Complete Works of Emile Zola (324 page)

‘There is no one here, you see,’ said he, sitting down be­fore the fire; ‘but I don’t feel very well to-day, and I gave orders that nobody was to be admitted. Now you can tell me what you have to say; I am quite at your service.’

His general expression of amiability was tinged with a kind of vague uneasiness, a sort of resigned submission. When Abbé Faujas had informed him of the death of Abbé Compan, he rose from his chair, apparently both distressed and alarmed.

‘What!’ he cried, ‘my good Compan dead! and I was not able to bid him farewell! No one gave me any warning! Ah, my friend, you were right when you gave me to understand that I was no longer master here. They abuse my kindness.’

‘Your lordship knows,’ said Abbé Faujas, ‘how devoted I am to you. I am only waiting for a sign from you.’

The Bishop shook his head as he murmured:

‘Yes, yes; I remember the offer you made to me. You have an excellent heart; but what an uproar there would be, if I were to break with Abbé Fenil! I should have my ears deafened for a whole week! And yet if I could feel quite sure that you could really rid me of him, if I was not afraid that at a week’s end he would come back and crush your neck under his heel — ‘

Abbé Faujas could not repress a smile. Tears were welling from the Bishop’s eyes.

‘Yes, I am afraid, I am afraid,’ the prelate resumed, as he again sank down into his chair. ‘I don’t feel equal to it yet. It is that miserable man who has killed Compan and has kept his death agony a secret from me so that I might not go and close his eyes. He is capable of the most terrible things. But, you see, I like to live in peace. Fenil is very energetic and he renders me great services in the diocese. When I am no longer here, matters will perhaps be better ordered.’

He grew calmer again and his smile returned.

‘Besides, everything is going on satisfactorily at present, and I don’t see any immediate difficulty. We can wait.’

Abbé Faujas sat down, and calmly resumed:

‘No doubt: but still you will have to appoint a Curé for Saint-Saturnin’s in succession to the Abbé Compan.’

Monseigneur Rousselot lifted his hands to his temples with an expression of hopelessness.

‘Indeed, you are right!’ he ejaculated. ‘I had forgotten that. Poor Compan doesn’t know in what a hole he has put me, by dying so suddenly without my having had any warning. I promised you that place, didn’t I?’

The Abbé bowed.

‘Well, my friend, you will save me by letting me take back my word. You know how Fenil detests you. The success of the Home of the Virgin has made him quite furious, and he swears that he will prevent you from making the conquest of Plassans. I am talking to you quite openly, you see. Recently, when reference was made to the appointment of a Curé for Saint-Saturnin’s, I let your name fall. But Fenil flew into a frightful rage and I was obliged to promise that I would give the place to a friend of his, Abbé Chardon, whom you know, and who is really a very worthy man. Now, my friend, do this much for me, and give up that idea. I will make you whatever recompense you like to name.’

The priest’s face wore a grave expression. After a short interval of silence during which he seemed to be taking counsel of himself, he spoke:

‘You know very well, my lord,’ he said, ‘that I am quite without personal ambition. I should much prefer to lead a life of privacy, and it would be a great relief to me to give up this appointment. But I am not my own master, I feel bound to satisfy those patrons of mine who take an interest in me. I trust that your lordship will reflect very seriously before taking a step which you would probably regret afterwards.’

Although Abbé Faujas spoke very humbly, the Bishop was not unconscious of the menace which his words veiled. He rose from his chair and took a few steps about the room, a prey to the painful perplexity.

‘Well, well,’ he said, lifting his hands, ‘here’s trouble and no mistake, for a long time. I should much have preferred to avoid all these explanations, but, since you insist, I must speak frankly. Well, my dear sir, Abbé Fenil brings many charges against you. As I think I told you before, he must have written to Besançon and learnt all the vexatious stories you know of. You have certainly explained those matters to me, and I am quite aware of your merits and of your life of penitence and solitude; but what can I do? Fenil has weapons against you and he uses them ruthlessly. I often don’t know what to say in your defence. When the Minister requested me to receive you into my diocese, I did not conceal from him that your position would be a difficult one; but he continued to press me and said that that was your affair, and so in the end I consented. But you must not come to-day and ask me to do what is impossible.’

