Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  ‘No, Your Excellency,’ the commissioner replied, in his most earnest tone. He had seemed very watchful all day.

  The Orangerie, where the charity sale was taking place, had been lavishly done out for the occasion. The walls were draped with red velvet fringed in gold, which transformed the vast, bare gallery into a high-ceilinged gala hall. To the left, at one end, was a huge curtain, also of red velvet, partitioning off a separate hall. This curtain was looped back on cords with huge gold tassels, harmonizing the main hall, with its rows of stalls, with the smaller room which contained tables with refreshments. The floor was covered in fine sand, and majolica pots in each corner contained tall green plants. In the centre of the rectangle of stalls was a low, plush-covered ottoman seat with a sloping back, and in the middle of the seat rose a great fountain of blossoms, roses, carnations, verbena, like a shower of bright raindrops. The huge glass doors were wide open, and on the terraces, by the water’s edge, stood serious-looking ushers in black livery, glancing carefully at the guests’ invitation cards as they entered.

  The ladies who were running the sale hardly counted on having many visitors before four o’clock. They stood at their stalls in the main hall, waiting for customers. The goods were laid out on the long tables, which were draped with red baize. There were several stalls of fancy goods and assorted gewgaws, two of children’s toys, a flower kiosk full of roses, and a big tombola wheel in a tent, just like the ones at suburban fairs. The saleswomen, all in low-cut evening gowns, assumed proper stall-keeper manners, smiling like milliners selling an out-of-fashion hat, with an ingratiating patter, chattering away, ignorantly talking up their goods. Engrossed in this shop-girl game, they giggled and became quite familiar with their customers, excited by all the gentlemen’s hands touching them as they bargained. One of the toy stalls was tended by a princess, opposite whom was a marquise selling a purse not worth a franc and a half, but insisting on at least twenty for it. These two were rivals, each out to prove by her takings that she was the prettier woman, and they accosted the men quite brazenly, demanding exhorbitant prices. After bargaining wildly like thieving butchers’ wives, each would give a little of herself into the bargain, the tips of her fingers, a glimpse down her gaping bodice, just to make quite sure of big money. The pretext was charity. Gradually, the hall filled up. The gentlemen stopped here and there, to inspect the ladies at their stalls as if they too were on display. There were some stalls where the young fops of Paris stood jostling each other, sniggering and making crude remarks about their purchases, while the ladies, inexhaustibly obliging, attended to each of them in turn, offering all their goods with equal rapture. They delighted in the attention of the crowd, for four hours at a stretch. The din of public auction rose louder and louder, broken by pearly laughter, as feet shuffled round and round in the sand. The red curtains absorbed the harsh glare from the high windows, projecting a luminous glow that tinged the ladies’ bare arms and shoulders with a faint pink hue. Among the stalls were six other ladies, with fragile baskets slung over their shoulders, pushing through the crowd, one a baroness, two the daughters of a banker, three the wives of senior functionaries, and these rushed at every newcomer, hawking cigars and matches.

  Madame de Combelot in particular enjoyed great success. She was in charge of the flowers, seated high up in the kiosk full of roses, a gilded, truncated construction that was rather like a huge birdcage. She herself was dressed entirely in flesh pink, which enhanced the effect of her low-cut bodice, the only contrasting element being a bunch of violets pinned between her breasts. She had conceived the idea of making the flower bunches in front of her customers, like a real flower-girl, taking a rose, a twig, and three leaves, which she tied with some thread she held between her teeth, and sold for one to ten louis each, according to the gentleman’s appearance. The men were all competing for her flower bunches, she could not keep pace with the orders, she was so busy that from time to time she pricked herself and had to put her fingers to her lips to suck the blood away.

  Opposite her, in the tent, pretty Madame Bouchard was running the tombola. She was dressed in a ravishing blue gown of peasant cut, high-waisted, the bodice forming a sort of wrap, which made her almost unrecognizable, so she might really have been taken for a girl selling gingerbread and wafers at a fair. Moreover, she put on a charming child’s voice and a silly little laugh that was most original. On her tombola stand the prizes were all graded, there were frightful trinkets for five or six sous, glassware, china, and leather goods. The pen scraped against the brass wire as the turntable knocked over the prizes with an endless clatter of broken china. Every few minutes, when customers drifted away, Madame Bouchard cried in her sweet little voice, like a country girl just arrived from her village:

  ‘Twenty sous a go, Messieurs… Come on, Messieurs, try your luck…’

  The buffet was also sanded, and it too had greenery in the corners. It was furnished with small round tables and cane chairs. They had tried to make it just like a real café, so that it would appear more enticing. At the back there was a monumental counter, where three ladies were fanning themselves while awaiting orders. Before them stood bottles of liqueurs, plates of cakes and sandwiches, sweets, cigars, and cigarettes — all the vulgar display of a popular dance hall. Every now and then, the lady in the middle, an exuberant, dark-haired countess, stood up and leaned forward to pour a glass of liqueur. She had already become quite confused as to which drinks were which, poking her arms between them at the risk of breaking the whole show up. Clorinde, however, was the queen of the buffet. She served people at the tables, like a kind of barmaid Juno. She was wearing a yellow and black satin dress, and looked quite dazzling, truly extraordinary, a star with a train like the tail of a comet. The dress was extremely low-cut, leaving her breasts free. She moved majestically among the tables, carrying glasses of beer on a white metal tray, serene as a goddess. She jostled the men with her elbows as she bent down to take orders, her bodice gaping open. Unhurried, perfectly at home in her role, she had a smile and a ready response for everybody. When she collected empty glasses and the money, she took the coins majestically and with practised movements tossed them into the leather pouch she wore at her waist.

  Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Béjuin had just sat down. As a joke, Monsieur Kahn tapped a coin on the zinc table and called out:

  ‘Madame, two bocks, please!’

  She brought the beer, poured it out, and stayed there, to rest for a moment, as the room just then was almost empty. With a lace handkerchief, she casually wiped the beer from her fingers. Monsieur Kahn noticed how very bright her eyes were. A look of triumph seemed to radiate from her face. He gazed at her, then blinked suddenly and asked:

  ‘When did you get back from Fontainebleau?’

  ‘This morning,’ she replied.

  ‘Did you see the Emperor? Any news?’

  She smiled, pursed her lips oddly, and stared back at him. Then he suddenly noticed she was wearing a new piece of jewellery. Round her neck she was wearing a dog collar, a real one, in black velvet, complete with buckle, ring, and bell, a gold bell in which tinkled an exquisite pearl. There were two names inscribed in diamonds on this collar, the letters interlaced and twisted strangely out of shape. Dangling from the ring was a heavy gilt chain which hung down between her breasts, then was looped up again to a gold plate pinned to her right shoulder. It bore the words: ‘I belong to my master.’

  ‘Is that a present?’ murmured Monsieur Kahn, pointing to the piece of jewellery and speaking very softly, so that nobody could hear.

  She nodded, her lips still pursed in the same subtle, sensuous pout. She had wanted to be thus enslaved, and was announcing it now with complete shamelessness, advertising it as a distinction. The Imperial preferment, which so many women craved, was an honour. When she had appeared with her neck strapped in that collar, on which the sharp eyes of rivals could make out an illustrious name combined with hers, the women understood immediately, and exchanged glanc
es, as if to say: ‘So that’s that.’ For the past month, the Court had been talking about the affair and awaiting the denouement. It had indeed come, and it was Clorinde herself who proclaimed it, carrying it written on her right shoulder. If the stories people whispered to each other were to be believed, her first love bed had been the bundle of straw on which a stable boy used to sleep. Later, she had slept between various sheets, in ever more distinguished beds — bankers’, high officials’, cabinet ministers’ — augmenting her fortune each time. And now, her progress from one bedroom to another had reached its apotheosis, the proud satisfaction of her ultimate wish: she had laid her lovely cold head on the Imperial pillow.

  ‘Madame, a bock, please,’ cried a portly man with a decoration, a general, gazing at her with a grin on his face. As soon as she had taken him his bock, two deputies called for glasses of chartreuse.

