Complete Works of Emile Zola (1667 page)

The old master-puddler was relieved to see his guest in this mood, and began to smile tranquilly.

“No, no; this is only the gay awakening of the
fête
day. Other days you can sleep as late as you please in a delicious silence. But when life is pleasant one always gets up early, and invalids alone want to stay in bed.”

Then, with his engaging kindness, he said:

“Did you sleep well? Did you find everything you needed?”

Ragu again made an effort to be disagreeable.

“Oh, I sleep well everywhere; I have for years slept in hay-ricks, and they are worth all the best beds in the world.”

And seeing that his host did not answer, he concluded:

“You have too much water in your houses; they must be damp.”

Ah! what blasphemy! that fresh water, that blessed water, so pure and so clear, that was now the health, the joy, the strength of Beauclair, in which they bathed continually, with which they watered their grounds, and which was used freely for the freshness of their streets and the glory of their trees.

“Our water is our friend; it is the good fairy of our happy destiny,” answered Bonnaire, simply. “You will see it everywhere, flowing freely and improving the city. Come, let us first go to breakfast; then we will go out at once.”

This early breakfast in the bright dining-room filled with the rising sun was delicious. On the snowy table-cloth were milk, eggs, and fruit, with beautiful golden bread, smelling so sweet that it could be seen that it had been kneaded and baked by careful management for a happy people. The aged host offered his wretched guest a number of delicate attentions, a sort of hospitality — tender, heroic, and simple — that seemed to impart an infinite peace and kindness to the calm atmosphere.

They conversed again while eating. Bonnaire felt, as he had done the evening before, that he ought not to put direct questions, both from prudence and discretion. He felt convinced that Ragu, after the manner of all criminals, had come back to the same place where he had committed his crime, consumed by the overpowering need of seeing and knowing. Was Josine still living? What was she doing? And had Luc been saved from death and taken her to himself? In short, what had become of both? All these burning questions certainly shone in the flame that still burned in the old vagabond’s eyes. But as he kept his secret and did not open his lips on such matters, Bonnaire was obliged to content himself by putting into execution the plan formed by him the evening before — namely, the exaltation of the new city and the glorification of its prosperity and power. Therefore, without even mentioning Luc’s name, he began to explain the grandeur of his work.

“
In order that you may understand, comrade, I must tell you where we are before we proceed to walk about in Beauclair and to contemplate the results. To-day we celebrate the triumph, the complete fulfilment of the movement that was hardly begun at the time of your departure.”

Then he took up the evolution from the beginning, and described the wonderful progress that had been made.

Concluding, he said to Ragu, pleasantly, “Since you have finished breakfast, let us go and see these beautiful things, in our Beauclair rebuilt and glorified and now in its holiday brilliance. I shall not neglect to show you a single interesting spot.”

Ragu, firmly resolved not to give in, shrugged his shoulders, and repeated the phrase that he considered decisive:

“Just as you choose, but you are not gentlemen; you remain miserable devils, if you always work. Work is your master, and you are still nothing but a pack of slaves.”

Before the door there stood an electric
voiturette
with seats for two. There were others like these at the disposal of all. The old master-puddler, who, in spite of his great age, had sharp eyes and a firm hand, made his companion mount, and installed himself as driver.

“You are not going to cripple me with this machine?” said Ragu.

“No, no; don’t be afraid. Electricity knows me. We have been companions for years.”

He said this in a tender and devout tone, as if he had spoken of a new divinity, of a beneficent power from which the city would derive the greater part of its prosperity and its happiness.

“You are going to find it everywhere, that great and sovereign energy, without which so much rapid progress could not have been accomplished. It is now the only power used in our machinery, and does not remain confined to our general workshops, but is used in private houses. It is in action in all the small special trades, and it is the domestic power at every one’s disposal, for the smallest necessities, by simply turning a button. By turning another button it gives us light. Still another button and it warms us. Everywhere, in the fields, in the town, in the streets, even those of the most modest dwellings, it is present; it works for us in silence; it is nature conquered, lightning mastered, and by it our comfort is completed.”

