by Emile Zola
There was dead silence. Between each sentence one could hear the breeze in the treetops and the high note of a sluice working in the distance. The firemen, though out to rival the soldiers in the rigour of their bearing under the hot sun, began to look out of the corners of their eyes to see if they could catch a glimpse of the Minister talking, without actually turning their heads. On the hillside the spectators had all settled down comfortably. The ladies had spread out handkerchiefs and were squatting on them, and two gentlemen on the edge of the crowd, which the sun had now reached, had just opened their wives’ sunshades. Meanwhile, Rougon’s voice gradually grew louder. Sunk in this hollow, he seemed frustrated, as if the valley was not big enough for his gestures. Thrusting his hands out before him all at once, he seemed to be trying to roll the horizon itself back. Twice he thus sought to create the space he needed to talk. But away on the skyline all he found was the two gutted windmills, blistering in the sun.
He took up Monsieur Kahn’s theme again and enlarged on it. Now it was not merely the Deux-Sèvres department that was entering a period of miraculous prosperity, but the whole of France — thanks to the linking of Niort to Angers by a branch railway line. For ten minutes he enumerated the countless benefits that would shower down on the people of France. He even invoked the hand of God. Then came his rejoinder to the remarks of the chief engineer. Not that he referred to what he had said. He made no allusion to him at all. He merely said exactly the opposite. He extolled Monsieur Kahn’s devotion to the public good, describing him as a man of great modesty, disinterested by nature, truly magnificent. The financial aspect of the enterprise did not trouble him in the least. With a smile, he made a rapid gesture indicating the creation of mountains of gold. At that point, a burst of applause made him break off.
‘Gentlemen, one last word,’ he said, after wiping his lips with his handkerchief.This ‘last word’ lasted a quarter of an hour. He got carried away and put more into it than he had really intended. In his peroration, when he came to the greatness of the regime, and praised the ineffable wisdom of the Emperor, he went so far as to intimate that His Majesty was taking a particular interest in this Niort–Angers branch line. It was becoming a state concern.
Three waves of applause followed. A flock of rooks, high up in the sky, signalled their alarm with prolonged cawing. At the final sentence of the speech, a signal from the marquee set the Philharmonic Society going again, and the ladies drew up their skirts and rose to their feet, anxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Meanwhile, Rougon was surrounded by beaming dignitaries. The deputy expressed his wonder at the speech in an undertone which the Minister was meant to hear, and the Mayor, the Public Prosecutor, and the Colonel of the 78th Line Regiment all nodded in agreement. The most enthusiastic, however, was none other than the chief engineer. Apparently thunderstruck by the great man’s rhetoric, his mouth twisted to one side, he affected a sycophancy which was quite remarkable.
‘If Your Excellency would kindly come with me,’ said Monsieur Kahn, his massive features perspiring with joy.
Rougon was now due to fire the first charge. Orders had just been given to the team of workmen in new overalls. Followed by Monsieur Kahn and the Minister, the men entered the trench first, and formed two rows at the far end. A foreman held out a lighted taper and gave it to Rougon. The dignitaries, who had remained in the marquee, peered out. The onlookers waited nervously. The Philharmonic Society played on.
‘Will it make a lot of noise?’ asked the headmaster’s wife, with an anxious smile, of one of the two Deputy Mayors.
‘It all depends on the rock,’ the President of the Commercial Court hastened to reply, and went into mineralogical details.
‘Well, I’m going to put my fingers in my ears,’ declared the eldest of the three daughters of the Warden of Forests and Waters.
Standing in the middle of the gathering with the lighted taper in his hand, Rougon felt rather silly. Higher up the slope, the windmills seemed to be groaning more loudly. Then, swiftly, he lit the fuse set between two stones, as indicated by the foreman. Immediately, a workman blew a long blast on a horn. The whole team drew back. Monsieur Kahn, concerned to be as prudent as possible, led His Excellency back into the marquee.
‘It’s taking a long time to go off, isn’t it?’ burbled the Mortgage Registrar, blinking anxiously, keen to block up his ears like the ladies.
