In that closed, sequestered town of Plassans, where class distinction
was so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused by political events
was very slight. Even at the present day the popular voice sounds very
faintly there; the middle classes bring their prudence to bear in the
matter, the nobility their mute despair, and the clergy their shrewd
cunning. Kings may usurp thrones, or republics may be established,
without scarcely any stir in the town. Plassans sleeps while Paris
fights. But though on the surface the town may appear calm and
indifferent, in the depths hidden work goes on which it is curious to
study. If shots are rare in the streets, intrigues consume the
drawing-rooms of both the new town and the Saint-Marc quarter. Until
the year 1830 the masses were reckoned of no account. Even at the
present time they are similarly ignored. Everything is settled between
the clergy, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. The priests, who are
very numerous, give the cue to the local politics; they lay
subterranean mines, as it were, and deal blows in the dark, following a
prudent tactical system, which hardly allows of a step in advance or
retreat even in the course of ten years. The secret intrigues of men
who desire above all things to avoid noise requires special shrewdness,
a special aptitude for dealing with small matters, and a patient
endurance such as one only finds in persons callous to all passions. It
is thus that provincial dilatoriness, which is so freely ridiculed in
Paris, is full of treachery, secret stabs, hidden victories and
defeats. These worthy men, particularly when their interests are at
stake, kill at home with a snap of the fingers, as we, the Parisians,
kill with cannon in the public thoroughfares.
The political history of Plassans, like that of all little towns in
Provence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the inhabitants
remained observant Catholics and fervent royalists; even the lower
classes only swore by God and their legitimate sovereigns. Then there
came a sudden change; faith departed, the working and middle classes
deserted the cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the great
democratic movement of our time. When the Revolution of 1848 broke out,
the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labour for the triumph
of Henri V. For a long time they had regarded the accession of the
Orleanists as a ridiculous experiment, which sooner or later would
bring back the Bourbons; although their hopes were singularly shaken,
they nevertheless continued the struggle, scandalised by the defection
of their former allies, whom they strove to win back to their cause.
The Saint-Marc quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set to
work. Among the middle classes, and especially among the people, the
enthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of February;
these apprentice republicans were in haste to display their
revolutionary fervour. As regards the gentry of the new town, however,
the conflagration, bright though it was, lasted no longer than a fire
of straw. The small houseowners and retired tradespeople who had had
their good days, or had made snug little fortunes under the monarchy,
were soon seized with panic; the Republic, with its constant shocks and
convulsions, made them tremble for their money and their life of
selfishness.
Consequently, when the Clerical reaction of 1849 declared itself,
nearly all the middle classes passed over to the Conservative party.
They were received with open arms. The new town had never before had
such close relations with the Saint-Marc quarter: some of the nobility
even went so far as to shake hands with lawyers and retired
oil-dealers. This unexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the
new quarter, which henceforward waged bitter warfare against the
republican government. To bring about such a coalition, the clergy had
to display marvellous skill and endurance. The nobility of Plassans for
the most part lay prostrate, as if half dead. They retained their
faith, but lethargy had fallen on them, and they preferred to remain
inactive, allowing the heavens to work their will. They would gladly
have contented themselves with silent protest, feeling, perhaps, a
vague presentiment that their divinities were dead, and that there was
nothing left for them to do but rejoin them. Even at this period of
confusion, when the catastrophe of 1848 was calculated to give them a
momentary hope of the return of the Bourbons, they showed themselves
spiritless and indifferent, speaking of rushing into the melee, yet
never quitting their hearths without a pang of regret.
The clergy battled indefatigably against this feeling of impotence and
resignation. They infused a kind of passion into their work: a priest,
when he despairs, struggles all the more fiercely. The fundamental
policy of the Church is to march straight forward; even though she may
have to postpone the accomplishment of her projects for several
centuries, she never wastes a single hour, but is always pushing
forward with increasing energy. So it was the clergy who led the
reaction of Plassans; the nobility only lent them their name, nothing
more. The priests hid themselves behind the nobles, restrained them,
directed them, and even succeeded in endowing them with a semblance of
life. When they had induced them to overcome their repugnance so far as
to make common cause with the middle classes, they believed themselves
certain of victory. The ground was marvellously well prepared. This
ancient royalist town, with its population of peaceful householders and
timorous tradespeople, was destined to range itself, sooner or later,
on the side of law and order. The clergy, by their tactics, hastened
the conversion. After gaining the landlords of the new town to their
side, they even succeeded in convincing the little retail-dealers of
the old quarter. From that time the reactionary movement obtained
complete possession of the town. All opinions were represented in this
reaction; such a mixture of embittered Liberals, Legitimists,
Orleanists, Bonapartists, and Clericals had never before been seen. It
mattered little, however, at that time. The sole object was to kill the
Republic; and the Republic was at the point of death. Only a fraction
of the people—a thousand workmen at most, out of the ten thousand souls
in the town—still saluted the tree of liberty planted in the middle of
the square in front of the Sub-Prefecture.
The shrewdest politicians of Plassans, those who led the reactionary
movement, did not scent the approach of the Empire until very much
later. Prince Louis Napoleon’s popularity seemed to them a mere passing
fancy of the multitude. His person inspired them with but little
admiration. They reckoned him a nonentity, a dreamer, incapable of
laying his hands on France, and especially of maintaining his
authority. To them he was only a tool whom they would make use of, who
would clear the way for them, and whom they would turn out as soon as
the hour arrived for the rightful Pretender to show himself.[*]
However, months went by, and they became uneasy. It was only then that
they vaguely perceived they were being duped: they had no time,
however, to take any steps; the Coup d’État burst over their heads, and
they were compelled to applaud. That great abomination, the Republic,
had been assassinated; that, at least, was some sort of triumph. So the
clergy and the nobility accepted accomplished facts with resignation;
postponing, until later, the realisation of their hopes, and making
amends for their miscalculations by uniting with the Bonapartists for
the purpose of crushing the last Republicans.
[*] The Count de Chambord, “Henri V.”
It was these events that laid the foundation of the Rougons’ fortune.
After being mixed up with the various phases of the crisis, they rose
to eminence on the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in
wait to rob the Republic; as soon as it had been strangled, they helped
to plunder it.
After the events of February 1848, Félicité, who had the keenest scent
of all the members of the family, perceived that they were at last on
the right track. So she began to flutter round her husband, goading him
on to bestir himself. The first rumours of the Revolution that had
overturned King Louis Philippe had terrified Pierre. When his wife,
however, made him understand that they had little to lose and much to
gain from a convulsion, he soon came round to her way of thinking.
“I don’t know what you can do,” Félicité repeatedly said, “but it seems
to me that there’s plenty to be done. Did not Monsieur de Carnavant say
to us one day that he would be rich if ever Henri V. should return, and
that this sovereign would magnificently recompense those who had worked
for his restoration? Perhaps our fortune lies in that direction. We may
yet be lucky.”
The Marquis de Carnavant, the nobleman who, according to the scandalous
talk of the town, had been on very familiar terms with Félicité’s
mother, used occasionally to visit the Rougons. Evil tongues asserted
that Madame Rougon resembled him. He was a little, lean, active man,
seventy-five years old at that time, and Félicité certainly appeared to
be taking his features and manner as she grew older. It was said that
the wreck of his fortune, which had already been greatly diminished by
his father at the time of the Emigration, had been squandered on women.
Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty. Brought up by one of
his relatives, the Count de Valqueyras, he lived the life of a
parasite, eating at the count’s table and occupying a small apartment
just under his roof.
“Little one,” he would often say to Félicité, as he patted her on the
cheek, “if ever Henri V. gives me a fortune, I will make you my
heiress!”
He still called Félicité “little one,” even when she was fifty years
old. It was of these friendly pats, of these repeated promises of an
inheritance, that Madame Rougon was thinking when she endeavoured to
drive her husband into politics. Monsieur de Carnavant had often
bitterly lamented his inability to render her any assistance. No doubt
he would treat her like a father if ever he should acquire some
influence. Pierre, to whom his wife half explained the situation in
veiled terms, declared his readiness to move in any direction
indicated.
The marquis’s peculiar position qualified him to act as an energetic
agent of the reactionary movement at Plassans from the first days of
the Republic. This bustling little man, who had everything to gain from
the return of his legitimate sovereigns, worked assiduously for their
cause. While the wealthy nobility of the Saint-Marc quarter were
slumbering in mute despair, fearing, perhaps that they might compromise
themselves and again be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as
it were, spread the propaganda and rallied faithful ones together. He
was a weapon whose hilt was held by an invisible hand. From that time
forward he paid daily visits to the Rougons. He required a centre of
operations. His relative, Monsieur de Valqueyras, had forbidden him to
bring any of his associates into his house, so he had chosen Félicité’s
yellow drawing-room. Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable
assistant. He could not go himself and preach the cause of Legitimacy
to the petty traders and workmen of the old quarter; they would have
hooted him. Pierre, on the other hand, who had lived among these
people, spoke their language and knew their wants, was able to
catechise them in a friendly way. He thus became an indispensable man.
