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HIS EXCELLENCY
[SON EXC. EUGÈNE ROUGON]
BY
ÉMILE ZOLA
WITH A PREFACE BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY
SOLE AUTHORISED ENGLISH VERSION
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1897
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I. THE CORPS LÉGISLATIF
II. RESIGNATION
III. MADEMOISELLE CLORINDE
IV. AN IMPERIAL CHRISTENING
V. PASSION AND MATRIMONY
VI. IN RETIREMENT
VII. AT COURT
VIII. RECALLED TO POWER
IX. IN OFFICE
X. A TRIP TO NIORT
XI. IN COUNCIL AT ST. CLOUD
XII. DEFECTION
XIII. CLORINDE'S REVENGE
XIV. TRANSFORMATION
NOTES
PREFACE
We live at such high speed nowadays, and the Second French Empire is
already so far behind us, that I am inclined to place _Son Excellence
Eugène Rougon_ in the category of historical novels. In some degree
it certainly belongs to another class of fiction, the political
novel, which in Great Britain sprouted, blossomed, and faded away
contemporaneously with the career of Benjamin Disraeli. But, unlike
Disraeli's work, it does not deal with theories or possibilities.
Whatever political matter it may contain is a record of incidents which
really occurred, of intrigues which were matured, of opinions which
were more or less publicly expressed while the third Napoleon was
ruling France. In my opinion, with all due allowance for its somewhat
limited range of subject, _Son Excellence Eugène Rougon_ is the one
existing French novel which gives the reader a fair general idea of
what occurred in political spheres at an important period of the
Empire. It is a book for foreigners and particularly Englishmen to read
with profit, for there are yet many among them who cherish the delusion
that Napoleon III. was not only a good and true friend of England, but
also a wise and beneficent ruler of France; and this, although his
reign began with bloodshed and trickery, was prolonged by means of
innumerable subterfuges, and ended in woe, horror, and disgrace.
The present translation of M. Zola's book was not made by me, but I
have revised it somewhat severely with the object of ensuring greater
accuracy in all the more important passages, and of improving the work
generally. And, subject to those limitations which deference for the
opinion of the majority of English-speaking readers has imposed on the
translator and myself, I consider that this rendering fully conveys the
purport of the original. During the work of revision I was struck by
the great care shown by M. Zola in the handling of his subject. There
is, of course, some fiction in the book; but, again and again, page
after page, I have found a simple record of fact, just deftly adapted
to suit the requirements of the narrative. The history of the Second
Empire is probably as familiar to me as it is to M. Zola himself--for,
like him, I grew to manhood in its midst, with better opportunities,
too, than he had of observing certain of its distinguishing
features--and thus I have been able to identify innumerable incidents
and allusions, and trace to their very source some of the most curious
passages in the book. And it is for this reason, and by virtue of my
own knowledge and experience, that I claim for _His Excellency_ the
merit of reflecting things as they really were in the earlier years of
the Imperial _régime_.
Against one surmise the reader must be cautioned. Napoleon III. and the
Empress Eugénie figure in the following pages without disguise; and
wherever the name of the Count de Marsy appears, that of the infamous
Duke de Morny--whom Sir Robert Peel, in one of his most slashing
speeches, did not scruple to call the greatest jobber in Europe--may be
read without a moment's hesitation. But his Excellency Eugène Rougon
is not, as many critics and others have supposed, a mere portrait or
caricature of his Excellency Eugène Rouher, the famous Vice-Emperor of
history. Symbolism is to be found in every one of M. Zola's novels, and
Rougon, in his main lines, is but the symbol of a principle, or, to be
accurate, the symbol of a certain form of the principle of authority.
His face is Rouher's, like his build and his favourite gesture; but
with Rouher's words, actions, opinions, and experiences are blended
those of half-a-dozen other personages. The forgotten ones! the men
whose names were once a terror, but who are as little remembered, as
little known, in France to-day, as the satraps of the vanished Eastern
realms, as the eunuchs who ruled the civilised world on behalf of
effete Emperors when Byzantium, amidst all her splendour, was, like
Paris, tottering to ruin. Baroche, Billault, Delangle, Fialin _alias_
Persigny, Espinasse--there is something of each of these, as well as
something of Rouher, in the career of Eugène Rougon as narrated by M.
Zola. Words which one or another of these men wrote or uttered, things
which one or another of them actually did, are fathered upon Rougon.
He embodies them all: he is the incarnation of that craving, that lust
for power which impelled so many men of ability to throw all principle
to the winds and become the instruments of an abominable system of
government. And his transformation at the close of the story is in
strict accordance with historical facts. He salutes the rise of the
so-called 'Liberal' Empire in the very words of Billault--the most
tyrannical of all the third Napoleon's 'band.'
Rougon has a band of his own--they all had bands in those days, like
the Emperor himself; and since that time we have in a similar way
seen Gambetta and his _queue_ and Boulanger and his _clique_. And,
curiously enough, as in Rougon's case, those historic coteries were in
each instance the prime factors in their leader's overthrow. Thus we
have only to turn to the recorded incidents of history to realise the
full truth of M. Zola's account of the Rougon gang. It is a masterly
account, instinct with accuracy, as real as life itself.
