French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
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Chapter II
RESIGNATION
In the next morning’s Moniteur Rougon’s resignation was officially announced. It was stated that he had resigned for ‘reasons of health.’ After his lunch, wishing to set everything in order for his successor, he went down to the Council of State, and installed himself in the spacious room hung with crimson and gold, which was assigned to the President. And there, in front of a large rosewood writing-table, he began to empty the drawers and classify the papers, which he tied up in bundles with pieces of pink tape. All at once, however, he rang the bell, and an usher entered the room—a splendidly built man who had served in the cavalry.
‘Give me a lighted candle,’ said Rougon.
Then as the usher was leaving the room, after placing on the table a small candlestick taken from the mantelpiece, Rougon called him back. ‘Admit nobody, Merle,’ he said; ‘no one at all, you understand?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Président,’ replied the usher, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
A faint smile played over Rougon’s face. He turned towards Delestang, who stood at the other end of the room carefully examining the contents of several pasteboard boxes. ‘Our friend Merle hasn’t read the Moniteur this morning,’ he muttered.
Delestang merely shook his head, unable to think of any suitable reply. He had a magnificent head, very bald, indeed, but bald after that precocious fashion which is rather pleasing to women. His bare skull greatly increased the size of his brow and gave him an expression of vast intelligence. His clean-shaven, florid, and somewhat squarely cut face recalled those perfect, pensive countenances which imaginative painters are wont to confer upon great statesmen.
‘Merle is extremely devoted to you,’ he remarked after a pause.
Then he lowered his head over the pasteboard box which he was examining, while Rougon crumpled up a handful of papers, and after lighting them at the taper threw them into a large bronze vase which stood at the edge of his table. He watched them burn away.
‘Don’t touch the boxes at the bottom, Delestang,’ he said; ‘there are papers in them that I must examine myself.’
Then, for another quarter of an hour, they both went on with their respective occupations in silence. It was a very fine day, and the sun streamed in through three large windows which overlooked the quay. Through one of them, which was half open, puffs of fresh air from the Seine were wafted in, occasionally stirring the fringe of the silk curtains, and rustling the crumpled pieces of paper which lay about the floor.
‘Just look at this,’ said Delestang, handing Rougon a letter which he had found.
Rougon read it and then quietly lighted it at the taper. It was a letter on a delicate matter. The two men carried on a disjointed conversation, breaking off every few moments to bury their faces afresh in the piles of old papers. Rougon thanked Delestang for having come to help him. He was the only person whom he felt that he could trust to assist him in this task of washing the dirty linen of his five years’ presidency. They had been friends together in the Legislative Assembly, where they had sat side by side on the same bench. It was there that Rougon had taken a genuine fancy to this splendid-looking man, on finding that he was so delightfully foolish and shallow and proud. He often used to say with an air of conviction that ‘that precious Delestang would go a long way.’ He did what he could to push him on, gratitude yielding devotion, and he made use of him as a kind of strong box in which he locked up whatever he could not carry about with him.
‘How foolish of me to have kept all these papers!’ Rougon murmured, as he opened a fresh drawer which was crammed quite full.
‘Here is a letter from a lady!’ said Delestang winking.
At this Rougon broke out into a loud laugh, and his huge chest shook. He took the letter with a protest. However, as soon as his eyes had glanced over the first lines, he exclaimed: ‘It was little Escorailles who let this drop here! They are pretty things those letters. With three lines from a woman, a fellow may go a long way!’ Then, as he burnt the letter, he added: ‘Be on your guard against women, Delestang!’
Delestang bent his head again. He was perpetually becoming the victim of some hazardous passion. In 1851 he had all but ruined his political prospects. At that time he had been madly infatuated with the wife of a socialist deputy, and to curry favour with her husband had more frequently than not voted with the opposition against the Élysée. The coup d’état of the second of December consequently filled him with terrible alarm, and he shut himself up for a couple of days in distraction, overwhelmed, good for nothing, trembling with fear lest he should be arrested. However, Rougon had helped him out of his awkward position, advising him not to stand at the ensuing elections and taking him down to the Élysée, where he succeeded in getting him a place in the Council of State. Delestang, whose father had been a wine-merchant at Bercy, was himself a retired attorney and the owner of a model farm near Sainte-Menehould. He was worth several millions of francs and lived in a very handsome house in the Rue du Colisée.
‘Yes, beware of women,’ Rougon repeated, pausing after each word so as to glance at his papers. ‘When a woman does not put a crown on your head she slips a halter round your neck. At our age a man’s heart wants as carefully looking after as his stomach.’
At this moment a loud noise was heard in the ante-chamber, and Merle’s voice could be recognised refusing admission to some visitor. However, a little man suddenly rushed into the room, exclaiming, ‘I really must shake hands with my dear friend!’
‘Hallo! is it you, Du Poizat?’ exclaimed Rougon without rising.
Merle was making sweeping gesticulations to excuse himself, but his master bade him close the door. Then he quietly said to Du Poizat: ‘I thought you were at Bressuire. So you desert your sub-prefecture as easily as an old mistress, eh?’
Du Poizat, who was a slightly built man with a mean-looking face and very white irregular teeth, shrugged his shoulders as he replied: ‘I arrived in Paris this morning on business, and I did not intend to come and see you till the evening, when I should have called upon you in the Rue Marbeuf and have asked you to give me some dinner. But when I read the Moniteur——’ Then he broke off, pulled an easy-chair in front of the writing-table, and seated himself face to face with Rougon. ‘Well now, what’s been happening, eh?’ he resumed. ‘I’ve come from the depths of the Deux-Sèvres. I had heard something down there, but I had no idea of this. Why didn’t you write to me?’
Rougon, in his turn, shrugged his shoulders. It was evident that tidings of his disgrace had reached Du Poizat in the country, and that he had hastened to Paris to see if he could find a means of securing stability for his own position. So Rougon gave him a keen glance as he rejoined: ‘I should have written to you this evening. Send in your resignation, my good fellow.’
‘That’s all that I wanted to know. Well, I will resign,’ replied Du Poizat quietly.
Then he rose from his seat and began to whistle. As he slowly paced the room he caught sight of Delestang kneeling on the carpet in the midst of a litter of pasteboard boxes. He approached and silently shook hands with him. Then he took a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it at the candle.
‘I may smoke here, I suppose, as you are moving?’ he said, again sitting down in the easy-chair. ‘It’s good fun is moving!’
