by Emile Zola
‘It has come out, Monsieur Rougon!’
‘My God!’ cried Du Poizat, adopting the great man’s favourite exclamation, ‘it always does!’
At this moment a servant came to tell Rougon that a lady and gentleman were asking for him, and handed him a card that made him utter a little cry of surprise.
‘What! They’re in Paris!’
It was the Marquis and Marquise d’Escorailles. He hurried away to receive them in his study. They apologized for calling so late. Then, as they talked, they intimated that they had been in Paris for two days, but, not wishing to give the wrong impression by visiting someone so close to the regime, they had waited until then before coming to see him. This explanation did not offend Rougon at all. He said it was always an unexpected honour to receive the Marquis and the Marquise in his house. He would not have felt greater satisfaction had the Emperor himself knocked on his door. Since the elderly couple had come to ask something of him, he felt it was the whole of Plassans that was paying tribute to him — aristocratic Plassans that is, that cold, starchy Plassans which still seemed to him, as it had in his youth, a distant Olympus. Here at last was satisfaction of an ambition he had long dreamed of. He felt avenged for the disdain his little home town had shown him in the days when he lived there, a down-at-heel lawyer without any clients.
‘Jules is away,’ said the Marquise. ‘We had been looking forward to suprising him… It seems he had to go to Orléans on business.’
Rougon knew nothing of the young man’s absence, but he realized what it was about when he remembered that the ailing aunt of Madame Bouchard lived in Orléans. So he made apologies for Jules. Indeed, he said the matter in question was rather serious, a case of abuse of power, and Jules had been absolutely obliged to go to Orléans. He said he was a clever young fellow, and would have a fine career.
‘He certainly needs to,’ said the Marquis, without emphasizing this allusion to the family’s straitened circumstances. ‘It was very hard for us to see him go.’
The father and mother now gently deplored the demands of our frightful age which prevented a son’s growing up in the religion of his parents. They themselves had not once set foot in Paris since Charles X lost the throne, and indeed would not have come now, had Jules’s future not been at stake. Ever since, on their secret counsel, the dear boy had served the Empire, though publicly they pretended to have disowned him, they nevertheless did all they could by constant invisible string-pulling to secure his promotion.
‘We make no secret of it, Monsieur Rougon,’ the Marquis continued, with disarming candour. ‘We’re very fond of our son, naturally… You have been very kind to him, and we’re very grateful. But we must ask if you can do still more. We are friends and we come from the same town, do we not?’
Rougon was very moved, and bowed. The humble attitude of these two old folk whom he remembered standing so much on their dignity when they went to St Marc’s church on a Sunday made him feel he had grown in stature. He formally promised he would do something.
When, after twenty minutes’ friendly talk, they left, the Marquise took one of his hands. Holding it tight in hers, she murmured:
‘So, it’s agreed, then, dear Monsieur Rougon? We came up specially from Plassans to see you. We’re becoming impatient. Is it any wonder at our age? Now we can go back much happier… People were telling us you had lost your influence.’
Rougon smiled, and said:
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You can count on me.’
He pronounced these words very deliberately, as if they reflected his innermost thoughts.
Nevertheless, when they had gone, a shadow of regret passed over his face again. He paused in the hall for a moment, and suddenly noticed a neatly dressed person standing respectfully in a corner, a little felt hat held delicately between two fingers.
‘What do you want?’ he asked brusquely.
The stranger, tall and powerfully built, lowered his eyes and muttered:
‘Monsieur doesn’t recognize me?’
As Rougon was saying that he did not know him, the man said:
‘It’s Merle, Monsieur. Your commissioner at the Ministry.’
Rougon changed his tone.
‘Ah, of course. You’ve got a full beard now… What can I do for you?’
With precise, elegant gestures, Merle explained the purpose of his visit. That afternoon he had met a lady, Madame Correur. The lady had advised him to go and see Monsieur Rougon straightaway, that evening. Otherwise, he would never have dreamed of disturbing Monsieur at such an hour.
‘Madame Correur is very kind,’ he kept saying. Then at last he revealed that he was out of work. The reason he had let his beard grow was that he had left the Ministry about six months before. When Rougon asked the reason for his dismissal, he insisted it was not because he had done anything wrong. Pursing his lips, he then said, as if in confidence:
‘They knew how devoted I was to you. After you left they made my life a misery. I’ve never been able to hide my feelings… One day I nearly hit one of my colleagues who said something nasty… So they kicked me out.’
Rougon stared hard at the man.
‘So it’s because of me that you’re out of work?’
Merle smirked.
‘And it’s up to me to get you another job, eh? Find something for you somewhere?’
Merle smiled again. ‘That would be very good of you, Monsieur,’ he said.
There was a brief silence. Rougon stood tapping his hands together in a mechanical, nervous manner. Then he laughed. His mind was made up. He relaxed. He had too many debts, and they had to be cleared.
‘I won’t forget,’ he said. ‘You’ll have your job. A good thing you came to see me.’
With this, he dismissed Merle. Now all hesitancy was gone. He went into the dining room, where Gilquin was finishing off a jar of preserves, after making short work of a slice of pâté, a chicken drumstick, and some cold potatoes. Du Poizat, who had joined him, was straddling a chair, talking away. They were discussing women, and how to win their hearts, in the crudest terms. Gilquin still had not removed his hat. He lolled in his chair, tipping it back, a toothpick in his mouth to seem respectable.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said, dispatching a full glass of wine with a great smack of his tongue. ‘I’ll get along to the Rue Montmartre to see how my little birdies are.’
But Rougon, who seemed very cheerful, teased him. Did he still believe in that conspiracy theory of his, now that he’d eaten a good dinner? Du Poizat, too, affected complete disbelief. He arranged to meet Gilquin the following day. He owed him lunch, he said. Gilquin, his rattan cane tucked under his arm, waited until he could get a word in.
‘So you aren’t going to warn anybody?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am,’ replied Rougon. ‘But they’ll just laugh at me… There’s no hurry… Tomorrow morning will do.’
Gilquin already had his hand on the door handle. But he came back, sniggering.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t care less if they blew old Badinguet up. It would actually be quite fun.’
‘Bah!’ said the great man, with a conviction that was almost religious. ‘The Emperor has nothing to fear, even if the story’s true. These things never come off… Providence sees to that.’
This was his final word on the matter. Du Poizat left with Gilquin, with whom he was chatting most amicably. And when, an hour later, at half past ten, Rougon shook hands with Monsieur Bouchard and the Colonel as they left, he stretched his arms and with one of his big yawns, said:
‘I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep like a log tonight.’
The following evening, three bombs exploded under the Emperor’s carriage, in front of the Opera. There was pandemonium in the crowd thronging the Rue Le Peletier. More than fifty people were killed or hurt. A lady in a blue silk dress, killed outright, lay in the gutter. Two soldiers lay dying on the pavement. An aide-de-camp, wounded in the neck, trailed blood
behind him. Then, in the harsh light of the gas lamps, amid all the smoke, the Emperor stepped down safe and sound from his carriage, which was riddled with bomb fragments, and waved. All he had suffered was a hole in his hat, made by a bomb splinter.*
Rougon had spent a quiet day at home. All the same, he had been a little tense during the morning and twice had spoken of going out. But as he was finishing lunch, Clorinde arrived. Then he became absorbed in a conversation with her, in his study, till the evening. She had come to ask his advice about a complicated matter. She was demoralized, she said, and was getting nowhere. Concerned by her despondency, he consoled her. He himself, he said, was in an optimistic mood; everything was going to change now. He was well aware, he said, of his friends’ devotion and of their efforts on his behalf. He would make it up to all of them, even the most humble. When Clorinde left, he kissed her on the forehead. Then, after dinner, he felt an urge to walk. So he went out and took the most direct route to the river. He found the evening stifling, and he wanted to breathe in the bracing river air. This particular winter evening was very mild, with a low, cloudy sky that seemed to hang heavily over the city, silent and black. The noise of the boulevards grew fainter. He walked along empty pavements, at a steady pace, forging straight ahead, brushing the parapet with his overcoat. An infinity of lights stretching into the darkness, like so many stars indicating the limits of a lifeless sky, gave him a sensation of immense space as he crossed squares and followed streets where he could not even see the houses. The further he went, the more he found Paris had grown. It was a Paris that matched him, and offered his lungs a sufficiency of air. The inky water, shimmering with scales of gold, seemed to have the vast, gentle breathing of a sleeping giant, to go with the enormity of his dreams. As he arrived in front of the Palais de Justice, a clock struck nine. He shivered, then turned and listened. He thought he detected a sudden panic sweeping over the rooftops, the sound of distant explosions, and cries of horror. Paris suddenly seemed stunned by some great crime. Then he recalled that June afternoon, that limpid, triumphal afternoon of the christening, with the bells ringing in the bright sunshine and the embankments swarming with people, in all the glory of the Empire at its height, when for a moment he had felt crushed, to the point of feeling little twinges of jealousy towards the Emperor. His star was now rising once more in the moonless sky, in this city now terrified and silent, the embankments empty and still, except for a shudder that shook the gas jets, as if betokening in the depths of the night the lurking presence of something sinister. He took deep breaths. He loved this cut-throat Paris, in whose terrifying shadow he was about to regain absolute power.
Ten days later, Rougon replaced Count de Marsy at the Ministry of the Interior, while the Count was made president of the legislative body.
Chapter 9
One March morning, at the Ministry of the Interior, Rougon was at his desk busily drafting a confidential circular all prefects were to receive the following day. Halting intermittently, and breathing heavily, he ground his nib into the paper.
‘Jules!’ he cried, ‘give me another word for authority. What a stupid language we have!… I keep putting authority on every line.’
‘Well, there’s power, government, and regime,’ the young man replied with a smile.
Monsieur Jules d’Escorailles, whom Rougon had taken on as secretary, was going through the day’s mail on a corner of the desk, carefully opening each envelope with a penknife, glancing at the contents, and classifying each item. By the blazing fire sat the Colonel, Monsieur Kahn, and Monsieur Béjuin. They looked very relaxed, their legs stretched out, warming the soles of their boots. They did not utter a word. They felt at home. Monsieur Kahn was reading a newspaper, while the other two, sprawled blissfully in their armchairs, were simply staring at the fire, twiddling their thumbs.
Rougon stood up, went to a side table, poured a glass of water, and drank it in one go.
‘I can’t think what it was I ate yesterday,’ he muttered. ‘I could drink the Seine dry this morning.’
Rather than sitting down again immediately, he lumbered round the room. His heavy tread made the parquet shake beneath the thick carpeting. He drew back the green velvet curtains, to let in more daylight. Then, standing in the centre of the large room, with its dingy, faded luxury, he held his hands together behind his neck and stretched, in sheer enjoyment of the odour of administration, the pleasure of power, which he breathed in there. Despite himself, he laughed, as if highly amused by something, and as his laughter grew louder, it sounded more and more triumphant. Hearing this cheeriness, the Colonel and the others all turned and nodded to him, still without saying a word.
‘Ah!’ was all he said. ‘It’s so good!’
As he sat down again at the huge rosewood desk, Merle came in. The commissioner was immaculately dressed in black coat and white tie. He was clean-shaven, not a hair to be seen on his face. He looked very dignified.
‘Excuse me, Your Excellency,’ he murmured, ‘the Prefect of the Somme is here…’
‘Tell him to get lost! I’m busy,’ Rougon said crudely. ‘This is unbelievable! I can’t have a moment to myself!’
Merle was not in the least taken aback. Unperturbed, he continued:
‘The Prefect, Monsieur, assures me he has an appointment with Your Excellency… The Prefects of the Nièvre, the Cher, and the Jura are also waiting.’
‘Let them wait! That’s what prefects are for,’ replied Rougon, in a very loud voice.
The commissioner withdrew. Monsieur d’Escorailles grinned, and the other three stretched their legs out further, warming themselves, very amused by the Minister’s reply. He was very pleased by their reaction.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I’ve been seeing prefects non-stop for the past month… I had to summon them. What a crowd! Some are so stupid! At least they do what they’re told, but I’m getting mightily fed up with them… In fact, what am I doing at this very moment but preparing a document for them?’
He set to work again on his circular, and all that could be heard in the warm air of the room was the scratch of his goose quill and the faint rustling sound of Monsieur d’Escorailles opening envelopes. Monsieur Kahn had taken another newspaper; the Colonel and Monsieur Béjuin were half asleep.
Outside, a France that had grown timid was silent. On restoring Rougon to power, the Emperor had demanded that examples should be made. He knew his man’s iron hand. The day after the attempted assassination, with all the anger of a man who had only just escaped death, his words to Rougon had been: ‘No moderation! People must be afraid of you!’ And he had now armed his Minister of the Interior with that terrible Law of Public Safety, which authorized internment in Algeria or exile elsewhere of any individual convicted of a political crime. Though no French hand had been stained with the blood from the Rue Le Peletier, all Republicans were now being hounded and deported. It was a great mopping-up operation, to dispose of the ten thousand suspects forgotten on 2 December.* There was talk of a movement prepared by the revolutionary party. It was said that weapons and literature had been seized. By the middle of March, three hundred and eighty internees had already been shipped from Toulon. Since then, a new batch had been sent every week. The whole country quaked in the face of the terror that surged out like a great storm from the green plush study where Rougon stretched his arms and laughed to himself.
Never had the great man enjoyed deeper satisfaction. He was in fine form. He was putting on weight. Power had fully restored his health. When he walked, he ground his heels into the carpet, so that his tread would resound in every corner of France. It was his desire not to be able to put down an empty glass on the sideboard, or toss his pen aside, nor make any movement, without the shock of it reverberating throughout the country. He delighted in striking fear into men’s hearts, forging thunderbolts in the company of his adoring friends, beating the whole nation into submission with his fleshy fists — the fists of a bourgeois parvenu. In his circular, he had writt
en: ‘Good citizens may be reassured; bad citizens alone need tremble.’* Thus he played his role as a deity, damning some, saving others, without fear or favour. His pride knew no bounds. Worship of his own strength and intelligence had become his religion. He gorged on the pleasures of being a superman.
In the upsurge of new men during the Second Empire, Rougon had long since flaunted an authoritarian stance. His name stood for total repression, negation of all freedoms, absolute rule. And so nobody was under any illusion when they saw him installed at the Ministry of the Interior. At the same time, he did make certain admissions to his intimates. He had needs, he said, rather than opinions. He found power too desirable, too essential to his appetite for domination not to grasp it, whatever the conditions under which it came to him. To govern, to keep the mob under his heel, that was his immediate ambition; the rest was quite secondary, merely things to which he would accommodate himself. His sole passion was to be superior. Moreover, the circumstances in which he had returned to office had increased the pleasure he took in his success. The Emperor had given him complete freedom of action, and, whip in hand, he was realizing his long-held ambition to treat people like animals. Nothing gave him more satisfaction than to feel himself hated. When, sometimes, behind his back, they called him a tyrant, he just smiled and uttered this profound observation:
‘If some day I turn liberal, they will say I have changed.’
But what still gave Rougon the most satisfaction was to strut about in front of his gang. He would forget France, the functionaries grovelling at his feet, the crowd of supplicants clamouring at his door, to bask in the continuous admiration of the ten or fifteen members of his entourage. His office was open to his intimates at all hours, and they had free rein there, sprawling in the armchairs, even sitting at his desk. He said he was happy to have them around him, like faithful pets. It was not he alone who was the Minister, they all were, as if they were appendages of himself. In his triumph, something was happening beneath the surface, the bonds between them were being tightened, he had begun to love them with a jealous love, placing all his strength in not being alone, feeling his chest expand by reason of their ambitions. He forgot his secret contempt for them, and began to find them very intelligent, very strong, made in his image. Above all he wanted to be respected through them, he fought furiously for them, as he would have fought to defend the fingers of his own hands. Their quarrels were his quarrels. He even began to imagine that he owed them a lot, and he would smile at the thought of their long propaganda campaign on his behalf. And, being without material desires himself, he gave them all fine booty, delighting in creating around him the glitter of his own good fortune.