But the old lady gave him no time to import any fresh unpleasantness

into the conversation, for she began to question Marthe affectionately

about all sorts of trifles, playing the part of a fond grandmother and

scolding Mouret for not sending the dear children to see her oftener,

for she was always so delighted to have them with her, said she.

'Well, here we are in October again,' she remarked carelessly, after

awhile, 'and I shall be having my day again, Thursdays, as in former

seasons. I shall count upon seeing you, my dear Marthe, of course; and

you too, Mouret, you will look in occasionally, won't you, and not go

on sulking with us for ever?'

Mouret, who was growing a little suspicious of all his mother-in-law's

affectionate chatter, was at a loss how to reply. He had not expected

such a thrust, but there was nothing in it to which he could take

exception; so he merely said:

'You know very well that I can't go to your house; you receive a lot

of people who would be delighted to have an opportunity of making

themselves disagreeable to me. And, besides, I don't want to mix myself

up with politics.'

'You are quite mistaken, Mouret, quite mistaken!' Félicité replied.

'My drawing-room is not a club; I would never allow it to become one.

All the town knows that I do all I can to make my house as pleasant

as possible; and if political matters ever are discussed there, it is

only in corners, I assure you. Ah! believe me, I had quite enough of

politics long ago. What makes you say such a thing?'

'Why, you receive all the Sub-Prefecture set,' Mouret said shortly.

'The Sub-Prefecture set!' she repeated, 'the Sub-Prefecture set!

Certainly I receive those gentlemen. But I don't think that Monsieur

Péqueur des Saulaies will be found very often in my house this winter.

My husband has told him pretty plainly what he thought of his conduct

in connection with the last elections. He allowed himself to be tricked

like a mere nincompoop. But his friends are very pleasant men. Monsieur

Delangre and Monsieur de Condamin are extremely amiable, and that

worthy Paloque is kindness itself, while I'm sure you can have nothing

to say against Doctor Porquier.'

Mouret shrugged his shoulders.

'Besides,' she continued, with ironic emphasis, 'I also receive

Monsieur Rastoil's circle, worthy Monsieur Maffre and our clever

friend Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect. So you see we are

not at all bigoted or exclusive, the representatives of all opinions

find a welcome among us. Of course when I am inviting a party of

people, I don't ask those to meet each other who would be likely to

quarrel. But wit and cleverness are welcome in whomsoever they are

found, and we pride ourselves upon having at our gatherings all the

most distinguished persons in Plassans. My drawing-room is neutral

ground, remember that, Mouret; yes, neutral ground that is the right

expression.'

She had grown quite animated whilst talking. Her drawing-room was her

great glory, and it was her desire to reign there, not as a chief of

a party, but as a queen of society. It is true that her friends said

that she was adopting conciliatory tactics merely in conformity with

the advice of her son Eugène, the minister,[5] who had charged her to

personify at Plassans the gentleness and amiability of the Empire.

'You may say what you like,' Mouret growled, 'but that Maffre of yours

is a bigot, and your Bourdeu is a fool, and most of all the others are

a pack of rascals. That's my opinion of them. I am much obliged to you

for your invitation, but it would disturb my habits too much to accept

it. I like to go to bed in good time, and I prefer stopping at home.'

Félicité rose from her seat, and turning her back upon Mouret, she said

to her daughter:

'Well, at any rate I may expect you, mayn't I, my dear?'

'Of course you may,' replied Marthe, who wished to soften the bluntness

of her husband's blunt refusal.

The old lady was just going to leave, when a thought seemed to strike

her, and she asked if she might kiss Désirée, whom she had seen playing

in the garden. She would not let them call the girl into the house,

but insisted on going herself to the terrace, which was still damp

from a slight shower which had fallen in the morning. When she found

Désirée, she was profuse in her caresses of the girl, who seemed rather

frightened of her. Then she raised her head as if by chance and looked

at the curtains at the second-floor windows.

'Ah! you have let the rooms, then? Oh, yes! I remember now; to a

priest, isn't it? I've heard it spoken of. What sort of a person is he,

this priest of yours?'

Mouret looked at her keenly. A sudden suspicion flashed through his

mind, and he began to guess that it was entirely on account of Abbé

Faujas that his mother-in-law had favoured them with this visit.

'Upon my word,' he replied, without taking his eyes off her, 'I really

know nothing about him. But perhaps you are able to give me some

information concerning him yourself?'

'I!' she cried, with an appearance of great surprise. 'Why, I've

never even seen him! Stay, though, I know he is one of the curates

at Saint-Saturnin; Father Bourrette told me that. By the way, that

reminds me that I ought to ask him to my Thursdays. The director of the

seminary and the bishop's secretary are already amongst my circle of

visitors.'

And, turning to Marthe, she added:

'When you see your lodger you might sound him, so as to be able to tell

me whether an invitation from me would be acceptable.'

'We scarcely ever see him,' Mouret hastily interposed. 'He comes in and

goes out without ever opening his mouth. And, besides, it is really no

business of ours.'

He still kept his eyes fixed suspiciously upon her. He felt quite sure

that she knew much more about Abbé Faujas than she was willing to

admit. However, she did not once flinch beneath his searching gaze.

'Very well, it's all the same to me,' she said, with an appearance of

unconcern. 'I shall be able to find out some other way of inviting him,

if he's the right sort of person, I've no doubt. Good-bye, my children.'

As she was mounting the steps again, a tall old man appeared on the

hall threshold. He was dressed very neatly in blue cloth, and had a fur

cap pressed over his eyes. In his hand he carried a whip.

'Hallo! why there's Uncle Macquart!' cried Mouret, casting a curious

glance at his mother-in-law.

An expression of extreme annoyance passed over Félicité's face.

Macquart, Rougon's illegitimate brother, had, by the latter's aid,

returned to France after he had compromised himself in the rising of

1851. Since arriving from Piedmont he had been leading the life of

a sleek and well-to-do citizen. He had purchased, though where the

money had come from no one knew, a small house at the village of Les

Tulettes, about three leagues from Plassans. And by degrees he had

fitted up an establishment there, and had now even become possessed

of a horse and trap, and was constantly to be met on the high roads,

smoking his pipe, enjoying the sunshine, and sniggering like a tamed

wolf. Rougon's enemies whispered that the two brothers had perpetrated

some black business together, and that Pierre Rougon was keeping

Antoine Macquart.

'Good day, Uncle!' said Mouret affectedly; 'have you come to pay us a

little visit?'

'Yes, indeed,' Macquart replied, in a voice as guileless as a child's.

'You know that whenever I come to Plassans----Hallo, Félicité! I didn't

expect to find you here! I came over to see Rougon. There was something

I wanted to talk to him about.'

'He was at home, wasn't he?' she exclaimed with uneasy haste.

'Yes, he was at home,' Uncle Macquart replied tranquilly. 'I saw him,

and we had a talk together. He is a good fellow, is Rougon.'

He laughed slightly, and while Félicité stamped her feet with restless

anxiety, he went on talking in his drawling voice, which made it seem

as if he was always laughing at those whom he addressed.

'Mouret, my boy, I have brought you a couple of rabbits,' he said.

'They are in a basket over there. I have given them to Rose. I brought

another couple with me for Rougon. You will find them at home,

Félicité, and you must tell me how they turn out. They are beautifully

plump; I fattened them up for you. Ah, my dears! it pleases me very

much to be able to make you these little presents.'

Félicité turned quite pale, and pressed her lips tightly, while Mouret

continued to look at her with a quiet smile. She would have been glad

to get away, if she had not been afraid of Macquart gossiping as soon

as her back should be turned.

'Thank you, Uncle,' said Mouret. 'The plums that you brought us the

last time you came were very good. Won't you have something to drink?'

'Well, that's an offer I really can't refuse.'

When Rose had brought him out a glass of wine, he sat down on the

balustrade of the terrace and slowly sipped the beverage, smacking his

tongue and holding up the glass to the light.

'This comes from the district of Saint-Eutrope,' he said. 'I'm not to

be deceived in matters of this kind. I know the different districts

thoroughly.'

He wagged his head and again sniggered.

Then Mouret, with an intonation that was full of meaning, suddenly

asked him:

'And how are things getting on at Les Tulettes?'

Macquart raised his eyes and looked at them all. Then giving a final

cluck of his tongue and putting down the glass on the stone-work by his

side, he said, quite unconcernedly:

'Oh! very well. I heard of her the day before yesterday. She is still

just the same.'

Félicité had turned her head away. For a moment no one spoke. Mouret

had just put his finger upon one of the family's sore places, by

alluding to old Adelaide, the mother of Rougon and Macquart, who for

several years now had been shut up as a mad woman in the asylum at Les

Tulettes. Macquart's little property was near the mad-house, and it

seemed as though Rougon had posted the old scamp there to keep watch

over their mother.

'It is getting late,' Macquart said at last, rising from his seat on

the balustrade, 'and I want to get back again before night. I shall

expect to see you over at my house one of these days, Mouret, my boy.

You have promised me several times to come, you know.'

'Oh, yes! I'll come, Uncle, I'll come.'

'Ah! but that isn't enough. I want you all to come; all of you, do you

hear? I am very dull out there all by myself. I will give you some

dinner.'

Then, turning to Félicité, he added:

'Tell Rougon that I shall expect him and you, too. You needn't stop

from coming just because the old mother happens to be near there. She

is going on very well, I tell you, and is properly looked after. You

may safely trust yourselves to me, and I will give you some wine from

one of the slopes of La Seille, a light wine that will warm you up

famously.'

He began to walk towards the gate as he spoke. Félicité followed

him so closely that it almost seemed as if she were pushing him out

of the garden. They all accompanied him to the street. While he was

untethering his horse, which he had fastened by the reins to one of

the house shutters, Abbé Faujas, who was just returning home, passed

the group with a slight bow. He glided on as noiselessly as a black

shadow, but Félicité quickly turned and watched him till he reached the

staircase. Unfortunately she had not had time to catch sight of his

face. Macquart on perceiving the priest had shaken his head in utter

surprise.

'What! my boy,' said he, 'have you really got priests lodging with you

now? That man has very strange eyes. Take care! take care! cassocks

bring ill luck with them!'

Then he took his seat in his trap and clucked his horse on, going

down the Rue Balande at a gentle trot. His round back and fur cap

disappeared at the corner of the Rue Taravelle. As Mouret turned round

again, he heard his mother-in-law speaking to Marthe.

'I would rather you do it,' she was saying; 'the invitation would seem

less formal. I should be very glad if you could find some opportunity

of speaking to him.'

She checked herself when she saw that she was overheard; and having

kissed Désirée effusively, she went away, giving a last look round to

make quite sure that Macquart was not likely to come back to gossip

about her.

'I forbid you to mix yourself up in your mother's affairs, you know,'

Mouret said to his wife as they returned into the house. 'She has

always got some business or other on hand that no body can understand.

What in the world can she want with the Abbé? She wouldn't invite him

for his own sake, I'm sure. She must have some secret reason for doing

so. That priest hasn't come from Besançon to Plassans for nothing.

There is some mystery or other at the bottom of it all!'

Marthe had again set to work at the everlasting repairs of the

family-linen which kept her busy for days together. But her husband

went on chattering:

'Old Macquart and your mother amuse me very much. How they hate

each other! Did you notice how angry she was when she saw him come?

She always seems to be in a state of fear lest he should make some

unpleasant revelation----I dare say that he'd willingly do so. But

they'll never catch me in his house. I've sworn to keep clear of all

that business. My father was quite right when he said that my mother's

family, those Rougons and Macquarts, were not worth a rope to hang

them with----They are my relations as well as yours, so you needn't

feel hurt at what I am saying. I say it because it is true. They are

wealthy people now, but their money hasn't made them any better--rather

the contrary.'

