by Emile Zola
‘If Your Excellency would kindly permit, I was asked to pass on a message.’
Rougon planted his elbows on his blotting paper, and waited to hear what the message might be.
‘It’s poor Madame Correur… I went to see her this morning. She’s in bed. She has a boil, in a rather awkward place. A big one too! Bigger than half your fist. It’s not at all serious, but it’s giving her a lot of trouble, seeing she has such delicate skin…’
‘So?’ said Rougon.
‘I even helped her maid turn her over. But I have my duties to attend to… The thing is, she’s very worried, she would like to see you, Your Excellency, about some answers she’s waiting for. I was just going when she called me back, and asked if I would be so kind as to bring her the answer this evening, after work… Would Your Excellency mind?’
Without batting an eyelid, the Minister turned round.
‘Monsieur d’Escorailles, give me that file up there in the cupboard.’
It was Madame Correur’s file, an enormous grey folder, bulging with papers. It contained letters, schemes, and applications in all possible hands and all possible forms of spelling — requests for tobacco licences, stamp licences, appeals for aid, subsidies, allowances. Each of the loose sheets had a marginal note of Madame Correur’s, five or six lines, followed by a large masculine signature. Rougon thumbed through the file and glanced at all the little comments added in his own hand.
‘Madame Jalaguier’s pension’, he said, ‘has been fixed at eighteen hundred francs, Madame Leture got her tobacco licence, Madame Chardon’s grants have been approved, no news yet for Madame Testanière… Oh yes, tell Madame Correur too that I’ve been successful in the case of Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq. I have spoken with certain ladies, who will provide the dowry needed for her marriage to the officer who seduced her.’
‘Thank you, Your Excellency. A thousand thanks,’ said Merle with a bow.
He was leaving the room when the delightful golden head of a young woman in a pink hat appeared.
‘Can I come in?’ asked a flute-like voice, and, without waiting for an answer, Madame Bouchard entered. She had not seen the commissioner in the anteroom, she said, so simply came straight in. Calling her his ‘dear little girl’, Rougon invited her to sit down, after squeezing her tiny gloved hands in his.
‘Have you come about something serious?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, very serious,’ she replied with a smile.
He told Merle to let nobody else in. Having completed his manicure, Monsieur d’Escorailles walked over to greet Madame Bouchard. She indicated that she wanted to say something in his ear. There followed a quick exchange in undertones, the young man signifying his approval with nods. He went to get his hat, saying to Rougon:
‘I’ll go and have my lunch, I don’t think there’s any important business left… Just that inspector’s vacancy. Someone will have to be appointed.’
Rougon shook his head. He was unsure how to handle the matter.
‘Yes, I suppose we must appoint somebody… I’ve had so many suggestions. But I’m tired of appointing people I don’t know.’
His eyes darted round the room, as if in an attempt to find the right man. His gaze fell on Béjuin, stretched out blissfully in front of the fire.
‘Monsieur Béjuin!’ he called.
Monsieur Béjuin slowly opened his eyes, without moving.
‘Would you like to be an inspector? Let me explain: six thousand francs’ salary and nothing to do. And entirely compatible with your work as deputy.’
Monsieur Béjuin nodded feebly. Yes, very well then, he would accept. But when it was all decided, he lingered a couple of minutes more, sniffing the air. Then, no doubt feeling that he was not likely to pick up any more crumbs that morning, he slouched off, behind Monsieur d’Escorailles.
‘Now we’re alone… Well, what is it, my dear child?’ Rougon asked pretty little Madame Bouchard.
He had pushed an armchair up to hers and sat facing her. He could not help noticing her outfit. She was wearing a dress of pale pink Indian cashmere, a very soft material, wrapped round her like some intimate bedroom attire. She was dressed without appearing to be. On her arms and bosom the supple material was alive. Her skirt fell in deep folds that revealed the curves of her legs. It was all a very cunning sort of nudity, a seductiveness calculated even in raising the waist just high enough to bring out the shape of her hips. And there was no hint of petticoats, as if she had nothing on at all underneath.
‘So, what is it?’ Rougon asked again.
Still she said nothing, but just smiled, sinking back into the armchair. From under her pink hat peeped her crisp curls, and her parted lips revealed the moist whiteness of her teeth. Her slim body was all subtle surrender. It breathed both submission and invitation.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ she murmured at last. Then she added quickly: ‘But tell me first that you’ll say yes.’
But he would make no promises. He needed to know what she wanted. He was always cautious with women. And when she leaned forward, he said:
‘It must be a big favour if you’re so unwilling to tell me. I’ve got to tease it out of you, have I?… Very well, then. Is it something for your husband?’
Still smiling, she shook her head.
‘Damnation! Then it’s for Monsieur d’Escorailles? You two were plotting something just now!’
Again she shook her head, and gave a little pout, as if to tell him it had been necessary for Monsieur d’Escorailles to leave. Seeing that Rougon remained at a loss, she drew her chair even closer to him, until she was actually pressing against his knees.
‘I’ll tell you… But you won’t scold me, will you? You do like me, at least a little, don’t you?… It’s for a young man I know. You don’t know him. I’ll tell you his name in a moment, when you’ve agreed to give him a job… No, nothing very high up. You only have to say a word, and we’d both be very grateful.’
‘A relation, perhaps?’ he asked again.
She sighed, gave him a tragic look, let her hands slip so that he would hold them again, and whispered:
‘No, it’s for a special friend… A man. Oh, I’m so unhappy!’
She thus threw herself at his mercy. It was a very sensuous stratagem, of a high order of artistry, cleverly worked out so as to get rid of any lingering scruples he might have. For a moment, he even thought she must be inventing this story, that it was part of a plan to seduce him, a way of making herself more desirable as she emerged from the arms of another.
‘But this is shocking,’ he cried.
At this, she reached out her ungloved hand and, in an intimate gesture, sealed his lips. She leaned against him, as if swooning, her eyes closed. As she pressed against him, one of his knees lifted her skirt slightly. In its fineness it was like a nightdress. For a few seconds, he felt she was naked. Then, seizing her roughly by the waist, he planted her before him in the middle of the room. He was quite angry now.
‘Good God!’ he cried furiously, ‘what sort of behaviour is this!’
Very pale, she stood before him, looking down at the floor.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s shocking! Outrageous! Monsieur Bouchard is a very decent man. He worships you. He trusts you implicitly… No, I will definitely not help you to deceive him! I refuse, do you understand, I refuse categorically! And I’ll tell you exactly what I think, my dear girl!… One might sometimes turn a blind eye. For instance…’
But he broke off. He was on the point of saying that he could allow her d’Escorailles. Gradually, however, he regained his composure, and became very dignified. Seeing that she was now all atremble, he told her to sit down, while he stood and gave her a lecture. It was a veritable sermon, full of resonant phrases. He said she was offending all the laws of God and man alike. She was on the edge of an abyss. She was dishonouring the family home. She was preparing for herself an old age full of remorse. And when he thought he saw a faint smile playing on her lips, he painte
d a picture of that old age, in which her looks would be completely gone, her heart would be for ever empty, and, white-haired, she would be unable to look anybody in the face without blushing. He went on to analyse her immoral behaviour from the social aspect. Here he was especially severe, since despite the excuse of a very impressionable nature, it was unforgivable of her to set such a bad example. This led him to thunder against the shamelessness, the terrible loose behaviour of modern times. Then, he invoked his own position. He was the guardian of the law. He could not possibly abuse his power by encouraging immorality. Governments without moral standards were doomed. In conclusion, he challenged his enemies to point to a single act of nepotism he might have perpetrated, or a single favour corruptly granted.
Hanging her head, pretty Madame Bouchard heard him out. She huddled in the chair, her soft neck visible under the lacy valance of her pink hat. When he had finished his sermon, she rose and without saying a word walked to the door, but, just as she was about to open it, she smiled again.
‘His name is Georges Duchesne,’ she said. ‘He’s a senior clerk in my husband’s department, and he wants to be deputy head…’
‘On no account!’ cried Rougon.
Whereupon she gave him a very black look, like a woman scorned, and departed. But she did so very slowly, dragging her skirts, wanting to make Rougon sorry that he had not seduced her.
He looked weary as he returned to his desk. He had beckoned to Merle, who had followed him in, leaving the door ajar.
‘The editor of Le Vœu national is here,’ he said quietly. ‘Your Excellency sent for him.’
‘Very good,’ replied Rougon. ‘But first I must see the officials who have been waiting for so long.’
At this moment a valet appeared at the door leading to his private suite, to announce that lunch was served and Madame Delestang was waiting for him in the sitting room. Rougon leapt up.
‘Tell them to start serving,’ he said. ‘It’s too bad, I’ll have to see them all later. I’m starving, anyway.’
He craned his neck to see what the situation was in the anteroom. It was still full. Not a single official, nor a single supplicant, had moved. The three prefects were still chatting in their corner. The two ladies standing by the table were still there, wearily supporting themselves on it with their fingertips. The same faces in the same places, rigid, silent, along the walls, with their backs against the red plush. And so, telling Merle to keep back the Prefect of the Somme and the editor of Le Vœu national, he went to lunch.
Madame Rougon was slightly unwell. The day before, she had left for the Midi, where she was to spend a month. She had an uncle who lived near Pau. Delestang had gone on a very important mission on agricultural matters, and had been in Italy for the past six weeks. This was how it was that, knowing that Clorinde wanted a long talk with him, Rougon had invited her to a spouseless lunch at the Ministry.
She had been waiting patiently, turning the pages of a treatise on administrative law, which she found lying on a table.
‘You must be starving,’ he cried cheerfully, ‘I’ve been quite overrun this morning.’
Offering her his arm, he led the way to the dining room, a huge room in which the little table set for two over by the window seemed lost. Two tall lackeys waited on them. Rougon and Clorinde had soon finished their meal. They were both quite ascetic by nature. A few radishes, a slice of cold salmon, some chops with potato puree, a bite of cheese, and no wine at all. Rougon drank only water in the morning. Throughout the meal, they scarcely exchanged a dozen words. Then, as soon as the two lackeys had brought coffee and liqueurs, Clorinde made a sign with her eyebrows. He understood perfectly.
‘Thank you,’ he said to the men, ‘you can go now. I’ll ring if I want anything.’
The lackeys disappeared. Clorinde stood up, and patted her skirts to get the crumbs off. She was wearing a voluminous black silk frock, of such complexity, with so many flounces, that she seemed totally wrapped in it, and it was not possible to make out where her hips ended and her bust began.
‘What a barn of a place,’ she murmured, going to the far end of the room. ‘It’s the kind of room to use for wedding breakfasts or regimental dinners!’ She came back towards him, and added: ‘I could do with a cigarette, though.’
‘Damn!’ said Rougon. ‘There’s nothing at all to smoke. I never do, you see.’
Giving him a wink, she drew from her bag a little gold-embroidered red-silk pouch, no bigger than a little purse, and rolled a cigarette. Then, as neither of them wanted to bring the lackeys back, a hunt for matches began. They looked all over until, on the edge of a sideboard, they found three loose ones. She appropriated them, with great care. Then, a cigarette dangling from her lips, she stretched out again in the armchair and sipped her coffee while gazing at Rougon, smiling.
‘Well, I’m all ears,’ he said, also smiling. ‘You wanted to talk. Talk away.’
She waved her hand nonchalantly.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I had a letter from my husband. He finds Turin quite dull. He was delighted to have the job, thanks to you. But he’s worried that he might be forgotten while he’s over there. But there’s time to discuss that. There’s no hurry.’
She went on smoking and gazing at him with her exasperating smile. Gradually, Rougon had become used to seeing her without being plagued by the questions which, in the past, always piqued his curiosity. In the end, she had become just a habit. He accepted her now as she was. He had pigeonholed her, so to speak. Her eccentricities no longer took him by surprise. And yet he still knew very little about her. He was as ignorant about her as he had been in the early days. She was still such a contradictory character, both childlike and profound, so silly most of the time but sometimes remarkably subtle, and also both very generous and very mean. When some sudden action of hers or some inexplicable pronouncement amazed him, he simply shrugged it off, in a very masculine way, and said that all women were like that. By this he meant to convey his disdain for the fair sex, which made that smile of hers, so discreet yet so cruel, all the more tantalizing.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he asked at last, feeling uncomfortable before her unwavering gaze. ‘Is there something about me today you don’t like?’
‘Not at all. You’re perfectly fine… I was just thinking of something, my dear. Do you know you’re very lucky?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s obvious… Here you are — on top, where you wanted to be. Everybody has helped you to get there, and circumstances too.’
He was about to reply when there was a knock at the door. Instinctively, Clorinde hid her cigarette behind her skirt. It was a clerk. He had brought His Excellency an urgent despatch. Morosely, Rougon read the telegram and told the clerk what to say in reply. Then, slamming the door, he came and sat down again.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve had some very devoted friends. I’m trying to remember them… And you’re right, I have to be grateful for the way events played out. Often a man can do nothing when circumstances are against him.’
He spoke slowly, watching her from under lowered eyelids, half hiding the way he was studying her. What did she mean by ‘lucky’? What did she really know about the favourable circumstances she was referring to? Had Du Poizat been talking? From her smiling, dreamy expression, he felt sure she must be thinking of something else altogether and probably knew nothing about the attempted assassination. He had almost forgotten about it himself. He would rather not try too hard to remember. It was a moment in his life which now seemed very hazy. He had almost come to believe that it was to his friends’ devotion alone that he owed his lofty position.
‘I had no ambition,’ he went on. ‘I was pushed into it. But, after all, it has all been for the best. If I manage to do some good, I’ll be happy.’
He finished his coffee. Clorinde rolled a second cigarette.
‘Do you remember,’ she murmured, ‘two years ago, when you had just left the Council
of State, I asked you some questions. I wanted to know what had come over you. Were you simply being very cunning in doing what you did? You can tell me now… Come on — between you and me, did you have a definite plan?’
‘One always has a plan,’ he replied slyly. ‘I felt I was going to fall, and I preferred to jump first.’
‘And has your plan worked out? Have things gone just as you thought?’
He squinted at her, as one intimate to another.
‘Of course not, you know things never go quite according to plan… All that matters is getting what you want.’ He broke off, to offer her a liqueur. ‘What would you like? Curaçao or chartreuse?’
She said she would have a little glass of chartreuse. As he was pouring it, there was another knock at the door. Once again, with a gesture of impatience, she hid her cigarette. Furious, Rougon rose to his feet, still holding the carafe. This time it was a letter, with a huge seal. He took in its contents at a glance, stuffed it into his pocket, and said:
‘Good! But I don’t want to be disturbed again! Is that clear?’
When he came back to her, Clorinde moistened her lips with the chartreuse, sipping it drop by drop, looking down all the time, her eyes shining. A strange, tantalizing expression came over her face again. In a low voice, her elbows on the table, she said:
‘No, my dear, you will never know all the things people have done for you.’
He leaned forward, and planted his elbows on the table just as she had done.
‘I’m sure that’s true!’ he cried. ‘There’s no need to tell me that. But there’s no need to keep things secretive either, is there? Tell me what you did!’
She shook her head slowly, her cigarette clamped firmly between her lips.
‘Then it was something dreadful? Perhaps you’re afraid I might not be able to pay my debt? Wait a minute, let me try to guess… You wrote to the Pope and you slipped some magic potion into my water jug when I wasn’t looking?’
The joke only served to annoy her. She threatened to leave if he went on like that.