Complete Works of Emile Zola (439 page)

‘I thank your excellency a thousand times,’ said Merle, with a low bow.

As he was going out, a charming blonde head, surmounted by a pink bonnet, peeped in at the door, and a fluty voice inquired: ‘Can I come in?’

Then, without waiting for a reply, Madame Bouchard entered the room. She had not seen the usher in the ante­chamber, so she had come straight on. Rougon, who addressed her as ‘my dear child,’ asked her to sit down, after momentarily detaining her little gloved hands within his own. ‘Have you come about anything important?’ he asked.

‘Yes, very important,’ answered Madame Bouchard with a smile.

Rougon thereupon told Merle to admit nobody. M. d’Escorailles, who had just finished trimming his nails, had advanced to greet Madame Bouchard. She signed to him to stoop, and immediately whispered a few words to him. He nodded assent, and then, taking his hat, turned to Rougon, saying: ‘I’m going to breakfast. There doesn’t seem to be anything else of importance excepting that matter of the inspectorship. We shall have to give it to someone.’

The minister looked perplexed. ‘Yes, certainly,’ he said, ‘we shall have to appoint somebody. A whole heap of men have already been suggested to me; but I don’t care to appoint people whom I don’t know.’

Then he glanced round the room as though trying to find somebody, and his eye fell upon M. Béjuin, still silently lounging before the fire, with an expression of complete unconcern upon his face.

‘Monsieur Béjuin,’ said Rougon.

M. Béjuin opened his eyes, but remained quite still.

‘Would you like to be an inspector?’ added the minister. ‘I may tell you that it’s a post worth six thousand francs a year. There is nothing to do, and the place is quite com­patible with your position as a deputy.’

M. Béjuin nodded gently. Yes, yes, he would accept the post. And so the matter was settled. However, he still lingered before the fire for a few more minutes, when it probably struck him that there was no likelihood of his pick­ing up any more crumbs that morning, for with a dragging step he took himself off in the rear of M. d’Escorailles.

‘There! we are alone now! Come, my dear child, what’s the matter?’ said Rougon to pretty Madame Bouchard.

He wheeled up an easy-chair and sat down in front of her in the centre of the room. And then for the first time he noticed her dress. It was of very soft pale rose cashmere, and hung round her in close, clinging folds. There seemed, also, to be something very bewitching about her appearance that morning.

‘Well, what’s the matter?’ repeated Rougon.

Madame Bouchard smiled without making any immediate answer. She sat back in her chair, with parted lips showing her pearly white teeth. Little curls peeped from under her pink bonnet, and there was a coaxing expression on her little face, an air of mingled supplication and submission.

‘It is something I want to ask of you,’ she murmured at last; and then, in an animated way, she added: ‘Promise me that you’ll do it.’

But Rougon would promise nothing. He wanted to know what it was first. He mistrusted ladies. And as she bent towards him, he said to her: ‘Is it something very unusual, that you daren’t tell me? Well, I must get it out of you by questions. Let us set about it methodically. Is it something for your husband?’

But Madame Bouchard shook her head, while still con­tinuing to smile.

‘No! Is it for Monsieur d’Escorailles, then? You were plotting something together in whispers a little while ago.’

But Madame Bouchard again shook her head; and pulled a pretty little face which clearly signified that it had been necessary for her to get rid of M. d’Escorailles. Then, as Rougon was wondering what it could be that she wanted, she drew her chair still nearer to him. ‘You won’t scold me, will you?’ she said. ‘You do like me a little, don’t you? Well, it’s for a young man. You don’t know him, but I’ll tell you his name directly, when you have promised to give him the post. Oh, it’s quite an insignificant one that I want for him. You will only have to say a word and we shall be very, very grateful to you.’

‘Is he a relation of yours?’ Rougon inquired.

Madame Bouchard sighed deeply, glanced at him with languishing eyes, and then let her hands slip down so that Rougon might take them in his own. And finally in a very low voice, she replied: ‘No, he’s a friend of mine — a par­ticular friend — Oh! I am very unhappy!’

Her eyes added all that she left unsaid.

