by Emile Zola
1843 Family moves to Aix-en-Provence
1847 (27 March) Death of father from pneumonia following a chill caught while supervising work on his scheme to supply Aix-en-Provence with drinking water
1852–8 Boarder at the Collège Bourbon at Aix. Friendship with Baptistin Baille and Paul Cézanne. Zola, not Cézanne, wins the school prize for drawing
1858 (February) Leaves Aix to settle in Paris with his mother (who had preceded him in December). Offered a place and bursary at the Lycée Saint-Louis. (November) Falls ill with ‘brain fever’ (typhoid) and convalescence is slow
1859 Fails his baccalauréat twice
1860 (Spring) Is found employment as a copy-clerk but abandons it after two months, preferring to eke out an existence as an impecunious writer in the Latin Quarter of Paris
1861 Cézanne follows Zola to Paris, where he meets Camille Pissarro, fails the entrance examination to the École des Beaux-Arts, and returns to Aix in September
1862 (February) Taken on by Hachette, the well-known publishing house, at first in the dispatch office and subsequently as head of the publicity department. (31 October) Naturalized as a French citizen. Cézanne returns to Paris and stays with Zola
1863 (31 January) First literary article published. (1 May) Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe exhibited at the Salon des Refusés, which Zola visits with Cézanne
1864 (October) Tales for Ninon
1865 Claude’s Confession. A succès de scandale thanks to its bedroom scenes. Meets future wife Alexandrine-Gabrielle Meley (b. 1839), the illegitimate daughter of teenage parents who soon separated; Alexandrine’s mother died in September 1849
1866 Resigns his position at Hachette (salary: 200 francs a month) and becomes a literary critic on the recently launched daily L’Événement (salary: 500 francs a month). Self-styled ‘humble disciple’ of Hippolyte Taine. Writes a series of provocative articles condemning the official Salon Selection Committee, expressing reservations about Courbet, and praising Manet and Monet. Begins to frequent the Café Guerbois in the Batignolles quarter of Paris, the meeting-place of the future Impressionists. Antoine Guillemet takes Zola to meet Manet. Summer months spent with Cézanne at Bennecourt on the Seine. (15 November) L’Événement suppressed by the authorities
1867 (November) Thérèse Raquin
1868 (April ) Preface to second edition of Thérèse Raquin. (May) Manet’s portrait of Zola exhibited at the Salon. (December) Madeleine Férat. Begins to plan for the Rougon-Macquart series of novels
1868–70 Working as journalist for a number of different newspapers
1870 (31 May) Marries Alexandrine in a registry office. (September) Moves temporarily to Marseilles because of the Franco-Prussian War
1871 Political reporter for La Cloche (in Paris) and Le Sémaphore de Marseille. (March) Returns to Paris. (October) Publishes The Fortune of the Rougons, the first of the twenty novels making up the Rougon-Macquart series
1872 The Kill
1873 (April ) The Belly of Paris
1874 (May) The Conquest of Plassans. First independent Impressionist exhibition. (November) Further Tales for Ninon
1875 Begins to contribute articles to the Russian newspaper Vestnik Evropy (European Herald ). (April ) The Sin of Abbé Mouret
1876 (February) His Excellency Eugène Rougon. Second Impressionist exhibition
1877 (February) L’Assommoir
1878 Buys a house at Médan on the Seine, 40 kilometres west of Paris. ( June) A Page of Love
1880 (March) Nana. (May) Les Soirées de Médan (an anthology of short stories by Zola and some of his naturalist ‘disciples’, including Maupassant). (8 May) Death of Flaubert. (September) First of a series of articles for Le Figaro. (17 October) Death of his mother. (December) The Experimental Novel
1882 (April ) Pot Luck (Pot-Bouille). (3 September) Death of Turgenev
1883 (13 February) Death of Wagner. (March) The Ladies’ Paradise (Au Bonheur des Dames). (30 April ) Death of Manet
1884 (March) La Joie de vivre. Preface to catalogue of Manet exhibition