And Rougon, on whatever patchwork basis he may have been built, is a
living figure, one of a nature so direct, so free from intricacy, that
few ignorant of the truth would imagine him to be a patchwork creation
at all. Surely, to have so fully assimilated in one personage the
characteristics of half-a-dozen known men in such wise that, without
any clashing of individual proclivities, the whole six are truthfully
embodied in one, is a signal proof of that form of genius which lies in
the infinite capacity for taking pains.
If we pass from Rougon to Marsy we find another embodiment of that
principle of authority which both help to represent. Rougon, as M.
Zola says, is the shaggy fist which deals the knock-down blow, while
Marsy is the gloved hand which stabs or throttles. Years ago, when
I was unacquainted with this comparison, and was contrasting the
rising genius of Emile Zola with that of his great and splendid rival,
Alphonse Daudet, I likened M. Zola to the fist and M. Daudet to the
rapier. A French critic had previously called the former a cactus
and the latter an Arab steed. The cactus comparison, as applied to
M. Zola, was a very happy one; for I defy anybody, even the smuggest
of hypocrites, to read M. Zola's works without some prickings of
conscience. And verily I believe that most of the opposition to the
author of the Rougon-Macquart series arises from that very cause.
But I must return to Marsy, though he need not detain me long, for he
only flits across the following pages with his regal air and sardonic
smile. For a fuller and, in some degree, a more favourable portrait,
one must turn to the pages of Daudet, who of course could not write
ill of the man to whom he owed his start in life. In the present work,
slight as is the sketch, Marsy, or Morny, the name signifies little,
is shown as he really was--venal, immoral, witty, and exquisitely
polite. Then there is Delestang, who, physically, represents M. Magne;
while in like way Beulin-d'Orchère, the judge whose sister marries
Rougon, is copied from Delangle, whose bulldog face is alluded to by
most of the _anecdotiers_ of the Empire. La Rouquette is, by name at
all events, a connection of Forcade de la Roquette--a step-brother of
Marshal St. Arnaud--who rose to influence and power in the latter days
of the Empire; and M. de Plouguern, the profligate old senator, reminds
me in some respects of that cynical and eccentric Anglomaniac, the
Marquis de Boissy. The various members of Rougon's band are sketched
from less-known people. Kahn I cannot quite identify, but I suspect
him to be the deputy who was mixed up in the scandal of the Graissesac
railway line, to which M. Zola refers as the line from Niort to Angers.
However, there is no member of the band that I like better than
Béjuin, the silent deputy, who never asks a favour, and yet has favours
continually showered upon him. I have known a man of that character
connected with English public life.
To return to those of M. Zola's masculine characters who may be
identified with real personages, none is more genially, more
truthfully, portrayed than Chevalier Rusconi, the Italian or, more
correctly, Sardinian, Minister in Paris. Here we have that most amiable
of men, Chevalier Nigra, of whom Prosper Mérimée once said in my
presence: 'C'est un bohème tombé dans la diplomatie.' Withal, Chevalier
Nigra--who, though very aged, still serves his country, I believe,
with distinction at Vienna--was a very good diplomatist indeed; one
of Cavour's right-hand men, one of those to whom Italy owes union and
liberty. And what a career was his in France, and what memoirs might
he not write! Few diplomatists ever had stranger experiences: from all
the secret plotting which so largely helped to make Victor Emmanuel
King of Italy to the surveillance so adroitly practised over the
Empress Eugénie, whose support of Pope Pius IX. was ever an obstacle to
Italian aspirations. For her Nigra-Rusconi became the handsome, gallant
courtier; he was a musician, could sing and dance, was proficient in
every society accomplishment, and before long the Empress's Monday
receptions at the Tuileries, those _petits Lundis_ enlivened by the
wit of Mérimée, were never complete without him. Yet, all the time, a
stern duel was being fought between him and the consort of Napoleon
III. And so long as her husband ruled France she kept her adversary at
bay. Rome, capital of Italy, was but the fruit of Sedan. Yet Nigra was
chivalrous. When the bitter hour of reckoning arrived, he stood by the
woman who had so long thwarted him. He and Prince Richard Metternich
smuggled her out of the Tuileries in order that she might escape to
England, beyond the reach of the infuriated Parisians.
We catch a few glimpses of the Empress in the pages of _His
Excellency_. We find her at Compiègne surrounded by the ladies of
her Court; we also see her riding in state to Notre Dame to attend
the baptism of her infant son. A great day it was, when the Empire
reached its zenith: a gorgeous ceremony, too, attended by every pomp.
On referring to the newspapers of the time I have found M. Zola's
description of the function to be remarkably accurate. We espy the
Man of December raising the Prince Imperial in his arms, presenting
the heir of the Napoleons to the assembled multitude--even as once
before, and in the same cathedral, the victor of Austerlitz presented
the infant King of Rome to the homage of France. But neither the son
of Marie-Louise nor the son of Eugénie de Montijo was destined to
reign. And what a mockery now seems that grand baptismal ceremony,
as well as all the previous discussion in the Corps Législatif, of
which M. Zola gives such an animated account. What a lesson, too,
for human pride, and, in the sequel, what a punishment for human
perversity! I often read, I often hear, words of compassion for the
Prince Imperial's widowed mother, but they cannot move me to pity,
for I think of all the hundreds, all the thousands, of mothers who
lost their sons in that most wicked and abominable of wars in the
declaration of which the Empress Eugénie played so prominent a part.
