new minister with open arms. His appointment would not be officially
notified in the _Moniteur_ till the following morning, when it would
appear beneath the announcement of Rougon's resignation, but the
decree was signed, and so they were at liberty to triumph. They
greeted him with much vigorous hand-shaking, grinning, and whispered
congratulation; indeed the presence of the crowd alone kept their
enthusiasm within bounds. It was a gradual assumption of possession
on the part of intimates, who kiss one's hands and one's feet before
making one's entire body their prey. They already considered that
Delestang belonged to them. One of them was holding him by the right
arm, another by the left; a third had grasped one of the buttons of his
coat, while a fourth, standing behind him, craned forward and breathed
words of praise to the nape of his neck. Delestang, on his side, held
his handsome head erect with affable dignity, preserving the stately
yet imbecile demeanour of some monarch on his travels, such as one
sees in official prints, receiving bouquets from the ladies of petty
towns. Rougon looked at the group, very pale and stung to the quick by
this triumph of mediocrity, and yet he could not restrain a smile. He
remembered.
'I always predicted that Delestang would go a long way,' he said with
a subtle expression to Count de Marsy, who had stepped up to him with
outstretched hand.
The Count replied by a slight pout instinct with delicate irony. He had
doubtless had much amusement since he had struck up a friendship with
Delestang after rendering certain services to his wife. He detained
Rougon for a moment, evincing the most refined politeness. Constant
rivals as they were, antagonists by reason of their very temperaments,
these two skilful men saluted each other at the termination of each
of their duels, like enemies of equal strength who looked forward to
an endless succession of return combats. Rougon had previously wounded
Marsy; Marsy had now wounded Rougon; and so it would go on until one
or other of them should be left dead on the field. It is possible
that neither would have cared to see the other absolutely ruined, for
their rivalry was at once a source of amusement and occupation. And,
moreover, they vaguely felt that they were counterpoises necessary for
the equilibrium of the Empire; one the shaggy fist which killed by a
knock-down blow, the other the slender gloved hand which clutched the
throat and strangled.
However, Delestang was a prey to painful embarrassment. He had seen
Rougon, but he did not know whether he ought to step up and shake
hands with him. In his perplexity, he glanced at Clorinde, who seemed
absorbed in her duties and indifferent to everything else. She was
now hurrying about the room with sandwiches and pastry. However, her
husband thought he could gather instruction from a glance she cast at
him, so he at last advanced towards Rougon, nervous and seeking to
justify himself.
'I hope, my dear friend, that you don't bear me any ill will,' he said.
'I refused at first, but they forced me to accept. There are demands,
you know----'
But Rougon interrupted him. The Emperor had acted in his wisdom, and
the country would find itself in excellent hands.
At this Delestang took courage. 'I said all I could in your defence,'
he continued. 'We all did. But really, between ourselves, you had gone
a little too far. The greatest grievance against you was what you did
in connection with the Charbonnel affair; the matter of those poor
Sisters, you know----'
M. de Marsy restrained a smile.
'Oh, yes, the perquisition at the convent,' replied Rougon, with all
the good humour of his successful days. 'Well, really, among the
various acts of folly which my friends led me to commit, that was
perhaps the only sensible and just act of my five months of power.'
He was already going off, when he noticed Du Poizat come in and seize
hold of Delestang. The prefect pretended not to see him. For the last
three days he had been hiding in Paris and waiting. And apparently
he was now successful in his request to be transferred to another
prefecture, for he began to express the most profuse thanks with a
wolfish smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. Then, on the
new minister turning round, Merle, whom Madame Correur had just pushed
forward, almost fell into his arms. The usher kept his eyes lowered,
like a big bashful girl, while Madame Correur spoke warmly in his
favour.
'He is not a favourite in the office,' she murmured, 'because he
protested by his silence against abuses of authority; and he saw some
very strange ones under Monsieur Rougon!'
'Yes, yes; very strange ones indeed,' added Merle. 'I could tell a
long story about them. Monsieur Rougon won't be much regretted. I've
no reason to love him myself. It was all through him that I was nearly
turned adrift.'
Rougon heard none of this; he was already slowly passing down the great
hall, where the stalls were now quite denuded of their wares. To please
the Empress, who was the patroness of the charity, the visitors had
carried everything away; and the delighted stall-holders were talking
of opening again in the evening with a fresh supply of goods. They
counted up the money they had taken, and different sums were shouted
out amidst peals of triumphant laughter. One lady had taken three
thousand francs, another seven thousand, and another ten thousand. The
last was radiant with delight at having made so much money.
Madame de Combelot, however, was in despair. She had just disposed of
her last rose, and yet customers were still thronging round her kiosk.
She stepped out of it to ask Madame Bouchard if she could not give
her something to sell, no matter what. But the latter's lucky-wheel
had likewise disposed of everything. A lady had just carried off the
last prize, a doll's washing-basin. However, they obstinately hunted
about, and at last found a bundle of tooth-picks, which had fallen on
the ground. Madame de Combelot carried it off with a shout of triumph.
Madame Bouchard followed her, and they both mounted into the kiosk.
'Gentlemen! gentlemen!' cried Madame de Combelot boldly, standing up,
and collecting the men together with a beckoning sweep of her bare arm.
'This is all that we have left, a bundle of tooth-picks. There are
twenty-five of them. I shall put them up to auction.'
The men jostled one another, laughing, and waving their gloved hands
in the air. Madame de Combelot's idea was hailed with great enthusiasm.
'A tooth-pick!' she now cried. 'We'll start it at five francs. Now,
gentlemen, five francs!'
'Ten francs!' said a voice.
'Twelve francs!'
'Fifteen francs!'
However, on M. d'Escorailles suddenly going up to a bid of twenty-five
francs, Madame Bouchard quickly called out in her fluty voice: 'Sold
for twenty-five francs!'
The other tooth-picks fetched still higher prices. M. La Rouquette paid
forty-three francs for the one that was knocked down to him. Chevalier
Rusconi, who had just made his appearance, bid as much as seventy-two
francs for another one. And eventually the very last, a very small one,
which was split, as Madame Combelot kindly announced, not wishing to
impose upon her audience, was knocked down for a hundred and seventeen
francs to an old gentleman whose eyes glistened at the sight of the
young woman's heaving bosom, as she vigorously plied the calling of
auctioneer.
'It is split, gentlemen, but it is still a serviceable article. We've
got to a hundred and eight francs for it. A hundred and ten are bid
over there! a hundred and eleven! a hundred and twelve! a hundred and
thirteen! a hundred and fourteen! Come, a hundred and fourteen! It's
worth more than that, gentlemen! A hundred and seventeen! A hundred and
seventeen! Won't any one bid any more? Sold, then, for a hundred and
seventeen francs!'
Pursued by these figures, Rougon left the hall. He slackened his steps
when he reached the terrace overlooking the river. Stormy-looking
clouds were rising in the distance. Below him, the Seine, greasy and
dirty green, flowed sluggishly past the pale quays, along which the
dust was sweeping. In the Tuileries gardens, puffs of hot air shook
the trees, whose branches fell languidly, lifelessly, without a quiver
of their leaves. Rougon took his way beneath the tall chestnuts. It
was almost quite dark there, and the atmosphere was damp and clammy
like that of a vault. As he emerged into the main avenue, he saw
the Charbonnels sitting on a bench. They were quite transformed,
magnificent. The husband wore light-coloured trousers and a frock-coat
fitting tightly at the waist, while his wife sported a light mantle
over a robe of lilac silk, and her bonnet was ornamented with red
flowers. Astride one end of the bench, however, there was a ragged,
shirtless fellow, wearing a wretched old shooting-jacket. He was
gesticulating energetically, and gradually drawing nearer to the
Charbonnels. It was Gilquin. Administering frequent slaps to his canvas
cap, which kept on slipping off his head, he exclaimed: 'They're a
parcel of scoundrels. Has Théodore ever tried to cheat any one out of a
single copper? They invented a fine story about a military substitute
in order to ruin me. Then, of course, as you can understand, I left
them to get on as they could without me. Ah! they are afraid of me!