Then he set off to take a turn along the Cours Sauvaire, where he met

his friends and talked to them about the weather and the crops and the

events of the previous day. An extensive transaction in almonds, which

he undertook on the morrow, kept him busy for more than a week and made

him almost forget all about Abbé Faujas. He was beginning, besides,

to feel a little weary of the Abbé, who did not talk enough and was

far too secretive. On two separate occasions he purposely avoided him,

imagining that the priest only wanted to see him in order to make him

relate the stories of the remainder of the Sub-Prefecture circle and

Monsieur Rastoil's friends. Rose had informed him that Madame Faujas

had tried to get her to talk, and this had made him vow that he would

in future keep his mouth shut. This resolve furnished fresh amusement

for his idle hours, and now, as he looked up at the closely drawn

curtains of the second-floor windows, he would mutter:

'All right, my good fellow! Hide yourself as much as you like! I know

very well that you're watching me from behind those curtains, but you

won't be much the wiser for your trouble, and you'll find yourself much

mistaken if you expect to get any more information out of me about our

neighbours!'

He derived great pleasure from the thought that the Abbé Faujas was

secretly watching, and he took every precaution to avoid falling into

any trap that might be laid for him. One evening as he was coming

home he saw Abbé Bourrette and Abbé Faujas standing before Monsieur

Rastoil's gate. So he concealed himself behind the corner of a house

and spied on them. The two priests kept him waiting there for more

than a quarter of an hour. They talked with great animation, parted

for a moment, and then joined each other again, and resumed their

conversation. Mouret thought he could detect that Abbé Bourrette was

trying to persuade Abbé Faujas to accompany him to the judge's; and

that Faujas was making excuses for not going, and at last refusing to

do so with some show of impatience. It was a Tuesday, the day of the

weekly dinner. Finally Bourrette entered Monsieur Rastoil's house, and

Faujas went off in his quiet fashion to his own rooms. Mouret stood for

awhile thinking. What could be Abbé Faujas's reason for refusing to go

to Monsieur Rastoil's? All the clergy of Saint-Saturnin's dined there,

Abbé Fenil, Abbé Surin, and all the others. There was not a single

priest in Plassans who had not enjoyed the fresh air by the fountain

in the garden there. The new curate's refusal to go seemed a very

extraordinary thing.

When Mouret got home again, he hurried to the bottom of his own garden

to reconnoitre the second-floor windows. And after a moment or two he

saw the curtain of the second window move to the right. He felt quite

sure that Abbé Faujas was behind it, spying upon what might be going on

at Monsieur Rastoil's. Then Mouret thought that he could discover by

certain movements of the curtain that the Abbé was in turn inspecting

the gardens of the Sub-Prefecture.

The next day, a Wednesday, Rose told him just as he was going out that

Abbé Bourrette had been with the second-floor people for at least an

hour. Upon this he came back into the house and began to rummage about

in the dining-room. When Marthe asked him what he was looking for, he

replied sharply that he was trying to find a paper without which he

could not go out. He even went upstairs, as if to see whether he had

left it there. After waiting for a long time behind his bedroom door,

he thought he could hear some chairs moving on the second floor, and

thereupon he slowly went downstairs, stopping for a moment or two in

the hall to give Abbé Bourrette time to catch him up.

'Ah! is that you, Monsieur l'Abbé? This is a fortunate meeting! You are

going to Saint-Saturnin's, I suppose, and I am going that way too. We

will keep each other company, if you have no objection.'

Abbé Bourrette replied that he would be delighted, and they both walked

slowly up the Rue Balande towards the Place of the Sub-Prefecture. The

Abbé was a stout man, with an honest, open face, and big, child-like

blue eyes. His wide silk girdle which was drawn tightly round him threw

his well-rounded stomach into relief. His arms were unduly short and

his legs heavy and clumsy, and he walked with his head thrown slightly

back.

'So you've just been to see our good Monsieur Faujas?' said Mouret,

going to the point at once. 'I must really thank you for having

procured me such a lodger as is rarely to be found.'

'Yes, yes,' said the priest, 'he is a very good and worthy man.'

'He never makes the slightest noise, and we can't really tell that

there is anyone in the house. And he is so polite and courteous,

too. I've heard it said, do you know, that he is a man of unusual

attainments, and that he has been sent here as a sort of compliment to

the diocese.'

They had now reached the middle of the Place of the Sub-Prefecture.

Mouret stopped short and looked at Abbé Bourrette keenly.

'Ah, indeed!' the priest merely replied, with an air of astonishment.

'So I've been told. The Bishop, it is said, intends to do something for

him later on. In the meantime, the new curate has to keep himself in

the background for fear of exciting jealousy.'

Abbé Bourrette went on walking again, and turned the corner of the Rue

de la Banne.

'You surprise me very much,' he quietly remarked. 'Faujas is a very

unassuming man; in fact, he is far too humble. For instance, at the

church he has taken upon himself the petty duties which are generally

left to the ordinary staff. He is a saint, but he is not very sharp. I

scarcely ever see him at the Bishop's, and from the first he has always

been very cold with Abbé Fenil, though I strongly impressed upon him

that it was necessary he should be on good terms with the Grand-Vicar

if he wished to be well received at the Bishop's. But he didn't seem to

see it, and I'm afraid that he's deficient in judgment. He shows the

same failing, too, by his continual visits to Abbé Compan, who has been

confined to his bed for the last fortnight, and whom I'm afraid we are

going to lose. Abbé Faujas's visits are most ill-advised, and will do

him a deal of harm. Compan has always been on bad terms with Fenil, and

it's only a stranger from Besançon who could be ignorant of a fact that

is known to the whole diocese.'

Bourrette was growing animated, and in his turn he stopped short as

they reached the Rue Canquoin and took his stand in front of Mouret.

'No, no, my dear sir,' he said, 'you have been misinformed: Faujas is

as simple as a new-born babe. I'm not an ambitious man myself, and

God knows how fond I am of Compan, who has a heart of gold, but, all

the same, I keep my visits to him private. He said to me himself:

"Bourrette, my old friend, I am not much longer for this world. If you

want to succeed me, don't be seen too often knocking at my door. Come

after dark and knock three times, and my sister will let you in." So

now, you understand, I wait till night before I go to see him. One has

plenty of troubles as it is, without incurring unnecessary ones!'

His voice quavered, and he clasped his hands across his stomach as he

resumed his walk, moved by a naïve egotism which made him commiserate

himself, while he murmured:

'Poor Compan! poor Compan!'

Mouret was feeling quite perplexed. All his theories about Abbé Faujas

were being upset.

'I had such very precise details furnished to me,' he ventured to say.

'I was told that he was to be promoted to some important office.'

'Oh dear, no!' cried the priest. 'I can assure you that there is no

truth in anything of the kind. Faujas has no expectations of any sort.

I'll tell you something that proves it. You know that I dine at the

Presiding Judge's every Tuesday. Well, last week he particularly asked

me to bring Faujas with me. He wanted to see him, and find out what

sort of a person he was, I suppose. Now, you would scarcely guess what

Faujas did. He refused the invitation, my dear sir, bluntly refused

it. It was all to no purpose that I told him he would make his life at

Plassans quite intolerable, and would certainly embroil himself with

Fenil by acting so rudely to Monsieur Rastoil. He persisted in having

his own way, and wouldn't be persuaded by anything that I said. I

believe that he even exclaimed, in a moment of anger, that he wasn't

reduced to accepting dinners of that kind.'

Abbé Bourrette began to smile. They had now reached Saint-Saturnin's,

and he detained Mouret for a moment near the little side door of the

church.

'He is a child, a big child,' he continued. 'I ask you, now, could a

dinner at Monsieur Rastoil's possibly compromise him in any way? When

your mother-in-law, that good Madame Rougon, entrusted me yesterday

with an invitation for Faujas, I did not conceal from her my fear that

it would be badly received.'

Mouret pricked up his ears.

'Ah! my mother-in-law gave you an invitation for him, did she?'

'Yes, she came to the sacristy yesterday. As I make a point of doing

what I can to oblige her, I promised her that I would go and see the

obstinate man this morning. I felt quite certain, however, that he

would refuse.'

'And did he?'

'No, indeed; much to my surprise, he accepted.'

Mouret opened his lips and then closed them again without speaking. The

priest winked with an appearance of extreme satisfaction.

'I had to manage the matter very skilfully, you know. For more than an

hour I went on explaining your mother-in-law's position to him. He kept

shaking his head, however; he could not make up his mind to go, and he

was ever dwelling upon his desire for privacy. I had exhausted my stock

of arguments when I recalled one point of the instructions which the

dear lady gave me. She had told me to tell him that her drawing-room

was entirely neutral ground, and that this was a fact well known to the

whole town. When I pressed this upon his notice he seemed to waver, and

at last he consented to accept the invitation, and even promised to go

to-morrow. I shall send a few lines to that excellent Madame Rougon to

inform her of my success.'

He lingered for a moment longer, rolling his big blue eyes, and

saying--more to himself than to Mouret:

'Monsieur Rastoil will be very much vexed, but it's no fault of mine.'

Then he added: 'Good-morning, dear Monsieur Mouret; remember me very

kindly to all your family.'

He entered the church, letting the padded doors close softly behind

him. Mouret gazed at the doors and lightly shrugged his shoulders.

'There's a fine old chatterbox!' he muttered; 'one of those men who

never give one a chance of getting in a word, but go on chattering

away for hours without ever telling one anything worth listening to.

So Faujas is going to Félicité's to-morrow! It's really very provoking

that I am not on good terms with that fool Rougon!'

All the afternoon he was occupied with business matters, but at night,

just as he and his wife were going to bed, he said to Marthe carelessly:

'Are you going to your mother's to-morrow evening?'

'No, not to-morrow,' Marthe replied, 'I have too many things to do. But

I dare say I shall go next week.'

He made no immediate reply, but just before he blew out the candle, he

resumed:

'It is wrong not to go out oftener than you do. Go to your mother's

to-morrow evening; it will enliven you a little. I will stay at home

and look after the children.'

Marthe looked at him in astonishment. He generally kept her at home

with him, requiring all kinds of little services from her, and

grumbling if she went out even for an hour.

'Very well,' she replied, 'I will go if you wish me to.'

Then he blew out the candle, laid his head upon the pillow, and

muttered:

'That's right; and you can tell us all about it when you come back. It

will amuse the children.'

VI

About nine o'clock on the following evening, Abbé Bourrette called

for Abbé Faujas. He had promised to go with him to the Rougons' and

introduce him there. He found him ready, standing in the middle of his

big bare room, and putting on a pair of black gloves that were sadly

whitened at the finger-tips. Bourrette could not restrain a slight

grimace as he looked at him.

'Haven't you got another cassock?' he asked.

'No,' quietly replied Abbé Faujas. 'This one is still very decent, I

think.'

'Oh, certainly! certainly!' stammered the old priest; 'but it's very

cold outside. Hadn't you better put something round your shoulders?

Well! well! come along then!'

The nights had just commenced to be frosty. Abbé Bourrette, who was

warmly wrapped in a padded silk overcoat, got quite out of breath as

he panted along after Abbé Faujas, who wore nothing over his shoulders

but his thin, threadbare cassock. They stopped at the corner of the Rue

de la Banne and the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, in front of a house

built entirely of white stone, one of the handsome mansions of the

new part of the town. A servant in blue livery received them at the

door and ushered them into the hall. He smiled at Abbé Bourrette as he

helped him to take off his overcoat, and seemed greatly surprised at

the appearance of the other priest, that tall, rough-hewn man, who had

ventured out on such a bitter night without a cloak.

The drawing-room was on the first floor, and Abbé Faujas entered

it with head erect, and grave, though perfectly easy, demeanour,

while Abbé Bourrette, who was always very nervous when he went to

the Rougons' house, although he never missed a single one of their

receptions, made his escape into an adjoining apartment, thus cowardly

leaving his companion in the lurch. Faujas, however, slowly traversed

the whole drawing-room in order to pay his respects to the mistress of

the house, whom he felt sure he could recognise among a group of five

or six ladies. He was obliged to introduce himself, and he did so in

two or three words. Félicité had immediately risen from her seat, and

she closely if quickly scanned him from head to foot. Then her eyes

sought his own, as she smilingly said:

'I am delighted, Monsieur l'Abbé; I am delighted indeed.'

The priest's passage through the drawing-room had created considerable

sensation. One young lady who had suddenly raised her head, had quite

trembled with alarm at the sight of that great black mass in front of

her. The impression created by the Abbé was, indeed, an unfavourable

one. He was too tall, too square-shouldered, his face was too hard and

his hands were too big. His cassock, moreover, looked so frightfully

shabby beneath the bright light of the chandelier that the ladies felt

a kind of shame at seeing a priest so shockingly dressed. They spread

out their fans, and began to giggle behind them, while pretending to be

quite unconscious of the Abbé's presence. The men, meantime, exchanged

very significant glances.

Félicité saw what a very churlish welcome the priest was receiving;

she seemed annoyed at it, and remained standing, raising her voice in

order to force her guests to hear the compliments which she addressed

to Faujas.

'That dear Bourrette,' said she, in her most winning tone, 'has told

me what difficulty he had in persuading you to come. I am really quite

cross with you, sir. You have no right to deprive society of the

pleasure of your company.'

The priest bowed without making any reply, and the old lady laughed as

she began to speak again, laying a meaning emphasis on certain of her

words.

'I know more about you than you imagine, in spite of all the care you

have taken to hide your light under a bushel. I have been told about

you; you are a very holy man, and I want to be your friend. We shall

have an opportunity to talk about this, for I hope that you will now

consider yourself as one of our circle.'

Abbé Faujas looked at her fixedly, as though he had recognised some

masonic sign in the movements of her fan. He lowered his voice as he

replied:

'Madame, I am entirely at your service.'

'I am delighted to hear you say so,' said Madame Rougon with another

laugh. 'You will find that we do our best here to make everyone happy.

But come with me and let me present you to my husband.'

She crossed the room, disturbing several of her guests in her progress

to make way for Abbé Faujas, thus giving him an importance which put

the finishing touch to the prejudice against him. In the adjoining room

some card-tables were set out. She went straight up to her husband, who

was gravely playing whist. He seemed rather impatient as she stooped

down to whisper in his ear, but the few words she said to him made him

spring briskly from his seat.

'Very good! very good!' he murmured.

Then, having first apologised to those with whom he was playing, he

went and shook hands with Abbé Faujas.

At that time Rougon was a stout, pale man of seventy, and had acquired

all a millionaire's gravity of expression. He was generally considered

by the Plassans people to have a fine head, the white, uncommunicative

head of a man of political importance. After he had exchanged a few

courtesies with the priest he resumed his seat at the card-table.

Félicité had just gone back into the drawing-room, her face still

wreathed with smiles.

When Abbé Faujas at last found himself alone he did not manifest the

slightest sign of embarrassment. He remained for a moment watching the

whist-players, or appearing to do so, for he was, in reality, examining

the curtains, and carpet, and furniture. It was a small wainscotted

room, and book-cases of dark pear-tree wood, ornamented with brass

beadings, occupied three of its sides. It looked like a magistrate's

private sanctum. At last the priest, who was apparently desirous of

making a complete inspection, returned to the drawing-room and crossed

it. It was hung with green, and was in keeping with the smaller

_salon_, but there was more gilding about it, so that it suggested the

soberness of a minister's private room combined with the brightness

of a great restaurant. On the other side of it was a sort of boudoir

where Félicité received her friends during the day. This was hung in

straw colour, and was so full of easy-chairs and ottomans and couches,

covered with brocade with a pattern of violet scroll-work, that there

was scarcely room to move about in it.

Abbé Faujas took a seat near the fireplace and pretended to be warming

his feet. He had placed himself in such a position that through the

open doorway he could command a view of the greater part of the large

drawing-room. He reflected upon Madame Rougon's gracious reception, and

half closed his eyes, as though he were thinking out some problem which

it was rather difficult to solve. A moment or two afterwards, while he

was still absorbed in his reverie, he heard someone speaking behind

him. His large-backed easy-chair concealed him from sight, and he kept

his eyes still more tightly closed than before, as he remained there

listening, looking for all the world as though the warmth of the fire

had sent him to sleep.

'I went to their house just once at that time,' an unctuous voice was

saying. 'They were then living opposite this place, on the other side

of the Rue de la Banne. You were at Paris then; but all Plassans at

that period knew of the Rougons' yellow drawing-room. A wretched room

it was, hung with lemon-coloured paper at fifteen sous the piece, and

containing some rickety furniture covered with cheap velvet. But look

at black Félicité now, dressed in plum-coloured satin and seated on

yonder couch! Do you see how she gives her hand to little Delangre?

Upon my word, she is giving it to him to kiss!'

Then a younger voice said with something of a sneer: 'They must have

managed to lay their hands on a pretty big share of plunder to be able

to have such a beautiful drawing-room; it is the handsomest, you know,

in the whole town.'

'The lady,' the other voice resumed, 'has always had a passion for

receptions. When she was hard up she drank water herself so that she

might be able to provide lemonade for her guests. Oh! I know all about

the Rougons. I have watched their whole career. They are very clever

people, and the Coup d'État has enabled them to satisfy the dreams of

luxury and pleasure which had been tormenting them for forty years.

Now you see what a magnificent style they keep up, how lavishly they

live! This house which they now occupy formerly belonged to a Monsieur

Peirotte, one of the receivers of taxes, who was killed in the affair

at Sainte-Roure in the insurrection of '51. Upon my word, they've had

the most extraordinary luck: a stray bullet removed the man who was

standing in their way, and they stepped into his place and house. If

it had been a choice between the receivership and the house, Félicité

would certainly have chosen the house. She had been hankering after it

for half a score years nearly, making herself quite ill by her covetous

glances at the magnificent curtains that hung at the windows. It was

her Tuileries, as the Plassans people used to say, after the 2nd of

December.'

'But where did they get the money to buy this house?'

'Ah! no one knows that, my dear fellow. Their son Eugène, who has had

such amazing political success in Paris, and has become a deputy, a

minister and a confidential adviser at the Tuileries, had no difficulty

in obtaining the receivership and the cross of the Legion of Honour

for his father, who had played his cards very cleverly here. As for

the house, they probably paid for it by borrowing the money from some

banker. Anyhow, they are wealthy people to-day, and are fast making up

for lost time. I fancy their son keeps up a constant correspondence

with them, for they have not made a single false step as yet.'

The person who was speaking paused for a moment, then resumed with a

low laugh:

'Ah! I really can't help laughing when I see that precious grasshopper

of a Félicité putting on all her fine duchess's airs! I always think

of the old yellow drawing-room with its threadbare carpet and shabby

furniture and little fly-specked chandelier. And now, to-day, she

receives the Rastoil young ladies. Just look how she is manœuvring the

train of her dress! Some day, my dear fellow, that old woman will burst

of sheer triumph in the middle of her green drawing-room!'

Abbé Faujas had gently let his head turn so that he might peep at what

was going on in the drawing-room. There he observed Madame Rougon

standing in all her majesty in the centre of a group of guests. She

seemed to have increased in stature, and every back around bent before

her glance, which was like that of some victorious queen.

'Ah! here's your father!' said the person with the unctuous voice; 'the

good doctor is just arriving. I'm quite surprised that he has never

told you of all these matters. He knows far more about them than I do.'

'Oh! my father is always afraid lest I should compromise him,' replied

the other gaily. 'You know how he rails at me and swears that I shall

make him lose all his patients. Ah! excuse me, please; I see the young

Maffres over there, I must go and shake hands with them.'

There was a sound of chairs being moved, and Abbé Faujas saw a tall

young man, whose face already bore signs of physical weariness, cross

the small room. The other person, the one who had given such a lively

account of the Rougons, also rose from his seat. A lady who happened to

pass near him allowed him to pay her some pretty compliments; and she

smiled at him and called him 'dear Monsieur de Condamin.' Thereupon the

priest recognised him as the fine man of sixty whom Mouret had pointed

out to him in the garden of the Sub-Prefecture. Monsieur de Condamin

came and sat down on the other side of the fireplace. He was startled

to see Abbé Faujas, who had been quite concealed by the back of his

chair, but he appeared in no way disconcerted. He smiled and, with

amicable self-possession, exclaimed:

'I think, Monsieur l'Abbé, that we have just been unintentionally

confessing ourselves. It's a great sin, isn't it, to backbite one's

neighbour? Fortunately you were there to give us absolution.'

The Abbé, in spite of the control which he usually had over his

features, could not restrain a slight blush. He perfectly understood

that Monsieur de Condamin was reproaching him for having kept so quiet

in order to listen to what was being said. Monsieur de Condamin,

however, was not a man to preserve a grudge against anyone for their

curiosity, but quite the contrary. He was delighted at the complicity

which the matter seemed to have established between himself and the

Abbé. It put him at liberty to talk freely and to while away the

evening in relating scandalous stories about the persons present.

There was nothing that he enjoyed so much, and this Abbé, who had only

recently arrived at Plassans, seemed likely to prove a good listener,

the more especially as he had an ugly face, the face of a man who would

listen to anything, and wore such a shabby cassock that it would be

preposterous to think that any confidence to which he might be treated

would lead to unpleasantness.

By the end of a quarter of an hour Monsieur de Condamin became quite at

his ease, and gave Abbé Faujas a detailed account of Plassans with all

the suave politeness of a man of the world.

'You are a stranger amongst us, Monsieur l'Abbé,' said he, 'and I shall

be delighted if I can be of any assistance to you. Plassans is a little

hole of a place, but one gets reconciled to it in time. I myself come

from the neighbourhood of Dijon, and when I was appointed conservator

of woods and rivers in this district, I found the place detestable,

and thought I should be bored to death here. That was just before the

Empire. After '51, the provinces were by no means cheerful places to

live in, I assure you. In this department the folks were alarmed if

they heard a dog bark, and they were ready to sink into the ground at

the sight of a gendarme. But they calmed down by degrees, and resumed

their old, monotonous, uneventful existences, and in the end I grew

quite resigned to my life here. I live chiefly in the open air, I take

long rides on horseback, and I have made a few pleasant friendships.'

He lowered his voice, and continued confidentially:

'If you will take my advice, Monsieur l'Abbé, you will be careful

what you do. You can't imagine what a scrape I once nearly fell

into. Plassans, you know, is divided into three absolutely distinct

divisions: the old district, where your duties will be confined to

administering consolation and alms; the district of Saint-Marc,

where our aristocrats live, a district that is full of boredom and

ill-feeling, and where you can't be too much upon your guard; and,

lastly, the new town, the district which is now springing up round the

Sub-Prefecture, and which is the only one where it is possible to live

with any degree of comfort. At first I was foolish enough to take up my

quarters in the Saint-Marc district, where I thought that my position

required me to reside. There, alack! I found myself surrounded by a

lot of withered old dowagers and mummified marquises. There wasn't an

atom of sociability, not a scrap of gaiety, nothing but sulky mutiny

against the prosperous peace that the country was enjoying. I only just

missed compromising myself, upon my word I did. Péqueur used to chaff

me, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect; you know him, don't

you? Well, then I crossed the Cours Sauvaire, and took rooms on the

Place. At Plassans, you must know, the people have no existence, and

the aristocracy are a dreadful lot that it's quite impossible to get

on with; the only tolerable folks are a few parvenus, some delightful

persons who are ready to incur any expense in entertaining their

official acquaintances. Our little circle of functionaries is a very

delightful one. We live amongst ourselves after our own inclinations,

without caring a rap about the townspeople, just as if we had pitched

our camp in some conquered country.'