Abbé Faujas had not lowered his head during the Bishop’s remarks. He now raised it still higher as he looked the prelate straight in the face and said in his sharp voice:

‘You have given me your promise, my lord.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ the Bishop replied. ‘That poor Compan was getting weaker every day and you came and con­fided certain matters to me, and I then made the promise to you. I don’t deny it. Listen to me, I will tell you everything, so that you may not accuse me of wheeling round like a weathercock. You asserted that the Minister was extremely desirous for you to be appointed Curé of Saint-Saturnin’s. Well, I wrote for information on the subject, and a friend of mine went to the Ministry in Paris. They almost laughed in his face there, and they told him that they didn’t even know you. The Minister absolutely denies that he is your supporter, do you hear? If you wish it, I will read you a letter in which he makes some very stern remarks about you.’

He stretched his arm towards a drawer, but Abbé Faujas rose to his feet without taking his eyes off him, and smiled with mingled irony and pity.

‘Ah, my lord! my lord!’ said he.

Then, after a moment’s silence, as though he were un­willing to enter into further explanations, he said:

‘I give your lordship back your promise; but believe that in all this I was working more for your own advantage than for mine. By-and-by, when it will be too late, you will call my warnings to mind.’

He stepped towards the door, but the Bishop laid his hand upon him and brought him back, saying with an expression of uneasiness:

‘What do you mean? Explain yourself, my dear Monsieur Faujas. I know very well that I have not been in favour at Paris since the election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul. But people know me very little if they suppose that I had any hand in the matter. I don’t go out of my study twice a month. Do you imagine that they accuse me of having brought about the marquis’s return?’

‘Yes, I am afraid so,’ the priest curtly replied.

‘But it is quite absurd! I have never interfered in politics; I live amongst my beloved books. It was Fenil who did it all. I told him a score of times that he would end by compromising me in Paris.’

He checked himself and blushed slightly at having allowed these last words to escape him. Abbé Faujas sat down again and said in a deep voice:

‘My lord, by those words you have condemned your vicar-general. I have never said otherwise than you have just said. Do not continue to make common cause with him or he will lead you into serious trouble. I have friends in Paris, what­ever you may believe. I know that the Marquis de Lagrifoul’s election has strongly predisposed the Government against you. Rightly or wrongly, they believe that you are the sole cause of the opposition movement which has manifested itself in Plassans, where the Minister, for special reasons, is most anxious to have a majority. If the Legitimist candidate should again succeed at the next election, it would be very awkward, and I should be considerably alarmed for your comfort.’

‘But this is abominable!’ cried the unhappy Bishop, rocking himself in his chair; ‘I can’t prevent the Legitimist candidate from being returned! I haven’t got the least influence, and I never mix myself up in these matters at all. Really, there are times when I feel that I should like to shut myself up in a monastery. I could take my books with me, and lead a quiet, peaceful life there. It is Fenil who ought to be Bishop instead of me. If I were to listen to Fenil, I should get on the very worst terms with the Government. I should hearken only to Rome, and tell Paris to mind its own business. But that is not my nature, and I want to die in peace. The Minister, then, you say, is enraged with me?’

The priest made no reply. Two creases which appeared at the corners of his mouth gave his face an expression of silent scorn.

‘Really,’ continued the Bishop, ‘if I thought it would please him if I were to appoint you Curé of Saint-Saturnin’s, I would try to manage it. But I can assure you that you are mistaken. You are but little in the odour of sanctity.’

Abbé Faujas made a hasty movement of his hands, as he broke out impatiently:

‘Have you forgotten that calumnies are circulated about me, and that I came to Plassans in a threadbare cassock? When they send a compromised man to a post of danger, they deny all knowledge of him till the day of triumph. Help me to succeed, my lord, and then you will see that I have friends in Paris.’

Then, as the Bishop, surprised to find in a priest such a bold adventurer, continued to gaze at him in silence, Faujas lapsed into a less assertive manner and continued:

‘These, however, are suppositions, and what I mean is, that I have much to be pardoned. My friends are waiting to thank you till my position is completely established.’

Monseigneur Rousselot kept silence for a moment longer. He was a man of sharp understanding, and he had gained a knowledge of human failings from books. He was conscious of his own yielding character, and he was even a little ashamed of it; but he consoled himself for it by judging men for what they were worth. In the life of a learned epicurean, which he led, there were times when he felt supreme disdain for the ambitious men about him, who fought amongst themselves for a few stray shreds of his power.

‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘you are a pertinacious man, my dear Monsieur Faujas, and since I have made you a promise I will keep it. Six months ago, I confess, I should have been afraid of stirring up all Plassans against me, but you have succeeded in making yourself liked, and the ladies of the town often speak to me about you in very eulogistic terms. In appointing you Curé of Saint-Saturnin’s, I am only paying the debt which we owe you for the Home of the Virgin.’

The Bishop had recovered his usual pleasant amiability and charming manner. Just at this moment Abbé Surin put his handsome head through the doorway.

‘No, my child,’ said the Bishop to him, ‘I shall not dictate that letter to you. I have no further need of you, and you can go.’

‘Abbé Fenil is here,’ muttered the young priest.

‘Oh, very well, let him wait!’

Monseigneur Rousselot winced slightly; but he spoke to his secretary with an almost ludicrous expression of decision, and looked at Abbé Faujas with a glance of intelligence.

‘See! go out this way,’ he said to him, as he opened a door that was hidden behind a curtain.

He kept the priest standing on the threshold for a moment, and continued to look at him with a smile on his face.

‘Fenil will be furious,’ said he; ‘but you will promise to defend me against him if he is too hard upon me! I am making him your enemy, I warn you of that. I am counting upon you, too, to prevent the re-election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul. Ah! it is upon you that I am leaning now, my dear Monsieur Faujas.’

He waved his white hand to the Abbé, and then returned with an appearance of perfect unconcern to the warmth of his study. The priest had remained bowing, feeling surprised at the quite feminine ease with which the Bishop changed his master and yielded to the stronger side. And only now did he begin to feel that Monseigneur Rousselot had been secretly laughing at him, even as he laughed at Abbé Fenil in that downy armchair of his where he read his Horace.

About ten o’clock on the following Thursday, just when the fashionable folks of Plassans were treading on each other’s toes in the Rougons’ green drawing-room, Abbé Faujas appeared at the door. He looked tall and majestic, there was a bright colour on his cheeks, and he wore a delicate cassock that glistened like satin. His face was still grave, though there was a slight smile upon it, just the pleasant turn of the lips that was necessary to light up his stern countenance with a ray of cheerfulness.

‘Ah! here is the dear Curé!’ Madame de Condamin gaily exclaimed.

The mistress of the house eagerly hastened up to him; she grasped one of his hands within both her own, and drew him into the middle of the room, with wheedling glances and a gentle swaying of her head.

‘This is a surprise! a very pleasant surprise!’ she cried. ‘It’s an age since we have seen you! Is it only when good fortune visits you that you can remember your friends?’

Abbé Faujas bowed with easy composure. All around him there was a flattering ovation, a buzzing of enthusiastic women. Madame Delangre and Madame Rastoil did not wait till he came up to them, but hastened to congratulate him upon his appointment, which had been officially announced that morning. The mayor, the justice of the peace, and even Monsieur de Bourdeu, all stepped up to him and shook his hand heartily.

‘Ah, he’s
a fine fellow and will go a long way!’ Monsieur de Condamin murmured into Doctor Porquier’s ear. ‘I scented him from the first day I saw him. That grimacing old Madame Rougon and he tell no end of lies. I have seen him slipping in here at dusk half a score of times. They must be mixed up in some queer things together.’

Doctor Porquier was terribly afraid of being compromised by Monsieur de Condamin, so he hurried away from him, and came like the others to grasp Abbé Faujas’s hand, although he had never previously spoken to him.

The priest’s triumphal entry was the great event of the evening. He had now seated himself and was hemmed in by a triple circle of petticoats. He talked with charming good nature on all sorts of subjects, but avoided replying to any hints or allusions. When Félicité directly questioned him, he merely said that he should not occupy the parsonage, as he preferred remaining in the lodgings where he had found himself so comfortable for nearly three years. Marthe was present among the other ladies, and was, as usual, extremely reserved. She had only just smiled at the Abbé, watching him from a distance, and looking the while a little pale and rather weary and uneasy. When he signified his intention of not quitting the Rue Balande, she blushed and rose to go into the small drawing-room as if she felt incommoded by the heat. Madame Paloque, beside whom Monsieur de Con­damin had seated himself, said to him quite loud enough to be heard: