French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
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Chapter XIV
TRANSFORMATION
One day in March, three years later, there was a very stormy sitting in the Corps Législatif. The privilege of presenting an address to the Crown had been conceded by the Emperor, and, for the first time, this address was being discussed.
M. La Rouquette and M. de Lamberthon, an old deputy, and the husband of a charming wife, sat opposite one another in the ‘buvette’ or refreshment room, quietly drinking grog. ‘Well, shall we go back into the Chamber?’ said Lamberthon, who had been straining his ear to listen. ‘I fancy things are getting pretty warm there.’
Every now and then indeed one heard distant shouting, a sudden roar like some squall of wind, but afterwards complete silence ensued. M. La Rouquette continued smoking with an air of utter indifference. ‘Oh, we needn’t go just yet,’ he said; ‘I want to finish my cigar. They’ll let us know if we are wanted. I told them to do so.’
La Rouquette and Lamberthon were the only members then in the ‘buvette,’ a sort of smart little café established at the end of the narrow garden at the corner of the quay and the Rue de Bourgogne. Painted a soft green, covered with bamboo trellis-work, and having large windows that opened right on to the garden, the place looked like some conservatory transformed into a refreshment room for a garden party. It was panelled with mirrors; the tables and counter were of red marble, and the seats were upholstered with green rep. One of the windows was open, and through it there came the soft air of the lovely spring afternoon, freshened by the breezes from the Seine.
‘The Italian war filled the cup of his glory,’ said M. La Rouquette, continuing a conversation that had been interrupted. ‘To-day, in conferring liberty on the country, he displays all the greatness of his genius.’
He was speaking of the Emperor, and he went on to extol the provisions of the November decrees,[21] the more direct participation of the great state bodies in the policy of the sovereign, and the creation of ministers without departments for the purpose of representing the government in the Chambers. It was a return to constitutional government, he said, in all its most wholesome and desirable features. A new era, that of the liberal Empire, was beginning. Then he knocked the ash from his cigar in a transport of enthusiasm.
But M. de Lamberthon shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the Emperor has gone rather too fast,’ he said. ‘It would have been better to have waited a little longer, there was no pressing hurry.’
‘Oh, yes, I assure you there was. It was quite necessary to do something,’ replied the young deputy with animation. ‘It is just in that respect that his genius——’
Then he lowered his voice, and with a profound expression began to explain the political situation. The charges issued by the bishops on the subject of the Pope’s temporal power, which was threatened by the government of Turin, were greatly disturbing the Emperor. On the other hand, the opposition was growing more active, and an uneasy thrill was passing through the country. So the moment had come for making an attempt to reconcile the different parties, and win political malcontents over by wise concessions. La Rouquette now considered that the despotic Empire had been very defective; whereas the liberal Empire would be a blaze of glory, illumining the whole of Europe.
‘Well, I’m still of opinion that he has gone too fast,’ repeated M. de Lamberthon, again shaking his head. ‘It’s all very well to talk about the liberal Empire; but the liberal Empire is the Unknown, my dear sir; the Unknown, the Unknown——’
He thrice repeated this expression, each time in a different tone, and waving his hand in the air. M. La Rouquette said nothing further; he was finishing his grog. However, they still sat where they were, gazing blankly out of the open window, as though they were looking for the unknown fate of the liberal Empire across the quay, in the direction of the Tuileries, where hung a thick grey haze. Behind them, beyond the lobbies, the hurricane of voices rose afresh, with the uproar of an approaching storm.
M. de Lamberthon turned his head uneasily. ‘It’s Rougon who is going to reply, isn’t it?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Yes, I believe so,’ replied M. La Rouquette with an air of reserve.
‘He was very much compromised,’ the old deputy continued. ‘The Emperor has made a singular choice in appointing him as a minister without department, and commissioning him to defend his new policy.’
M. La Rouquette did not immediately express an opinion, but slowly stroked his fair moustache. ‘The Emperor knows Rougon,’ he said at last.
Then in in quite a different tone he exclaimed: ‘I say, these grogs were not up to much. I’m dreadfully thirsty. I think I shall have a glass of syrup and water.’