He laughed complacently, stretched himself further back in his chair,

and turned up his feet to the fire; then he took a glass of punch from

a tray which one of the servants handed to him, and sipped it slowly

while still watching Abbé Faujas out of the corner of his eye. The

latter felt that politeness required him to say something.

'This house seems a very pleasant one,' he remarked, turning slightly

towards the green drawing-room, whence the sound of animated

conversation was proceeding.

'Yes, yes,' resumed Monsieur de Condamin, who checked his remarks

every now and then to take a little sip of punch. 'The Rougons almost

make us forget Paris. You would scarcely fancy here that you were in

Plassans. It is the only pleasant and amusing drawing-room in the whole

place, because it is the only one where all shades of opinion elbow one

another. Péqueur, too, has very pleasant assemblies. It must cost the

Rougons a lot of money, and they haven't the public purse behind them

like Péqueur has; though they have something better still, the pockets

of the taxpayers.'

He seemed quite pleased with this witticism of his. He set his empty

glass, which he had been holding in his hand, upon the mantelpiece, and

then, drawing his chair near to Abbé Faujas and leaning towards him, he

began to speak again:

'The most amusing comedies are continually being played here. But you

ought to know the actors to appreciate them. You see Madame Rastoil

over yonder between her two daughters--that lady of about forty-five

with a head like a sheep's? Well, have you noticed how her eyelids

trembled and blinked when Delangre came and sat down in front of her?

Delangre is the man there on the left, with a likeness to Punch. They

were acquainted intimately some ten years ago, and he is said to be the

father of one of the girls, but it isn't known which. The funniest part

of the business is that Delangre himself didn't get on very well with

his wife about the same time; and people say that the father of his

daughter is an artist very well known in Plassans.'

Abbé Faujas had considered it his duty to assume a very serious

expression on being made the recipient of such confidences as these,

and he even closed his eyes and seemed to hear nothing; while Monsieur

de Condamin went on, as though in justification of himself:

'I allow myself to speak in this way of Delangre, as I know him so

well. He is a wonderfully clever, pushing fellow. His father was a

bricklayer, I believe. Fifteen years ago he used to take up the petty

suits that other lawyers wouldn't be bothered with. Madame Rastoil

extricated him from a condition of absolute penury; she supplied

him even with wood in the winter-time to enable him to keep himself

warm. It was through her influence that he won his first cases. It's

worth mentioning that at that time Delangre had been shrewd enough to

manifest no particular political proclivities; and so, in 1852, when

people were looking out for a mayor, his name was at once thought of.

He was the only man who could have been chosen without alarming one or

other of the three divisions of the town. From that time everything

has prospered with him, and he has a fine future before him. The only

unfortunate part of the matter is that he doesn't get on very well with

Péqueur; they are always wrangling about some silly trifles or other.'

He broke off as he saw the tall young man, with whom he had been

chatting previously, come up to him again.

'Monsieur Guillaume Porquier,' he said, introducing him to the Abbé,

'the son of Doctor Porquier.'

Then, as Guillaume seated himself, he asked him with a touch of irony:

'Well! what did you see to admire over yonder?'

'Nothing at all, indeed!' replied the young man with a smile. 'I saw

the Paloques. Madame Rougon always tries to hide them behind a curtain

to prevent anything unpleasant happening. Paloque never takes his eyes

off Monsieur Rastoil, hoping, no doubt, to kill him with suppressed

terror. You know, of course, that the hideous fellow hopes to die

presiding judge.'

They both laughed. The ugliness of the Paloques was a perpetual source

of amusement amongst the little circle of officials. Porquier's son

lowered his voice as he continued:

'I saw Monsieur Bourdeu, too. Doesn't it strike you that he's ever so

much thinner since the Marquis de Lagrifoul's election? Bourdeu will

never get over the loss of his prefecture; he had put all his Orleanist

rancour at the service of the Legitimists in the hope that that course

would lead him straight to the Chamber, where he would be able to win

back that deeply-deplored prefecture. So he was horribly disgusted and

hurt to find that instead of himself they chose the marquis, who is a

perfect ass and hasn't the faintest notion of politics, whereas he,

Bourdeu, is a very shrewd fellow.'

'That Bourdeu, with his tightly-buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed

hat, is a most overbearing person,' said Monsieur de Condamin,

shrugging his shoulders. 'If such people as he were allowed to have

their own way they would turn France into a mere Sorbonne of lawyers

and diplomatists, and would bore us all to death----Oh! by the way,

Guillaume, I have been hearing about you. You seem to be leading a

merry sort of life.'

'I?' exclaimed the young man with a smile.

'Yes, you, my fine fellow! and observe that I get my information from

your father. He is much distressed about it: he accuses you of gambling

and of staying out all night at the club and other places. Is it true

that you have discovered a low café behind the gaol where you go with

a company of scamps and play the devil's own game? I have even been

told----'

Here Monsieur de Condamin, observing two ladies enter the room, began

to whisper in Guillaume's ear, while the young man replied with

affirmative signs and shook with suppressed laughter. Then he bent

forward in turn and whispered to Monsieur de Condamin, and the pair of

them, drawing close together with brightly glistening eyes, seemed to

derive a prolonged enjoyment from this private story, which could not

be told in the presence of ladies.

Abbé Faujas had remained where he was. He no longer listened to what

was being said, but watched the many movements of Monsieur Delangre,

who bustled about the green drawing-room trying to make himself

extremely agreeable. The priest was so absorbed in his observations

that he did not see Abbé Bourrette beckoning to him, so that the other

had to come and touch his shoulder and ask him to follow. He then led

him into the card-room with all the precaution of a man who has some

very delicate communication to make.

'My dear friend,' he whispered, when they were alone in a quiet

corner, 'it is excusable in you, as this is the first time you have

been here, but I must warn you that you have compromised yourself very

considerably by talking so long with the persons you have just left.'

Then, as Abbé Faujas looked at him with great surprise, he added:

'Those persons are not looked upon favourably. I myself am not passing

any judgment upon them, and I don't want to repeat any scandal. I am

simply warning you out of pure friendship, that's all.'

He was going away, but Abbé Faujas detained him, exclaiming hastily:

'You disquiet me, my dear Monsieur Bourrette; I beg of you to explain

yourself. Without speaking any ill of anyone, you can surely be a

little clearer.'

'Well then,' replied the old priest, after a momentary hesitation,

'Doctor Porquier's son causes his worthy father the greatest distress,

and sets the worst example to all the studious youth of Plassans. He

left nothing but debts behind him in Paris, and here he is turning the

whole town upside down. As for Monsieur de Condamin----'

Here he hesitated again, feeling embarrassed by the enormity of what he

had to relate; then, lowering his eyes, he resumed:

'Monsieur de Condamin is very free in his conversation, and I fear

that he is deficient in a sense of morality. He spares no one, and he

scandalises every honourable person. Then--I really hardly know how

to tell you--but he has contracted, it is said, a scarcely creditable

marriage. You see that young woman there, who is not thirty years old,

and who has such a crowd around her? Well, he brought her to Plassans

one day from no one knows where. From the time of her arrival she has

been all-powerful here. It is she who has got her husband and Doctor

Porquier decorated. She has influential friends in Paris. But I beg

of you not to repeat any of this. Madame de Condamin is very amiable

and charitable. I go to her house sometimes, and I should be extremely

distressed if I thought that she considered me an enemy of hers. If she

has committed faults, it is our duty--is it not?--to help her to return

to a better way of life. As for her husband, he is, between ourselves,

a perfect scamp. Have as little as possible to do with him.'

Abbé Faujas gazed into the worthy Bourrette's eyes. He had just noticed

that Madame Rougon was following their conversation from the distance

with a thoughtful air.

'Wasn't it Madame Rougon who told you to come and give me this good

advice?' he suddenly asked the old priest.

'How did you know that?' the latter exclaimed in great astonishment.

'She asked me not to mention her name, but since you have guessed

it--Ah! she is a good, kind-hearted lady who would be much distressed

to see a priest compromising himself in her house. She is unfortunately

compelled to receive all sorts of persons.'

Abbé Faujas expressed his thanks, and promised to be more prudent

in the future. The card-players had not taken any notice of the two

priests, who returned into the big drawing-room, where Faujas was again

conscious of hostile surroundings. He even experienced greater coldness

and more silent contempt than before. The ladies pulled their dresses

out of his way as though his touch would have soiled them, and the

men turned away from him with sneering titters. He himself maintained

haughty calmness and indifference. Fancying that he heard the word

Besançon meaningly pronounced in a corner of the room where Madame de

Condamin was holding her court, he walked straight up to the folks by

whom she was surrounded; but, at his approach, there was a dead silence

amongst them, and they all stared him in the face with eyes that

gleamed with uncharitable curiosity. He felt quite sure that they had

been talking about him, and repeating some disgraceful story. While he

was still standing there, behind the Rastoil young ladies, who had not

observed him, he heard the younger one ask her sister:

'What was it that this priest, of whom everyone is talking, did at

Besançon?'

'I don't quite know,' the elder sister replied. 'I believe he nearly

murdered his vicar in a quarrel they had. Papa also said that he had

been mixed up in some great business speculation which turned out

badly.'

'He's in the small room over there, isn't he? Somebody saw him just now

laughing with Monsieur de Condamin.'

'Oh! then people do quite right to distrust him if he laughs with

Monsieur de Condamin.'

This gossip of the two girls made perspiration start from Abbé Faujas's

brows. He did not frown, but his lips tightened one upon the other,

and his cheeks took an ashy tint. He seemed to hear the whole room

talking of the priest whom he had tried to murder, and of the shady

transactions in which he had been concerned.

Opposite him were Monsieur Delangre and Doctor Porquier, still looking

very severe; Monsieur de Bourdeu's mouth pouted scornfully as he said

something in a low voice to a lady; Monsieur Maffre, the justice of

the peace, was casting furtive glances at him, as if he had piously

resolved to examine him from a distance before condemning him; and at

the other end of the room the two hideous Paloques craned out their

malice-warped faces, in which shone a wicked joy at all the cruel

stories that were being whispered about. Abbé Faujas slowly retired as

he saw Madame Rastoil, who had been standing a few paces away, come

up and seat herself between her two daughters, as though to keep them

under the protection of her wing and shield them from his touch. He

rested his elbow on the piano which he saw behind him, and there he

stood with his head erect and his face as hard and silent as a face of

stone. He felt that they were all in a plot to treat him as an outcast.

As he stood thus gazing at the company from under his partially lowered

eyelids he suddenly gave a slight start, which he quickly suppressed.

He had just caught sight of Abbé Fenil, leaning back in an easy-chair

and smiling quietly behind a perfect wall of petticoats. The eyes of

the two men met, and they gazed at each other for some moments with the

fierce expression of duellists about to engage in mortal combat. Then

there was a rustling of silk, and Abbé Fenil was hidden from sight by

the ladies' gowns.

However, Félicité had contrived to reach the neighbourhood of the

piano, and when she had succeeded in installing at it the elder of the

Rastoil girls, who had a pleasant voice, and was able to speak to Abbé

Faujas without being heard, she drew him towards one of the windows and

asked:

'What have you done to Abbé Fenil?'