The explosion did not happen until two minutes later. Overcautious, they had made the fuse far too long. The onlookers’ feelings of anticipation had become unbearable. All eyes, glued to the rock, seemed to see it heave. There were some highly strung people who said they felt their hearts were about to burst. But at last there was a dull rumble, the rock split, and a fountain of debris, with lumps as big as a man’s two fists, rose high into the air in a cloud of smoke. Everybody drew back. People could be heard saying, over and over:
‘Can you smell the dynamite?’
That evening the Prefect gave a banquet to which the public officials were invited. He had issued five hundred invitations to the dance that followed. It was a magnificent ball, in fact. The big reception room was resplendent with greenery, and in the corners were added four additional chandeliers which, with the one in the centre, produced a tremendous amount of bright light. Niort could not remember anything like it. The light from the six windows illuminated the whole square, where more than two thousand people had gathered and were staring up in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the dancers. Even the orchestra could be heard so clearly that the kids down below organized their own galops* on the pavements. By nine o’clock the ladies’ fans were doing overtime, refreshments were being handed round, and quadrilles had replaced waltzes and polkas. Du Poizat, stationed at the door, formally welcomed latecomers with a smile.
‘But aren’t you dancing, Your Excellency?’ boldly asked the headmaster’s wife, who had just come in, wearing a muslin dress covered with golden stars.
With a smile, Rougon made his excuses. He was standing near a window, discussing a revision of the cadastral survey with a group of people while glancing constantly outside. On the other side of the square, in the glare with which the chandeliers lit up the fronts of the houses, he had just noticed Madame Correur and Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq at one of the windows of the Hôtel de Paris. They were leaning on the crossbar as if it were the front of a theatre box, watching the celebrations. Their faces were shining and they were laughing softly as the warmth and noise of the festivities wafted upwards.
Meanwhile, the headmaster’s wife was completing her round of the ballroom, apparently indifferent to the admiration which the amplitude of her long skirts seemed to arouse in the young men. She was looking for somebody. She wore a longing expression, but never stopped smiling.
‘Isn’t the Police Superintendent here?’ she enquired of Du Poizat, who in turn asked after her husband. ‘I promised him a waltz.’
‘He should be here,’ replied the Prefect. ‘I’m surprised I can’t see him… He had something to do this afternoon, but he promised to be back by six.’
At around midday, after lunch, Gilquin had left Niort on horseback, to go and arrest the lawyer Martineau. Coulonges was about a dozen miles away. He reckoned he would be there at two o’clock and be able to start back by four at the latest, so as not to miss the banquet, to which he had been invited. So he did not gee up his horse, but proceeded at a leisurely pace, thinking to himself that he would be most enterprising that evening at the ball with that blonde lady, though for his taste she was a little on the thin side. Gilquin liked his women plump. At Coulonges he stabled his horse at the Lion d’Or, where he was to be met by a sergeant and two gendarmes. In this way, his arrival would not be noticed. They would take a cab and ‘nick’ the lawyer without any of the neighbours noticing. But the gendarmes were not there. Gilquin waited until five o’clock, cursing the while, drinking grogs, and glancing at his watch every quarter of an hour. He would never get back to Niort in time for dinner. He h
ad given orders for his horse to be saddled when at last the sergeant and his men appeared. There had been a misunderstanding.
‘All right, all right, there’s no time for an explanation,’ cried the Superintendent angrily. ‘It’s a quarter past five already… Let’s nab our man, quick smart. We’ve got to be on our way within ten minutes.’
Normally Gilquin was very easy-going. In his work he prided himself on his perfect urbanity. On this particular occasion he had even conceived a complicated plan to spare Madame Correur’s brother any great upset. According to this plan, he was to go inside himself, while the gendarmes would stay by the cab, in a side street, at the garden gate, with open country on the far side. But the three hours’ wait at the Lion d’Or had so annoyed him that he quite forgot all his careful preparations. He drove straight down the village street and rang loudly at the lawyer’s front door, leaving one gendarme in front of the door and sending the other round the back to keep watch on the garden walls, while he went inside with the sergeant. A dozen neighbours, very alarmed, looked on from a safe distance.
At the sight of the uniforms, the maid who opened the door was seized with childish terror and promptly vanished, yelling ‘Madame! Madame!’ at the top of her voice. A plump little woman, wearing a very calm expression, came slowly down the stairs.
‘Madame Martineau, I take it?’ said Gilquin brusquely. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, but I have a sad duty to perform… I’ve come to arrest your husband.’
She clasped her stubby hands together. Her pale lips trembled, but she did not utter a sound. She remained on the bottom step, her skirts filling the whole staircase. She insisted on seeing the warrant, then, in an attempt to stall, asked Gilquin to explain.
‘Careful!’ the sergeant whispered in the Superintendent’s ear, ‘or our man will slip through our fingers.’
She must have heard this. Still quite calm, she looked them both straight in the face.
‘Come upstairs, gentlemen,’ she said.
She led the way and showed them into a study in the middle of which stood Monsieur Martineau, in a dressing gown. The cries of the maid had induced him to get up from the armchair in which he now spent his days. He was very tall, his hands looked as if they belonged to a corpse, his cheeks were waxen. Only his eyes — dark, soft, and expressive — indicated that he was still drawing breath. Without a word, Madame Martineau gestured towards her husband.
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur,’ Gilquin began, ‘but I have a sad duty to perform…’
When he had finished, the lawyer nodded, without a word. A slight shiver shook the dressing gown draped over his frail limbs. At last, with extreme courtesy, he said:
‘Very well, gentlemen, I will come with you.’
He began to move round the room, putting various things scattered over the furniture back in place. He moved a parcel of books. He asked his wife for a clean shirt. His shivering became more violent. Seeing him staggering about, Madame Martineau followed him, her outstretched arms ready to support him, as if he were a child.
‘We’re in a hurry, Monsieur,’ Gilquin said impatiently.
The lawyer went round the room twice more; and suddenly, his arms flailing, he collapsed into a chair, his limbs twisted, struck down by paralysis. Tears rolled silently down his wife’s cheeks.
Gilquin glanced at his watch.
‘Bloody hell!’ he cried.
It was half past five. He would have to give up any idea of being back in time for the banquet. It was going to take at least half an hour to get the man into the cab. He tried to console himself with the idea that he would not miss the ball. He remembered that the headmaster’s wife had promised him the first waltz.
‘It’s all put on,’ murmured the sergeant in his ear. ‘Shall I get him on his feet for you?’
Without waiting for an answer, he went up to the lawyer and told him sternly not to try to cheat the law. But the lawyer was as rigid as a corpse, his eyes closed, his lips thinly drawn. Gradually, the sergeant lost his temper, started to swear, and grabbed the lawyer roughly by the collar. But Madame Martineau, hitherto so calm, pushed him back and planted herself in front of her husband, clenching her fists.
‘It’s all put on, I tell you,’ repeated the sergeant.
Gilquin shrugged. He was determined to take the lawyer away, dead or alive.
‘One of your men will have to go and get the cab from the Lion d’Or,’ he ordered. ‘I told the innkeeper we might need it.’
When the sergeant had left the room, he went to the window, and gazed out at the garden, where the apricot trees were in full bloom. He was lost in thought, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Madame Martineau. Her cheeks dry again, her voice once more steady, she said firmly:
‘The cab is for you, of course, isn’t it? You can’t drag my husband to Niort in the state he’s in.’
‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ he said for the third time, ‘my mission is a painful one…’
‘But this is criminal,’ she said. ‘You’re killing him… You weren’t ordered to kill him, were you!’
‘I have my orders,’ he replied, becoming less courteous, wishing to cut short the various entreaties he could now see coming.
She gave him a terrible look. An expression of intense anger passed across her face. She looked wildly round the room, as if searching for some supreme means of salvation. But with a great effort she calmed down and again assumed the attitude of a strong woman who did not rely on tears to achieve what she wanted.
‘God will punish you, Monsieur,’ was all she said, after a silence during which her gaze did not falter.
Without a sob, without a plea, she turned her back on him, to kneel with her elbows resting on the arm of the chair in which her husband lay in agony. Gilquin only smiled.
