by Emile Zola
Abbé Faujas remained thoughtful.
‘Are you saying these dreadful tales have been put about by Abbé Fenil?’ he asked.
‘Oh, he’s too sly to put himself in the firing line like that; he will have whispered these things in the ears of his penitents. I don’t know what he knows about you, but he’s afraid of you, that’s for certain. He will fight you with all the weapons at his disposal… The worst thing is that he hears confession from all the upper classes in the town. He’s the one who had the Marquis of Lagrifoul appointed.’
‘I should not have come to this soirée,’ the priest let slip.
Félicité pursed her lips. She went on animatedly:
‘You were wrong to allow yourself to be compromised with a man such as Condamin. I invited you with the best intentions. When that person you know about wrote to me from Paris, I thought I could be useful to you by inviting you here. I imagined that you would be able to make friends. It was a first step in that direction. But instead of trying to please, you have made everyone angry… Now forgive my frankness, but I think you are turning your back on success. All you have done is make mistakes, by going to stay at my son-in-law’s, by barricading yourself up in your lodgings, by wearing a soutane that has all the street urchins making fun of you.’
Abbé Faujas could not help a gesture of impatience. But he contented himself with saying:
‘I will take your good advice. Only do not try to help me, it would spoil everything.’
‘Yes, that’s a wise tactic,’ said the old lady. ‘Come back to my salon only when you have won the battle… One last word, my dear sir. That person in Paris is very keen to see you succeed and that is why I take an interest in you. Well, be advised by me and do not go around frightening everybody; be friendly, charming to women. Remember this: be charming to women if you want Plassans to be yours.’
The elder of the two Rastoil girls was coming to the end of her song, the last notes falling flat. There was discreet clapping. Madame Rougon had left Abbé Faujas, to go over and congratulate the singer. She then stayed in the middle of the salon, extending her hand to her guests who were beginning to leave. It was eleven o’clock. The priest was very annoyed to see that the worthy Bourrette had taken advantage of the music to slip away. He was hoping to leave with him, for that would have allowed him to depart in a respectable fashion. Now if he left alone, the disgrace would be total; the next day they would say in the town that he had been thrown out. He escaped into the window recess again, to spy out an opportunity, and find a way to beat an honourable retreat.
Meanwhile the salon was emptying, only a few ladies remained. Then he noticed a woman dressed very simply. It was Madame Mouret, looking younger with her hair parted in the middle and swept gently back. Her calm face with its two great dark eyes which seemed to be slumbering, surprised him. He had not seen her all evening. No doubt she had remained in her corner, not moving, frustrated at the waste of time, her unoccupied hands in her lap. As he was studying her she got up to take leave of her mother.
Félicité was enjoying one of her keenest pleasures, seeing the elite of Plassans take their leave, bowing and curtseying, thanking her for the punch, for her green drawing room, for the pleasant time they had just had in her house. And she thought how in the old days they had trampled all over her, to use her crude expression, whereas now the richest of them could not smile tenderly enough upon their dear Madame Rougon.
‘Oh, Madame,’ murmured Maffre, the judge, ‘in your house one forgets the passage of time.’
‘You are the only true hostess in this wilderness,’ sighed pretty Madame de Condamin.
‘We’ll expect you for dinner tomorrow,’ said Monsieur Delangre; ‘but you must take us as you find us, we don’t entertain in your style.’
Marthe had to pass through all this acclaim to get near to her mother. She kissed her and was leaving, when Félicité held her back, looking around for someone. Then, seeing Abbé Faujas, she said with a laugh:
‘Monsieur l’Abbé, are you a gentleman?’
The priest bowed.
‘Then be so kind as to accompany my daughter, since you live in the same house. You will not have to go out of your way, and there is a bit of the road which is dark and really not very safe.’
Marthe protested in her tranquil fashion that she was not a little girl and wasn’t afraid. But her mother insisted and said she would be happier that way, so she accepted the attentions of the priest. And as he was leaving with her, Félicité, who had accompanied them to the landing, said again in the priest’s ear, with a smile:
‘Remember what I said: be charming to the women if you want Plassans to be yours.’
