Complete Works of Emile Zola (408 page)

‘You had better try to get a word with Delestang as you go away,’ said M. Kahn to M. Béjuin. ‘He came with Rougon, and must know something.’

‘Yes, you are right; that’s Delestang yonder,’ replied M. Béjuin, gazing at the councillor who was sitting on Rougon’s left; ‘I never know them in those confounded uniforms.’

‘I shall stop here so as to have a chance of getting hold of the great man,’ added M. Kahn. ‘It’s necessary that we should know the truth.’

The President was putting to the vote an interminable string of bills, which were passed by the members rising in their places. They all stood up and then sat down again quite mechanically, without ceasing to converse and even without ceasing to sleep. The proceedings were becoming so wearisome that most of the spectators whom curiosity had brought to the gallery took their departure. Only Rougon’s friends remained. They were still hoping that he would speak.

Suddenly, a deputy, whose correctly trimmed whiskers bespoke the provincial lawyer, arose. This at once stopped the monotonous mechanism of the voting. Surprise made all the members turn and look at the one who had risen. ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, standing in his place,’ I ask permission to explain the reasons which, to my great regret, have com­pelled me to differ from the majority of the Committee.’

His voice was so shrill and comical that the fair Clorinde had to stifle a laugh with her hands. Below in the Chamber itself, the astonishment was increasing. What was the man talking about? By dint of inquiries, the others ascertained that the President had just brought before the Chamber a bill authorising the department of the Pyrénées-Orientales to borrow 250,000 francs wherewith to build a Palace of Justice at Perpignan. The speaker, who was a general councillor of the department, was opposing the bill. The matter seemed likely to be interesting, so the deputies began to listen.

The member with the correctly trimmed whiskers spoke, however, with great circumspection. He used the most guarded language, and referred with the greatest respect to all the authorities; but the expenses of the department, he said, were very heavy, and he dwelt at length upon the financial situation of the Pyrénées-Orientales. Moreover, he did not think that any necessity for a new Palace of Justice had been satisfactorily demonstrated. He continued in this strain for a quarter of an hour, and on sitting down seemed quite over­come with emotion. Then Rougon again slowly dropped his eyelids which he had temporarily raised.

However, the reporter of the Committee which had ex­amined the bill got up. He was a little animated old man who spoke in clear, incisive tones like one who is sure of his ground. He began with a complimentary reference to his honourable colleague, with whom he regretted to find himself in disagreement. But really, he went on to say, the depart­ment of the Pyrénées-Orientales was not nearly so heavily burdened as had been alleged, and he brought forward fresh figures which showed the financial position of the department in an entirely different light. Moreover, the absolute necessity for a new Palace of Justice could not be denied. And he entered into details. The old Palace, he said, was situated in such a densely populated neighbourhood that the noise of the streets prevented the judges from hearing counsel speak. Then it was too small; and when the Assizes were being held, and there happened to be a large number of witnesses in attendance, they were obliged to remain on the landings exposed to the solicitations of interested parties who might desire to influence them. The speaker concluded by mention­ing as an irresistible argument the fact that the measure had been introduced at the instigation of the Keeper of the Seals himself.

Rougon was sitting quite still, his hands clasped upon his legs and his head resting against the mahogany desk. At the outset of the discussion his shoulders had seemed to sink lower than before, but when the first speaker rose to reply, he raised his big frame without actually getting on to his feet, and said in a husky voice: ‘The honourable member who reported upon this measure forgot to mention that it has also received the approval of the Minister of the Interior and the Minister of Finance.’

Then he let himself drop again and resumed the attitude of a drowsy bull. A slight murmur ran through the Chamber, and the deputy who had risen to reply sat down with a low bow. The bill was passed, and those members who had shown any interest in the debate once more assumed an ex­pression of indifference.

Rougon had spoken. From one section of the gallery to another Colonel Jobelin exchanged glances with the Char­bonnels, while Madame Correur made ready to leave her place, just as she would have quitted her box at the theatre before the fall of the curtain, if the hero of the play had delivered his last speech. M. d’Escorailles and Madame Bouchard had already taken their departure. Clorinde stood by the velvet-covered balustrade, her majestic figure showing conspicuously as she slowly wrapped her lace shawl about her, glancing round the deputies’ seats as she did so. The rain was no longer beating down upon the window, but the sky remained overcast. The mahogany desks looked quite black in that sombre light, and a, shadowy mist streamed over the seats, which the bald heads of some of the deputies lighted up here and there with patches of white. Against the marble-work below the vague, pale allegorical figures, the President and the clerks and ushers, all in black and ranged in a line, showed like the stiff silhouettes of a shadow-pantomime. The whole Chamber became blurred in the suddenly waning light.