Her evil influence triumphed in that hour of indecision which came
upon her ailing husband; and her war--_ma guerre à moi_--ensued, with
fatal consequences, which even yet disturb the world. And so, however
great, however bitter, her punishment, who will dare to say that it was
undeserved?
But whilst I consider the Empress to have been, in more than one
momentous circumstance, the evil genius of France, even as Marie
Antoinette was the evil genius of the crumbling Legitimate monarchy,
I am not one of those who believe in all the malicious reports of her
to be found in _la chronique scandaleuse_. That she threw herself at
the Emperor's head and compelled him to marry her, may be true, but
that is all that can be alleged against her with any show of reason.
She undoubtedly proved a faithful wife to a man who was notoriously
a most unfaithful husband. There are those who may yet remember how
one November morning in the year 1860 the Empress arrived in London,
scarcely attended, drove in a growler to Claridge's Hotel, and thence
hurried off to Scotland. Her flight from the Tuileries had caused
consternation there. For four days the _Moniteur_ remained ominously
silent, and when it at last spoke out it was to announce with the
utmost brevity that her Majesty was in very delicate health, and had
betaken herself to Scotland--in November!--for a change of air. This
ridiculous explanation deceived nobody. The simple truth was that
the Empress had obtained proof positive of another of her husband's
infidelities.
It is needless for me to enlarge upon the subject; I have only
mentioned it in corroboration of the portrait of Napoleon III. which M.
Zola traces in _His Excellency_. The Emperor was an immoral man--the
Beauharnais if not the Bonaparte blood coursed in his veins--and the
names of several of his mistresses are perfectly well known. For the
rest, M. Zola pictures him very accurately: moody, reserved, with vague
humanitarian notions, and as great a predilection for secret police
spying as was evinced by Louis XV. The intrigue between him and M.
Zola's heroine, Clorinde, is no extravagant notion. Here again a large
amount of actual fact is skilfully blended with a little fiction.
Clorinde Balbi at once suggests the beautiful Countess de Castiglione;
but in the account of her earlier career one finds a suggestion of
the behaviour which innumerable scandalmongers impute--wrongly, I
believe--to the Empress Eugénie. In Clorinde's mother, the Contessa
Balbi, there is more than a suggestion of Madame de Montijo, who was
undoubtedly an adventuress of good birth. Both the Balbis are very
cleverly drawn; they typify a class of women that has long flourished
in France, where it still has some notorious representatives. It is
a class of great popularity with novelists and playwrights, possibly
because contemporary history has furnished so many examples of it, from
the aforementioned Countess de Castiglione who laid siege to Napoleon
III. in order to induce him to further the designs of Cavour and Victor
Emmanuel, to the Baroness de Kaulla, who ensnared poor General de
Cissey that she might extract from him the military and Foreign Office
secrets of France. And with half-a-dozen historical instances in my
mind, I find no exaggeration in the character of Clorinde as portrayed
in _His Excellency_.
Having thus passed M. Zola's personages in review, I would now refer
to the actual scenes which he describes. The account of the sitting
of the Corps Législatif, given in the opening chapter, is as accurate
as the official report in the _Moniteur_ of that time. The report on
the estimates for the baptism of the Prince Imperial is taken from the
_Moniteur_ verbatim. In Chapter III., when the Balbis are shown at
home, the description of the house in the Champs Élysées is assuredly
that of the famous _niche à Fidèle_. The baptism, described in Chapter
IV., is, as I have already mentioned, very faithfully dealt with.
I have by me an account of the day's proceedings written for the
_Illustrated Times_ by my uncle, the late Frank Vizetelly, who was
killed in the Soudan; and I find him laying stress on the very points
which M. Zola brings into prominence, often indeed using almost the
same words. However, this is but one of the curious coincidences on
which malicious critics found ridiculous charges of plagiarism; for
I am convinced that M. Zola never saw the _Illustrated Times_ in his
life, and moreover he knows no English. Passing to Chapter V., which
narrates the horse-whipping administered by Clorinde to Rougon--an
incident which it has been necessary to 'tone down' in this English
version--I may remark that this is founded on contemporary scandal,
according to which the true scene of the affair would be the Imperial
stables at Compiègne, and the recipient of the whipping none other
than Napoleon III. himself. In Chapter VI., the scheme for reclaiming
the waste Landes of Gascony is well-known matter of history. Suggested
to the Emperor, this scheme was ultimately taken up by him with
considerable vigour, and though it was never fully carried out it may
rank as one of the few really beneficent enterprises of the Imperial
_régime_.
In the ensuing chapter we come to Compiègne, and here I have found
nothing to call in question. I was twice at Compiègne myself under
the Empire, of course not as a guest, but in connection with work
for the _Illustrated London News_, which brought my father and
myself into constant intercourse with the Imperial Court over a term
of years. And, judging by my personal recollections, I consider M.
Zola's picture of life at Compiègne to be a very true one. He has
been attacked, however, for having based his descriptions on a work
called _Les Confidences d'un Valet de Chambre_. Some few years ago Mr.
Andrew Lang, in criticising the French original of _His Excellency_
in an English review, sternly reproved M. Zola for relying, in any
degree, upon such back-stairs gossip. But a little knowledge is a
dangerous thing. Whatever its title may be, _Les Confidences d'un
Valet de Chambre_ was not written by a _valet de chambre_ at all. I
have a copy of it among my collection of books relating to the Empire.
It is brimful of information, bald in style, but severely accurate.
As for its authorship, these are the facts: The Court's sojourn at
Compiègne, which lasted for a month or six weeks every autumn--having
been suggested in part by the _Voyages à Fontainebleau_ of the _ancien
régime_, and in part by the Empress's partiality for the place where
she had been wooed and won by Napoleon--had long been the subject of
tittle-tattle among the Parisians. The newspapers dared not publish
any of the current scandal for fear of being immediately suppressed;
however, the impression prevailed, especially among the lower classes,
that the Court only betook itself to Compiègne to indulge in a month's
orgie far from such prying eyes as might have spied upon any similar
excesses at the Tuileries. So many reports circulated, that it was at
last deemed expedient to give the _entrée_ to the château to a Court
chronicler, who should report what actually took place there, and in
this way show the Parisians how foolish were the stories circulated
through the cafés and wine-shops. The _soi-disant valet de chambre_
was then, purely and simply, a journalist recommended by Théophile
Gautier; and his accounts of the Court at Compiègne were published,
in part at all events, by the Paris _Figaro_, and were subsequently
collected in volume form. There is no scandal of any kind in the
book: it simply chronicles the day's doings, with descriptions of the
various rooms of the château, and accounts of certain Court customs
thrown in here and there. Nobody desirous of describing life in
Imperial circles at second-hand could do without this little volume,
and it is only natural that M. Zola should have consulted it. Its
general accuracy I can, by personal knowledge, fully confirm. Among
the various incidents which M. Zola has adapted from it I may mention
that of the aged dignitary who fondles first the Prince Imperial and
afterwards the Emperor's dog Nero. This aged dignitary is a little bit
of invention, the real hero of the incident having been a certain M.
Leciel, an _adjoint_ to the Mayor of Compiègne, who subsequently got
into hot water with the Empress owing to his partiality for irreverent
witticisms which usually turned upon his own name. In English we might
have called him Mr. Heaven. His residence at Compiègne adjoined the
somewhat dirty little inn of the Holy Ghost, which it was at one time
proposed to demolish in order to build a new theatre, which was to have
been connected with the château by means of a suspension bridge. This
gave M. Leciel an opportunity for a most deplorable pun concerning
himself and the inn, which he calmly repeated to the Empress, who was
considerably incensed thereat. And in the result M. Leciel received no
further invitations to the château.
But I must pass from Compiègne to M. Zola's next chapter, in which he
deals, indirectly, with the famous Orsini conspiracy. Here we find a
story of how the authorities were warned of the approaching attempt at
assassination--a story which I have heard told by M. Claude, the famous
ex-chief of the detective police, when I was his neighbour at Vincennes
in 1881. Something similar, I believe, figures in the so-called
_Mémoires de M. Claude_, but these, based on Claude's papers, which
were 'worked up' after his death by an imaginative penny-a-liner, are
worthy of little or no credence. It is, however, certain that the
French authorities were not only warned from London about the Orsini
plot, but obtained additional information in the manner described by
M. Zola, and that the incident became the stepping-stone of Claude's
subsequent fortune. In _His Excellency_ the Orsini affair is followed
by Rougon's return to power. For Rougon one should here read General
Espinasse, to whom the Emperor undoubtedly addressed the words: 'No
moderation; you must make yourself feared.' All that M. Zola says of
the wholesale arrests of French Republicans at that time is quite true.
Even the brief interview of the Prefect of the Somme with Rougon is
based on historical documents; while that in which figures the editor
whose newspaper publishes a story of feminine infidelity is derived
from the autobiography of Henri de Villemessant.
In Chapter X., which deals with Rougon's experiences at Niort, we have
the story of the arrest of the old notary Martineau. This, again, is
true, line for line, almost word for word; but the incident really
occurred at Charost, not Coulonges, and the notary's real name was
Lebrun. He was a cousin of the illustrious parliamentarian, Michel of
Bourges. And once again, fact is piled upon fact in Chapter XI., which
describes the Ministerial Council at St. Cloud. The project for the
creation of a new nobility emanated from Persigny and Magne; numerous
documents concerning it were discovered in the Emperor's study after
Sedan; and I may here remark _en passant_ that M. Zola has frequently
and rightly availed himself of those _Papiers trouvés aux Tuileries_
as published by the Government of National Defence. And he carries
accuracy to such a point that in Chapter XIII., when he is describing
Rougon's resignation, he dates the Emperor's acceptance of it from
Fontainebleau, as actually happened in the case of Espinasse; and gives
us a charity fair at the orangery of the Tuileries as the scene of the
minister's receipt of that acceptance--again an historical incident.
