by Emile Zola
The Empress now made her way back down the table, on the right, and took up a position in the centre, while the Emperor made his way to the left, to take up his position opposite her. Once the special guests had been placed to left and right of Their Majesties, the other couples moved about for a few moments, choosing with whom they would sit. There were eighty-seven at table that evening, and it took nearly three minutes for them all to be ready to take their places. The satiny skin of bare shoulders, the gaudy flowers of gowns, the diamonds in the elaborate coiffures, all seemed to add to the brilliance of the chandeliers. At last, the footmen took the hats which the gentlemen had been holding all the while, and everyone sat down.
Monsieur de Plouguern had followed Rougon in, and sat next to him. After the soup, he gave Rougon a little nudge, and said:
‘Did you ask Clorinde to patch things up with de Marsy?’
As he spoke, he glanced meaningfully at Clorinde, who was seated next to the Count, on the other side of the table, their heads close together in conversation. Rougon seemed put out, but simply shrugged his shoulders. Then he pretended to see nothing except what was immediately in front of him, but despite all his efforts to appear indifferent, he could not help looking occasionally at Clorinde, following her every gesture and the movements of her lips, as if anxious to make out what she was saying.
‘Monsieur Rougon,’ said Madame de Combelot, who had placed herself as close to the Emperor as possible, ‘do you remember our little accident? When you found me a cab? I lost a whole flounce of my dress.’
She turned her ‘accident’ into quite a drama, as she related how, one day, her carriage had been nearly cut in two by a Russian prince’s landau. Rougon had no choice but to reply. For a moment the centre of the table discussed this little event. They alluded to all manner of other accidents, including a girl who sold scent in the Passage des Panoramas who, the previous week, had fallen from her horse and broken her arm. At this the Empress uttered a little cry of sympathy. The Emperor said nothing, munching slowly as he listened.
‘Where is Delestang hiding?’ Rougon now asked Monsieur de Plouguern.
They looked round for him. At last, the senator spotted him. He was at the end of the table, in the middle of a group of men, listening to some very free talk that was muffled by the general hubbub. Monsieur La Rouquette had just begun a story about an amorous laundry girl in his part of the country, while Count Rusconi was giving his personal appraisal of the various Parisian women he had known, and, in an undertone, the novelist and one of the painters were busy comparing very frank notes about the ladies at the table, whose arms, either too podgy or too skinny, provoked much sniggering on their part. Meanwhile, as Clorinde became even more familiar with the Count, Rougon’s sidelong glances moved to and fro between her and her idiot husband, who sat there blindly, smiling mechanically at the racy things he was hearing.
‘Why didn’t he sit here, with us?’ Rougon murmured.
‘Oh, I don’t think we need to feel sorry for him,’ said Monsieur de Plouguern. ‘They seem to be having a good time down there.’
Then he added, whispering in Rougon’s ear:
‘I bet they’re talking about Madame de Llorentz. Did you notice how low-cut her bodice is? One of them is sure to slip out, don’t you think? The left one, I’d wager!’
But just as he was leaning forward to get a better view of Madame de Llorentz, who was seated on the same side of the table, five seats along, he suddenly stopped smiling. The object of his attention, a beautiful blonde a little on the fleshy side, had a thunderous expression on her face. She was in a cold rage, pale as a sheet, her blue eyes now almost black as she glared furiously at Count de Marsy and Clorinde. Through clenched teeth, so faintly that even Rougon could not catch what he said, he murmured:
‘Oh dear, there’s trouble brewing there!’
The band was still playing in the distance, as if the music was coming from the ceiling. When the brass was particularly loud, the guests looked up as if to make out the tune. And then it was gone, and deep in the neighbouring gallery the gentle sound of the clarinets mingled with the silvery noise of the crockery now being brought in huge piles. The big dishes made a sound of muffled cymbals. Around the table there was a silent bustle, as, without a word, an army of servants got busy, ushers in tailcoats and bright blue breeches, with swords and three-cornered hats, footmen with powdered hair and full livery coats in green, with gold braid. The dishes came in, the wines went round, while those in charge of the kitchen, the principal carver and the silver master, looked on, supervising the whole operation, in which the part of the humblest valet was laid down in advance. Behind the Emperor and Empress, their personal servants were serving them, with exquisite poise.
When the roasts were served and the burgundies poured, the conversation became even louder. Now, in the men’s corner at the bottom of the table, Monsieur La Rouquette was talking food, discussing how best to roast a haunch of venison on a spit, which had just been served. There had also been soup à la Crécy, then boiled salmon, and fillet of beef with shallot sauce, capons with financière sauce,* braised partridge on a bed of cabbage, and little oyster dumplings.
‘I bet we’re going to get cardoons in sauce and cucumbers in sour cream!’ said the young deputy.
‘I saw some prawns,’ replied Delestang politely.
But when cardoons in sauce and cucumber in sour cream actually appeared, Monsieur La Rouquette was noisily triumphant. He knew the Empress’s taste, he said. The novelist, however, shot the painter a glance and with a faint click of his tongue observed that the food was quite mediocre, to which the painter replied with an approving pout. Then, after a few sips from his glass, he added that at least the wines were excellent.