They know very well what my political opinions are. I have never
belonged to Badinguet's gang. I only regret one person down there,'
he continued in a lower tone, leaning forward and rolling his eyes
sentimentally. 'Ah! such an adorable woman, a lady of society! She was
fair. I had some of her hair given me.' Then, edging himself up to
Madame Charbonnel, he broke into a loud voice again, and tapped her on
the knee. 'Well, old lady, when are you going to take me with you to
Plassans to taste those preserves of yours--the apples and the cherries
and the jam? You've got your nest pretty well lined now, eh?'
But the Charbonnels seemed to be much annoyed by Gilquin's familiarity.
'We are stopping in Paris for some time,' replied Madame Charbonnel,
stiffly, while gathering up her lilac silk dress. 'We shall probably
spend six months here every year.'
'Ah, yes,' added her husband with an air of profound admiration, 'Paris
is the only place!' Then as the gusts of wind became stronger, and a
troop of nurses with children passed hastily through the garden, he
resumed, turning to his wife, 'We had better be getting home my dear,
if we don't want to be soaked through. Fortunately, we have only a step
or two to take.'
They were now staying at the Hôtel du Palais Royal in the Rue
de Rivoli. Gilquin watched them go off, shrugging his shoulders
contemptuously. 'So they leave me in the lurch too!' he muttered. 'Ah,
they're all alike.'
But then he suddenly caught sight of Rougon, and, rising with a
swagger, he waited for him to pass. 'I haven't been to see you yet,'
he said, again tapping his cap. 'I hope you're not offended. That
mountebank Du Poizat has told you some fine stories about me, I dare
say. But they are all lies, my good fellow, as I can prove to you
whenever you like. Well, for my part I don't bear you any ill will;
and I'll prove it by giving you my address, 25 Rue du Bon Puits, at La
Chapelle, five minutes' walk from the barrier. So if I can be of any
further use to you, you see, you have merely to let me know.'
Then he walked away with a slouching gait. For a moment he glanced
round as if taking his bearings, and then, shaking his fist at the
Tuileries, which showed grey and gloomy beneath the black sky at the
end of the avenue, he cried: 'Long live the Republic!'
Rougon passed out of the garden and went up the Champs Élysées. He
experienced a strong desire to go and look at his little house in the
Rue Marbeuf. He intended to quit his official residence on the morrow
and again instal himself in his old home. He felt tired but calm, with
just a slight pain in the depths of his being. He already dreamt hazily
of some day proving his powers by again doing great things. Every now
and then, too, he raised his head and looked at the sky. The rain
did not seem inclined to come down just yet, though the horizon was
streaked with coppery clouds, and loud claps of thunder travelled over
the deserted avenue of the Champs Élysées, with a crash like that of
some detachment of artillery at full gallop. The crests of the trees
shook with the reverberation. As Rougon turned the corner of the Rue
Marbeuf the first drops of rain began to fall.
A brougham was standing in front of the house, and Rougon found his
wife examining the rooms, measuring the windows and giving orders to
an upholsterer. He felt much surprised, but she explained to him that
she had just seen her brother, M. Beulin-d'Orchère. The judge, who had
already heard of Rougon's fall, had desired to overwhelm his sister,
and after informing her of his approaching assumption of office as
Minister of Justice, he had again tried to create discord between
her and her husband. Madame Rougon, however, had merely ordered her
brougham to be got ready, so that she might at once prepare for removal
into their old house. She still retained a calm, pale, nun-like face,
the unchangeable serenity of a good housewife. And with faint steps she
went through the rooms, again taking possession of that house which
she had indued with such cloistral quietude. Her only thought was
to administer like a faithful stewardess the fortune which had been
entrusted to her. Rougon felt quite touched at the sight of her spare
withered face and all her scrupulous attention.
However, the storm now burst with tremendous violence. The thunder
pealed and the rain came down in torrents. Rougon was obliged to remain
there for nearly three quarters of an hour, for he wanted to walk back.
When he set out again the Champs Élysées was a mass of mud, yellow
liquid mud, which stretched from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la
Concorde like the bed of a freshly drained river. In the avenue there
were but few pedestrians, who carefully picked their way along the
kerbstones. The trees stood dripping in the calm fresh air. Overhead in
the heavens the storm had left a trail of ragged coppery clouds, a low
murky veil, from which fell a glimmer of weird, mournful light.
Rougon had again lapsed into his dreams for the future. He felt stiff
and bruised, as though he had come into violent collision with some
obstacle that had blocked his progress. But suddenly he heard a loud
noise, behind him, the approach of galloping hoofs which made the
ground tremble. He turned to see what it could be.
It was a _cortège_ dashing through the mire of the roadway beneath the
faint glimmer of the coppery sky, a _cortège_ returning from the Bois
and illumining the dimness of the Champs Élysées with the brilliance
of uniforms. In front and behind galloped detachments of dragoons.
And in the centre there was a closed landau drawn by four horses and
flanked by two mounted equerries in gorgeous gold-embroidered uniforms,
each of them imperturbably enduring the splashing of the mire, which
was covering them from their high boots to their cocked hats. And
inside the dim closed carriage only a child was to be seen, the Prince
Imperial, who gazed out of the window, with his ten fingers and his red
nose pressed to the glass.
'Hallo, it's the little chap!' said a road-sweeper, with a smile, as he
trundled his barrow along.
Rougon had halted, looking thoughtful, and his eyes followed the
_cortège_ as it hurried away through the splashing puddles, speckling
even the lower leaves of the trees with all the mire it raised.
XIV
TRANSFORMATION
One day in March, three years later, there was a very stormy sitting
in the Corps Législatif. The privilege of presenting an address to the
Crown had been conceded by the Emperor, and, for the first time, this
address was being discussed.
M. La Rouquette and M. de Lamberthon, an old deputy, and the husband
of a charming wife, sat opposite one another in the 'buvette' or
refreshment room, quietly drinking grog. 'Well, shall we go back into
the Chamber?' said Lamberthon, who had been straining his ear to
listen. 'I fancy things are getting pretty warm there.'
Every now and then indeed one heard distant shouting, a sudden roar
like some squall of wind, but afterwards complete silence ensued. M. La
Rouquette continued smoking with an air of utter indifference. 'Oh, we
needn't go just yet,' he said; 'I want to finish my cigar. They'll let
us know if we are wanted. I told them to do so.'
La Rouquette and Lamberthon were the only members then in the
'buvette,' a sort of smart little café established at the end of the
narrow garden at the corner of the quay and the Rue de Bourgogne.
Painted a soft green, covered with bamboo trellis-work, and having
large windows that opened right on to the garden, the place looked like
some conservatory transformed into a refreshment room for a garden
party. It was panelled with mirrors; the tables and counter were of
red marble, and the seats were upholstered with green rep. One of the
windows was open, and through it there came the soft air of the lovely
spring afternoon, freshened by the breezes from the Seine.
'The Italian war filled the cup of his glory,' said M. La Rouquette,
continuing a conversation that had been interrupted. 'To-day, in
conferring liberty on the country, he displays all the greatness of his
genius.'
He was speaking of the Emperor, and he went on to extol the provisions
of the November decrees,[21] the more direct participation of the
great state bodies in the policy of the sovereign, and the creation
of ministers without departments for the purpose of representing
the government in the Chambers. It was a return to constitutional
government, he said, in all its most wholesome and desirable features.
A new era, that of the liberal Empire, was beginning. Then he knocked
the ash from his cigar in a transport of enthusiasm.
But M. de Lamberthon shook his head. 'I'm afraid the Emperor has gone
rather too fast,' he said. 'It would have been better to have waited a
little longer, there was no pressing hurry.'
'Oh, yes, I assure you there was. It was quite necessary to do
something,' replied the young deputy with animation. 'It is just in
that respect that his genius----'
Then he lowered his voice, and with a profound expression began to
explain the political situation. The charges issued by the bishops
on the subject of the Pope's temporal power, which was threatened by
the government of Turin, were greatly disturbing the Emperor. On the
other hand, the opposition was growing more active, and an uneasy
thrill was passing through the country. So the moment had come for
making an attempt to reconcile the different parties, and win political
malcontents over by wise concessions. La Rouquette now considered that
the despotic Empire had been very defective; whereas the liberal Empire
would be a blaze of glory, illumining the whole of Europe.
'Well, I'm still of opinion that he has gone too fast,' repeated M. de
Lamberthon, again shaking his head. 'It's all very well to talk about
the liberal Empire; but the liberal Empire is the Unknown, my dear sir;
the Unknown, the Unknown----'
He thrice repeated this expression, each time in a different tone, and
waving his hand in the air. M. La Rouquette said nothing further; he
was finishing his grog. However, they still sat where they were, gazing
blankly out of the open window, as though they were looking for the
unknown fate of the liberal Empire across the quay, in the direction of
the Tuileries, where hung a thick grey haze. Behind them, beyond the
lobbies, the hurricane of voices rose afresh, with the uproar of an
approaching storm.
M. de Lamberthon turned his head uneasily. 'It's Rougon who is going to
reply, isn't it?' he asked after a pause.
'Yes, I believe so,' replied M. La Rouquette with an air of reserve.
'He was very much compromised,' the old deputy continued. 'The Emperor
has made a singular choice in appointing him as a minister without
department, and commissioning him to defend his new policy.'
M. La Rouquette did not immediately express an opinion, but slowly
stroked his fair moustache. 'The Emperor knows Rougon,' he said at last.
Then in in quite a different tone he exclaimed: 'I say, these grogs
were not up to much. I'm dreadfully thirsty. I think I shall have a
glass of syrup and water.'
He ordered one, and, after some hesitation, M. de Lamberthon decided
that he would have a glass of Madeira. Then they began to talk of
Madame de Lamberthon, and the old deputy chided his young colleague for
the rarity of his visits. The latter was lounging back on the settee,
furtively admiring himself in the mirrors, quite pleased by the soft
green tint of the walls, and the general freshness of the buvette,
which seemed almost like a Pompadour arbour reared in some princely
forest for love assignations.
However, an usher suddenly came in, almost breathless. 'Monsieur La
Rouquette, you are wanted immediately--immediately!' he gasped.
Then, as the young deputy made a gesture of vexation, the usher stooped
and whispered that he had been sent by M. de Marsy, the President of
the Chamber, himself. And he added in a louder tone, 'Everybody is
wanted; so come at once.'
M. de Lamberthon at once rushed off in the direction of the Chamber
and M. La Rouquette was following him, when he appeared to change his
mind. It had indeed occurred to him that it might be advisable to
hunt up all the deputies lounging in different parts of the building,
and send them back to their places. So he hastened first into the
Conference Hall, a beautiful apartment lighted by a glazed roof and
boasting a huge chimney-piece of green marble, ornamented with two
white marble female figures, nude and recumbent. Despite the warmth of
the afternoon, a great wood fire was burning there. At the large table
sat three deputies with sleepy eyes, which wandered over the pictures
on the walls and the famous clock, which was only wound up once a year.
A fourth deputy, who had installed himself at the fire, so as to warm
his back, seemed to be gazing with emotion at a plaster statuette of
Henri IV. which at the other end of the room stood out against a trophy
of Austrian and Prussian standards captured at Marengo, Austerlitz, and
Jena. As M. La Rouquette went from one to the other of his colleagues,
bidding them at once hurry to the Chamber, they started up as if
suddenly awakened, and hastened away in procession.
In his enthusiasm, La Rouquette was already rushing off to the library,
when it occurred to him that it would be as well to glance into the
lavatory. There he found M. de Combelot, who, with his hands plunged in
a large basin, was gently rubbing them, and smiling admiringly at their
whiteness. He did not show the least excitement, but said that he would
return to his seat in a moment. Before doing so, however, he lingered
for some time wiping his hands on a warm towel, which he then replaced
in the copper-doored stove. And finally he took his stand before a
lofty mirror, and carefully combed his handsome black beard.
There was no one in the library, which La Rouquette next visited. The
books were slumbering on their oak shelves; the two huge tables with
covers of green cloth stood severely bare; and the book-rests attached
to the arms of the chairs were folded back, and covered with a slight
coating of dust.