And finally, in the last chapter, which, like the opening one, deals
with the Corps Législatif, we read the very words of Jules Favre and
Billault. Moreover, when we here find a clerical deputy exclaiming,
'It displeases me that proud Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic,
should become the obscure vassal of Turin,' we must not attribute the
remark to M. Zola's imagination; for those words were spoken in that
very debate by Kolb. Bernard, who, with Vicomte Lemercier, led the
parliamentary group which opposed the Emperor's liberal policy in Italy.
Some readers and some reviewers may think that I have acted somewhat
unkindly to M. Zola in thus partially dissecting _Son Excellence Eugène
Rougon_, in showing how little it is a work of imagination and how
much a work based upon fact. I could have given many more instances
than those I have quoted, but this preface has already stretched to
such length that I must stay my hand. I would mention, however, that
I could in a similar way dissect most volumes of the Rougon-Macquart
series, for these books are novels in their arrangement only. Even
when they do not deal with historical personages and publicly recorded
facts, they are based on incidents which really happened, and more
frequently than otherwise portray people who really lived. The whole
series constitutes a truthful, life-like synthesis of a period; and
if certain readers recoil from some of the portraits contained in it,
this is simply because they will not face the monstrosities of human
life. And far from doing my good and clear friend, the author of this
imperishable literary edifice, an unkindness by pointing out where and
how he has borrowed and adapted, I conceive that I am rendering him a
service, for how often has not his accuracy been impugned! Moreover,
it is not upon power of imagination that he particularly prides
himself--though imagination, and of a high order, is undoubtedly a
feature of his genius--he claims rank chiefly by reason of his power of
delineation, his power of analysing, blending and grouping facts and
characteristics. In one word, he is a Realist. And if he is to describe
people as they have lived, incidents as they have really occurred,
how can he do otherwise than turn to the records of actual experience,
to the unchallenged descriptions of historical episodes? Plagiarism
forsooth! When every situation, every dilemma, every experience, every
characteristic and every emotion that can enter into the history of
the human race have been dealt with time without number by thousands
of writers of fiction, either in the form of the novel or the drama!
How, then, is it possible for anybody, however great his genius, to
be absolutely and perfectly original? Such originality is dead. Let
us bow to its grave; we shall never see it more. The only genius in
literature which can remain to the writers of to-day and to-morrow is
that genius which may lie in the handling of one's materials. The human
range of ideas is limited; even madmen--so closely allied to men of
genius--cannot carry their fancy beyond certain bounds; and thus the
old saws must crop up again and again, distinguished one from another
simply by mode of treatment. And as for such charges of plagiarism that
may have been brought against M. Zola, I apply to him the words which
Molière applied to himself: _Il prend son bien où il le trouve_. And I
will add that he does well in following this course, for over all he
casts the magnificent mantle of powers which none of his contemporaries
can equal.
E. A. V.
MERTON, SURREY, _April_ 1897.
HIS EXCELLENCY
I
THE CORPS LÉGISLATIF
For a moment the President remained standing amidst the slight
commotion which his entrance had caused. Then he took his seat, saying
carelessly and in an undertone: 'The sitting has commenced.'
He next began to arrange the legislative bills lying upon the desk in
front of him. On his left, a short-sighted clerk, with his nose close
to the paper he held, read the minutes of the previous sitting in a
rapid and confused manner, none of the deputies paying attention to
him. In the buzzing noise that filled the Chamber, these minutes were
only heard by the ushers, who maintained a very dignified and decorous
bearing which contrasted with the lounging attitudes of the deputies.
There were not a hundred members present. Some were reclining in their
red velvet-covered seats, with listless eyes, already half-asleep.
Others, leaning over their desks, as though wearied by the compulsory
labour of a public sitting, were beating a gentle tattoo on the
mahogany with their finger-tips. Through the ceiling-window, which
revealed a crescent of grey sky, the light of a rainy May afternoon
streamed down perpendicularly upon the pompous severity of the Chamber.
It spread over the desks in a sheet of gloomy ruddiness, brightening
into a rosy glow here and there where some seat remained unoccupied;
while, behind the President, the statues and sculpture-work showed in
clear white patches.
One of the deputies on the third row to the right still remained
standing in the narrow passage between the seats. He was rubbing his
rough fringe of grizzly beard with a thoughtful air, but as an usher
came by, he stopped him and asked a question in an undertone.
'No, Monsieur Kahn,' replied the usher, 'the President of the Council
of State has not yet arrived.'
M. Kahn thereupon sat down, and, abruptly turning to his neighbour
on the left, inquired, 'Tell me, Béjuin, have you seen Rougon this
morning?'
M. Béjuin, a small, thin man of dark complexion and silent demeanour,
raised his head nervously as though his thoughts were altogether
elsewhere. He had drawn out the slide of his desk, and was writing
a letter on some blue paper with a business heading formed of these
words: 'Béjuin and Co. The Saint-Florent Cut-Glass Works.'
'Rougon?' he repeated. 'No, I haven't seen him. I did not have time to
go over to the State Council.'
Then he quietly reverted to his work, consulting a memorandum-book, and
beginning a second letter, amidst the confused buzzing murmur of the
clerk, who was finishing his reading of the minutes.
