The Conquest of Plassans (Classic Reprint)

by Emile Zola

  But Mouret was in no hurry; he was enjoying himself. Although he didn’t see the strange objects that he had vaguely anticipated, the room held a particular smell for this man of reason. To him it smelled of the priesthood, of a man who was not as other men are, a man who blows out the candle before he changes his shirt, a man who doesn’t leave his underclothes or his razor lying around. What he found irritating was that he couldn’t see anything left on the furniture or in the corners which might possibly give him some hypothesis to work on. The room resembled the fellow himself—silent, cold, polished, and impenetrable. To his great surprise he did not, as he had expected, get the impression of poverty. On the contrary, it made him feel as he had felt once before, one day when he had gone into the very richly furnished drawing-room of a prefect in Marseilles. The large Christ seemed to occupy it entirely with its black arms.

  But he had to attend to Abbé Faujas, who was summoning him to the recess.

  ‘Can you see the stain?’ the abbé asked. ‘It’s not quite as clear as it was yesterday.’

  Mouret stood on tiptoe and screwed up his eyes but could not see anything. When the priest drew back the curtains, he could just about make out a slight rusty discolouration.

  ‘Nothing very serious,’ he murmured.

  ‘Of course. But I thought I should let you know… It must have come in through the roof.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Through the roof.’

  Mouret made no further remark. He was looking at the room illuminated in the harsh light of day. It looked less solemn, but it still revealed nothing. In fact, not one speck of dust betrayed anything of the abbé’s life.

  ‘In any case,’ the latter continued, ‘we might perhaps have a look out of the window… Wait a moment.’

  And he opened the window. But Mouret cried that he would not hear of disturbing him any more, that it was a trivial matter and that the workmen would soon be able to find the hole.

  ‘You are not disturbing me in the least, I assure you,’ insisted the abbé kindly. ‘I know owners like to see for themselves… Look at it all carefully, I do beg you… It is your house.’

  As he uttered this last sentence, he actually smiled, which was a rare occurrence; then when he and Mouret had leaned over the rail and looked up at the guttering, he started to hold forth like an architect about how the stain could have got there.

  ‘I think there is a slight sinking of the tiles, you know, perhaps there is even a broken one among them; unless it is that crack you can see along the cornice up there, which goes right through into the retaining wall.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Mouret answered. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Monsieur, that I don’t know anything about that. The builder will see to it.’

  The priest stopped talking about repairs then. He stood there quietly looking at the gardens down below. Mouret, leaning on his elbows next to him, did not dare to withdraw in case it seemed impolite. And he was completely won over when his tenant said quietly, after a pause:

  ‘You have a lovely garden, Monsieur.’

  ‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,’ he replied. ‘There were some very fine trees that I had to have taken down, you couldn’t grow anything in the shade beneath them. Well, what can you do? You have to think of what’s useful. This bit of land is enough for us—we have enough vegetables for the whole season.’

  The abbé, surprised, asked him to elaborate. The garden was one of those old provincial gardens, enclosed by arbours and neatly quartered by large box hedges. In the middle was a narrow pond with no water in it. One quarter only was for flowers. In the other three, which had fruit trees planted at each corner, grew some magnificent cabbages and splendid lettuces. The paths were maintained in the conventional fashion with yellow sand.

  ‘It’s a little paradise,’ repeated Abbé Faujas.

  ‘Well, of course there are disadvantages,’ said Mouret, pretending he didn’t have enormous satisfaction at hearing such praise for his house and garden. ‘For example, you must have noticed that we are on a slope here. The gardens are in terraces. So Monsieur Rastoil’s is lower than mine, and mine is also lower than the garden at the sub-prefecture. The rain causes a great deal of damage. Then—and this is even more disagreeable—the people from the sub-prefecture can see into my place, the more so because they have built that terrace overlooking my wall. It’s true that I can see into Monsieur Rastoil’s garden, but that’s poor compensation, I assure you, since I never concern myself with what anyone else is doing.’

  The priest seemed to be listening sympathetically, nodding, not asking any questions. He watched his landlord gesturing with his hands as he explained.