In less than a fortnight the Rougons were more determined royalists
than the king himself. The marquis, perceiving Pierre’s zeal, shrewdly
sheltered himself behind him. What was the use of making himself
conspicuous, when a man with such broad shoulders was willing to bear
on them the burden of all the follies of a party? He allowed Pierre to
reign, puff himself out with importance and speak with authority,
content to restrain or urge him on, according to the necessities of the
cause. Thus, the old oil-dealer soon became a personage of mark. In the
evening, when they were alone, Félicité used to say to him: “Go on,
don’t be frightened. We’re on the right track. If this continues we
shall be rich; we shall have a drawing-room like the tax-receiver’s,
and be able to entertain people.”
A little party of Conservatives had already been formed at the Rougons’
house, and meetings were held every evening in the yellow drawing-room
to declaim against the Republic.
Among those who came were three or four retired merchants who trembled
for their money, and clamoured with all their might for a wise and
strong government. An old almond-dealer, a member of the Municipal
Council, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the head of this group. His
hare-lipped mouth was cloven a little way from the nose; his round
eyes, his air of mingled satisfaction and astonishment, made him
resemble a fat goose whose digestion is attended by wholesome terror of
the cook. He spoke little, having no command of words; and he only
pricked up his ears when anyone accused the Republicans of wishing to
pillage the houses of the rich; whereupon he would colour up to such a
degree as to make one fear an approaching apoplectic fit, and mutter
low imprecations, in which the words “idlers,” “scoundrels,” “thieves,”
and “assassins” frequently recurred.
All those who frequented the yellow drawing-room were not, however, as
heavy as this fat goose. A rich landowner, Monsieur Roudier, with a
plump, insinuating face, used to discourse there for hours altogether,
with all the passion of an Orleanist whose calculations had been upset
by the fall of Louis Philippe. He had formerly been a hosier at Paris,
and a purveyor to the Court, but had now retired to Plassans. He had
made his son a magistrate, relying on the Orleanist party to promote
him to the highest dignities. The revolution having ruined all his
hopes, he had rushed wildly into the reaction. His fortune, his former
commercial relations with the Tuileries, which he transformed into
friendly intercourse, that prestige which is enjoyed by every man in
the provinces who has made his money in Paris and deigns to come and
spend it in a far away department, gave him great influence in the
district; some persons listened to him as though he were an oracle.
However, the strongest intellect of the yellow drawing-room was
certainly Commander Sicardot, Aristide’s father-in-law. Of Herculean
frame, with a brick-red face, scarred and planted with tufts of grey
hair, he was one of the most glorious old dolts of the Grande Armée.
During the February Revolution he had been exasperated with the street
warfare and never wearied of referring to it, proclaiming with
indignation that this kind of fighting was shameful: whereupon he
recalled with pride the grand reign of Napoleon.
Another person seen at the Rougons’ house was an individual with clammy
hands and equivocal look, one Monsieur Vuillet, a bookseller, who
supplied all the devout ladies of the town with holy images and
rosaries. Vuillet dealt in both classical and religious works; he was a
strict Catholic, a circumstance which insured him the custom of the
numerous convents and parish churches. Further, by a stroke of genius
he had added to his business the publication of a little bi-weekly
journal, the “Gazette de Plassans,” which was devoted exclusively to
the interests of the clergy. This paper involved an annual loss of a
thousand francs, but it made him the champion of the Church, and
enabled him to dispose of his sacred unsaleable stock. Though he was
virtually illiterate and could not even spell correctly, he himself
wrote the articles of the “Gazette” with a humility and rancour that
compensated for his lack of talent. The marquis, in entering on the
campaign, had perceived immediately the advantage that might be derived
from the co-operation of this insipid sacristan with the coarse,
mercenary pen. After the February Revolution the articles in the
“Gazette” contained fewer mistakes; the marquis revised them.
One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rougons’ yellow
drawing-room presented every evening. All opinions met there to bark at
the Republic. Their hatred of that institution made them agree
together. The marquis, who never missed a meeting, appeased by his
presence the little squabbles which occasionally arose between the
commander and the other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly
flattered by the handshakes which he distributed on his arrival and
departure. Roudier, however, like a free-thinker of the Rue
Saint-Honoré, asserted that the marquis had not a copper to bless
himself with, and was disposed to make light of him. M. de Carnavant on
his side preserved the amiable smile of a nobleman lowering himself to
the level of these middle class people, without making any of those
contemptuous grimaces which any other resident of the Saint-Marc
quarter would have thought fit under such circumstances. The parasite
life he had led had rendered him supple. He was the life and soul of
the group, commanding in the name of unknown personages whom he never
revealed. “They want this, they don’t want that,” he would say. The
concealed divinities who thus watched over the destinies of Plassans
from behind some cloud, without appearing to interfere directly in
public matters, must have been certain priests, the great political
agents of the country. When the marquis pronounced that mysterious word
“they,” which inspired the assembly with such marvellous respect,
Vuillet confessed, with a gesture of pious devotion, that he knew them
very well.
The happiest person in all this was Félicité. At last she had people
coming to her drawing-room. It was true she felt a little ashamed of
her old yellow velvet furniture. She consoled herself, however,
thinking of the rich things she would purchase when the good cause
should have triumphed. The Rougons had, in the end, regarded their
royalism as very serious. Félicité went as far as to say, when Roudier
was not present, that if they had not made a fortune in the oil
business the fault lay in the monarchy of July. This was her mode of
giving a political tinge to their poverty. She had a friendly word for
everybody, even for Granoux, inventing each evening some new polite
method of waking him up when it was time for departure.
The drawing-room, that little band of Conservatives belonging to all
parties, and daily increasing in numbers, soon wielded powerful
influence. Owing to the diversified characters of its members, and
especially to the secret impulse which each one received from the
clergy, it became the centre of the reactionary movement and spread its
influence throughout Plassans. The policy of the marquis, who sank his
own personality, transformed Rougon into the leader of the party. The
meetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed in the
eyes of most people to make him the head of the group, and draw public
attention to him. The whole work was attributed to him; he was believed
to be the chief artisan of the movement which was gradually bringing
over to the Conservative party those who had lately been enthusiastic
Republicans. There are some situations which benefit only persons of
bad repute. These lay the foundations of their fortune where men of
better position and more influence would never dare to risk theirs.
Roudier, Granoux, and the others, all men of means and respectability,
certainly seemed a thousand times preferable to Pierre as the acting
leaders of the Conservative party. But none of them would have
consented to turn his drawing-room into a political centre. Their
convictions did not go so far as to induce them to compromise
themselves openly; in fact, they were only so many provincial babblers,
who liked to inveigh against the Republic at a neighbour’s house as
long as the neighbour was willing to bear the responsibility of their
chatter. The game was too risky. There was no one among the middle
classes of Plassans who cared to play it except the Rougons, whose
ungratified longings urged them on to extreme measures.
In the month of April, 1849, Eugène suddenly left Paris, and came to
stay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever knew the purpose of
this journey. It is probable that Eugène wanted to sound his native
town, to ascertain whether he might successfully stand as a candidate
for the legislature which was about to replace the Constituent
Assembly. He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion
appeared to him little in his favour, for he abstained from any
attempt. It was not known at Plassans what had become of him in Paris,
what he was doing there. On his return to his native place, folks found
him less heavy and somnolent than formerly. They surrounded him and
endeavoured to make him speak out concerning the political situation.
But he feigned ignorance and compelled them to talk. A little
perspicacity would have detected that beneath his apparent unconcern
there was great anxiety with regard to the political opinions of the
town. However, he seemed to be sounding the ground more on behalf of a
party than on his own account.
Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Plassans
until the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in the
yellow drawing-room. As soon as the bell rang, announcing the first
visitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses as
far as possible from the lamp. And he remained there the whole evening,
resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listening
religiously. The greatest absurdities did not disturb his equanimity.
He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Granoux. When anyone
asked him his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority.
Nothing seemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the
marquis, who spoke of the Bourbons as if 1815 were a recent date, nor
the effusions of citizen Roudier, who grew quite pathetic when he
recounted how many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king,
Louis Philippe. On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this
Tower of Babel. Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were
storming against the Republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips
retained their expression of gravity. His meditative manner of
listening, and his invariable complacency, had earned him the sympathy
of everyone. He was considered a nonentity, but a very decent fellow.
Whenever an old oil or almond dealer failed to get a hearing, amidst
the clamour, for some plan by which he could save France if he were
only a master, he took himself off to Eugène and shouted his marvellous
suggestions in his ear. And Eugène gently nodded his head, as though
delighted with the grand projects he was listening to. Vuillet, alone,
regarded him with a suspicious eye. This bookseller, half-sacristan and
half-journalist, spoke less than the others, but was more observant. He
had noticed that Eugène occasionally conversed at times in a corner
with Commander Sicardot. So he determined to watch them, but never
succeeded in overhearing a word. Eugène silenced the commander by a
wink whenever Vuillet approached them. From that time, Sicardot never
spoke of the Napoleons without a mysterious smile.
Two days before his return to Paris, Eugène met his brother Aristide,
on the Cours Sauvaire, and the latter accompanied him for a short
distance with the importunity of a man in search of advice. As a matter
of fact, Aristide was in great perplexity. Ever since the proclamation
of the Republic, he had manifested the most lively enthusiasm for the
new government. His intelligence, sharpened by two years’ stay at
Paris, enabled him to see farther than the thick heads of Plassans. He
divined the powerlessness of the Legitimists and Orleanists, without
clearly distinguishing, however, what third thief would come and juggle
the Republic away. At all hazard he had ranged himself on the side of
the victors, and he had severed his connection with his father, whom he
publicly denounced as an old fool, an old dolt whom the nobility had
bamboozled.
“Yet my mother is an intelligent woman,” he would add. “I should never
have thought her capable of inducing her husband to join a party whose
hopes are simply chimerical. They are taking the right course to end
their lives in poverty. But then women know nothing about politics.”
For his part he wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His great
anxiety as to the direction in which the wind was blowing, so that he
might invariably range himself on the side of that party, which, in the
hour of triumph, would be able to reward him munificently.
Unfortunately, he was groping in the dark. Shut up in his far away
province, without a guide, without any precise information, he felt
quite lost. While waiting for events to trace out a sure and certain
path, he preserved the enthusiastic republican attitude which he had
assumed from the very first day. Thanks to this demeanour, he remained
at the Sub-Prefecture; and his salary was even raised. Burning,
however, with the desire to play a prominent part, he persuaded a
bookseller, one of Vuillet’s rivals, to establish a democratic journal,
to which he became one of the most energetic contributors. Under his
impulse the “Indépendant” waged merciless warfare against the
reactionaries. But the current gradually carried him further than he
wished to go; he ended by writing inflammatory articles, which made him
shudder when he re-perused them. It was remarked at Plassans that he
directed a series of attacks against all whom his father was in the
habit of receiving of an evening in his famous yellow drawing-room. The
fact is that the wealth of Roudier and Granoux exasperated Aristide to
such a degree as to make him forget all prudence. Urged on by his
jealous, insatiate bitterness, he had already made the middle classes
his irreconcilable enemy, when Eugène’s arrival and demeanour at
Plassans caused him great consternation. He confessed to himself that
his brother was a skilful man. According to him, that big, drowsy
fellow always slept with one eye open, like a cat lying in wait before
a mouse-hole. And now here was Eugène spending entire evenings in the
yellow drawing-room, and devoting himself to those same grotesque
personages whom he, Aristide, had so mercilessly ridiculed. When he
discovered from the gossip of the town that his brother shook hands
with Granoux and the marquis, he asked himself, with considerable
anxiety, what was the meaning of it? Could he himself have been
deceived? Had the Legitimists or the Orleanists really any chance of
success? The thought terrified him. He lost his equilibrium, and, as
frequently happens, he fell upon the Conservatives with increased
rancour, as if to avenge his own blindness.
On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugène on the Cours
Sauvaire, he had published, in the “Indépendant,” a terrible article on
the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a short paragraph from
Vuillet, who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish the
churches. Vuillet was Aristide’s bugbear. Never a week passed but these
two journalists exchanged the greatest insults. In the provinces, where
a periphrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed in
high-sounding phrases. Aristide called his adversary “brother Judas,”
or “slave of Saint-Anthony.” Vuillet gallantly retorted by terming the
Republican “a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was the
guillotine.”
In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appear
openly uneasy, contented himself with asking: “Did you read my article
yesterday? What do you think of it?”
Eugène lightly shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a simpleton, brother,”
was his sole reply.
“Then you think Vuillet right?” cried the journalist, turning pale;
“you believe in Vuillet’s triumph?”
“I!—Vuillet——”
He was certainly about to add, “Vuillet is as big a fool as you are.”
But, observing his brother’s distorted face anxiously extended towards
him, he experienced sudden mistrust. “Vuillet has his good points,” he
calmly replied.
On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before.
Eugène must certainly have been making game of him, for Vuillet was
really the most abominable person imaginable. However, he determined to
be prudent and not tie himself down any more; for he wished to have his
hands free should he ever be called upon to help any party in
strangling the Republic.
Eugène, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into
the diligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long
conversation with him. Félicité, who remained in the drawing-room,
vainly tried to catch what they were saying. They spoke in whispers, as
if they feared lest a single word should be heard outside. When at last
they quitted the bedroom they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his
father and mother, Eugène, who usually spoke in a drawling tone,
exclaimed with vivacity: “You have understood me, father? There lies
our fortune. We must work with all our energy in that direction. Trust
in me.”
“I’ll follow your instructions faithfully,” Rougon replied. “Only don’t
forget what I asked you as the price of my cooperation.”
“If we succeed your demands shall be satisfied, I give you my word.
Moreover, I will write to you and guide you according to the direction
which events may take. Mind, no panic or excitement. You must obey me
implicitly.”
“What have you been plotting there?” Félicité asked inquisitively.
“My dear mother,” Eugène replied with a smile, “you have had too little
faith in me thitherto to induce me to confide in you my hopes,
particularly as at present they are only based on probabilities. To be
able to understand me you would require faith. However, father will
inform you when the right time comes.”
Then, as Félicité assumed the demeanour of a woman who feels somewhat
piqued, he added in her ear, as he kissed her once more: “I take after
you, although you disowned me. Too much intelligence would be dangerous
at the present moment. When the crisis comes, it is you who will have
to manage the business.”
He then quitted the room, but, suddenly re-opening the door, exclaimed
in an imperious tone: “Above all things, do not trust Aristide; he is a
mar-all, who would spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently to
feel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don’t have any pity;
if we make a fortune, he’ll know well enough how to rob us of his
share.”
When Eugène had gone, Félicité endeavoured to ferret out the secret
that was being hidden from her. She knew her husband too well to
interrogate him openly. He would have angrily replied that it was no
business of hers. In spite, however, of the clever tactics she pursued,
she learnt absolutely nothing. Eugène had chosen a good confidant for
those troubled times, when the greatest discretion was necessary.
Pierre, flattered by his son’s confidence, exaggerated that passive
ponderosity which made him so impenetrable. When Félicité saw she would
not learn anything from him, she ceased to flutter round him. On one
point only did she remain inquisitive, but in this respect her
curiosity was intense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated by
Pierre himself. What could that price be? This after all was the sole
point of interest for Félicité, who did not care a rap for political
matters. She knew that her husband must have sold himself dearly, but
she was burning to know the nature of the bargain. One evening, when
they had gone to bed, finding Pierre in a good humour, she brought the
conversation round to the discomforts of their poverty.
“It’s quite time to put an end to this,” she said. “We have been
ruining ourselves in oil and fuel since those gentlemen have been
coming here. And who will pay the reckoning? Nobody perhaps.”
Her husband fell into the trap, and smiled with complacent superiority.
“Patience,” said he. And with an air of shrewdness he looked into his
wife’s eyes and added: “Would you be glad to be the wife of a receiver
of taxes?”
Félicité’s face flushed with a joyous glow. She sat up in bed and
clapped her old withered little hands like a child.
“Really?” she stammered. “At Plassans?”
Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He enjoyed his
consort’s astonishment and emotion.
“But,” she at last resumed, half sitting, “you would have to deposit an
enormous sum as security. I have heard that our neighbour, Monsieur
Peirotte, had to deposit eighty thousand francs with the Treasury.”
“Eh!” said the retired oil-dealer, “that’s nothing to do with me;
Eugène will see to that. He will get the money advanced by a banker in
Paris. You see, I selected an appointment bringing in a good income.
Eugène at first made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such
posts, to which influential men were usually nominated. I persisted,
however, and he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one need not know
either Greek or Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur
Peirotte, and he will do all the work.”
Félicité listened to him with rapture.
“I guessed, however,” he continued, “what it was that worried our dear
son. We’re not much liked here. People know that we have no means, and
will make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in a time
of crisis. Eugène wished to get me an appointment in another town.
However, I objected; I want to remain at Plassans.”
“Yes, yes, we must remain here,” the old woman quickly replied. “We
have suffered here, and here we must triumph. Ah! I’ll crush them all,
those fine ladies on the Mail, who scornfully eye my woollen dresses! I
didn’t think of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all; I thought
you wanted to become mayor.”
“Mayor! Nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugène also mentioned
the mayoralty to me. I replied: ‘I’ll accept, if you give me an income
of fifteen thousand francs.’”
This conversation, in which high figures flew about like rockets, quite
excited Félicité. She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last she put on
a devout air, and gravely said: “Come, let us reckon it out. How much
will you earn?”
“Well,” said Pierre, “the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousand
francs.”
“Three thousand,” Félicité counted.
“Then there is so much per cent on the receipts, which at Plassans, may
produce the sum of twelve thousand francs.”
“That makes fifteen thousand.”
“Yes, about fifteen thousand francs. That’s what Peirotte earns. That’s
not all. Peirotte does a little banking business on his own account.
It’s allowed. Perhaps I shall be disposed to make a venture when I feel
luck on my side.”
“Well, let us say twenty thousand. Twenty thousand francs a year!”
repeated Félicité, overwhelmed by the amount.
“We shall have to repay the advances,” Pierre observed.
“That doesn’t matter,” Félicité replied, “we shall be richer than many
of those gentlemen. Are the marquis and the others going to share the
cake with you?”
“No, no; it will be all for us,” he replied.
