Complete Works of Emile Zola (1608 page)

Only one more guest was expected; he was the Abbé Marie, the curé of Saint Vincent, the rich parish of Beauclair; he only arrived at the very moment when they had decided to go into the dining-room. He excused himself on the ground of having been detained by his duties. He was tall and strong, with a square face, an aquiline nose, a large mouth, and an expression of great firmness. He was still young, being only thirty-six, and he would willingly have fought for the faith had not a slight impediment in his speech rendered preaching very difficult to him. This explains why he resigned himself to being buried alive at Beauclair, though his closely cut brown hair and his black, decided eyes belonged to the military life which once he had dreamed of leading. But he was not without discernment, and he bore himself with loyalty during the crisis through which Catholicism was then passing, not admitting the dread which he sometimes felt when he saw his Church deserted by the people; and he held strictly to the letter of dogma, feeling sure that the old establishment would be swept away on the day when science and freedom of thought should enter into it. He accepted invitations to Guerdache without any illusions as to the virtue of the
bourgeoisie
, and he breakfasted or dined there in some sort as a duty, in order to conceal, under the mantle of religion, suffering which he knew existed there.

Luc was charmed with the brightness and the pleasant luxury of the dining-room — an immense apartment occupying one entire corner of the ground-floor, and overlooking, through its lofty windows, the grassy lawns and beautiful trees of the park. It seemed almost as though the verdure without had entered the apartment itself, for the room, which was in the style of Louis XVI., with its pearl-gray wood-work and delicate sea-green tints, was such a hall as we imagine in an ideal fairy festival. And the richness of the table, the snowy damask, the glitter of silver and glass, the flowers with which the whole was strewn, completed the feast of the eye with a wonderful display of light and perfume. The sensation induced by all this was so keen that it suddenly roused in Luc a remembrance of the previous evening. He saw the troop of famished wretches tramping in the mire of the Rue de Brias, the puddlers and furnace-men whose flesh was baked in the infernal fires of the furnaces; above all, he saw the miserable lodging of the Bonnaires, with the unfortunate Josine, seated on a step of the staircase, relieved from gnawing hunger for one evening by the bread which her little brother had stolen. Out of what unjust poverty, what accursed labor, what execrable suffering was this luxury of the idle and fortunate created!

There were fifteen at table, and Luc found himself placed between Fernande and Delaveau. Boisgelin had Madame Mazelle on his right, and, contrary to all precedent, he had taken in Fernande, who sat upon his left. This place should have been Madame Gourier’s; but in houses where she was intimate it was understood that Leonore should be seated near her friend the prefect Châtelard. The latter naturally occupied the place of honor on Suzanne’s right, and on her left was Judge Gaume. The Abbé Marie was seated beside Leonore, who was his most devoted and favorite penitent. Gourier was next to Madame Mazelle, and Mazelle sat next to the judge. Lastly, the engaged couple, Captain Jollivet and Lucille, were at one end of the table, opposite young Achille Gourier, who sat silent between Delaveau and the abbé. Suzanne, with great discretion, had had the children’s table placed just behind herself, and there the seven-year-old Paul presided between the three-year-old Nise and the three-year-old Louise, both of whom fidgeted with their little hands, which they moved about among the plates and glasses. A maid kept watch over them, and the large table was served by two footmen, assisted by the coachman.

With the stuffed eggs, which were accompanied with Sauterne, a general conversation sprang up, and they spoke of the bread which was being made at Beauclair.

“I cannot become accustomed to it,” said Boisgelin. “Their best bread is uneatable, and I send to Paris for mine.”

He said this with simplicity, and every one regarded the rolls that they were eating with respect. But the terrible events of the evening before were in all minds, and Fernande exclaimed:

“
Apropos,
do you know that there was a robbery yesterday in a baker’s shop in the Rue 3e Brias?”

Luc could not refrain from laughing.

“Oh, madame, a robbery!... I was there. A wretched child stole some bread!”