‘But this is very shocking!’ exclaimed the minister, and then, as she still leant towards him, raising her little gloved hand to his lips to silence him, he roughly repulsed her, com­pelling her to rise to her feet. She remained before him with pale lips and downcast eyes. ‘Yes, it is disgraceful! abomin­able!’ he continued. ‘Monsieur Bouchard is an excellent man. He worships you. He trusts you with blind confidence. No, no, indeed! I will certainly not help you to deceive him. I refuse, refuse absolutely, do you hear? It is of no use mincing words with you, my pretty young woman!’

Then he checked himself, and, gradually becoming calmer, assumed an air of great dignity. Seeing that Madame Bouchard had begun to tremble, he made her sit down again while he himself remained erect, lecturing her severely. It was a real sermon that he preached to her. He told her that she was offending against all laws, both human and divine; that she was standing on the brink of a precipice, and preparing for herself an old age full of remorse. Then, fancying that he could detect a faint smile hovering round the corners of her lips, he proceeded to draw a picture of the old age he predicted, when her beauty would be in ruins, her heart for ever empty, and her brow flushed with shame beneath her white hair. And afterwards he discussed her conduct from a social point of view, in this respect showing much severity, and he went on to rail at modern licentiousness, at the disgraceful dissoluteness of the times. Then he spoke of himself. He was the guardian of the laws, he said, and could never abuse his power by lending himself to the encouragement of vice. Without virtue it seemed to him that government was impos­sible. Finally, he concluded by defying his enemies to name a single act of nepotism in his administration, a single favour granted by him that was due to intrigue.

Pretty Madame Bouchard listened with downcast bead, huddling herself up in her chair and letting her delicate neck show from under the ribbons of her pink bonnet. When Rougon had at last finished speaking, she rose and made her way to the door, without saying a word. But as she laid her fingers upon the handle, she raised her head and began to smile again. ‘He is named Georges Duchesne,’ she mur­mured. ‘He is principal clerk in my husband’s division, and wants to be assistant — ‘

‘No, no!’ cried Rougon.

Then she slowly left the room, casting a long contemp­tuous glance at the minister, who came back from the door with an expression of weariness on his face. He had beckoned to Merle to follow him. The door remained ajar.

‘The editor of the
Vœu National,
whom your excellency sent for, has just arrived,’ said the usher in a low tone.

‘Very good,’ replied Rougon; ‘but I’ll see the officials who have been waiting so long first.’

Just at that moment, however, a valet appeared at the door which led to the minister’s private apartments, and announced that
déjeuner
was ready, and that Madame Delestang was waiting for his excellency in the drawing-room.

At this Rougon stepped forward. ‘Tell them to serve at once,’ he replied briskly. ‘So much the worse for the gentlemen; I will see them afterwards. I’m frightfully hungry.’

Then he just popped his head through the doorway and gave a glance round the ante-room, which was still full. Not a functionary or a petitioner had moved. The three prefects were still talking together in their corner. The two ladies by the table were leaning upon their finger-tips, as if a little weary. The same people sat motionless and silent in the red velvet chairs along the walls. Then Rougon left his room, giving Merle orders to detain the prefect of the Somme and the editor of the
Vœu National.

Madame Rougon, who was not very well, had left on the previous evening for the South of France, where she was going to stay for a month. She had an uncle living in the neighbourhood of Pau. On the other hand, Delestang had been in Italy for the last six weeks, on an important mission connected with agriculture. And thus it came about that the minister had invited Clorinde, who wanted to have a long talk with him, to partake of
déjeuner
at his official residence.

Patiently waiting for him, she was beguiling the time by glancing through a law-treatise which she had found upon a table.

‘You must be getting dreadfully hungry,’ he said to her gaily as he entered the drawing-room. ‘I’ve had a tremendous lot to do this morning.’

Then he gave her his arm and conducted her into the dining-room, an immense apartment where the little table, laid for two, near a window, seemed quite lost. A couple of tall footmen waited upon them. Rougon and Clorinde, who both preserved a very serious demeanour, ate rapidly. Their meal consisted of a few radishes, a slice of cold salmon, some cutlets with mashed potatoes, and a little cheese. They took no wine — Rougon drank nothing but water of a morning — and they scarcely exchanged a dozen words. Then, when the two footmen had cleared the table and brought in the coffee and liqueurs, Clorinde glanced at Rougon and gave a slight twitch of her eyebrows which he perfectly understood.

