leave, Clorinde went downstairs with him, leaving M. de Plouguern by
himself while she went to dress. It was already dark on the staircase
as Clorinde descended it in front of Rougon without speaking a word,
and so slowly that he felt the rustle of her gauze costume. When she
reached the door of her bedroom she took a step or two forward before
turning round. Rougon had followed her to the threshold. 'You won't
bear me a grudge, will you?' she repeated in a low tone, again offering
him her hands.
He assured her that he would not; but as he once more took hold of her
hands his grip was so rough, so threatening almost, that Clorinde made
all haste to escape from him, and while he stood panting there he heard
her calling through an inner door which had been left open: 'Antonia,
bring a light and get me my grey dress.'
When Rougon reached the avenue of the Champs Élysées he felt dazed, and
stood still for a moment to inhale the fresh breeze which was blowing
down from the Arc de Triomphe. The gas-lamps of the avenue, where now
not a vehicle remained, were being lighted one by one, spangling the
darkness with a trail of vivid sparks. Rougon felt as if he had just
had an apoplectic fit, and rubbed his face with his hands.
'Ah, no!' he suddenly exclaimed aloud, 'no, no--it would be too
foolish!'
IV
AN IMPERIAL CHRISTENING
The baptismal procession was to start from the Pavillon de
l'Horloge--the central pavilion of the Tuileries palace--at five
o'clock. It was to wend its way along the main avenue of the Tuileries
gardens, the Place de la Concorde, the Rue de Rivoli, the Place de
l'Hôtel de Ville, the Arcole bridge, the Rue d'Arcole and the Place du
Parvis.
By four o'clock there was an immense crowd assembled near the Arcole
bridge. There, in the breach which the river made in the midst of the
city, a whole people could find accommodation. The view expanded,
with the Ile Saint Louis in the distance barred by the black line of
the Louis-Philippe bridge. The narrow arm of the Seine on the left
vanished amid a mass of low buildings; while the broader one on the
right afforded a far-reaching prospect bathed in purplish vapour,
through which the trees of the Port aux Vins showed in a green patch.
On both sides of the river, from the Quai Saint Paul to the Quai de la
Mégisserie, from the Quai Napoléon to the Quai de l'Horloge, were long
foot-pavements and roadways; while, in front of the bridge, the Place
de l'Hôtel de Ville afforded a large, open, level space. And over all
the wide expanse, the sky, a bright, warm June sky, spread a vault of
blue.
When the half hour struck, there were people everywhere. All along the
footways endless lines of eager spectators were pressed against the
quay parapets. A sea of human heads, which was continually surging,
filled the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. Opposite, in the dark gaps of the
open windows of the old houses on the Quai Napoléon, faces were thickly
crowding, and even in the gloomy alleys leading to the river, the Rue
Colombe, the Rue Saint Landry and the Rue Glatigny, women's caps, with
ribbons streaming in the breeze, could be seen leaning forward. The
bridge of Notre Dame displayed a serried row of sight-seers, whose
elbows rested on the stone parapet, as on the balustrade of some
colossal balcony. Further down, the Louis Philippe bridge swarmed with
little black figures; and even the most distant windows streaking the
grey and yellow house-fronts were every now and then brightened by
some gay dress. There were men on the roofs among the chimney stacks.
People, who could not be distinguished, were looking through telescopes
from their terraces on the Quai de la Tournelle. And the sunlight
spreading over all seemed like the very quiver of the crowd; it bore
afar the laughter of those surging heads, while gay, mirror-like
parasols reflected the glow, showing as planets amidst all the medley
of skirts and coats.
But there was one thing that was visible from every side, from the
quays and bridges and windows, and that was a fresco painting of a
colossal grey overcoat on the blank wall of a six-storeyed house on
the isle of St. Louis. The sleeve of this coat was bent at the elbow
as though the garment still retained the shape and attitude of a body
that had disappeared from within it. In the bright sunshine, above all
the swarming sight-seers, this gigantic advertisement presented a most
conspicuous appearance.[5]
A double line of troops kept the roadway clear for the procession.