Then, as she continued to importune him with her questions, Pierre
frowned, thinking that she wanted to wrest his secret from him. “We’ve
talked enough,” he said, abruptly. “It’s late, let us go to sleep. It
will bring us bad luck to count our chickens beforehand. I haven’t got
the place yet. Above all things, be prudent.”
When the lamp was extinguished, Félicité could not sleep. With her eyes
closed she built the most marvellous castles in the air. Those twenty
thousand francs a year danced a diabolical dance before her in the
darkness. She occupied splendid apartments in the new town, enjoyed the
same luxuries as Monsieur Peirotte, gave parties, and bespattered the
whole place with her wealth. That, however, which tickled her vanity
most was the high position that her husband would then occupy. He would
pay their state dividends to Granoux, Roudier, and all those people who
now came to her house as they might come to a cafe, to swagger and
learn the latest news. She had noticed the free-and-easy manner in
which these people entered her drawing-room, and it had made her take a
dislike to them. Even the marquis, with his ironical politeness, was
beginning to displease her. To triumph alone, therefore, to keep the
cake for themselves, as she expressed it, was a revenge which she
fondly cherished. Later on, when all those ill-bred persons presented
themselves, hats off, before Monsieur Rougon the receiver of taxes, she
would crush them in her turn. She was busy with these thoughts all
night; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively
cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte’s
house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging
in the windows.
Félicité’s hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense.
Like all women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery. The secret
object that her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the
Legitimist intrigues of Monsieur de Carnavant had ever done. She
abandoned, without much regret, the calculations she had based on the
marquis’s success now that her husband declared he would be able to
make large profits by other means. She displayed, moreover, remarkable
prudence and discretion.
In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity; she studied
Pierre’s slightest actions, endeavouring to discover their meaning.
What if by chance he were following the wrong track? What if Eugène
were dragging them in his train into some break-neck pit, whence they
would emerge yet more hungry and impoverished? However, faith was
dawning on her. Eugène had commanded with such an air of authority that
she ultimately came to believe in him. In this case again some unknown
power was at work. Pierre would speak mysteriously of the high
personages whom their eldest son visited in Paris. For her part she did
not know what he could have to do with them, but on the other hand she
was unable to close her eyes to Aristide’s ill-advised acts at
Plassans. The visitors to her drawing-room did not scruple to denounce
the democratic journalist with extreme severity. Granoux muttered that
he was a brigand, and Roudier would three or four times a week repeat
to Félicité: “Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday he
attacked our friend Vuillet with revolting scurrility.”
The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander Sicardot spoke of
boxing his son-in-law’s ears, while Pierre flatly disowned him. The
poor mother hung her head, restraining her tears. For an instant she
felt an inclination to burst forth, to tell Roudier that her dear
child, in spite of his faults, was worth more than he and all the
others put together. But she was tied down, and did not wish to
compromise the position they had so laboriously attained. Seeing the
whole town so bitter against Aristide, she despaired of his future,
thinking he was hopelessly ruining himself. On two occasions she spoke
to him in secret, imploring him to return to them, and not to irritate
the yellow drawing-room any further. Aristide replied that she did not
understand such matters; that she was the one who had committed a great
blunder in placing her husband at the service of the marquis. So she
had to abandon her son to his own courses, resolving, however that if
Eugène succeeded she would compel him to share the spoils with the poor
fellow who was her favourite child.
After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougon pursued his
reactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed in the opinions
of the famous yellow drawing-room. Every evening the same men came to
join in the same propaganda in favour of the establishment of a
monarchy, while the master of the house approved and aided them with as
much zeal as in the past. Eugène had left Plassans on May 1. A few days
later, the yellow drawing-room was in raptures. The gossips were
discussing the letter of the President of the Republic to General
Oudinot, in which the siege of Rome had been decided upon. This letter
was regarded as a brilliant victory, due to the firm demeanour of the
reactionary party. Since 1848 the Chambers had been discussing the
Roman question; but it had been reserved for a Bonaparte to stifle a
rising Republic by an act of intervention which France, if free, would
never have countenanced. The marquis declared, however, that one could
not better promote the cause of legitimacy, and Vuillet wrote a superb
article on the matter. The enthusiasm became unbounded when, a month
later, Commander Sicardot entered the Rougons’ house one evening and
announced to the company that the French army was fighting under the
walls of Rome. Then, while everybody was raising exclamations at this
news, he went up to Pierre, and shook hands with him in a significant
manner. And when he had taken a seat, he began to sound the praises of
the President of the Republic, who, said he, was the only person able
to save France from anarchy.
“Let him save it, then, as quickly as possible,” interrupted the
marquis, “and let him then understand his duty by restoring it to its
legitimate masters.”
Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort, and having thus given proof
of his ardent royalism, he ventured to remark that Prince Louis
Bonaparte had his entire sympathy in the matter. He thereupon exchanged
a few short sentences with the commander, commending the excellent
intentions of the President, which sentences one might have thought
prepared and learnt beforehand. Bonapartism now, for the first time,
made its entry into the yellow drawing-room. It is true that since the
election of December 10 the Prince had been treated there with a
certain amount of consideration. He was preferred a thousand times to
Cavaignac, and the whole reactionary party had voted for him. But they
regarded him rather as an accomplice than a friend; and, as such, they
distrusted him, and even began to accuse him of a desire to keep for
himself the chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire. On that
particular evening, however, owing to the fighting at Rome, they
listened with favour to the praises of Pierre and the commander.
The group led by Granoux and Roudier already demanded that the
President should order all republican rascals to be shot; while the
marquis, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively at a faded
rose on the carpet. When he at last lifted his head, Pierre, who had
furtively watched his countenance as if to see the effect of his words,
suddenly ceased speaking. However, Monsieur de Carnavant merely smiled
and glanced at Félicité with a knowing look. This rapid by-play was not
observed by the other people. Vuillet alone remarked in a sharp tone:
“I would rather see your Bonaparte at London than at Paris. Our affairs
would get along better then.”
At this the old oil-dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he had
gone too far. “I’m not anxious to retain ‘my’ Bonaparte,” he said, with
some firmness; “you know where I would send him to if I were the
master. I simply assert that the expedition to Rome was a good stroke.”
Félicité had followed this scene with inquisitive astonishment.
However, she did not speak of it to her husband, which proved that she
adopted it as the basis of secret study. The marquis’s smile, the
significance of which escaped her, set her thinking.
From that day forward, Rougon, at distant intervals, whenever the
occasion offered, slipped in a good word for the President of the
Republic. On such evenings, Commander Sicardot acted the part of a
willing accomplice. At the same time, Clerical opinions still reigned
supreme in the yellow drawing-room. It was more particularly in the
following year that this group of reactionaries gained decisive
influence in the town, thanks to the retrograde movement which was
going on at Paris. All those anti-Liberal laws which the country called
“the Roman expedition at home” definitively secured the triumph of the
Rougon faction. The last enthusiastic bourgeois saw the Republic
tottering, and hastened to rally round the Conservatives. Thus the
Rougons’ hour had arrived; the new town almost gave them an ovation on
the day when the tree of Liberty, planted on the square before the
Sub-Prefecture, was sawed down. This tree, a young poplar brought from
the banks of the Viorne, had gradually withered, much to the despair of
the republican working-men, who would come every Sunday to observe the
progress of the decay without being able to comprehend the cause of it.
A hatter’s apprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman leave
Rougon’s house and pour a pail of poisoned water at the foot of the
tree. It thenceforward became a matter of history that Félicité herself
got up every night to sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree
was dead the Municipal Council declared that the dignity of the
Republic required its removal. For this, as they feared the displeasure
of the working classes, they selected an advanced hour of the night.
However, the conservative householders of the new town got wind of the
little ceremony, and all came down to the square before the
Sub-Prefecture in order to see how the tree of Liberty would fall. The
frequenters of the yellow drawing-room stationed themselves at the
windows there. When the poplar cracked and fell with a thud in the
darkness, as tragically rigid as some mortally stricken hero, Félicité
felt bound to wave a white handkerchief. This induced the crowd to
applaud, and many responded to the salute by waving their handkerchiefs
likewise. A group of people even came under the window shouting: “We’ll
bury it, we’ll bury it.”
They meant the Republic, no doubt. Such was Félicité’s emotion, that
she almost had a nervous attack. It was a fine evening for the yellow
drawing-room.
However, the marquis still looked at Félicité with the same mysterious
smile. This little old man was far too shrewd to be ignorant of whither
France was tending. He was among the first to scent the coming of the
Empire. When the Legislative Assembly, later on, exhausted its energies
in useless squabbling, when the Orleanists and the Legitimists tacitly
accepted the idea of the Coup d’État, he said to himself that the game
was definitely lost. In fact, he was the only one who saw things
clearly. Vuillet certainly felt that the cause of Henry V., which his
paper defended, was becoming detestable; but it mattered little to him;
he was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy; his entire
policy was framed so as to enable him to dispose of as many rosaries
and sacred images as possible. As for Roudier and Granoux, they lived
in a state of blind scare; it was not certain whether they really had
any opinions; all that they desired was to eat and sleep in peace;
their political aspirations went no further. The marquis, though he had
bidden farewell to his hopes, continued to come to the Rougons’ as
regularly as ever. He enjoyed himself there. The clash of rival
ambitions among the middle classes, and the display of their follies,
had become an extremely amusing spectacle to him. He shuddered at the
thought of again shutting himself in the little room which he owed to
the beneficence of the Count de Valqueyras. With a kind of malicious
delight, he kept to himself the conviction that the Bourbons’ hour had
not yet arrived. He feigned blindness, working as hitherto for the
triumph of Legitimacy, and still remaining at the orders of the clergy
and nobility, though from the very first day he had penetrated Pierre’s
new course of action, and believed that Félicité was his accomplice.
One evening, being the first to arrive, he found the old lady alone in
the drawing-room. “Well! little one,” he asked, with his smiling
familiarity, “are your affairs going on all right? Why the deuce do you
make such mysteries with me?”
“I’m not hiding anything from you,” Félicité replied, somewhat
perplexed.
“Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like me, eh? My dear
child, treat me as a friend. I’m quite ready to help you secretly. Come
now, be frank!”
A bright idea struck Félicité. She had nothing to tell; but perhaps she
might find out something if she kept quiet.
“Why do you smile?” Monsieur de Carnavant resumed. “That’s the
beginning of a confession, you know. I suspected that you must be
behind your husband. Pierre is too stupid to invent the pretty treason
you are hatching. I sincerely hope the Bonapartists will give you what
I should have asked for you from the Bourbons.”
This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old woman had
entertained for some time past.
“Prince Louis has every chance, hasn’t he?” she eagerly inquired.
“Will you betray me if I tell you that I believe so?” the marquis
laughingly replied. “I’ve donned my mourning over it, little one. I’m
simply a poor old man, worn out and only fit to be laid on the shelf.
It was for you, however, that I was working. Since you have been able
to find the right track without me, I shall feel some consolation in
seeing you triumph amidst my own defeat. Above all things, don’t make
any more mysteries. Come to me if you are ever in trouble.”
And he added, with the sceptical smile of a nobleman who has lost
caste: “Pshaw! I also can go in for a little treachery!”
At this moment the clan of retired oil and almond dealers arrived.
“Ah! the dear reactionaries!” Monsieur de Carnavant continued in an
undertone. “You see, little one, the great art of politics consists in
having a pair of good eyes when other people are blind. You hold all
the best cards in the pack.”
On the following day, Félicité, incited by this conversation, desired
to make sure on the matter. They were then in the first days of the
year 1851. For more than eighteen months, Rougon had been in the habit
of receiving a letter from his son Eugène regularly every fortnight. He
would shut himself in the bedroom to read these letters, which he then
hid at the bottom of an old secretaire, the key of which he carefully
kept in his waistcoat pocket. Whenever his wife questioned him about
their son he would simply answer: “Eugène writes that he is going on
all right.” Félicité had long since thought of laying hands on her
son’s letters. So early on the morning after her chat with the marquis,
while Pierre was still asleep, she got up on tiptoes, took the key of
the secretaire from her husband’s waistcoat and substituted in its
place that of the chest of drawers, which was of the same size. Then,
as soon as her husband had gone out, she shut herself in the room in
her turn, emptied the drawer, and read all the letters with feverish
curiosity.
Monsieur de Carnavant had not been mistaken, and her own suspicions
were confirmed. There were about forty letters, which enabled her to
follow the course of that great Bonapartist movement which was to
terminate in the second Empire. The letters constituted a sort of
concise journal, narrating events as they occurred, and drawing hopes
and suggestions from each of them. Eugène was full of faith. He
described Prince Louis Bonaparte to his father as the predestined
necessary man who alone could unravel the situation. He had believed in
him prior even to his return to France, at a time when Bonapartism was
treated as a ridiculous chimera. Félicité understood that her son had
been a very active secret agent since 1848. Although he did not clearly
explain his position in Paris, it was evident that he was working for
the Empire, under the orders of personages whose names he mentioned
with a sort of familiarity. Each of his letters gave information as to
the progress of the cause, to which an early _dénouement_ was
foreshadowed; and usually concluded by pointing out the line of action
that Pierre should pursue at Plassans. Félicité could now comprehend
certain words and acts of her husband, whose significance had
previously escaped her; Pierre was obeying his son, and blindly
following his recommendations.
When the old woman had finished reading, she was convinced. Eugène’s
entire thoughts were clearly revealed to her. He reckoned upon making
his political fortune in the squabble, and repaying his parents the
debt he owed them for his education, by throwing them a scrap of the
prey as soon as the quarry was secured. However small the assistance
his father might render to him and to the cause, it would not be
difficult to get him appointed receiver of taxes. Nothing would be
refused to one who like Eugène had steeped his hands in the most secret
machinations. His letters were simply a kind attention on his part, a
device to prevent the Rougons from committing any act of imprudence,
for which Félicité felt deeply grateful. She read certain passages of
the letters twice over, notably those in which Eugène spoke, in vague
terms, of “a final catastrophe.” This catastrophe, the nature or
bearings of which she could not well conceive became a sort of end of
the world for her. God would range the chosen ones on His right hand
and the damned on His left, and she placed herself among the former.
When she succeeded in replacing the key in her husband’s waistcoat
pocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ the same
expedient for reading every fresh letter that arrived. She resolved,
likewise, to profess complete ignorance. This plan was an excellent
one. Henceforward, she gave her husband the more assistance as she
appeared to render it unconsciously. When Pierre thought he was working
alone it was she who brought the conversation round to the desired
topic, recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt hurt at
Eugène’s distrust of her. She wanted to be able to say to him, after
the triumph: “I knew all, and so far from spoiling anything, I have
secured the victory.” Never did an accomplice make less noise or work
harder. The marquis, whom she had taken into her confidence, was
astounded at it.
The fate of her dear Aristide, however, continued to make her uneasy.
Now that she shared the faith of her eldest son, the rabid articles of
the “Indépendant” alarmed her all the more. She longed to convert the
unfortunate republican to Napoleonist ideas; but she did not know how
to accomplish this in a discreet manner. She recalled the emphasis with
which Eugène had told them to be on their guard against Aristide. At
last she submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnavant, who was
entirely of the same opinion.
“Little one,” he said to her, “in politics one must know how to look
after one’s self. If you were to convert your son, and the
‘Indépendant’ were to start writing in defence of Bonapartism, it would
deal the party a rude blow. The ‘Indépendant’ has already been
condemned, its title alone suffices to enrage the middle classes of
Plassans. Let dear Aristide flounder about; this only moulds young
people. He does not appear to me to be cut out for carrying on the role
of a martyr for any length of time.”
However, in her eagerness to point out the right way to her family, now
that she believed herself in possession of the truth, Félicité even
sought to convert her son Pascal. The doctor, with the egotism of a
scientist immersed in his researches, gave little heed to politics.
Empires might fall while he was making an experiment, yet he would not
have deigned to turn his head. He at last yielded, however, to certain
importunities of his mother, who accused him more than ever of living
like an unsociable churl.
“If you were to go into society,” she said to him, “you would get some
well-to-do patients. Come, at least, and spend some evenings in our
drawing-room. You will make the acquaintance of Messieurs Roudier,
Granoux, and Sicardot, all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will
pay you four or five francs a visit. The poor people will never enrich
you.”
The idea of succeeding in life, of seeing all her family attain to
fortune, had become a form of monomania with Félicité. Pascal, in order
to be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the yellow
drawing-room. He was much less bored there than he had apprehended. At
first he was rather stupefied at the degree of imbecility to which sane
men can sink. The old oil and almond dealers, the marquis and the
commander even, appeared to him so many curious animals, which he had
not hitherto had an opportunity of studying. He looked with a
naturalist’s interest at their grimacing faces, in which he discerned
traces of their occupations and appetites; he listened also to their
inane chatter, just as he might have tried to catch the meaning of a
cat’s mew or a dog’s bark. At this period he was occupied with
comparative natural history, applying to the human race the
observations which he had made upon animals with regard to the working
of heredity. While he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he
amused himself with the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie.
He established comparisons between the grotesque creatures he found
there and certain animals of his acquaintance. The marquis, with his
leanness and small crafty-looking head, reminded him exactly of a long
green grasshopper. Vuillet impressed him as a pale, slimy toad. He was
more considerate for Roudier, a fat sheep, and for the commander, an
old toothless mastiff. But the prodigious Granoux was a perpetual cause
of astonishment to him. He spent a whole evening measuring this
imbecile’s facial angle. When he heard him mutter indistinct
imprecations against those blood-suckers the Republicans, he always
expected to hear him moan like a calf; and he could never see him rise
from his chair without imagining that he was about to leave the room on
all fours.
“Talk to them,” his mother used to say in an undertone; “try and make a
practice out of these gentlemen.”
“I am not a veterinary surgeon,” he at last replied, exasperated.
One evening Félicité took him into a corner and tired to catechise him.
She was glad to see him come to her house rather assiduously. She
thought him reconciled to Society, not suspecting for a moment the
singular amusement that he derived from ridiculing these rich people.
She cherished the secret project of making him the fashionable doctor
of Plassans. It would be sufficient if men like Granoux and Roudier
consented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart to him
the political views of the family, considering that a doctor had
everything to gain by constituting himself a warm partisan of the
regime which was to succeed the Republic.
