Complete Works of Emile Zola (646 page)

He leant on a walking-stick, which he used even in the house, and withdrew, walking painfully, the lower part of his back already succumbing to paralysis. Monsieur Josserand felt perplexed: he had not understood very clearly, he feared he had not spoken of the tickets with sufficient enthusiasm. But a slight hubbub coming from the drawing-room, attracted Trublot and Octave again to the door. They saw a lady of about fifty enter, very stout, and still handsome, followed by a young man, correctly attired, and with a serious air about him.

“What! they arrive together!” murmured Trublot. “Well! I never!”

The new-comers were Madame Dambreville and Léon Josserand. She had undertaken to find him a wife; then, whilst waiting, she had kept him for her own personal use; and they were now in their full honeymoon, attracting general attention in the middle-class drawing-rooms. There were whisperings amongst the mothers who had daughters to marry. But Madame Duveyrier was advancing to meet Madame Dambreville, who supplied her with young men for her choruses. Madame Josserand at once supplanted her, and overwhelmed her son’s friend with all sorts of attentions, reflecting that she might have need of her. Léon coldly exchanged a few words with his mother; yet, she was now beginning to think that he would after all be able to do something for himself.

“Berthe does not see you,” said she to Madame Dambreville. “Excuse her, she is telling Monsieur Auguste of some remedy.”

“But they are very well together, we must leave them alone,” replied the lady, understanding at a glance.

They both watched Berthe maternally. She had ended by pushing Auguste into the recess caused by the window, and was keeping him there with her pretty gestures. He was becoming animated, and running the risk of a bad headache.

Meanwhile, a group of grave men were talking politics in the parlour. There had been a stormy sitting of the Senate the day before, where they were discussing the address respecting the Roman question; and Doctor Juillerat, whose opinions were atheistical and revolutionary, was maintaining that Rome ought to be given to the king of Italy; whilst the Abbé Mauduit, one of the heads of the Ultramontane party prophesied the most awful catastrophes, if Frenchmen did not shed the last drop of their blood in supporting the temporal power of the pope.

“Perhaps some
modus vivendi
may be found which will prove acceptable to both parties,” observed Léon Josserand arriving.

He was just then the secretary of a celebrated barrister, one of the deputies of the left. During two years, having nothing to expect from his parents, whose mediocrity moreover exasperated him, he had frequented the students’ quarter in the guise of a ferocious demagogue. But, since his acquaintance with the Dambrevilles, at whose expense he was satisfying his first appetites, he was calming down, and drifting into the learned Republican.

“No, no agreement is possible,” said the priest. “The Church could not make terms.”

“Then, it shall vanish!” exclaimed the doctor.

And, though great friends, having met at the bedsides of all the departing souls of the Saint-Roch district, they seemed irreconcilable, the doctor thin and nervous, the priest fat and affable. The latter preserved a polite smile, even when making his most absolute statements, like a man of the world, tolerant for the shortcomings of existence, but also like a Catholic who did not intend to abandon any of his religious belief.

“The Church vanish, pooh!” said Campardon with a furious air, just to be well with the priest, from whom he was expecting a large order.

Besides, it was the opinion of almost all the gentlemen: it could not vanish. Théophile Vabre, who, coughing and spitting, and shaking with fever, dreamed of universal happiness through the organization of a humanitarian republic, alone maintained that, perhaps, it would be transformed.

The priest resumed in his gentle voice:

“The Empire is committing suicide. You will see it is so, next year, when the elections come on.”

“Oh! as for the Empire, we permit you to rid us of it,” said the doctor boldly. “You will be rendering us a precious service.”

Then, Duveyrier, who seemed listening profoundly, shook his head. He belonged to an Orleanist family; but he owed everything to the Empire and considered he ought to defend it.

“Believe me,” he at length declared severely, “do not shake the foundations of society, or everything will collapse. It is we, as sure as fate, who suffer from every catastrophe.”

“Very true!” observed Monsieur Josserand, who entertained no opinion, but remembered his wife’s instructions.

