Complete Works of Emile Zola (456 page)

The lady, who was quite excited, took the purse and searched it. Then she looked at the young man, and it seemed as though she was on the point of asking him for his watch chain. However, it was all a trick on M. d’Escorailles’ part. On such occasions he took an empty purse with him by way of amusement.

‘Come, let’s be off!’ he said, dragging M. La Rouquette away. ‘I’m going to be stingy now. We must try to recoup ourselves, eh?’

‘Try your luck, gentlemen! Twenty sous a chance!’ called Madame Bouchard as they passed in front of the lucky wheel.

They at once approached her, and went into the business enthusiastically. For a quarter of an hour the lucky-wheel was kept going without cessation. First one, then the other set it spinning. M. d’Escorailles won two dozen egg-cups, three little looking-glasses, seven china figures, and five cigarette-cases; while M. La Rouquette’s winnings consisted of two packets of lace, a china tray mounted on feet of gilded zinc, some glasses, a candle-stick, and a box with a glass cover. Madame Bouchard became indignant: ‘Come, that’s enough,’ said she, ‘you’re too lucky! I won’t let you go on any longer! Here, take your winnings away.’

She had arranged them in two big piles upon a table be­side her. M. La Rouquette seemed filled with consternation at the sight of them; and asked her to exchange them for the regulation bunch of violets which she was wearing in her hair. But she declined to do so. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘you’ve won those things, haven’t you? Very well, then, take them away with you.’

‘Madame is quite right,’ remarked M. d’Escorailles, gravely. ‘We mustn’t despise fortune, and for my part I do not mean to leave a single egg-cup behind me. I’m getting stingy.’

He had spread out his handkerchief and was tying his winnings up in a neat bundle, which caused a fresh burst of gaiety. And M. La Rouquette’s embarrassment was equally amusing. But at last Madame Correur, who had hitherto kept in the background with smiling matronly dignity, pro­truded her fat rosy face. She would be very glad to make an exchange, said she.

‘Oh, no, I don’t want anything!’ the young deputy hastily exclaimed. ‘Take the whole lot; I make you a present of everything.’

He and Escorailles did not, however, take themselves off at once, but began to whisper doubtful compliments to Madame Bouchard. Turning a lucky-wheel was all very well, they told her, but she knew much better how to turn men’s heads. Meanwhile Madame Bouchard

dropped her eyelashes and giggled like a peasant-girl chaffed by gentlemen. Madame Correur gazed at her in admiration. ‘Isn’t she sweet? Isn’t she sweet?’ she exclaimed every now and then, with a rapturous expression.

But Madame Bouchard at last began to rap M. d’Escorailles’ fingers, for he wanted to examine the mechanism of the lucky-wheel, alleging that it did not work fairly. Would they never leave her at peace? she cried. As there was nothing more to be got out of them they had better go. And when she at length managed to get rid of them, she again began to call in a coaxing voice: ‘Only twenty sous a spin, gentlemen. Come and try one spin!’

At that moment M. Kahn, who had risen from his chair to look over the heads of the crowd, hastily sat down again. ‘Here’s Rougon coming!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s pretend not to see him.’

Rougon was slowly making his way up the hall. He stopped first at Madame Bouchard’s tent, tried his fortune at the lucky-wheel, and afterwards purchased a rose from Madame de Combelot for three louis. Having thus con­tributed to the funds of the charity, he seemed inclined to take his departure. He elbowed his way through the throng, already turning towards one of the doors. But all at once, having glanced into the refreshment room, he abruptly altered his course, and entered the buffet, proudly, calmly, with head erect. M. d’Escorailles and M. La Rouquette had now taken seats beside M. Kahn, M. Béjuin, and the colonel. M. Bouchard also came up and joined them. And all of them trembled slightly as the minister passed by, so big and strong did he seem to them with those massive limbs of his. He greeted them familiarly in a loud distinct voice and seated himself at a neighbouring table. He kept his broad face raised, and turned it slowly to the right and left as though anxious to confront unflinchingly the glances which he felt were fixed upon him.

Clorinde stepped up to him, dragging her heavy yellow train majestically behind her. ‘What will you take?’ she asked him, affecting a vulgarity of manners not untinged with raillery.

‘Ah, that’s the question,’ he answered gaily. ‘I never drink anything, you know. What have you got?’

Clorinde went rapidly through her list of liqueurs; brandy, rum, curaçoa, kirsch-water, chartreuse, vespétro, anisette, and kummel.

‘No, no, I won’t have any of those. Give me a glass of sugared water.’

She went off to the counter, and came back with the glass of sugared water, still preserving an air of goddess-like majesty. And she lingered in front of Rougon, watching him stir the sugar. The minister continued to smile, making the first commonplace remarks that suggested themselves to him. ‘You are well, I hope? It is an age since I saw you.’

‘I have been at Fontainebleau,’ she quietly replied.

Rougon raised his eyes, and gave her a searching glance. But in her turn she began to question him. ‘And are you well pleased?’ she asked. ‘Is everything going on as you wish it?’

‘Yes, quite so,’ the minister replied.

‘Oh! so much the better.’

For a moment she turned around him with all the atten­tion of a professional waiter. But her malicious flashing eyes were fixed on him, as though she were every moment going to overwhelm him with her triumph. At last, as she was making up her mind to leave him, she raised herself upon tip-toes, and cast a glance into the adjoining hall. And thereupon she touched Rougon’s shoulder. ‘There is some one looking for you, I believe,’ she said, with an animated expression on her face.

Merle indeed was respectfully threading his way between the neighbouring chairs and tables. He made three bows, one after the other, and begged his excellency to excuse him; but, said he, the letter which his excellency had been expect­ing all the morning had arrived, and, although he had received no instructions, he had thought —

‘Yes, yes, all right; give it to me,’ interrupted Rougon. The usher handed him a large envelope, and then went off to prowl about the bazaar. Rougon had recognised the writ­ing at a glance. It was an autograph letter from the Emperor in answer to the one proffering his resignation. A chilly per­spiration mounted to his brow; still he showed no sign of pallor, but quietly slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his coat, without ceasing to meet the glances that were directed upon him from M. Kahn’s table. Clorinde had just gone to speak a few words to the latter gentleman; and the whole band was now watching Rougon with feverish curiosity.

However, Clorinde returned and again stood in front of him, while he drank half his glassful of sugared water, and thought of some compliment to address to her.

‘You are looking quite lovely to day. If queens turn themselves into waiting-maids — ‘

But she cut his compliment short. ‘You haven’t read your letter then?’ she said audaciously.

For a moment he affected forgetfulness; and then all at once pretended to recollect. ‘Oh, yes, that letter. I’ll read it at once, if it will give you any pleasure.’

He opened the envelope carefully with a penknife, and at a glance read the brief letter inside it. The Emperor accepted his resignation. For nearly a minute he kept the letter before his face as though he were reading it over again. He felt afraid lest he should not be able to maintain a calm expression. A terrible protest was rising within him; a rebellion of his whole strength, which was unwilling to accept this downfall, shook him to his very bones. If he had not sternly restrained himself, he would have shouted aloud, and have smashed the table with his ponderous fists. And with his eyes still fixed upon the letter, he pictured the Emperor as he had seen him at Saint Cloud renewing his expressions of confidence, and confirming his previous instructions with soft words and ceaseless smile. What long devised plan of disgrace had Napoléon been maturing behind that impenetrable expression of his, that he should now so suddenly have crushed him in a night, after a score of times insisting on his retaining office? At last, by a mighty effort, Rougon conquered his emotion. He raised his face again, and it appeared unruffled. Then he put the letter back into his pocket with a careless gesture. But Clorinde, whose hands rested upon the little table, stooped eagerly towards him, and with quivering, eager lips exclaimed: ‘I knew it all. I was there this morning — my poor friend!’

Then she went on to pity him in so cruelly mocking a voice that he again looked keenly at her. She had ceased to dissemble now. She had at last reached the triumph to which she had been looking forward for months past, and she spoke slowly and deliberately, savouring the sweetness of being at last able to show herself his implacable and avenged foe.

‘I was unable to defend you,’ she continued. ‘You are doubtless not aware — ‘ Then she broke off, and said with a cutting expression: ‘Guess who succeeds you as Minister of the Interior!’

He made a gesture expressive of indifference; but she still kept her eyes fixed on him, and at last let these words fall: ‘My husband!’