Rougon, however, was absorbed in a bundle of papers which he read with deep attention, sorting them very carefully, burning some and preserving others. Du Poizat, with his head lolling back, and puffing light clouds of smoke from between his lips, remained watching him. They had become acquainted with each other some months before the Revolution of February, 1848. At that time they were both boarding with Madame Correur at the Hôtel Vanneau in the Rue Vanneau. Du Poizat had found himself quite at home there, for he and Madame Correur had both been born at Coulonges, a little town in the district of Niort. His father, a process-server, had sent him to study law in Paris, where he allowed him only a hundred francs a month, although he had amassed large sums by lending money for short periods at extortionate interest. The old man’s wealth seemed, indeed, so inexplicably great to his country neighbours that it was said he had discovered a large treasure in an old chest of drawers upon which he had distrained. From the outset of the Bonapartist propaganda Rougon had availed himself of the services of this scraggy youth, who, chafing and fuming, made such short work of his monthly hundred francs, and they dabbled together in the most risky undertakings. Later on, when Rougon was desirous of entering the Legislative Assembly, Du Poizat worked energetically to secure his election for Deux-Sèvres. Then, after the coup d’état, Rougon in his turn used all his influence on behalf of Du Poizat and got him appointed sub-prefect at Bressuire. The young man, then barely thirty years of age, had desired to return in triumph to his own neighbourhood, where he would be near his father, through whose avarice he had led a life of torture ever since leaving college.
‘And how is your father?’ asked Rougon, without raising his eyes.
‘Oh, much too well,’ answered Du Poizat bluntly. ‘He has sent his last remaining servant away because she ate three pounds of bread a week. Now he keeps a couple of loaded guns behind his door, and when I go to see him I have to parley with him over the wall of the yard.’
While talking, Du Poizat leaned forward and poked his fingers into the bronze vase, where some fragments of paper were lying only half-consumed. Rougon sharply raised his head as he noticed this. He had always felt somewhat distrustful of his old lieutenant, whose irregular white teeth resembled those of a young wolf. In the days when they had worked together he had always made a point of never allowing any compromising document to fall into his hands; and now, as he saw him trying to decipher some words that still remained legible on the charred fragments, he threw a handful of blazing letters into the vase. Du Poizat perfectly understood why he did so; however, he merely smiled and began to joke. ‘It’s a thorough cleaning you’re going in for,’ he said.
Then he took a large pair of scissors and began to use them as tongs. He raised the letters which were not consumed to the taper in order to relight them, held up those which had been too tightly crumpled to burn in the vase, and stirred all the flaming ashes as though he were mixing a blazing bowl of punch. The red-hot sparks danced about in the vase, and a cloud of bluish smoke arose and gently curled away towards the open window. At intervals the candle flickered and then burnt brightly again with a straight, tall flame.
‘That candle looks like a funeral-taper!’ said Du Poizat with a grin. ‘Ah! it’s really a burial, my poor friend. What a lot of skeletons that require to be reduced to ashes, eh!’
Rougon was about to reply, when a fresh commotion was heard in the ante-chamber. Merle was a second time refusing admission. As the voices grew louder, Rougon at last exclaimed: ‘Will you kindly see what it is, Delestang? If I show myself we shall be quite invaded.’
Delestang cautiously opened the door and closed it behind him. But he popped his head into the room almost immediately afterwards, exclaiming: ‘It’s Kahn!’
‘Oh, well!’ replied Rougon; ‘let him come in; but no one else, mind!’ Then he called to Merle and reiterated his orders.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear friend,’ he said, turning to Kahn, as soon as the usher had left the room; ‘but I am so very busy. Sit down beside Du Poizat and keep quite still or I shall be obliged to turn you both out of the room.’
The deputy did not appear in the least offended by Rougon’s blunt reception. He was quite accustomed to those ways. He took an easy-chair and sat down beside Du Poizat, who was lighting a second cigar. ‘It is getting very warm,’ he said, after drawing breath. ‘I have just been to the Rue Marbeuf; I expected to find you at home.’
Rougon made no reply, and there was an interval of silence. The ex-President crumpled up some papers and threw them into a basket which he had placed by his side.
‘I want to talk to you,’ resumed M. Kahn.
‘Talk away!’ said Rougon; ‘I am listening.’
Then the deputy seemed to become suddenly aware of the disorder of the room. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked with admirably feigned surprise. ‘Are you changing your room?’
His tone seemed so sincere that Delestang actually paused in what he was doing in order to hand him the Moniteur.
‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ he cried, as soon as he had glanced at the paper. ‘I thought the matter was satisfactorily arranged yesterday evening. This comes upon me like a thunderbolt. My dear friend——’
He rose and pressed Rougon’s hands. The latter looked at him in silence, while two deep scoffing creases appeared on his heavy face near his under lip. As Du Poizat seemed quite unmoved, he suspected that he and Kahn had already met earlier in the morning, and he was confirmed in this opinion as the deputy had shown no surprise at seeing the sub-prefect. He surmised that one of the pair had come straight to the Council of State while the other hastened to the Rue Marbeuf, so that they might be sure to find him at the one or the other place.
‘Well, there is something you want to say to me,’ quietly resumed Rougon. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, I won’t trouble you about that now, my dear friend!’ exclaimed the deputy. ‘You have got sufficient to worry you as it is. I should be very sorry to bother you with my own troubles at a time like this.’
‘Oh, it will be no bother, I assure you. Speak away.’
‘Well, then, I wanted to speak to you about that affair of mine, that confounded grant. I am very glad that Du Poizat is here, as he may be able to give us information upon certain points.’
Then he explained at great length the exact position which the matter had reached. It was a scheme for a railway from Niort to Angers, upon which he had been engaged for the last three years. The projected line would pass through Bressuire, where he possessed some blast-furnaces, the value of which it would largely increase. At the present time there were great difficulties in the way of transport, and the business was consequently languishing. M. Kahn had some hopes, too, that he would be able to get some very profitable pickings out of the affair, and so he had greatly exerted himself in order to obtain the grant. Rougon had supported him energetically, and the grant had almost been secured when M. de Marsy, the Minister of the Interior, vexed at having no share in the affair, which he guessed would afford a superb opportunity for jobbery, and being also very desirous of doing anything that might annoy Rougon, had used all his influence to oppose the scheme. With that audacity of his which made him such a terrible opponent, he had even just persuaded the Minister of Public Works to offer the grant to the Western Railway Company, besides circulating a statement that this company alone could successfully carry out the branch line, for the satisfactory working of which some substantial guarantee was required. Thus M. Kahn seemed in great danger of losing all the advantages he had hoped to gain, and Rougon’s fall appeared likely to involve him in ruin.
‘I heard yesterday,’ said he, ‘that one of the company’s engineers had been instructed to make a survey for the new line. Have you heard anything of it, Du Poizat?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the sub-prefect. ‘The survey has already commenced. They are trying to avoid the detour which you were planning in order to make the line touch Bressuire, and propose to carry it straight along past Parthenay and Thouars.’
A gesture of discouragement escaped the deputy. ‘It is sheer persecution!’ he exclaimed. ‘What harm could it do them to let the line pass my place? But I will protest and write against their plan. I will go back with you to Bressuire.’
‘No, no; you had better not wait for me,’ said Du Poizat with a smile. ‘It seems that I have got to resign.’
M. Kahn fell back in his chair, as though overcome by a final catastrophe. He rubbed his beard with both hands and looked at Rougon with an air of entreaty. The latter had ceased to examine his papers, and was leaning on his elbows and listening.
‘I suppose,’ he said, somewhat roughly, ‘that you want my advice? Well, then, my good friends, just remain quiet and try to keep things as they are until we get the upper hand. Du Poizat is going to resign, because, if he didn’t, he would be dismissed within a fortnight. As for you, Kahn, you had better write to the Emperor and use all available means to prevent the grant being obtained by the Western Railway Company. You won’t get it for yourself at present, but as long as it is not given to any one else, there is a chance of your winning it later on.’ Then, as the two men nodded, he continued: ‘Well, that’s all I can do for you. I am down and you must give me time to pick myself up again. You don’t see me going about with a woe-begone face, do you? Well, I should be much obliged if you wouldn’t look as though you were attending my funeral. For my part, I am delighted at retiring into private life again. I shall at last be able to take a little rest.’
He heaved a deep sigh, crossed his arms, and rocked his huge frame backwards and forwards. M. Kahn said nothing more about his scheme, but tried to imitate Du Poizat and appear perfectly indifferent. Delestang had opened some more pasteboard boxes, and worked away so quietly behind the chairs that the slight rustling noise which he made every now and then might have been attributed to a troop of mice flitting across the papers. Meantime the sunlight was travelling over the crimson carpet and lighting up a corner of the writing-table, paling the flame of the candle which was still burning there.
A friendly conversation sprang up amongst the men. Rougon, who was tying up some more bundles of papers, declared that he was really not cut out for politics, and smiled good-naturedly as his heavy eyelids drooped, as though with weariness, over his glistening eyes. He would have liked, he said, to have a large estate to cultivate, fields which he could dig up at his pleasure, and flocks of animals, horses, cattle, sheep, and dogs, of which he would be the one absolute monarch. He told them that in former days, when only a country lawyer at Plassans, his great pleasure had consisted in setting off in a blouse on a shooting expedition of several days through the ravines of La Seille, where he shot eagles. He said that he was a peasant; his grandfather had dug the soil. Then he assumed the air of a man disgusted with the world. Power had grown wearisome to him, and he meant to spend the summer in the country. He declared that he had never felt so light-hearted as he did that morning, and he gave a mighty shrug of his strong shoulders as though he had just thrown off some heavy burden.
‘How much did you get here as President?’ asked M. Kahn; ‘eighty thousand francs?’
Rougon nodded assent.
‘And now you’ll only have your thirty thousand as a senator.’
However, Rougon exclaimed that this change would not affect him at all. He could live upon next to nothing and indulged in no vices; which was perfectly true. He was neither a gambler, nor a glutton, nor a loose liver. His whole ambition, he declared, was to be his own master. Then he reverted to his idea of a farm, where he would be king of all sorts of animals. His ideal life was to wield a whip and be paramount; to be the master, chief both in intelligence and power. Gradually he grew animated and talked of animals as though they had been men, declaring that the mob liked to be driven, and that shepherds directed their flocks by pelting them with stones. His face seemed transfigured, his thick lips protruded scornfully, while his whole expression was instinct with strength and power. While he spoke he brandished a bundle of papers in his clenched fist, and it seemed every now and then as though he were going to throw it at the heads of M. Kahn and Du Poizat, who watched his sudden outburst of excitement with uneasy anxiety.
‘The Emperor has behaved very badly,’ at last muttered Du Poizat.
Then Rougon all at once became quite calm again. His face turned loamy and his body seemed to grow flabby and obese. He began to sound the Emperor’s praises in an exaggerated fashion. Napoleon III. was a man of mighty intelligence, he declared, with a mind of astonishing depth. Du Poizat and Kahn exchanged a meaning look. But Rougon waxed still more lavish of his praises, and, speaking of his devotion to his master, declared with great humility that he had always been proud of being a mere instrument in the Emperor’s hands. He talked on in this strain till he made Du Poizat, who was of a somewhat irritable nature, quite impatient, and they began to wrangle. The sub-prefect spoke with considerable bitterness of all that Rougon and he had done for the Empire between 1848 and 1851, when they were lodging with Madame Correur in a condition of semi-starvation. He referred to the terrible days, especially those of the first year, when they had gone splashing through the mud of Paris, recruiting partisans for the Emperor’s cause. Later on they had risked their skins a score of times. And wasn’t it Rougon who on the morning of the second of December had taken possession of the Palais Bourbon at the head of a regiment of the line? That was a game at which men staked their lives! Yet now to-day he was being sacrificed and made the victim of a court intrigue. Rougon, however, protested against this assertion. He was not being sacrificed—he was resigning for private reasons. And as Du Poizat, now fully wound up, began to call the folks of the Tuileries a set of ‘pigs,’ he ended by reducing him to silence by bringing his fist down upon the rosewood writing-table with a force which made it creak.
‘That is all nonsense!’ he said.
‘You are, indeed, going rather far,’ remarked M. Kahn.
Delestang was standing behind the chairs looking very pale. He opened the door gently to see if any one were listening, but there was nobody in the ante-chamber excepting Merle, whose back was turned with an appearance of great discretion. Rougon’s observation had made Du Poizat blush, and quickly cooling down he chewed his cigar in silent displeasure.