He ordered one, and, after some hesitation, M. de Lamberthon decided that he would have a glass of Madeira. Then they began to talk of Madame de Lamberthon, and the old deputy chided his young colleague for the rarity of his visits. The latter was lounging back on the settee, furtively admiring himself in the mirrors, quite pleased by the soft green tint of the walls, and the general freshness of the buvette, which seemed almost like a Pompadour arbour reared in some princely forest for love assignations.
However, an usher suddenly came in, almost breathless. ‘Monsieur La Rouquette, you are wanted immediately—immediately!’ he gasped.
Then, as the young deputy made a gesture of vexation, the usher stooped and whispered that he had been sent by M. de Marsy, the President of the Chamber, himself. And he added in a louder tone, ‘Everybody is wanted; so come at once.’
M. de Lamberthon at once rushed off in the direction of the Chamber and M. La Rouquette was following him, when he appeared to change his mind. It had indeed occurred to him that it might be advisable to hunt up all the deputies lounging in different parts of the building, and send them back to their places. So he hastened first into the Conference Hall, a beautiful apartment lighted by a glazed roof and boasting a huge chimney-piece of green marble, ornamented with two white marble female figures, nude and recumbent. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a great wood fire was burning there. At the large table sat three deputies with sleepy eyes, which wandered over the pictures on the walls and the famous clock, which was only wound up once a year. A fourth deputy, who had installed himself at the fire, so as to warm his back, seemed to be gazing with emotion at a plaster statuette of Henri IV. which at the other end of the room stood out against a trophy of Austrian and Prussian standards captured at Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena. As M. La Rouquette went from one to the other of his colleagues, bidding them at once hurry to the Chamber, they started up as if suddenly awakened, and hastened away in procession.
In his enthusiasm, La Rouquette was already rushing off to the library, when it occurred to him that it would be as well to glance into the lavatory. There he found M. de Combelot, who, with his hands plunged in a large basin, was gently rubbing them, and smiling admiringly at their whiteness. He did not show the least excitement, but said that he would return to his seat in a moment. Before doing so, however, he lingered for some time wiping his hands on a warm towel, which he then replaced in the copper-doored stove. And finally he took his stand before a lofty mirror, and carefully combed his handsome black beard.
There was no one in the library, which La Rouquette next visited. The books were slumbering on their oak shelves; the two huge tables with covers of green cloth stood severely bare; and the book-rests attached to the arms of the chairs were folded back, and covered with a slight coating of dust.
‘There is never any one here!’ exclaimed La Rouquette in a loud voice which sounded quite strange amid all the silence and solitude; and having closed the door with a bang he went on searching a series of passages and halls. He crossed the Distribution Hall, floored with marble from the Pyrenees, where his footsteps echoed as though he had been walking through a church. And an usher having told him that a deputy he knew, M. de la Villardière, was showing the palace to a lady and gentleman, he obstinately set about finding him. He hastened into the severe-looking vestibule known as General Foy’s Hall, where the statues of Mirabeau, Foy, Bailly, and Casimir Périer invariably command the respectful admiration of country visitors. And, near by, in the Throne Room, he at last discovered M. de la Villardière, with a fat lady on one side of him and a fat gentleman on the other, an influential elector and notary of Dijon and his wife.
‘You are wanted,’ said M. La Rouquette. ‘Quick to your place, eh?’
‘Yes, I’ll go at once,’ replied the deputy. But he could not make his escape. The fat gentleman had taken his hat off, much impressed by the magnificence of the hall, with its glittering gilding and mirrored panels; and he clung firmly to his ‘dear deputy,’ as he called him, and would not let him go. He was asking for some explanations of Delacroix’s paintings, the great decorative figures representing the seas and rivers of France; Mediterranean Mare, Oceanus, Ligeris, Rhenus, Sequana, Rhodanus, Garumna, Araris. These Latin words seemed to puzzle him.
‘Ligeris is the Loire,’ M. de la Villardière explained.
The Dijon notary briskly nodded his head to signify that he understood. Meanwhile his wife was examining the throne, an arm-chair slightly higher than the others, placed on a broad platform. She stood some little distance away from it, contemplating it with reverent emotion. Presently she summoned up sufficient courage to go nearer, and then, furtively raising its covering, she touched the gilded wood, and felt the crimson velvet.
