by Emile Zola
Left by herself on the bench, Marcelle sank into a melancholy reverie, she who was usually so cheerful and stalwart. Lord! How dark it was, and how dismal! And her poor husband pacing the streets in this torrential rain! He had such contempt for money, was so uncomfortable at the mere idea of concerning himself with it, that it cost him a huge effort to ask for money even from those who owed it to him. Lost in thought, and deaf to everything, she began to relive her day since waking, this bad day; whilst the feverish work of the newspaper went on all around her, the rushing about of reporters, the hustle and bustle of news items coming in, doors slamming and bells ringing.
First of all, at nine o’clock, when Jordan had just left to cover an investigation into an accident, Marcelle, who had barely had time to wash and was still in her chemise, was amazed to see Busch descending on them along with two very dirty-looking men, perhaps bailiffs, or else bandits, she hadn’t been able to decide. That abominable Busch, no doubt taking advantage of the fact that there was only a woman there, declared that they were going to seize everything, if she didn’t pay up immediately. She had argued in vain, having no knowledge of any of the legal formalities; he maintained with such vigour that the judgement had been notified, and the notice displayed, that she ended up quite distraught, believing these things might be possible without one’s knowing about them. But she did not give up, explaining that her husband would not even be back for lunch and that she would not allow them to touch anything until he was there. There then ensued the most painful of scenes between these three undesirable persons and the not fully dressed young woman, with her hair down on her shoulders, the men already making an inventory of everything, and she closing the cupboards, and throwing herself in front of the door, to try to stop them taking anything out. Her poor little lodging that she was so proud of, her few bits of furniture that she had polished until they shone, and the Turkish bedroom curtain she had put up herself! She kept shouting, with fierce courage, that they would have to walk over her dead body; and she yelled out that Busch was a scoundrel and a thief, yes, a thief who had no shame even about demanding seven hundred and thirty francs and fifteen centimes, not to mention new costs, for a debt of three hundred francs, a debt bought for a hundred sous as part of a heap of rags and old iron! To think that they had already paid four hundred francs in instalments, and that this thief now spoke of carrying off their furniture as payment for the three hundred or so francs he still wanted to steal from them! And he knew perfectly well that they were honest people who would have paid him straight away if only they had the money. And he was taking advantage of her being on her own, to frighten her and reduce her to tears, unable to answer back, ignorant of legal procedure as she was. You scoundrel! You thief! You thief! Busch, now furious, shouted even more loudly than she did, fiercely beating his breast: Wasn’t he an honest man? Hadn’t he paid for the debt with good money? He had the law on his side and meant to see the thing through. However, when one of the two very dirty-looking men began opening the cupboard drawers in search of linen, Marcelle took on such a terrible air, threatening to rouse the whole house, and the street, that the Jew calmed down a bit. At last, after another half-hour of sordid argument, he had agreed to wait until the next day, swearing angrily that he would then take everything, if she did not keep her word. Oh, what a burning shame she still felt, to have had those horrible men in their home, wounding all her tender feelings, all her modesty, as they rummaged about even in her bed, making such a stink in that happy bedroom that she had to leave the window wide open after they’d gone!