‘There is no doubt that the Emperor is surrounded by injudicious advisers,’ Rougon resumed after a pause. ‘I ventured to tell him as much, and he smiled. He even condescended to jest about it, and told me that my own entourage was no better than his own.’
Du Poizat and Kahn laughed in a constrained fashion. They thought the reply a very good one.
‘But,’ continued Rougon in meaning tones, ‘I repeat that I am retiring of my own free will. If any one questions you, who are my friends, on the matter, you can say that yesterday evening I was quite at liberty to withdraw my resignation. You can contradict, too, the tittle-tattle which is being circulated about Rodriguez’s affair, out of which people seem to be making a perfect romance. On this subject no doubt I disagreed with the majority of the Council of State, and there has certainly been a deal of friction in the matter which has hastened my retirement. But I had weightier and earlier reasons than that. For a long time past I had made up my mind to resign the high position which I owed to the Emperor’s kindness.’
He punctuated this speech with the gesture of the right hand, in which he constantly indulged when addressing the Chamber. He evidently wished that what he was saying might be made public. M. Kahn and Du Poizat, who knew very well the kind of individual they had to deal with, tried all kinds of stratagems to get at the real truth. They felt quite sure that ‘the great man,’ as they familiarly called him between themselves, had some formidable scheme in his head. So they turned the conversation on general politics. Rougon then began to scoff at the parliamentary system, which he called ‘the dunghill of mediocrity.’ The Chamber, he declared, enjoyed quite an absurd amount of liberty even now, and indulged in far too much talk. France required governing, he said, by a suitably devised machine, with the Emperor at the head, and the great state-bodies, reduced to the position of mere working gear, below. He laughed, and his huge chest heaved, as he carried his theory to the point of exaggeration, displaying the while a scornful contempt for the imbeciles who demanded powerful rule.
‘But,’ interposed M. Kahn, ‘with the Emperor at the top, and everybody else at the bottom, matters cannot be very pleasant for any one except the Emperor.’
‘Those who feel bored can take themselves off,’ Rougon quietly replied. He smiled, and then added: ‘They can wait till things become amusing, and then they can come back.’
A long interval of silence followed. M. Kahn began to stroke his beard contentedly. He had found out what he wanted to know. He had made a correct guess at the Chamber on the previous afternoon when he had insinuated that Rougon, finding his influence at the Tuileries seriously shaken, had taken time by the forelock and resigned. Rodriguez’s business had afforded him a splendid opportunity for honourable withdrawal.
‘And what are people saying?’ Rougon at last inquired in order to break the silence.
‘Well, I’ve only just got here,’ said Du Poizat, ‘but a little while ago I heard a gentleman who wore a decoration declaring in a café that he strongly approved of your retirement.’
‘Béjuin was very much affected about it yesterday,’ added M. Kahn. ‘Béjuin is much attached to you. He’s rather slow, but he’s very genuine. Little La Rouquette, too, spoke very properly, and referred to you in the kindest terms.’
Other names were mentioned as the conversation continued. Rougon asked direct questions, without showing the least embarrassment, and extracted full particulars from the deputy, who complaisantly gave him an exact account of the demeanour of the Corps Législatif towards him.
‘This afternoon,’ interrupted Du Poizat, who felt somewhat annoyed at having no information to impart, ‘I will take a ramble through Paris, and to-morrow morning, as soon as I’m out of bed, I will come and tell you all I have heard.’
‘By the way,’ cried M. Kahn, with a laugh, ‘I forgot to tell you about Combelot. I never saw a man in greater embarrassment.’
He stopped short on seeing Rougon glance warningly towards Delestang, who, with his back turned towards them, was at that moment standing on a chair removing an accumulation of newspapers which had been stored away atop of a bookcase. M. de Combelot had married one of Delestang’s sisters. Delestang himself, since Rougon had fallen into disfavour, had felt a little down-hearted on account of his relationship with a chamberlain; and so, wishing to affect independence, he turned and said with a smile: ‘Why don’t you go on? Combelot is an ass. That’s the long and short of it, eh?’
This ready condemnation of his brother-in-law afforded the others much amusement, and Delestang, noticing his success, continued his attack even to the extent of falling foul of Combelot’s beard, that famous black beard which had such a reputation among the ladies. Then, as he threw a bundle of newspapers on to the floor, he said abruptly: ‘What is a source of sorrow to some is a source of joy to others.’
This truism led to M. de Marsy’s name being introduced into the conversation. Rougon bent his head and devoted himself to a searching examination of a portfolio, leaving his friends to ease their minds. They spoke of Marsy with all the rageful hostility which politicians show for an adversary. They revelled in the strongest language, bringing all kinds of abominable accusations against him, and so grossly exaggerating such stories which had a foundation of truth that they became mere lies. Du Poizat, who had known Marsy in former days, before the Empire, declared that he was kept at that time by a baroness whose diamonds he had exhausted in three months. M. Kahn asserted that there was not a single shady affair started in any part of Paris without Marsy having a hand in it. They encouraged each other in charges of this kind, and went on from worse to worse. In a mining affair Marsy had received a bribe of fifteen hundred thousand francs; during the previous month he had offered a furnished house to little Florence of the Bouffes Theatre, a trifle for which he had paid six hundred thousand francs, his share of the profits of a speculation in Morocco railway stock; finally, not a week ago, a grand scheme for constructing canals in Egypt, which had been got up by certain tools of his, had scandalously collapsed, the shareholders discovering that not a single shovelful of earth had been turned, although they had been paying out money for a couple of years or so. Then, too, they fell foul of Marsy’s physical appearance, tried to depreciate his good looks, and even attacked the collection of pictures which he was getting together.
‘He’s a brigand in the skin of a vaudevillist,’ Du Poizat ended by exclaiming.
Rougon slowly raised his head and fixed his big eyes on the two men. ‘You are going it well,’ he said. ‘Marsy manages his affairs in his own way, as you manage yours in your way. As regards myself and him, we don’t get on well together, and if ever I have a chance to crush him I shall avail myself of it without hesitation. But all that you have been saying doesn’t prevent Marsy from being a very clever fellow, and, if ever the whim takes him, he will only make a mouthful of you two, I warn you of it.’
Then Rougon, tired of sitting, rose and stretched himself. He gave a great yawn, as he added: ‘And he will do it all the more easily, my friends, now that I shall no longer be in a position to interfere.’
‘Oh, you can lead Marsy a pretty dance if you like,’ said Du Poizat, with a faint smile. ‘You have some papers here which he would be glad to pay a big price for. Those yonder, I mean, the papers in the Lardenois matter, in which he played such a singular part. There’s a very curious letter from him among them, which I recognise as one that I brought you myself at the time.’
Rougon went up to the grate in order to throw the papers with which he had gradually filled his basket into the fire. The bronze vase was no longer large enough. ‘We must deal a stunning blow, and not give a mere scratch,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully. ‘Every one has foolish letters astray in the possession of other people.’
He then lighted the letter just spoken of at the candle, and used it to set fire to the heap of papers in the grate. He remained squatting for a moment, whilst watching the blazing pile. Some thick official documents turned black, and twisted about like sheets of lead; the letters and memoranda, scrawled over with handwriting, threw up little tongues of bluish flame, while inside the grate, amidst a swarm of sparks, half-consumed fragments still remained quite legible.
At this moment the door was thrown wide open, and a laughing voice was heard exclaiming: ‘All right! I will excuse you, Merle. I belong to the house, and if you don’t let me come in this way, I shall go round by the Council Chamber.’
It was M. d’Escorailles, for whom some six months previously Rougon had obtained an appointment as auditor at the Council of State. On his arm hung pretty Madame Bouchard, looking delightfully fresh in a bright spring toilette.
‘Good heavens!’ muttered Rougon, ‘we’ve got women here now.’
He did not immediately leave his place by the grate, but still stooping, grasping the shovel, and pressing down the blazing papers so as to guard against an accident, he raised his big face with an air of displeasure. M. d’Escorailles, however, appeared in no way disconcerted. When he and the young woman had crossed the threshold, they ceased to smile, and assumed an expression more suited to the circumstances.
‘My dear master,’ said Escorailles, ‘I bring a friend of yours, who insists upon coming to express her sorrow. We have seen the Moniteur this morning——’
‘Oh, you have seen the Moniteur, too,’ muttered Rougon, at last rising erect. Then he caught sight of some one whom he had not previously noticed. ‘Ah, Monsieur Bouchard also!’ he exclaimed, blinking.
It was, indeed, the husband who, silent and dignified, had just entered the room in the wake of his wife’s skirts. M. Bouchard was sixty years old: his hair was quite white, his eyes were dim, and his face was worn by twenty-five years of official labour. He did not say a single word, but took Rougon’s hand with an appearance of emotion, and gave it three vigorous shakes.
‘It is really very kind of you all to come and see me,’ said Rougon, ‘only you will be terribly in my way. However, come here, will you? Du Poizat, give Madame Bouchard your chair.’
He turned as he spoke, and then saw Colonel Jobelin standing in front of him. ‘What! are you here as well, colonel?’ he cried.
As a matter of fact, the door had been left open, and Merle had been unable to stop the colonel, who had come up the staircase immediately behind the Bouchards. He was accompanied by his son, a tall lad of fifteen, a pupil at the Louis-le-Grand College. ‘I wanted Auguste to see you,’ he said. ‘It is misfortune that reveals true friends. Auguste, go and give your hand——’
Rougon, however, had sprung towards the ante-room, crying: ‘Shut the door, Merle! What are you thinking about? We shall have all Paris in here directly!’
With calm face the usher replied: ‘It’s all because they caught sight of you, Monsieur le Président.’
Even as he spoke, he was obliged to step back close to the wall, in order to allow the Charbonnels to pass. They came into the room abreast, but not arm-in-arm. They were out of breath, and looked disconsolate and amazed; and they both began to speak at once. ‘We have just seen the Moniteur! What dreadful news! How distressed your poor mother will be! And what a sad position, too, it puts us in ourselves!’
More guileless than the others, the Charbonnels were about to enter upon their own little affairs at once, but Rougon stopped them. He shot a bolt, hidden beneath the door lock, and remarked that if any people wanted to come in now, they would have to break the door open. Then, observing that none of his visitors showed signs of leaving, he resigned himself, and tried to finish his task in the midst of these nine people who were crowding his room. The whole place was now in a state of chaotic confusion, there being such a litter of portfolios and papers on the floor that when the colonel and M. Bouchard wanted to reach a window-recess, they had to exercise the greatest care in order to avoid trampling upon some important document. All the chairs were covered with bundles of papers, excepting the one on which Madame Bouchard was now seated. She was smiling at the gallant speeches of Du Poizat and M. Kahn; while M. d’Escorailles, unable to find a hassock, pushed a thick blue portfolio, stuffed with letters, under her feet. The drawers of the writing-table, which had been pushed into a corner of the room, afforded the Charbonnels a temporary seat where they could recover their breath, while young Auguste, delighted at finding himself in the bustle of a removal, poked about till he disappeared behind the mountain of pasteboard boxes, amid which Delestang had previously entrenched himself. As the latter threw down the newspapers from the top of the bookcase, he raised considerable dust, which made Madame Bouchard cough slightly.
‘I don’t advise you to stay here amidst all this dirt,’ said Rougon, who was now emptying the boxes which he had asked Delestang to leave unexamined.
The young woman, however, quite rosy from her fit of coughing, assured him that she was very comfortable, and that the dust would not harm her bonnet. Then all the visitors poured forth their condolences. The Emperor, they declared, must care very little about the real interests of the country to allow himself to be influenced by men so unworthy of his confidence. France was suffering a great loss. But it was ever thus, they said; a man of high intelligence always had every mediocrity leagued against him.
‘Governments have no gratitude,’ declared M. Kahn.
‘So much the worse for them!’ exclaimed the colonel; ‘they strike themselves when they strike those who serve them.’
However, M. Kahn was desirous of having the last word on the subject, so he turned to Rougon, and said: ‘When a man like you falls, it is a subject for public mourning.’
This met with the approval of all. ‘Yes, yes,’ they exclaimed, ‘for public mourning, indeed!’
Rougon raised his head upon hearing this fulsome praise. His greyish cheeks flushed slightly, and his whole face was irradiated by a suppressed smile of satisfaction. He was as proud of his ability as a woman is of her beauty, and he liked to receive point-blank compliments. It was becoming evident, however, that his visitors were in each other’s way. They repeatedly glanced at one another, resolving to sit one another out, unwilling as they were to say all they desired in the presence of their companions. Now that the great man had fallen, they were anxious to know if he had done anything for them while he yet had the power. The colonel was the first to take an active step. He led Rougon, who, with a portfolio under his arm, readily followed him, into one of the window-recesses.
‘Have you given me a thought?’ he asked with a pleasant smile.
‘Yes, indeed. Your nomination as commander of the Legion of Honour was again promised me four days ago. But, of course, to-day it is impossible for me to say anything with certainty. I confess to you that I am afraid my friends will be made to suffer by my fall.’
The colonel’s lips trembled with emotion. He stammered that they must do what they could, and then, turning suddenly round, he called out: ‘Auguste!’
The lad was on his hands and knees underneath the desk, trying to decipher the inscriptions on the batches of documents. However, he hastened to his father.
‘Here’s this lad of mine,’ resumed the colonel in an undertone. ‘I shall have to find a berth for the young scamp one of these days. I am counting upon you to help me. I haven’t made up my mind yet between the law and the public service. Give your good friend your hand, Auguste, so that he may recollect you.’
While this scene was going on, Madame Bouchard, who had begun to bite her gloves impatiently, had risen from her chair and made her way to the window on the left, after giving M. d’Escorailles a look which meant that he was to follow her. Her husband was already there, leaning upon the cross-bar and gazing out upon the view. The leaves of the tall chestnut trees in the Tuileries Garden were languidly waving in the warm sunshine, and the Seine could be seen rolling blue waters, flecked with golden light, between the Royal and Concorde bridges.
Madame Bouchard suddenly turned round and exclaimed: ‘Oh! Monsieur Rougon, come and look here.’
Thereupon Rougon hastily quitted the colonel, while Du Poizat, who had followed the young woman, discreetly retired, again joining M. Kahn at the middle window.
‘Do you see that barge full of bricks? It nearly foundered just now,’ said Madame Bouchard.
Rougon looked and obligingly lingered there in the sunshine till M. d’Escorailles, upon a fresh glance from the young woman, said to him: ‘Monsieur Bouchard wants to send in his resignation. We have brought him here in order that you may try to dissuade him.’
M. Bouchard then explained that he could not endure injustice. ‘Yes, Monsieur Rougon,’he continued, ‘I began as a copying-clerk in the office of the Minister of the Interior, and reached the position of head clerk without owing either to favour or intrigue. I have been head clerk since 1847. Well, the post of head of department has been vacant five times—four times under the Republic and once under the Empire—and yet the Minister has not once thought of me, though I had hierarchical rights to the place. Now that you will no longer be able to fulfil the promise you gave me I think I had better retire.’
Rougon tried to soothe him. The post, said he, had not yet been bestowed upon any one else, and even if he did not get it this time, it would only be a chance lost; a chance which would certainly present itself again on some future occasion. Then he grasped Madame Bouchard’s hands and complimented her in a paternal fashion. Her husband’s house had been the first thrown open to him on his arrival in Paris, and it was there that he had met the colonel, who was the head clerk’s cousin. Later on, when M. Bouchard had inherited his father’s property and had been smitten, at fifty-four years of age, with a sudden desire to get married, Rougon had acted as witness on behalf of Madame Bouchard, then Adèle Desvignes, a well brought up young lady of a respectable family at Rambouillet. The head clerk had been anxious to marry a young lady from the provinces, because he made a point of having a steady wife. However, the fair and adorable little Adèle, with her innocent blue eyes, had in less than four years proved to be a great deal worse than a mere flirt.
‘There, now, don’t distress yourself,’ said Rougon, who was still holding her hands in his big fists. ‘You know very well that I will do my best for you.’
Then he took M. d’Escorailles aside, and told him that he had written that morning to his father to tranquillise him. The young auditor must remain quietly in his place. The Escorailles family was one of the oldest in Plassans, where it was treated with the utmost respect; and Rougon, who in former days had often dragged his worn-down boots past the old Marquis’s house, took a pride in protecting and assisting the young man. The family retained an enthusiastic devotion for Henri V., though it allowed its heir to serve the Empire. This was one of the inevitable consequences of the wickedness of the times.
Meanwhile, at the middle window, which they had opened to obtain greater privacy, Kahn and Du Poizat were talking together, while gazing out upon the distant roofs of the Tuileries, which looked blue in the haze of the sunlight. They were sounding each other, dropping a few words, and then lapsing into intervals of silence. Rougon, they agreed, was too impulsive. He ought not to have allowed himself to be irritated by that Rodriguez question, which might have been very easily settled. Then M. Kahn, gazing blankly into the distance, murmured as though he were speaking to himself: ‘A man knows when he falls, but never knows whether he will rise again.’
Du Poizat pretended not to hear; but, after a long pause, he said: ‘Oh! he’s a very clever fellow.’
Then the deputy abruptly turned, and, looking the sub-prefect full in the face, spoke to him very rapidly: ‘Between ourselves, I am afraid for him. He plays with fire. We are his friends, of course, and there can be no thought of our abandoning him. But I must say that he has thought very little about us in this matter. Take my own case, for instance. I have matters of enormous importance on my hands, and he has placed them in utter jeopardy by this sudden freak of his. He would have no right to complain—would he, now?—if I were to knock at somebody else’s door; for, you know, it is not I alone who suffer, there are all the townsfolk as well.’
‘Yes, well, go and knock at some other door,’ said Du Poizat, with a smile.
At this the deputy, in a sudden outburst of anger, let the truth escape him. ‘But is it possible? This confounded fellow spoils you with everybody else. When you belong to his band, every one else fights shy of you.’
Then he calmed down, sighed, and looked out towards the Arc de Triomphe, which could be seen rising in a greyish mass out of the green expanse of the Champs Élysées. ‘Well, well,’ he continued softly, ‘I’m as faithful as a dog myself.’
For the last moment or two the colonel had been standing behind the two men. ‘Fidelity is the road to honour,’ said he in his military voice. Then, as Du Poizat and Kahn made room for him, he added: ‘Rougon is contracting a debt to us to-day. Rougon no longer belongs to himself.’
This remark met with the warmest approval. It was certainly quite true that Rougon no longer belonged to himself. What was more, it was necessary that he should be distinctly told so in order that he might know what it behoved him to do. Then the three friends chatted in whispers, forming plans and fortifying each other with hope. At intervals they turned and cast a glance into the big room to make sure that no one was monopolising the great man for too long a time.
The great man was now gathering up the portfolios, while still talking to Madame Bouchard. The Charbonnels were wrangling in the corner where they had remained silent and ill at ease ever since their arrival. They had twice attempted to get hold of Rougon, but had been anticipated by the colonel and the young woman. Now, at last, M. Charbonnel pushed his wife towards the ex-President.