National Guards were drawn up on the right hand, and infantrymen of
the Line on the left. At one end, this military cordon extended to the
Rue d'Arcole, which was gaudy with banners, while from the windows
hung costly draperies which flapped languidly against the dingy
house-fronts. The bridge, to which the crowd had not been admitted,
was the only clear spot amidst the general invasion, and it presented a
strange appearance, thus deserted. But, lower down, on the river banks,
the crowding began again. Shopkeepers in Sunday clothes had spread out
their pocket-handkerchiefs and seated themselves beside their wives
to rest after a whole afternoon of lounging idleness. On the other
side of the bridge, where the river expanded, showing a deep blue shot
with green just where its arms united, there were some boatmen in red
jackets who were working their oars to keep their boat on a level with
the Port aux Fruits. By the Quai de Gèvres, too, there was a floating
laundry, with wooden walls green with moisture, in which washerwomen
could be heard laughing and beating their clothes. And all the teeming
sight-seers, numbering from three to four hundred thousand people, now
and again raised their heads to glance at the towers of Notre Dame
which rose up square and massive above the houses of the Quai Napoléon.
Gilded by the declining sun, so that they looked ruddy against the
clear sky, the towers resounded with the clanging peals of their bells,
which sent a quiver through the atmosphere.
Three or four false alarms had already caused a great deal of jostling
in the crowd.
'I tell you that they won't pass before half-past five,' said a tall
fellow who was sitting in front of a café on the Quai de Gèvres with M.
and Madame Charbonnel.
It was Gilquin, Théodore Gilquin, Madame Mélanie Correur's old lodger,
and Rougon's redoubtable friend. He was dressed that day in a complete
suit of yellow duck, a cheap ready-made line, stained and creased, and
here and there unsewn at the seams. His boots, too, were split, and
his straw hat lacked a ribbon. However, he wore tan coloured gloves,
and for that reason considered that he was in full dress. He had been
acting since noon as a guide to the Charbonnels, whose acquaintance he
had made one evening in the kitchen at Rougon's house.
'You shall see everything, my children,' he said to them, as he brushed
aside the long black moustaches which swept across his tipsy-looking
face. 'You have put yourselves in my hands, haven't you? Very well,
then let me manage our little holiday.'
Gilquin had already drunk three nips of brandy and five glasses of
beer. For the last two hours he had been keeping the Charbonnels
prisoners at the café, whither he had brought them, on the pretext
that it was absolutely necessary to be in good time. It was a little
café with which he was well acquainted, and where they would be very
comfortable, he assured them, and he seemed to be on most familiar
terms with the waiter. The Charbonnels had resigned themselves to
their fate, and listened to his talk, feeling much surprised at its
abundance and variety. Madame Charbonnel had declined to take anything
beyond a glass of _eau sucrée_, and M. Charbonnel had ordered for
himself a glass of anisette, such as he occasionally indulged in at the
Commercial Club at Plassans. Meanwhile Gilquin discoursed to them about
the Baptism as explicitly as though he had spent the morning at the
Tuileries for the purpose of acquiring information.
'The Empress is in very high spirits,' he said. 'She got over her
delivery splendidly. She's a fine woman! You will see by-and-bye what
a figure she has. The Emperor got back from Nantes on the day before
yesterday. He went there on account of the floods. What a dreadful
calamity those floods are!'
Madame Charbonnel pushed her chair back. She was beginning to feel
rather afraid of the crowd which was streaming past her in increasing
numbers. 'What a lot of people!' she muttered.
'Yes, indeed,' cried Gilquin, 'I should think so. There are more than
three hundred thousand visitors in Paris. Excursion trains have been
bringing them here for the last week from all parts of the country.
See, over yonder there are some people from Normandy, and there are
some from Gascony, and some from Franche-Comté. I can spot them at
once; I've knocked about a good deal in my time.'
He next told them that the courts and the Bourse were closed, and that
all the clerks in the government offices had got a holiday. The whole
capital was holding festival in honour of the Baptism. Then he began
to quote figures, and calculate what the ceremony and rejoicings would
cost. The Corps Législatif had voted 400,000 francs,[6] but that was a
mere nothing, for a groom at the Tuileries had informed him that the
procession alone would cost nearly 200,000. If the Emperor got off
with a million from the civil list, he might think himself lucky. The
layette alone had cost 100,000 francs.
'What, 100,000 francs!' cried Madame Charbonnel in amazement. 'Why, how
can they have possibly spent all that? What can it have gone in?'
Gilquin laughed as he told her that some laces cost an enormous sum.