But another even greater grief lay in wait for Marcelle that day. She had thought of running straight away to her parents to borrow the money, so that when her husband returned in the evening, she could save him from despair, and be able to make him laugh at the events of that morning. She could already see herself describing the great battle, the ferocious assault upon their household, and the heroic way in which she had repulsed the attack. Her heart was beating fast as she entered the little house in the Rue Legendre, that comfortable house in which she had grown up, but where she thought she would now find only strangers, so different and so icy was the atmosphere. As her parents were just sitting down to eat, she had accepted their invitation to join them, to try to make them more friendly. Throughout the meal, the conversation remained stuck on the rise of the Universals, their price having gone up twenty francs just the day before; and she was astonished to find her mother more feverish, more grasping even than her father, though she, at the start, had quivered with fear at the very thought of speculation; but now, with the ferocity of a woman converted, it was she who, desperately eager for a great stroke of luck, chided him for his timidity. From the very first course, she had lost her temper, amazed that he was talking of selling their seventy-five shares at the unhoped-for price of two thousand five hundred and twenty francs, which would have made them a handsome profit of a hundred and eighty-nine thousand francs, more than a hundred thousand francs above the purchase price. Sell! When La Cote financière was promising a price of three thousand francs! Was he going mad? For after all, La Cote financière was long known for its honesty, and he himself had often said that if you followed that paper, you had nothing to worry about! Ah, no! Absolutely not, she was not going to let him sell! She would rather sell their house to buy more shares! And Marcelle, silent, felt a pang at the heart on hearing all these huge sums flying about with such passion, and wondered how she was going to dare to ask for a loan of five hundred francs in this house taken over by gambling, this house in which she had seen the steadily rising flood of financial newspapers which were now drowning it in the intoxicating dreams of their advertisements. At last, when the time came for dessert, she had risked it: they needed five hundred francs, or they were going to be sold up, surely her parents could not abandon them in this disaster. Her father had at once bowed his head, with an embarrassed glance at his wife. But her mother was already firmly refusing. Five hundred francs! Where were they expected to find them? All their capital was tied up in their dealings; and besides, she returned to her old diatribes: when you married a pauper, a man who wrote books, you had to accept the consequences of your folly, not try to fall back as a burden on your family. No! She didn’t have a sou to offer idlers who affect a fine contempt for money, dreaming only of devouring that of other people. And she had allowed her daughter to leave in despair, with a heart bleeding from finding her mother unrecognizable, that mother who had once been so sensible and kind.
Once out in the street Marcelle had walked along like one unaware of her surroundings, looking at the ground as if she might find money there. Then she had suddenly thought she might appeal to Uncle Chave, and immediately called in at the ground-floor apartment in the Rue Nollet, before the opening of the Bourse, so as not to miss him. She could hear some whisperings and some girlish laughter. However, once the door was opened, she had found the captain alone, smoking his pipe, and he was terribly sorry, even angry with himself, as he exclaimed that he never had a hundred francs to hand, since he always, day by day used up, pig that he was, the little that he won on the Bourse. Then, after hearing of the refusal of the Maugendres, he thundered against them, the wretched scoundrels, he didn’t even see them any more, now the rise of their shares had driven them mad. Just the other week, hadn’t his sister called him a penny-pincher, ridiculing his caution as a speculator just because, in a friendly spirit, he had been advising her to sell? That was one person he wouldn’t be weeping over, when she came a cropper!
Marcelle, out in the street once more with empty hands, had to resign herself to going to the newspaper office to tell her husband what had happened that morning. Busch absolutely had to be paid. Jordan, whose book had not yet been accepted by any publisher, had at once launched himself into a hunt for money, all through the muddy Paris of that rainy day, with no idea of where to seek help—from friends, the newspapers for which he wrote, or from some chance meeting. Although he had begged her to go bac
k home, Marcelle was so anxious that she had preferred to stay there on that bench and wait for him.
After his daughter had gone, Dejoie, seeing Marcelle by herself, brought her a paper.
‘Perhaps Madame would care to read this, to pass the time.’
But she refused with a wave, and as Saccard was just arriving, put on a brave face and gaily explained that she had just sent her husband off on an errand in the neighbourhood, a tiresome errand she had unloaded on him. Saccard, who had kindly feelings for this ‘little household’, as he called them, absolutely insisted that she come into his office to wait more comfortably. Marcelle refused, saying she was fine where she was. He ceased to insist when, to his surprise, he found himself suddenly face to face with Baroness Sandorff, coming out of Jantrou’s office,. They just smiled at each other, with an air of amiable understanding, in the manner of people who greet each other formally to avoid displaying their relationship.