All spoke at once. None of them liked the Empire. Doctor Juillerat condemned the Mexican expedition, the Abbé Mauduit blamed the recognition of the kingdom of Italy. Yet, Théophile Vabre and even Léon felt anxious when Duveyrier threatened them with another ‘93. What was the use of those continual revolutions?
had not liberty been obtained? and the hatred of new ideas, the fear of the people wishing their share, calmed the liberalism of those satisfied middle-class men. They all declared, however, that they would vote against the Emperor, for he was in need of a lesson.

“Ah! how they bore me!” said Trublot, who had been trying to understand for some minutes past.

Octave persuaded him to return to the ladies. In the recess of the window, Berthe was deafening Auguste with her laughter. This big fellow, with his pale blood, was forgetting his fear of women, and was becoming quite red, beneath the attacks of the lovely girl, whose breath warmed his face. Madame Josserand, however, probably considered that the affair was dragging, for she looked fixedly at Hortense; and the latter obediently went and gave her sister her assistance.

“Are you quite recovered, madame?” Octave dared to ask Valérie.

“Quite, sir, thank you,” replied she coolly, as though she remembered nothing.

Madame Juzeur spoke to the young man about some old lace which she wished to show him, to have his opinion of it; and he had to promise to look in on her for a moment on the morrow. Then, as the Abbé Mauduit re-entered the drawing-room, she called him and made him sit beside her with an air of rapture.

The conversation had again resumed. The ladies were discussing their servants.

“Well! yes,” continued Madame Duveyrier, “I am satisfied with Clémence, she is a very clean and very active girl.”

“And your Hippolyte,” asked Madame Josserand, “had you not the intention of discharging him?
”

Just then, Hippolyte, the footman, was handing round some ices. When he had withdrawn, tall, strong, and with a florid complexion, Clotilde answered in an embarrassed way:

“We have decided to keep him. It is so unpleasant changing! You know, servants get used to one another, and I should not like to part with Clémence.”

Madame Josserand hastened to agree with her, feeling that they were on delicate ground. There was some hope of marrying the two together, some day; and the Abbé Mauduit, whom the Duveyriers’ had consulted in the matter, slowly wagged his head, as though to dissemble a state of affairs known to all the house, but of which no one ever spoke. All the ladies now opened their hearts: Valérie had sent another servant about her business that very morning, and that made three in a week; Madame Juzeur had decided to take a young girl of fifteen from the foundling hospital so as to teach her herself; as for Madame Josserand, her complaints of Adèle seemed never likely to cease, a slut, a good-for-nothing, whose goings-on were most extraordinary. And they all, feeling languid in the blaze of the candles and the perfume of the flowers, sank deeper into these ante-room stories, wading through greasy account-books, and taking a delight in relating the insolence of a coachman or of a scullery-maid.

“Have you seen Julie?” abruptly asked Trublot of Octave, in a mysterious tone of voice.

And, as the other looked at him in amazement, he added:

“My dear fellow, she is stunning. Go and see her. Just pretend you want to go somewhere, and then slip into the kitchen. She is stunning!”

He was speaking of the Duveyriers’ cook. The ladies’ conversation was taking a turn: Madame Josserand was describing, with overflowing admiration, a very modest estate which the Duveyriers had near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and which she had merely caught a glimpse of from the train, one day when she was going to Fontainebleau. But Clotilde did not like the country, she lived there as little as possible, merely during the holidays of her son, Gustave, who was then studying rhetoric at the Lycée Bonaparte.

“Caroline is right in not wishing to have any children,” declared she, turning towards Madame Hédouin, seated two chairs away from her. “The little things interfere with all your habits!”

Madame Hédouin said that she liked them a good deal. But she was much too busy; her husband was constantly away, and she had everything to look after.

Octave, standing up behind her chair, searched with a side glance the little curly hairs, as black as ink, on the nape of her neck, and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which — her dress being open very low — disappeared in a mass of lace. She ended by completely confusing him, as she sat there so calm, speaking but rarely and with a continuous smile on her handsome face; he had never before seen so superb a creature, even at Marseilles. Decidedly, it was worth trying, though it would be a long task.

“Having children robs women of their good looks so quickly!” said he in her ear, leaning over, feeling an absolute necessity to speak to her, and yet finding nothing else to say.

She slowly raised her large eyes, and then replied with the simple air with which she would give him an order at the warehouse.