He himself had travelled in the lace business in former days. Then he
went on with his calculations: 50,000 francs had gone to the parents
of children who had been born on the same day as the little prince,
and of whom the Emperor and Empress had expressed their intention to
be godfather and godmother respectively. Then 85,000 francs were to be
spent in purchasing medals for the authors of the cantatas which were
sung at the theatres. Finally, there were 120,000 commemorative medals
distributed among the collegians, the pupils of the primary schools
and asylums and the non-commissioned officers and privates of the army
of Paris. He had got one of those medals himself, and showed it to
them. It was about the size of a half-franc piece, and bore on one side
the profiles of the Emperor and Empress, and on the other that of the
Prince Imperial, with the date of the latter's baptism, namely, June
14, 1856.
'Would you mind selling it me?' M. Charbonnel inquired of Gilquin.
The other expressed his willingness to do so, but as Charbonnel,
embarrassed as to what he should offer for it, handed him a
twenty-sous-piece, he declined it, saying that the medal was not worth
more than ten sous. Madame Charbonnel, meanwhile, was gazing at the
profiles of the imperial couple, and seemed quite affected by emotion:
'How good they look!' she said. 'There they are, side by side, like an
affectionate pair. See, Monsieur Charbonnel, you would say two heads
lying on the same pillow when you look at them this way.'
Then Gilquin returned to the subject of the Empress, of whose
charitable disposition he spoke in the most laudatory terms. But a
short time before her delivery she had devoted whole afternoons to
furthering the establishment of an educational institute for poor girls
in the Faubourg Saint Antoine. Moreover, she had just refused to accept
an offering of 80,000 francs which had been collected in sums of five
sous amongst the poorer classes for the purpose of buying a present for
the young prince; and by her express desire the money was to be devoted
to the apprenticing of a hundred poor orphans. Gilquin, who was already
somewhat tipsy, twisted his eyes about in the most dreadful manner as
he sought for tender phrases and expressions which should combine the
respect of the subject with the passionate admiration of the man. He
declared that he would gladly offer up his life in sacrifice at the
feet of that noble woman. And nobody protested against this. The murmur
of the crowd seemed indeed like a distant echo of his praises. It was
now growing into a continuous clamour, while over the house-tops from
the bells of Notre Dame rolled peal on peal of clanging, tumultuous joy.
'Don't you think it time for us to go and take our places?' timidly
suggested M. Charbonnel, who felt tired of sitting still.
At this Madame Charbonnel rose up and fastened her yellow shawl about
her neck. 'Yes, I'm sure it is,' she said. 'You wanted to be there in
good time, and we're sitting here and letting everyone go past us.'
Gilquin, however, became indignant; and, with an oath, brought his
fist down on the little zinc table. Didn't he know all about Paris? he
asked; and then, as Madame Charbonnel timidly dropped upon her chair
again, he cried to the waiter: 'Jules, a glass of absinthe and some
cigars!'
But as soon as he had dipped his big moustaches in the absinthe, he
angrily called the waiter back again. 'Are you having a game with me?
Just take this filth away, and give me some out of the other bottle;
the same as I had on Friday. I have travelled in the liquor-trade, my
fine fellow. You can't bamboozle me.'
He calmed down, however, when the waiter, who seemed afraid of him, had
brought the other bottle, and then he tapped the Charbonnels on the
shoulders, and called them 'old fellow' and 'old lady.' 'Ah! so you're
itching to be on the move, are you, old lady?' said he. 'You'll have
plenty of use for your feet between now and to-night, so you needn't
be in a hurry. We're very comfortable at this café; don't you think
so, old fellow? We can take our ease and watch the people go by. We've
plenty of time, I assure you, so you'd better order something else.'
'Thank you, we've had all that we want,' said M. Charbonnel.
Gilquin had just lighted a cigar. He leaned back in his chair, inserted
his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, thrust out his chest, and
began to rock himself backwards and forwards. His eyes glowed with an
expression of perfect content. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him.
'I'll tell you what,' he cried; 'I'll call for you at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning, and take you off with me and show you all the
festivities. We'll have a splendid day of it.'
