Complete Works of Emile Zola (436 page)

‘Of course; I have been reading the papers,’ replied the ex-sub-prefect, with a smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. ‘You knew very well I was there; you saw me when you came in.’

This audacious falsehood cut all explanation short. The two men looked at each other for some moments in silence. Then, as Rougon seemed to consult him with his eyes, and again went towards the writing-table, Du Poizat made a little gesture, which plainly signified: ‘Wait a minute; there is no hurry. We must consider matters.’ Not a word was ex­changed between them, they both went back to the drawing-room.

Such an angry dispute had broken out that evening between the colonel and M. Bouchard, on the subject of the Orléans Princes and the Count de Chambord, that they had banged their cards down, and sworn that they would never play with each other again. And then with glowering eyes they had seated themselves on either side of the fire-place. However, when Rougon returned, they were once more making friends by loudly singing the great man’s praises: that being the one subject on which they could agree.

‘Oh, I feel no constraint about it; I say it before his face,’ the colonel continued. ‘There is no one to equal him at the present time.’

‘We are speaking ill of you, you hear,’ said M. Bouchard, with a cunning smile.

Then the conversation went on:

‘A brain far above the average.’

‘A man of action, who has the
coup d’œil
of born con­querors.’

‘Ah! France wants his help sadly just now.’

‘Yes, indeed. He could do something to get us out of the mess. He is the only man who can save the Empire.’

As Rougon heard this his shoulders bent, and he affected a surly air by way of modesty. Such incense was, however, extremely pleasant to him. His vanity was never so delight­fully titillated as when the colonel and M. Bouchard bandied laudatory phrases like these about for a whole evening. They talked a great deal of obvious nonsense, and their faces wore gravely ridiculous expressions; but the more they grovelled in their language the more did Rougon enjoy hearing their monotonous voices as they sang his praises and lavished altogether inapplicable commendation upon him. He sometimes made fun of them when they were not there, but, for all that, his pride and craving for power found gratifi­cation in their eulogies. They formed, as it were, a dung­hill of praise in which his huge frame could wallow at its ease.

‘No, no; I am only a weak sort of man,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If I were really all that you believe — ‘

He did not finish his sentence, but sat down at the card-table and began to consult the cards, a thing which he now seldom did. Meanwhile M. Bouchard and the colonel continued to belaud him. They declared that he was a great orator, a great administrator, a great financier, and a great politician. Du Poizat, who had remained standing, nodded his head assentingly; and presently, without looking at Rougon, and as though the latter had not been present, he remarked: ‘
Mon Dieu!
Only the least thing is needed to bring him into power again. The Emperor is most favour­ably disposed towards him. If some catastrophe were to happen to-morrow, and the Emperor should feel the need of an energetic hand, why by the day after to-morrow Rougon would be minister — that’s the long and short of it.’

The great man slowly raised his eyes. Then he dropped back in his chair, leaving his combinations with the cards unfinished, while his face again clouded over. But the untir­ing flattery of M. Bouchard and the colonel still rang out amidst his reverie as if to spur him on to some resolution from which he yet recoiled. And at last a smile appeared upon his face as young Auguste, who had just completed the abandoned
réussite
with the cards, exclaimed: ‘It has come out all right, Monsieur Rougon.’

‘Of course! things always come all right,’ said Du Poizat, repeating the great man’s favourite phrase.

However, at that moment a servant entered and told Rougon that a gentleman and a lady wished to see him. And he handed him a card, at the sight of which Rougon uttered a slight cry. ‘What! Are they in Paris?’

The visitors were the Marquis and Marchioness d’Escorailles. Rougon hastened to receive them in his study. They apologised for the lateness of their visit; and, in the course of conversation, gave him to understand that they had been in Paris for a couple of days past, but had feared lest a visit from them to one so closely connected with the Emperor might be misconstrued; hence they had preferred to make their call quite privately and at this somewhat unseemly hour. The explanation in no way offended Rougon. The presence of the Marquis and Marchioness under his roof was an unhoped-for honour. If the Emperor himself had knocked at his door, he would not have felt more gratification. Those old people coming to ask a favour of him typified all Plassans offering him its homage; that aristocratic, cold and haughty Plassans, which had ever seemed to him a sort of inaccessible Olympus. An old ambitious dream was at last being realised, and he felt that he was avenged for the scorn shown him by the little town when, as a briefless advocate, he had dragged his worn-down boots about its ill-paved streets.