At this moment the Empress burst out laughing, so loudly that everyone fell silent. Heads craned to find out what it was about. The Empress was talking with the German ambassador, who was on her right hand; she was still laughing, but whatever she was saying was inaudible, broken as it was by her mirth. Everybody was so curious to know what it was all about that the silence continued. All that could be heard was the horns playing a melody from a popular song, to the accompaniment of muted double basses. But gradually the general hubbub was restored. Chairs were half turned, the guests put their elbows on the table, and in the more relaxed atmosphere, private conversations were begun.
‘Would you like a petit four?’ asked Monsieur de Plouguern.
Rougon shook his head. He had just finished eating. The heavy plates had just been replaced by Sèvres china, with its delicate blue-and-pink designs. All the cheese and dessert platters were passed along, but all he took was a small portion of Camembert. Making no effort now to restrain himself, he was staring straight at Clorinde and de Marsy, no doubt hoping to intimidate her. She had now assumed such a familiar posture towards the Count that she seemed to have forgotten where she was. She might have been ensconced in some little private dining room, enjoying a candlelit dinner for two. She seemed to sparkle as she crunched the sweetmeats the Count passed to her, charming him with her endless smiles, and all with brazen sangfroid. People around them were beginning to whisper.
The conversation had now turned to the latest fashions, and Monsieur de Plouguern leaned forward and mischievously asked Clorinde what she thought of the new line in hats. She pretended not to hear, and so he leaned further over, intending to put the same question to Madame de Llorentz. But he thought better of it, so forbidding did she look, her teeth clenched, her features frozen into a mask of jealous rage, like a tragic queen. Just at that moment, Clorinde had allowed the Count to take her left hand in his, ostensibly to let him examine an antique cameo ring she was wearing; she let him slip the ring off her finger, and then, still holding her hand, put it back again. It was almost indecent. At this point, Madame de Llorentz, who had been playing nervously with a spoon, broke her wine glass! A servant quickly swept away the broken pieces.
‘Mark my words,’ the sen
ator whispered in Rougon’s ear, ‘they’ll be scratching each other’s eyes out in a minute. Have you noticed what’s been going on? But I’m damned if I know what Clorinde is up to. Any idea, Rougon?’
But when he looked up at his neighbour, he was quite shocked by the terrible look on his face.
‘Anything wrong?’ he cried. ‘Are you not feeling well?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Rougon replied. ‘It’s just that it’s so stuffy in here. These dinners go on too long. And all that musk!’
The dinner had nearly come to an end. Some of the ladies were still nibbling at biscuits, as they leaned back in their chairs. But nobody had risen yet. The Emperor, silent until now, at last began to raise his voice. Guests at either end of the long table, who had quite forgotten His Majesty’s presence, suddenly began to pay attention. The Emperor was responding to a homily Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère had just delivered against divorce. Then, breaking off, he suddenly glanced at the very open bodice of the young American lady on his left, and in his ponderous way, said:
‘The only women I’ve seen get divorced in America are the ugly ones.’
A ripple of laughter ran through the company. This remark was regarded as a great witticism, so subtle indeed that Monsieur La Rouquette tried to work out its hidden meanings. The young American woman seemed to take it as a compliment, for, somewhat embarrassed, she thanked the Emperor with a gracious tilt of her head. The Emperor and the Empress had now risen. There was a great rustling of petticoats and trampling of feet. The ushers and footmen stood solemnly against the wall as the herd of replete diners left the table. The procession re-formed. With Their Majesties leading the way, the guests left the hall, spaced out by the ladies’ long dresses; and, with rather less solemnity than before, they traversed the guardroom. Behind them, in the glare of the chandeliers, and above the disorder of the table, resounded the big drum of the military band, concluding the final figure of a quadrille.
On this particular evening, coffee was served in the Map Gallery. A Palace prefect brought the Emperor’s cup on a silver tray. Meanwhile, several of the men had gone up to the smoking room. The Empress and some of the ladies had just withdrawn to her private drawing room, which was on the left of the gallery. It was whispered that she had been extremely put out by the strange behaviour of Clorinde during dinner. It was her aim while in residence at Compiègne to introduce good bourgeois values into the Court, including a liking for simple games and country pursuits. There were certain extravagant forms of behaviour which she detested.
Monsieur de Plouguern had taken Clorinde aside to give her a little lecture. His real object, however, was to get her to explain what was going on. But she pretended utter amazement. How could anyone imagine she had compromised herself with Count de Marsy? They had exchanged a few pleasantries, that was all.
‘Well, just look at this!’ murmured the old senator.
The door leading to a small sitting room was ajar, and he pushed it sufficiently to show her that, inside, Madame de Llorentz was making a dreadful scene with de Marsy. He had seen them go in. Mad with fury, the blonde beauty was relieving her feelings in the crudest terms, losing her temper completely, forgetting that the noise she was making risked creating a real scandal. Rather pale, but smiling, the Count was talking very quickly, but softly, in an undertone, trying to calm her. But her raised voice had been heard in the Map Gallery, and those near the little drawing room moved away discreetly.
‘So you want her to distribute those famous letters all over the chateau, do you?’ asked Monsieur de Plouguern, moving away from the door with Clorinde on his arm.
‘Wouldn’t it be fun!’ she said, laughing.
Squeezing her bare arm with all the ardour of a young lover, he began sermonizing again. She should leave eccentricities to Madame de Combelot. Further, she must realize that Her Majesty had seemed very annoyed with her. Clorinde, who idolized the Empress, seemed very surprised at this. How exactly could she have caused displeasure? As they came to the door of the Empress’s private drawing room, they paused for a moment to peer in through the open door. Round a huge table was a great gathering of ladies. Seated in their midst, the Empress was patiently teaching them the game of baguenaudier,* while some of the gentlemen, standing behind them, looked on.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the gallery, Rougon was giving Delestang a good dressing-down. Not daring to talk to him about his wife, he was taking him to task over the ease with which he had accepted a room looking out over the chateau courtyard. He should have insisted on one looking out over the park. But, still on Monsieur de Plouguern’s arm, Clorinde drew near, and, loudly enough to be heard, said:
‘Oh, do stop talking to me about the Count. I won’t speak to him again all evening. Would that satisfy you?’
This declaration pacified them all. At that very moment, the Count himself emerged from the little drawing room, looking quite cheerful. He stood for a moment, exchanging pleasantries with Rusconi, then he entered the Imperial suite, where Her Majesty and the ladies could soon be heard laughing uproariously at some story he was telling them. Ten minutes later, Madame de Llorentz appeared. She seemed exhausted. Her hands were unsteady, but when she saw that her every movement was being watched, she made a point of staying in the gallery, chatting with one group or another.
The desire not to seem bored compelled the company to stifle their yawns in their handkerchiefs. The after-dinner hour was the most painful part of the evening. The new invitees, not knowing what to do, went to the windows, to stare out into the night. In a corner, Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère was still delivering his lecture against divorce. The novelist, finding it all quite ‘deadly’, asked one of the Academicians in a whisper if it would be out of order for him to go to bed. And all the time, dragging his feet across the length of the gallery, the Emperor kept appearing, always with a cigarette in his mouth.
‘It was impossible to arrange anything for this evening,’ Monsieur de Combelot explained to the little group formed by Rougon and his friends. ‘Tomorrow, after the hunt, parts of the stag will be fed to the hounds by torchlight. The day after tomorrow, the Comédie-Française will be here to play Les Plaideurs.* There’s also talk of tableaux vivants and, at the end of the week, charades.’
He gave details. His wife was to take part. Rehearsals were about to begin. Then he told them about the Court’s outing two days earlier to the Turning Stone, a Druidic monolith where archaeological excavations were taking place. The Empress had insisted on going down to look.
‘Imagine!’ the chamberlain went on excitedly, ‘the workmen were lucky enough to dig up two skulls while Her Majesty was there. It was a complete surprise. Everybody was so pleased!’
He stroked his magnificent black beard, which made him such a success with the ladies. There was something gentle and naïve about him, despite his vanity. He was so ultra-polite that he spoke with a lisp.
‘But’, said Clorinde, ‘I was told the Vaudeville people were going to give a performance of their new show… The women have amazing costumes. And they say it’s incredibly funny.’
Monsieur de Combelot seemed a little put out.
‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘there was some talk of it for a while.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The idea was dropped… The Empress doesn’t like that sort of play.’
At this point there was a general stir in the gallery. The men had come back from the smoking room. The Emperor was about to play his usual game of pallets. Madame de Combelot, who prided herself on being rather a dab hand at it, had just asked for a return match, for she remembered that the Emperor had beaten her the previous year. She had now assumed an attitude of ingratiating meekness, making it clear she was available, and with such an obvious smile that His Majesty became quite embarrassed and kept looking the other way.
The game began. A large number of guests gathered round, commenting admiringly on the players’ throws. Madame de Combelot took her place at the long b
aize-covered table, and threw her first pallet, getting it near the target, which was marked by a white spot. But the Emperor proved to be more skilful. With his pallet he knocked hers aside and took its place. There was gentle applause. All the same, Madame de Combelot won.
‘What were the stakes, Sire?’ she said brazenly.
The Emperor smiled, but did not reply. Then, turning round, he asked:
‘Monsieur Rougon, would you care to play?’
Rougon bowed and took up the pallets, declaring how bad he was at the game.
A flutter ran through the company, lined up on both sides of the table. Did this mean that Rougon was coming back into favour? The dull hostility he had encountered since his arrival now melted away. Heads craned forward and noises of support greeted his efforts. Monsieur La Rouquette, more puzzled still than he had been before dinner, took his sister to one side, to try to ascertain what it all meant; but clearly she was unable to offer any explanation, for he came back looking just as puzzled.
‘Oh, very good!’ murmured Clorinde at a neat throw of Rougon’s.
With these words, she cast a meaningful glance at the friends of the great man who were present. It was an opportune moment to give Rougon their support in the Emperor’s eyes. She led the attack. For several moments cries of approval rained down.