  ‘Now there is one more thing that annoys me,’ continued the latter, pointing to an alley that ran along the bottom of the garden. ‘Do you see that little lane in between two high walls? It’s the Impasse des Chevillottes, leading to the tradesman’s gate which opens on to the property belonging to the sub-prefecture. All the neighbouring houses have a gate giving on to the Impasse and there are strange comings and goings all the time… I’ve got children so I’ve had a couple of nails put in and had mine properly blocked up.’

  He winked at the priest, perhaps hoping he might enquire as to the nature of these strange comings and goings. But the priest didn’t flinch; he examined the Impasse des Chevillottes without manifesting any further curiosity, before shifting his quiet gaze back to the Mourets’ garden. Down below in her usual place Marthe was hemming table napkins. At first she had looked up abruptly on hearing the voices. Then, astonished to see her husband at the second-floor window keeping company with the priest, she had gone back to her work. She seemed no longer aware of their presence. Yet Mouret had raised his voice, as though unconsciously showing off, delighted at managing at last to get into this apartment, which had up until now remained so obstinately shut. From time to time the priest let his unruffled gaze fall upon the woman, whose slanting nape and abundant black hair tied in a chignon were all that was visible to him.

  There was a silence. Abbé Faujas still did not seem inclined to come away from the window. Now he appeared to be studying the neighbour’s flower beds. Monsieur Rastoil’s garden was set out in the English style, with little paths and small lawns, intersected by small corbeilles of flowers. At the bottom was a rotunda with trees and beneath them a table and some rustic chairs.

  ‘Monsieur Rastoil is very rich,’ Mouret went on, following the direction of the priest’s gaze. ‘His garden costs him a fortune. The waterfall, out of view over there behind the trees, cost more than three hundred francs. And not a single vegetable, nothing but flowers. At one time the ladies even talked of cutting down the fruit trees; that would be nothing short of murder, for the pear trees are superb. Bah! He’s right to organize his garden to suit himself, if he’s got the wherewithal!’

  And as the priest was still silent, he continued, turning to him: ‘You know Monsieur Rastoil, don’t you? He takes a walk every morning under the trees from eight till nine. A stout man, rather short and bald, clean-shaven and with a head as round as a ball! It was his sixtieth birthday at the beginning of August, I think. He’s been president of our civil tribunal for nearly twenty years. They say he’s a good sort of fellow. We don’t have much to do with each other. Good morning, good evening, and that’s it.’

  He stopped, seeing several people go down the steps of the house next door and make their way to the trees at the bottom.

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘It’s Tuesday today… They are having dinner at the Rastoils’.’

  Faujas had not been able to restrain a slight movement. He had leaned out for a better view. Two priests walking beside two tall girls seemed to be of particular interest to him.

  ‘Do you know who those gentlemen are?’ Mouret asked.

  And when Faujas made a vague gesture:

  ‘They were crossing the Rue Balande just when we met… The tall young man who is between the young Rastoil girls is Abb�
� Surin, our bishop’s secretary. They say he’s a very nice lad. I see him playing shuttlecock with these two girls in the summer… The elderly man you see just behind them is one of our assistant bishops, Abbé Fenil. He’s the director of the seminary. A formidable man, sharp and thrusting. I’m sorry he’s not turning round. You would see his eyes… I’m surprised you don’t know these gentlemen.’

  ‘I don’t go out very much,’ the priest replied; ‘I don’t have much to do with anyone in the town.’

  ‘Oh, but you should! You must often be bored… Well, Monsieur, one couldn’t in all fairness accuse you of being nosey. Good heavens, you’ve been here a month and you don’t even know that Monsieur Rastoil entertains people to dinner every Tuesday! How could you not notice that from this window!’

  Mouret chuckled. He was making fun of the priest. Then, in confidential tones:

  ‘See that tall old gentleman accompanying Madame Rastoil? Yes, that thin one, the man with the wide-brimmed hat. That’s Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect of the Drôme, made redundant by the 1848 Revolution.* I bet you didn’t know him either?… And Monsieur Maffre, the justice of the peace? That man all in white, with his eyes popping out of his head, bringing up the rear with Monsieur Rastoil. Well, there’s no excuse not to know about him. He’s the honorary canon of Saint-Saturnin… Between you and me, people accuse him of killing his wife with his cruelty and greed.’

