the gardener, the man was gathering up his tools and preparing to go
away. Rougon, bareheaded in the blazing sun, followed Clorinde, who
went quietly onward, tapping the shrubs with her riding-whip as she
passed them. Neither spoke a word. Clorinde did not even turn her head.
On reaching the stable, she waited while Rougon opened the door, and
then went inside, in front of him. The door, which Rougon swung back,
closed noisily, and Clorinde still smiled, her face wearing an open
expression, in which pride and confidence were clearly to be read.
The stable was a small and commonplace one, with four oak stalls.
Although the slabs had been washed that morning, and the racks and
mangers and other wood-work were kept scrupulously clean, there was a
strong scent about the place, and the atmosphere was warm and damp,
like that of a Turkish bath. From each of the two round dormer-windows
there fell but a pale glimmer of light, and the corners remained wrapt
in gloom. Clorinde, having just left the bright sunshine of the garden,
could at first distinguish nothing; but she kept still, and did not
open the door again for fear lest Rougon should think she was alarmed.
Only two of the stalls were occupied. The horses snorted and turned
their heads.
'This is the one, isn't it?' asked Clorinde, when her eyes had grown
accustomed to the gloom. 'He looks a very nice animal.'
She patted the horse gently, and then slipped inside the stall,
stroking the animal as she went without showing the least sign of fear.
She wanted to see his head, she said; and when she had made her way to
the far end of the stall, Rougon could hear her kissing the horse's
nose. The sound of those kisses exasperated him.
'Come back, I beg you!' he cried. 'If he were to step on one side, you
might be crushed to death!'
But the girl only laughed, kissed the horse more affectionately than
before, and spoke to him caressingly, while he, at this unexpected
fondling, fairly quivered with pleasure. At last she came out of the
stall again. She was very fond of horses, she said, they always knew
her, and never tried to hurt her, even when she teased them. She knew
how to manage them. Some were very skittish, but this one seemed very
steady. Then she stooped down behind the horse, and lifted one of its
hoofs with both hands as if to examine it. The animal remained quite
still.
Rougon gazed at her while she thus stooped before him; but all at once
she felt a slight touch under her arm-pits. She did not even start,
however; she went on examining the horse's hoof, till the touch became
more pronounced, and then letting the hoof drop, she stood up and
inquired: 'What is the matter with you? What has come over you?'
Then, as Rougon suddenly tried to clasp her round the waist, she rapped
his knuckles smartly, and, stationing herself against the wall in front
of the stalls, raised the train of her riding-habit, which was thrown
over her left arm, as a shield, while in her right hand she held her
whip uplifted. Rougon's lips were trembling, but he did not say a word;
Clorinde, however, seeming quite at ease, went on talking freely: 'You
can't touch me, you'll see,' she said. 'When I was younger, I used to
take fencing-lessons. I'm sorry I did not go on with them. Come, look
out for your fingers! There! what did I tell you?'
She seemed to be only in fun. She did not strike Rougon severely, but
just playfully lashed at him whenever his hands came too near. She
was so quick in her defence that he could not even touch her dress.
A perfect hail came clattering down upon him on every side. Before
long he was tingling all over, and stepped back panting, with his face
very red, and drops of perspiration trickling down his brow. Then,
however, his manner changed, and still without a word he advanced
menacingly; but Clorinde, though smiling and talking as before, at once
struck him several smart blows of increasing severity. She looked very
beautiful as she stood there with her skirts drawn tightly, and her
corsage yielding to every movement of her lissom figure. She was like
a sinuous, bluish-black serpent, and whenever she raised her arm to
strike, at the same time slightly throwing her head back, her throat
and bosom formed a charming curve.
'Well, now,' she exclaimed, with a laugh, 'have you had enough? You'll
be the first to tire, I think, my friend.'
But in her turn she suddenly stopped talking. Rougon's eyes were
glaring fiercely now, and his face was quite crimson. Then a bright
light also appeared in Clorinde's eyes, and she seemed to revel in the
whipping she was administering to him. Again and again did she wheel
and slash about her. And at last, as he, goaded to fury, made a yet
more desperate onslaught, she put forth all her strength and cut him
clean across the face from ear to ear.
'Hussy!' he cried, and broke into a torrent of coarse language,
abominable charges, swearing and sputtering, half-choked by his
excitement.
She did not deign to reply. For a moment she stood there motionless and
haughtily calm like a statue, with her face very pale.
But he burst into a strain of passionate pleading; and thereupon she
looked at him and answered: 'Well, then, marry me!'
At this, however, Rougon, as if recovering his self-possession, forced
a laugh, a sneering, insulting laugh, and shook his head.
Her retort, the only one that womanly pride could dictate, came swift
and forcible. Then neither spoke again.
The horses in the stalls had turned their heads and were snorting,
disturbed by the contest which they had heard. The sun had just risen
high enough to shine through the dormer-windows, and two golden beams
sent sparkles dancing through the gloom of the stable. Clorinde,
now perfectly calm again, slipped up to Monarque's head, with her
whip under her arm. She gave the horse two kisses on the muzzle and
exclaimed: 'Good-bye, old fellow. You, at any rate, know how to behave
yourself.'
Rougon, quite crushed and ashamed, was also now perfectly calm. With
his hands still quivering he straightened his cravat, and felt his coat
to ascertain if it was properly buttoned. Then they walked quietly back
through the garden. Rougon's left cheek was stinging him, and he dabbed
it with his handkerchief. When they reached his study, Clorinde's first
glance was for the timepiece. 'That makes thirty-two tickets,' she said
with a smile.
As Rougon looked at her in surprise, she once more broke into a laugh,
and continued: 'You had better send me off at once. The hand is moving
forward. The thirty-third minute has begun. See, I'm putting the
tickets on your desk.'
Rougon gave her three hundred and twenty francs without a moment's
hesitation. Scarcely did his fingers tremble as he counted out the
gold. It was a fine which he had inflicted upon himself. Then Clorinde,
carried away by the manner in which he put down such a sum of money,
stepped up to him with an adorable expression, offering him her cheek.
And when he had kissed it in a fatherly fashion, she went off, looking
quite delighted, and saying: 'Thank you for the poor girls. I have only
seven tickets left now. My godfather will take those.'
As soon as Rougon was alone again, he sat down at his desk by sheer
force of habit. He resumed his work, and for some minutes wrote and
consulted the papers that were lying in front of him. Then he held up
his pen, and a grave expression came over his face as he gazed blankly
through the open window into the garden. He again saw Clorinde's lithe
form swaying before him like some bluish serpent. She glided on and
entered the room, and sprang up on the living tail which her habit
seemed to form. He saw her quivering as her arms uncoiled towards
him; and gradually the room seemed full of her presence. Silently,
passionately, it pervaded everything: the carpet, the chairs, the
curtains, diffusing over all a penetrating perfume.
Then Rougon violently threw his pen down and rose in anger. Was that
girl now going to prevent him from working? Was he going mad that
he should see things which had no existence? he whose brain was so
strong! He recalled to his mind a woman, nigh whom he had many a time
written the whole night long, when he was a student, without even
noticing her gentle breathing. Then he drew up the blind, and to
establish a draught opened the other window and a door on the opposite
side of the room, as though he were stifling. And with angry gestures
similar to those with which he would have driven away some dangerous
wasp, he tried to drive away the scent of Clorinde by flapping his
handkerchief in the air. When he no longer noticed it, he drew a deep
breath and again dabbed his face with his handkerchief to assuage the
burning heat which Clorinde had brought there.
He could not, however, go on with the work he had commenced, but still
slowly paced the room, from one end to the other. As he caught sight
of himself in a mirror, he noticed a red mark on his left cheek.
Clorinde's whip had only left a slight scratch behind it, and he could
easily ascribe that to some trifling accident. However, although his
skin revealed but a slight red line, his flesh still smarted with the
slashing, galling cut. So he hastened to a little lavatory, curtained
off from the rest of the room, and plunged his head into a basin of
water. That afforded him considerable relief. He dreaded lest the
whipping he had received from Clorinde should only sharpen his passion.
He felt afraid to think about her till the scratch on his cheek should
be quite healed; the smarting which he felt seemed to descend and
thrill his whole body.
'No! never! I won't!' he said aloud, as he came back into his room. 'It
would be madness!'
He threw himself on the couch and clenched his fists. Then a servant
came in and told him that his _déjeuner_ was getting cold, but he still
sat there, struggling with himself. His stern, set face distended with
the contest that was raging within him; his bull-like neck grew swollen
and his muscles strained, as though silently, within his vitals, he
were striving to suffocate some animal bent on devouring him. The
battle went on for ten long minutes. He could not remember having ever
exerted himself like this before; and, when he got up, he was quite
pallid and his neck was moist with perspiration.
On the next two days Rougon admitted no one to see him. He shut himself
up with a pile of work. He sat up one whole night. Three times again,
when his servant came into the room, he found him lying on the couch,
exhausted and with an alarming look on his face. On the evening of the
second day, however, he dressed to go to Delestang's, where he was
engaged to dine. But, instead of at once crossing the Champs Élysées,
he turned up the avenue and entered the Balbis' house. It was only six
o'clock.
'Mademoiselle isn't at home,' said the little servant Antonia, laughing
like a black goat, as she stopped him on the staircase.
Rougon raised his voice on the chance of making himself heard, and was
hesitating whether he should go down again, when Clorinde appeared up
above, leaning over the balusters. 'Come up!' she called. 'What an
idiot that girl is! She never understands anything that is told her.'
When Rougon reached the first floor, Clorinde took him into a small
room adjoining her bedchamber. It was a dressing-room, with light blue
wall-paper of a flowery pattern, but she had furnished it with a big
dingy mahogany desk, an arm-chair upholstered in leather, and a nest of
pasteboard boxes. Papers were lying about, thickly covered with dust.
The place looked like the office of some disreputable process server.
To accommodate Rougon the girl was obliged to fetch a chair from her
bedroom. 'I was expecting you,' she called out as she went there.
When she came back with the chair, she explained to him that she was
busy with her correspondence. She showed him on her desk some big
sheets of yellowish paper, covered with large round handwriting. Then,
as he sat down, she noticed that he was in evening dress.
'Have you come to ask for my hand?' she said in a playful way.
'Exactly,' he replied. Then he added with a smile: 'Not for myself, but
for one of my friends.'
Clorinde gazed at him doubtfully, unable to tell whether he was joking
or not. She was dirty and untidy, and was wearing an ill-fitting
dressing-gown; but, nevertheless she looked very beautiful, like some
antique statue which is soiled by the dust of a broker's shop, but
whose beauty is beyond the power of dirt to conceal. And while she
sucked one of her fingers which she had just smeared with ink, her
eyes fell upon the slight scar which was still visible on Rougon's
left cheek. Presently she said, in a low voice and with an air of
absent-mindedness: 'I was sure you would come, but I expected you
sooner.' Then, seeming to wake up, she continued in a louder tone: 'So
it is for one of your friends; your dearest friend, no doubt.'
She laughed sonorously. She now felt sure that Rougon had meant
himself. She had a strong desire to touch his scar in order to satisfy
herself that she had really put her mark upon him and that henceforth
he belonged to her. But he took hold of her wrists and made her sit
down in the leather-covered arm-chair.
'Let us have a little talk,' he said. 'We are good friends, aren't we?
I have been thinking a good deal since the day before yesterday. You
have been in my mind the whole time. I fancied that we had got married,
and that we had been living together for three months. You'll never
guess in what occupation I saw us engaged.'
Clorinde said nothing; she felt a little embarrassed, in spite of all
her self-assurance.
'Well, I saw us standing by the fire-place,' he continued. 'You had
taken up the shovel and I had seized the tongs, and we were belabouring
each other.'
This idea struck Clorinde as so comical that she threw herself back in
her chair and burst into ringing laughter.
'No, don't laugh,' said Rougon; 'I'm quite serious. It isn't worth
while uniting our lives just to beat each other. I swear to you that is
what would happen. First there would be blows, and then a separation.
Be quite sure of this, that it is useless trying to assimilate two
strong wills like ours.'
'And so?' she asked, becoming very grave.
'And so I think that the most sensible thing we can do is to shake
hands and make up our minds to be nothing but good friends in the
future.'
Clorinde made no reply, but fixed her eyes searchingly and blackly upon
Rougon's. A terrible frown like that of an offended goddess appeared
on her Olympian brow. And her lips quivered slightly with a silent
expression of scorn.
'Will you excuse me?' she said. Then, drawing her chair to her desk,
she began to fold her letters. She used large yellow envelopes, such
as are employed in French government offices, and fastened them with
sealing-wax. She had lighted a taper and was watching the wax blaze.
Rougon quietly waited till she had finished.
'And you came here to tell me that?' she resumed at last, without
desisting from her work.
Rougon in his turn made no immediate reply. He wanted to get a glimpse
of the girl's face. When she at last turned her chair round again, he
smiled at her and tried to catch her eye. Then he kissed her hand, as
though anxious to soften her; but she still remained cold and haughty.
'I told you,' he said, 'that I have come to ask you in marriage on
behalf of one of my friends.'
Then he spoke at length. He loved her, he told her, much more than she
imagined. He loved her particularly because she was intelligent and
able. It cost him a great deal to give her up, but he was sacrificing
his passion for their mutual advantage. He would like to see her ruling
her own house. He pictured her married to a wealthy man whom she would
mould to her own will. She would rule instead of having to surrender
herself. That would be much better--would it not?--than for them to
paralyse one another. He and she could speak out openly to each other.
He ended by calling her his child. She was his perverse daughter, he
said; her diplomatic bent of mind delighted him, and it would distress
him very much to see her career end unsatisfactorily.
'Is that all?' she said, when he finished. She had listened to him
with the greatest attention. And, raising her eyes to his face, she
continued: 'If you want to get me married in the expectation of
anything, I warn you that you are mistaken. Never! I told you.'
'What an idea!' he exclaimed, slightly blushing. Then he coughed, and
took a paper-knife off the desk and began to examine its handle in
order to conceal the trouble he was feeling. But the girl was deep in
thought again, paying no attention to him.
'And who is the husband?' she eventually asked.
'Can't you guess?'
Then a faint smile came to her face once more, and she shrugged her
shoulders, and began to drum on the desk with her finger tips. She knew
very well who it was. 'He is so stupid,' she said, in a low voice.
But Rougon began to defend Delestang. He was a very well-bred man,
and she would be able to do what she liked with him. And he gave her
particulars as to his health and fortune and habits. Moreover, he
promised that he would use all his influence in their favour should he
ever return to power. Delestang was, perhaps, scarcely a man of lofty
intelligence, but he would not be out of place in any position.
'Oh, yes, he'd scrape on well enough; I'm willing to allow that,' she
said, with a frank laugh. And she continued, after a pause: 'Well,
I don't say no; perhaps you are right. Monsieur Delestang is not
distasteful to me.'
She looked at Rougon as she spoke those last words. She fancied she
had noticed upon several occasions that he was jealous of Delestang.
But so far as she could see not a muscle of his face now moved. He
had found strength enough to destroy his passion in two days. And he
seemed quite delighted with the success of his scheme, and again began
to expatiate upon the advantages of such a marriage, as though he
were some shrewd attorney negotiating an affair from which she would
derive especial profit. He took her hands in his own and patted them
affectionately, as he went on: 'It was last night that the idea struck
me, and I said to myself, "It's the very thing!" I shouldn't like you
to remain unmarried. You are the only woman who seems to me to be
really deserving of a husband. Delestang settles everything. With him
one has elbow-room.' Then he added gaily: 'I feel convinced that you
will reward me by letting me see some very wonderful things.'
'Is Monsieur Delestang aware of your plans?' Clorinde now inquired.
Rougon looked at her in surprise for a moment, as though she had said
something which he had not expected from her. Then he calmly replied:
'No; it was no use saying anything to him. I will tell him all about it
later on.'
The girl had just resumed the sealing of her letters. After pressing a
large blank seal upon the wax she turned the envelopes over and slowly
addressed them in big handwriting. And as she tossed the letters to her
right, Rougon tried to read the addresses. The names were mostly those
of well-known Italian politicians. She must have noticed what he was
doing, however, for, as she rose and collected her letters to send them
to the post, she remarked: 'When my mother has one of her headaches, I
have to do the letter-writing.'
When Rougon was left to himself, he began to walk about the little
room. The pasteboard boxes in the stand were all labelled _'Receipts,'
'Letters,'_ and so on, like those of some man of business. He smiled,
however, when among the litter of papers on the desk, he caught sight
of a pair of old split stays. There was a piece of soap, too, in the
inkstand, and some scraps of blue satin on the floor, clippings which
had fallen during the mending of a skirt, and had not been swept away.
The door leading to Clorinde's bedroom was ajar, and Rougon had the
curiosity to peep inside; but the shutters were closed and the room was
so dark that he could only see the shadowy folds of the bed-curtains.
Just then, too, Clorinde came back.
'I must be off,' Rougon said to her. 'I am going to dine with your man
this evening. Do you give me full permission to act?'
The girl made no reply. She had turned quite gloomy again, as though
she had been reconsidering the matter on the staircase. Rougon had
already got his hand upon the balusters, but she brought him back into
the room and closed the door. Her dream was being dispelled, the hope
of which she had felt so sure that only an hour previously she had
regarded it as a certainty. The burning flush that comes from a deadly
insult rose to her cheeks. She felt as though she had received a blow.
'Then you mean it seriously?' she said, turning her back to the light,
so that Rougon might not see how flushed her face was.
When he had repeated his arguments for the third time, she remained
silent. She was afraid that if she began to speak on the subject she
would be carried away by an impulse of wild anger, which she could
feel surging within her, and she feared she might strike Rougon in
revenge for this crumbling away of the future which she had planned for
herself. But it was only a momentary impulse. She was soon calm again,
and then slowly asked, 'You wish this marriage to take place?'
Rougon did not hesitate, but answered in a full clear tone 'Yes.'
'Very well; let it be then.'
With slow steps, they returned to the door and went out on to the
landing, both looking extremely calm. The only signs of Rougon's last
victory over himself were a few drops of perspiration on his brow.
Clorinde held herself erect, certain of her power. They stood looking
at each other in silence for a moment, having nothing further to say,
and yet unable to part. At last, as Rougon took the girl's hand to
say good-bye, she detained him for an instant, and said without trace
of anger: 'You think yourself much cleverer than I am, but you are
mistaken. You will perhaps be sorry some day.'
Her threats went no further. She leant over the balusters and watched
him go down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he raised his head
and they smiled at one another. She had no thought of taking any
puerile vengeance upon him; she was already dreaming of punishing him
by some splendid future triumph of her own. And as she went back to the
dressing-room, she caught herself murmuring, 'Ah, well! all roads lead
to Rome.'
That very evening Rougon began to lay siege to Delestang's heart. He
told him of some very flattering imaginary remarks which Mademoiselle
Balbi had made of him at the banquet at the Hôtel de Ville; and
afterwards he never wearied of discoursing to him about the young
girl's extraordinary beauty. He, who had formerly warned him so
strongly to be on his guard against women, now did his best to deliver
him over to Clorinde bound hand and foot. One day he would dwell
upon the rare beauty of her hands; on another, he would glorify her
figure, describing it in the most alluring language. Delestang, whose
inflammable heart was already full of Clorinde's image, was soon
stirred by hot passion. When Rougon told him that he himself had never
thought about her, he confessed that he had been in love with her for
the last six months, but had kept silent on the subject from fear of
being too late. He now began to go to the Rue Marbeuf every evening to
talk about her. There seemed to be a general conspiracy against him. He
never spoke to anyone without hearing enthusiastic praises of the girl
he loved. Even the Charbonnels stopped him one morning on the Place de
la Concorde to express their admiration of the 'beautiful young lady
whom they saw about with him everywhere.'