CHAPTER 7
THAT night, Mouret, who couldn’t sleep, plied Marthe with questions, wanting to know what had happened during the evening. She replied that everything had gone as usual; she had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. She simply added that Abbé Faujas had seen her home, and chatted to her about unimportant matters. Mouret was very cross about what he called his wife’s ‘apathy’.
‘There could be murder committed at your mother’s,’ he said, burrowing furiously into the pillow; ‘you certainly wouldn’t be the one to bring me the news.’
The next day, coming home for dinner, he shouted to Marthe as soon as he spied her in the distance:
‘I knew it! You have eyes and no eyes, my dear… Oh, I know you! Staying the whole evening in a salon without even suspecting what is being said and done around you!… But the whole town is talking about it, do you hear? I couldn’t move without meeting someone who spoke of it.’
‘About what, my dear?’ asked Marthe in surprise.
‘About the fantastic success of the Abbé Faujas, for goodness’ sake! He was thrown out of the green drawing room.’
‘No he wasn’t, I assure you. I didn’t see anything of the sort.’
‘Well, as I said, you don’t notice a thing!… Do you know what he did in Besançon, this priest? He strangled a priest or committed some forgery. No one knows for certain… No matter, he seems to have got into a terrible mess. He was livid. He’s finished.’
Marthe had lowered her head, letting her husband triumph over the priest’s misfortune. Mouret was delighted.
‘I shall keep to what I thought first,’ he continued; ‘your mother must be in league with him. They told me she had been very friendly towards him. She’s the one who asked the priest to see you home, isn’t she? Why didn’t you tell me that?’
She shrugged slightly, and didn’t reply.
‘You are astonishing, you really are!’ he cried. ‘All those details are extremely important… So, Madame Paloque, whom I have just met, told me that she stayed behind with several ladies to see how Faujas took his leave of her. Your mother made use of you to protect our holy friend’s departure, don’t you understand that?… Come now, try to remember. What did he say to you as he brought you back?’
He had sat down facing his wife, and, his small eyes fixed on her, he interrogated her keenly.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she answered patiently, ‘he talked of trivial things, things that anyone says… He spoke of the cold, which was harsh, of how quiet the town was at night; then, I think, about the pleasant evening he had just spent.’
‘Oh, the hypocrite!…* And did he not ask about your mother and the people she entertains?’
‘No. Anyway, it’s not very far between the Rue de la Banne and here. It’s scarcely three minutes. He walked beside me and didn’t offer me his arm. He strode along so fast that I was almost obliged to run… I don’t know why people have got their knives into him. He doesn’t seem happy. He was shivering, poor man, in his old soutane.’
Mouret was not a bad man.
‘It’s true,’ he muttered, ‘he can’t be very warm in this icy weather.’
‘And besides,’ Marthe went on, ‘we haven’t got anything to complain of: he pays on the dot, he doesn’t make a noise… Where would you find another
such lodger?’
‘Nowhere, I know… What I was saying about him just now was to point out how little attention you pay when you go out somewhere. Anyway I know the clique your mother entertains too well, to be surprised by what comes out of the famous green salon. Nothing but tittle-tattle, fabricated stories, stirring things up. I’m sure our priest hasn’t strangled anybody, any more than he has gone bankrupt… I was saying to Madame Paloque: “People in glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones.” And too bad if she took that personally.’
Mouret was telling fibs, for he had not said any such thing to Madame Paloque. But Marthe’s sweet nature made him feel a little ashamed of the pleasure he had just shown when discussing the subject of Abbé Faujas’s misfortunes. In the days that followed he came down clearly on the side of the priest. Meeting several people for whom he harboured an intense dislike, Monsieur de Bourdeu, Monsieur Delangre, Doctor Porquier, he praised Abbé Faujas to the skies, just to contradict and shock them. In Mouret’s opinion he was a quite remarkable man, of great courage, of a great simplicity in his poverty. There must be some spiteful tongues about. And he slipped in allusions to the people the Rougons entertained, a gang of hypocrites, tell-tales, self-regarding idiots, who feared to look upon the shining face of true virtue. After some time he had made the priest’s quarrel entirely his own. He used it to attack the society at the Rastoils and that of the sub-prefecture.
‘How lamentable!’ he said occasionally to his wife, forgetting that Marthe had heard different words issue from his mouth, ‘to see people who have thieved a fortune from who knows where so set against a poor man who doesn’t even have twenty francs to buy a cartload of wood!… No, you see, these things revolt me. The devil knows I can vouch for him. I know what he does, what kind of man he is, because he lives in my house. So I speak my mind, I treat them like they deserve, when I come across them… And I shan’t stop at that. I want the priest to become my friend. I want to go for a walk with him, on the Cours, to show that I’m not afraid to be seen with him, even though I’m well off and well respected… And I advise you to be very friendly to these poor people.’
Marthe smiled discreetly. She was relieved her husband was kindly disposed towards his lodgers. Rose had orders to be nice to them. On rainy mornings she was allowed to offer to go shopping for Madame Faujas, but the latter always refused the cook’s help. Yet she did not have the silent stand-offish attitude of the early days. One morning having met Marthe who was coming down from the attic where they stored fruit, she stopped for a quick chat, and went so far as to accept the gift of two superb pears. It was the two pears that became the occasion of a closer relationship.
Abbé Faujas for his part no longer made such a rapid exit from the house these days. The swish of his soutane on the steps alerted Mouret who, almost every day now, was to be found at the bottom of the stairs happy to go a little way with him, as he had said. He had thanked him for the small service he had performed for his wife, and at the same time questioned him in a roundabout way to find out if he was going to go back to the Rougons. The priest began to smile. He candidly admitted that he wasn’t a man for parties. Mouret was won over, believing himself in part responsible for his lodger’s decision. Then he had the idea of removing him entirely from the green salon, and keeping him just for himself. So the evening Marthe told him Madame Faujas had accepted the two pears, he saw a fortunate state of affairs that would make it easier to carry out his plan.
‘Do they really not light a fire on the second floor in this cold weather?’ he asked in Rose’s presence.
‘Upon my word, Monsieur,’ responded the cook, who understood the question was really addressed to her, ‘that would be hard, for I’ve never seen a stick of wood go up there. Unless they burn the four chairs or Madame Faujas takes it up in her basket!’
‘You are wrong to laugh, Rose,’ said Marthe. ‘The poor people must be shivering up there in those huge rooms.’
‘I can well believe it,’ Mouret went on. ‘It was minus ten last night and they fear for the olive trees. Our jug of water froze in the bedroom… Down here it’s a small room; you warm up quickly.’
It was true, the dining room was thoroughly provided with draught-excluders so that not a breath of air escaped through the gaps in the wood. A large tiled stove maintained it constantly at the temperature of a hot bath. In the winter the children read or played at the table, while Mouret made his wife play a game of piquet, a real torture for her, before bedtime. For a long time she had refused to touch cards, saying she didn’t know how to play. But he had taught her to play piquet and from then on she had resigned herself to it.
‘What do you think,’ he continued, ‘shall we ask the Faujas to come and spend the evening with us? That way they’ll be warm for at least two or three hours. And it’ll be nice company for us, we shan’t get so bored… You invite them; they won’t dare say no.’
The next day when she met Madame Faujas in the hall, Marthe issued the invitation. The old lady accepted immediately for herself and her son without the slightest embarrassment.
‘I’m surprised she didn’t pull a face,’ said Mouret. ‘I thought they would need to be asked twice. The priest is beginning to realize that he’s wrong to live like a savage.’