‘This morning,’ she stammered, ‘we received a letter from your mother——’
Rougon did not allow her to finish, but took her and her husband into the window-recess on the right hand, once more abandoning his portfolios without any great sign of impatience.
‘We have received a letter from your mother,’ repeated Madame Charbonnel, and she was going to read the letter in question, when Rougon took it from her and glanced over it. Charbonnel was a retired oil merchant of Plassans, and he and his wife had been protected by Madame Félicité, as Rougon’s mother was called in her own little town. She had given them a letter of introduction to her son on the occasion of their presenting a petition to the Council of State. A cousin of theirs, one Chevassu, a lawyer at Faverolles, the chief town of a neighbouring department, had died, leaving his fortune of five hundred thousand francs to the Sisters of the Holy Family. Originally the Charbonnels had not expected to inherit his fortune, but having suddenly become his next heirs, owing to his brother’s death, they contested the will on the ground of undue influence; and the Sisterhood having petitioned the Council of State to authorise the payment of the bequest to them, they had left their old home at Plassans, hastened to Paris, and taken lodgings at the Hôtel du Périgord in the Rue Jacob in order that they might be on the spot to look after their interests. The matter had been lingering on for the past six months.
‘We are feeling extremely depressed,’ sighed Madame Charbonnel, while Rougon was reading the letter. ‘I myself was always against bringing this action, but Monsieur Charbonnel said that with you on our side we should certainly get the money, as you had only to say a word to put the five hundred thousand francs into our pocket. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Charbonnel?’
The retired oil merchant nodded his head with a hopeless air.
‘And for such a sum as that,’ continued Madame Charbonnel, ‘it did seem worth while to make a change in our old way of life. And it has been nicely changed and disturbed, indeed. Will you believe it, Monsieur Rougon, they actually refused to change our dirty towels at the hotel yesterday? We who have five chests full of linen at home!’
She went on railing at Paris, which she detested. They had originally come thither for a week. Then, as they had always hoped to be able to return home during the following week, they had not thought it worth while to send for anything, and, their case still being unsettled, they doggedly lingered on in their furnished lodgings, eating whatever it pleased the cook to provide, short too of clean linen and almost of clothes. Madame Charbonnel was obliged to dress her hair with a broken comb. Sometimes they sat down on their little valise and wept from very weariness and indignation.
‘And the hotel is frequented by such queer characters!’ complained M. Charbonnel, with a shocked expression. ‘A young man has the room next to ours, and the things we hear——’
But Rougon was folding up the letter. ‘My mother,’ said he, ‘gives you excellent advice in telling you to be patient. I can only suggest to you to take fresh courage. You seem, to me, to have a good case, but now that I have resigned I dare not promise you anything.’
‘Then we will leave Paris to-morrow!’ cried Madame Charbonnel, in an outburst of despair.
As soon as this cry had escaped her lips, she turned very pale and her husband had to support her. For a moment they both remained speechless, looking at each other with trembling lips and feeling a great desire to burst into tears. They felt faint and dazed as though they had just seen the five hundred thousand francs dashed out of their hands.
‘You have had to deal with a powerful opponent,’ Rougon continued kindly. ‘Monseigneur Rochart, the Bishop of Faverolles, has himself come to Paris to support the claim of the Sisters of the Holy Family. If it had not been for his intervention, you would long ago have gained your cause. Unfortunately the clergy are now very powerful. However, I am leaving friends here behind me, and I hope to bring some influence to bear in your favour, while I myself keep in the background. You have waited so long that if you go away to-morrow——’
‘We will remain, we will remain!’ Madame Charbonnel hastily gasped. ‘Ah, Monsieur Rougon, this inheritance will have cost us very dear!’
Rougon now hastened back to his papers. He cast a glance of satisfaction round the room, delighted that there was no one else to take him off into one of the window-recesses. They had all had their say. And so for a few minutes he made great progress with his task. Then he waxed bitterly jocose and avenged himself on his visitors for the bother they had caused him by attacking them with biting satire. For a quarter of an hour he proved a perfect scourge to those friends of his to whose various stories he had just listened so obligingly. His language and manner to pretty Madame Bouchard became indeed so harsh and cutting that the young woman’s eyes filled with tears, though she still continued to smile. All the others laughed, accustomed as they were to Rougon’s rough ways. They knew that their prospects were never better than when he was belabouring them in this fashion.
However, all at once, there was a gentle knock at the door. ‘No, no!’ cried Rougon to Delestang, who was going to see who was there; ‘don’t open it! Am I never to be left in peace? My head is splitting already.’ Then, as the knocking continued with greater energy, he growled between his teeth: ‘Ah, if I were going to stay here, I would send Merle about his business!’
The knocking ceased, but suddenly a little door in a corner of the room was thrown back and gave entrance to a huge blue silk skirt, which came in backwards. This skirt, which was very bright and profusely ornamented with bows of ribbon, remained stationary for a moment, half inside the room and half outside, without anything further being visible. However, a soft female voice was heard speaking.
‘Monsieur Rougon!’ exclaimed the lady, at last showing her face.
It was Madame Correur, wearing a bonnet with a cluster of roses on it. Rougon, who had stepped angrily towards the door, with fists clenched, now bowed and grasped the new-comer’s hand.
‘I was asking Merle how he liked being here,’ she said, casting a tender glance at the big lanky usher, who stood smiling in front of her. ‘And you, Monsieur Rougon, are you satisfied with him?’
‘Oh, yes, certainly,’ replied Rougon pleasantly.
Merle’s face still retained its sanctimonious smile, and he kept his eyes fixed upon Madame Correur’s plump neck. The latter braced herself up to her full height and then brought her curls over her forehead.
‘I am glad to hear that, my man,’ she continued. ‘When I get any one a place, I am anxious that all parties should be satisfied. If you ever want any advice, Merle, you can come and see me any morning, you know, between eight and nine. Mind you keep steady, now.’
Then she came inside the room, and said to Rougon: ‘There are no servants so good as those old soldiers.’
And afterwards she took hold of him and made him cross the room, leading him with short steps to the window at the other end. There she scolded him for not having admitted her. If Merle had not allowed her to come in by the little door, she would still have been waiting outside. And it was absolutely necessary that she should see him, she said, for he really could not take himself off in that way without letting her know how her petitions were progressing. Forthwith she drew from her pocket a little memorandum-book, very richly ornamented and bound in rose-coloured watered silk.