1885 (March) Germinal. (12 May) Begins writing The Masterpiece (L’Œuvre). (22 May) Death of Victor Hugo. (23 December) First instalment of The Masterpiece appears in Le Gil Blas
1886 (27 March) Final instalment of The Masterpiece, which is published in book form in April
1887 (18 August) Denounced as an onanistic pornographer in the Manifesto of the Five in Le Figaro. (November) Earth
1888 (October) The Dream. Jeanne Rozerot becomes his mistress
1889 (20 September) Birth of Denise, daughter of Zola and Jeanne
1890 (March) The Beast in Man
1891 (March) Money. (April ) Elected President of the Société des Gens de Lettres. (25 September) Birth of Jacques, son of Zola and Jeanne
1892 ( June) La Débâcle
1893 ( July) Doctor Pascal, the last of the Rougon-Macquart novels. Fêted on visit to London
1894 (August) Lourdes, the first novel of the trilogy Three Cities. (22 December) Dreyfus found guilty by a court martial
1896 (May) Rome
1898 (13 January) ‘J’accuse’, his article in defence of Dreyfus, published in L’Aurore. (21 February) Found guilty of libelling the Minister of War and given the maximum sentence of one year’s imprisonment and a fine of 3,000 francs. Appeal for retrial granted on a technicality. (March) Paris. (23 May) Retrial delayed. (18 July) Leaves for England instead of attending court
1899 (4 June) Returns to France. (October) Fecundity, the first of his Four Gospels
1901 (May) Toil, the second ‘Gospel’
1902 (29 September) Dies of fumes from his bedroom fire, the chimney having been capped either by accident or anti-Dreyfusard design. Wife survives. (5 October) Public funeral
1903 (March) Truth, the third ‘Gospel’, published posthumously. Justice was to be the fourth
1908 (4 June) Remains transferred to the Panthéon
His Excellency Eugène Rougon
Chapter 1
The President of the Chamber remained standing until the faint stir caused by his entry subsided. Then he took his seat, saying rather nonchalantly, in a quiet voice:
‘The sitting is open.’
He proceeded to sort out the legislative proposals laid out on the desk before him. On his left, a short-sighted secretary, his nose nearly touching the paper, gabbled through the minutes of the previous sitting, though not a single deputy paid any attention. In the general hubbub, this reading of the minutes was audible only to the ushers, who, in contrast to the relaxed attitudes of the members of the Chamber,* looked very solemn and correct.
There were less than a hundred deputies present. Some were lolling back on the red plush benches, their eyes glazed, already dozing. Others were leaning over their desks as if oppressed by their duty to attend a public session, gently tapping their fingers on the mahogany. The wet May afternoon could be seen through the bay window, which detached a grey half-moon from the sky. The light, falling from above, spread evenly over the austere Chamber. It extended down the benches, which formed a broad red-stained expanse, glowing dully, lit up here and there by pinkish gleams at the corners of empty seats, while behind the President the bare surfaces of statues and pieces of sculpture formed white patches.
On the right, in the third row, a deputy had remained standing in the narrow gangway. Lost in thought, he was stroking a ruff of grizzled beard. When an usher came up the gangway, he stopped him and asked something in a whisper.
‘No, Monsieur Kahn,’ the usher replied. ‘The President of the Council of State* hasn’t arrived yet.’
Monsieur Kahn sat down. Then he suddenly turned to the man on his left.
‘Have you seen Rougon this morning, Béjuin?’
Monsieur Béjuin, a thin, swarthy little man, who seemed very quiet, looked up, blinking. His mind seemed elsewhere. He had pulled out the writing-rest of his seat and on blue business notepaper with the heading Béjuin and Co., Cut-
Glass Manufacturers, Saint-Florent, was busy with some correspondence.
‘Rougon?’ he repeated. ‘No, I haven’t seen him. I didn’t have time to look in at the Council of State.’
With this, he calmly resumed his task. He consulted his address book and began his second letter, while the secretary mumbled his way through the minutes.
Monsieur Kahn folded his arms and leaned back, scowling. His large nose and thickset features betrayed Jewish origins. He peered up at the gilded ceiling roses, then his gaze settled on the water streaming down the windows as the result of a sudden shower; and then he seemed to study the complicated ornamentation of the huge wall in front of him. His gaze was held for a moment by the panels at each end, drawn with green velvet and bearing heraldic emblems in gilt frames. Having contemplated the pairs of columns between which allegorical statues of Liberty and Public Order held up their blank-eyed, marble faces, he became completely absorbed by the green silk curtain which concealed the fresco of Louis-Philippe taking the oath to the Charter.*
By now, the secretary had resumed his seat, but the babble of voices had not subsided. The President, seeming in no hurry, continued to look through his papers. With a mechanical gesture, he brought his hand down on the bell push, but the jangle failed to disturb a single one of the private conversations taking place. So, he rose to his feet in the midst of the hubbub and stood for some time, waiting.
‘Messieurs,’ he began, ‘I have received a letter.’
He broke off to ring the bell again, then waited once more, wearing a bored expression as he leaned over the monumental desk with its blocks of red marble framed in white. His tightly-buttoned frock coat stood out against the bas-relief behind him, its black outline cutting through the peplums of Agriculture and Industry, with their classical profiles.
‘Messieurs,’ he resumed, once he had obtained a modicum of silence, ‘I have received a letter from Monsieur de Lamberthon. He sends his apologies for not being able to attend today’s sitting.’
A little burst of laughter came from one of the benches, the sixth immediately opposite the desk. It came from a young deputy, twenty-eight at most, a handsome, fair-haired fellow, his white hands now stifling ripples of quite feminine laughter. One of his colleagues, a burly man, moved across three seats to whisper in his ear:
‘Has Lamberthon found his wife, then…? Do tell me, La Rouquette.’
The President had picked up a sheaf of papers. He spoke in a monotone, fragments of his sentences reaching the far end of the Chamber.
‘There are a number of requests for leave of absence… Monsieur Blachet, Monsieur Buquin-Lecomte, Monsieur de la Villardière…’
While the Chamber proceeded to grant these requests, Monsieur Kahn, no doubt tired of studying the green silk drawn across the seditious image of Louis-Philippe, had turned his gaze towards the public gallery. Between two columns was a single row of seats, with purple velvet upholstery on a base of lacquer-streaked yellow marble, while, just above, a valance of embossed leather failed to hide completely the gap created by the removal of a second row, which, before the Empire, had been reserved for the press and the general public.* Flanked by thick yellowed columns which gave a rather heavy ostentatiousness to the benches, the narrow seats were set back and lost in shadow. Though enlivened by the bright dresses of three or four women, they were almost empty.
‘Ah, Colonel Jobelin is here,’ murmured Monsieur Kahn.
He smiled at the Colonel, who had already noticed him. Jobelin was wearing the dark-blue frock coat which, since his retirement, he had adopted as a sort of civilian uniform. With his Legion of Honour rosette, so big that it could have been mistaken for the knot of a scarf, he was all alone in the quaestors’ box.*
Further away, to the left, Monsieur Kahn had spotted a young man and a young woman, squeezed very close to each other, in a corner of the section reserved for the Council of State. The young man kept bending forward and whispering in the young woman’s ear. She was smiling indulgently, without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the statue of Public Order.
‘Well, what about that, Béjuin!’ murmured Monsieur Kahn, giving his fellow deputy a nudge with his knee.
Monsieur Béjuin had reached his fifth letter. He looked up, startled.
‘Up there, man. Don’t say you can’t see little d’Escorailles and Bouchard’s wife? I bet he’s pinching her bottom. Look at those dreamy eyes… It seems all Rougon’s friends are meeting here today. There are Madame Correur and the Charbonnels, in the public gallery.’
There was a drawn-out clanging of the bell and in a lovely bass voice an usher called out: ‘Silence, please, Messieurs!’ Everyone now gave ear, while the President made the following pronouncement, not a word of which was missed:
‘Monsieur Kahn seeks authority to have printed the speech he made in the debate on the bill regarding the introduction of a municipal tax on horses and carriages in Paris.’
A murmur ran through the benches, and conversations were resumed. Monsieur La Rouquette had come to sit next to Monsieur Kahn.
‘So you’re working for the common man, are you?’ he said in a bantering tone.
Then, without giving Monsieur Kahn time to reply, he added:
‘No sign of Rougon? No news?… Everybody’s talking about it. Apparently nothing has been decided yet.’
He turned and glanced at the clock.
‘Twenty past two already! I’d be off, if that blasted report didn’t have to be dealt with… Is it really on the agenda?’
‘I’ve heard nothing to the contrary,’ Monsieur Kahn replied. ‘We all had notice. You’d do well to stay. The vote on the four hundred thousand francs for the christening will be any minute now.’
‘Indeed,’ said Monsieur La Rouquette. ‘Old General Legrain, who can’t walk, has had his footman bring him in; he’s in the Meeting Room, waiting for the vote… The Emperor was right to ask for the unanimous approval of the legislative body. On such a solemn occasion, everyone should give him their vote.’
The young deputy had made a huge effort to give himself the serious demeanour of a politician, his baby face, set off by a few flaxen hairs, looking very proud over his cravat as he rocked backwards and forwards. For a moment, he seemed to savour the eloquence of his last two sentences. Suddenly, he broke into laughter.
‘My word, those Charbonnels do look ridiculous!’
Then, he proceeded with Monsieur Kahn to make fun of the Charbonnels. Madame Charbonnel was wearing a garish yellow scarf, and her husband one of those provincial frock coats that seem to have been cut with a hatchet. Rather corpulent, and red in the face, they seemed overawed, their chins almost touching the velvet of the balustrade as they strained to grasp what the sitting was about; their wide eyes showed, however, that they understood nothing.
‘If Rougon is kicked out,’ murmured Monsieur La Rouquette, ‘the Charbonnels’ lawsuit won’t have a chance… And the same with Madame Correur…’
He leaned forward and whispered in Monsieur Kahn’s ear:
‘You know Rougon very well, tell me exactly what Madame Correur does. She used to keep a hotel, didn’t she? Where Rougon stayed in the past? I’ve even heard that she lent him money… What does she do these days?’
Monsieur Kahn had gone very serious and was slowly stroking his ruff of beard.
‘Madame Correur is a very respectable lady,’ he said crisply.
This pronouncement shut Monsieur La Rouquette up. The latter pursed his lips, like a schoolboy who has just been told off. For a moment they both gazed at Madame Correur in silence. Sitting near the Charbonnels, she was wearing a very showy lilac-coloured silk dress, with lots of lace and jewellery. Her face was very pink, her forehead was covered in doll-like golden curls, and she was showing a great deal of cleavage. She was very good-looking for her forty-eight years.
All of a sudden, at the far end of the Chamber, a door opened noisily and there was a great rustle of petticoats. All heads turned. A tall, very beautifu
l young woman, but eccentrically dressed in a badly cut sea-green dress, had just entered the box reserved for the diplomatic corps, followed by an elderly lady in black.
‘I say! The lovely Clorinde!’ murmured Monsieur La Rouquette, rising to proffer a bow.
Monsieur Kahn followed suit. He leaned over to Monsieur Béjuin, now busy tucking his letters into envelopes.
‘What about that, Béjuin!’ he whispered, ‘Countess Balbi and her daughter are here… I’ll run up and ask if they’ve seen Rougon.’
The President had taken a fresh bundle of papers from his desk. Without stopping what he was doing, he shot a quick glance at the lovely Clorinde Balbi, whose arrival had set the whole assembly abuzz. Before passing the sheets one by one to a secretary, he gabbled through them without a pause, with no attempt at punctuation:
‘Submission of a bill to postpone the charging of a surtax by Lille Urban Excise Authority… Submission of a bill concerning the merger of the Communes of Doulevant-le-Petit and Ville-en-Blaisois (Haute-Marne).’
When Monsieur Kahn returned to his seat, he was quite disconsolate.
‘Absolutely no one has seen him,’ he told his colleagues, Béjuin and La Rouquette, whom he joined on the floor of the Chamber. ‘I’ve had it on good authority that the Emperor summoned him yesterday evening, but I don’t know what came of the meeting… There’s nothing more frustrating than not knowing what’s happening.’
While his back was turned, Monsieur La Rouquette whispered in Monsieur Béjuin’s ear:
‘Poor old Kahn’s terribly afraid that Rougon might fall out with the Tuileries.* That would mean the end of his railway.’
At this, Monsieur Béjuin, who normally said so little, declared gravely:
‘The day Rougon leaves the Council of State will be everybody’s loss.’
With this pronouncement, he beckoned to an usher, to ask him to post the letters he had just written.