Jantrou, in the course of their conversation, had just told the Baroness that he no longer dared advise her. He was growing more and more perplexed at the solidity of the Universal, in spite of the efforts of the ‘bears’; Gundermann would no doubt win, but Saccard could last quite a while yet, and there might still be much to gain by staying with him. He had persuaded her to play for time and stay on good terms with both. The best plan was to try always to be amiable enough to learn the secrets of the one, either keeping them to herself and profiting by them, or else selling them to the other, according to which was more profitable. And all this without any dark plotting, presented as if in jest, while the Baroness, with a laugh, promised to cut him in on the deal.
‘So she’s forever closeted with you now, it’s your turn, is it?’ said Saccard with his usual brutality, as he went into Jantrou’s office. Jantrou affected astonishment.
‘Who do you mean?… Ah, the Baroness!… But my dear sir, she adores you. She was just saying so.’
With the gesture of a man who is nobody’s fool, the old pirate stopped him there. And he gazed at Jantrou, wrecked as he was by vile debauchery, and thought that if the Baroness had yielded to her curiosity about Sabatani’s physique she might well have also wanted a taste of the vice of this old ruin.
‘Don’t defend yourself, my dear chap. When a woman starts playing the market, she would go for the doorman round the corner, if he could bring her an order.’
Jantrou was very hurt, and merely laughed, while still insisting on explaining the presence of the Baroness, who had come, he said, about a publicity matter.
Anyway, with a shrug of his shoulders, Saccard had already dropped the subject of the woman, of no interest as far as he was concerned. Remaining standing, walking back and forth, then planting himself at the window to watch the grey rain endlessly falling, he vented his joy and agitation. Yes, the Universal had again gone up twenty francs the day before! But how the devil was it that sellers were still persisting? For the rise would have gone up to thirty francs, without a whole package of shares that had fallen on the market as soon as the Bourse opened. What he didn’t know was that Madame Caroline had again sold a thousand of her shares, herself now struggling against the unreasonable rise, as her brother had ordered her to do. Saccard could hardly complain about the ever-increasing success, and yet he was agitated that day, trembling inwardly with ill-defined fear and anger. He exclaimed that the dirty Jews had sworn to defeat him, and that scoundrel Gundermann had just placed himself at the head of a syndicate of short-sellers to bring him down. He had been told of it at the Bourse, there was talk of a sum of three hundred million, intended by the syndicate to cover the short selling. Ah, the robbers! And what he did not repeat aloud were the other rumours going around, growing clearer day by day, rumours that questioned the solidity of the Universal, and already alleged some facts, some signs of approaching difficulties; without yet, it’s true, having at all shaken the blind confidence of the public.
But the door was pushed open and Huret appeared, with his simple, straightforward air.
‘Ah! There you are, you Judas!’ said Saccard.
Having learned that Rougon was definitely going to abandon his brother, Huret had joined up again with the minister; for he was convinced that once Saccard had Rougon against him, catastrophe was inevitable. To obtain his pardon, he had re-entered the household of the great man, once more running errands for him and exposing himself in his service to insults and kicks on the backside.
‘Judas,’ Huret repeated, with the sly smile that sometimes lit up his crude peasant features, ‘well, at any rate, a good-natured Judas, who comes to give a disinterested piece of advice to the master he betrayed.’
But Saccard, as if refusing to understand, shouted, simply to confirm his trumph:
‘Eh? Two thousand five hundred and twenty yesterday, two thousand five hundred and twenty-five today.’
‘I know, I just sold.’
Immediately, the anger Saccard had been hiding beneath his jesting manner exploded.
‘What? You sold?… Ah, well, that’s it then! You leave me for Rougon, and you join up with Gundermann!’
The Deputy gazed at him in bewilderment.
‘Why with Gundermann?… I’m simply looking after my own interests! You know I’m not a reckless fellow. No, I don’t have the stomach for it, I prefer to realize as soon as there’s a nice profit. And perhaps that’s why I have never lost.’
He was smiling again, like a prudent and sensible Norman who simply, unhurriedly, gathers in his harvest.
‘One of the directors of the company!’ Saccard expostulated. ‘So who can be expected to have faith in us? What must people think, seeing you selling like that while the price is still rising? Good Lord! I’m not surprised now if people claim our prosperity is artificial and that the day of our downfall draws nigh… These gentlemen are selling, so let’s all sell! It’s a panic!’
Huret, without a word, made a vague gesture. Basically he didn’t care, he had seen to his own business. His only concern now was to carry out the mission with which Rougon had entrusted him, as decently as possible, with not too much bother for himself.
‘As I was saying, my dear chap, I came to give you a disinterested piece of advice… Here it is. Be sensible, your brother is furious, he will totally abandon you if you allow yourself to be defeated.’
Holding back his anger, Saccard didn’t move a muscle.
‘It was he who sent you to tell me that?’
After a brief hesitation, the Deputy thought it best to admit the fact.
‘Ah well, yes, it was he… Oh, don’t go thinking the attacks in L’Espérance played a part in his irritation. He is above such matters of wounded vanity. No! But truly, just think how much your newspaper’s Catholic campaign must be hampering his current policies. Ever since those unfortunate complications with Rome he has had the whole of the clergy on his back, and he has just been forced to have a bishop condemned for abuse of his position… And you choose to attack him just at the moment when he’s struggling to avoid being overwhelmed by the liberal movement arising from the 19 January reforms,* which he agreed to apply, as one might say, simply in order to keep them prudently under control… Come now, you’re his brother, do you think he’s likely to be pleased?’
‘Indeed,’ Saccard mockingly replied, ‘it’s really nasty of me… There’s that poor brother of mine who, in his rage to remain a minister, goes on governing in the name of the very principles he formerly fought against, and takes it out on me because he can no longer keep his balance between the Right, annoyed at having been betrayed, and the Third Party, hungry for power. Only a short time ago, to calm the Catholics, he uttered his famous ‘Never!’—swearing that never would France allow Italy to take Rome from the Pope. And now, in his terror of the liberals, he would like to give them a pledge too, and deigns to think of cutting my throat just to please them… Just a week or so ago Émile Ollivier gave him a real shaking in the House…’
‘Oh!’ Huret interrupted, ‘he still ha
s the confidence of the Tuileries, the Emperor has sent him a diamond medallion.’*
But with a violent gesture, Saccard responded that he was not fooled.
‘The Universal is too powerful now, isn’t it? A Catholic bank that threatens to invade the whole world and conquer it with money, just as it was previously conquered by faith, can such a thing be tolerated? All the freethinkers and all the freemasons, striving to become ministers, feel the chill of it in their bones… Perhaps there is also some loan to be fixed up with Gundermann. What would happen to a government if it didn’t allow itself to fall prey to these dirty Jews?… And so my idiot of a brother, just to hang on to power for another six months, will throw me to the dirty Jews, to the liberals, and all the rest of the scum, in the hope that they’ll give him a bit of peace while they’re devouring me… Well, go back and tell him I don’t give a damn about him…’
He straightened up his short body, rage at last bursting through his irony like a warlike blast of trumpets.
‘Get this clear, I don’t give a damn about him. That’s my answer and I want him to know it.’
Huret had dropped his shoulders. When dealings became heated he just opted out. After all, in all this he was only a messenger.
‘All right, all right! He will be told… You are going to break your neck, but that’s your affair.’
There was a silence. Jantrou, who had remained absolutely silent, pretending to be wholly absorbed in the correction of a packet of proofs, raised his eyes in admiration at Saccard. How splendid he was, the bandit, in his passion! These scoundrels of genius sometimes triumph, at this level of recklessness, when the intoxication of success carries them away. And Jantrou, at this moment, was on Saccard’s side, convinced of his good fortune.
‘Ah, I was forgetting,’ Huret began again, ‘it seems that Delcambre, the Public Prosecutor, detests you… And one thing you don’t yet know is that the Emperor this morning appointed him Minister of Justice.’