  He stopped, looked the priest straight in the eyes and said abruptly in his jocular tone:

  ‘You must forgive me, Monsieur, but I am not a religious man.’

  The priest again made a vague gesture with his hand, the gesture that was his answer to everything, and dispensed him from any further clarification.

  ‘No, I’m not a religious man,’ Mouret went on in the same jocular tone. ‘We must allow everybody their freedoms, mustn’t we?… The Rastoils go to church. You must have seen the mother and daughters at Saint-Saturnin. They are your parishioners… Those poor girls! Angéline, the eldest, is well over twenty-six; the other one, Aurélie, will soon be twenty-four. And they’re no beauties, with their sallow faces and sulky looks. The worst thing is that the elder of the two has to be married off first. They will find someone in the end, because of the dowry… As for the mother, that fat little woman who walks along as docilely as a sheep, she gives poor old Rastoil a hard time.’

  He winked his left eye, a habitual tic of his when he made one of his somewhat risqué jokes. The priest’s eyes had been cast downward, in the expectation he would continue; but then, as the other man did not speak, he looked up again and observed the guests in the next door garden as they sat down under the trees at the round table.

  Mouret continued his explanations.

  ‘They’ll stay there where it’s cool till dinner time. It’s the same every Tuesday… That Surin fellow is quite a success. Look at him, laughing out loud with Mademoiselle Aurélie… Oh, the assistant bishop has seen us. I say, see the look he gives me! He doesn’t like me, because I had a disagreement with one of his relatives… But wherever is Abbé Bourrette? We haven’t seen him, have we? That’s very odd. He never misses one of Monsieur Rastoil’s Tuesdays. He must be ill… You do know him. What a good man he is! God’s workhorse.’

  But Abbé Faujas was no longer listening. His eyes met those of Abbé Fenil again and again. He didn’t look away, but went on contemplating the assistant bishop with perfect sangfroid. He had settled himself more conspicuously next to the window, and his eyes seemed to have got wider.

  ‘Here come the youngsters,’ Mouret continued, seeing three young people arrive. ‘The oldest is the Rastoils’ son; he has just passed his law exams. The other two are the magistrate’s children, they are still at school… By the way, why haven’t my two scamps come in yet?’

  At that precise moment Octave and Serge appeared on the terrace. They leaned against the ramp, teasing Désirée who came to sit beside her mother. The children, seeing their father on the top floor, lowered their voices and suppressed their laughter.

  ‘All my little family,’ said Mouret with some satisfaction. ‘Our family stays at home and we don’t have people round. Our garden is a little paradise all to itself and I defy Satan to come and tempt us here.’

  He laughed as he said this, because deep down he was enjoying himself at the expense of the priest. The latter had brought his gaze slowly back to the group formed by his landlord’s family just below his window. He dwelt upon them for a minute or two and took in the old garden with its square vegetable patches surrounded by high box hedges; he looked again at Monsieur Rastoil’s pretentious garden paths; and then, as if attempting to draw up a plan of the whole terrain, he went on to consider the garden of the sub-prefecture. They had only a wide lawn in the middle, a carpet of grass rolling gently away; shrubs with leaves still clinging to them filled the beds; tall chestnuts with dense foliage made this patch of land squashed in between its neighbours more park than garden.

  But Abbé Faujas was ostentatiously staring down under the chestnut trees. He murmured, after a slight hesitation:

  ‘These gardens are very lively… There are folk in the one on the left too.’

  Mouret raised his eyes.

  ‘As there are every afternoon,’ he said calmly. ‘They’re friends of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect… In the summer they get together in the evenings as well, around the pond that is out of sight on the left… Oh, Monsieur de Condamin is back. That handsome elderly man, young-looking, with a good complexion. He’s our forestry commissioner, a fellow you always meet astride a horse, wearing gloves and tight jodphurs. And he’s a born liar! He’s not from these parts. He recently married a very young woman… Ah well, it’s no concern of mine, I’m glad to say.’

