Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ slipped from Delestang’s lips. It was all he could think of in response to the silent message in his wife’s eyes.

  ‘And you claimed not to be very good at this!’ cried Rusconi, quite entranced; and turning to the Emperor, he said: ‘Sire, I beg you not to use France as a stake when you play with that man!’

  ‘But I’m sure Monsieur Rougon would treat France very well,’ added Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère, a sly expression on his bulldog face.

  This was a very broad hint indeed. The Emperor allowed himself a smile, and actually burst out laughing when, embarrassed by these compliments, Rougon said:

  ‘Well, after all, I did play at bouchon* when I was a boy!’

  Hearing His Majesty laugh, the whole gallery laughed too, and for a short while there was tremendous hilarity. Clorinde, quick-witted as ever, realized that by expressing their surprise at Rougon’s skill, when after all he was a very poor player, in fact they were flattering the Emperor, whose superiority was unquestionable. Envious of this triumph, Monsieur de Plouguern all this time had not said a word, but, as if by accident, Clorinde gave him a gentle nudge. He understood and went into raptures the next time Rougon threw. Then Monsieur La Rouquette, casting all caution aside, cried enthusiastically:

  ‘Brilliant! Very fine indeed!’

  When the Emperor had won, Rougon asked for a return game. Again the pallets were sliding over the green baize, with their faint rustle of dry leaves, when a nurse appeared in the doorway of the Imperial suite, with the baby prince in her arms. Now twenty months old, the child was dressed in a plain white gown, his hair tousled, his eyes swollen with sleep. It was the rule, whenever he woke like this in the evening, to take him to the Empress for a moment, for a kiss. The child stared at the lights with the very solemn air baby boys can have.

  An elderly man, some sort of high dignitary, hurried forward, dragging his gouty limbs. His head shook with senility. Bending down, he took the soft little hand of the Prince, kissed it, and croaked:

  ‘Your Highness, Your Highness…’

  Frightened by the sudden proximity of the old man’s parchment-like face, the child recoiled, and burst into tears. But the old fellow would not relent. He went on protesting his devotion. The nurse had to force the soft little hand from his adoring grasp, for the old man kept it pressed to his lips. The Emperor lost patience.

  ‘Take the boy back to bed at once,’ he told the nurse.

  He had just lost the second game. The decisive one was beginning. Rougon, taking all the compliments seriously, was trying his best. Now Clorinde found that he was playing too well. As he was bending down to pick up his pallets, she whispered in his ear:

  ‘I hope you’re not going to win.’

  He smiled. But suddenly there was a sound of barking. It was Nero, the Emperor’s favourite hound; taking advantage of the open doors, he came bounding into the gallery. The Emperor gave orders to take him away, and an usher was already holding the dog by the collar when the same ancient dignitary rushed forward again, croaking:

  ‘Good boy! Good boy!’

  He all but knelt on the floor to hold the animal in his shaking arms. He hugged him to his chest and planted a big kiss on his head, saying:

  ‘Sire, please don’t send him back… He’s so lovely!’

  The Emperor now agreed that the dog could stay, whereupon the old man began to fondle the animal twice as enthusiastically. The dog was not in the least frightened. Without a whimper he licked the dry hands caressing him.

  All this time, Rougon was making one misthrow after another. He pitched one pallet so clumsily that the cloth-covered disc skidded right into a lady’s bosom. Blushing, she extracted it from the mass of frothy lace. The Emperor won. It was respectfully pointed out to him that he had achieved a fine victory. He seemed to become almost emotional at this. He walked off with Rougon, talking to him as if he felt he needed to console him. They proceeded to the far end of the gallery, leaving the centre of the room for the dancing that was being organized.

  The Empress, who had just emerged from the Imperial suite, now made a great effort to dispel the growing boredom of the guests. At first she suggested playing consequences, but it was too late for that, they preferred to dance. The ladies were now all assembled in the Map Gallery, and ushers were sent to the smoking room to bring down any men still lingering there. While they all took up their positions for a quadrille, Monsieur de Combelot obligingly took his seat at the piano, which was in fact a pianola, with a little handle on the right of the keyboard. This, with a continuous movement of his arm, the chamberlain gravely turned.

  ‘Monsieur Rougon,’ said the Emperor, ‘I’ve been told of a study, a comparison of the English constitution and our own… I may be able to put some documents at your disposal.’

  ‘Your Majesty is too kind… But I have another project, a much bigger one.’

  Seeing the sovereign so cordial, Rougon tried to take advantage. He explained his project at length, his great agricultural scheme in a corner of the Landes. He was going to break up dozens of square miles, create a new town, take over a whole, vast area. As he spoke, the Emperor looked at him. There was a glimmer in his mournful eyes. But beyond an occasional nod, he made no comment. When Rougon had finished, he said simply:

  ‘Yes, indeed… Something might come of it…’

  He turned to a nearby group — Clorinde, her husband, and Monsieur de Plouguern.

  ‘Monsieur Delestang,’ he said, ‘may we have your advice? I have fond memories of my visit to your model farm at La Chamade.’

  Delestang joined them, but the circle now forming round the Emperor was forced back into a window recess. Waltzing with Monsieur La Rouquette, half fainting in his arms, Madame de Combelot had somehow just managed to sweep her long, rustling dress right round His Majesty’s silk stockings. Monsieur de Combelot, at the piano, was getting carried away by the music he was making. He was turning the handle faster now, moving his beautifully groomed head to and fro, glancing down now and then at the cylinder case, as if surprised by the lugubrious sounds produced by certain turns of the handle.

  ‘I’ve been fortunate enough to have some magnificent calves this year,’ Delestang said, ‘thanks to a new cross-breeding technique. Unfortunately, when Your Majesty came down, the grazing had not yet been properly developed.’

  Now the Emperor began talking about agricultural matters, stock-raising, fattening for market, very slowly, in words of one syllable. Ever since his visit to La Chamade, he had held Delestang in high esteem. Above all he praised him for his attempts to introduce some sort of communal life for everyone who worked on the farm, with a system of profit-sharing, and a pension scheme. When these two men chatted they always found they thought alike, sharing humanitarian ideas that enabled them to understand each other very easily.

  ‘Has Monsieur Rougon mentioned his plan to you?’ the Emperor asked.

  ‘Oh yes!’ replied Delestang. ‘It’s a splendid plan! It would enable us to make big experiments…’

  He showed real enthusiasm. He was especially interested in pigs. France was losing its good breeds. He also intimated that he was studying a new system of artificial grasslands. But this would require vast areas. If Rougon’s scheme came off, he would go down there to apply his methods. But he suddenly broke off, noticing that his wife was staring at him. Ever since he had begun praising Rougon’s scheme she had been furious, pale and tight-lipped.

  ‘My dear!’ she murmured, pointing to the piano. Monsieur de Combelot was slowly clenching and unclenching his aching hands. With a martyr-like smile, he was getting ready to churn out another polka, when Delestang ran across and offered to take his place. De Combelot graciously accepted, as if ceding a place of honour. Delestang started on the polka. But it was not the same thing. His playing was not nearly so supple, he did not turn the handle with the ease or facility of the chamberlain.

  Rougon, meanwhile, wanted the Emperor to make a decision. The la
tter was indeed most attracted. Would Monsieur Rougon, he asked, consider the establishment of huge worker cities down there? It should be easy to provide every family with its own patch, along with water rights and tools. He even undertook to pass on details of a plan of his own, a scheme for a similar worker city, with standardized houses and all needs provided for.

  ‘But of course. I fully understand Your Majesty’s ideas,’ Rougon replied, though the sovereign’s hazy socialism tried his patience. ‘Your blessing is essential… We shall probably need to expropriate a number of communes. There will have to be a declaration of public need. And I shall have to arrange for a company to be set up… A word from Your Majesty is vital.’

  The light went out of the Emperor’s eyes. He did not, however, stop nodding approval. Then, almost inaudibly, he said what he had said before:

  ‘We’ll see… We must discuss it…’

  Thereupon he left Rougon, and with his lumbering gait cut through a figure of the quadrille. Rougon remained impassive, as if sure he would have a favourable response to his request. Clorinde was radiant. Very soon, through the ranks of the solemn men who were not dancing, swept the rumour that Rougon was leaving Paris. He was going to head some vast project in the Midi. Men came up to him to offer their congratulations. People smiled at him from all corners of the gallery. There was no longer any trace of the initial hostility. Since the man was exiling himself, it was possible to shake his hand with impunity. This was a great relief for many of the guests. Leaving the dancing, Monsieur La Rouquette gave the news to Rusconi. He had the happy look of a man whose mind has been put at rest.

  ‘It’s a wise move. He’ll achieve great things down there,’ he said. ‘Rougon is a very talented man; but what he lacks, you know, is political tact.’

  He spoke touchingly of the Emperor’s kindness. As he put it, the Emperor was fond of those who had served him, just as a man is fond of his former mistresses. After a violent breaking off of the relationship he would feel an upsurge of affection, and would take up with them again. The fact that he had invited Rougon to Compiègne showed a certain unspoken remorse. The young deputy went on to cite other examples that did honour to His Majesty’s essential goodwill: four hundred thousand francs to pay the debt of a general ruined by some chorus girl, eight hundred thousand as a wedding present for one of his old accomplices of Strasbourg and Boulogne,* and nearly a million spent on behalf of the widow of a certain prominent official.

  ‘He lets everybody dip into his purse,’ he concluded. ‘He only agreed to be made Emperor so that he could make his friends rich… When I hear the republicans complaining about his Civil List, I just shrug my shoulders. He would exhaust ten Civil Lists, doing good. Besides, it’s all money that stays in France.’

  While they went on talking in an undertone, they continued to watch the Emperor. Navigating his way carefully through the dancing ladies, the monarch had now completed his round of the gallery, a silent, lonely figure, moving in the vacuum which respect created all round him. Whenever he passed behind the bare shoulders of one of the seated ladies, he would stretch his neck out slightly and his eyes would narrow as he cast a deep sidelong glance at her.

  ‘And what a mind!’ said Count Rusconi, still more softly. ‘An extraordinary man!’

  The Emperor had now come right round to where they stood. He paused for a moment, gloomy and hesitant. Then he seemed to want to go up to Clorinde, who looked very lovely and was in very high spirits at that moment. But she shot him a bold glance which must have unnerved him, for he resumed his prowl, his left hand thrust back, on his hip, while with the other he twirled the waxed tips of his moustache. Finding himself face to face with Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère, he walked round him and approached him from the side, with the words:

  ‘You’re not dancing, Monsieur le Président?’

  The judge confessed that he did not know how to dance, and had never danced in his life. The Emperor, however, said encouragingly:

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s always possible to dance, you know.’

  These were his last words. Unobtrusively, he reached the door, and slipped out.

  ‘An extraordinary man, indeed!’ said Monsieur La Rouquette, repeating Rusconi’s words. ‘He keeps those foreigners on their toes, doesn’t he!’

  At this Rusconi, ever the discreet diplomat, simply nodded vaguely, but said he agreed that all Europe was watching the Emperor. A word spoken at the Tuileries was capable of making neighbouring thrones tremble.

  ‘He’s a monarch who knows how to hold his tongue when necessary,’ he added, with a smile whose subtle irony was lost on the young deputy.

  The two men returned gallantly to the ladies, seeking partners for the next quadrille. For the last quarter of an hour an aide-de-camp had been grinding away at the piano. Both Delestang and Monsieur de Combelot rushed forward and offered to take his place. But the ladies all cried:

  ‘Monsieur de Combelot, Monsieur de Combelot… He does it much better!’

  Bowing graciously, the chamberlain thanked them, and worked the handle in truly magisterial style. It was the last quadrille. Tea had just been served, in the Imperial suite. Nero, emerging from behind a settee, was stuffed with sandwiches. Intimate little groups formed. Monsieur de Plouguern carried a brioche off to a side table, where he proceeded to wash mouthfuls of it down with little gulps of tea, while he explained to Delestang, to whom he had given half of it, how it was that, despite his Legitimist opinions, he had begun to accept invitations to Compiègne. Heavens, it was very simple: he felt he could not refuse his assistance to a regime that was protecting France from anarchy. He stopped briefly, to remark:

  ‘Jolly good, this brioche!… To tell you the truth, I didn’t think much of dinner.’

  Compiègne certainly stimulated his malicious temperament. His comments on most of the ladies were so crude that he made Delestang blush. The only woman he respected was the Empress, whom he described as a saint. She showed a piety that was exemplary. She was herself a Legitimist, and if she had had the power to dispose of the throne, she would undoubtedly have brought back Henri V. For a moment he spoke of the rewards of religion, and he had just begun another smutty story when the Empress reappeared, accompanied by Madame de Llorentz. Standing in the doorway, she bowed a low ‘goodnight’ to the whole company. They all bowed silently in response.

  The rooms emptied. The voices grew louder. Handshakes were exchanged. When Delestang tried to find his wife, to go up to their room, she had vanished. At last Rougon, who was helping him in the task, discovered her. She was ensconced on a little settee with Count de Marsy, at the end of the small drawing room where after dinner Madame de Llorentz had made such a terrible scene. Clorinde was laughing loudly, but she rose at once when she saw her husband. Still laughing, she bade the Count goodnight, and said:

  ‘You’ll see tomorrow, during the hunt, if I win my bet.’

  Rougon watched as Delestang offered her his arm and led her away. He would have liked to accompany them all the way to their bedroom door, and ask her what bet she was referring to, but he was obliged to stay where he was, kept back by de Marsy, who was treating him now with even greater politeness. When at last he did get free, instead of going up to bed he took advantage of an open door to go out into the park. It was a very dark night, a typical October night, without a star, without a breath of air, inky and still. In the distance, the forest looked like a series of dark cliffs. He found it difficult to make out the pale lines of the paths. A hundred yards from the terrace, he halted. Hat in hand, he stood there in the darkness, drinking in the freshness of the night as it descended upon him. It soothed him, it was like a rejuvenating bath. He forgot himself, gazing up at a brightly lit window, over to the left. The other lights were all going out, and soon it was the only one that stood out in the sleeping mass of the chateau. The Emperor was still up. Suddenly Rougon thought he saw his shadow, an enormous head, with the tips of his moustache standing out. Then two other shadows pas
sed, one thin, the other stout, so stout that it filled the entire window. In this shadow he recognized the huge silhouette of a man of the secret police, with whom His Majesty liked to closet himself for hours; and when the slender shadow appeared again he imagined it must be that of a woman. Then the shapes vanished, and the window resumed its steady brightness, its unwavering, flame-like stare, lost in the mysterious depths of the park. Perhaps at this moment the Emperor was thinking over Rougon’s proposal to clear and cultivate a corner of the Landes, the idea of establishing a garden city of workers where there could be a grand attempt to wipe out poverty completely. It was often at night that he made important decisions; it was then that he signed decrees, wrote manifestos, dismissed ministers. A smile spread slowly across Rougon’s face. He could not help recalling a story of the Emperor’s having been seen in a blue apron, wearing a forage cap made out of a piece of newspaper, decorating a room at the Trianon with three-francs-a-roll wallpaper, simply to house a mistress; and he pictured him as he might be at this very moment, in the solitude of his study, in an atmosphere of solemn silence, cutting out the pictures he used to stick very neatly into an album with a pair of tweezers.

  At this moment Rougon, to his surprise, found himself raising his arms and crying out:

  ‘Yes, it was his gang that made him.’

  He hurried back inside. The cold was nipping at him, particularly at his legs, up to his knees, where his breeches began.

  The next day, at about nine o’clock, Clorinde sent round Antonia, whom she had brought with her, to ask if she and her husband might come and breakfast with him. He had just had a cup of chocolate sent up, but he waited for them. Antonia preceded them, bearing the large silver tray with the two cups of coffee sent up to their room.

  ‘It’s much brighter here!’ Clorinde said as she came in. ‘You’ve got the sun on this side… And this room is much grander than ours.’