However, M. La Rouquette was now scouring the right wing of the palace, with its interminable corridors and offices and committee-rooms. He returned by way of the Hall of the Four Columns, where young deputies dream of fame while gazing at the statues of Brutus, Solon, and Lycurgus. Then he cut across the large waiting hall, and hastily skirted a semi-circular gallery, like a sort of low crypt, as dim and as bare as a church, and lighted, day and night, by gas. Finally, quite breathless, and dragging after him the little troop of deputies whom he had gathered together, La Rouquette threw open one of the mahogany doors decorated with gold stars. M. de Combelot, his hands quite white, and his beard neatly combed, followed him, M. de la Villardière, having made his escape from his constituents, came on close behind, and they all rushed together into the assembly hall where the other deputies stood erect in their places, furiously shouting and waving their arms at a member in the tribune who seemed altogether unmoved by their cries.[22]
‘Order! order! order!’ they shouted.
‘Order! order!’ cried M. La Rouquette and his friends, still louder than the others, though they knew absolutely nothing of what was going on.
The uproar was frightful. Some deputies were ragefully stamping their feet, while others kept up a noise like that of a fusillade by violently rattling the lids of their desks. Screaming and yelping voices rose, fifelike, amidst others which were gruff and full, and rumbled on like an organ accompaniment. Every now and then there was a slight lull in the din, and then jeers could be distinguished in the subsiding clamour, and some words even were plainly heard.
‘It is detestable! intolerable!’
‘He must withdraw it!’
‘Yes, yes! withdraw it!’
However, the cry that was stubbornly repeated, which ever and ever went on to the rhythmical stamping of heels was that of ‘Order! order! order!’ coming hoarsely, huskily, from a hundred dry throats.
The deputy in the tribune had crossed his arms, and was gazing calmly at his furious colleagues with barking faces and brandished arms. Twice, when the tumult seemed to subside, he attempted to continue his speech, but each time that he opened his mouth there came a renewal of the tempest, a fresh outburst of frantic rage. The din in the Chamber was fairly ear-splitting.
M. de Marsy, erect in his place, with his hand upon the button of his bell, was ringing a continuous summons to silence amidst the hurricane. His long pale face remained perfectly calm. For a moment even he ceased to ring; quietly drew down his wristbands, and then applied himself to his bell again. A faint, sceptical smile, which was almost habitual to him, played round his thin lips, and whenever the shouters grew weary he contented himself with repeating ‘Gentlemen, allow me, allow me!’
At last he obtained comparative silence; and then he resumed: ‘I call upon the member in the tribune to explain the words he just made use of.’
Thereupon the deputy in question, bending forward, with his hands resting on the edges of the tribune, repeated his words, emphasising them by a determined movement of the chin. ‘I said that what took place on the second of December[23] was a crime——’ He was not allowed to proceed further. The storm broke out afresh. A deputy with flushed cheeks called him a murderer. Another applied such a filthy term to him that the shorthand writers smiled and refrained from reporting it. There was a cross-fire of exclamations which mingled together. However, M. La Rouquette could be heard repeating in his shrill voice: ‘He is insulting the Emperor! He is insulting France!’
M. de Marsy made a dignified gesture and then sat down. ‘I call the speaker to order,’ he said.
A long interval of agitation followed. This was no longer the drowsy Corps Législatif which five years previously had voted a credit of 400,000 francs for the Prince Imperial’s baptism. On a bench to the left were four deputies who applauded the language which had been used by their colleague in the tribune. There were now five of them who attacked the Empire.[24] They were already shaking it by their continued efforts, refusing to recognise it or to vote for it, with an obstinate persistency which was destined to gradually rouse the whole country against it. These five deputies kept erect, tiny group though they were, amidst an overwhelming majority; and they replied to the threats and fists and clamorous browbeating of their colleagues without the least sign of discouragement, steadfast and fervent as they were in their desire for revenge.
