she dreamt of fattening him up for some future feast of her own. She
still displayed a disciple-like submission, however, and kept herself
in the background with cajoling humility. Rougon himself seemed quite
unconscious of all that was going on about him. In his drawing-room,
on Sundays and Thursdays, he still consulted playing cards like a
fortune-teller, bending over them, and apparently hearing nothing of
the talk that went on behind him. The members of the band discussed his
affairs, made signs to each other over his head, and plotted by his
fireside as though he were not in the room. He seemed so unconcerned
with what they whispered that they at last began to chat in louder
tones, smiling at his absent-mindedness. However, when they turned the
conversation upon the subject of his return to power he flew into a
tantrum, and swore that he would not move even if he knew that triumph
awaited him at the end of the street; and indeed he shut himself up
more than ever, and affected absolute ignorance of what went on in the
world. The little house in the Rue Marbeuf, whence streamed such a
flow of feverish propaganda, was itself a silent, drowsy home, on the
threshold of which Rougon's friends cast glances at one another as a
warning to leave outside the scent of battle which they carried in the
folds of their garments.
Du Poizat, however, would exclaim: 'I tell you he's drawing us all out.
He listens to all we say. Just look at his ears in the evening; you can
see that they are on the strain.'
This was frequently the subject of their conversation when they
went away together at half-past ten. It really was impossible, they
said, that the great man should be unaware of their devotion. The
ex-sub-prefect repeated that he was playing the part of a Hindoo idol,
squatting in a state of self-satisfaction with his hands across his
abdomen, and smiling unctuously amidst a crowd of believers who cut
themselves to pieces in his worship. And the others allowed that this
comparison seemed a very true one.
'But I will keep my eye on him, you may depend upon that,' Du Poizat
said in conclusion.
However, it was useless to study Rougon's face. It remained blank
and unruffled, almost child-like. Perhaps, after all, there was no
deception about his appearance. Clorinde, for her part, much preferred
that he should remain inactive. She was afraid that if they compelled
him to open his eyes he might thwart their plans. They were working
for his advancement, in spite of himself, as it were. By some means or
other, forcibly if necessary, they meant to thrust him into a position
of high authority. Then they would have a settlement.
Still matters seemed to advance very slowly, and the band began to
grow impatient. Du Poizat's views gained the mastery. They did not
openly reproach Rougon with all that they were doing for him, but they
assailed him with allusions and hints. The colonel would sometimes
come to the evening receptions with his boots white with dust. He
had not had time to go home and change them, he said. He was quite
knocked up with running about on foolish errands for which he should
probably never get any thanks. On other evenings M. Kahn, with heavy
eyes, complained of the late hours he had been compelled to keep for a
month past. He was going a great deal into society, he said, not for
pleasure, indeed, but because it enabled him to meet certain people
upon certain business. Then Madame Correur would relate affecting
stories; telling them, for instance, of some poor young woman, a
widow of the highest character, whom she visited, but was now unable
to assist. If she were the government, she said, she would take good
care to prevent injustice. Then the whole coterie would vent its own
sorrows; each would lament his or her present situation, and compare
it with what it would have been had they not behaved in the foolish,
soft-hearted way they had done. And all these endless complaints were
accentuated by meaning glances at Rougon. To rouse him they even went
so far as to praise M. de Marsy. At first Rougon preserved unruffled
tranquillity. He still showed no signs of understanding. But after
a few evenings, when the talk was of this kind, slight twitchings
would pass over his face at certain remarks made in his presence. He
expressed no annoyance, but pressed his lips together as though he were
pricked by some invisible needle. And at last he became so restless and
uneasy that he gave up his card-tricks. He could no longer accomplish
them successfully, and preferred to pace about the room, talking,
and suddenly hastening away when his friends began to launch veiled
reproaches at him. Every now and then he would turn white with anger,
and seem to be forcibly holding his hands behind his back to restrain
himself from turning the whole crew out of doors.
'My children,' said the colonel one evening, 'I sha'n't come here again
for a fortnight. It will be good for us to sulk for a while and see how
he can manage to amuse himself without us.'
Then Rougon, who had been thinking of closing his doors, felt very
much hurt at the way in which he was abandoned. The colonel kept his
word, and some of the others followed his example. The drawing-room
looked very empty; there were always five or six of the circle absent.
When one of them reappeared after a prolonged absence, and the great
man asked him if he had been unwell, the other merely answered in the
negative with an air of surprise, and gave no explanation. One Thursday
not a single person came. Rougon spent the whole evening alone, pacing
up and down the big room with his hands behind him and his head bent.
For the first time he felt the strength of the chain which linked him
to his band. He shrugged his shoulders to express his contempt for
the stupidity of the Charbonnels, the envious rage of Du Poizat, and
the suspicious affection of Madame Correur. Nevertheless, he felt a
craving, the jealous craving of a master secretly pained by their
slightest infidelities, to see and rule these friends of his, whom he
held in such light esteem. Indeed at the bottom of his heart he was
touched by their foolish behaviour and loved their faults. They seemed
to be part of his being, so that he felt diminished and incomplete
when they held aloof from him. As they continued to absent themselves
he ended by writing to them, and even called at their residences to
make peace with them after serious tiffs. Life at the house in the Rue
Marbeuf was now so much chronic quarrelling--a series of constantly
recurring ruptures and reconciliations.
Towards the end of December there was a particularly serious defection.
One evening, without anyone quite knowing why, one bitter remark led
to another, and it all ended by a very angry scene. For nearly three
weeks afterwards the meetings ceased. The truth is that the band was
beginning to lose hope. Their most earnest efforts seemed to have no
appreciable result. It was unlikely that the general situation would
change for a long time, and a sudden catastrophe, such as might render
Rougon necessary, could hardly be anticipated. They had anxiously
awaited the opening of the Corps Législatif, but this had gone off
without any other incident than the refusal of two republican deputies
to take the oath of allegiance. M. Kahn, who was the shrewd man of the
group, no longer hoped for any advantage from the course of general
politics.
Rougon, in his weary irritation, was occupying himself more
energetically than ever with his Landes scheme, as though to conceal
the feverish twitchings of his face, which he could no longer keep
placid and sleepy as formerly. 'I don't feel very well,' he sometimes
said. 'My hands tremble. My doctor has ordered me to take exercise. I
am out-of-doors all day.' He did, indeed, go out a great deal now, and
was to be met in the streets with his hands swinging and his head in
the air, absorbed in thought. When anyone stopped and questioned him he
said he had been tramping about all day.
One morning when he returned home to _déjeuner_, after a walk in the
direction of Chaillot, he found a gilt-edged visiting-card awaiting
him, on which was written Gilquin's name. The card was very dirty, and
bore the marks of greasy fingers. Rougon rang for his servant. 'Did the
person who gave you this card leave any message?' he asked.
The servant, who was new to the house, smiled. 'It was a gentleman in
a green overcoat,' he replied. 'He was very pleasant and offered me a
cigar. He only said that he was a friend of yours.' However, just as
the servant was leaving the room he turned and added: 'I think there's
something written on the back of the card.' Rougon turned it over and
read these words written in pencil: 'Can't wait. Will call again this
evening. Very urgent; a strange business.' Then he threw down the card
with a careless air. After _déjeuner_, however, the expression 'Very
urgent; a strange business,' recurred to his mind and haunted him,
till it at last rendered him quite impatient. What could this 'strange
business' of Gilquin's be? Since Rougon had charged the ex-commercial
traveller with sundry obscure and intricate commissions he had seen him
regularly once a week in the evening. Never before had Gilquin called
in the morning, so that the matter in hand must surely be something
out of the common. Rougon, quite at a loss to guess its nature, found
himself all aglow with impatience, and although he could not help
feeling that it was ridiculous, he resolved to go out and try to
discover Gilquin before the evening.
'Some tipsy story, I dare say,' he reflected as he went through the
Champs Élysées. 'Well, at any rate I shall satisfy myself.'
He was on foot, as he wished to carry out the directions of his doctor.
It was a lovely day; a bright, sunny January noontide. Gilquin appeared
to have removed from the Passage Guttin, for his card bore the address
Rue Guisarde, Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Rougon had an immense amount of trouble to find this filthy street,
which is situated near Saint-Sulpice's. At the end of a dark passage he
discovered a woman lying in bed, who called out to him in a voice which
quavered with fever: 'Monsieur Gilquin! I don't know whether he's in.
It's the door on the left on the fourth floor, right up at the top.'
When Rougon reached the fourth floor he saw Gilquin's name inscribed
on the door amidst some arabesques representing flaming hearts
transpierced by arrows. However, he knocked to no purpose; he could
hear nothing but the tick-tack of a cuckoo-clock and the mewing of a
cat. He had expected that he was coming on a vain errand, still he was
glad that he had come. His walk had relieved him. So he went downstairs
again, feeling more composed, and reflecting that he could very well
wait till the evening. When he got outside he slackened his steps,
crossed the Saint-Germain market, and then went down the Rue de Seine,
with no definite goal in view, but thinking that he would walk home,
although he already felt a little tired. Then, as he reached the Rue
Jacob, he remembered the Charbonnels, who lived there. He had not seen
them for ten days. They were sulking with him. However, he resolved to
call on them for a few minutes and offer them his hand. The afternoon
was so warm that he felt quite tender-hearted.
The Charbonnels' room at the Hôtel du Périgord overlooked the yard, a
gloomy well of a place which smelt like a dirty sink. It was a large,
dark room, with rickety mahogany furniture and curtains of faded red
damask. When Rougon entered it Madame Charbonnel was folding up her
dresses and laying them in a big trunk, while her husband perspired and
strained his arms in cording another trunk, a smaller one.
'Halloa! are you off?' Rougon asked, with a smile.
'Yes, indeed,' answered Madame Charbonnel, drawing a deep sigh. 'This
time we've quite made up our minds.'
However, they gave him a hearty welcome, apparently quite flattered at
seeing him in their room. All the chairs were littered with clothes,
bundles of linen, and baskets with splitting sides. So Rougon sat
down on the edge of the bed. 'Oh, don't trouble yourselves!' he said,
good-naturedly; 'I'm very comfortable here. Go on with what you're
doing; I don't want to disturb you. Are you going by the eight o'clock
train?'
'Yes, by the eight o'clock train,' M. Charbonnel replied. 'That gives
us just six more hours to spend in this beastly Paris. Ah! we sha'n't
forget it in a hurry, Monsieur Rougon!'
Then he, who generally spoke so little, launched into a flow of bitter
invective, and even shook his fist at the window while declaiming
against the horrid city, where one actually couldn't see clearly in
one's room at two o'clock in the afternoon. That dirty light which
filtered in through that narrow well of a yard was Paris! But, thank
Heaven, he was going to see the sun again in his garden at Plassans!
Then he looked round to make sure that he was forgetting nothing. He
had bought a railway time-table in the morning, and he pointed to a
cold roast fowl wrapt in some greasy paper, which they meant to take
with them to eat on their journey.
'Have you emptied everything out of the drawers, my dear?' he asked.
'My slippers were in the night-table. I think, too, that some papers
fell behind the chest of drawers.'
Rougon felt pained as he watched the preparations of these disconsolate
old folks, whose hands trembled as they made up their packages. Their
emotion seemed to him like a silent reproach. It was he who had kept
them in Paris, and their sojourn there was ending in complete failure,
a veritable flight.
'You are making a mistake,' he said at last.
But Madame Charbonnel answered with a gesture of entreaty as if to
beseech him to be silent. 'Don't make us any promises, Monsieur
Rougon,' she said sharply. 'They could only bring all our unhappiness
over again. When I think that we've been here for two years and a half!
Two years and a half, good heavens, in this hole of a place! My left
leg will never be free from pain again as long as I live. I have slept
on the far side of the bed, and that wall behind you fairly streams
with water at night. Oh, I couldn't tell you all we've gone through! It
would be too long a story. And we've spent a ruinous amount of money!
Only yesterday I was obliged to buy this big trunk to carry away the
things we have worn out while we have been in Paris; the wretchedly
sewn clothes, which the shopkeepers charged us most extortionately
for, and the linen which came back from the laundress's in rags. Ah! I
sha'n't be sorry to have seen the last of your laundresses! They ruin
everything with their acids.'
Then she threw a bundle of things into the trunk, and exclaimed: 'No,
this time we are certainly going. I think it would kill me to stay here
an hour longer.'
Rougon, however, insisted upon talking about their lawsuit. Had they
had any bad news? he asked. Then the Charbonnels told him, almost
crying as they did so, that the property of their cousin Chevassu
was certainly lost to them. The Council of State was on the point of
authorising the Sisters of the Holy Family to receive the legacy of
five hundred thousand francs. Their last remaining hope had expired on
hearing of the arrival of Monseigneur Rochart in Paris, whither he had
come, for the second time, to hurry the matter forward.
And all at once M. Charbonnel ceased to struggle with the cords of
the smaller trunk and raised his arms convulsively, while crying in
a broken voice: 'Five hundred thousand francs! Five hundred thousand
francs!'
They both seemed overwhelmed. They sat down, the husband on the trunk
and the wife on a bundle of linen, amidst all the litter of the room.
And they began to pity themselves in a mournful strain; as soon as one
stopped the other began. They recalled their affection for their cousin
Chevassu. How fond they had been of him! As a matter of fact, they had
not seen him for more than seventeen years before his death. But, just
now, they wept over him in all good faith, and really believed that
they had shown him every kind attention during his illness. Then they
began to accuse the Sisters of the Holy Family of disgraceful scheming.
They had brought undue influence to bear on cousin Chevassu, they had
kept him from his friends, and had exerted constant pressure on his
mind, which illness had weakened. Madame Charbonnel, though she was
really a very devout woman, went so far as to relate a dreadful story,
according to which cousin Chevassu had died of fright after signing
his will at the dictation of a priest, who had shewn him the devil
standing at the foot of his bed. And as for the Bishop of Faverolles,
she said, it was a dirty part that he was playing, in despoiling a
couple of honest people, who were esteemed throughout Plassans for the
integrity they had shown in getting a little competency together in the
oil trade.
'But perhaps the case isn't hopeless yet,' said Rougon, seeing that
they were wavering. 'Monseigneur Rochart isn't the Divinity. I myself
haven't been able to do anything for you lately; I've had so much else
to occupy me. But let me find out exactly how matters stand. I don't
mean to let them prey on us.'
The Charbonnels looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
'It's really no use troubling about it, Monsieur Rougon,' murmured the
husband.
And as Rougon persisted, swearing that he would make every effort in
their favour, and could not let them go off in this way, the wife in
her turn said: 'It's really no use your troubling yourself about it.
You would only give yourself a lot of bother for nothing. We spoke of
you to our lawyer, but he only laughed at us, and said you had no power
now against Monseigneur Rochart.'
'And if you've no power, what's the good of troubling yourself?' asked
M. Charbonnel. 'We had much better give it up.'
Rougon had bent his head. These remarks cut him like lashes. Never
before had his powerlessness brought him such cruel pain.
'No; we are going back to Plassans,' continued Madame Charbonnel. 'It
is much the wisest thing to do. But we are not going away with any
grudge against you, Monsieur Rougon! When we see Madame Félicité, your
mother, we shall tell her that you would have cut yourself in pieces
for us. And if anyone else questions us you may be sure that we sha'n't
say a word against you. Nobody can be expected to do more than he's
able, can he?'
This was the last stroke. Rougon pictured the Charbonnels reaching
their distant home in the provinces. As soon as they had told their
news the little town would be yelping at him. It would be a personal
defeat, from which it would take him years to recover.
'But you must stay here!' he exclaimed. 'I will have you stay. We will
see if Monseigneur Rochart can gobble me up at a mouthful!'
He broke into a threatening laugh which quite alarmed the Charbonnels.
They continued to resist for some time, and then at last consented to
remain in Paris for another week, but not a single day longer. And
thereupon M. Charbonnel began to unknot the cords which he had fastened
about the smaller trunk, and his wife lighted a candle, although it was
scarcely three o'clock, in order that she might see to put the linen
and clothes in the drawers again. When Rougon left them he pressed
their hands affectionately and renewed his promises to do all he could.
Before he had gone ten yards down the street, however, he already began
to repent of what he had done. Why had he persuaded the Charbonnels
to stay when they were so anxious to be off? It would have been
a first-rate opportunity to get rid of them. And now he was more
committed than ever to bring about a successful issue of their suit.
He was especially vexed with himself for the motives of vanity which,
as he realised, had influenced him. They seemed unworthy of a man of
strength. However, he had promised, and must do what he could. Thus
thinking he went down the Rue Bonaparte, followed the quay, and then
crossed the Saints-Pères bridge.
The weather was still mild, but a rather sharp breeze was blowing along
the river. Rougon was half-way across and was buttoning his coat when
he saw a stout lady in furs immediately in front of him. It was Madame
Correur; he recognised her by her voice.
'Ah! is it you?' she said in a mournful tone. 'Well, as I've met you
I'll shake hands with you; but you wouldn't have seen me at your house
for another week. You haven't been acting like a friend.'
Then she began to reproach him for not having made an application which
she had been asking of him for months past. It was still the case of
that Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq, a former pupil of Saint Denis,
whom her seducer, an officer, was willing to marry, if some good soul
would only give her the regulation dowry. Then, too, added Madame
Correur, the other ladies gave her no peace. The widow Leturc was
anxiously waiting for her tobacco shop, and the others, Madame Chardon,
Madame Testanière, and Madame Jalaguier, called on her every day to
relate their woes and remind her of the promises she had made them.
'I was counting upon you when I made them,' she said, in conclusion.
'Oh, you've left me in a nice hole! Well, I'm now on my way to ask the
Minister of Public Instruction for a scholarship for little Jalaguier.
You promised me that scholarship, you know.'
She heaved a deep sigh as she continued: 'We are obliged to go tramping
about all over the place now that you refuse to do anything for us.'
Rougon, whom the wind was slightly inconveniencing, had bent his
shoulders and begun to look at the Port Saint Nicholas below the
bridge. As he listened to Madame Correur he watched some men unloading
a barge laden with sugar-loaves, which they rolled down a gangway
formed of a couple of planks. A crowd of three hundred people or so was
viewing the operation from the quays.
'I am nobody now, and I can do nothing,' said the great man. 'It is
wrong of you to feel a grudge against me.'
'Stuff and nonsense!' replied Madame Correur scoffingly; 'I know you
well enough. Whenever you choose you can be what you like. Don't be a
humbug, Eugène!'
Rougon could not help smiling. The familiarity shown by Madame Mélanie,
as he had called her in former days, brought back recollections of
the Hôtel Vanneau, when he had no boots even to his feet, but was
conquering France. He forgot all the reproaches which he had addressed
to himself on leaving the Charbonnels. 'Well, well,' he said,
good-naturedly, 'what is it you have to tell me? But don't let us stand
here. It's almost freezing. As you are going to the Rue de Grenelle I
will walk with you to the end of the bridge.'
Then he turned and walked along beside Madame Correur, without,
however, offering her his arm; and the lady began to tell him her
troubles at great length. 'After all,' said she, 'I don't so much
mind about the others. Those ladies can very well wait. I shouldn't
bother you, I should be as merry as I used to be--you remember, don't
you?--if I hadn't such big troubles of my own. One can't help getting
bitter over them. I'm still dreadfully bothered about my brother. Poor
Martineau! His wife has made him completely mad; he has no feelings
left.'
Then she gave a minute account of a fresh attempt at reconciliation
which she had made during the previous week. In order, said she, to
find out exactly what her brother's disposition towards her might be,
she had sent him as ambassador one of her friends, that very Herminie
Billecoq, whose marriage she had been trying to effect for the last two
years.
'Her travelling expenses cost me a hundred and seventeen francs,'
she continued. 'But how do you think they received her? Why, Madame
Martineau sprang between her and my brother, foaming at the mouth and
crying out that I was sending a crew of street-walkers to them, and
that she would have them arrested by the gendarmes. My poor Herminie
was still in such a tremble when I met her on her return at the
Montparnasse station that we were obliged to go into a café and drink
something.'
They had now reached the end of the bridge. The passers-by were
jostling them. Rougon tried to console Madame Correur, thinking of
all the kind things that he could say. 'It's extremely annoying. But,
you'll see, your brother will make it up with you by-and-bye. Time puts
everything straight.'
Then, as she still detained him at the corner of the footway, amidst
the uproar of the passing vehicles, he slowly walked up the bridge
again, she following and saying: 'When Martineau dies, his wife is
quite capable of burning any will he may leave behind him. The poor,
dear fellow is nothing more than skin and bones. Herminie says that he
looks dreadfully ill. I am terribly bothered about it all.'
'Well, you can do nothing now,' said Rougon, with a vague gesture; 'you
must wait.'
However, she stopped him again when he was half-way across the bridge,
and, lowering her voice, continued: 'Herminie told me a strange
thing. It seems that Martineau has gone in for politics now. He is a
Republican. At the last elections he threw the whole neighbourhood into
excitement. That news gave me quite a shock. He might get into trouble,
eh?'