“Oh! no, Monsieur Octave; with me it is not for that. One must have the time, that is all.”

But Madame Duveyrier intervened. She had merely greeted the young man with a slight bow, when Campardon had introduced him to her; and now she was examining him, and listening to him, without seeking to hide a sudden interest. When she heard him conversing with her friend, she could not help asking:

“Pray, excuse me, sir. What voice have you?”

He did not understand immediately; but he ended by saying that his was a tenor voice. Then, Clotilde became quite enthusiastic: a tenor voice, really! what a piece of luck, tenor voices were becoming so rare! For instance, for the “Blessing of the Daggers,” which they were going to sing by-and-by, she had never been able to find more than three tenors among her acquaintances, when at least five were required. And, suddenly excited, her eyes sparkling, she had to restrain herself from going at once to the piano to try his voice. He was obliged to promise to come one evening for the purpose. Trublot, who was behind him, kept nudging him with his elbow, ferociously enjoying himself in his impassibility.

“Ah! so you are in for it too!” murmured he, when she had moved away. “For myself, my dear fellow, she first of all thought I had a barytone voice; then, seeing that I did not get on all right, she tried me as a tenor; but as I went no better, she has decided to use me to-night as bass. I am one of the monks.”

But he had to leave Octave as Madame Duveyrier was just then calling him; they were about to sing the chorus, the great piece of the evening. There was quite a commotion. Some fifteen men, all amateurs, and all recruited among the guests of the house, painfully opened a passage for themselves through the groups of ladies, to form in front of the piano. They were constantly brought to a standstill, and asked to be excused, in voices drowned by the hum of conversations, whilst the fans were moved more rapidly in the increasing heat. At length, Madame Duveyrier counted them; they were all there, and she distributed them their parts, which she had copied out herself. Campardon took the part of Saint-Bris; a young auditor attached to the Council of State was intrusted with De Nevers’s few bars; then came eight nobles, four aldermen, and three monks, represented by barristers, clerks, and simple householders. She, who accompanied, had also reserved herself the part of Valentine, passionate cries which she uttered whilst striking chords; for she would have no lady amongst the gentlemen, the resigned troop of whom she directed with all the severity of a conductor of an orchestra.

The conversations continued, an intolerable noise issued from the parlour especially, where the political discussions were evidently entering on a disagreeable phase. Then Clotilde, taking a key from her pocket, tapped gently with it on the piano. A murmur ran through the room, the voices dropped, two streams of black coats again flowed to the doors; and, looking over the heads, one beheld for a moment Duveyrier’s red spotted face wearing an agonised expression. Octave had remained standing behind Madame Hédouin, the glances from his lowered eyes losing themselves in the shadows of her bosom, in the depths of the lace. But when the silence was almost complete, there was a burst of laughter, and he raised his head. It was Berthe, who was amused at some joke of Auguste’s; she had heated his poor blood to such a point that he was becoming quite jovial. Every person in the drawing-room looked at them, mothers became grave, members of the family exchanged a glance.

“She has such spirits!” murmured Madame Josserand tenderly, in such a way as to be heard.

Hortense, close to her sister, was assisting her with complaisant abnegation, joining in her laughter, and pushing her up against the young man; whilst the breeze which entered through the partly open window behind them gently swelled the big crimson silk curtains.

But a sepulchral voice resounded, all the heads turned towards the piano. Campardon, his mouth wide open, his beard spread out in a lyrical blast, was giving the first line:

“Yes, we are here assembled by the queen’s command.”

Clotilde at once ran up a scale and down again; then, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, a look of fright on her face, she uttered the cry:

“I tremble!”

And the whole thing followed, the eight barristers, clerks and householders, their noses on their parts, in the postures of schoolboys humming and hawing over a page of Greek, swore that they were ready to deliver France. This opening was a surprise, for the voices were stifled beneath the low ceiling, one was unable to catch more than a sort of hum, like a noise of passing carts full of paving stones causing the windows to rattle. But when Saint-Bris’s melodious line: “For this holy cause — “ unrolled the principal theme, some of the ladies recognised it and nodded their heads knowingly. All were warming to the work, the nobles shouted out at random: “We swear it! — We will follow you!” and, each time, it was like an explosion which caught the guests full in the chest.