The very hall itself, echoing with all the feverish excitement, seemed to have been changed. The tribune beneath the President’s desk had been set up again. The cold marbles and pompous columns round the amphitheatre appeared to gather warmth from all the ardent oratory; while the light that streamed from the ceiling window set the long tiers of crimson velvet seats ablaze amid the tempests of momentous debates. The massive presidential desk, with its severe panels, acquired life from the irony and impertinence of M. de Marsy, who with the slim figure of a worn-out man of pleasure showed like a thin line against the bas relief behind him. And only the symbolical statues of Public Order and Liberty, in their niches between the pairs of columns, preserved inanimate countenances and pupil-less stony eyes. However, that which more than anything else imparted increased life to the hall was the much larger number of spectators, all excitedly leaning forward and eagerly following the discussions. The upper tier of seats had now been revived, and the newspaper reporters had a special gallery to themselves. High aloft, near the heavily gilded cornice, numbers of heads were craned forward, a swarming, invading throng, which occasionally made the uneasy deputies glance aloft, as though they fancied they could hear the rushing tramp of the populace on some day of insurrection.
However, the member in the tribune was still waiting for an opportunity to continue. ‘Gentlemen, to resume my argument,’ he said, amidst the noise which still rolled on. Then he paused, and in a louder voice, which made itself heard above the tumult, he exclaimed: ‘If the Chamber refuses to hear me, I shall leave the tribune with a protest.’
‘Go on! Go on!’ cried several deputies; and a thick husky voice growled out the words: ‘Go on; we shall know how to answer you.’ Then, all at once, there was complete silence. From all the seats and galleries, deputies and spectators craned their heads forward to look at Rougon, who had just made this observation. He sat in the front row with his elbows resting on the marble tablet before him. His broad bent back remained motionless save when now and then he slightly swayed his shoulders. His face was buried in his hands and could not be seen; however, he was listening. His début was awaited with great curiosity, for he had not yet spoken since he had been appointed a minister without portfolio. He probably divined that many eyes were fixed on him, for at last he turned his head and glanced round the Chamber. Opposite to him, in the ministers’ gallery, sat Clorinde, in a violet dress, with her elbows resting on the red velvet balustrade. She gazed at him with her wonted tranquil boldness. For a moment their eyes met, but they exchanged no smile of recognition. It was as though they had been perfect strangers. Then Rougon reverted to his previous position, burying his face in his hands, and again listening to the opposition deputy.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the latter, ‘I resume my argument. The liberties conceded by the decree of the twenty-fourth of November are perfectly illusory. We are still far away from the principles of ’89 which are so ostentatiously inscribed at the head of the Imperial Constitution. If the government persists in arming itself with exceptional laws, if it continues to force its own candidates upon the country, if it refuses to free the press from arbitrary control, if, in a word, it still keeps France at its mercy, all the seeming concessions which it may make will be lying ones——’
At this the President intervened. ‘I cannot permit the speaker to use such a term,’ he said.
‘Hear, hear!’ cried the deputies on the right.
The deputy in the tribune took up his phrase again and softened it. He now strove to be more temperate in his language, speaking in carefully rounded periods of great purity of style, which fell from his lips with a solemn rhythm. But M. de Marsy angrily objected to almost every expression he used. And then the deputy launched out into abstract oratory, vague sentences overladen with long words, which so veiled his real thoughts that the President was obliged to leave him alone. However, all at once the orator returned to his old manner.
‘To resume what I was saying. My friends and myself refuse to vote the first paragraph of the address in answer to the speech from the throne——’
‘We can get on very well without you!’ cried a voice; at which loud laughter sped along the benches.
‘We shall not vote in favour of the first paragraph of the address,’ quietly continued the representative of the opposition, ‘unless our amendment is adopted. We cannot join in returning exaggerated thanks to the Chief of the State when so many restrictions are imposed. Liberty is indivisible. It cannot be cut up into fragments and distributed in rations like alms.’
At this fresh shouts arose from every part of the Chamber.
‘Your liberty is license!’
‘Don’t talk about alms! You yourself are begging an unwholesome popularity!’
‘You’d be cutting off heads if you had your way!’