  People were flocking in now, and orders were coming thick and fast, for grogs, anisette, lemonade, cakes, and cigars. The men stared at her, exchanging remarks in low voices, titillated by the saucy story now going round. When this café waitress who had slipped away from the Emperor’s embrace that very morning held out her hand and took their money, they seemed to sniff at her, as if trying to find on her person some trace of the Imperial lovemaking. And, without the least concern, she turned her neck, so they could have a good look at her dog collar, with its chain clinking with every movement she made. It must have been particularly piquant for her to become every man’s waitress just when, for one night, she had been the Empress of France — trailing round café tables, among the leftovers from drinks and cake, on her goddess-like feet which certain august lips had so recently smothered with kisses.

  ‘It’s so funny,’ she said, coming back and planting herself in front of Monsieur Kahn. ‘They take me for a tart, they really do! One of them just pinched me. I didn’t say anything. What’s the point? It’s all for charity, isn’t it?’

  With a little wink, Monsieur Kahn asked her to bend down so he could whisper in her ear.

  ‘So, Rougon…?’

  ‘Shh! Any time now,’ she whispered back. ‘I sent him a personal invitation. I’m expecting him.’

  And when Monsieur Kahn shook his head, she added quickly:

  ‘Yes, yes, I know him, he’ll come… Of course, he has no idea yet.’

  Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Béjuin began at once to look out for Rougon. Through the wide-open curtains they could see the whole of the main hall. More and more people were flocking in. Gentlemen were lolling back on the big round seat in the middle, legs crossed, eyes half-closed, while an endless stream of visitors swirled round them, tripping over their feet. The heat was becoming oppressive. The hubbub in the reddish haze floating above the men’s top hats was growing louder and louder. Every now and then the hum of voices was broken by the squeaking of the tombola turntable as it spun round.

  Madame Correur, who had just arrived, trotted round the stalls. She looked very fat; she was dressed in a grenadine gown with mauve and white stripes, from which her plump arms and shoulders protruded in pinkish folds. She was wearing a thoughtful expression, the cautious look of a customer on the lookout for a good bargain. As a rule, she maintained, one could make excellent purchases at these charity bazaars; these poor ladies had no idea, they were quite ignorant regarding their wares. But she never bought from anybody she knew personally; she thought they bumped the prices up too much. When she had gone round all the stalls, picking things up, examining them thoroughly, and putting them down again, she went back to the leather goods stall and spent a good ten minutes there, ferreting about with a quizzical expression on her face. Then she casually picked up a Russian leather purse she had had her eye on for at least a quarter of an hour.

  ‘How much is this?’ she enquired.

  The stall-keeper, a tall, fair-haired young lady, who was just then exchanging pleasantries with two gentlemen, scarcely turned round as she said:

  ‘Fifteen francs.’

  The purse was worth at least twenty. As a rule, the ladies competed to get the most extravagant sums out of the men, but, by a sort of Freemasonry, sold things to their own sex at cost price. But Madame Correur, looking quite put off, put the purse back on the stall, and murmured:

  ‘Oh, that’s far too much… I’m just looking for a present. I could manage ten francs, that’s all. Have you got anything nice for ten francs?’

  Once again she rummaged through the items on the stall. Nothing took her fancy. Heavens! If only that purse had been a bit cheaper! She picked it up again and peered into its compartments. Losing patience, the stall-keeper dropped down to fourteen, then twelve. No, no, it was still too dear. And after some ferocious bargaining, she had it for eleven. The tall young lady said:

  ‘I like to sell things… The women all bargain, they never buy… Oh, what would we do without the men!’

  As she walked away from the stall, Madame Correur was delighted to find at the bottom of the purse a price ticket for twenty-five francs. She carried on prowling round, then stood inside the tombola tent, next to Madame Bouchard. She called her ‘my dear’, and tucked back into position on Madame Bouchard’s forehead a couple of kiss-curls which had slipped out of place.