“My dear boy,” she said to him, “as you have now become reasonable, you
must give some thought to the future. You are accused of being a
Republican, because you are foolish enough to attend all the beggars of
the town without making any charge. Be frank, what are your real
opinions?”
Pascal looked at his mother with naïve astonishment, then with a smile
replied: “My real opinions? I don’t quite know—I am accused of being a
Republican, did you say? Very well! I don’t feel at all offended. I am
undoubtedly a Republican, if you understand by that word a man who
wishes the welfare of everybody.”
“But you will never attain to any position,” Félicité quickly
interrupted. “You will be crushed. Look at your brothers, they are
trying to make their way.”
Pascal then comprehended that he was not called upon to defend his
philosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not speculating
on the political situation. He began to laugh somewhat sadly, and then
turned the conversation into another channel. Félicité could never
induce him to consider the chances of the various parties, nor to
enlist in that one of them which seemed likely to carry the day.
However, he still occasionally came to spend an evening in the yellow
drawing-room. Granoux interested him like an antediluvian animal.
In the meantime, events were moving. The year 1851 was a year of
anxiety and apprehension for the politicians of Plassans, and the cause
which the Rougons served derived advantage from this circumstance. The
most contradictory news arrived from Paris; sometimes the Republicans
were in the ascendant, sometimes the Conservative party was crushing
the Republic. The echoes of the squabbles which were rending the
Legislative Assembly reached the depths of the provinces, now in an
exaggerated, now in an attenuated form, varying so greatly as to
obscure the vision of the most clear-sighted. The only general feeling
was that a _dénouement_ was approaching. The prevailing ignorance as to
the nature of this _dénouement_ kept timid middle class people in a
terrible state of anxiety. Everybody wished to see the end. They were
sick of uncertainty, and would have flung themselves into the arms of
the Grand Turk, if he would have deigned to save France from anarchy.
The marquis’s smile became more acute. Of an evening, in the yellow
drawing-room, when Granoux’s growl was rendered indistinct by fright,
he would draw near to Félicité and whisper in her ear: “Come, little
one, the fruit is ripe—but you must make yourself useful.”
Félicité, who continued to read Eugène’s letters, and knew that a
decisive crisis might any day occur, had already often felt the
necessity of making herself useful, and reflected as to the manner in
which the Rougons should employ themselves. At last she consulted the
marquis.
“It all depends upon circumstances,” the little old man replied. “If
the department remains quiet, if no insurrection occurs to terrify
Plassans, it will be difficult for you to make yourselves conspicuous
and render any services to the new government. I advise you, in that
case, to remain at home, and peacefully await the bounties of your son
Eugène. But if the people rise, and our brave bourgeois think
themselves in danger, there will be a fine part to play. Your husband
is somewhat heavy—”
“Oh!” said Félicité, “I’ll undertake to make him supple. Do you think
the department will revolt?”
“To my mind it’s a certainty. Plassans, perhaps, will not make a stir;
the reaction has secured too firm a hold here for that. But the
neighbouring towns, especially the small ones and the villages, have
long been worked by certain secret societies, and belong to the
advanced Republican party. If a Coup d’État should burst forth, the
tocsin will be heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of
the Seille to the plateau of Sainte-Roure.”
Félicité reflected. “You think, then,” she resumed, “that an
insurrection is necessary to ensure our fortune!”
“That’s my opinion,” replied Monsieur de Carnavant. And he added, with
a slightly ironical smile: “A new dynasty is never founded excepting
upon an affray. Blood is good manure. It will be a fine thing for the
Rougons to date from a massacre, like certain illustrious families.”
These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill through
Félicité’s bones. But she was a strong-minded woman, and the sight of
Monsieur Peirotte’s beautiful curtains, which she religiously viewed
every morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herself giving
way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated the
tax-receiver’s house. For her it was the Tuileries. She had determined
upon the most extreme measures in order to secure an entree into the
new town, that promised land, on the threshold of which she had stood
with burning longing for so many years.
The conversation which she had held with the marquis had at last
clearly revealed the situation to her. A few days afterwards, she
succeeded in reading one of Eugène’s letters, in which he, who was
working for the Coup d’État, seemed also to rely upon an insurrection
as the means of endowing his father with some importance. Eugène knew
his department well. All his suggestions had been framed with the
object of placing as much influence as possible in the hands of the
yellow drawing-room reactionaries, so that the Rougons might be able to
hold the town at the critical moment. In accordance with his desires,
the yellow drawing-room was master of Plassans in November, 1851.
Roudier represented the rich citizens there, and his attitude would
certainly decide that of the entire new town. Granoux was still more
valuable; he had the Municipal Council behind him: he was its most
powerful member, a fact which will give some idea of its other members.
Finally, through Commander Sicardot, whom the marquis had succeeded in
getting appointed as chief of the National Guard, the yellow
drawing-room had the armed forces at their disposal.
The Rougons, those poor disreputable devils, had thus succeeded in
rallying round themselves the instruments of their own fortune.
Everyone, from cowardice or stupidity, would have to obey them and work
in the dark for their aggrandisement. They simply had to fear those
other influences which might be working with the same object as
themselves, and might partially rob them of the merit of victory. That
was their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the role
of deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be aided rather
than hindered by the clergy and the nobility. But if the sub-prefect,
the mayor, and the other functionaries were to take a step in advance
and at once stifle the insurrection they would find themselves thrown
into the shade, and even arrested in their exploits; they would have
neither time nor means to make themselves useful. What they longed for
was complete abstention, general panic among the functionaries. If only
all regular administration should disappear, and they could dispose of
the destinies of Plassans for a single day, their fortune would be
firmly established.
Happily for them, there was not a man in the government service whose
convictions were so firm or whose circumstances were so needy as to
make him disposed to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of
liberal spirit whom the executive had forgetfully left at Plassans,
owing, no doubt, to the good repute of the town. Of timid character and
incapable of exceeding his authority, he would no doubt be greatly
embarrassed in the presence of an insurrection. The Rougons, who knew
that he was in favour of the democratic cause, and who consequently
never dreaded his zeal, were simply curious to know what attitude he
would assume. As for the municipality, this did not cause them much
apprehension. The mayor, Monsieur Garconnet, was a Legitimist whose
nomination had been procured by the influence of the Saint-Marc quarter
in 1849. He detested the Republicans and treated them with undisguised
disdain; but he was too closely united by bonds of friendship with
certain members of the church to lend any active hand in a Bonapartist
Coup d’État. The other functionaries were in exactly the same position.
The justices of the peace, the post-master, the tax-collector, as well
as Monsieur Peirotte, the chief receiver of taxes, were all indebted
for their posts to the Clerical reaction, and could not accept the
Empire with any great enthusiasm. The Rougons, though they did not
quite see how they might get rid of these people and clear the way for
themselves, nevertheless indulged in sanguine hopes on finding there
was little likelihood of anybody disputing their role as deliverers.
The _dénouement_ was drawing near. In the last few days of November, as
the rumour of a Coup d’État was circulating, the prince-president was
accused of seeking the position of emperor.
“Eh! we’ll call him whatever he likes,” Granoux exclaimed, “provided he
has those Republican rascals shot!”
This exclamation from Granoux, who was believed to be asleep, caused
great commotion. The marquis pretended not to have heard it; but all
the bourgeois nodded approval. Roudier, who, being rich, did not fear
to applaud the sentiment aloud, went so far as to declare, while
glancing askance at Monsieur de Carnavant, that the position was no
longer tenable, and that France must be chastised as soon as possible,
never mind by what hand.
The marquis still maintained a silence which was interpreted as
acquiescence. And thereupon the Conservative clan, abandoning the cause
of Legitimacy, ventured to offer up prayers in favour of the Empire.
“My friends,” said Commander Sicardot, rising from his seat, “only a
Napoleon can now protect threatened life and property. Have no fear,
I’ve taken the necessary precautions to preserve order at Plassans.”
As a matter of fact the commander, in concert with Rougon, had
concealed, in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, both a supply of
cartridges and a considerable number of muskets; he had also taken
steps to secure the co-operation of the National Guard, on which he
believed he could rely. His words produced a very favourable
impression. On separating for the evening, the peaceful citizens of the
yellow drawing-room spoke of massacring the “Reds” if they should dare
to stir.
On December 1, Pierre Rougon received a letter from Eugène which he
went to read in his bedroom, in accordance with his prudent habit.
Félicité observed, however, that he was very agitated when he came out
again. She fluttered round the secretaire all day. When night came, she
could restrain her impatience no longer. Her husband had scarcely
fallen asleep, when she quietly got up, took the key of the secretaire
from the waistcoat pocket, and gained possession of the letter with as
little noise as possible. Eugène, in ten lines, warned his father that
the crisis was at hand, and advised him to acquaint his mother with the
situation of affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived; he might
stand in need of her advice.
Félicité awaited, on the morrow, a disclosure which did not come. She
did not dare to confess her curiosity; but continued to feign
ignorance, though enraged at the foolish distrust of her husband, who,
doubtless, considered her a gossip, and weak like other women. Pierre,
with that marital pride which inspires a man with the belief in his own
superiority at home, had ended by attributing all their past ill-luck
to his wife. From the time that he fancied he had been conducting
matters alone everything seemed to him to have gone as he desired. He
had decided, therefore, to dispense altogether with his consort’s
counsels, and to confide nothing to her, in spite of his son’s
recommendations.
Félicité was piqued to such a degree that she would have upset the
whole affair had she not desired the triumph as ardently as Pierre. So
she continued to work energetically for victory, while endeavouring to
take her revenge.
“Ah! if he could only have some great fright,” thought she; “if he
would only commit some act of imprudence! Then I should see him come to
me and humbly ask for advice; it would be my turn to lay down the law.”
She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre would
certainly assume if he were to triumph without her aid. On marrying
this peasant’s son, in preference to some notary’s clerk, she had
intended to make use of him as a strongly made puppet, whose strings
she would pull in her own way; and now, at the decisive moment, the
puppet, in his blind stupidity, wanted to work alone! All the cunning,
all the feverish activity within the old woman protested against this.
She knew Pierre was quite capable of some brutal resolve such as that
which he had taken when he compelled his mother to sign the receipt for
fifty thousand francs; the tool was indeed a useful and unscrupulous
one; but she felt the necessity for guiding it, especially under
present circumstances, when considerable suppleness was requisite.
The official news of the Coup d’État did not reach Plassans until the
afternoon of December 3—a Thursday. Already, at seven o’clock in the
evening, there was a full meeting in the yellow drawing-room. Although
the crisis had been eagerly desired, vague uneasiness appeared on the
faces of the majority. They discussed events amid endless chatter.
Pierre, who like the others was slightly pale, thought it right, as an
extreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis’s decisive act to
the Legitimists and Orleanists who were present.
“There is talk of an appeal to the people,” he said; “the nation will
then be free to choose whatever government it likes. The president is a
man to retire before our legitimate masters.”
The marquis, who had retained his aristocratic coolness, was the only
one who greeted these words with a smile. The others, in the enthusiasm
of the moment, concerned themselves very little about what might
follow. All their opinions foundered. Roudier, forgetting the esteem
which as a former shopkeeper he had entertained for the Orleanists,
stopped Pierre rather abruptly. And everybody exclaimed: “Don’t argue
the matter. Let us think of preserving order.”
These good people were terribly afraid of the Republicans. There had,
however been very little commotion in the town on the announcement of
the events in Paris. People had collected in front of the notices
posted on the door of the Sub-Prefecture; it was also rumoured that a
few hundred workmen had left their work and were endeavouring to
organise resistance. That was all. No serious disturbance seemed likely
to occur. The course which the neighbouring towns and rural districts
might take seemed more likely to occasion anxiety; however, it was not
yet known how they had received the news of the Coup d’État.
Granoux arrived at about nine o’clock, quite out of breath. He had just
left a sitting of the Municipal Council which had been hastily summoned
together. Choking with emotion, he announced that the mayor, Monsieur
Garconnet, had declared, while making due reserves, that he was
determined to preserve order by the most stringent measures. However,
the intelligence which caused the noisiest chattering in the yellow
drawing-room was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. This
functionary had absolutely refused to communicate the despatches of the
Minister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plassans; he had just
left the town, so Granoux asserted, and it was thanks to the mayor that
the messages had been posted. This was perhaps the only sub-prefect in
France who ever had the courage of his democratic opinions.
Although Monsieur Garconnet’s firm demeanour caused the Rougons some
secret anxiety, they rubbed their hands at the flight of the
sub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them. It was decided on
this memorable evening that the yellow drawing-room party should accept
the Coup d’État and openly declare that it was in favour of
accomplished facts. Vuillet was commissioned to write an article to
that effect, and publish it on the morrow in the “Gazette.” Neither he
nor the marquis raised any objection. They had, no doubt, received
instructions from the mysterious individuals to whom they sometimes
made pious allusions. The clergy and the nobility were already resigned
to the course of lending a strong hand to the victors, in order to
crush their common enemy, the Republic.
While the yellow drawing-room was deliberating on the evening in
question, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had gambler,
staking his last louis on a card, felt such anguish. During the day the
resignation of his chief, the sub-prefect, had given him much matter
for reflection. He had heard him repeat several times that the Coup
d’État must prove a failure. This functionary, endowed with a limited
amount of honesty, believed in the final triumph of the democracy,
though he had not the courage to work for that triumph by offering
resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of the
Sub-Prefecture, in order to get precise information, for he felt that
he was groping in the dark, and clung to the intelligence which he
gleaned from the officials. The sub-prefect’s opinion struck him
forcibly; but he remained perplexed. He thought to himself: “Why does
the fellow go away if he is so certain that the prince-president will
meet with a check?” However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or
the other, he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very
hostile article on the Coup d’État, and took it to the “Indépendant”
the same evening for the following morning’s issue. He had corrected
the proofs of this article, and was returning home somewhat calmed,
when, as he passed along the Rue de la Banne, he instinctively raised
his head and glanced at the Rougons’ windows. Their windows were
brightly lighted up.
“What can they be plotting up there?” the journalist asked himself,
with anxious curiosity.
A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room with
regard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group of
reactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he was
in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. He could
not think of entering his father’s home at that moment, after the
campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. Nevertheless, he
went upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he
were surprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rougons’ door, he
could only catch a confused echo of voices.
“What a child I am,” said he, “fear makes me stupid.” And he was going
to descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who was
about to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in a dark corner
formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house. The
Rougons’ door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Félicité.
Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new town
did, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the
street.
“Eh! little one,” he said on the landing, in a low voice, “these men
are greater cowards than I should have thought. With such men France
will always be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon
her!” And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to
himself: “The monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern
times. Its day is over.”
“Eugène announced the crisis to his father,” replied Félicité. “Prince
Louis’s triumph seems to him certain.”
“Oh, you can proceed without fear,” the marquis replied, as he
descended the first steps. “In two or three days the country will be
well bound and gagged. Good-bye till to-morrow, little one.”
Félicité closed the door again. Aristide had received quite a shock in
his dark corner. However, without waiting for the marquis to reach the
street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushed
outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing-office
of the “Indépendant.” A flood of thoughts surged through his mind. He
was enraged, and accused his family of having duped him. What! Eugène
kept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had
never given him any of his eldest brother’s letters to read, in order
that he might follow the advice given therein! And it was only now he
learnt by chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the
Coup d’État as certain! This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain
presentiments which that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from
obeying. He was especially exasperated against his father, whom he had
thought stupid enough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a
Bonapartist at the right moment.
“What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate,” he muttered
as he ran along. “I’m a fine fellow now. Ah! what a lesson! Granoux is
more capable than I.”
He entered the office of the “Indépendant” like a hurricane, and asked
for his article in a choking voice. The article had already been
imposed. He had the forme unlocked and would not rest until he had
himself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner,
like a set of dominoes. The bookseller who managed the paper looked at
him in amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as
the article had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely
obliged to have some copy, if the “Indépendant” was to appear.
“Are you going to give me something else?” he asked.
“Certainly,” replied Aristide.
He sat down at the table and began a warm panegyric on the Coup d’État.
At the very first line, he swore that Prince Louis had just saved the
Republic; but he had hardly written a page before he stopped and seemed
at a loss how to continue. A troubled look came over his pole-cat face.
“I must go home,” he said at last. “I will send you this immediately.
Your paper can appear a little later, if necessary.”
He walked slowly on his way home, lost in meditation. He was again
giving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugène
was an intelligent fellow, but his mother had perhaps exaggerated the
significance of some sentence in his letter. In any case, it would be
better to wait and hold his tongue.
An hour later Angèle called at the bookseller’s, feigning deep emotion.
“My husband has just severely injured himself,” she said. “He jammed
his four fingers in a door as he was coming in. In spite of his
sufferings, he has dictated this little note, which he begs you to
publish to-morrow.”
On the following day the “Indépendant,” made up almost entirely of
miscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the head
of the first column:
“A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributor
Monsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his articles for some time.
He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present grave
circumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wishes
which he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France.”
This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence might
be interpreted in favour of all parties. By this expedient, Aristide
devised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle, in the
shape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day he
showed himself to the whole town, with his arm in a sling. His mother,
frightened by the notice in the paper, hastily called upon him, but he
refused to show her his hand, and spoke with a bitterness which
enlightened the old woman.
“It won’t be anything,” she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastic
tone, as she was leaving. “You only want a little rest.”
It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and the sub-prefect’s
departure, that the “Indépendant” was not interfered with, like most of
the democratic papers of the departments.
The 4th day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Plassans. In the
evening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearance of
the gendarmes sufficed to disperse. A band of working-men came to
request Monsieur Garconnet to communicate the despatches he had
received from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do; as it
retired the band shouted: “Long live the Republic! Long live the
Constitution!” After this, order was restored. The yellow drawing-room,
after commenting at some length on this innocent parade, concluded that
affairs were going on excellently.
The 5th and 6th were, however, more disquieting. Intelligence was
received of successive risings in small neighbouring towns; the whole
southern part of the department had taken up arms; La Palud and
Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had been the first to rise, drawing after them
the villages of Chavanos, Nazeres, Poujols, Valqueyras and Vernoux. The
yellow drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It felt
particularly uneasy at seeing Plassans isolated in the very midst of
the revolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour the country and
cut off all communications. Granoux announced, with a terrified look,
that the mayor was without any news. Some people even asserted that
blood had been shed at Marseilles, and that a formidable revolution had
broken out in Paris. Commander Sicardot, enraged at the cowardice of
the bourgeois, vowed he would die at the head of his men.