They talked together in very low tones. The priest at first feigned

surprise, but when Madame Rougon had murmured a few words, accompanied

by sundry shruggings of her shoulders, he seemed to become more open

with her. They both smiled, and made a pretence of merely exchanging

ordinary courtesies, but the glistening of their eyes spoke of

something much more serious. The piano was silent for a moment, and

then the elder Mademoiselle Rastoil began to sing 'La Colombe du

Soldat,' which was a favourite song at that time.

'Your _début_ has been most unfortunate,' Félicité continued. 'You have

quite set people against you, and I should advise you not to come here

again for a considerable time. You must make yourself popular and a

favourite, you understand. Any rash act would be fatal.'

Abbé Faujas seemed absorbed in thought.

'You say that it was Abbé Fenil who circulated these abominable

stories?' he asked.

'Oh, he is much too wily to commit himself in such a way. He must

just have faintly suggested them to his penitents. I don't know

whether he has found you out, but he is certainly afraid of you. I am

sure of that. And he will attack you in every possible way. The most

unfortunate part of the matter is that he confesses the most important

people in the town. It was he who secured the election of the Marquis

de Lagrifoul.'

'I did wrong to come this evening,' the priest murmured.

Félicité bit her lips, then continued with animation:

'You did wrong to compromise yourself with such a man as that Condamin.

I did what I thought was best. When the person whom you know of wrote

to me from Paris I thought that I should be doing you a service by

inviting you here. I imagined that you would be able to make it an

opportunity for gaining friends. But, instead of doing what you could

to make yourself popular, you have set everyone against you. Please

excuse my freedom, but you really seem to be doing all you can to

ensure your failure. You have committed nothing but mistakes: in

going to lodge with my son-in-law, in persistently keeping yourself

aloof from others, and in walking about in a cassock which makes the

street-lads jeer at you.'

Abbé Faujas could not repress a movement of impatience. However, he

merely replied:

'I will profit by your kind advice. Only, don't try to assist me; that

would mar everything.'

'Yes, what you say is prudent,' replied the old lady. 'Only return

here in triumph. One last word, my dear sir. The person in Paris is

most anxious for your success, and it is for that reason that I am

interesting myself in you. Well, then, don't make people frightened of

you--shun you; be pleasant, and make yourself agreeable to the ladies.

Remember that particularly. You must make yourself agreeable to the

ladies if you want to get Plassans on your side.'

The elder Mademoiselle Rastoil had just finished her song with a final

flourish, and the guests were softly applauding her. Madame Rougon

left the Abbé to go and congratulate the singer. Then she took up a

position in the middle of the room, and shook hands with the visitors

who were beginning to retire. It was eleven o'clock. The Abbé was

much vexed to find that the worthy Bourrette had taken advantage of

the music to effect his escape. He had thought of leaving with him--a

course which would have enabled him to make a respectable exit. Now,

however, he would have to go away alone, which would be extremely

prejudicial to him. It would be reported through the town in the

morning that he had been turned out of the house. So he retired into

a window-recess, whence he watched for an opportunity to effect an

honourable retreat.

The room was emptying fast, however, and there were only a few ladies

left. At last he noticed one who was very simply dressed; it was Madame

Mouret, whose slightly waved hair made her look younger than usual.

He looked with surprise at her tranquil face and her large, peaceful

black eyes. He had not noticed her during the evening; she had quietly

remained in the same corner without moving, vexed at wasting her time

in this way, with her hands in her lap, doing nothing. While he was

looking at her she rose to take leave of her mother.

It was one of Félicité's greatest delights to see the high society of

Plassans leave her with profuse bows and thanks for her punch, her

green drawing-room, and the pleasant evening they had spent there;

and she thought how, formerly, these same fine folks had trampled her

underfoot, whereas now the richest amongst them could not find sweet

enough smiles for 'dear Madame Rougon.'

'Ah, madame!' murmured Maffre, the justice of the peace, 'one quite

forgets the passage of time here.'

'You are the only pleasant hostess in all this uncivilised place,'

whispered pretty Madame de Condamin.

'We shall expect you to dinner to-morrow,' said Monsieur Delangre; 'but

you must take pot-luck, for we don't pretend to do as you do.'

Marthe was obliged to make her way through all this incense-offering

crowd in order to reach her mother. She kissed her, and was about to

retire, when Félicité detained her and looked around as if to trying to

find someone. Then on catching sight of Abbé Faujas, she inquired, with

a smile:

'Is your reverence a gallant man?'

The Abbé bowed.

'Well, then, I should be much obliged to you if you would escort my

daughter home. You both live in the same house, and so it will not put

you to any inconvenience. On the road there is a little bit of dark

lane which is not very pleasant for a lady by herself.'

Marthe assured her mother, in her quiet way, that she was not a little

girl, and in no wise felt afraid; but as Félicité insisted, saying

that she should feel easier if her daughter had someone with her,

she at last accepted the Abbé's escort. As the latter retired with

her, Félicité, who accompanied them to the landing, whispered in the

priest's ear, with a smile:

'Don't forget what I told you. You must make yourself agreeable to the

ladies if you want Plassans to belong to you.'

VII

That same night Mouret, who was still awake when his wife returned

home, plied her with questions in his desire to find out what had taken

place at Madame Rougon's. She told him that everything had gone off as

usual, and that she had noticed nothing out of the common. She just

added that Abbé Faujas had walked home with her, but had merely spoken

of commonplace matters. Mouret was very much vexed at what he called

his wife's indolence.

'If anyone had committed suicide at your mother's,' he growled, as he

angrily buried his head in his pillow, 'you would know nothing about

it!'

When he came home to dinner the next day, he called to Marthe as soon

as he caught sight of her:

'I was sure of it! I knew you had never troubled yourself to use your

eyes! It's just like you! Sitting the whole evening in a room and never

having the faintest notion of what was being said or done around you!

Why, the whole town is talking about it! The whole town, do you hear? I

couldn't go anywhere without somebody speaking to me about----'

'About what, my dear?' asked Marthe, in astonishment.

'About the fine success of Abbé Faujas, forsooth! He was turned out of

the green drawing-room!'

'Indeed he wasn't! I saw nothing of the kind.'

'Haven't I told you that you never see anything? Do you know what the

Abbé did at Besançon? He either murdered a priest or committed forgery!

They are not quite certain which it was. However, they seem to have

given him a nice reception! He turned quite green. Well, it's all up

with him now!'

Marthe bent her head and allowed her husband to revel in the priest's

discomfiture. Mouret was delighted.

'I still stick to my first idea,' he said; 'your mother and he have got

some underhand plot together. I hear that she showed him the greatest

civility. It was she, wasn't it, who asked him to accompany you home?

Why didn't you tell me so?'

Marthe shrugged her shoulders without replying.

'You are the most provoking woman in the world!' her husband cried.

'All these little details are of the greatest importance. Madame

Paloque, whom I have just met, told me that she and several other

ladies had lingered behind to see how the Abbé would effect his

departure, and that your mother availed herself of you to cover the

parson's retreat. Just try to remember, now, what he said to you as he

walked home with you.'

He sat down by his wife's side with his keen, questioning little eyes

fixed upon her.

'Really,' said she quietly, 'he only talked to me about the trifling

commonplace matters such as anyone might have talked of. He spoke about

the cold, which was very sharp, and about the quietness of the town

at night-time, and I think he mentioned the pleasant evening he had

passed.'

'Ah, the hypocrite! Didn't he ask you any questions about your mother

or her guests?'

'No. The Rue de la Banne is only a very short distance, you know, and

it didn't take us three minutes. He walked by my side without offering

me his arm, and he took such long strides that I was almost obliged to

run. I don't know why folks should all be so bitter against him. He

doesn't seem very well off, and he was shivering, poor man, in that

threadbare old cassock of his.'

Mouret was not without pity and sympathy.

'Ah! he must have done,' he said; 'he can't feel very warm now that the

frost has come.'

'I'm sure we have nothing to complain of in his conduct,' Marthe

continued. 'He is very punctual in his payments, and he makes no noise

and gives no trouble. Where could you find a more desirable tenant?'

'Nowhere, I grant you. What I was saying just now was to show you what

little attention you pay, wherever you go, to what takes place around

you. I know the set your mother receives too well to attach much weight

to anything that happens in the green drawing-room: it's a perpetual

source of lies and the most ridiculous stories. I don't suppose for a

moment that the Abbé ever murdered anyone any more than that he was

ever a bankrupt; and I told Madame Paloque that people ought to see

that their own linen was clean before they found fault with that of

others. I hope she took the hint to herself.'

This was a fib on Mouret's part, for he had said nothing of the kind

to Madame Paloque; but Marthe's pity had made him feel rather ashamed

of the delight which he had manifested at the Abbé's troubles. On

the following days he went entirely over to the priest's side, and

whenever he happened to meet any people whom he detested, Monsieur

de Bourdeu, Monsieur Delangre, and Doctor Porquier, he launched out

into warm praises of the Abbé just for the pleasure of astonishing

and annoying them. The Abbé, said he, was a man of great courage and

perfect guilelessness, but extremely poor, and some very base-minded

person must have originated the calumnies about him. Then he went on to

have a rap at the Rougons' guests, whom he called hypocrites, canting

humbugs and stuck-up idiots, who were afraid of a man of real virtue.

In a short time he had quite made the Abbé's quarrel his own, and

availed himself of it to attack both the Rastoil gang and the gang of

the Sub-Prefecture as well.

'Isn't it pitiable?' he sometimes said to his wife, forgetting that she

had heard him tell a very different story, 'isn't it pitiable to see

a lot of people who stole their money no one knows where, leaguing so

bitterly against a poor man just because he hasn't got twenty francs to

spare to buy a cart-load of firewood? Such conduct quite disgusts me!

I'm quite willing to be surety for him. I ought to know what he does

and what sort of a man he is, since he lives in my house; and so I'm

not slack in telling them the truth, I give them all they deserve when

I meet them. And I won't content myself with that, either. I want the

Abbé to be my friend, and I mean to walk out with him arm-in-arm along

the promenade to let people know that I'm not afraid of being seen with

him, rich and well thought of as I am! I hope, too, that you will show

all the kindness and consideration to these poor people that you can.'

Marthe smiled quietly. She was delighted at the friendly disposition

her husband was now manifesting towards their lodgers. Rose was ordered

to show them every civility; she was even told that she might volunteer

to do Madame Faujas' shopping for her on wet mornings. The latter,

however, always declined the cook's services, though she no longer

manifested that silent stiffness of demeanour which she had shown

during the earlier days of her residence in the house. One morning, as

she met Marthe, who was coming down from an attic which was used as a

store-room for the fruit, she stopped and talked to her for a moment,

and even unbent so far as to accept a couple of magnificent pears.

Those pears were the beginning of a closer intimacy between them.

Abbé Faujas, too, did not now glide so hurriedly up and down the stairs

as he had been wont to do. Almost every day, when Mouret heard the

rustling of the priest's cassock as he came down, he hastened to the

foot of the staircase and told the Abbé that it would give him great

pleasure to walk part of the way with him. He had also thanked him for

the little service he had done his wife, skilfully questioning him

at the time to find out if he intended again calling on the Rougons.

The Abbé had smiled and freely confessed that he was not fitted for

society. This had delighted Mouret, who felt quite certain that he had

had some influence in bringing about his lodger's decision. He even

began to dream of preventing all future intercourse with the green

drawing-room and of keeping him altogether to himself. So, when Marthe

told him one evening that Madame Faujas had accepted a couple of pears,

he looked upon this as a fortunate circumstance which would facilitate

the execution of his designs.

'Haven't they really got a fire on the second floor this bitterly cold

weather?' he asked, in Rose's presence.