Rougon, whose mouth was parched, drank some more of the sugared water. Clorinde had thrown into her last two words the expression of all she felt, her anger at having been formerly despised, the rancour which she had so skilfully satisfied, her delight as a woman in having crushed a man who was credited with the highest abilities. And she allowed herself the pleasure of torturing him and abusing her victory. No doubt, said she, her husband wasn’t a very clever person. She confessed it freely, and even joked about it; meaning to convey that the first comer would have done equally as well, and that she could have made Merle a minister if the whim had seized her. Yes, indeed, the usher Merle, or any other imbecile that she might have come across. Any one would have done to succeed Rougon. All this went to prove the omnipotence of woman. Then she assumed a motherly, pro­tecting air, and began to lavish good advice.

‘You see, my friend, as I’ve often told you, you made a mistake in despising women. Women are not the fools you imagine them to be. It used to make me quite angry to hear you speak of us as though we were idiots, mere cumbersome paraphernalia, even mill-stones about your neck. Look at my husband now! Have I been a mill-stone to him, do you think? I have been looking forward to show you all this. I promised myself this satisfaction, as you may perhaps remember, on the day when we had a certain con­versation together. Now I hope I have convinced you. I willingly allow, my friend, that you are a very clever fellow; but be quite sure of this, that a woman can always topple you over if she chooses to take the trouble.’

Rougon had turned rather pale, still he smiled. ‘Yes; I dare say you are right,’ he said in a low voice, calling to mind all that had gone before.

He indulged in no recriminations. Clorinde had sucked some of his strength away from him to use it for his own over­throw; she had applied to his own ruin the lessons which she had learnt from him during those pleasant afternoons in the Rue Marbeuf. He was now drinking the cup of ingratitude and treason; but, man of experience that he was, he accepted it with all its bitterness. The only point which troubled him was whether he even now fully understood Clorinde. He thought of his former inquiries about her, his futile efforts to discover the secret workings of that majestic but erratic machine. Decidedly, he said to himself, the folly of man was great indeed. Clorinde had twice left him for a moment to serve other customers; and, now that she had had full satisfaction, she again resumed her stately perambulations amidst the tables, affecting to take no further notice of him. He watched her, however, and saw her approach a gentleman with an immense beard, a foreigner, whose lavish prodigality was at that time quite exciting Paris. He was just finishing a glass of Malaga. ‘How much, madame?’ he inquired, rising from his seat. ‘Five francs, monsieur. Everything is five francs a glass.’ He paid the money. ‘And a kiss, how much is that?’ he continued, in the same tone with his foreign accent.

‘A hundred thousand francs,’ answered Clorinde, without the slightest hesitation.

The foreigner sat down again, and wrote a few words on a page which he tore from a memorandum-book. Then he deposited a smacking kiss on Clorinde’s cheek, paid for it, and went off in the most phlegmatic manner possible. All the people in the café smiled, much amused by the incident.

‘It’s only a question of paying the price,’ murmured Clorinde, going up towards Rougon again.

He detected a fresh allusion in this remark. To him she had said ‘Never!’ And then, this man of chaste life, who had borne so bravely the stunning blow of his dismissal, began to feel keenly pained by the collar which Clorinde so impu­dently paraded. She stooped and swayed her neck as though to provoke him still further. The pearl tinkled in the golden bell; the chain hung low, still warm from the hands of the giver; and on the velvet flashed the diamond letters by which Rougon could easily read the secret known to everybody. And never before had he so keenly felt the bite of unconfessed jealousy, the burning envy which he had sometimes experi­enced in the presence of the all-powerful Emperor.

The young woman probably guessed the torment he was suffering, and it pleased her to inflict yet another pang upon him. She called his attention to Madame de Combelot, who was still selling her roses in the flower-stall. ‘Ah! that poor Madame de Combelot!’ she said, with a malicious laugh; ‘she is still waiting!’

However, Rougon finished his sugared water. He felt as though he were choking. ‘How much?’ he stammered, taking out his purse. ‘Five francs.’

When she had tossed the coin into the bag, Clorinde held out her hand again. ‘Aren’t you going to give anything to the waiter?’ she asked playfully.

Rougon’ felt in his pocket and brought out a couple of sous, which he dropped into her hand. This insult was the only vengeance which his parvenu boorishness could think of. In spite of her self-possession, Clorinde blushed. But she quickly resumed her goddess-like demeanour, and went off bowing and saying: ‘Thank you, your excellency.’