“We were there also,” said Captain Jollivet, annoyed at the young man’s tone, which was full of compassion and apology. “It is much to be regretted that they did not arrest the child; at least it would have been an example.”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Boisgelin. “It appears that there is a great deal of robbery during this confounded strike.... They tell me that a woman actually forced the money-drawer in a butcher’s shop. All the tradesmen complain that the vagabonds fill their pockets at their windows.... And yet here is our beautiful new prison all ready to receive lodgers. Is it not, Monsieur le Président?”

Judge Gaume was about to reply, when the captain resumed, with violence:

“
Yes, robbery committed with impunity engenders pillage and assassination. The temper of the working population is becoming alarming. Did you not observe yesterday evening, those of you who were there, as I did, the spirit of revolt and of menace at which the whole town trembled?... That fellow Lange, moreover, that anarchist, did you not understand what he intended to do? He called out to you that he intended to blow up Beauclair and raze it to the ground.... Since he is now in custody, I hope that they are going to take it out of him properly.”

Jollivet’s rudeness annoyed everybody. That flutter of terror of which he spoke had been felt by all the others as well as by himself upon the previous evening, but what use was there in recalling it, in reviving it, at that genial table, loaded with beautiful and enjoyable things? A shudder went round; a dread of the morrow made itself felt in the silence that followed; all these
bourgeoisie
were uneasy, while the servants at this stage of the repast were handing river trout.

Delaveau, feeling that the silence was becoming oppressive, broke into it by saying:

“Lange is a dangerous character.... The captain is right; let us hold him fast since we have got him.”

But Judge Gaume shook his head; and his severe manner and stern face would never have betrayed that there was any feeling behind his professional rigidity when he said:

“I must inform you that this morning the
juge d’instruction,
acting in accordance with my opinion, decided to release the man, after a simple interrogation.”

All those present exclaimed, hiding a real fear under an exaggerated jest:

“Oh, Judge Gaume, how can you really wish to see our throats cut?”

Gaume did not reply, except by a slow movement of his hand, which might signify a great many things. His hearers would certainly learn nothing from an excited explanation, where importance might be attached to careless words, which might germinate at a distance the more widely they were spread.

Jollivet calmed down, and sat biting his mustache, not wishing openly to contradict his future father-in-law. But the sub-prefect Châtelard, who up to this moment had contented himself with smiling in the affable manner of a man who comprehends everything, exclaimed:

“Ah, how well I understand you, judge! You have acted on what I call excellent political principles.... Ah, no; the temper of the masses is not worse at Beauclair than elsewhere. The same spirit is to be met with in other places; we must try to accommodate ourselves to it, and the best plan is to prolong the actual condition of things as long as possible, for it seems certain that the day on which it is changed all will be for the worse.”

Luc fancied that he detected a hidden irony in the speech of this old Parisian, who must be secretly amused at the stupid terror of the provincial
bourgeoisie.
Châtelard’s own political position, moreover, was one of the most complete indifference, no matter what minister was in power. He represented the old governmental machine which continued to run of itself, by its own impetus, grinding and jarring, and which would fall completely out of order and crumble into dust as soon as a new social order should be introduced. “At the end of the ditch look out for a fall,” as he himself frequently remarked when laughing among his intimates. Things would go on because they were started, but at the first serious shock the whole would fall to pieces. The futile efforts made to strengthen the old rattletrap, the timid reforms that were attempted, the superfluous laws that were passed even while no one dared to put the existing ones in action, the furious cries caused by the ambitions of prominent persons, the raging and storming of parties — all these only aggravated the situation, only hastened the dissolution of the system. Such a
régime
must be surprised each morning to find itself still in existence, and must fully expect to be overturned the next day. He himself, not being an imbecile, was disposed to accept things as they were just as long as the
régime
lasted. Being a wise republican, as he found it necessary to be, he represented a government which was too just to remain in power, and he did nothing beyond what was necessary, wishing above everything to live in peace with its administrators. And when everything crumbled to pieces he would endeavor not to be buried under the ruins.

“You-see,” he concluded, “that this miserable strike, which has caused us all so much trouble, has ended as well as possible.”

Gourier, the mayor, had not the ironical philosophy of the sub-prefect; and, although they were always in accord, which greatly facilitated the good administration of the city, he protested:

“Excuse me, excuse me, my dear friend; too many concessions will lead us farther than we ought to go. I know the laboring-classes; I love them; I am an old republican, no new democrat; I have been one all my life. But although I concede to laborers the right to ameliorate their lot, I will never accept their subversive theories; such socialistic ideas will be the ruin of all civilized society.” The trembling of his thick voice betrayed the terror that he had just experienced, the ferocity a
bourgeois
feels when he is threatened, the repression of his real feelings, which had been displayed for a moment, when he wanted to order out the military and drive the strikers back to their work at the point of the bayonet.

“I myself have done everything for the workmen in my workshops: they have aid associations, retiring pensions, cheap lodging-houses, all the comforts imaginable. But what then? What more do they want?... We seem to be coming to the end of all things, do we not, Monsieur Delaveau?”

Up to this moment the manager of the Pit had eaten his breakfast with a good appetite, and had listened to the conversation without taking part in it.

“Oh, the end of all things,” he said, quietly. “I hope we shall not let things come to an end without a struggle to keep them going.... I agree with monsieur the subprefect; the strike is, very happily, ended. I have received very gratifying intelligence in regard to Bonnaire, the socialist, the ringleader, whom, you know, I was forced to take back. Well, he has executed justice on himself, for he left the factory yesterday evening. He was an excellent workman, but what would you have? He was a dangerous man, with a disordered brain.... Ah, these dreams — it is they that make men fall over precipices!”

He continued in the same strain, trying to show himself very honest and very just. Every one had a right to protect his own interests. When laborers started a strike, they believed themselves to be defending theirs. It was his part, being manager of the factory, to insure the safety of the capital, the stock, and the property which had been confided to him. He was quite willing to be lenient, for he felt himself the stronger. His sole duty was to protect what was already in existence, to keep up the wages system, as it had been gradually organized by the wisdom of experience. All practical truth was represented in it; outside of it there was nothing but injurious dreams; the dream of co-operation, for instance, the application of which would result in the most overwhelming evils. He spoke of syndicates, which he bitterly opposed, having divined in them a powerful instrument of warfare. He himself had been successful simply by virtue of being an active worker and a good administrator, and he considered himself only too fortunate that the strike had not done any further harm, and that it had not led to actual disaster by preventing his keeping the engagements for that year which he had undertaken in partnership with his cousin.

At this point the two footmen served roast partridges, while the coachman, who attended to the wine, offered Saint Emilion.

“Come,” said Boisgelin, gayly; “it is very evident that we are not going to be reduced to a diet of potatoes, and none of us need feel remorse for eating the wing of a partridge.”

A burst of laughter greeted this sally, which the guests seemed to consider very witty.

“I will certify to that,” said Delaveau, laughing with the others. “We may sleep and eat in peace; the revolution which is to destroy your incomes will not come tomorrow.”

Luc sat silent, and his heart was hot within him. It was the labor of others upon which this wages system, this capital throve. If five francs were invested, and the laborer made them produce seven francs, the owner of the capital devoured two. Delaveau, however, labored; he used his brain and his muscles; but Boisgelin, who had never done a stroke of work, what right had he to live and to feast in such luxury? Luc was also struck by the attitude of his neighbor Fernande; she was very much interested in this conversation, although it was on a subject little adapted to women; she exhibited excitement and delight at the defeat of the strikers, and at the triumph of that money which she seemed ready to seize with her little wolfs teeth. Her rosy lips were drawn backward, and displayed these sharp teeth in a laugh of exquisite cruelty, as if at last both her rancor and her wishes had been satisfied. She was sitting opposite to the sweet woman whom she had injured, between her gallant lover, whom she completely ruled, and her hoodwinked husband, who was to earn millions for her in the future. She seemed intoxicated with the flowers, the wines, the dainty viands, and, above all, she appeared to revel in the iniquitous joy of utilizing her radiant beauty to carry disorder and destruction into this household.