'No, indeed, sir,' replied the cook, who understood that the question

was meant for herself; 'they couldn't very well have one, for I've

never seen the least bit of wood taken upstairs, unless indeed they're

burning their four chairs or Madame Faujas manages to carry up the wood

in her basket.'

'It is not right of you to talk in that way, Rose,' said Marthe. 'The

poor things must be shivering with cold in those big rooms.'

'I should think so, indeed,' exclaimed Mouret; 'there were several

degrees of frost last night and there was considerable fear felt about

the olive-trees. The water in our jug upstairs was frozen. This room of

ours here is a small one, however, and very warm.'

The doors and windows of the dining-room were provided with pads, so

that no draught could find its way through any crevice, and a big

earthenware stove made the place as warm as a bakehouse. During the

winter evenings the young people read or played round the table, while

Mouret made his wife play piquet till bed-time, which, by the way, was

perfect torture to her. For a long time she had refused to touch the

cards, saying that she did not know a single game, but at last he had

taught her piquet, and she had then been forced to resign herself to

her fate.

'Don't you think,' Mouret continued, 'that we really ought to ask the

Faujases to come and spend the evenings here? They would at any rate be

warm for two or three hours; and they would be company for us, too, and

make us feel more lively. Ask them, and I don't think they'll refuse.'

The next day Marthe met Madame Faujas in the hall and gave the

invitation, which the old lady at once accepted, both for herself and

her son.

'I'm surprised she didn't make some little demur about coming,' said

Mouret. 'I fancied that they would have required more pressing. But the

Abbé is beginning to understand that he does wrong in living like a

wild beast.'

In the evening Mouret took care that the table was cleared in good

time, and he set out a bottle of sweet wine and a plateful of little

cakes. Although he was not given to being lavish, he was anxious to

show that the Rougons were not the only people who knew how things

ought to be done. The tenants of the second floor came downstairs about

eight o'clock. Abbé Faujas was wearing a new cassock, at the sight of

which Mouret was so much surprised that he could only stammer a few

words in answer to the priest's courtesies.

'Indeed, Monsieur l'Abbé, all the honour is for us. Come, children, put

some chairs here.'

They all took their seats round the table. The room was uncomfortably

warm, for Mouret had crammed the stove as full as possible in order to

let his guests see that he made no account of a log more or less. Abbé

Faujas made himself very pleasant, fondling Désirée and questioning the

two lads about their studies. Marthe, who was knitting some stockings,

raised her eyes every now and then in surprise at the flexible tones

of that strange voice which she was not accustomed to hear sounding in

the monotonous quietness of the dining-room. She looked at the priest's

powerful face and square-cut features, and then bent her head again,

without trying to hide the interest she took in this man who was so

strong and kindly and whom she knew to be so poor. As for Mouret, he

uncouthly stared at the new cassock, and could not restrain himself

from saying, with a sly smile:

'You needn't have troubled to dress to come here, Monsieur l'Abbé. We

don't go in for ceremony, as you know very well.'

Marthe blushed, while the priest gaily related that he had bought

the cassock that very day. He had kept it on, he said, to please his

mother, who thought that he looked finer than a king in it.

'Don't you, mother?' he asked the old lady.

Madame Faujas nodded without taking her eyes off her son. She was

sitting opposite to him, gazing at him in the bright lamplight with an

air of ecstasy.

They began to talk of various matters, and Abbé Faujas seemed to throw

off his gloomy coldness. He still remained grave, but it was with a

pleasant, good-natured gravity. He listened attentively to Mouret,

replied to his most insignificant remarks, and seemed to take an

interest in his gossip. His landlord explained to him the manner in

which the family lived, and finished his account by saying:

'We spend our evenings in the way you see, always as quietly as this.

We never invite anyone, as we are always more comfortable by ourselves.

Every evening I have a game at piquet with my wife. It is a very old

habit of ours, and I could scarcely go to sleep without it.'

'Pray don't let us interfere with it!' cried Abbé Faujas. 'I beg that

you won't in any way depart from your usual habits on our account.'

'Oh dear no! I am not a monomaniac about it, and it won't kill me to go

without it for once.'

The priest insisted for a time, but, when he saw that Marthe declined

to play with even greater determination than her husband, he turned

towards his mother, who had been sitting silent with her hands folded

in front of her, and said:

'Mother, you have a game with Monsieur Mouret.'

She looked keenly into her son's eyes, while Mouret still continued

to refuse, and declared that he did not want to break up the party.

However, when the priest told him that his mother was a good player he

gave way.

'Is she, indeed?' he said. 'Then, if madame really wishes it, and no

one objects----'

'Come along, mother, and have a game!' said Abbé Faujas in a more

decided tone.

'Certainly,' she replied, 'I shall be delighted; but I shall have to

change my place.'

'Oh! there will be no difficulty about that,' said Mouret, who was

quite charmed. 'You had better take your son's seat, and perhaps

Monsieur l'Abbé will be good enough to sit next to my wife. Madame can

sit next to me. There! that will do capitally.'

The priest, who had at first been opposite to Marthe on the other side

of the table, was thus placed next to her. They sat quite apart by

themselves, the two players having drawn their chairs close together

to engage in their struggle. Octave and Serge had just gone up to

their room. Désirée was sleeping with her head on the table after her

usual custom. When ten o'clock struck, Mouret, who had lost the first

game, did not feel inclined to go to bed but asked for his revenge.

Madame Faujas consulted her son with a glance, and then in her tranquil

fashion began to shuffle the cards. The Abbé had merely exchanged a

few words with Marthe. On this the first evening that he spent in the

dining-room he only spoke of commonplace topics; the household, the

price of victuals at Plassans, and the anxieties which children caused.

Marthe replied with a show of interest, looking up every now and then

with her bright glance, and importing into the conversation some of her

own sedate good sense.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mouret threw down the cards with some

slight irritation.

'I have lost again!' he said. 'I haven't had a single good card all the

evening. Perhaps I shall have better luck to-morrow. We shall see you

again, I hope, madame?'

And when Abbé Faujas began to protest that they could not think of

abusing the Mourets' kindness by disturbing them in this way every

evening, he continued:

'But you are not disturbing us at all, you are giving us pleasure.

Besides, I have been defeated, and I'm sure that madame can't refuse me

another game.'

When the priest and his mother had accepted the invitation and had

gone upstairs again, Mouret showed some ill-temper and began to excuse

himself for having lost. He seemed quite annoyed about it.

'The old woman isn't as good a player as I am, I'm sure,' he said to

his wife; 'but she has got such eyes! I could really almost fancy she

was cheating, upon my word I could! Well! we shall see what happens

to-morrow.'

From that time the Faujases came down regularly every day to spend the

evening with the Mourets. There were tremendous battles between the old

lady and her landlord. She seemed to play with him, to let him win just

frequently enough to prevent him from being altogether discouraged,

and this made him fume with suppressed anger, for he prided himself

on his skill at piquet. He used to indulge in dreams of beating her

night after night for weeks in succession without ever letting her win

a single game; while she ever preserved wonderful coolness, her square

peasant-like face remaining quite expressionless as with her big hands

she threw down the cards with all the regularity of a machine. From

eight o'clock till bed-time they would remain seated at their end of

the table, quite absorbed in their game and never moving.

At the other end, near the stove, Abbé Faujas and Marthe were left

entirely to themselves. The Abbé felt a masculine and priestly disdain

for woman, and in spite of himself this disdain often made itself

manifest in some slightly harsh expression. On these occasions Marthe

was affected by a strange feeling of anxiety. She raised her eyes

with one of those sudden thrills of alarm which cause people to cast

a hurried glance behind them, half expecting to see some concealed

enemy raising his hand to strike. At other times, on catching sight of

the Abbé's cassock, she would check herself suddenly in the midst of

a laugh, and would relapse into silence, quite confused, astonished

at finding herself talking so freely to a man who was so different

from other men. It was a long time before there was any real intimacy

between them.

Abbé Faujas never directly questioned Marthe about her husband, or her

children, or her house; but, nevertheless, he gradually made himself

acquainted with every detail of their history and manner of life. Every

evening, while Mouret and Madame Faujas were contending furiously one

against the other, he contrived to learn some new fact. Upon one

occasion he remarked that the husband and wife were surprisingly alike.

'Yes,' Marthe answered with a smile, 'when we were twenty years old we

used to be taken for brother and sister; and, indeed, it was a little

owing to that circumstance that we got married. People used to joke

us about it, and were continually making us stand side by side, and

saying what a fine couple we should make. The likeness was so striking

that worthy Monsieur Compan, though he knew us quite well, hesitated to

marry us.'

'But you are cousins, are you not?' the priest asked.

'Yes,' she replied, with a slight blush, 'my husband is a Macquart, and

I am a Rougon.'

Then she kept silence for a moment or two, feeling ill at ease, for she

was sure that the priest knew the history of her family which was so

notorious at Plassans. The Macquarts were an illegitimate branch of the

Rougons.

'The most singular part of it,' she resumed, to conceal her

embarrassment, 'is, that we both resemble our grandmother. My husband's

mother transmitted the likeness to him, while in me it has sprung up

again after a break, passing my father by.'

Then the Abbé cited a similar instance in his own family. He had a

sister, he said, who was the living image of her mother's grandfather.

The likeness in this case had leapt over two generations. His sister,

too, closely resembled the old man in her character and habits, even in

her gestures and the tone of her voice.

'It was just the same with me when I was a little girl; I often heard

people say of me,' remarked Marthe, '"She's Aunt Dide all over again!"

The poor woman is now at Les Tulettes. She never had a strong head. For

my part, in growing older, I have become less excitable and stronger,

but I remember that when I was a child I hadn't good health at all.

I used to have attacks of giddiness, and my head was filled with the

strangest fancies. I often laugh now when I think of the extraordinary

things I used to do.'

'And your husband?'

'Oh! he takes after his father, a journeyman hatter, a careful, prudent

man. I should say that when we were young, though we were so much

alike in face, it was quite a different matter as to our dispositions;

however, as time has gone on, we have grown to resemble each other

very much. We were so quiet and happy in our business at Marseilles!

The fifteen years I spent there taught me to find happiness in my own

home, in the midst of my children.'

Abbé Faujas noticed a touch of bitterness in her tone every time that

he led her to speak on this subject. She was certainly happy, as she

said; but he fancied that he could detect traces of old rebellion in

her nervous nature, that was now calmed by the approach of her fortieth

year. He imagined a little drama for himself, in which this husband and

wife, who were so much alike, were considered by their relations to

be made for each other, and were thus forced into marriage, whereas,

in reality, they were of different and antagonistic temperaments.

Then his mind dwelt upon the fatal outcome of a monotonous life, the

wearing away of character by the daily cares of business, the soporific

effect of fifteen years' fortune-making upon this couple, who were now

living upon that fortune in a sleepy corner of a little town. To-day,

though they were both still young, there seemed to be nothing but the

ashes left of their former selves. The Abbé cleverly tried to discover

whether Marthe was resigned to her existence, and he found her full of

common sense.

'I am quite contented with my home,' she said; 'my children are all

that I want. I was never much given to gaiety; I only felt a little

dull at times. I dare say I should have been better if I had had some

mental occupation, but I was never able to find one. And perhaps, after

all, it's as well I didn't, for I should very likely have split my

head. I could never even read a novel without giving myself a frightful

headache, and for nights afterwards all the characters would dance

about in my brain. Needlework is the only thing which never fatigues

me, so I stay at home and keep out of the way of noise and chatter, and

all the frivolous follies which weary me.'

She paused every now and then to glance at Désirée, who was still

sleeping with her head upon the table, and smiling in her innocent way.

'Poor child!' she murmured. 'She can't even do any needlework. She gets

dizzy directly. She is fond of animals, and that's all she's capable

of. When she goes to stay with her nurse, as she does every now and

then, she spends all her time in the poultry-yard, and she comes back

to me with rosy cheeks and as strong and well as possible.'

Marthe often spoke of Les Tulettes, manifesting as she did so a lurking

fear of insanity, and Abbé Faujas thus became aware of a strange dread

haunting this peaceful home. Marthe loved her husband with a sober,

unimpassioned love, but there was mingled with her affection for him

considerable fear of his jokes and pleasantries, his perpetual teasing.

She was hurt, too, by his selfishness, and the loneliness in which he

left her; she felt a vague grudge against him for the quietude in which

she lived--that very manner of life which she said made her happy. When

she spoke of him, she said:

'He is very good to us. You've heard him, I dare say, get angry

sometimes, but that arises from his passion for seeing everything

in order, which he often carries to an almost ridiculous extent. He

gets quite vexed if he sees a flower-pot a little out of place in the

garden, or a plaything lying about on the floor; but in other matters

he does quite right in pleasing himself. I know he is not very popular,

because he has managed to accumulate some money, and still continues

to do a good stroke of business every now and then; but he only laughs

at what people say about him. They say nasty things, too, of him in

connexion with me. They say that he is a miser, and won't let me go out

anywhere, and even deprives me of boots. But all that is quite untrue.

I am entirely free. He certainly prefers to see me here when he comes

home, instead of finding that I am always off somewhere, paying calls

and walking on the promenade. But he knows quite well what my tastes

are. What, indeed, should I go out for?'

As she defended Mouret against the gossip of Plassans, Marthe's voice

assumed a sudden animation, as though she felt the need of defending

him quite as much from the secret accusations which arose within

her own mind; and she kept reverting with nervous uneasiness to the

subject of society life. She seemed to seek a refuge within the little

dining-room and the old-fashioned garden with its box borders, as if

everything else filled her with vague alarm, and made her doubtful of

her strength, apprehensive of some possible catastrophe. Then she would

smile at her fears, and shrug her shoulders as she resumed her knitting

or the mending of some old skirt; and Abbé Faujas would see before him

only a cold, reserved housewife, with listless face and inanimate eyes,

who filled the house with a scent as of clean linen, and of blossoms

gathered in the shade.

Two months passed away in this manner. Abbé Faujas and his mother had

become quite a part of the Mourets' family life. They all had their

recognised places every evening at the table, just as the lamp had its

place; and the same intervals of silence were broken night after night

by the same remarks from the card-players and the same subdued converse

of the priest and Marthe. When Madame Faujas had not given him too

tremendous a beating Mouret found his lodgers 'extremely nice people.'

All that curiosity of his, born of idleness, waned before the interest

and occupation that the nightly parties afforded him, and he no longer

played the spy upon the Abbé, whom he declared to be a very good

fellow, now that he knew him better.

'Oh, don't bother me with your stories!' he used to exclaim to those

who attacked Abbé Faujas. 'You get hold of a pack of nonsense and

put absurd interpretations upon facts that admit of the simplest

explanation. I know all about him. He very kindly comes and spends his

evenings with us; but he's not a man to make himself cheap, and I can

quite understand that people don't like him for it and accuse him of

pride.'

Mouret greatly enjoyed being the only person in Plassans who could

boast of knowing Abbé Faujas, and he even somewhat abused this

advantage. Every time he met Madame Rougon he put on an air of triumph

and made her understand that he had stolen her guest from her, while

the old lady contented herself with smiling quietly. With his intimate

acquaintances Mouret extended his confidences further, and remarked

that those blessed priests could do nothing like other people. Then he

gave them a string of little details, and told them in what manner the

Abbé drank, how he talked to women, and how he always kept his knees

apart without ever crossing his legs, and other trifling matters which

the vague alarm that his free-thinking mind experienced in the presence

of his guest's long, mystic-looking cassock made him notice.

The evenings passed away one after another, and at last the first days

of February came round. In all the conversations between himself and

Marthe Abbé Faujas had to all appearance carefully avoided the subject

of religion. She had once remarked to him, almost lightly:

'No, Monsieur l'Abbé, I am not a very religious woman, and I seldom

go to church. At Marseilles I was always too busy, and now I am too

indolent to go out. And then I must confess to you that I wasn't

brought up with religious ideas. My mother used to tell me that God

would come to us quite as well at home.'

The priest bowed his head without making any reply, and seemed to

signify that he would rather not discuss religious matters under

such circumstances. One evening, however, he drew a picture of the

unexpected comfort which suffering souls find in religion. They were

talking of a poor woman whom troubles of every sort had driven to

suicide.

'She did wrong to despair,' said the priest in his deep voice. 'She

was ignorant of the comfort and consolation to be found in prayer. I

have often seen heart-broken, weeping women come to us, and they have

gone away again filled with a resignation that they had vainly sought

elsewhere, and glad to live; and this had come from their falling upon

their knees and tasting the blessedness of humiliating themselves

before God in some quiet corner of the church. They came back there,

they forgot their troubles, and became God's entirely.'

Marthe listened with a thoughtful expression to these remarks of the

priest, whose last words fell in a gradually softening voice that

seemed to breathe of superhuman felicity.

'Yes, it must be a blessed thing,' she murmured, as though she were

speaking to herself. 'I have thought about it sometimes, but I have

always felt afraid.'

If the Abbé seldom referred to such matters as this, he frequently

spoke on the subject of charity. Marthe was very tender-hearted, and

tears rose to her eyes at the slightest tale of trouble. It seemed to

please the priest to see her so moved to pity; and every evening he

told her some fresh story of sorrow, and kept her constantly excited

with compassion. She would let her work fall, and clasp her hands as,

with a sad, pitying face, she gazed into his eyes and listened to him

as he recounted heart-rending details of how some poor persons had died

of starvation, or how others had been goaded by misery into committing

base crimes. At these times she fell completely under his influence,

and he might have done what he willed with her.

About the middle of February a deplorable occurrence threw Plassans

into dismay. It was discovered that a number of young girls, scarcely

more than children, had fallen into evil courses while loafing about

the streets, and it was even rumoured that some persons of high

position in the town would be compromised. For a week Marthe was

very painfully affected by this discovery, which caused the greatest

sensation. She was acquainted with one of the unfortunate girls, who

was the niece of her cook, Rose; and she could not think of the poor

little creature without shuddering.

'It is a great pity,' said Abbé Faujas to her one evening, 'that there

isn't a Home at Plassans on the model of the one at Besançon.'

Then, in reply to Marthe's pressing questions, the Abbé explained to

her the constitution of this Home. It was a sort of refuge for girls

from eight to fifteen years of age, the daughters of working men, whose

parents were obliged to leave them alone during the day while they

themselves went to their employment. During the day-time these girls

were set to do needlework, and in the evening they were sent back to

their parents, the latter having then returned home from their work.

By this system the children were brought up out of the reach of vice

and in the midst of good examples. Marthe thought the idea an admirable

one, and she gradually became so prepossessed in its favour that she

could talk of nothing else than the necessity of founding a similar

institution at Plassans.

'We might put it under the patronage of the Virgin,' Abbé Faujas

suggested. 'But there are such difficulties in the way! You have no

idea of the trouble there is in effecting the least good work! What is

quite essential to the success of such a scheme as this is some woman

with a motherly heart, full of zeal and absolutely devoted to the work.'

Marthe lowered her head and looked at Désirée, who was asleep by her

side, and she felt tears welling from beneath her eyelids. She made

inquiries as to the steps that it would be necessary to take for

founding such a Home, the cost of erecting it, and the annual expenses.

'Will you help me?' she suddenly asked the priest one evening.

Abbé Faujas gravely took her hand and held it within his own for a

moment, telling her that she had one of the fairest souls he had ever

known. He would willingly do what he could, he assured her, but he

should rely altogether upon her, for the assistance that he himself

would be able to give would be small. It would be for her to form a

committee of the ladies of the town, to collect subscriptions, and

to take upon herself, in a word, all the delicate and onerous duties

which are connected with an appeal to the charity of the public. He

appointed a meeting with her for the following day at Saint-Saturnin's

to introduce her to the diocesan architect, who would be able to tell

her much better than he himself could do about the expenses that would

have to be incurred.

Mouret was very gay that evening when they went to bed. He had not

allowed Madame Faujas to win a single game.

'You seem quite pleased about something to-night, my dear,' he said to

his wife. 'Did you see what a beating I gave the old lady downstairs?'

Then as he observed Marthe taking a silk dress out of her wardrobe, he

asked her with some surprise if she intended to go out in the morning.

He had not heard anything of the conversation in the dining-room

between his wife and the priest.

'Yes,' she replied, 'I have to go out. I have to meet Abbé Faujas at

the church about a matter which I will tell you of.'

He stood motionless in front of her, and gazed at her with an

expression of stupefaction, wondering if she were not really jesting

with him. Then, without any appearance of displeasure, he said in his

bantering fashion:

'Hallo! hallo! well I never expected that! So you've gone over to the

priests now!'

VIII

The next morning Marthe began by calling on her mother, to whom she

explained the pious undertaking which she was contemplating. She became

almost angry when the old lady smilingly shook her head, and she gave

her to understand that she considered her lacking in charity.

'It is one of Abbé Faujas's ideas, isn't it?' Félicité suddenly

inquired.

'Yes,' Marthe replied in surprise: 'we have talked a good deal about it

together. But how did you know?'

Madame Rougon shrugged her shoulders without vouchsafing any definite

reply. Then she continued with a show of animation:

'Well, my dear, I think you are quite right. You ought to have some

kind of occupation, and you have found a very good one. It has always

distressed me very much to see you perpetually shut up in that lonely,

death-like house of yours. But you mustn't count upon my assistance.

I would rather not appear in the matter, for people would say that

it was I who was really doing everything, and that we had come to an

understanding together to try to force our ideas upon the town. I

should prefer that you yourself should have all the credit of your

charitable inspiration. I will help you with my advice, if you will let

me, but with nothing more.'

'I was hoping that you would join the committee,' said Marthe, who felt

a little alarmed at the thought of finding herself alone in such an

onerous undertaking.

'No! no! my presence on it would only do harm, I can assure you. Make

it well known, on the contrary, that I am not going to be on the

committee, that I have been asked, and have refused, excusing myself

on the ground that I am too much occupied. Let it be understood, even,

that I have no faith in your scheme; and that, you will see, will

influence the ladies at once. They will be delighted to take part in

charitable work in which I have no share. Go and see Madame Rastoil,

Madame de Condamin, Madame Delangre, and Madame Paloque. Be sure to see

Madame Paloque; she will feel flattered, and will help you more than

all the others. If you find any difficulty about anything, come here

again and tell me.'

She accompanied her daughter to the head of the stairs; then she

stopped and looked her in the face, saying with her sharp smile:

'I hope the dear Abbé keeps well.'

'Yes, he is quite well,' replied Marthe. 'I am going to

Saint-Saturnin's, where I am to meet the diocesan architect.'

Marthe and the priest had considered that matters were still in too

indefinite a stage for them to disturb the architect, and so they had

planned just to meet him at Saint-Saturnin's, where he came every

day to inspect a chapel that happened to be under repair at the

time. It would seem like a chance meeting. When Marthe walked up the

church, she caught sight of Abbé Faujas and Monsieur Lieutaud--the

architect--talking together on some scaffolding, from which they

descended as soon as they saw her. One of the Abbé's shoulders was

quite white with plaster, and he seemed to be taking a great interest

in the operations.

At this hour of the afternoon, there were no worshippers or penitents

in the church, and the nave and aisles were quite deserted, encumbered

only by a litter of chairs, which two vergers were noisily setting in

order. Workmen were calling to each other from the tops of ladders, and

trowels were scraping against the walls. There was so little appearance

of devotion about Saint-Saturnin's that Marthe had not even crossed

herself on entering. She took a seat opposite to the chapel that was

being repaired, between Abbé Faujas and Monsieur Lieutaud, just as she

would have done if she had gone to consult the latter in his office.

The conversation lasted for a good half-hour. The architect showed

much kindly interest in the scheme. But he advised them not to erect

a special building for the Home of the Virgin, as the Abbé called the

projected refuge. It would cost too much money, he thought; and it

would be better to buy some building already in existence, and adapt

it to suit the requirements of their scheme. He suggested a house in

the Faubourg which, after being used as a boarding-school, had passed

into the hands of a forage dealer, and was now for sale. A few thousand

francs would enable one to entirely transform the place and restore

it from its present ruinous condition; and he promised them all kinds

of wonderful things: a handsome entrance, spacious rooms, and a court

planted with trees. By degrees, Marthe and the priest raised their

voices, and they discussed details beneath the echoing vaults of the

nave, while Monsieur Lieutaud scratched the flag-stones with the tip of

his stick to give them an idea of the façade he suggested.

'It is settled, then,' said Marthe, as she took leave of the architect.

'You will make a little estimate, won't you, so that we may know what

we are about? And please keep our secret, will you?'

Abbé Faujas wished to escort her as far as the door of the church. As

they passed together before the high-altar, however, while she was

still briskly talking to him, she was suddenly surprised to miss him

from her side. She turned round and saw him bent almost double before

the great cross, veiled with muslin. The sight of him, covered as

he was with plaster, bent in this way before the cross, gave her a

singular feeling. She recollected where she was, glanced round her

with an uneasy expression and trod as silently as she could. When they

reached the door, the Abbé, who had become very grave and serious,

silently reached out his finger, which he had dipped in the holy water,

and she crossed herself in great disquietude of mind. Then the muffled

doors softly fell back behind her with a sound like a sigh.

From the church Marthe repaired to Madame de Condamin's. She felt

quite happy as she walked through the streets in the fresh air;

the few visits that she had now to make seemed to her almost like

pleasure-parties. Madame de Condamin welcomed her with an air of

friendly surprise. That dear Madame Mouret came so seldom! When she

learned the business on hand, she declared herself charmed with it, and

was quite ready to further it in every possible way. She was wearing

a lovely mauve dress, with knots of pearl-grey ribbon, in that pretty

boudoir of hers where she played the part of an exiled Parisienne.

'You did quite right to count upon me,' she exclaimed as she pressed

Marthe's hands. 'Who ought to help those poor girls if it isn't we

whom people accuse of setting them a bad example by our luxury? It

is frightful to think of those children being exposed to all those

horrible dangers. It has made me feel quite ill. I am entirely at your

service.'

When Marthe told her that her mother could not join the committee she

displayed still greater enthusiasm for the scheme.

'It is a pity Madame Rougon has so many things to do,' she said with a

touch of irony; 'she would have been of great assistance to us. But it

can't be helped. No one can do more than they are able. I have plenty

of friends. I will go and see the Bishop; and move heaven and earth if

it's necessary. I'll promise you that we shall succeed.'

She would not listen to any of the particulars about the expenses.

She was quite sure, she said, that whatever money was wanted would

be found, and she meant the Home to be a credit to the committee, as

handsome and as comfortable as possible. She added with a laugh that

she quite lost her head when she began to dabble in figures; but she

undertook to charge herself with the preliminary steps and the general

furtherance of the scheme. Dear Madame Mouret, said she, was not

accustomed to begging, and she would accompany her on her visits and

would even take several of them off her hands altogether. By the end of

a quarter of an hour she had made the business entirely her own, and it

was now she who gave instructions to Marthe. The latter was just about

to take her leave when Monsieur de Condamin came into the room; so she

lingered on, feeling very ill at ease, however, and not daring to say

any more on the subject of her visit in the presence of a man who was

rumoured to be compromised in that matter of the poor girls with whose

shameful story the town was ringing.

But Madame de Condamin explained the great scheme to her husband, who

listened with an appearance of perfect ease, and gave utterance to the

most moral sentiments. He considered the scheme an extremely proper one.

'It is an idea which could only have occurred to a mother,' he said

gravely, in a tone which made it impossible to tell whether he was

serious or not. 'Plassans will be indebted to you, madame, for a purer

morality.'

'But I must tell you that the idea is not my own! I have merely adopted

it,' replied Marthe, made uneasy by these praises. 'It was suggested to

me by a person whom I esteem very highly.'

'Who was that?' asked Madame de Condamin, with a show of curiosity.

'Abbé Faujas.'

Then Marthe, with great frankness, told them what a high opinion she

had of the priest. She made no allusion to the unpleasant stories that

had been circulated about him, but she represented him as a man worthy

of the highest respect, whom she was very happy to receive in her home.

Madame de Condamin nodded approvingly as she listened.

'I always said so!' she exclaimed. 'Abbé Faujas is a very distinguished

priest. But there are such a lot of malicious people about! Now,

however, that you receive him in your home, they don't venture to say

anything more against him; all that calumnious talk has been cut short.

The idea, you say, is his. We shall have to persuade him, then, to take

a prominent part in putting it into execution. For the present we will

keep the matter very quiet. I can assure you that I always liked and

defended the Abbé.'

'I recollect talking with him, and I thought him a very good fellow,'

remarked the conservator of rivers and forests.

His wife silenced him with a gesture. She occasionally treated him in

a very cavalier style. Truth to tell, Monsieur de Condamin alone bore

the shame attaching to the equivocal marriage which he was charged with

having made; the young woman, whom he had brought from no one knew

where, had got herself forgiven and liked by the whole town, thanks to

her pleasant ways and taking looks, to which provincial folks are more

susceptible than might be imagined.

Monsieur de Condamin understood that he was in the way in this virtuous

consultation.

'I will leave you to your good designs,' he said with a slight touch

of irony. 'I am going to smoke a cigar. Octavie, don't forget to be

dressed in good time. We are going to the Sub-Prefecture this evening,

you know.'

When he had left the room, the two women resumed their conversation

for a few moments longer, returning to what they had previously been

saying, expressing pity for the poor girls who yielded to temptation,

and manifesting much anxiety to shelter them from danger. Madame de

Condamin inveighed eloquently against vice.

'Well, then!' she said, as she pressed Marthe's hand for the last time,

'it is all settled, and I shall be entirely at your service as soon

as you call for my help. If you go to see Madame Rastoil and Madame

Delangre, tell them that I will undertake to do everything, and that

all we want from them is their names. My idea is a good one, don't you

think? We won't depart a hair's breadth from it. Give my compliments to

Abbé Faujas.'

Marthe at once proceeded to call upon Madame Delangre, and then upon

Madame Rastoil. She found them very polite, but less enthusiastic than

Madame de Condamin. They discussed the pecuniary side of the scheme.

A large sum of money would be required, they said; the charity of the

public would certainly never provide it, and there was a great risk of

the whole business coming to a ridiculous termination. Marthe tried to

reassure them, and plied them with figures. Then they asked her what

ladies had consented to join the committee. The mention of Madame de

Condamin's name left them silent, but when they learned that Madame

Rougon had excused herself from joining, they became more amiable.

Madame Delangre had received Marthe in her husband's private room. She

was a pale little woman whose dissoluteness had remained a matter of

legend in Plassans.

'Indeed,' she ended by saying, 'there is nothing I should like to

see better. It would be a school of virtue for the youth of the

working-classes, and it would be the means of saving many weak souls.

I cannot refuse my assistance, for I feel that I could be of much use

to you through my husband, who as mayor of the town is brought into

continual contact with all the influential people. But I must ask you

to allow me till to-morrow before I give a definite reply. Our position

requires us to exercise circumspection, and I should like to consult

Monsieur Delangre.'

In Madame Rastoil Marthe encountered a woman who was equally listless

but more prudish, and who sought for irreproachable words when

referring to the unfortunate girls who had fallen. She was a sleek,

plump person, and Marthe found her embroidering a very gorgeous alb,

between her two daughters, whom she sent away at her visitor's first

words.

'I am much obliged to you for having thought of me,' she said; 'but

really I am very much occupied. I am already on several committees and

I don't know whether I should have the time. I have had some such idea

as your own myself, but my scheme was a larger one and, perhaps, more

complete and comprehensive. For a whole month I have been intending

to talk to the Bishop about it, but I have never been able to find

the time. Well! we will unite our efforts, and I will tell you my own

views, for I think you are making a mistake in some points. Since it

seems necessary, I will surrender still more of my time. But it was

only yesterday that my husband said to me: "Really, you never attend to

your own affairs; you are always looking after other people's."'

Marthe glanced at her curiously, thinking of her old entanglement

with Monsieur Delangre, which folks still chuckled over in the cafés

of the Cours Sauvaire. The wives of the mayor and the presiding judge

had received the mention of Abbé Faujas's name very suspiciously, the

latter especially so. Marthe was a little vexed at this distrust of

a person for whom she vouched; so she made a point of dwelling upon

the Abbé's good qualities, and eventually forced the two women to

acknowledge the merit of this priest, who lived a life of retirement

and supported his mother.

On leaving Madame Rastoil's Marthe merely had to cross the road to

reach Madame Paloque's, which was on the other side of the Rue Balande.

It was seven o'clock, but she was anxious to make this last call, even

if she were to keep Mouret waiting for dinner and get herself scolded

in consequence. The Paloques were just about to sit down to table in

a chilly dining-room, whose prim coldness spoke of provincial penury.

Madame Paloque hastened to cover up the soup-tureen, vexed at being

thus found at table. She was very polite, humble almost, anxious as she

really felt about this visit which she had not expected. Her husband,

the judge, sat before his empty plate with his hands upon his knees.

'The hussies!' he exclaimed, when Marthe spoke of the girls of the old

quarter of the town. 'I heard some nice accounts of them to-day at

court. It was they who led some of our most respectable townspeople

astray. You do wrong, madame, to interest yourself about such vermin.'

'I am very much afraid,' said Madame Paloque in her turn, 'that I

cannot be of much assistance to you. I know no one, and my husband

would cut his hand off rather than beg for the smallest trifle. We have

held ourselves quite aloof from everyone, disgusted as we are with

all the injustices we have witnessed. We live here very quietly and

modestly, happy in being forgotten and let alone. Even if promotion

were offered to my husband now, he would refuse it. Wouldn't you, my

dear?'

The judge nodded his head in assent and they exchanged a slight smile,

while Marthe sat ill at ease in the presence of that hideous wrinkled

couple, livid with gall and bitterness, who played so well the little

comedy of feigned resignation. Fortunately she recalled her mother's

counsels.

'I had quite counted upon you,' she said, making herself very pleasant.

'We shall have Madame Delangre, Madame Rastoil, and Madame de Condamin;

but, between ourselves, those ladies will only give us their names.

I should have liked to find some lady of good status and kindly,

charitable disposition, who would have taken a stronger interest and

shown more energy in the matter, and I thought that you would be the

very person. Think what gratitude Plassans would owe us if we could

only bring such an undertaking to a successful issue!'

'Of course, of course!' Madame Paloque murmured, quite delighted at

Marthe's insinuating words.

'I am sure you are wrong in fancying that you are without power to

assist us. It is very well known that Monsieur Paloque is a favourite

at the Sub-Prefecture; and between ourselves I may say that he is

intended to succeed Monsieur Rastoil. Ah, now! don't try to depreciate

yourselves; your merits are known, and it is no use your trying to

hide them. This would be a very good opportunity for Madame Paloque

to emerge a little from the obscurity and privacy in which she keeps

herself, and to let the world see what a head and what a heart she has!'

The judge seemed very restless. He looked at his wife with blinking

eyes.