In front of Rondonneau’s house-door, the _préfet_ glanced to right and
left to see that he was not being spied upon. He had heard that it was
said in the town that he went to the jeweller’s house for assignations
and that Madame Lacarelle had been seen following him into this house,
called the House of the Two Satyrs. He felt very bad-tempered over
this. He had another cause of annoyance. _Le Libéral_, which had
treated him respectfully for a long time, had attacked him vigorously
over the departmental budget. He was censured by the Conservative organ
for having made a transfer to conceal the expenses of the electoral
propaganda. M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin was perfectly honest. Money
inspired him with respect as well as love. He felt before “Property”
that feeling of religious terror that the moon inspires in dogs. With
him wealth had become a cult.
His budget was very honestly put together. And, apart from the
irregularities that had now become regular as the result of a faulty
administration common to the whole Republic, nothing worthy of blame
could be discovered in it. M. Worms-Clavelin knew this. He felt himself
strong in his integrity. But the polemics of the press put him out of
patience. His heart was saddened by the animosity of his opponents
and the rancour of the parties that he believed he had disarmed.
After so many sacrifices he was pained at not having won the esteem
of the Conservatives, which he secretly valued far more highly than
the friendship of the Republicans. He would have to inspire _le Phare_
with pointed and forceful replies, to conduct a lively, and, perhaps
protracted war. This thought was harassing to the deep slothfulness of
his mind and alarming to his prudence, which feared every action as a
source of peril.
Thus he was in a very bad temper. And it was in a sharp voice that,
throwing himself into the old leather arm-chair, he inquired of
Rondonneau junior whether M. Guitrel had arrived. M. Guitrel had not
yet come. So M. Worms-Clavelin, roughly snatching a paper from the
jeweller’s desk, tried to read while smoking his cigar. But neither
political ideas nor tobacco-smoke served to dispel the gloomy pictures
that crowded into his mind. He read with his eyes, but thought of
the attacks of _le Libéral_: “Transfer! There are not fifty people
in the county town who know what a transfer is. And here I can see
all the idiots in the department shaking their heads and solemnly
repeating the phrase in their newspaper: ‘We regret to see that M.
_le préfet_ has not abandoned the detestable and exploded practice
of making transfers.’” He fell into thought. The ash from his cigar
lavishly bestrewed his waistcoat. He went on thinking: “Why does _le
Libéral_ attack me? I got its candidate returned. My department shows
the greatest number of new adherents at election-times.” He turned
over the page of the paper. He thought on again: “I have not covered
up a deficit. The sums voted on the presentation of the estimates
have not been spent in a different way from what was proposed. These
people don’t know how to read a budget. And they are disingenuous.” He
shrugged his shoulders; and gloomy, indifferent to the cigar ash which
covered his chest and thighs, he plunged into the reading of his paper.
His eyes fell on these lines:
“We learn that a fire having broken out in a faubourg of Tobolsk, sixty
wooden houses have fallen a prey to the flames. In consequence of the
disaster more than a hundred families are homeless and starving.”
As he read this, M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin emitted a deep shout,
something like a triumphal growl, and, aiming a kick at the jeweller’s
desk:
“I say, Rondonneau, Tobolsk is a Russian town, isn’t it?”
Rondonneau, raising his innocent, bald head towards the _préfet_,
replied that Tobolsk was, indeed, a town in Asiatic Russia.
“Well,” cried M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, “we are going to give an
entertainment for the benefit of the sufferers by the fire at Tobolsk.”
And he added between his teeth:
“I’ll make … a Russian entertainment for ’em. I shall have six weeks’
peace, and they won’t talk any more about transfers.”
At that moment Abbé Guitrel, with anxious eyes, his hat under his arm,
entered the jeweller’s shop.
“Do you know, monsieur l’abbé,” said the _préfet_ to him, “that, by
general request, I am authorising entertainments for the benefit of the
sufferers from the fire at Tobolsk—concerts, special performances,
bazaars, &c.? I hope that the Church will join in these benevolent
entertainments.”
“The Church, monsieur _le préfet_,” replied Abbé Guitrel, “has her
hands full of comfort for the afflicted who come to her. And doubtless
her prayers …”
“_À propos_, my dear abbé, your affairs are not getting on at all. I
come from Paris. I saw the friends whom I have at the Department of
Religion. And I bring back bad news. To start with, there are eighteen
of you.”
“Eighteen?”
“Eighteen candidates for the bishopric of Tourcoing. In the first rank
is Abbé Olivet, curé of one of the richest parishes in Paris, and the
president’s candidate. Next there is Abbé Lavardin, vicar-general at
Grenoble. Ostensibly, he is supported by the nuncio.”
“I have not the honour of knowing M. Lavardin, but I do not think he
can be the candidate of the nunciature. It is possible that the nuncio
has his favourite. But assuredly that favourite remains unknown. The
nunciature does not solicit on behalf of its protégés. It insists on
their appointment.”
“Ah! ah! monsieur l’abbé, they are cute at the nunciature.”
“Monsieur _le préfet_, the members of it are not all eminent in
themselves; but they have on their side unbroken tradition, and their
action is guided by secular rules. It is a force, monsieur _le préfet_,
a great force.”
“By Jove, yes! But we were saying that there is the president’s
candidate and the nuncio’s candidate. There is also your own
Archbishop’s candidate. When they first mentioned him, I thought to
myself that it was you. … We were wrong, my poor friend. Monseigneur
Charlot’s protégé—I’ll wager you won’t guess who it is.”
“Don’t make a wager, monsieur _le préfet_, don’t make a wager. I would
bet that the candidate of Monseigneur the Cardinal-Archbishop is his
vicar-general, M. de Goulet.”
“How do you know that? I did not know it myself.”
“Monsieur _le préfet_, you are not unaware that Monseigneur Charlot
dreads that he may find himself saddled with a coadjutor, and that his
old age, otherwise so august and serene, is darkened by this fear. He
is afraid lest M. de Goulet should, so to say, attract this nomination
to himself, as much by his personal merits as by the knowledge that
he has acquired of the affairs of the diocese. And His Eminence is
still more desirous, and even impatient, to separate himself from his
vicar-general, since M. de Goulet belongs by birth to the nobility of
the district, and through that fact shines with a brilliancy which
is far too dazzling for Monseigneur Charlot. Since, on the contrary,
Monseigneur does not rejoice in being the son of an honest artisan who,
like Saint Paul, worked at the trade of weaver!”
“You know, Monsieur Guitrel, that they also talk of M. Lantaigne. He
is the protégé of Madame Cartier de Chalmot. And General Cartier de
Chalmot, although clerical and reactionary, is much respected in
Paris. He is recognised as one of the ablest and most intelligent of
our generals. Even his opinions, at this moment, are advantageous
rather than harmful to him. With a ministry disposed to reunion,
reactionaries get all that they want. They are needed; they give
the turn to the scale. And then the Russian alliance and the Czar’s
friendship have contributed to restore to the aristocracy and the army
of our nation a part of their ancient prestige. We are shunting the
Republic on to a certain distinction of mind and manners. Moreover, a
general tendency towards authority and stability is declaring itself.
I do not, however, believe that M. Lantaigne has great chances. In the
first place, I have reported most unfavourably with regard to him. I
have represented him in high places as a militant monarchist. I have
described his uncompromising ways, his cross-grained temperament.
And I have painted a sympathetic portrait of you, my dear Guitrel. I
have shown off your moderation, your pliancy, your politic mind, your
respect for republican institutions.”
“I am very grateful to you for your kindness, monsieur _le préfet_. And
what did they reply?”
“You want to know that. Well! they replied: ‘We know such candidates as
your M. Guitrel. Once nominated, they are worse than the others. They
show more zeal against us. That is easily accounted for. They have
more to beg pardon for of their own party.’”
“Is it possible, monsieur _le préfet_, that they talked like this in
high places?”
“Ha! yes. And my interlocutor added this: ‘I do not like candidates for
the episcopacy who show too much zeal for our institutions. If I could
get a hearing, the choice would be made from among the others. In the
civil and political ranks they prefer officials who are most devoted,
most attached to the government. Nothing can be better. But there are
no priests devoted to the Republic. In this case, the wise thing is
always to take the most honest men.’”
And the _préfet_, throwing the chewed end of his cigar into the middle
of the floor, finished with these words:
“You see, my poor Guitrel, that your affairs are not making headway.”