‘I did not see the Moniteur till after déjeuner,’ she continued; ‘and then I took a cab at once. Tell me, now, how is the matter of Madame Leturc, the captain’s widow, who wants a tobacco shop, getting on? I promised her that she should have a definite answer next week. There’s also the case of Herminie Billecoq, you remember, who used to be a pupil of Saint Denis. Her seducer, an officer, has consented to marry her if any charitable soul will give her the regulation dowry. We thought about applying to the Empress. Then there are all those ladies, Madame Chardon, Madame Testanière, and Madame Jalaguier, who have been waiting for months.’
Rougon quietly gave her the replies she sought, explained the various causes of the delays that had occurred, and entered into minute details. However, he gave her to understand that she must not reckon so much upon him in the future as she had done in the past. This threw her into great distress. It made her so happy, she said, to be able to be of service to any one. What would become of her with all those ladies? Then she spoke of her own affairs, with which Rougon was fully acquainted. She again reminded him that she was a Martineau, one of the Martineaus of Coulonges, a good family of La Vendée, in which fathers and sons had been notaries without a break over seven successive generations. She never clearly explained how she came to bear the name of Correur. When she was twenty-four years old she had eloped with a young journeyman butcher, and for six months her father had suffered the greatest distress from this disgraceful scandal, about which the neighbourhood still gossiped. Ever since then she had been living in Paris, utterly ignored by her family. She had written fully a dozen times to her brother, who was now at the head of the family practice, but had failed to get any reply from him. His silence, she said, was due to her sister-in-law, a woman who ‘carried on with priests, and led that imbecile brother of hers by the nose.’ One of her most cherished ambitions, as in Du Poizat’s case, was to return to her own neighbourhood as a well-to-do and honoured woman.
‘I wrote again a week ago,’ she said; ‘but I have no doubt she throws my letters into the fire. However, if my brother should die, she would be obliged to let me go to the house, for they have no child, and I should have interests to look after. My brother is fifteen years older than I am, and I hear that he suffers from gout.’ Then she suddenly changed her tone, and continued: ‘However, don’t let us bother about that now. It’s for you that we must use all our energies at present, Eugène. We will do our best, you shall see. It is necessary that you should be everything in order that we may be something. You remember ’51, don’t you, eh?’
Rougon smiled, and as Madame Correur pressed his hands with a maternal air, he bent down and whispered into her ear: ‘If you see Gilquin, tell him to be prudent. Only the other week, when he got himself locked up, he took it into his head to give my name, so that I might bail him out.’
Madame Correur promised to speak to Gilquin, one of her tenants at the time when Rougon had lodged at the Hôtel Vanneau, and withal a very useful fellow on certain occasions, though apt to be extremely compromising. ‘I have a cab below, and so now I’ll be off,’ she said aloud with a smile as she stepped into the middle of the room.
Nevertheless, she lingered for a few minutes longer, hoping that the others would take their departure at the same time. In her desire to effect this, she offered to take one of them with her in her cab. The colonel accepted the offer, and it was settled that young Auguste should sit beside the driver. Then general hand-shaking began. Rougon took up a position by the door, which was thrown wide open; and as his visitors passed out, each gave him a parting assurance of sympathy. M. Kahn, Du Poizat, and the colonel stretched out their necks and whispered a few words in his ear, begging him not to forget them. However, when the Charbonnels had already reached the first step of the staircase, and Madame Correur was chatting with Merle at the far end of the ante-room, Madame Bouchard, for whom her husband and M. d’Escorailles waited a few paces away, still lingered smilingly before Rougon, asking him at what time she could see him privately in the Rue Marbeuf, because she felt too stupid, said she, when he had visitors with him. At this the colonel, hearing her, suddenly darted back into the room, and then the others followed, there being a general return.
‘We will all come to see you,’ the colonel cried.
‘You mustn’t hide yourself away from every one,’ added several voices. But M. Kahn waved his hand to obtain silence. And then he made that famous remark of his: ‘You don’t belong to yourself; you belong to your friends, and to France.’
At last they all went away, and Rougon was able to close the door. He heaved a great sigh of relief. Delestang, whom he had quite forgotten, now made his appearance from behind the heap of pasteboard boxes, in the shelter of which he had just finished classifying different papers, like a conscientious friend. He was feeling a little proud of his work. He had been acting, while the others had merely been talking; so it was with genuine satisfaction that he received the great man’s thanks. It was only he, so the latter said, who could have rendered him this service; he had an orderly mind, and a methodical manner of working which would carry him far. And Rougon made other flattering observations, without it being possible for one to know whether he was really in earnest or only jesting. Then, turning round, and glancing into the different corners, he said: ‘There, I think we’ve finished everything now, thanks to you. There’s nothing more to be done, except to tell Merle to have these packets carried to my house.’
He called the usher, and pointed out his private papers. And in reply to all his instructions the usher repeated: ‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’
‘Don’t call me President any more, you stupid,’ Rougon at last exclaimed in irritation; ‘I’m one no longer.’
Merle bowed, and took a step towards the door. Then he stopped and seemed to hesitate. Finally he came back and said: ‘There’s a lady on horseback down below who wants to see you, sir. She laughed, and said she would come up, horse and all, if the staircase were wide enough. She declared that she only wanted to shake hands with you, sir.’
Rougon clenched his fists, thinking this to be some joke; but Delestang, who had gone to look out of the window on the landing, hastened back, exclaiming, with an expression of emotion: ‘Mademoiselle Clorinde!’
Then Rougon said that he would go downstairs; and as he and Delestang took their hats, he looked at his friend, and with a frown and a suspicious air, prompted by the latter’s emotion, exclaimed: ‘Beware of women!’
When he reached the door, he gave a last glance round the room. The full light of day was streaming through the three open windows, illumining the open pasteboard boxes, the scattered drawers and the packets of papers, tied up and heaped together in the middle of the carpet. The apartment looked very spacious and very mournful. In the grate only a small heap of black ashes was now left of all the handfuls of burnt papers. And as Rougon closed the door behind him, the taper, which had been forgotten on the edge of the writing-table, burnt out, splitting the cut-glass socket of the candlestick to pieces amid the silence of the empty room.
< < < Chapter I
Chapter III > > >
French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – His Excellency Eugène Rougon – Contents
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