  ‘Ah, there’s the Colonel!’ cried Monsieur Kahn, still at the bar, keeping a close eye on the doors.

  The Colonel had come because he felt he had no choice, but he was counting on getting through it all for no more than one louis, though even that made his heart bleed. But as soon as he appeared in the doorway he was assailed by three or four ladies, with their cries of:

  ‘Cigars, do buy a cigar, Monsieur! A box of matches, Monsieur!’

  Smiling, he politely declined. Then, surveying the scene, he thought he had better discharge his obligation without delay. He paused first at the stall of a lady who stood well at Court. Here he bargained for a very ugly cigar case. Seventy-five francs! He could not hide his revulsion. He dropped the case and made off, while the lady, quite offended, went very red in the face, as if she had been assaulted. After this, to forestall embarrassing remarks, he went up to the kiosk where Madame de Combelot was still making her posies. Surely, they would not cost as much. But, out of prudence, he did not ask her to choose one for him, guessing that she was putting a high price on her work. He picked out of the pile of roses the most pitiable, mangy bud, grandly took out his purse, and asked:

  ‘How much, Madame?’

  ‘A hundred francs, Monsieur,’ replied the good lady, who had been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  Colonel Jobelin’s hands shook. He began to stammer. But this time there was no turning back. Aware that people were looking, he paid up, then took refuge in the café and sat down at Monsieur Kahn’s table, muttering:

  ‘It’s all a trap, that’s what it is, a trap…’

  ‘Have you seen Rougon anywhere?’ asked Monsieur Kahn.

  The Colonel made no reply. From a safe distance, he glared at the saleswomen. Then, seeing Monsieur d’Escorailles and Monsieur La Rouquette laughing their heads off at one of the stalls, he muttered again:

  ‘Young people may find it all very entertaining… They always get something for their money in the end.’

  There was no question about it, Monsieur d’Escorailles and Monsieur La Rouquette were having a very good time. The ladies were all vying for them. The moment they had entered, arms were outstretched and their names were called out on all sides.

  ‘Monsieur d’Escorailles, you promised… Come on, Monsieur La Rouquette, you must buy a hobby horse. No? A doll, then. Yes, of course, come on, a doll, that’s what you want!’

  They had taken each other’s arms, as protection, they laughingly said, and like this they advanced, beaming with excitement, with all those petticoats crowding round them, all those pretty voices caressing them. At times they vanished entirely, as if drowned in a sea of bare arms and shoulders, pretending to fight them off, with little cries of terror. At every stall they
gave into the ladies’ simulated violence. Then they claimed they were very mean, acting out comic scenes of horror at the prices. Dolls that cost one sou or one franc — it was all far beyond their means. Three pencils for ten francs? Did these ladies want to snatch the bread out of their mouths? It was hilariously funny. The ladies cooed with delight. It was like the sound of so many flutes. All this gold raining down had quite gone to their heads, they trebled and quadrupled their prices, bitten by a lust for sheer robbery. They passed these two gentlemen on to each other, with little winks and whispers of ‘I’ll really sting these two… Just watch me fleece them!’ And, of course, the victims heard it all and replied with amiable little acknowledgements. Behind their backs, the ladies were jubilant. They boasted. The most successful of them, of whom they were all jealous, was a young lady of eighteen who had sold a stick of sealing wax for three louis. As Monsieur d’Escorailles got to the end of the hall and a fair hand insisted on stuffing a box of soap into his pocket, he cried;

  ‘I haven’t got a sou left. Perhaps you want me to forge you a banknote?’

  He shook his purse to show it was empty. The lady was so carried away that she snatched it from him and rummaged in it. Then she glared at d’Escorailles, as if she was about to ask him to hand over his watchchain.

  It was all a huge joke. Just for fun, Monsieur d’Escorailles carried on round the stalls with his empty purse.

  ‘Hell!’ he said at last, dragging Monsieur La Rouquette along, ‘I’m getting stingy… We must try to make up for our losses!’

  As they were walking past the tombola tent, Madame Bouchard called to them:

  ‘Twenty sous a go, Messieurs… Try your luck…’