M. Kahn leant back in his seat and crossed his arms. He had a face with
strongly marked features, and his big but well-shaped nose testified to
a Jewish descent. He seemed out of sorts. He gazed upwards at the gilt
rose-work on the ceiling and listened to the plashing of a shower which
at that moment burst down upon the skylight; and then with vaguely
wondering eyes he seemed to be examining the intricate ornamentation of
the great wall in front of him. His glance lingered for a few seconds
upon two panels hung with green velvet and decked with gilt borders
and emblems. Then, after he had scanned the columns between which
allegorical statues of Liberty and Public Order showed their marble
faces and pupil-less eyes, his attention was turned to a curtain of
green silk which concealed a fresco representing King Louis Philippe
taking the oath to the Constitution.
By this time the clerk had sat down; nevertheless, the scene remained
one of noisy confusion. The President was still leisurely arranging
his papers. He again and again pressed his hand on his bell, but its
loud ringing failed to check any of the private conversations that were
going on. However, he at last stood up amidst all the hubbub and for a
moment remained waiting and silent.
'Gentlemen,' he began, 'I have received a letter----' Then he stopped
short to ring his bell again, and once more kept silent, his grave,
bored face looking down from the monumental desk which spread out
beneath him with panels of red marble bordered with white. His
frock-coat, which was buttoned up, showed conspicuously against the
bas-relief behind him, rising like a black bar between the peplum-robed
figures of Agriculture and Industry with antique profiles.
'Gentlemen,' he resumed, when he had succeeded in obtaining something
like silence, 'I have received a letter from Monsieur de Lamberthon, in
which he apologises for not being able to attend to-day's sitting.'
At this a laugh resounded on the sixth row of seats in front of
the desk. It came from a deputy who could not have been more than
twenty-eight years old. He was fair and effeminately pretty, and was
trying with his white hands to stifle an outburst of girlish rippling
laughter. One of his colleagues, a man of huge build, came up to him
and whispered in his ear: 'Is it really true that Lamberthon has found
his wife? Tell me all about it, La Rouquette.'
The President, however, had taken up a handful of papers. He was
speaking in monotonous tones, and stray fragments of sentences reached
the far end of the Chamber. 'There are applications for leave of
absence from Monsieur Blachet, Monsieur Buquin-Lecomte, Monsieur de la
Villardière--'
While the Chamber was granting these different requests, M. Kahn, who
had probably grown weary of examining the green silk curtain stretched
before the seditious portrait of Louis Philippe, turned to glance at
the galleries. Above the wall of yellow marble veined with lake red,
there was a gallery with hand-rests of amaranthine velvet spanning the
spaces from one column to another; and higher up a mantle of embossed
leather failed to conceal the gaps left by the suppression of a second
tier of seats which had been assigned to journalists and the general
public previous to the Empire. The narrow, gloomy boxes between the
massive yellowish marble pillars, which stood in somewhat heavy
splendour round the semicircle, were for the most part empty, although
here and there they were brightened by the light-tinted toilettes of
some ladies.
'Ah! so Colonel Jobelin has come!' murmured M. Kahn.
And forthwith he smiled at the colonel, who had perceived him. Colonel
Jobelin was wearing the dark-blue frock-coat which he had adopted as a
kind of civilian uniform ever since his retirement from the service.
He sat quite alone in the questors' gallery, and his rosette as an
officer of the Legion of Honour was so large as to look almost like the
bow of a cravat.
But M. Kahn's eyes had already strayed to a young man and woman who
were nestling in a corner of the gallery of the Council of State. The
young man was continually bending his head and whispering to the young
woman, who smiled with a gentle air, but did not turn to look at him,
her eyes being fixed upon the allegorical figure of Public Order.
'I say, Béjuin,' M. Kahn remarked, nudging his colleague with his knee.
M. Béjuin, who was now busy with his fifth letter, again raised his
head with an expression of absent-mindedness.
'Look up there,' continued M. Kahn; 'don't you see little Escorailles
and pretty Madame Bouchard? I'll be bound he's making love to her.
What eyes she's got! All Rougon's friends seem to have made a point of
coming to-day. There's Madame Correur and the Charbonnels up there in
the public gallery.'
However, the bell sounded again for some moments, and an usher called
out in a fine bass voice: 'Silence, gentlemen!'
Then the deputies began to listen, and the President spoke the
following words, not a syllable of which was lost: 'Monsieur Kahn asks
permission to publish the speech which he delivered on the bill for the
establishment of a municipal tax upon vehicles and horses in Paris.'
A murmur ran along the benches, and then the different conversations
were resumed. Quitting his own place, M. La Rouquette came and sat down
near M. Kahn. 'So you work for the people, eh?' he said playfully,
and, without waiting for a reply, he added: 'You haven't seen or heard
anything of Rougon, have you? Everyone is talking about the matter,
but it seems that nothing is definitely settled yet.' Then he turned
round and glanced at the clock. 'Twenty minutes past two already!' he
exclaimed. 'Well, I should certainly be off now, if it were not for the
reading of that confounded report. Is it really to come off to-day?'
'We have all been notified to that effect,' M. Kahn replied, 'and I
have heard nothing of any change of plans. You had better remain. The
400,000 francs[1] for the baptism will be voted straight off.'