  He lowered his head again hearing Désirée, who was playing with Serge, laugh her girlish laugh. But the priest, reddening slightly, drew his attention back to the garden, asking:

  ‘Is that the sub-prefect, the stout man in the white tie?’

  This question tickled Mouret enormously.

  ‘Oh no,’ he answered with a laugh. ‘I can see you don’t know Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies. He’s not quite forty. He is tall, handsome, very distinguished-looking. The stout man is Doctor Porquier, the doctor who looks after Plassans society. A happy man, I can tell you. The only worry he has is his son, Guillaume… Now you see the two people sitting on the bench, with their backs to us? That’s Monsieur Paloque, the magistrate, and his wife. The ugliest married couple hereabouts. Nobody can tell which one is uglier, the wife or the husband. Lucky they don’t have any children.’

  And Mouret began to laugh more loudly. He worked himself up, gesticulating and thumping on the windowsill.

  ‘No,’ he went on, nodding first at the Rastoils’ garden and then at the garden of the sub-prefecture, ‘just to look at those two does me a power of good… Politics is not your business, my dear abbé, or you would find it very amusing… Just imagine that, rightly or wrongly, I am held to be a Republican. Because of my job I travel quite a bit in the countryside; the farmers are my friends; I was even spoken of as a future regional councillor; in short, my name is well-known… Well, on my right, I have at the Rastoils’ the flower of the Legitimists, and on my left, at the sub-prefect’s, the bigwigs of the Empire.* What do you say to that? Rather amusing, isn’t it? My poor old garden that’s so quiet, my little corner of paradise between these two enemy camps. I’m always afraid they might throw stones at each other over my walls… Their stones could land in my garden, you realize.’

  Mouret found this joke utterly delightful. He drew nearer to the priest, with the air of an old gossip about to embark on a lengthy tale.

  ‘Plassans is most odd, from a political point of view. The coup d’état succeeded here because the town is conservative. But above all else, it is Legitimist, and Orléanist, so much so that the very next day after the Empire was declared, it tried to dictate its conditions. As nobody listened, they got angr
y and went over to the opposing side. Yes, Sir, to the opposition. Last year we elected as our deputy the Marquis of Lagrifoul, an old nobleman of mediocre intelligence, but whose election certainly annoyed the sub-prefecture… And look, there he is, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies; he’s with the mayor, Monsieur Delangre.’

  The priest looked at him with great interest. The sub-prefect, very brown, was smiling, under his waxed moustache. He was irreproachably correct; his aura was that of a fine officer and an amiable diplomat. Next to him the mayor was explaining something, in a frenzy of gestures and words. He was small, square-shouldered, and with a ravaged face that made him look almost puppet-like. He was certainly rather garrulous.

  ‘The affair nearly made Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies ill,’ Mouret went on. ‘He believed the election of the official candidate was a fait accompli… I thought it was very funny. On the evening of the election the sub-prefecture garden was all dark and sinister, like a cemetery. Whereas at the Rastoils’ there were candles under the trees and laughter and a great noise of victory. From the street side you can’t see anything at all, but in the garden, on the other hand, they do what they like, they unwind… Well, I see some strange things, but I don’t say anything.’

  He restrained himself briefly, as though he did not want to say any more. But the burning desire to talk was too much for him.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘I wonder what they are going to do in the sub-prefecture. Their candidate will never win again. They don’t know the area, they haven’t any clout. I was assured that Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies was to be given a prefecture if the election had gone well. I don’t believe it, not for a minute! He’ll be sub-prefect for some time yet… And what will they dream up to throw the marquis out? For they will dream up something, they’ll try by one means or another to conquer Plassans.’

  He had raised his eyes to the abbé, whom he hadn’t been looking at for a while. Seeing the priest avidly listening to him with an attentive expression, and a gleam in his eyes, he was stopped in his tracks. All his bourgeois reserve was reawakened. He felt he had just said too much. So he muttered, rather crossly: