Complete Works of Emile Zola (457 page)

Rougon did not dare to rise immediately. His legs felt nerveless, he was afraid of tottering, and desired to go away as he had come, with a firm gait and calm expression. He particularly disliked having to pass his old friends and associates, whose straining ears and staring eyes had not lost a point of what had taken place. So for a few moments longer he let his glance wander over the room, feigning perfect indifference. He was thinking over what had happened. Another act of his political life had come to a conclusion. He had fallen, undermined, eaten away and ruined by his band. His heavy shoulders had collapsed beneath the weight of the responsibilities he had assumed, the acts of folly and injustice which he had perpetrated entirely on their account in his braggart craving to be a feared and generous chief. And his mighty muscles only made his fall the more ignominious. The very conditions on which he had held power: the neces­sity of having behind him a crowd of greedy appetites whose longings he must satisfy, of maintaining himself in his position by dint of abusing his credit, had made his fall merely a question of time. And he now recalled the slow efforts of his band, whose sharp teeth had day by day nibbled away some of his authority. They had thronged around him, hung on to his knees, then to his breast, then to his throat, and finally they had choked him. They had availed themselves of him in every way. They had used his feet to climb with, his hands to plunder with, his jaws to devour with. They had, so to say, used his body as their own, used it for their personal gratification, indulging in every fancy without a thought of the morrow. And now, having drained his body, and hearing its frame-work crack, they abandoned him like rats, whom instinct warns of the approaching collapse of a house, the foundations of which they have undermined. They were all sleek and flourishing, and they were already battening upon some one else. M. Kahn had just sold his railway line from Niort to Angers to M. de Marsy. In another week the colonel would be gazetted to an appointment in the imperial palaces. M. Bouchard had received a formal promise that his
protégé,
the interesting Georges Duchesne, should be appointed assistant head clerk as soon as Delestang entered upon his duties at the Ministry of the Interior. Madame Correur was rejoicing over a serious illness which had fallen on Madame Martineau, and already pictured herself residing in her house at Coulonges, where she would live comfortably, and play the part of a lady bountiful. M. Béjuin, on his side, was certain of the Emperor visiting his cut-glass works towards the autumn; and, lastly, M. d’Escorailles, after being seriously lectured by his parents, was rendering homage to Clorinde and winning a sub-prefecture merely by the look of admiration with which he watched her carrying glasses about the refreshment room. And Rougon, as he glanced at his glutted band, felt as though he had grown smaller, whereas they had attained to huge proportions, and were crushing him beneath their weight. And he did not dare to rise from his seat, for fear lest he should see them smile if he happened to totter.

By degrees, however, he grew more collected and then he at last stood up. And he was pushing the little zinc table aside to give himself room to pass, when Delestang entered the refreshment room on Count de Marsy’s arm. There was a very curious story in circulation about the latter. If certain whisperings were to be believed, he had gone to Fontainebleau the previous week, while Clorinde was there, solely to facilitate the young woman’s assignations with the Emperor, by enter­taining and amusing the Empress, so as to divert her attention. To most people this seemed merely a piquant incident; but Rougon fancied he could detect in it a piece of revenge on the part of the Count, who had leagued himself with Clorinde to bring about his fall, thus turning against him the very weapons which had been successfully employed against himself some time previously at Compiègne. At all events, the Count, since his return from Fontainebleau, had kept perpetually in Delestang’s company.

M. Kahn, M. Béjuin, the colonel, indeed the whole coterie, received the new minister with open arms. His appointment would not be officially notified in the
Moniteur
till the following morning, when it would appear beneath the announcement of Rougon’s resignation, but the decree was signed, and so they were at liberty to triumph. They greeted him with much vigorous handshaking, grinning, and whispered congratulation; indeed the presence of the crowd alone kept their enthusiasm within bounds. It was a gradual assump­tion of possession on the part of intimates, who kiss one’s hands and one’s feet before making one’s entire body their prey. They already considered that Delestang belonged to them. One of them was holding him by the right arm, another by the left; a third had grasped one of the buttons of his coat, while a fourth, standing behind him, craned forward and breathed words of praise to the nape of his neck. Delestang, on his side, held his handsome head erect with affable dignity, preserving the stately yet imbecile de­meanour of some monarch on his travels, such as one sees in official prints, receiving bouquets from the ladies of petty towns. Rougon looked at the group, very pale and stung to the quick by this triumph of mediocrity, and yet he could not restrain a smile. He remembered.

‘I always predicted that Delestang would go a long way,’ he said with a subtle expression to Count de Marsy, who had stepped up to him with outstretched hand.

The Count replied by a slight pout instinct with delicate irony. He had doubtless had much amusement since he had struck up a friendship with Delestang after rendering certain services to his wife. He detained Rougon for a moment, evincing the most refined politeness. Constant rivals as they were, antagonists by reason of their very temperaments, these two skilful men saluted each other at the termination of each of their duels, like enemies of equal strength who looked forward to an endless succession of return combats. Rougon had previously wounded Marsy; Marsy had now wounded Rougon; and so it would go on until one or other of them should be left dead on the field. It is possible that neither would have cared to see the other absolutely ruined, for their rivalry was at once a source of amusement and occupation. And, moreover, they vaguely felt that they were counterpoises necessary for the equilibrium of the Empire; one the shaggy fist which killed by a knock-down blow, the other the slender gloved hand which clutched the throat and strangled.

However, Delestang was a prey to painful embarrassment. He had seen Rougon, but he did not know whether he ought to step up and shake hands with him. In his perplexity, he glanced at Clorinde, who seemed absorbed in her duties and indifferent to everything else. She was now hurrying about the room with sandwiches and pastry. However, her husband thought he could gather instruction from a glance she cast at him, so he at last advanced towards Rougon, nervous and seeking to justify himself.

‘I hope, my dear friend, that you don’t bear me any ill will,’ he said. ‘I refused at first, but they forced me to accept. There are demands, you know — ‘

But Rougon interrupted him. The Emperor had acted in his wisdom, and the country would find itself in excellent hands.

At this Delestang took courage. ‘I said all I could in your defence,’ he continued. ‘We all did. But really, between ourselves, you had gone a little too far. The greatest grievance against you was what you did in connec­tion with the Charbonnel affair; the matter of those poor Sisters, you know — ‘

M. de Marsy restrained a smile.

‘Oh, yes, the perquisition at the convent,’ replied Rougon, with all the good humour of his successful days. ‘Well, really, among the various acts of folly which my friends led me to commit, that was perhaps the only sensible and just act of my five months of power.’

He was already going off, when he noticed Du Poizat come in and seize hold of Delestang. The prefect pretended not to see him. For the last three days he had been hiding in Paris and waiting. And apparently he was now successful in his request to be transferred to another prefecture, for he began to express the most profuse thanks with a wolfish smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. Then, on the new minister turning round, Merle, whom Madame Correur had just pushed forward, almost fell into his arms. The usher kept his eyes lowered, like a big bashful girl, while Madame Correur spoke warmly in his favour.

‘He is not a favourite in the office,’ she murmured, ‘because he protested by his silence against abuses of authority; and he saw some very strange ones under Mon­sieur Rougon!’

‘Yes, yes; very strange ones indeed,’ added Merle. ‘I could tell a long story about them. Monsieur Rougon won’t be much regretted. I’ve no reason to love him myself. It was all through him that I was nearly turned adrift.’

Rougon heard none of this; he was already slowly passing down the great hall, where the stalls were now quite denuded of their wares. To please the Empress, who was the patroness of the charity, the visitors had carried everything away; and the delighted stall-holders were talking of opening again in the evening with a fresh supply of goods. They counted up the money they had taken, and different sums were shouted out amidst peals of triumphant laughter. One lady had taken three thousand francs, another seven thousand, and another ten thousand. The last was radiant with delight at having made so much money.

Madame de Combelot, however, was in despair. She had just disposed of her last rose, and yet customers were still thronging round her kiosk. She stepped out of it to ask Madame Bouchard if she could not give her something to sell, no matter what. But the latter’s lucky-wheel had likewise disposed of everything. A lady had just carried off the last prize, a doll’s washing-basin. However, they obstinately hunted about, and at last found a bundle of tooth-picks, which had fallen on the ground. Madame de Combelot carried it off with a shout of triumph. Madame Bouchard followed her, and they both mounted into the kiosk.

‘Gentlemen! gentlemen!’ cried Madame de Combelot boldly, standing up, and collecting the men together with a beckoning sweep of her bare arm. ‘This is all that we have left, a bundle of tooth-picks. There are twenty-five of them. I shall put them up to auction.’

The men jostled one another, laughing, and waving their gloved hands in the air. Madame de Combelot’s idea was hailed with great enthusiasm.

‘A tooth-pick!’ she now cried. ‘We’ll start it at five francs. Now, gentlemen, five francs!’

‘Ten francs!’ said a voice.

‘Twelve francs!’

‘Fifteen francs!’

However, on M. d’Escorailles suddenly going up to a bid of twenty-five francs, Madame Bouchard quickly called out in her fluty voice: ‘Sold for twenty-five francs!’

The other tooth-picks fetched still higher prices. M. La Rouquette paid forty-three francs for the one that was knocked down to him. Chevalier Rusconi, who had just made his appearance, bid as much as seventy-two francs for another one. And eventually the very last, a very small one, which was split, as Madame Combelot kindly announced, not wishing to impose upon her audience, was knocked down for a hundred and seventeen francs to an old gentleman whose eyes glistened at the sight of the young woman’s heaving bosom, as she vigorously plied the calling of auctioneer.

‘It is split, gentlemen, but it is still a serviceable article. We’ve got to a hundred and eight francs for it. A hundred and ten are bid over there! a hundred and eleven! a hundred and twelve! a hundred and thirteen! a hundred and fourteen! Come, a hundred and fourteen! It’s worth more than that, gentlemen! A hundred and seventeen! A hundred and seventeen! Won’t any one bid any more? Sold, then, for a hundred and seventeen francs!’

Pursued by these figures, Rougon left the hall. He slackened his steps when he reached the terrace overlooking the river. Stormy-looking clouds were rising in the distance. Below him, the Seine, greasy and dirty green, flowed slug­gishly past the pale quays, along which the dust was sweep­ing. In the Tuileries gardens, puffs of hot air shook the trees, whose branches fell languidly, lifelessly, without a quiver of their leaves. Rougon took his way beneath the tall chest­nuts. It was almost quite dark there, and the atmosphere was damp and clammy like that of a vault. As he emerged into the main avenue, he saw the Charbonnels sitting on a bench. They were quite transformed, magnificent. The husband wore light-coloured trousers and a frock-coat fitting tightly at the waist, while his wife sported a light mantle over a robe of lilac silk, and her bonnet was ornamented with red flowers. Astride one end of the bench, however, there was a ragged, shirtless fellow, wearing a wretched old shooting-jacket. He was gesticulating energetically, and gradually drawing-nearer to the Charbonnels. It was Gilquin. Administering frequent slaps to his canvas cap, which kept on slipping off his head, he exclaimed: ‘They’re a parcel of scoundrels. Has Théodore ever tried to cheat any one out of a single copper? They invented a fine story about a military sub­stitute in order to ruin me. Then, of course, as you can understand, I left them to get on as they could without me. Ah! they are afraid of me! They know very well what my political opinions are. I have never belonged to Badinguet’s gang. I only regret one person down there,’ he continued in a lower tone, leaning forward and rolling his eyes sentimen­tally. ‘Ah! such an adorable woman, a lady of society! She was fair, I had some of her hair given me.’ Then, edging himself up to Madame Charbonnel, he broke into a loud voice again, and tapped her on the knee. ‘Well, old lady, when are you going to take me with you to Plassans to taste those preserves of yours — the apples and the cherries and the jam? You’ve got your nest pretty well lined now, eh?’

But the Charbonnels seemed to be much annoyed by Gilquin’s familiarity. ‘We are stopping in Paris for some time,’ replied Madame Charbonnel, stiffly, while gathering up her lilac silk dress. ‘We shall probably spend six months here every year.’

‘Ah, yes,’ added her husband with an air of profound admiration, ‘Paris is the only place!’ Then as the gusts of wind became stronger, and a troop of nurses with children passed hastily through the garden, he resumed, turning to his wife, ‘We had better be getting home my dear, if we don’t want to be soaked through. Fortunately, we have only a step or two to take.’