‘Our amendment,’ continued the deputy in the tribune, as though he had heard nothing of these cries, ‘asks for the repeal of the Public Safety Act, the liberty of the press, freedom of elections——’
Here there was another outbreak of laughter. One member exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by his neighbours: ‘Ah, my fine fellow, you’ll get nothing of all that!’ and another made mocking comments on every sentence that dropped from the speaker’s lips. The greater number, however, by way of amusing themselves, punctuated their colleague’s sentences by stealthily rapping their paper-knives on their desks, thus producing a rattling sound something like a roll of kettledrums, which quite drowned the speaker’s voice. Nevertheless, he struggled on to the end. Drawing himself up, he thundered forth his concluding words in such wise as to be heard above all the uproar. ‘Yes, we are revolutionists, if by revolutionists you mean men of progress, resolved upon winning liberty. Refuse the people liberty, and one day the people will seize it!’
Then he descended from the tribune, amidst a fresh outburst. The deputies were no longer laughing like a lot of school-boys. They had risen to their feet, turning towards the left, and again shouting: ‘Order! order!’ The member of the opposition, who had regained his place, remained standing among his friends. There was a deal of surging, and the majority seemed inclined to throw themselves on those five men who stood there so defiantly with pale faces. M. de Marsy, however, angrily rang his bell, glancing as he did so at the gallery, where several ladies were drawing back with an appearance of alarm.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it is scandalous.’ And then, silence being restored, he continued in a loud and keenly authoritative voice: ‘I do not wish to call the hon. member a second time to order. I will content myself with saying that it is disgraceful in the extreme to proffer from this tribune menaces which dishonour it.'[25]
A triple burst of applause greeted these words from the President. The members of the majority cried ‘bravo!’ and again rattled their paper-knives, but this time in approbation. The opposition deputy wanted to say something in reply, but his friends restrained him. Then the tumult gradually subsided till there only remained a buzz of private conversation.
‘I now call upon His Excellency Monsieur Rougon,’ resumed M. de Marsy in a quiet tone.
A thrill, a sigh of satisfaction as it were, ran through the Chamber, followed by earnest attention. With slouching gait Rougon had ponderously made his way into the tribune. He did not at first turn his eyes upon his audience, but laid a bundle of notes in front of him, pushed the glass of sugared water out of his way, and stretched his hands over the narrow mahogany table as though he were taking possession of it. Then at last, leaning against the President’s desk behind him, he raised his face. He did not seem to grow any older. His square brow, his large well-shaped nose and his long cheeks, on which not a wrinkle showed, still had a pale rosy tint, the fresh complexion of some country notary. It was only his thick hair that had undergone any change. It had begun to grizzle and grow thinner about his temples, exposing his big ears. With eyes half-closed he glanced round the Chamber as if looking for some one; then his glance encountered the attentive face of Clorinde, who was leaning forward, and he began to speak in a heavy laborious way.
‘We too are revolutionists, if by that term is meant men of progress who are resolved to restore to the country, piece by piece, every reasonable liberty——’
‘Hear! hear!’
‘What government, gentlemen, has ever surpassed the Empire in according a generous measure of liberal reform, such as the alluring programme you have heard sketched out? It is not necessary that I should refute the speech of the honourable member who has just spoken. It will be sufficient to prove to you that the Emperor with his genius and noble heart has forestalled the demands of the most bitter opponents of his rule. Yes, gentlemen, of his own accord, our sovereign has restored to the nation the power with which it entrusted him during a period of public danger. A magnificent spectacle of which there are few parallels in history! Oh! we can easily understand the discomfiture experienced by certain lawless individuals. They are reduced to attack our intentions, to carp at the measure of liberty which has been restored. But you have fully understood and appreciated, gentlemen, the great act of the twenty-fourth of November. In the first paragraph of the address it has been your desire to express to the Emperor your deep gratitude for his magnanimity and his confidence in the discretion of the Corps Législatif. To adopt the amendment which has been proposed to you would be a gratuitous insult. I will even say, an act of baseness. Consult your own consciences, gentlemen, and ask yourselves whether you do not feel that you are free. Liberty has been granted whole and entire—that I formally guarantee.’
A prolonged outburst of applause here interrupted him. He had gradually drawn to the edge of the tribune, and now, bending forward with his right arm outstretched, he raised his voice which rang out with wonderful power. Behind him, M. de Marsy sat back listening and smiling vaguely like a connoisseur admiring some brilliant tour de force. And amidst the loud cheering of the Chamber, deputies kept bending forward, whispering or looking surprised with lips compressed. Clorinde’s arms rested listlessly on the crimson velvet balustrade, but she seemed very serious.