‘That will do; you can go now,’ he said to the footmen. ‘I will ring if I require anything.’

The servants left the room, and Clorinde, rising from her chair, tapped her skirt to remove the crumbs which had fallen on it. She was wearing that day a black silk dress, somewhat too large for her and laden with flounces, a very elaborate dress which so enveloped her figure as to make her look like a mere bundle.

‘What a tremendous place this is!’ she remarked, going to the end of the room. ‘It’s the kind of place for a wedding feast, this dining-room of yours,’ Then she came back and said: ‘I should very much like to smoke a cigarette, do you know?’

‘The deuce,’ replied Rougon; ‘there’s no tobacco. I never smoke myself.’

But Clorinde winked and drew from her pocket a little tobacco pouch, of red silk, embroidered with gold, and scarcely larger than a purse. She rolled a cigarette with the tips of her tapering fingers, and then, as they did not wish to ring, they began to search the room for matches. At last they found three on a sideboard, and Clorinde carefully carried them off. With her cigarette between her lips, she sat back in her chair and began to sip her coffee, while gazing smil­ingly at Rougon.

‘Well, I am entirely at your service now,’ he remarked, with an answering smile. ‘You want to talk to me; so let us talk.’

Clorinde made a gesture as though to express that what she had to say was of no consequence. ‘Yes,’ she rejoined; ‘I have had a letter from my husband. He is feeling very bored at Turin. Of course, he is much pleased at having got this mission, thanks to you, but he doesn’t want to be forgotten while he is away. However, we can talk of all that presently. There’s no hurry about it.’

Then she again began to smoke and look at Rougon with her irritating smile. The minister had gradually accustomed himself to seeing her, without worrying about those questions which had formerly so disturbed him. Clorinde had now become a feature of his daily life, and he accepted her as though he understood her, as though her eccentricities no longer caused him the faintest surprise. As a matter of fact, however, he knew nothing certain about her even yet: she was as great a mystery to him as she had been in the first days of their acquaintance. She constantly varied, sometimes acting childishly, sometimes showing herself very deep and knowing; for although, as a rule, she seemed very foolish, she occasionally manifested singular shrewdness. And now, too, she was very gentle, and now extremely spiteful. When she surprised Rougon by some word or gesture which he could not understand, he shrugged his shoulders with an expression of superiority, opining that all women behaved in that fan­tastic way. He fancied that he thus manifested a supreme contempt for the sex, but his manner merely sharpened Clorinde’s smile, a smile which had an expression of crafty cruelty about it, revealing as it did her eager teeth between her ruby lips.

‘Why are you looking at me in that way?’ Rougon asked her at length, feeling disturbed by the steady gaze of her large eyes. ‘Is there anything about me which displeases you?’

Some hidden thought had just brought a gleam from the depths of Clorinde’s eyes, and her lips had assumed a hard expression. But she quickly put on a charming smile again, and began to puff out little whiffs of smoke while saying: ‘Oh, dear no, you’re very nice, I was thinking about some­thing, my dear fellow. Do you know that you have been very lucky?’

‘How’s that?’

‘Why, yes. Here you are on the pinnacle which you were so anxious to reach. Everybody has helped to lift you to it, and events themselves have worked for you.’

Rougon was about to reply when there came a knock at the door. Clorinde instinctively hid her cigarette behind her skirts. It was a clerk with an urgent telegram for his excel­lency. Rougon read the despatch with an air of displeasure, and after telling the clerk what reply was to be made to it, hastily closed the door with a bang and took his seat again.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have certainly had some devoted friends, and am now trying to remember them. And you are right, too, in saying that I owe something to events. It often happens that men are powerless, unless they are helped by events.’

As he spoke these words in slow deliberate tones he glanced at Clorinde, lowering his heavy eyelids so as to con­ceal the fact that he was trying to penetrate her meaning. Why had she spoken of his luck? he wondered. What did she know of the favourable events to which she had referred? Had Du Poizat been saying anything to her? But when he saw the smiling, dreamy look of her face, which had suddenly softened, he felt sure that she knew nothing whatever upon the subject. He himself, too, was trying to forget certain things, and did not care to stir up the inner chambers of his memory. There was an hour of his life which now seemed hazy and confused to him, and he was beginning to believe that he really owed his high position solely to the devotion of his friends.