At this point, the sergeant, who had run round to the Lion d’Or himself, returned to say that the innkeeper had made out that for the moment he did not have a single available cab. The lawyer was much liked in the neighbourhood, and news of his arrest must have spread. The innkeeper was surely concealing his available transport. Only two hours previously, when the Superintendent had asked him, he had promised to keep ready for him an old coupé which normally he hired out for excursions in the locality.
‘Go and search his stables!’ cried Gilquin, overcome with fury at this new obstacle. ‘Go through every house in the village! Damn it all, do they think they can make fools of us like that! There’s no time to lose. I’m expected back in Niort… I’ll give you a quarter of an hour to find a vehicle! Do you understand?’
The sergeant vanished again, taking his men with him this time, and sending them off in various directions. Three-quarters of an hour went by, then an hour, then an hour and a quarter. After an hour and a half, one of the gendarmes appeared at last, long-faced: all his searches had proved fruitless. Gilquin became most agitated. He paced nervously up and down, watching the sun disappear. The ball was bound to start without him. The headmaster’s wife would think him very rude; he would cut a ridiculous figure, his weapons of seduction would be neutralized. And so, every time he walked past the lawyer, he felt he would like to strangle him. Never before had any wrongdoer so frustrated him. Colder and paler than ever, Martineau lay stretched out, motionless.
It was not until after seven o’clock that the sergeant returned, beaming. He had managed to find an old coupé belonging to the innkeeper, hidden away at the back of a shed, half a mile outside the village. It was already harnessed. In fact, it was the snorting of the horse that had given it away. But even when the coupé was at the door, they still had to dress Monsieur Martineau. That took a very long time. Moving very slowly, and looking very solemn, Madame Martineau put white socks on his feet, and a white shirt, then dressed him all in black, trousers, waistcoat, frock coat. Not once did she allow one of the gendarmes to help. The lawyer offered no resistance, letting her do what she wanted. A lamp had been lit. Gilquin, highly impatient, kept strumming on the table with his fingers
, while the sergeant stood motionless, his cap throwing a huge shadow on the ceiling.
‘So, are you ready at last?’ Gilquin demanded.
For five minutes Madame Martineau had been rummaging in a chest of drawers. She finally took out a pair of black gloves, which she slipped into her husband’s pocket. She turned to Gilquin.
‘I hope you’re going to let me go with him,’ she said. ‘I want to be with my husband.’
‘That will not be possible, Madame,’ Gilquin replied, roughly.
She swallowed hard, and made no attempt to argue.
‘At least,’ she said, ‘you can let me follow you.’
‘The roads are free,’ he replied. ‘But you won’t be able to find a carriage. There aren’t any around here.’
She gave a slight shrug, and left the room to give an order. Ten minutes later, there was a closed cab at the door, behind the coupé. Next, they had to get Monsieur Martineau downstairs… The two gendarmes carried him, while his wife supported his head. At the slightest complaint from the dying man, she imperiously ordered the men to pause, and they did so, despite the terrible looks the Superintendent gave them. There was thus a little rest at each step. The lawyer was like a smartly dressed corpse being carried out. In the coupé they propped him up into a sitting position. He was now quite unconscious.
‘Half past eight!’ cried Gilquin, with a final glance at his watch. ‘What a bloody job this has been. I’ll never get there.’
It was obvious he would be lucky to get there before the ball was half over. Cursing, he heaved himself onto his horse, and told the driver of the coupé to go as fast as he could. The coupé set the pace. On either side rode one of the gendarmes. A few paces behind followed the Superintendent and the sergeant. Completing the little cavalcade was Madame Martineau’s closed cab. It was a chilly night. Through the sleeping grey countryside, the journey seemed endless, the only sound the grinding of wheels and the clip-clop of hooves. Not one word was spoken all the way. Gilquin spent the time thinking about what he might say to the headmaster’s wife when he saw her. Every now and then Madame Martineau sat up straight in her cab, thinking she caught the sound of a death rattle; but she could hardly see the coupé as it rumbled on through the black, silent night.