‘Oh, come along!’ exclaimed Clorinde, pushing her mother out of the gallery; ‘it is enough to kill one in here!’

She quite startled the drowsy ushers in the corridor by the strange fashion in which she had twisted her shawl round her hips.

When they got downstairs into the hall the ladies met Colonel Jobelin and Madame Correur.

‘We are waiting for him here,’ said the colonel. ‘Perhaps he will come out this way. But in any case I have signalled to Kahn and Béjuin to come and give me some information.’

Madame Correur stepped up to the Countess Balbi. ‘Ah! it would be a great misfortune,’ she said in a disconsolate voice without attempting to explain her meaning.

The colonel raised his eyes to heaven. ‘The country has need of men like Rougon,’ he resumed after a short pause. ‘The Emperor would make a great mistake.’

Then there was another pause. Clorinde tried to peep into the ‘Salle des Pas Perdus,’ but an usher promptly closed the door. So she came back to her mother, who was standing silent in her black veil. ‘What a bore it is having to wait like this!’ she muttered.

Some soldiers now made their appearance, and Colonel Jobelin thereupon announced that the sitting was over. Next the Charbonnels came into sight at the top of the staircase, and made their way down very carefully one after the other and each clinging to the balustrade. As soon as M. Charbonnel saw the colonel he called out: ‘He didn’t say much, but he com­pletely shut them up.’

‘He hadn’t a proper chance,’ the colonel whispered when the other reached him, ‘otherwise you would have heard something fine. He wants warming up.’

However, the soldiers had formed a double line from the Chamber to the gallery leading to the President’s mansion. Then a procession made its appearance while the drummers beat a salute. At the head walked two ushers, dressed in black with cocked hats under their arms, chains about their necks, and swords with steel hilts at their sides. Then came the President, escorted by two officers. The clerks of the Chamber and the President’s secretary followed. As the President passed the fair Clorinde he smiled at her like a
homme du monde,
notwithstanding the pomp of his pro­cession.

‘Ah, you are there!’ cried M. Kahn, running up with a distracted look.

Though the public were at that time excluded from the ‘Salle des Pas Perdus,’ he took them all into it and conducted them to one of the large glass doors which opened upon the garden. He seemed very much annoyed. ‘I have missed him again!’ he cried. ‘He slipped out into the Rue de Bourgogne while I was waiting for him in the General Foy gallery. But it really makes no difference; we shall get to know everything all the same. I have sent Béjuin after Delestang.’

They waited for another ten long minutes. The deputies were all coming away looking careless and unconcerned. Some of them lingered to light cigars and others stood in little groups, laughing and shaking hands. Madame Correur had stepped aside to inspect the ‘Laocoon’; and while the Charbonnels threw back their heads to look at a sea-gull which a whimsical artist had painted on the frame of a fresco, as though it were flying out of the picture, the fair Clorinde, standing in front of the great bronze figure of Minerva, examined the arms and bosom of the gigantic goddess with an air of interest. Meantime in a corner by the glass door Colonel Jobelin and M. Kahn were carrying on an animated conversation in low tones.

‘Ah, there’s Béjuin!’ suddenly exclaimed the latter. Then they all drew together with an expression of anxiety. M. Béjuin was breathing heavily. ‘Well?’ they asked him.

‘Well! the resignation has been accepted, and Rougon retires.’

It was a crushing blow. An interval of deep silence followed. However, Clorinde, who, to employ her nervous fingers, was knotting a corner of her shawl, caught sight of pretty Madame Bouchard walking slowly along the garden, upon M. d’Escorailles’ arm, with her head inclined over his shoulder. They had come down before the others, and, taking advantage of an open door, were now strolling like lovers under the lace-work of fresh young leaves, in the quiet walks usually utilised for serious meditation. Clorinde beckoned to them.

‘The great man has retired!’ she said to the smiling young woman.

At this Madame Bouchard abruptly dropped her cavalier’s arm, and turned very pale and grave, while M. Kahn, surrounded by Rougon’s alarmed friends, despairingly raised his arms to heaven, unable to say a single word.

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 mantel-piece, 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!’