Complete Works of Emile Zola (314 page)

He laughed complacently, stretched himself further back in his chair, and turned up his feet to the fire; then he took a glass of punch from a tray which one of the servants banded to him, and sipped it slowly while still watching Abbé Faujas out of the corner of his eye. The latter felt that politeness required him to say something.

‘This house seems a very pleasant one,’ he remarked, turning slightly towards the green drawing-room, whence the sound of animated conversation was proceeding.

‘Yes, yes,’ resumed Monsieur de Condamin, who checked his remarks every now and then to take a little sip of punch. ‘The Rougons almost make us forget Paris. You would scarcely fancy here that you were in Plassans. It is the only pleasant and amusing drawing-room in the whole place, because it is the only one where all shades of opinion elbow one another. Péqueur, too, has very pleasant assemblies. It must cost the Rougons a lot of money, and they haven’t the public purse behind them like Péqueur has; though they have something better still, the pockets of the taxpayers.’

He seemed quite pleased with this witticism of his. He set his empty glass, which he had been holding in his hand, upon the mantelpiece, and then, drawing his chair near to Abbé Faujas and leaning towards him, he began to speak again:

‘The most amusing comedies are continually being played here. But you ought to know the actors to appreciate them. You see Madame Rastoil over yonder between her two daughters — that lady of about forty-five with a head like a sheep’s? Well, have you noticed how her eyelids trembled and blinked when Delangre came and sat down in front of her? Delangre is the man there on the left, with a likeness to Punch. They were acquainted intimately some ten years ago, and he is said to be the father of one of the girls, but it isn’t known which. The funniest part of the business is that Delangre himself didn’t get on very well with his wife about the same time; and people say that the father of his daughter is an artist very well known in Plassans.’

Abbé Faujas had considered it his duty to assume a very serious expression on being made the recipient of such con­fidences as these, and he even closed his eyes and seemed to hear nothing; while Monsieur de Condamin went on, as though in justification of himself:

‘I allow myself to speak in this way of Delangre, as I know him so well. He is a wonderfully clever, pushing fellow. His father was a bricklayer, I believe. Fifteen years ago he used to take up the petty suits that other lawyers wouldn’t be bothered with. Madame Rastoil extricated him from a condition of absolute penury; she supplied him even with wood in the winter-time to enable him to keep himself warm. It was through her influence that he won his first cases. It’s worth mentioning that at that time Delangre had been shrewd enough to manifest no particular political proclivities; and so, in 1852, when people were looking out for a mayor, his name was at once thought of. He was the only man who could have been chosen without alarming one or other of the three divisions of the town. From that time everything has prospered with him, and he has a fine future before him. The only unfortunate part of the matter is that he doesn’t get on very well with Péqueur; they are always wrangling about some silly trifles or other.’

He broke off as he saw the tall young man, with whom he had been chatting previously, come up to him again.

‘Monsieur Guillaume Porquier,’ he said, introducing him to the Abbé, ‘the son of Doctor Porquier.’

Then, as Guillaume seated himself, he asked him with a touch of irony:

‘Well! what did you see to admire over yonder?’

‘Nothing at all, indeed!’ replied the young man with a smile. ‘I saw the Paloques. Madame Rougon always tries to hide them behind a curtain to prevent anything unpleasant happening. Paloque never takes his eyes off Monsieur Rastoil, hoping, no doubt, to kill him with suppressed terror. You know, of course, that the hideous fellow hopes to die presid­ing judge.’

They both laughed. The ugliness of the Paloques was a perpetual source of amusement amongst the little circle of officials. Porquier’s son lowered his voice as he continued:

‘I saw Monsieur Bourdeu, too. Doesn’t it strike you that he’s ever so much thinner since the Marquis de Lagrifoul’s election? Bourdeu will never get over the loss of his prefec­ture; he had put all his Orleanist rancour at the service of the Legitimists in the hope that that course would lead him straight to the Chamber, where he would be able to win back that deeply-deplored prefecture. So he was horribly disgusted and hurt to find that instead of himself they chose the marquis, who is a perfect ass and hasn’t the faintest notion of politics, whereas he, Bourdeu, is a very shrewd fellow.’

‘That Bourdeu, with his tightly-buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat, is a most overbearing person,’ said Monsieur de Condamin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘If such people as he were allowed to have their own way they would turn France into a mere Sorbonne of lawyers and diplo­matists, and would bore us all to death — Oh! by the way, Guillaume, I have been hearing about you. You seem to be leading a merry sort of life.’

‘I?’ exclaimed the young man with a smile.

‘Yes, you, my fine fellow! and observe that I get my information from your father. He is much distressed about it: he accuses you of gambling and of staying out all night at the club and other places. Is it true that you have dis­covered a low café behind the gaol where you go with a company of scamps and play the devil’s own game? I have even been told — ‘

Here Monsieur de Condamin, observing two ladies enter the room, began to whisper in Guillaume’s ear, while the young man replied with affirmative signs and shook with suppressed laughter. Then he bent forward in turn and whis­pered to Monsieur de Condamin, and the pair of them, draw­ing close together with brightly glistening eyes, seemed to derive a prolonged enjoyment from this private story, which could not be told in the presence of ladies.

Abbé Faujas had remained where he was. He no longer listened to what was being said, but watched the many move­ments of Monsieur Delangre, who bustled about the green drawing-room trying to make himself extremely agreeable. The priest was so absorbed in his observations that he did not see Abbé Bourrette beckoning to him, so that the other had to come and touch his shoulder and ask him to follow. He then led him into the card-room with all the precau­tion of a man who has some very delicate communication to make.

‘My dear friend,’ he whispered, when they were alone in a quiet corner, ‘it is excusable in you, as this is the first time you have been here, but I must warn you that you have com­promised yourself very considerably by talking so long with the persons you have just left.’

Then, as Abbé Faujas looked at him with great surprise, he added:

‘Those persons are not looked upon favourably. I myself am not passing any judgment upon them, and I don’t want to repeat any scandal. I am simply warning you out of pure friendship, that’s all.’

He was going away, but Abbé Faujas detained him, ex­claiming hastily:

‘You disquiet me, my dear Monsieur Bourrette; I beg of you to explain yourself. Without speaking any ill of anyone, you can surely be a little clearer.’

‘Well then,’ replied the old priest, after a momentary hesitation, ‘Doctor Porquier’s son causes his worthy father the greatest distress, and sets the worst example to all the studious youth of Plassans. He left nothing but debts behind him in Paris, and here he is turning the whole town upside down. As for Monsieur de Condamin — ‘

Here he hesitated again, feeling embarrassed by the enormity of what he had to relate; then, lowering his eyes, he resumed:

‘Monsieur de Condamin is very free in his conversation, and I fear that he is deficient in a sense of morality. He spares no one, and he scandalises every honourable person. Then — I really hardly know how to tell you — but he has con­tracted, it is said, a scarcely creditable marriage. You see that young woman there, who is not thirty years old, and who has such a crowd around her? Well, he brought her to Plassans one day from no one knows where. From the time of her arrival she has been all-powerful here. It is she who has got her husband and Doctor Porquier decorated. She has influential friends in Paris. But I beg of you not to re­peat any of this. Madame de Condamin is very amiable and charitable. I go to her house sometimes, and I should be extremely distressed if I thought that she considered me an enemy of hers. If she has committed faults, it is our duty — is it not? — to help her to return to a better way of life. As for her husband, he is, between ourselves, a perfect scamp. Have as little as possible to do with him.’

Abbé Faujas gazed into the worthy Bourrette’s eyes. He had just noticed that Madame Rougon was following their conversation from the distance with a thoughtful air.

‘Wasn’t it Madame Rougon who told you to come and give me this good advice?’ he suddenly asked the old priest.

‘How did you know that?’ the latter exclaimed in great astonishment. ‘She asked me not to mention her name, but since you have guessed it — Ah! she is a good, kind-hearted lady who would be much distressed to see a priest compromis­ing himself in her house. She is unfortunately compelled to receive all sorts of persons.’

Abbé Faujas expressed his thanks, and promised to be more prudent in the future. The card-players had not taken any notice of the two priests, who returned into the big drawing-room, where Faujas was again conscious of hostile surroundings. He even experienced greater coldness and more silent contempt than before. The ladies pulled their dresses out of his way as though his touch would have soiled them, and the men turned away from him with sneering titters. He himself maintained haughty calmness and in­difference. Fancying that he heard the word Besançon meaningly pronounced in a corner of the room where Madame de Condamin was holding her court, he walked straight up to the folks by whom she was surrounded; but, at his approach, there was a dead silence amongst them, and they all stared him in the face with eyes that gleamed with uncharitable curiosity. He felt quite sure that they had been talking about him, and repeating some disgraceful story. While he was still standing there, behind the Rastoil young ladies, who had not observed him, he heard the younger one ask her sister:

‘What was it that this priest, of whom everyone is talking, did at Besançon?’

‘I don’t quite know,’ the elder sister replied. ‘I believe he nearly murdered his vicar in a quarrel they had. Papa also said that he had been mixed up in some great business speculation which turned out badly.’

‘He’s in the small room over there, isn’t he? Somebody saw him just now laughing with Monsieur de Condamin.’

‘Oh! then people do quite right to distrust him if he laughs with Monsieur de Condamin.’

This gossip of the two girls made perspiration, start from Abbé Faujas’s brows. He did not frown, but his lips tightened one upon the other, and his cheeks took an ashy tint. He seemed to hear the whole room talking of the priest whom he had tried to murder, and of the shady transactions in which he had been concerned.

Opposite him were Monsieur Delangre and Doctor Porquier, still looking very severe; Monsieur de Bourdeu’s mouth pouted scornfully as he said something in a low voice to a lady; Monsieur Maffre, the justice of the peace, was casting furtive glances at him, as if he had piously resolved to examine him from a distance before condemning him; and at the other end of the room the two hideous Paloques craned out their malice-warped faces, in which shone a wicked joy at all the cruel stories that were being whispered about. Abbé Faujas slowly retired as he saw Madame Rastoil, who had been standing a few paces away, come up and seat herself between her two daughters, as though to keep them under the protection of her wing and shield them from his touch. He rested his elbow on the piano which he saw behind him, and there he stood with his head erect and his face as hard and silent as a face of stone. He felt that they were all in a plot to treat him as an outcast.

As he stood thus gazing at the company from under his partially lowered eyelids he suddenly gave a slight start, which he quickly suppressed. He had just caught sight of Abbé Fenil, leaning back in an easy-chair and smiling quietly behind a perfect wall of petticoats. The eyes of the two men met, and they gazed at each other for some moments with the fierce expression of duellists about to engage in mortal combat. Then there was a rustling of silk, and Abbé Fenil was hidden from sight by the ladies’ gowns.

However, Félicité had contrived to reach the neighbour­hood of the piano, and when she had succeeded in installing at it the elder of the Rastoil girls, who had a pleasant voice, and was able to speak to Abbé Faujas without being heard, she
drew him towards one
of the windows and asked:

‘What have you done to Abbé Fenil?’

They talked together in very low tones. The priest at first feigned surprise, but when Madame Rougon had mur­mured a few words, accompanied by sundry shruggings of her shoulders, he seemed to become more open with her. They both smiled, and made a pretence of merely exchanging ordinary courtesies, but the glistening of their eyes spoke of something much more serious. The piano was silent for a moment, and then the elder Mademoiselle Rastoil began to sing ‘La Colombo du Soldat,’ which was a favourite song at that time.

‘Your
début
has been most unfortunate,’ Félicité con­tinued. ‘You have quite set people against you, and I should advise you not to come here again for a considerable time.

You must make yourself popular and a favourite, you under­stand. Any rash act would be fatal.’

Abbé Faujas seemed absorbed in thought.

‘You say that it was Abbé Fenil who circulated these abominable stories?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he is much too wily to commit himself in such a way. He must just have faintly suggested them to his penitents. I don’t know whether he has found you out, but he is certainly afraid of you. I am sure of that. And he will attack you in every possible way. The most unfortunate part of the matter is that he confesses the most important people in the town. It was he who secured the election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul.’