On Sunday the 7th the terror reached a climax. Already at six o’clock
the yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reactionary committee sat _en
permanence_, was crowded with pale, trembling men, who conversed in
undertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had been
ascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about three
thousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more than
three leagues away. It was true that this column had been ordered to
make for the chief town of the department, leaving Plassans on its
left; but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered; moreover,
it sufficed for these cowardly cits to know that there were insurgents
a few miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the toilers
already tightened round their throats. They had had a foretaste of the
revolt in the morning; the few Republicans at Plassans, seeing that
they would be unable to make any determined move in the town, had
resolved to join their brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx;
the first group had left at about eleven o’clock, by the Porte de Rome,
shouting the “Marseillaise” and smashing a few windows. Granoux had had
one broken. He mentioned the circumstance with stammerings of terror.
Meantime, the most acute anxiety agitated the yellow drawing-room. The
commander had sent his servant to obtain some information as to the
exact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man’s
return, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting.
Roudier and Granoux, sinking back in their arm-chairs, exchanged the
most pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken
group of retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appearing over scared,
reflected upon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and
person; he was in doubt whether he should hide himself in his garret or
cellar, and inclined towards the latter. For their part Pierre and the
commander walked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old
oil-dealer clung to this friend Sicardot as if to borrow a little
courage from him. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long
time, now endeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the emotion
which was stifling him. As for the marquis, more spruce and smiling
than usual, he conversed in a corner with Félicité, who seemed very
gay.
At last a ring came. The gentlemen started as if they had heard a
gun-shot. Dead silence reigned in the drawing-room when Félicité went
to open the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned.
Then the commander’s servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of
breath, and said abruptly to his master: “Sir, the insurgents will be
here in an hour.”
This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating, and raising
their arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossible
to hear one’s self speak. The company surrounded the messenger,
overwhelming him with questions.
“Damnation!” the commander at length shouted, “don’t make such a row.
Be calm, or I won’t answer for anything.”
Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighs. They
then obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at
Les Tulettes, and had hastened to return.
“There are at least three thousand of them,” said he. “They are
marching in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some
prisoners in their midst.”
“Prisoners!” cried the terrified bourgeois.
“No doubt,” the marquis interrupted in his shrill voice. “I’ve heard
that the insurgents arrest all persons who are known to have
conservative leanings.”
This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the
yellow drawing-room. A few bourgeois got up and stealthily made for the
door, reflecting that they had not too much time before them to gain a
place of safety.
The announcement of the arrests made by the Republicans appeared to
strike Félicité. She took the marquis aside and asked him: “What do
these men do with the people they arrest?”
“Why, they carry them off in their train,” Monsieur de Carnavant
replied. “They no doubt consider them excellent hostages.”
“Ah!” the old woman rejoined, in a strange tone.
Then she again thoughtfully watched the curious scene of panic around
her. The bourgeois gradually disappeared; soon there only remained
Vuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching danger inspired with some
courage. As for Granoux, he likewise remained in his corner, his legs
refusing to perform their office.
“Well, I like this better,” Sicardot remarked, as he observed the
flight of the other adherents. “Those cowards were exasperating me at
last. For more than two years they’ve been speaking of shooting all the
Republicans in the province, and to-day they wouldn’t even fire a
halfpenny cracker under their noses.”
Then he took up his hat and turned towards the door.
“Let’s see,” he continued, “time presses. Come, Rougon.”
Félicité, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. She placed
herself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter, was not
particularly eager to follow the formidable Sicardot.
“I won’t have you go out,” she cried, feigning sudden despair. “I won’t
let you leave my side. Those scoundrels will kill you.”
The commander stopped in amazement.
“Hang it all!” he growled, “if the women are going to whine now—Come
along, Rougon!’
“No, no,” continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror, “he
sha’n’t follow you. I will hang on to his clothes and prevent him.”
The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly at
Félicité. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing so
merrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that his
wife wanted to detain him, deigned a determination to force his way
out.
“I tell you you shall not go,” the old woman reiterated, as she clung
to one of his arms. And turning towards the commander, she said to him:
“How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousand
strong, and you won’t be able to collect a hundred men of any spirit.
You are rushing into the cannon’s mouth to no purpose.”
“Eh! that is our duty,” said Sicardot, impatiently.
Félicité burst into sobs.
“If they don’t kill him, they’ll make him a prisoner,” she continued,
looked fixedly at her husband. “Good heavens! What will become of me,
left alone in an abandoned town?”
“But,” exclaimed the commander, “we shall be arrested just the same if
we allow the insurgents to enter the town unmolested. I believe that
before an hour has elapsed the mayor and all the functionaries will be
prisoners, to say nothing of your husband and the frequenters of this
drawing-room.”
The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about Félicité’s lips as
she answered, with a look of dismay: “Do you really think so?”
“Of course!” replied Sicardot; “the Republicans are not so stupid as to
leave enemies behind them. To-morrow Plassans will be emptied of its
functionaries and good citizens.”
At these words, which she had so cleverly provoked, Félicité released
her husband’s arms. Pierre no longer looked as if he wanted to go out.
Thanks to his wife, whose skilful tactics escaped him, however, and
whose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected, he had just
lighted on a whole plan of campaign.
“We must deliberate before taking any decision,” he said to the
commander. “My wife is perhaps not wrong in accusing us of forgetting
the true interests of our families.”
“No, indeed, madame is not wrong,” cried Granoux, who had been
listening to Félicité’s terrified cries with the rapture of a coward.
Thereupon the commander energetically clapped his hat on his head, and
said in a clear voice: “Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I am
commander of the National Guard. I ought to have been at the mayor’s
before now. Confess that you are afraid, that you leave me to act
alone. . . . Well, good-night.”
He was just turning the handle of the door, when Rougon forcibly
detained him.
“Listen, Sicardot,” he said.
He drew him into a corner, on seeing Vuillet prick up his big ears. And
there he explained to him, in an undertone, that it would be a good
plan to leave a few energetic men behind the insurgents, so as to
restore order in the town. And as the fierce commander obstinately
refused to desert his post, Pierre offered to place himself at the head
of such a reserve corps.
“Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and ammunition are
kept,” he said to him, “and order some fifty of our men not to stir
until I call for them.”
Sicardot ended by consenting to these prudent measures. He entrusted
Pierre with the key of the cart-shed, convinced as he was of the
inexpediency of present resistance, but still desirous of sacrificing
himself.
During this conversation, the marquis had whispered a few words in
Félicité’s ear with a knowing look. He complimented her, no doubt, on
her theatrical display. The old woman could not repress a faint smile.
But, as Sicardot shook hands with Rougon and prepared to go, she again
asked him with an air of fright: “Are you really determined to leave
us?”
“It is not for one of Napoleon’s old soldiers to let himself be
intimidated by the mob,” he replied.
He was already on the landing, when Granoux hurried after him, crying:
“If you go to the mayor’s tell him what’s going on. I’ll just run home
to my wife to reassure her.”
Then Félicité bent towards the marquis’s ear, and whispered with
discreet gaiety: “Upon my word, it is best that devil of a commander
should go and get himself arrested. He’s far too zealous.”
However, Rougon brought Granoux back to the drawing-room. Roudier, who
had quietly followed the scene from his corner, making signs in support
of the proposed measures of prudence, got up and joined them. When the
marquis and Vuillet had likewise risen, Pierre began:
“Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose that we should
conceal ourselves so as to avoid certain arrest, and be at liberty as
soon as ours again becomes the stronger party.”
Granoux was ready to embrace him. Roudier and Vuillet breathed more
easily.
“I shall want you shortly, gentlemen,” the oil-dealer continued, with
an important air. “It is to us that the honour of restoring order in
Plassans is reserved.”
“You may rely upon us!” cried Vuillet, with an enthusiasm which
disturbed Félicité.
Time was pressing. These singular defenders of Plassans, who hid
themselves the better to protect the town, hastened away, to bury
themselves in some hole or other. Pierre, on being left alone with his
wife, advised her not to make the mistake of barricading herself
indoors, but to reply, if anybody came to question her, that he,
Pierre, had simply gone on a short journey. And as she acted the
simpleton, feigning terror and asking what all this was coming to, he
replied abruptly: “It’s nothing to do with you. Let me manage our
affairs alone. They’ll get on all the better.”
A few minutes later he was rapidly threading his way along the Rue de
la Banne. On reaching the Cours Sauvaire, he saw a band of armed
workmen coming out of the old quarter and singing the “Marseillaise.”
“The devil!” he thought. “It was quite time, indeed; here’s the town
itself in revolt now!”
He quickened his steps in the direction of the Porte de Rome. Cold
perspiration came over him while he waited there for the dilatory
keeper to open the gate. Almost as soon as he set foot on the high
road, he perceived in the moonlight at the other end of the Faubourg
the column of insurgents, whose gun barrels gleamed like white flames.
So it was at a run that he dived into the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and
reached his mother’s house, which he had not visited for many a long
year.