by Emile Zola
Throwing himself into an armchair, and looking quite worn out, Du Poizat exclaimed:
‘What a way to fight an election! What a mess! It would disgust any decent person!’
They all insisted on Monsieur Kahn’s telling the whole story in detail. When he got down to Niort, he said, straightaway, at the very first calls he made on his close friends, he had sensed a feeling of embarrassment. As for the Prefect, Monsieur de Langlade — well, he was a man of no morals who, Monsieur Kahn alleged, was on intimate terms with the wife of the Niort lawyer who was to be the new deputy. And yet, de Langlade had informed him of his fall from grace in a most civilized manner, at a lunch at the Prefecture, over dessert and cigars. He described every word of the conversation, from beginning to end. The worst of it was that his posters and election circulars were already being printed. At first he had been so angry that he had wanted to put himself up anyway.
‘I can tell you,’ cried Du Poizat, turning to Rougon, ‘if you hadn’t written to us as you did, we would have taught the regime a real lesson!’
Rougon shrugged. Without pausing in his card-shuffling, he said:
‘You would have failed, and then you would have been marked men. That wouldn’t have achieved much!’
‘I don’t know about you, Rougon,’ cried Du Poizat, leaping to his feet and waving his arms, ‘but I’ve had just about enough of that man de Marsy. And you’re the one he’s getting at through what he’s done to Monsieur Kahn… Have you read the ministerial circular?* What a fine campaign he’s conducting. Just words… It’s not a joke. If you had been minister, you’d have done it all much better.’
Seeing that Rougon was still grinning at him, he added, even more angrily:
‘We were down there, we saw it all… There’s a poor man, someone I was at school with, who made so bold as to put up as a Republican. You can’t imagine the way they’ve been hounding him. The Prefect, the mayors, even the gendarmerie, the whole lot have gone for him. His posters have been torn down, his leaflets have been thrown into the gutter, and the few poor devils who agreed to distribute his material have been arrested. Even an aunt of his came out against him; though she’s quite a decent woman, she actually asked him not to call on her any more because she finds it compromising! And the newspapers have been treating him like a common criminal. You can see the women in the villages making the sign of the cross when he comes round.’
Puffing and blowing, he flopped into another chair.
‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘even if de Marsy has got his majority in the country areas, Paris, you know, has elected five opposition deputies! People are beginning to wake up again. If the Emperor leaves everything to that great fop and his bedroom prefects, who get men appointed deputy so they can sleep with their wives, then, mark my words, within five years you’ll see the Empire on the verge of collapse… The Paris results are wonderful, though. They’re our revenge.’
‘Well, what if you had been prefect?’ Rougon asked, still unruffled, and with a tinge of irony so faint that it hardly curled his thick lips.
Du Poizat bared his uneven white teeth. His hands, like a sickly child’s, clutched the arms of the chair as if trying to tear them off.
‘Ah,’ he muttered, ‘if I’d been prefect…’
But he fell silent, slumped back into his chair, and cried:
‘It’s dreadful… At least I’ve always been a Republican.’
The ladies at the window were silent, gazing into the room and listening, while Monsieur d’Escorailles was fanning pretty Madame Bouchard, who was leaning back languidly, her temples slightly moist because of the warm air from the garden. Every now and then the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard, who had begun another rubber of piquet, stopped playing, to nod or shake their heads in response to the conversation. By now a large circle of chairs had formed round Rougon. All attention, her chin resting on her hands, Clorinde remained very still, while Delestang, thinking some sentimental thought, smiled at her. Monsieur Béjuin, clutching his knees, was looking at each of the company in turn, with a somewhat alarmed look on his face. The sudden eruption into the peace of the drawing room of Du Poizat and Monsieur Kahn had caused a great stir; they seemed to have brought with them, in the very folds of their clothing, a breath of opposition.
‘Well, I followed your advice,’ resumed Monsieur Kahn. ‘I withdrew my candidature. I was warned I would get even rougher treatment than the Republican. And to think how faithfully I’ve served the Empire! You must admit, such ingratitude is calculated to demoralize even the toughest among us.’
He went on to complain bitterly of the many humiliations he had suffered. He had wanted to found a newspaper to back his proposals for a Niort–Angers railway; later on, in his hands, this newspaper was to be a powerful financial weapon. But he had recently been refused permission. De Marsy had got the idea that he was just a front man for Rougon and that the newspaper was to have a political purpose — to undermine him, de Marsy.
‘Hell!’ cried Du Poizat, ‘they’re afraid somebody might finally tell everybody the truth. Oh, what wonderful articles I would have written on your behalf!… It’s shameful that we have a press like ours, gagged and under constant threat of being shut down the moment it says a word. A friend of mine who is publishing a novel has actually been summoned to the Ministry, where a divisional head asked him to change the colour of his hero’s waistcoat, because the Minister didn’t like the colour he’d chosen. It’s true!’
He quoted other facts and spoke of alarming stories he had heard. A young actress had got involved with a man who was a relation of the Emperor’s, and had committed suicide. A general had allegedly killed another general in a corridor of the Tuileries Palace, in connection with some theft or other. Stories like this might be believed, he said, if the press were able to speak freely. He repeated, in conclusion:
‘Yes, sir, I am definitely a Republican.’
‘You’re lucky,’ murmured Monsieur Kahn. ‘I don’t know any more what I am.’
Bending over the green baize, Rougon was now laying out a very tricky game. After distributing the cards first in seven, then five, then three piles, he was aiming to end up with all the cards out and the eight clubs together. He was so engrossed in this operation that he seemed to hear nothing, though at some things that were said his ears seemed to twitch.
‘The parliamentary system provided real safeguards,’ said the Colonel. ‘If only we could get the monarchy back!’
When in opposition, Colonel Jobelin was an Orléanist. He loved telling the story of the Mouzaia Pass engagement, in which he had carried arms with the Duke d’Aumale, then a captain in the 4th Infantry Regiment.
‘We were well off under Louis-Philippe,’ he went on, seeing that his nostalgic thoughts were received in deadly silence. ‘Are you telling me, if we had a government responsible to parliament, that our friend would not be head of state within six months? The country would soon be able to boast another great orator.’
But Monsieur Bouchard was showing signs of impatience. He counted himself a Bourbon supporter; at one point, his grandfather had nearly got to Court. Thus it was, at every soirée at the Rougons, that there were frightful clashes about politics between him and his cousin.
‘What nonsense,’ he muttered. ‘Your July Monarchy made one makeshift deal after another. There’s only one sound principle, as you know very well.’
They began to attack each other quite fiercely. Casting the Empire aside, each substituted the regime of his choice. Would the Orléans dynasty ever have haggled with an old soldier about the decoration due to him? Would the Legitimist dynasty ever have allowed the acts of favouritism which government office now exhibited? When at last they reached the point of calling each other idiots, the Colonel snatched up his cards in a fury:
‘For God’s sake, Bouchard!’ he cried, ‘shut up! Look, I’ve got fourteen tens and four knaves. Is that good enough for you?’
The altercation had stirred Delestang out
of his reverie, and he thought it his duty to defend the Empire. Not — good Lord! — that he was entirely satisfied with the Empire. He would have liked a more generous, a more humane regime. He attempted to explain his ideal government, a complicated socialistic conception involving the elimination of pauperism, the linking together of all workers in one body, in a word something like his model farm, La Chamade, on a larger scale.* Du Poizat usually remarked that Delestang had spent too much time in the company of animals. While her husband held forth, Clorinde watched him, her lips curled.
‘Yes, I’m a Bonapartist,’ he declared several times. ‘A liberal Bonapartist, if you like.’
‘And you, Béjuin?’ Monsieur Kahn suddenly asked.
‘I am too, of course,’ replied Monsieur Béjuin, speaking rather haltingly as a result of his long silences. ‘I mean, not on every point. But I am a Bonapartist.’
Du Poizat shrieked with laughter.
‘Good Lord!’ he cried, and, when pressed to explain himself, he said rather crudely:
‘You’re a fine pair! You’ve got nothing to complain about. Neither of you has been dropped. Delestang’s still a member of the Council of State and Béjuin has just been re-elected as a deputy.’
‘But that was automatic,’ interrupted Béjuin. ‘The Prefect of the Cher…’
‘Oh, I’m not accusing you of anything. We all know how these things are done. Combelot has been re-elected as well, and so has La Rouquette… The Emperor is magnificent!’
Monsieur d’Escorailles, who was still fanning Madame Bouchard, thought he should join in. He would stand up for the Empire, but for different reasons. He supported the Emperor because he felt that the Emperor had a mission to fulfil: to ensure the well-being of France above all else.
‘You’ve managed to hold on to your position in the public service, haven’t you?’ replied Du Poizat, raising his voice. ‘And your views are well known. Goodness me, what I’ve been saying seems to have upset everybody. But surely it’s plain enough… Neither Kahn nor I are being paid any more to look the other way. That’s the long and the short of it!’
These remarks annoyed them greatly. This view of politics was appalling! There was more to politics than self-interest! Though the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard were no Bonapartists, they did recognize that there were Bonapartists who truly believed in their cause; and they spoke of their own convictions with even greater fervour, as if people had been trying to beat them out of them. Delestang, indeed, was quite hurt. He insisted that he had been misunderstood, and noted the issues on which he parted company with any blind supporter of the Empire; and this led him to embark on a further exposition of the democratic potentialities of the Imperial regime. Nor would Monsieur Béjuin, and still less Monsieur d’Escorailles, accept that they were just Bonapartists. They too insisted on crucial distinctions and nuances, each taking up his own particular position, which was not easy to define. In fact, it was so difficult that after ten minutes the whole gathering had crossed over to the opposition. Voices were raised, separate arguments broke out, and the words ‘Legitimist’, ‘Orléanist’, and ‘Republican’ were tossed about amid renewed statements of political outlook. While all this was going on, Madame Rougon’s worried face appeared briefly in one of the doorways, but then discreetly disappeared.
Meanwhile, Rougon had finally managed to get all his clubs to come out. Amid the hubbub, Clorinde leaned over his shoulder.
‘Has it come out?’
‘Of course!’ he replied, smiling serenely.
Only then did he seem to notice the din. He waved at them, and cried:
‘What a racket you’re all making!’
They fell silent, thinking he wanted to say something. One could have heard a pin drop. Rather wearied by all the talk, they waited. But all Rougon did was fan out thirteen cards on the table and calmly assess them:
‘Three queens, that’s a quarrel… News tonight… A dark lady…’
Du Poizat grew impatient and interrupted:
‘And you, Rougon,’ he asked, ‘what’s your position?’
The great man leaned back in his armchair, stretched, and stifled a yawn with one hand. Then, jerking his chin up as if he had a stiff neck, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling and murmured:
‘Oh, you know very well. I’m an authoritarian. One’s born that way. It’s not a viewpoint, it’s a need. You’re all very silly to argue like that. In France, five men in a drawing room at once means five different regimes. But that doesn’t mean that any one of them can’t serve whoever’s in power. Isn’t that right? It’s all just something to talk about!’
He lowered his chin and looked slowly round the room, at each of them.
‘De Marsy managed his elections very well,’ he went on. ‘You shouldn’t criticize the instructions he sent to his prefects. The last circular was very effective.* As for the press, it already has too much freedom. Where would we be if absolutely anyone could write what he wanted? I would have rejected Kahn’s application for a newspaper permit too. It doesn’t make sense to give weapons to your enemies. You see, empires that grow soft won’t last long. France needs an iron hand. A tight grip round her throat is all for the good.’
Delestang wanted to object. He began:
‘Yes, but a certain number of liberties are essential…’
But Clorinde quickly silenced him. With a number of vigorous nods, she gave everything Rougon said her seal of approval. In complete agreement with him, totally submissive, she leaned forward so he could see her better. He gave her a quick glance as he exclaimed:
‘Ah, yes, those essential liberties! I was waiting for them to come up… Well, if the Emperor asked me for advice, he would not grant a single one of them.’
Delestang again wanted to object, but once more his wife kept him quiet with a terrible frown.
‘Not one!’ Rougon repeated emphatically.
He had raised himself up in his armchair and looked so fearsome that nobody dared to speak. Then, seeming to relax again, he slumped back, murmuring:
‘You see how you make me shout as well… I’m just a private citizen now, there’s no need for me to get involved in all that! And how pleased I am! I hope to heaven the Emperor won’t need me again!’
At this moment, the drawing-room door opened. He put a finger to his lips and said very quietly:
‘Shh!’
It was Monsieur La Rouquette who entered the room. Rougon suspected he had been sent by his sister, Madame de Llorentz, to find out what they talked about in his drawing room. Though it was scarcely six months since de Marsy had married, he had already taken up again with Madame de Llorentz, who had been his mistress for nearly two years. So, the moment the young deputy appeared, all political discussion ceased, and Rougon’s soirée resumed its quiet atmosphere. Rougon insisted on going to fetch a large lampshade; and when he had attached it over the lamp, all that could be seen in the small circle of yellowish light were the dry hands of the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard, throwing down their cards at regular intervals. By the window, Madame Charbonnel, speaking in hushed tones, was telling Madame Correur all her troubles, while Monsieur Charbonnel underlined every detail with a deep sigh. It would soon be two years since they had arrived in Paris, and their wretched case was still not settled. Only yesterday they had had no option but to buy new underclothes, a complete set each, for they had been informed that the decision had again been postponed. A little in the background was Madame Bouchard, sitting next to one of the windows. She seemed to be asleep, overcome by the heat, but Monsieur d’Escorailles had now joined her. Then, as nobody was looking, he had the temerity to apply a protracted kiss to her half-open lips. She did not stir, except to open her eyes very wide.
‘Good heavens, no,’ Monsieur La Rouquette was just saying, ‘I certainly haven’t come from the Variétés. I went to the dress rehearsal. Very jolly music! It will be a tremendous success, the whole of Paris will want to go… No, I had some work to finish. Something I’m ju
st putting together.’
He had shaken the hands of the gentlemen and planted a gallant kiss on Clorinde’s wrist, just above the glove. He was now leaning against the back of a chair, smiling. He was impeccably dressed, and there was a pretension to gravitas in the way his frock coat was buttoned.
‘By the way, Rougon,’ he said, turning to the host, ‘I’ve got something I must show you for your great project. It’s an essay on the English constitution, a very interesting piece from a Viennese magazine… How’s the book coming along, by the way?’
‘Quite slowly,’ Rougon replied. ‘I’m in the middle of a chapter that’s giving me a lot of trouble.’
As a rule, he found it interesting to get the young deputy to talk. He could always extract from him information about everything that was happening at the Tuileries. Convinced this evening that La Rouquette had been sent to find out what he thought of the great success of the government candidates, he managed, without risking a single revealing remark himself, to get quite a lot of information. First, he congratulated him on his own re-election; then, without seeming in any way rude, he conducted his part of the conversation by simply nodding. La Rouquette was only too pleased to talk. The Court was overjoyed. The Emperor was at Plombières when he had heard the results, and La Rouquette had been told that when the news came in the Emperor’s legs gave way, so great was his emotion, and he was obliged to sit down. The only problem was that the triumph was overshadowed by alarm, because Paris had voted the wrong way.
‘Paris will have to be muzzled, then!’ murmured Rougon, stifling a yawn, as if there was nothing really interesting in all these details Monsieur La Rouquette was giving him.
Ten o’clock struck. Madame Rougon pushed a little table into the middle of the room and served tea. This was the signal for separate little groups to form in corners. Cup in hand, Monsieur Kahn stood facing Delestang (who never took tea because it excited him), and once again entered into details about his trip through the Vendée. His great project, the concession for a railway line between Niort and Angers, had not advanced. That scoundrel de Langlade, Prefect of the Deux-Sèvres, had actually dared to use the project in his electioneering in support of the official candidate. Meanwhile, Monsieur La Rouquette slipped in behind the ladies and whispered things in their ears that made them smile. Behind a rampart of armchairs, Madame Correur was having a lively exchange with Du Poizat. She was asking for news of her brother, Martineau, the Coulonges notary, and Du Poizat said he had caught a glimpse of him outside the church. He was still the same, grim and unsmiling. Then, as Madame Correur began her usual complaints, he rather wickedly told her she would do well never to set foot down there again, for Martineau’s wife had sworn she would throw her out of the house. Madame Correur gulped down her tea, choking with indignation.