In the evening Mouret wanted the table cleared promptly. He had got out a bottle of port and sent for a plate of patisseries. Although he wasn’t extravagant, he was keen to show that it wasn’t only the Rougons who knew how to do these things. The people on the second floor came down about eight o’clock. Abbé Faujas was wearing a new soutane. That surprised Mouret so much that he could only stammer out a few words in response to the compliments of the priest.
‘Really, Monsieur l’Abbé, the honour is all ours… Come children, draw up some chairs.’
They sat around the table. It was too hot, since Mouret had filled up the stove until it was overloaded, to prove that one log more or less was of no importance to him. Abbé Faujas was most charming. He put his arms round Désirée and questioned the two boys about their studies. Marthe, knitting stockings, raised her eyes now and again, surprised to hear the mellifluous tones of his strange voice that she was not used to hearing in the oppressive calm of the dining room. She took a good look at the priest’s powerful face with its square features. Then she lowered her eyes once more, without attempting to conceal the interest she was taking in this man who was strong yet tender, and whom she knew to be very poor. Mouret, in his clumsy fashion, stared at the priest’s new robe. He could not help saying with a sly laugh:
‘You didn’t need to dress up to come down here, Monsieur l’Abbé. We don’t stand on ceremony, you know.’
Marthe blushed. But the priest told them cheerily that he had bought the soutane that very day. He kept it on to please his mother who thought he looked finer than a king, dressed like that in his new clothes.
‘Is that not so, Mother?’
Madame Faujas nodded, without taking her eyes off the priest. She was sitting opposite him, gazing at him in the harsh light of the lamp, as though in ecstasy.
Then they chatted about all manner of things. Abbé Faujas seemed to have lost his gloomy reserve. He was still as serious, but the seriousness was obliging, full of goodwill. He listened to Mouret, answering him on the most insignificant of subjects, seeming to find his gossip interesting. Mouret had got round to explaining how he lived:
‘So,’ he finished, ‘we spend the evenings as you see. Never anything more than this. We don’t invite anyone because it’s always better on your own with the family. Each evening I play piquet with my wife. It’s an old habit; I should find it hard to go to sleep otherwise.’
‘But we don’t wish to disturb you,’ cried Abbé Faujas. ‘Please don’t forgo your game on our account.’
‘No no, good heavens, I’m not a maniac! It won’t kill me for once…’
The priest insisted. Seeing that Marthe was even less willing to be persuaded than her husband, he turned to his mother who
had remained silent, her two hands crossed on her lap.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘why not have a game of piquet with Monsieur Mouret?’
She looked hard at him. Mouret protested more and more, refusing, declaring he didn’t want to spoil the evening; but when the priest told him that his mother was an excellent player, he weakened and muttered:
‘Really… well, if Madame insists and nobody minds…’
‘Have a game, Mother,’ repeated Abbé Faujas more plainly.
‘All right then,’ she replied at last, ‘I shall be delighted… Only I’ll have to change seats.’
‘Goodness, that’s not difficult,’ said the delighted Mouret. ‘You change places with your son… Monsieur l’Abbé, be so kind as to sit next to my wife… Madame will sit there next to me… Do you see, that’s perfect now.’
The priest, who had first been sitting opposite Marthe on the other side of the table, found himself suddenly right next to her. They were even somewhat isolated at one end, the card players having drawn up their chairs to begin their battle. Octave and Serge had just gone to bed. Désirée had as usual fallen asleep at the table. When ten o’clock struck, Mouret, who had lost the first game, was not in the least anxious to go to bed. He was demanding a return match. Madame Faujas looked at her son enquiringly. Then, coolly, she began to shuffle the cards. In the meantime the priest had exchanged hardly a word with Marthe. That first evening they talked about indifferent matters, about the household, the price of food in Plassans, the worry of children. Marthe replied readily, raising her limpid eyes from time to time, imparting a little of her calm good sense to the conversation.
It was almost eleven when Mouret threw down his cards in some vexation.
‘There, I’ve lost again,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have a decent card all evening. Tomorrow I’ll have more luck perhaps… Till tomorrow, I hope, Madame?’