'No doubt,' said La Rouquette. 'Old General Legrain, who has lost
the use of both legs, has had himself carried here by his servant,
and is now in the Conference Hall waiting till the vote comes on. The
Emperor is quite right in reckoning upon the devotion of the whole
Corps Législatif. All our votes ought to be given him upon this solemn
occasion.'
While speaking the young deputy did his utmost to assume the
expression of a serious politician. His doll-like face, which was
ornamented by a few pale hairs, wagged gravely over his collar, and he
seemed to be relishing the flavour of the two last sentences he had
uttered--sentences which he had remembered from somebody else's speech.
Then he suddenly broke into a laugh. 'Good gracious!' he exclaimed,
'what frights those Charbonnels are!'
M. Kahn and himself thereupon began to make merry at the Charbonnels'
expense. The wife was wearing an outrageous yellow shawl, and her
husband sported a country-cut frock-coat which looked as though it had
been hewn into shape with an axe. They were both very short, stout and
red, and were eagerly pressing forward, with their chins almost resting
upon the balustrade of the gallery in order to get a better view of the
proceedings, which, judging by their blank, staring eyes, were utterly
unintelligible to them.
'If Rougon gets the sack,' said La Rouquette, 'I wouldn't give a couple
of sous for the Charbonnels' case. It will be just the same with
Madame Correur.' Then he inclined his head towards M. Kahn's ear, and
continued in a very low tone: 'You, now, who know Rougon, just tell me
who and what that Madame Correur is. She formerly kept a lodging-house,
didn't she? Rougon used to lodge with her, and it is even said that she
lent him money. What does she do now?'
M. Kahn assumed a very grave expression and slowly rubbed his beard.
'Madame Correur is a highly respectable lady,' he replied curtly.
This answer checked La Rouquette's curiosity. He bit his lips with the
expression of a school-boy who has just been lectured. For a moment
they both looked in silence at Madame Correur, who was sitting near the
Charbonnels. She was wearing a very showy dress of mauve silk, with a
profusion of lace and ornaments. Her face showed too much colour, her
forehead was covered with little fair dollish curls, and her plump
neck, still very comely in spite of her eight-and-forty years, was
fully exposed to view.
Just at this moment, however, the sudden sound of a door opening and
a rustle of skirts at the far end of the Chamber caused all heads to
turn. A tall girl exquisitely beautiful, but strangely dressed in an
ill-made sea-green satin gown, had entered the box assigned to the
diplomatic body, followed by an elderly lady in black.
'Ah! there's the fair Clorinde!' said M. La Rouquette, who had risen to
bow at random.
M. Kahn had also risen; but he stooped towards M. Béjuin, who was now
enclosing his letters in envelopes: 'Countess Balbi and her daughter
are there,' he said. 'I am going up to ask them if they have seen
Rougon.'
The President meanwhile had taken a fresh handful of papers from his
desk. Without ceasing his perusal of them he cast a glance at the
beautiful Clorinde Balbi, whose arrival had given rise to a buzz of
comments in the Chamber. Then, while he passed the papers one by one to
a clerk, he said in monotonous tones, never even pausing to punctuate
his words: 'Presentation of a bill to continue certain extra duties in
the town of Lille ... of a bill to unite into one single commune the
communes of Doulevant-le-Petit and Ville-en-Blaisais (Haute-Marne)----'
When M. Kahn came back again he seemed quite disconsolate. 'Really, no
one appears to have seen anything of him,' he said to his colleagues,
Béjuin and La Rouquette, whom he met at the foot of the semicircle. 'I
hear that the Emperor sent for him yesterday evening, but I haven't
been able to learn the result of their interview. There is nothing
so provoking as being unable to get a satisfactory account of what
happens.'
La Rouquette turned round and whispered into M. Béjuin's ear: 'Poor
Kahn is terribly afraid lest Rougon should get into disfavour at the
Tuileries. He might fish for his railway if that should occur.'
In reply M. Béjuin, who was of a taciturn disposition, said very
gravely: 'The day when Rougon retires from the Council of State, we
shall all be losers.' Then he beckoned to one of the ushers and gave
him the letters which he had just written, to post.
The three deputies remained standing on the left of the President's
desk, discreetly discussing the disfavour with which Rougon was
threatened. It was an intricate story. A distant relation of the
Empress, one Señor Rodriguez, had been claiming a sum of two million
francs from the French Government since the year 1808. During the
war with Spain, a vessel freighted with sugar and coffee, and
belonging to this Rodriguez, who was a shipowner, had been taken in
the Bay of Biscay by a French frigate, the _Vigilante_, and brought
to Brest. Acting upon information received from a local commission,
the administrative officials had declared the capture to be a valid
one, without referring the matter to the Prize Committee. Rodriguez,
however, had promptly appealed to the Council of State, and, after his
death, his son, under every successive Government, had vainly tried to
bring the matter to an issue until the day came when a word from his
distant cousin, Eugénie de Montijo, now all-powerful, had secured the
insertion of his action in the official cause list.
Of this the three deputies talked, while the President's monotonous
voice still resounded above their heads: 'Presentation of a bill
authorising the department of Calvados to borrow 300,000 francs ...
of a bill authorising the town of Amiens to borrow 200,000 francs for
the purpose of making new promenades ... of a bill authorising the
department of Côtes-du-Nord to borrow 345,000 francs to cover the
deficiencies in the revenues of the last five years.'