He laughed genially at this hope of putting the darkness forever to flight, while the voiturette rolled along the great avenues, with its rapid, gentle motion. His idea was, before going through Beauclair, to drive as far as Combettes, to show his companion first the magnificent domain which was changing Roumagne into a paradise of fertility and delight. This holiday morning was all sunshine; the roads were filled with gayety and the beautiful, triumphant sun. Other voiturettes, in infinite numbers, appeared, all full of song and laughter. A great many pedestrians also were arriving from the neighboring villages, the greater part in bands, the boys and girls decked with ribbons, and they gave joyous salutes as the old man, who was their patriarch, passed by. What splendid cultivation was spread out upon both sides of the road; what vast fields of wheat, of which the end could not be seen-whole seas of wheat of a deep and rich green!

“You see, comrade,” resumed Bonnaire, with a sweep of the hand, “there is bread from one end to the other of the horizon. It is bread for all; bread in which each of us has a birthright.”

“Do you feed even those who do not work?” asked Ragu.

“Certainly. But there is seldom any one, besides the sick and infirm, who does not work. When a person is well, he is wearied by not working.”

The voiturette was now passing through the orchards, and the interminable alleys of cherry-trees covered with red fruit were delightful. They seemed like enchanted trees smiling and rejoicing in the sunshine. The apricots were not ripe, and the apple and pear trees were bending under the abundance of their green burdens. There was a wonderful prodigality wherewith to furnish dessert to an entire community up to the next spring.

“Bread by itself is a poor diet,” remarked Ragu, ironically.

“Oh!” said Bonnaire, who also began to joke, “there is a little dessert added. You see it is not fruit which is lacking.”

They had reached Combettes. The miserable village had disappeared, and white houses now stood amid the verdure, all along the Grand-Jean.

“You remember the old Combettes?” asked Bonnaire, again; “the hovels in the mud and smoke, and the peasants with their wild eyes, who complained of suffering with hunger? See what association has made of it!” But in his savage jealousy Ragu was not willing to allow himself to be convinced. Resolved to array himself against all that could be shown him, he abstractly hoped to discover in it something wrong, since a malediction of labor remained in his lazy blood, and his long line of descent in slavery had allowed the wages system to rivet its chains upon him.

“If they work they are not happy,” repeated he, obstinately. “Their happiness is a sham; the really good thing is to do nothing.”

And he who used to abuse the priests remarked:

“Does not the catechism say that labor is the punishment, the degradation of man? When we go to paradise we shall do nothing.”

In returning, they passed in front of Guerdache, which was now one of the public gardens of the new city, always filled with young mothers and a crowd of playful children. And along the stately avenues, where formerly huntsmen galloped, contented mothers, in light dresses, were pushing little carriages in which new-born babies smiled.

“What sort of nonsense is this,” said Ragu, once more, “to talk of luxury and enjoyment by which every one profits? It is good only when it is for me alone.”

The voiturette still continued on its way, and they reentered the new Beauclair. The general aspect of the reconstructed town was that of an immense garden, where the houses were separated intentionally amid the verdure in acknowledgment of the necessity of fresh air and liberty of life. Then on the squares at the junction of the wide avenues were erected public buildings — immense structures in which iron and steel were triumphant, in bold frames. Magnificence was created by simplicity, suitable adaptation to usage, and intelligent breadth of judgment in the choice of materials and decoration. All the people were at home in these buildings; the museums,  the libraries, the theatres, the baths, the laboratories, the halls for reunion and amusement were nothing more than communal houses open to the entire community, and in which a social life was lived freely and fraternally. The experiment of the porticos was always in preparation. The ends of the avenues were closed in with glass, and it was proposed to warm these in the winter, in order to permit quiet exercise during heavy rains and severe cold.

Ragu now began to show signs of surprise, in spite of himself; and Bonnaire, seeing him absolutely lost in astonishment, commenced to laugh.

“
Ah! it is no longer very easy to recognize where you are. We are on the old Place de la Mairie, which you remember; that open square whence emerged the four large avenues — the Rue de Brias, the Rue de Formeries, the Rue de Saint-Cron, and the Rue de Magnolles. But as the old building of the Mairie fell into ruins it was demolished, together with the old school where so many little boys had suffered under the rod. Those large buildings which you see in the square are chemical and physical laboratories where every student is free to come and study and experiment when he thinks he has made some discovery useful to the community. The four streets also are transformed; the hovels have disappeared, trees have been planted, and nothing now remains but the old
bourgeois
houses with their gardens, and these are inhabited by the descendants of us poor workmen of former times, whom marriage has installed there.”

After this Ragu naturally found the old fashionable quarter of Beauclair the least changed. Bonnaire, however, was determined to show him in passing the decisive transformations due to the triumph of the new society. The sub-prefecture had been preserved, and two wings in the form of galleries had been added to it in order to provide for a library. In the same way the law court had become a museum, while the prison, with its cells, it had been possible to change without very much expense into a bath-house, where sparkling water poured from the springs.

But as the voiturette was returning and ascending a wide and beautiful road, Ragu began to feel lost once more.

“Where are we now?” said he.

“In the old Rue de Brias,” answered Bonnaire. “Ah, yes, its appearance is very much changed. That is because the retail trade, having completely disappeared, the shops were closed, one by one, and the old houses were finally completely demolished, leaving in their place these new buildings, which are so cheerful among the hawthorn and lilac bushes. And there, on the right, they have filled in the Clouque, that poisonous sewer, over which passes the sidewalk of that avenue.”

He continued recalling the narrow Rue de Brias, with its pavements always foul from continual trampling of cattle. They passed through the avenue, now free, wide, and healthy, inundated with brilliant sunlight, and having nothing on each side but the homes of happy workers, while the crowd was now laughing and singing there with gladness in that bright morning of triumphant holiday.

“But, then,” cried Ragu, “if the Clouque flows here under those grassy banks, old Beauclair must be down below, in the place where that new park is, where the white fronts are half hidden under the shade.”

This time he remained open-mouthed. It was, indeed, old Beauclair — that sordid collection of hovels, which spread out like a disgusting pool, with its streets that were without daylight and without air, poisoned by a stream in the midst of them. The miserable world of labor had herded together in those nests of vermin and disease, dying there for centuries under the oppression of frightful social iniquity.

Bonnaire was amused at Ragu’s astonishment, as he drove him slowly through all the new streets of this happy city of labor. The whole population was beginning to come out in a joyous stream, dressed in light clothing, made of beautiful materials, of kinds formerly very dear, but now at the disposal of every one. And couples were passing by continually — couples who had selected each other for life, and others who had grown old in their tenderness and whose hands were becoming more tightly clasped every new year.

“Where are they all going to at this time?” asked Ragu. “They are going to call upon each other,” answered Bonnaire, “and invite each other to this evening’s great dinner, at which you will be present. But just now they are simply enjoying the kindly sun, and living in the open air upon their holiday, because they are happy and feel perfectly at home in their beautiful, friendly streets. Then to-day there are everywhere amusements and games, which are, of course, free, since admission to all public establishments is gratuitous. These troops of children that you see are being taken to the circus, while another part of the crowd is going to public meetings, shows, or musical performances. The theatres are designed to form part of instruction and social education.”

Suddenly, as Bonnaire was passing a house whose occupants were on the point of coming out, he stopped the voiturette.

“Do you wish to visit one of our new houses?” said he. “We are just now at the house of my grandson Félicien; and since he is still here, he will receive us.”

Félicien was the son of Severin Bonnaire, who had married Louise, the daughter of Ma Bleue and Achille Gourier. Félicien himself had married, only a fortnight before, Hélène Jollivet, daughter of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment. But when Bonnaire wished to explain these relationships to Ragu the latter made the gesture of a man whose head is bewildered by such a complication of alliances. The youthful housekeeper was very charming. She was very young, very fair, and of the blonde type of beauty, while her husband also was fair, tall, and strong. Their house, where there were as yet no children, spoke eloquently of affection in its furnishings, which were light and cheerful, and its adornments that were simple and of natural elegance.