reached the end of the hall and a lady insisted upon forcing a box of soap into M. d’Escorailles’ pocket, he shook his purse before her face, saying: ‘But I haven’t a copper left. Shall I give you a promissory note for the money?’
The lady, who was quite excited, took the purse and searched it. Then she looked at the young man, and it seemed as though she was on the point of asking him for his watch chain. However, it was all a trick on M. d’Escorailles’ part. On such occasions he took an empty purse with him by way of amusement.
‘Come, let’s be off!’ he said, dragging M. La Rouquette away. ‘I’m going to be stingy now. We must try to recoup ourselves, eh?’
‘Try your luck, gentlemen! Twenty sous a chance!’ called Madame Bouchard as they passed in front of the lucky-wheel.
They at once approached her, and went into the business enthusiastically. For a quarter of an hour the lucky-wheel was kept going without cessation. First one, then the other set it spinning. M. d’Escorailles won two dozen egg-cups, three little looking-glasses, seven china figures, and five cigarette-cases; while M. La Rouquette’s winnings consisted of two packets of lace, a china tray mounted on feet of gilded zinc, some glasses, a candlestick, and a box with a glass cover. Madame Bouchard became indignant: ‘Come, that’s enough,’ said she, ‘you’re too lucky! I won’t let you go on any longer! Here, take your winnings away.’
She had arranged them in two big piles upon a table beside her. M. La Rouquette seemed filled with consternation at the sight of them; and asked her to exchange them for the regulation bunch of violets which she was wearing in her hair. But she declined to do so. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘you’ve won those things, haven’t you? Very well, then, take them away with you.’
‘Madame is quite right,’ remarked M. d’Escorailles, gravely. ‘We mustn’t despise fortune, and for my part I do not mean to leave a single egg-cup behind me. I’m getting stingy.’
He had spread out his handkerchief and was tying his winnings up in a neat bundle, which caused a fresh burst of gaiety. And M. La Rouquette’s embarrassment was equally amusing. But at last Madame Correur, who had hitherto kept in the background with smiling matronly dignity, protruded her fat rosy face. She would be very glad to make an exchange, said she.
‘Oh, no, I don’t want anything!’ the young deputy hastily exclaimed. ‘Take the whole lot; I make you a present of everything.’
He and Escorailles did not, however, take themselves off at once, but began to whisper doubtful compliments to Madame Bouchard. Turning a lucky-wheel was all very well, they told her, but she knew much better how to turn men’s heads. Meanwhile Madame Bouchard dropped her eyelashes and giggled like a peasant-girl chaffed by gentlemen. Madame Correur gazed at her in admiration. ‘Isn’t she sweet? Isn’t she sweet?’ she exclaimed every now and then, with a rapturous expression.
But Madame Bouchard at last began to rap M. d’Escorailles’ fingers, for he wanted to examine the mechanism of the lucky-wheel, alleging that it did not work fairly. Would they never leave her at peace? she cried. As there was nothing more to be got out of them they had better go. And when she at length managed to get rid of them, she again began to call in a coaxing voice: ‘Only twenty sous a spin, gentlemen. Come and try one spin!’
At that moment M. Kahn, who had risen from his chair to look over the heads of the crowd, hastily sat down again. ‘Here’s Rougon coming!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s pretend not to see him.’
Rougon was slowly making his way up the hall. He stopped first at Madame Bouchard’s tent, tried his fortune at the lucky-wheel, and afterwards purchased a rose from Madame de Combelot for three louis. Having thus contributed to the funds of the charity, he seemed inclined to take his departure. He elbowed his way through the throng, already turning towards one of the doors. But all at once, having glanced into the refreshment room, he abruptly altered his course, and entered the buffet, proudly, calmly, with head erect. M. d’Escorailles and M. La Rouquette had now taken seats beside M. Kahn, M. Béjuin, and the colonel. M. Bouchard also came up and joined them. And all of them trembled slightly as the minister passed by, so big and strong did he seem to them with those massive limbs of his. He greeted them familiarly in a loud distinct voice and seated himself at a neighbouring table. He kept his broad face raised, and turned it slowly to the right and left as though anxious to confront unflinchingly the glances which he felt were fixed upon him.