Rougon continued. ‘To-day,’ he said, ‘the hour for which we were all so impatiently waiting has at length struck. There is no longer any danger in making prosperous France free France also. The anarchical passions are dead. The energy of the Sovereign and the solemn determination of the people have for ever annihilated all abominable epochs of public perversity. Liberty became possible on the day when the faction which had so obstinately ignored the fundamental bases of sound government was defeated; and for this reason the Emperor has deemed fit to lay aside the stern strong hand, to decline excessive prerogatives as a useless burden, rightly considering his rule to be so unassailable that discussion may be freely allowed. And he has not shunned promises for the future, he will carry out his task of enfranchisement to the end, giving back one liberty after another at such times as shall seem fitting to his wisdom. Henceforth it is a programme of continual progress that it will be our duty to support in this assembly.’
‘You, yourself, were the minister of the fiercest oppression!’ interrupted one of the five deputies on the left, indignantly rising from his seat. And another passionately added: ‘The purveyors for Cayenne and Lambessa have no right to speak in the name of liberty!’
An outburst of murmurs followed. Several deputies, who did not quite catch what was said, bent forward and questioned their neighbours. M. de Marsy pretended not to have heard, and contented himself with threatening to call all interrupters to order.
‘I have just been reproached——’ Rougon resumed; but shouts now rose from the right and prevented him from continuing.
‘No, no! Don’t reply!’
‘Such insults are unworthy of your notice!’
Rougon pacified the Chamber by a gesture, and with his big fists resting on the edge of the tribune, he turned to the left with the expression of a wild boar at bay. ‘I will not reply,’ he calmly said.
What had gone before was merely the exordium of his speech. Although he had stated that he did not intend to refute the assertions of the deputy of the left, he now entered upon a minute discussion. He began by clearly stating the whole of his opponent’s arguments; enumerating them with an air of fairness and candour which had an immense effect; for it was as though he disdained these arguments and could destroy them by a breath. However, as he went on, he appeared to forget them entirely, and, without replying to any of them, he attacked the weakest with indescribable violence and quite overwhelmed it beneath a flood of words. Applause burst forth, he triumphed. His huge body seemed to fill the tribune; his shoulders swayed in rhythm with his periods. His oratory was of a mediocre, inartistic order, bristling with legal points and trite commonplaces, which he bellowed forth in thundering tones. He shouted and brandished trivialities; and his only real oratorical gift was his immense, inexhaustible fund of breath, which enabled him to pour forth magniloquent sentences for hours together, careless of what they might contain.
After he had spoken for an hour without a break, he gulped down a mouthful of water, and panted a little while rearranging his notes in front of him.
‘Take a rest!’ cried several deputies.
But he did not feel at all tired, and wanted to finish. ‘What is it, gentlemen, that is asked of you?’ he resumed.
‘Hush! Hush!’
Every face was now again fixed on him with silent straining attention. At certain bursts of his oratory the Chamber quivered from one end to the other, as though a gale had swept through it.
‘What is asked of you, gentlemen, is that you should repeal the Public Safety Act. I will not now recall the ever-accursed hour which made that act a needful weapon. It was necessary to reassure the country, to save France from a fresh cataclysm. To-day the weapon is sheathed. The government, which invariably used it with the greatest prudence—I will even say with the greatest moderation——’
‘Quite true!’
‘The government now only uses it in certain altogether exceptional cases. It inconveniences no one except those sectaries who still cherish the guilty madness of wishing for the return of the basest days of our history. Search through our towns, search through our villages, everywhere you will find peace and prosperity. Inquire of all orderly citizens, and you will not find one who feels in any way oppressed by those exceptional laws which are imputed to us as great crimes. I repeat that, in the paternal hands of the government, they simply continue to shield society against all hateful attempts, the success of which, moreover, is henceforth impossible. Honest, well-disposed men have no occasion to trouble themselves about their existence. Leave them to their slumber, until our Sovereign shall feel justified in doing away with them himself. But what else is asked of you, gentlemen? Freedom of elections, the liberty of the press, every kind of liberty that can be imagined. Ah! Let me pause for a moment to glance at the great things which the Empire has already accomplished. All around me, wherever I turn my eyes, I see public liberties increasing and bearing splendid fruits. I feel the profoundest emotion. France, once fallen so low, is now fast recovering, and giving to the world the example of a nation winning its own freedom by its good behaviour. The days of trial are now over. There is no longer any question of a dictatorship, or of despotism. We are all workers in the cause of liberty——’
‘Bravo! bravo!’
‘Freedom of elections is asked for; but is not universal suffrage on the widest basis the primordial source of the Empire’s existence? Doubtless the government recommends its candidates. But does not the revolutionary party support its own with shameless audacity? We are attacked, and we defend ourselves. Nothing could be fairer. Our opponents would like to gag us, bind us hand and foot, reduce us to the condition of dead bodies. That is a thing which we can never allow. Our love for our country requires that we should advise it and tell it where its true interests lie. It still remains the absolute master of its destinies. It votes and we bow to its wishes. Those members of the Opposition who belong to this assembly, where they enjoy entire liberty of speech, are themselves a proof of our respect for the decrees of universal suffrage. The revolutionary party must settle the matter with the nation, for it is the nation that supports the Empire by overwhelming majorities…. In parliament all obstacles to free control have now been swept aside. Our Sovereign has been pleased to accord the great bodies of the state a more direct participation in his policy, and a conspicuous proof of his confidence in them. Henceforth you will be able to discuss the measures of the government, you will be able to exercise the right of amendment in the fullest degree, as well as to express all your desires. Every year the discussion on the address will form, as it were, an interview between the Emperor and the representatives of the nation, at which the latter will be able to say whatever they please with perfect freedom. It is by free and open discussion that powerful states are formed. The tribune is restored to you, the tribune which so many orators, whose names history has preserved, has made illustrious. A parliament which discusses is a parliament that works. And, to tell you the real truth, I am glad to see here a group of opposition deputies. There will always be amongst us opponents who will try to find us at fault, and who, by doing so, will make our good faith show conspicuously. We solicit the most generous treatment for them. We fear neither passion nor scandal, nor abuse of the freedom of speech, dangerous though these things be.
‘As for the press, gentlemen, under no government determined upon making itself respected has it enjoyed greater freedom than it does at present. Every great question and every serious interest has its organs. The government only opposes the propagation of dangerous doctrines, the dissemination of poisonous ideas. For the honourable portion of the press, which is the great voice of public opinion, I assure you that we entertain the most absolute respect. It assists us in our task; it is the tool of the age. If the government has taken it into its own hands, this is only to keep it from falling into those of its enemies.’
Approving laughter arose. Rougon was now drawing near to his peroration. He gripped the frame-work of the tribune with the stiffened fingers of his left hand, and throwing his whole body forward he swept the air with his right arm. His words flowed forth like a sonorous torrent. And suddenly, amidst his glowing praise of the new liberal policy, he seemed overcome by wild excitement. He shot his fist forward like a battering ram, as though aiming at something yonder in empty space. This invisible enemy was the spectre of the Red Revolution. In a few dramatic sentences he depicted that red spectre shaking its blood-stained banner and waving its incendiary torch as it rushed on, leaving streams of mud and gore behind it. His voice rang out like the alarm-bell of the days of revolution, while bullets whizzed by, and the Bank of France was sacked and the money of respectable citizens was stolen and shared. The deputies turned pale in their seats as they listened. But then Rougon calmed down, and concluded by speaking of the Emperor in warm bursts of laudation, which suggested the swaying of a censer. ‘God be thanked!’ said he. ‘We are under the protection of the Prince whom Providence in its infinite mercy selected to save us. We can safely rest beneath the shelter of his wisdom. He has taken us by the hand, and is leading us step by step through the breakers, to the safety of the harbour.'[26]
Vociferous applause resounded. For nearly ten minutes the proceedings were interrupted. A crowd of deputies rushed to meet the minister as he returned to his seat, with perspiration streaming down his face and his figure still quivering from such an expenditure of breath. M. La Rouquette, M. de Combelot, and a hundred others poured forth their congratulations, and stretched out their arms to try and grasp his hand as he passed them. The whole Chamber was heaving with excitement. Even the occupants of the galleries shouted and gesticulated. Beneath the sun-lit ceiling-window, amidst the gilding and the marble, all the severe magnificence characteristic both of a temple and an office, there raged commotion such as one might find in a public square on some day of demonstration—bursts of doubting laughter, loud exclamations of astonishment and of wild admiration, all the clamour, in a word, of a passion-swayed multitude.