‘We did not find Jules at home,’ said the Marchioness d’Escorailles. ‘We were looking forward with pleasure to giving him a surprise. But he has been obliged to go to Orléans on business, it seems.’

Rougon was not aware of the young man’s absence; how­ever, he quite understood it on recalling the circumstance that the aunt whom Madame Bouchard had gone to see lived at Orléans. Nevertheless he justified Jules, saying that it was a serious matter, a question of abuse of power, which had necessitated his journey. Then he told them that their son was a very intelligent young man and had a great future before him.

‘It is necessary for him to make his way,’ said the Marquis, thus lightly alluding to the ruin of the family. ‘It was a great trial to us to part with him.’

Then he and his wife in discreet fashion began to deplore the necessities of those degenerate times which prevented sons from growing up in the faith of their parents. They them­selves had never set foot in Paris since the fall of Charles X.; and they would not have come there now if it had not been a question of Jules’s future. Since their dear boy, with their secret consent, had taken service under the Empire, they had pretended to deny him before the world, but in reality they were continually striving for his advancement.

‘We make no pretence with you, Monsieur Rougon,’ said the Marquis, in a tone of charming familiarity. ‘We love our boy; it is natural we should. You have done a great deal for him already, and we thank you heartily for it. But we want you to do more still. We are friends and fellow-townsmen, are we not?’

Rougon bowed, feeling much moved. The humble demean­our of those old people whom he had seen so majestic when they repaired on Sundays to the church of Saint Marc, seemed to enhance his own importance. He gave them formal pro­mises of help.

As they were going off, after twenty minutes’ friendly conversation, the Marchioness took Rougon’s hand and held it for a moment within her own. ‘Then we may rely upon you, dear Monsieur Rougon?’ she said. ‘We came from Plassans especially for this purpose. We were beginning to feel a little impatient. At our age you can’t wonder at it. Now, how­ever, we shall go back feeling very happy. People told us there that you could no longer do anything.’

Rougon smiled. And with an air of decision that seemed prompted by some secret thoughts of his own, he replied: ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way; rely on me.’

When they had left him, however, a shadow of regret passed over his face. He was still tarrying in the ante-room, when he espied a neatly-dressed man, who, balancing a small round felt hat between his fingers, stood in a respectful attitude in a corner.

‘What do you want?’ Rougon curtly asked him.

The man, who was very tall and broad-shouldered, lowered his eyes and replied: ‘Don’t you recognise me, sir?’ And as Rougon declared that he did not, the other continued, ‘I’m Merle, your old usher at the Council of State.’

At this Rougon became somewhat softer: ‘Oh, yes! But you are wearing a full beard now. Well, my man, what do you want me to do for you?’

Then Merle proceeded to explain matters in studiously polite language. He had met Madame Correur in the after­noon, and she had advised him to see Monsieur Rougon that very evening. If it had not been for that, he, Merle, would never have presumed to disturb him at such an hour. ‘Madame Correur is extremely kind,’ he repeated several times. Then he went on to say that he was out of employ­ment. If he now wore a full beard it was because he had left the Council of State some six months previously. When Rougon inquired the reason of his dismissal, he would not allow that he had been discharged for bad conduct, but bit his lip and said: ‘They all knew there how devoted I was to you, sir. After you went away, I had to put up with all sorts of unpleasantness, because I have never been able to conceal my real feelings. One day I almost struck a fellow-servant who was saying provoking things, and then they discharged me.’

Rougon looked at him searchingly. ‘And so, my man, it’s on my account that you are now out of place?’

Merle smiled slightly.

‘And I owe you another berth, eh? You want me to find you a situation somewhere?’

‘It would be very kind of you, sir.’

There was a short pause. Rougon tapped his hands together in a fidgety, mechanical way. But soon he began to smile, having made up his mind. He had too many debts; he must pay them and get rid of them.

‘Well, I will look after you,’ he said, ‘and get you a place somewhere. You did right to come to me, my man.’

Then he dismissed him. He now hesitated no longer. He went straight into the dining room where Gilquin had just finished off a pot of jam, after eating a slice of
pâté,
the leg of a fowl, and some cold potatoes. Du Poizat, who had joined him, was sitting astride a chair and talking to him. They were discussing women in somewhat crude language. Gilquin had kept his hat on his head, and leant back, lounging in his chair and picking his teeth, under the impres­sion that he was behaving in proper aristocratic style.

‘Well, I must be off now,’ he said, after gulping down the contents of his glass, which was full, and smacking his lips. ‘I am going to the Rue Montmartre to see what has become of my birds.’

Rougon, who seemed in high spirits, began, however, to joke at him. Now that he had dined, did he still believe in that story of a plot? Du Poizat, too, affected complete incredulity. He made an appointment for the next morning with Gilquin, to whom, he said, he owed a breakfast. Gilquin, with his cane under his arm, asked as soon as he could get a word in: ‘Then you are not going to warn — ‘

‘Yes, I am, of course,’ Rougon replied. ‘But they’ll merely laugh at me. In any case there’s no hurry. There will be plenty of time to-morrow morning.’

The ex-commercial traveller had already got his hand upon the handle of the door. However, he stepped back with a grin on his face. ‘For all I care,’ he said, ‘they may blow Badinguet to smithereens.’

‘Oh!’ replied the great man, with an air of almost religious conviction, ‘the Emperor has no cause for fear, even if your story is correct. These plots never succeed. There is a watchful Providence.’

That was the last word spoken on the matter. Du Poizat went off with Gilquin, chatting with him familiarly. An hour later, at half-past ten, when Rougon shook hands with M. Bouchard and the colonel as they took their leave, he stretched his arms and yawned, saying, as was often his wont: ‘I am quite tired out. I shall sleep well to-night.’

On the following evening three bombs exploded beneath the Emperor’s carriage in front of the Opera-house. A wild panic seized the serried crowd blocking up the Rue Le Peletier.
1
More than fifty people were struck. A woman in a blue silk dress was killed on the spot and stretched stark in the gutter. Two soldiers lay dying on the road. An aide-de-camp, wounded in the neck, left drops of blood behind him. But, under the crude glare of the gas, amidst the wreathing smoke, the Emperor descended unhurt from his riddled carriage, and saluted the throng. Only his hat was torn by a splinter from one of the bombs.

Rougon had spent the day at home. In the morning he had certainly felt a little restless, and had twice been on the point of going out. However, just as he was finishing
déjeuner,
Clorinde made her appearance; and then, in her society, in his study, where they remained till evening, he forgot everything. She had come to consult him on a matter of great intricacy, and appeared extremely discouraged. She could succeed in nothing, she said. But Rougon began to console her, seemingly much touched by her sadness. He gave her to understand that there was great reason for hope, and that things would altogether change. He was by no means ignorant of the devotion of his friends, and of all that they had done for him, and would make it his care to reward them, even the humblest of them. When Clorinde left him, he kissed her on the forehead. Then after dinner he had an irresistible longing for a walk. He left the house and took the shortest way to the quays, feeling suffocated and craving for the fresh breezes of the river. It was a mild winter evening, and the low, cloudy sky hung over the city in silent blackness. In the distance the rumbling traffic of the main streets could be faintly heard. Rougon walked along the deserted footways with a regular step, brushing the stone parapet with his overcoat. The lights which spread out in the far distance, twinkling through the darkness like stars that marked the boundaries of some dead heaven, brought him a sensation of the spreading magnitude of all those squares and streets, whose houses were now quite invisible. As he walked along Paris seemed to grow bigger, to expand more in harmony with his own huge form, and to be capable of giving him all the air he needed to inflate his lungs. From the inky river, flecked here and there with shimmering gold, there rose a gentle yet mighty breathing, like that of a sleeping giant — fit accompaniment to his colossal dream. Then as he came in front of the Palais de Justice, a clock struck the hour of nine. There was a tremulous throbbing in the air, and he turned to listen. Over the housetops he fancied he could hear the sounds of a sudden panic, distant reports like those of explosions, and cries of terror. He suddenly pictured Paris in all the stupor born of some great crime. Then he called to mind that afternoon in June, that bright triumphant after­noon of the Baptism, when the bells had pealed out in the hot sunshine, and the quays had been filled with a serried multi­tude, when everything had told of the glory of the Empire at its apogee, that glory beneath which he had for a moment felt crushed and almost jealous of the Emperor. Now he seemed to be having his revenge. The sky was black and moonless; the city was terror-stricken and dumb; the quays were deserted and swept by a shudder which seemed to scare the very gas­lights, as though some weird evil lay in ambush, yonder, in the darkness of the night. Rougon drew in long breaths of air, and felt that he loved that cut-throat Paris, in whose terror-striking gloom he was regaining supreme power.