Clorinde stepped up to him, dragging her heavy yellow train majestically behind her. ‘What will you take?’ she asked him, affecting a vulgarity of manners not untinged with raillery.
‘Ah, that’s the question,’ he answered gaily. ‘I never drink anything, you know. What have you got?’
Clorinde went rapidly through her list of liqueurs; brandy, rum, curaçoa, kirsch-water, chartreuse, vespétro, anisette, and kummel.
‘No, no, I won’t have any of those. Give me a glass of sugared water.’
She went off to the counter, and came back with the glass of sugared water, still preserving an air of goddess-like majesty. And she lingered in front of Rougon, watching him stir the sugar. The minister continued to smile, making the first commonplace remarks that suggested themselves to him. ‘You are well, I hope? It is an age since I saw you.’
‘I have been at Fontainebleau,’ she quietly replied.
Rougon raised his eyes, and gave her a searching glance. But in her turn she began to question him. ‘And are you well pleased?’ she asked. ‘Is everything going on as you wish it?’
‘Yes, quite so,’ the minister replied.
‘Oh! so much the better.’
For a moment she turned around him with all the attention of a professional waiter. But her malicious flashing eyes were fixed on him, as though she were every moment going to overwhelm him with her triumph. At last, as she was making up her mind to leave him, she raised herself upon tip-toes, and cast a glance into the adjoining hall. And thereupon she touched Rougon’s shoulder. ‘There is some one looking for you, I believe,’ she said, with an animated expression on her face.
Merle indeed was respectfully threading his way between the neighbouring chairs and tables. He made three bows, one after the other, and begged his excellency to excuse him; but, said he, the letter which his excellency had been expecting all the morning had arrived, and, although he had received no instructions, he had thought——
‘Yes, yes, all right; give it to me,’ interrupted Rougon.
The usher handed him a large envelope, and then went off to prowl about the bazaar. Rougon had recognised the writing at a glance. It was an autograph letter from the Emperor in answer to the one proffering his resignation. A chilly perspiration mounted to his brow; still he showed no sign of pallor, but quietly slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his coat, without ceasing to meet the glances that were directed upon him from M. Kahn’s table. Clorinde had just gone to speak a few words to the latter gentleman; and the whole band was now watching Rougon with feverish curiosity.
However, Clorinde returned and again stood in front of him, while he drank half his glassful of sugared water, and thought of some compliment to address to her.
‘You are looking quite lovely to-day. If queens turn themselves into waiting-maids——’
But she cut his compliment short. ‘You haven’t read your letter then?’ she said audaciously.
For a moment he affected forgetfulness; and then all at once pretended to recollect. ‘Oh, yes, that letter. I’ll read it at once, if it will give you any pleasure.’
He opened the envelope carefully with a penknife, and at a glance read the brief letter inside it. The Emperor accepted his resignation. For nearly a minute he kept the letter before his face as though he were reading it over again. He felt afraid lest he should not be able to maintain a calm expression. A terrible protest was rising within him; a rebellion of his whole strength, which was unwilling to accept this downfall, shook him to his very bones. If he had not sternly restrained himself, he would have shouted aloud, and have smashed the table with his ponderous fists. And with his eyes still fixed upon the letter, he pictured the Emperor as he had seen him at Saint Cloud renewing his expressions of confidence, and confirming his previous instructions with soft words and ceaseless smile. What long devised plan of disgrace had Napoleon been maturing behind that impenetrable expression of his, that he should now so suddenly have crushed him in a night, after a score of times insisting on his retaining office?
At last, by a mighty effort, Rougon conquered his emotion. He raised his face again, and it appeared unruffled. Then he put the letter back into his pocket with a careless gesture. But Clorinde, whose hands rested upon the little table, stooped eagerly towards him, and with quivering, eager lips exclaimed: ‘I knew it all. I was there this morning—my poor friend!’
Then she went on to pity him in so cruelly mocking a voice that he again looked keenly at her. She had ceased to dissemble now. She had at last reached the triumph to which she had been looking forward for months past, and she spoke slowly and deliberately, savouring the sweetness of being at last able to show herself his implacable and avenged foe.
‘I was unable to defend you,’ she continued. ‘You are doubtless not aware——’ Then she broke off, and said with a cutting expression: ‘Guess who succeeds you as Minister of the Interior!’
He made a gesture expressive of indifference; but she still kept her eyes fixed on him, and at last let these words fall: ‘My husband!’
Rougon, whose mouth was parched, drank some more of the sugared water. Clorinde had thrown into her last two words the expression of all she felt, her anger at having been formerly despised, the rancour which she had so skilfully satisfied, her delight as a woman in having crushed a man who was credited with the highest abilities. And she allowed herself the pleasure of torturing him and abusing her victory. No doubt, said she, her husband wasn’t a very clever person. She confessed it freely, and even joked about it; meaning to convey that the first comer would have done equally as well, and that she could have made Merle a minister if the whim had seized her. Yes, indeed, the usher Merle, or any other imbecile that she might have come across. Any one would have done to succeed Rougon. All this went to prove the omnipotence of woman. Then she assumed a motherly, protecting air, and began to lavish good advice.
‘You see, my friend, as I’ve often told you, you made a mistake in despising women. Women are not the fools you imagine them to be. It used to make me quite angry to hear you speak of us as though we were idiots, mere cumbersome paraphernalia, even mill-stones about your neck. Look at my husband now! Have I been a mill-stone to him, do you think? I have been looking forward to show you all this. I promised myself this satisfaction, as you may perhaps remember, on the day when we had a certain conversation together. Now I hope I have convinced you. I willingly allow, my friend, that you are a very clever fellow; but be quite sure of this, that a woman can always topple you over if she chooses to take the trouble.’
Rougon had turned rather pale, still he smiled. ‘Yes; I dare say you are right,’ he said in a low voice, calling to mind all that had gone before.
He indulged in no recriminations. Clorinde had sucked some of his strength away from him to use it for his own overthrow; she had applied to his own ruin the lessons which she had learnt from him during those pleasant afternoons in the Rue Marbeuf. He was now drinking the cup of ingratitude and treason; but, man of experience that he was, he accepted it with all its bitterness. The only point which troubled him was whether he even now fully understood Clorinde. He thought of his former inquiries about her, his futile efforts to discover the secret workings of that majestic but erratic machine. Decidedly, he said to himself, the folly of man was great indeed.
Clorinde had twice left him for a moment to serve other customers; and, now that she had had full satisfaction, she again resumed her stately perambulations amidst the tables, affecting to take no further notice of him. He watched her, however, and saw her approach a gentleman with an immense beard, a foreigner, whose lavish prodigality was at that time quite exciting Paris. He was just finishing a glass of Malaga.
‘How much, madame?’ he inquired, rising from his seat.
‘Five francs, monsieur. Everything is five francs a glass.’
He paid the money. ‘And a kiss, how much is that?’ he continued, in the same tone with his foreign accent.
‘A hundred thousand francs,’ answered Clorinde, without the slightest hesitation.
The foreigner sat down again, and wrote a few words on a page which he tore from a memorandum-book. Then he deposited a smacking kiss on Clorinde’s cheek, paid for it, and went off in the most phlegmatic manner possible. All the people in the café smiled, much amused by the incident.
‘It’s only a question of paying the price,’ murmured Clorinde, going up towards Rougon again.
He detected a fresh allusion in this remark. To him she had said ‘Never!’ And then, this man of chaste life, who had borne so bravely the stunning blow of his dismissal, began to feel keenly pained by the collar which Clorinde so impudently paraded. She stooped and swayed her neck as though to provoke him still further. The pearl tinkled in the golden bell; the chain hung low, still warm from the hands of the giver; and on the velvet flashed the diamond letters by which Rougon could easily read the secret known to everybody. And never before had he so keenly felt the bite of unconfessed jealousy, the burning envy which he had sometimes experienced in the presence of the all-powerful Emperor.
The young woman probably guessed the torment he was suffering, and it pleased her to inflict yet another pang upon him. She called his attention to Madame de Combelot, who was still selling her roses in the flower-stall. ‘Ah! that poor Madame de Combelot!’ she said, with a malicious laugh; ‘she is still waiting!’
However, Rougon finished his sugared water. He felt as though he were choking. ‘How much?’ he stammered, taking out his purse.
‘Five francs.’
When she had tossed the coin into the bag, Clorinde held out her hand again. ‘Aren’t you going to give anything to the waiter?’ she asked playfully.
Rougon felt in his pocket and brought out a couple of sous, which he dropped into her hand. This insult was the only vengeance which his parvenu boorishness could think of. In spite of her self-possession, Clorinde blushed. But she quickly resumed her goddess-like demeanour, and went off bowing and saying: ‘Thank you, your excellency.’
Rougon did not dare to rise immediately. His legs felt nerveless, he was afraid of tottering, and desired to go away as he had come, with a firm gait and calm expression. He particularly disliked having to pass his old friends and associates, whose straining ears and staring eyes had not lost a point of what had taken place. So for a few moments longer he let his glance wander over the room, feigning perfect indifference. He was thinking over what had happened. Another act of his political life had come to a conclusion. He had fallen, undermined, eaten away and ruined by his band. His heavy shoulders had collapsed beneath the weight of the responsibilities he had assumed, the acts of folly and injustice which he had perpetrated entirely on their account in his braggart craving to be a feared and generous chief. And his mighty muscles only made his fall the more ignominious. The very conditions on which he had held power: the necessity of having behind him a crowd of greedy appetites whose longings he must satisfy, of maintaining himself in his position by dint of abusing his credit, had made his fall merely a question of time. And he now recalled the slow efforts of his band, whose sharp teeth had day by day nibbled away some of his authority. They had thronged around him, hung on to his knees, then to his breast, then to his throat, and finally they had choked him. They had availed themselves of him in every way. They had used his feet to climb with, his hands to plunder with, his jaws to devour with. They had, so to say, used his body as their own, used it for their personal gratification, indulging in every fancy without a thought of the morrow. And now, having drained his body, and hearing its frame-work crack, they abandoned him like rats, whom instinct warns of the approaching collapse of a house, the foundations of which they have undermined. They were all sleek and flourishing, and they were already battening upon some one else. M. Kahn had just sold his railway line from Niort to Angers to M. de Marsy. In another week the colonel would be gazetted to an appointment in the imperial palaces. M. Bouchard had received a formal promise that his protégé, the interesting Georges Duchesne, should be appointed assistant head clerk as soon as Delestang entered upon his duties at the Ministry of the Interior. Madame Correur was rejoicing over a serious illness which had fallen on Madame Martineau, and already pictured herself residing in her house at Coulonges, where she would live comfortably, and play the part of a lady bountiful. M. Béjuin, on his side, was certain of the Emperor visiting his cut-glass works towards the autumn; and, lastly, M. d’Escorailles, after being seriously lectured by his parents, was rendering homage to Clorinde and winning a sub-prefecture merely by the look of admiration with which he watched her carrying glasses about the refreshment room. And Rougon, as he glanced at his glutted band, felt as though he had grown smaller, whereas they had attained to huge proportions, and were crushing him beneath their weight. And he did not dare to rise from his seat, for fear lest he should see them smile if he happened to totter.
By degrees, however, he grew more collected and then he at last stood up. And he was pushing the little zinc table aside to give himself room to pass, when Delestang entered the refreshment room on Count de Marsy’s arm. There was a very curious story in circulation about the latter. If certain whisperings were to be believed, he had gone to Fontainebleau the previous week, while Clorinde was there, solely to facilitate the young woman’s assignations with the Emperor, by entertaining and amusing the Empress, so as to divert her attention. To most people this seemed merely a piquant incident; but Rougon fancied he could detect in it a piece of revenge on the part of the Count, who had leagued himself with Clorinde to bring about his fall, thus turning against him the very weapons which had been successfully employed against himself some time previously at Compiègne. At all events, the Count, since his return from Fontainebleau, had kept perpetually in Delestang’s company.
M. Kahn, M. Béjuin, the colonel, indeed the whole coterie, received the new minister with open arms. His appointment would not be officially notified in the Moniteur till the following morning, when it would appear beneath the announcement of Rougon’s resignation, but the decree was signed, and so they were at liberty to triumph. They greeted him with much vigorous hand-shaking, grinning, and whispered congratulation; indeed the presence of the crowd alone kept their enthusiasm within bounds. It was a gradual assumption of possession on the part of intimates, who kiss one’s hands and one’s feet before making one’s entire body their prey. They already considered that Delestang belonged to them. One of them was holding him by the right arm, another by the left; a third had grasped one of the buttons of his coat, while a fourth, standing behind him, craned forward and breathed words of praise to the nape of his neck. Delestang, on his side, held his handsome head erect with affable dignity, preserving the stately yet imbecile demeanour of some monarch on his travels, such as one sees in official prints, receiving bouquets from the ladies of petty towns. Rougon looked at the group, very pale and stung to the quick by this triumph of mediocrity, and yet he could not restrain a smile. He remembered.
‘I always predicted that Delestang would go a long way,’ he said with a subtle expression to Count de Marsy, who had stepped up to him with outstretched hand.
The Count replied by a slight pout instinct with delicate irony. He had doubtless had much amusement since he had struck up a friendship with Delestang after rendering certain services to his wife. He detained Rougon for a moment, evincing the most refined politeness. Constant rivals as they were, antagonists by reason of their very temperaments, these two skilful men saluted each other at the termination of each of their duels, like enemies of equal strength who looked forward to an endless succession of return combats. Rougon had previously wounded Marsy; Marsy had now wounded Rougon; and so it would go on until one or other of them should be left dead on the field. It is possible that neither would have cared to see the other absolutely ruined, for their rivalry was at once a source of amusement and occupation. And, moreover, they vaguely felt that they were counterpoises necessary for the equilibrium of the Empire; one the shaggy fist which killed by a knock-down blow, the other the slender gloved hand which clutched the throat and strangled.
However, Delestang was a prey to painful embarrassment. He had seen Rougon, but he did not know whether he ought to step up and shake hands with him. In his perplexity, he glanced at Clorinde, who seemed absorbed in her duties and indifferent to everything else. She was now hurrying about the room with sandwiches and pastry. However, her husband thought he could gather instruction from a glance she cast at him, so he at last advanced towards Rougon, nervous and seeking to justify himself.
‘I hope, my dear friend, that you don’t bear me any ill will,’ he said. ‘I refused at first, but they forced me to accept. There are demands, you know——’
But Rougon interrupted him. The Emperor had acted in his wisdom, and the country would find itself in excellent hands.
At this Delestang took courage. ‘I said all I could in your defence,’ he continued. ‘We all did. But really, between ourselves, you had gone a little too far. The greatest grievance against you was what you did in connection with the Charbonnel affair; the matter of those poor Sisters, you know——’
M. de Marsy restrained a smile.
‘Oh, yes, the perquisition at the convent,’ replied Rougon, with all the good humour of his successful days. ‘Well, really, among the various acts of folly which my friends led me to commit, that was perhaps the only sensible and just act of my five months of power.’
He was already going off, when he noticed Du Poizat come in and seize hold of Delestang. The prefect pretended not to see him. For the last three days he had been hiding in Paris and waiting. And apparently he was now successful in his request to be transferred to another prefecture, for he began to express the most profuse thanks with a wolfish smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. Then, on the new minister turning round, Merle, whom Madame Correur had just pushed forward, almost fell into his arms. The usher kept his eyes lowered, like a big bashful girl, while Madame Correur spoke warmly in his favour.
‘He is not a favourite in the office,’ she murmured, ‘because he protested by his silence against abuses of authority; and he saw some very strange ones under Monsieur Rougon!’
‘Yes, yes; very strange ones indeed,’ added Merle. ‘I could tell a long story about them. Monsieur Rougon won’t be much regretted. I’ve no reason to love him myself. It was all through him that I was nearly turned adrift.’
Rougon heard none of this; he was already slowly passing down the great hall, where the stalls were now quite denuded of their wares. To please the Empress, who was the patroness of the charity, the visitors had carried everything away; and the delighted stall-holders were talking of opening again in the evening with a fresh supply of goods. They counted up the money they had taken, and different sums were shouted out amidst peals of triumphant laughter. One lady had taken three thousand francs, another seven thousand, and another ten thousand. The last was radiant with delight at having made so much money.
Madame de Combelot, however, was in despair. She had just disposed of her last rose, and yet customers were still thronging round her kiosk. She stepped out of it to ask Madame Bouchard if she could not give her something to sell, no matter what. But the latter’s lucky-wheel had likewise disposed of everything. A lady had just carried off the last prize, a doll’s washing-basin. However, they obstinately hunted about, and at last found a bundle of tooth-picks, which had fallen on the ground. Madame de Combelot carried it off with a shout of triumph. Madame Bouchard followed her, and they both mounted into the kiosk.