The Charbonnels looked at each other very uneasily. But Gilquin
proceeded to explain his programme after the manner of a strolling
showman. In the morning they would lunch at the Palais Royal, and walk
about the city. In the afternoon they would go to the Esplanade of the
Invalides, where there would be military performances, greasy poles,
three hundred balloons laden with packets of sweets, and one large
balloon raining down sugared almonds. In the evening they would dine
at a wineshop which he knew of, on the Quai de Billy; then they would
see the fireworks, the principal set-piece of which would represent a
baptistery, and afterwards they could stroll among the illuminations.
And he also told them of a fiery cross which was to be fixed on the
Hôtel de la Légion d'Honneur; of a fairy palace on the Place de la
Concorde, in the building of which 950,000 pieces of coloured glass had
been used; and of the image atop of the tower of Saint Jacques, which
would look like a blazing torch in mid-air.
As the Charbonnels still hesitated, however, he leaned towards them and
added in lower tones: 'And then, as we come back, we might look in at
a creamery in the Rue de Seine where they give you such stunning onion
soup with cheese.'
At this the Charbonnels no longer dared to refuse. Childish curiosity
and alarm mingled in the expression of their dilated eyes. They felt
that they could not escape from that terrible man, and must do whatever
he told them. Madame Charbonnel simply murmured: 'Oh! this Paris! this
Paris! Well, well, since we are here, I suppose we must see all that
there is to be seen. But if you only knew, Monsieur Gilquin, how quiet
we were at Plassans! I have a store-room full of preserves and brandied
cherries and pickles which are all mouldering away!'
'Don't alarm yourself, old lady,' replied Gilquin, who was growing more
and more familiar; 'when you gain your case, you can ask me to come and
stay with you, and then we'll all have a go at the jam-pots!'
So saying, he poured himself out another glass of absinthe. He was now
perfectly tipsy. For a moment he looked at the Charbonnels with loving
affection; but, all at once, he sprang to his feet and waved his long
arms while calling; 'Eh! eh! Hallo! you there!'
Madame Mélanie Correur, arrayed in a dress of dove-coloured silk,
was just then passing on the opposite footwalk. She turned her head
and seemed extremely annoyed at seeing Gilquin. However, she crossed
over with the majestic gait of a princess, but on reaching the table
required a deal of pressing before she would accept any refreshment.
'Come now,' cried Gilquin, 'have a little glass of blackcurrant brandy.
I know you like it. You haven't forgotten the Rue Vanneau, eh? We
used to have fine times then, didn't we? Ah! that big old stupid of a
Correur!'
Just as Madame Correur was at last sitting down, a loud shouting was
heard among the crowd. The promenaders scuttled off like sheep, as
though swept along by a gust of wind. The Charbonnels had instinctively
risen with the idea of following the others, but Gilquin's heavy hand
brought them to their chairs again. His face was quite purple.
'Just keep still and wait for orders, will you?' said he. 'Those
folks are making fools of themselves. It is only five o'clock, isn't
it? Well, then, it's the Cardinal-Legate who's coming; and we don't
want to see the Cardinal-Legate, do we? For my part, I think it's
very neglectful of the Pope not to have come himself. When a man is a
godfather he ought to behave as such, it seems to me. However, I tell
you that the youngster won't be here for another half-hour.'
His intoxication was rapidly depriving him of all sense of decorum.
He had cocked his chair back and begun to smoke in people's faces,
winking the while at the women and glaring defiantly at the men. A few
yards away, near the bridge of Notre Dame, there was now a block in the
road traffic. Horses were pawing the ground with impatience, and the
uniforms of high functionaries and officers, embroidered with gold and
glittering with decorations, appeared at the windows of the passing
carriages.
'There's a nice show of tinsel and pewter!' sneered Gilquin, with the
smile of a man who cares nothing for gew-gaws.
However, as a brougham came along from the Quai de la Mégisserie, he
almost upset the table as he sprang up and cried: 'Hallo, Rougon!'
He saluted the great man with his gloved hand, and then, fearing that
he had not been recognised, snatched off his straw hat and began to
wave it. At this, Rougon, whose senatorial uniform was attracting a
deal of notice, quickly withdrew to a corner of his brougham. And
thereupon Gilquin began to call him, raising his hand to his mouth and
using it as a speaking-trumpet. The people on the footway stopped and
turned to see what was the matter with this strange-looking fellow
dressed in yellow duck. At last, however, the coachman was able to urge
his horse forward, and the brougham turned on to the bridge of Notre
Dame.
'Do be quiet!' said Madame Correur in a low voice, while catching hold
of Gilquin's arms.