'The truth is,' said M. Kahn, again lowering his voice, 'that this
Rodriguez had a very artful method of managing his business. He and a
son-in-law of his, residing at New York, were the owners of vessels
which sailed either under the American flag or the Spanish, according
as one or the other might subject them to the least risk during their
passage. Rougon told me that the captured vessel was exclusively the
property of Rodriguez, and that there is no valid ground whatever for
the claims that are made.'
'And then,' interposed M. Béjuin, 'the steps that were taken by the
officials cannot be impugned. The administrative officer at Brest was
perfectly right in declaring the capture a valid one in accordance with
the customs of the port, without referring the matter to the Prize
Committee.'
Then they lapsed into silence for a moment while La Rouquette, with his
back resting against the marble wall, raised his head, and tried to
attract the attention of the fair Clorinde. 'But,' he asked naïvely,
'why does Rougon object to the two millions being paid to Rodriguez?
What difference would it make to him?'
'It is a matter of conscience,' said M. Kahn solemnly.
M. La Rouquette glanced at his colleagues one after the other, but,
seeing them both so grave, he did not even venture to smile.
'Then, too,' continued M. Kahn, as though he were dwelling upon some
thought which he had not expressed aloud, 'Rougon has had a good deal
of bother since Marsy has been Minister of the Interior. They have
never been able to get on together. Rougon himself told me that, if it
had not been for his attachment to the Emperor, for whom he has already
done so much, he would long ago have retired into private life. He no
longer seems welcome at the Tuileries, and he feels that a change has
become necessary for him.'
'He is acting like an honourable man,' remarked M. Béjuin.
'Yes, indeed,' said M. La Rouquette, with a wise look, 'if he wants
to retire, the opportunity is a good one. All the same, his friends
will be greatly grieved. Just look at the colonel up there, with his
anxious face! He has been hoping to fasten the ribbon of Commander of
the Legion of Honour round his neck on the 15th of next August. And
pretty Madame Bouchard, too, swore that worthy Monsieur Bouchard should
be head of department at the Ministry of the Interior before six months
were over. Little Escorailles, Rougon's pet, was to put the nomination
under Monsieur Bouchard's napkin on Madame's birthday. But where have
they got to, pretty Madame Bouchard and little Escorailles?'
The three deputies looked about for them, and at last discovered them
ensconced at the back of the gallery, in the front part of which they
had been seated at the opening of the sitting. They had taken refuge in
the gloom there behind a bald old gentleman, and were both very quiet,
though very red.
However, the President was now coming to the end of his reading.
'A bill,' said he, 'to sanction an increase in the rate of interest
upon a loan authorised by an Act of the 9th of June, 1853, and to
impose an extraordinary rate in the department of La Manche.'
Just then M. Kahn ran forward to meet a deputy who was entering the
Chamber, and as he brought him along he exclaimed, 'Here is Monsieur de
Combelot. He will give us some news.'
M. de Combelot, an imperial chamberlain whom the department of the
Landes had chosen as deputy upon the formally expressed desire of the
Emperor, bowed with a discreet air while waiting to be questioned. He
was a tall, handsome man, with a very white skin, and an inky black
beard which had been the means of winning him great favour among the
ladies.
'Well,' asked M. Kahn, 'what do they say at the Tuileries? What has the
Emperor decided upon?'
'Well, indeed,' replied M. de Combelot in a guttural tone, 'they say
a good many things. The Emperor has the warmest friendship for the
President of the Council of State. Their interview was undoubtedly of
the most cordial nature. Yes, indeed, most cordial.'
Then he stopped, after carefully weighing his words, as it were, so as
to satisfy himself that he had not said too much.
'Then the resignation is withdrawn?' asked M. Kahn, with glistening
eyes.
'I did not say that,' replied the chamberlain, uneasily. 'I know
nothing about it. You understand that my position is a peculiar one----'
He did not finish what he was going to say, but contented himself with
smiling, and then hurried off to take his seat. M. Kahn shrugged his
shoulders, and remarked to M. La Rouquette, 'But you, surely, ought to
be posted on what is going on. Doesn't your sister, Madame de Llorentz,
give you any information?'
'Oh, my sister is even more reserved than Monsieur de Combelot,'
replied the young deputy, with a laugh. 'Since she has become one of
the ladies-in-waiting, she has put on quite a minister's gravity;
though yesterday, indeed, she assured me that the resignation would be
accepted. By the way, I can tell you a funny story in connection with
this matter. It appears that some lady was sent to Rougon to try to
influence him. Now, you would never guess what Rougon did! He turned
her out of doors, although she was a delicious creature!'
'Rougon is a very steady fellow,' M. Béjuin declared solemnly.
M. La Rouquette shook with laughter, and, protesting against M.
Béjuin's estimate of Rougon, asserted that he could have disproved it
by evidence had he chosen. 'And so, Madame Correur, for instance,' said
he.
'Pooh! you don't know the truth of that story,' replied M. Kahn.
'And the fair Clorinde?'
'Nonsense, nonsense! Rougon is much too clever a fellow to forget
himself with such a wild creature as that!'