‘Gentlemen! gentlemen!’ cried Madame de Combelot boldly, standing up, and collecting the men together with a beckoning sweep of her bare arm. ‘This is all that we have left, a bundle of tooth-picks. There are twenty-five of them. I shall put them up to auction.’
The men jostled one another, laughing, and waving their gloved hands in the air. Madame de Combelot’s idea was hailed with great enthusiasm.
‘A tooth-pick!’ she now cried. ‘We’ll start it at five francs. Now, gentlemen, five francs!’
‘Ten francs!’ said a voice.
‘Twelve francs!’
‘Fifteen francs!’
However, on M. d’Escorailles suddenly going up to a bid of twenty-five francs, Madame Bouchard quickly called out in her fluty voice: ‘Sold for twenty-five francs!’
The other tooth-picks fetched still higher prices. M. La Rouquette paid forty-three francs for the one that was knocked down to him. Chevalier Rusconi, who had just made his appearance, bid as much as seventy-two francs for another one. And eventually the very last, a very small one, which was split, as Madame Combelot kindly announced, not wishing to impose upon her audience, was knocked down for a hundred and seventeen francs to an old gentleman whose eyes glistened at the sight of the young woman’s heaving bosom, as she vigorously plied the calling of auctioneer.
‘It is split, gentlemen, but it is still a serviceable article. We’ve got to a hundred and eight francs for it. A hundred and ten are bid over there! a hundred and eleven! a hundred and twelve! a hundred and thirteen! a hundred and fourteen! Come, a hundred and fourteen! It’s worth more than that, gentlemen! A hundred and seventeen! A hundred and seventeen! Won’t any one bid any more? Sold, then, for a hundred and seventeen francs!’
Pursued by these figures, Rougon left the hall. He slackened his steps when he reached the terrace overlooking the river. Stormy-looking clouds were rising in the distance. Below him, the Seine, greasy and dirty green, flowed sluggishly past the pale quays, along which the dust was sweeping. In the Tuileries gardens, puffs of hot air shook the trees, whose branches fell languidly, lifelessly, without a quiver of their leaves. Rougon took his way beneath the tall chestnuts. It was almost quite dark there, and the atmosphere was damp and clammy like that of a vault. As he emerged into the main avenue, he saw the Charbonnels sitting on a bench. They were quite transformed, magnificent. The husband wore light-coloured trousers and a frock-coat fitting tightly at the waist, while his wife sported a light mantle over a robe of lilac silk, and her bonnet was ornamented with red flowers. Astride one end of the bench, however, there was a ragged, shirtless fellow, wearing a wretched old shooting-jacket. He was gesticulating energetically, and gradually drawing nearer to the Charbonnels. It was Gilquin. Administering frequent slaps to his canvas cap, which kept on slipping off his head, he exclaimed: ‘They’re a parcel of scoundrels. Has Théodore ever tried to cheat any one out of a single copper? They invented a fine story about a military substitute in order to ruin me. Then, of course, as you can understand, I left them to get on as they could without me. Ah! they are afraid of me! They know very well what my political opinions are. I have never belonged to Badinguet’s gang. I only regret one person down there,’ he continued in a lower tone, leaning forward and rolling his eyes sentimentally. ‘Ah! such an adorable woman, a lady of society! She was fair. I had some of her hair given me.’ Then, edging himself up to Madame Charbonnel, he broke into a loud voice again, and tapped her on the knee. ‘Well, old lady, when are you going to take me with you to Plassans to taste those preserves of yours—the apples and the cherries and the jam? You’ve got your nest pretty well lined now, eh?’
But the Charbonnels seemed to be much annoyed by Gilquin’s familiarity. ‘We are stopping in Paris for some time,’ replied Madame Charbonnel, stiffly, while gathering up her lilac silk dress. ‘We shall probably spend six months here every year.’
‘Ah, yes,’ added her husband with an air of profound admiration, ‘Paris is the only place!’ Then as the gusts of wind became stronger, and a troop of nurses with children passed hastily through the garden, he resumed, turning to his wife, ‘We had better be getting home my dear, if we don’t want to be soaked through. Fortunately, we have only a step or two to take.’
They were now staying at the Hôtel du Palais Royal in the Rue de Rivoli. Gilquin watched them go off, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. ‘So they leave me in the lurch too!’ he muttered. ‘Ah, they’re all alike.’
But then he suddenly caught sight of Rougon, and, rising with a swagger, he waited for him to pass. ‘I haven’t been to see you yet,’ he said, again tapping his cap. ‘I hope you’re not offended. That mountebank Du Poizat has told you some fine stories about me, I dare say. But they are all lies, my good fellow, as I can prove to you whenever you like. Well, for my part I don’t bear you any ill will; and I’ll prove it by giving you my address, 25 Rue du Bon Puits, at La Chapelle, five minutes’ walk from the barrier. So if I can be of any further use to you, you see, you have merely to let me know.’
Then he walked away with a slouching gait. For a moment he glanced round as if taking his bearings, and then, shaking his fist at the Tuileries, which showed grey and gloomy beneath the black sky at the end of the avenue, he cried: ‘Long live the Republic!’
Rougon passed out of the garden and went up the Champs Élysées. He experienced a strong desire to go and look at his little house in the Rue Marbeuf. He intended to quit his official residence on the morrow and again instal himself in his old home. He felt tired but calm, with just a slight pain in the depths of his being. He already dreamt hazily of some day proving his powers by again doing great things. Every now and then, too, he raised his head and looked at the sky. The rain did not seem inclined to come down just yet, though the horizon was streaked with coppery clouds, and loud claps of thunder travelled over the deserted avenue of the Champs Élysées, with a crash like that of some detachment of artillery at full gallop. The crests of the trees shook with the reverberation. As Rougon turned the corner of the Rue Marbeuf the first drops of rain began to fall.
A brougham was standing in front of the house, and Rougon found his wife examining the rooms, measuring the windows and giving orders to an upholsterer. He felt much surprised, but she explained to him that she had just seen her brother, M. Beulin-d’Orchère. The judge, who had already heard of Rougon’s fall, had desired to overwhelm his sister, and after informing her of his approaching assumption of office as Minister of Justice, he had again tried to create discord between her and her husband. Madame Rougon, however, had merely ordered her brougham to be got ready, so that she might at once prepare for removal into their old house. She still retained a calm, pale, nun-like face, the unchangeable serenity of a good housewife. And with faint steps she went through the rooms, again taking possession of that house which she had indued with such cloistral quietude. Her only thought was to administer like a faithful stewardess the fortune which had been entrusted to her. Rougon felt quite touched at the sight of her spare withered face and all her scrupulous attention.
However, the storm now burst with tremendous violence. The thunder pealed and the rain came down in torrents. Rougon was obliged to remain there for nearly three quarters of an hour, for he wanted to walk back. When he set out again the Champs Élysées was a mass of mud, yellow liquid mud, which stretched from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde like the bed of a freshly drained river. In the avenue there were but few pedestrians, who carefully picked their way along the kerbstones. The trees stood dripping in the calm fresh air. Overhead in the heavens the storm had left a trail of ragged coppery clouds, a low murky veil, from which fell a glimmer of weird, mournful light.
Rougon had again lapsed into his dreams for the future. He felt stiff and bruised, as though he had come into violent collision with some obstacle that had blocked his progress. But suddenly he heard a loud noise, behind him, the approach of galloping hoofs which made the ground tremble. He turned to see what it could be.
It was a cortège dashing through the mire of the roadway beneath the faint glimmer of the coppery sky, a cortège returning from the Bois and illumining the dimness of the Champs Élysées with the brilliance of uniforms. In front and behind galloped detachments of dragoons. And in the centre there was a closed landau drawn by four horses and flanked by two mounted equerries in gorgeous gold-embroidered uniforms, each of them imperturbably enduring the splashing of the mire, which was covering them from their high boots to their cocked hats. And inside the dim closed carriage only a child was to be seen, the Prince Imperial, who gazed out of the window, with his ten fingers and his red nose pressed to the glass.
‘Hallo, it’s the little chap!’ said a road-sweeper, with a smile, as he trundled his barrow along.
Rougon had halted, looking thoughtful, and his eyes followed the cortège as it hurried away through the splashing puddles, speckling even the lower leaves of the trees with all the mire it raised.
< < < Chapter XII
Chapter XIV > > >
French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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