And as the eyes of M. de Marsy and Clorinde met, they both nodded their heads in confession of the great man’s triumph. The speech which Rougon had just delivered was his first step up that splendid ladder of fortune which was to carry him to so great a height.
However, a deputy had mounted the tribune. He had a clean-shaven face, a waxy complexion, and long yellow hair, with sparse curls which fell over his shoulders. Standing stiff and rigid, he consulted some big sheets of paper, the manuscript of a speech, which he finally commenced to read in an unctuous voice.
‘Silence, gentlemen, silence!’ cried the usher.
This deputy had certain explanations to ask from the government. He showed great irritation at the dilatory attitude of France in presence of the threats of Italy against the Holy See. The temporal power of the Pope, said he, was really the ark of God, and the address ought to contain a formally expressed hope, a command even, that this power should be maintained in all its integrity. The speaker launched out into historical references, and showed that the forces of Christianity had established political order in Europe many centuries before the treaties of 1815. Then, in periods that breathed fear and consternation, he said that he beheld with the greatest alarm the olden society of Europe vanishing in the midst of popular convulsions. Every now and then, as he indulged in too direct an allusion to the King of Italy, murmurs sped through a part of the Chamber; but the compact group of clerical deputies on the right, nearly a hundred strong, listened most attentively, accentuating his slightest references by an expression of approval, applauding, too, every time that he named the Pope with a slight reverent inclination of the head.
A chorus of bravos greeted his last words: ‘It distresses me,’ he said, ‘that proud Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic, should become the obscure vassal of Turin.’
Rougon, though his neck was still wet with perspiration, his voice hoarse and his big frame exhausted by his previous exertions, insisted upon replying at once. It was a remarkable sight. He made a parade of his fatigue, exhibited it ostentatiously, dragging himself to the tribune, where he began by stammering faint words. He bitterly complained that men of position, hitherto so loyal to the Imperial institutions, should now be among the adversaries of the government. There must surely be some misunderstanding. They could not wish to swell the ranks of the revolutionists, and weaken a power which made constant efforts to ensure the triumph of religion. And, turning towards the deputies on the right, he addressed them with pathetic gestures, spoke to them with a humility full of craft, as though they were powerful foes, the only foes that he really feared.
Meantime his voice gradually recovered all its previous force, and once more he filled the Chamber with a bellowing roar, striking his breast the while with his closed fist.
‘We are accused of irreligion,’ he cried. ‘It is a falsehood! We are the reverent children of the Church, and it is our happiness to be faithful believers. Yes, gentlemen, faith is our guide and our support in this task of governing, which is often so heavy a burden. What, indeed, would become of us if we did not trustfully place ourselves in the hands of Providence? Our only pretension is to be the humble executants of its designs, the docile instruments of the will of God. It is this which enables us to speak out freely and to accomplish some little good. And, gentlemen, I am happy that this opportunity presents itself for me to bend the knee with all the fervour of a true Catholic heart before the sovereign Pontiff, before that august and venerable old man whose watchful and devoted daughter France will ever remain.’
Before he had well finished, the Chamber resounded with applause. His triumph was becoming an apotheosis. The very walls shook.
When they were all leaving, Clorinde watched for Rougon to pass by. He and she had not exchanged a word for the last three years. When he made his appearance, looking younger and lighter, having in a single hour given the lie to all his previous political life, ready to satisfy, under the fiction of constitutionalism, his rageful craving for power, she yielded to an impulsive feeling and stepped towards him, with hand outstretched and moist caressing eyes. ‘Ah!’ said she, ‘in spite of everything, you are a wonderfully able fellow!’
THE END
< < < Chapter XIII
NOTES > > >
French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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