But he would not at once sit down again. He remained on tip-toes,
watching the brougham as it mingled with the other carriages, and at
last he hurled a parting shout after the fleeing wheels: 'Ah! the
turn-tail! just because he wears gold lace on his coat now! All the
same, my fat fellow, you were deucedly hard up once upon a time!'
Some middle-class citizens and their wives who were sitting at the
seven or eight tables of the little café heard this and opened their
eyes in astonishment. At one table there was a family, consisting
of the father and mother and three children, who seemed profoundly
interested in Gilquin's proceedings. The latter puffed himself out,
quite delighted to find that he had an audience. He let his eyes travel
round the customers of the café, and said in a loud voice as he dropped
into his seat again: 'Rougon! why it was I who made him what he is!'
Then turning to Madame Correur, who was trying to quiet him, he
appealed to her for corroboration. She knew that he was speaking the
truth, he proclaimed. It had all happened at the Hôtel Vanneau in the
Rue Vanneau. She surely wouldn't deny that he had lent Rougon his boots
a score of times to enable him to go to the houses of highly-placed
people and mix in a lot of mysterious goings-on. Why, in those days
Rougon only possessed an old pair of split shoes, which a rag-picker
wouldn't have taken as a gift. Then with a triumphant air Gilquin bent
towards the family at the next table, and exclaimed: 'Oh, she won't
confess it, but it was she who paid for his first pair of new boots in
Paris.'
Madame Correur, however, turned her chair round, so that she might no
longer seem to be one of Gilquin's party. The Charbonnels had become
quite pale at hearing the man who was to put half a million francs
in their pockets spoken of in such a fashion. Gilquin, however, was
wound up, and rattled off innumerable stories of Rougon's early days.
He, Gilquin, claimed to be a philosopher, and he began to laugh,
and accosted the parties at the different tables one after another,
smoking, spitting, and drinking, while telling them that he was quite
accustomed to the ingratitude of mankind, and was satisfied with
preserving his own self-respect. And he repeated that he himself
had been the making of Rougon. At that time, he said, he had been a
traveller in the perfumery line, but the Republic was bad for trade.
Both he and Rougon had been living on the same floor in a state of
starvation. Then he was struck with the idea of getting Rougon to send
for some olive-oil from a producer at Plassans, and they had both
wandered about Paris in different directions till ten o'clock at night
with samples of olive-oil in their pockets. Rougon was not clever at
the business, but he occasionally succeeded in getting some good orders
from the fine folks to whose houses he went in the evenings.
Ah! that rascal Rougon, he was a bigger booby than a goose in most
things, yet all the same he was very cunning. A little later, how he
had made him, Gilquin, run about to further his politics! Here Gilquin
lowered his voice a little and winked, and let them know that he
himself had belonged to the Bonapartist band. He had haunted the low
dancing-rooms crying out 'Long live the Republic'; for it was necessary
to profess Republicanism to get influence over the people. The Empire
certainly owed him a big debt for what he had done; but it hadn't even
thanked him. No, while Rougon and his clique shared all the prizes,
he was turned out of doors like a mangy dog. Well, on the whole, he
preferred that it should be so, he would rather remain independent.
He had only one regret now, and that was that he had not stuck to the
Republicans and made an end of all this scum with his musket.
'It's just the same, too, with little Du Poizat,' he said in
conclusion. 'He pretends not to know me now; a skinny little beggar to
whom I've often given a pipe of tobacco! And yet he's a sub-prefect
now! Why I've often seen him with big Amélie, who used to box his ears
and kick him outside the door when he didn't behave properly.'
After this he became silent for a moment as if overcome by tender
recollections amidst his maudlin fit. Then, glancing round at his
audience, he began again.
'Well, you've just seen Rougon. I'm as tall a man as he is, and I'm the
same age, and I flatter myself that I've got a better looking head on
my shoulders. Well, now, don't you think that it would be much better
for everyone if I were in that carriage instead of that great fat pig,
with his body covered all over with gold lace?'
However, just at this moment such a shouting arose on the Place de
l'Hôtel de Ville, that the people at the café became much too excited
to reply. The crowd made another rush; men's legs flew along, while
women caught up their petticoats to enable themselves to run the
faster. As the shouting came nearer and grew more distinct, Gilquin
cried out: