‘What wine for Monsieur?’ asked the wine-waiter.
‘The house Bordeaux.’
Lost in thought, and not at all hungry, Saccard was letting his cutlet get cold, but he looked up when a shadow fell across the table. It was Massias, a big, ruddy-faced chap, a jobber,* who when Saccard first met him had been poor and needy; he was sliding around the tables with his list of share-prices in his hand. Saccard felt sickened to see him glide past without stopping, then go on to show the list to Pillerault and Moser. Involved in their discussion, they paid no attention to him and scarcely glanced at the list. No, they had no orders for him, perhaps some other time. Massias, not daring to approach the celebrated Amadieu, who was bent over his lobster salad and talking quietly to Mazaud, went back to Salmon, who took the list and studied it at length before handing it back without a word. The dining-room was getting busier as more jobbers came in, keeping the doors constantly swinging. Shouts were being exchanged across the room, and business was growing more and more feverish as the hour advanced. Saccard, with his eyes constantly returning to look outside, could see the Place de la Bourse gradually filling up as carriages and pedestrians flowed in; on the steps of the Bourse, now dazzlingly bright in the sun, men were already appearing one by one, like so many black specks.
‘I tell you again,’ said Moser in his lugubrious voice, ‘these March by-elections are an extremely worrying sign… Indeed, it means the whole of Paris gained for the Opposition.’*
Pillerault just shrugged. Carnot and Garnier-Pagès added to the benches of the Left, what did it matter?
‘It’s like the Duchies question,’* Moser went on, ‘it’s really fraught with complications… No, really, it’s no laughing matter. I’m not saying we had to go to war with Prussia to stop it getting fat at Denmark’s expense; but there were some possibilities for action… Yes, indeed, when big fish start eating the little fish you can’t tell where it will all end* … And as for Mexico…’*
Pillerault, who was enjoying one of his days of total contentment, interrupted him with a roar of laughter:
‘Oh, no, my dear chap, don’t bother us any more with your terrors over Mexico; that will be the most glorious page in the history of the reign…* Where the devil do you get the idea that the Empire is sick? Didn’t the three hundred million loan get covered more than fifteen times over, back in January?* An overwhelming success!… Anyway, let’s talk again in ’67, yes, in three years’ time, when they’ll be opening the Universal Exhibition the Emperor has just announced.’
‘Things are really bad, I tell you,’ Moser insisted in desperation.
‘Oh, give it a rest, everything’s fine.’
Salmon looked from one to the other, smiling with his air of profundity. And Saccard, who had been listening to them, began to connect the difficulties of his own personal situation with the crisis the Empire seemed to be heading for. He had been brought down once again: and this Empire that had created him, was that too going to tumble, suddenly crumbling from the highest down to the most wretched of destinies? Ah, for twelve years now he had loved and defended this regime, feeling himself living and growing, and swelling with sap, like a tree with its roots plunged deep in the nourishing earth. But if his brother intended to uproot him, if he was to be cut off from those who enjoyed the fruits of that rich soil, then let it all be swept away in the final grand debacle that marks the end of nights of festivity.
Now he was just waiting for his asparagus, quite detached from this room with its ever-increasing bustle, lost in his memories. In a big mirror on the opposite wall he had just seen his reflection, and it had surprised him. Age didn’t seem to have made any impression on his slight figure; at fifty he looked no more than thirty-eight, still as slim and lively as any young man. Indeed, with the years his dark and hollowed marionette face, with its pointed nose and narrow, gleaming eyes, seemed to have taken on the charm of this persistent youthfulness, so supple, so active, his hair still thick, with no trace of grey. And inevitably he recalled his arrival in Paris, immediately after the coup d’état,* that winter evening when he had found himself out on the street, with empty pockets, ravenously hungry, and tormented by all sorts of raging appetites. Oh! that first race through the streets when, even before unpacking his trunk, he had had to launch himself upon the city, in his worn-out boots and greasy overcoat, eager to conquer it! Since that evening he had risen in the world many times, and a river of millions of francs had flowed through his hands, but he had never been able to make fortune his slave, like a personal possession, at his disposal, alive, real, and kept under lock and key. His coffers had always been full of lies and fictions, with mysterious holes that seemed to drain away their gold. And now here he was back on the street again, just as he started out long ago, just as young, just as hungry, never satisfied, and still tortured by the same need for pleasures and conquests. He had tasted everything without ever satisfying his appetite, never, he thought, having had the time and opportunity to bite deeply enough into people and things. Now he felt quite wretched, a good deal worse off than a mere beginner, who would have hope and illusion to sustain him. He was seized by a frenzied desire to start all over again, to conquer once more, to rise even higher than before and at last plant his foot firmly on the conquered city. No longer with the façade of mendacious wealth but the solid edifice of fortune, the true royalty of gold, reigning over well-filled bags of wealth.
Then the voice of Moser was heard once more, harsh and very sharp, drawing Saccard out of his reflections.
‘The Mexico expedition is costing fourteen million a month, that’s been proved by Thiers*… and you’d have to be blind not to see that the majority in the Chamber has been shaken. There are more than thirty now on the Left. The Emperor himself has seen that absolute power has become impossible, since he now presents himself as the champion of liberty.’*
Pillerault had ceased to respond, now just sneering contemptuously.
‘Yes, I know, the market seems solid enough to you, and business is good. But wait for the end… You’ll see there’s been altogether too much demolition and rebuilding in Paris! These great public works have exhausted our savings. As for the powerful financial houses that seem so prosperous, just wait until one of them goes down and you’ll see them all collapsing one after another… Not to mention the fact that the people are restive. This International Workingmen’s Association* which has just been founded to improve conditions for the workers, that really frightens me. There’s a protest movement, a revolutionary movement here in France, and it’s growing stronger every day… I tell you, the worm is in the fruit. Everything is going to go bust.’
This provoked a roar of protest. That blasted Moser was decidedly liverish. But even while he spoke, Moser’s eyes never left the table at which Mazaud and Amadieu, in spite of all the noise, were still talking quietly. Gradually the whole room began to be concerned about this very long, confidential chat. What could they have to say that needed all that whispering? Amadieu, no doubt, must be placing orders, preparing some financial coup. Over the last three days disturbing rumours had been circulating about the Suez project.* Moser narrowed his eyes, and he too lowered his voice to say:
‘You know, the English want to stop all the work there. There could well be war.’
This time Pillerault was shaken by the very enormity of this piece of news. It was incredible, and immediately the word flew from table to table, acquiring the force of certainty: England had sent an ultimatum demanding the immediate cessation of work. That must obviously have been what Amadieu was talking to Mazaud about, giving him the order to sell all his Suez holdings. A buzz of panic arose in the air, among the rich smells and the increasing clatter of dishes. And at that moment what raised the excitement to a peak was the sudden entry of one of the stockbroker’s clerks, little Flory, a lad with a gentle face almost swallowed whole by a thick brown beard. He rushed forward with a packet of order-cards in his hand, and handed them to his boss, whispering in his
ear.
‘Good,’ was Mazaud’s only answer, as he tucked the cards away in his order-book. Then, drawing out his watch:
‘Nearly midday! Tell Berthier to wait for me. Be there yourself too, and go and pick up the telegrams.’
When Flory had gone, Mazaud resumed his conversation with Amadieu, took out some other cards from his pocket, and laid them on the table beside his plate; and every minute some departing customer would lean over as he went by and say something, which he promptly noted, between mouthfuls, on one of the pieces of paper. The false news from who knows where, arising out of nothing, was growing ever bigger, like a gathering storm-cloud.
‘You’re selling, aren’t you?’ Moser asked Salmon.
But the silent smile of the latter was so sharp with perspicacity that it left him anxious, worried now about this English ultimatum, not realizing that he had invented it himself.
‘Personally, I’ll buy whatever’s on offer,’ said Pillerault in conclusion, with the vainglorious temerity of a gambler with no system.
Saccard, his brow heated by the fever of speculation provoked by this noisy ending to lunch in the narrow dining-room, decided to eat his asparagus, irritated anew by Huret, whom he had now given up. For weeks now he, who was usually so quick to make decisions, had grown hesitant, troubled by uncertainties. He felt an imperative need for change, to start afresh, and his first idea had been of an entirely new life in the upper reaches of administration, or else in politics. Why shouldn’t a position in the Legislative Assembly lead him on to the Council of Ministers, as it had his brother? What he didn’t like about speculation was the constant instability, the huge sums lost as fast as they were gained: he had never been able to sleep on a real million, owing nothing to anyone. And now, as he took stock of things, he decided he was perhaps too passionate a person for this financial battle, which needed such a cool head. That must be why, after such an extraordinary life of both luxury and poverty, he had emerged empty-handed and burnt-out from those ten years of amazing land-deals in the new Paris, while others, less astute than he, had garnered colossal fortunes. Yes, perhaps he had been quite wrong about where his real talents lay; perhaps, with his energy and ardent convictions, he would triumph in one bound in the political fray. Everything would depend on his brother’s response. If he pushed him away, threw him back into the abyss of speculation, well, it would be just too bad, for him and for others; he would take his chances on the big plan he hadn’t mentioned to anyone, the enormous project he had dreamed of for weeks and which alarmed even himself, so vast was it and capable, if it succeeded or if it failed, of setting the world astir.
Pillerault raised his voice once more—
‘Mazaud, is the Schlosser business settled?’
‘Yes,’ replied the broker, ‘the notice will go up today… That’s how it is… it’s always unpleasant, but I’d had the most disturbing reports, and I was the first to make demand.* Now and again you just have to clear the ground.’
‘I’ve been told’, said Moser, ‘that your colleagues, Jacoby and Delarocque, had some considerable sums invested.’
The broker made a vague gesture.
‘Bah, there have to be some losses… That Schlosser must have been part of a group; and all he’ll have to do is go off to Berlin or Vienna and start plundering the Stock Exchange there.’
Saccard’s gaze had fallen upon Sabatani, of whose secret association with Schlosser he had happened to learn: the two men played the well-known game, one bidding up and the other bidding down for the same stock; the loser would simply share the profit of the other and disappear. But the young man was quietly paying the bill for the meal he had just eaten. Then, with the typical caressing grace of the Oriental mixed with Italian, he went over to shake hands with Mazaud, whose client he was. He leaned over, and placed an order that Mazaud wrote on a card.
‘He’s selling his Suez holdings,’ murmured Moser.
Then, giving way to his need to know, sick with doubt as he was:
‘So, what do you think about Suez?’
Silence fell on the hubbub of voices, and at the neighbouring tables every head turned round. The question summed up the increasing anxiety. But the back view of Amadieu, who had invited Mazaud to lunch simply to recommend one of his nephews to him, remained impenetrable, having indeed nothing to say. The stockbroker, on the other hand, increasingly astonished by the number of orders to sell he was getting, simply nodded, with his customary professional discretion.
‘Suez is good!’ declared Sabatani in his sing-song voice, making a detour to come over and very courteously shake Saccard’s hand before he left.
The sensation of that handshake, so soft and supple, almost feminine, lingered for a moment with Saccard. In his uncertainty about the road he should take and how to rebuild his life, he decided they were all scoundrels, every man there. Ah, if he were forced to it, how he would hunt them down, how he’d fleece them all, the trembling Mosers, the boastful Pilleraults, the Salmons hollower than a drum, and people like Amadieu, seen as a genius on the strength of one success! The clatter of plates and glasses had resumed, voices were getting hoarse, the doors banged ever louder in the raging hurry to get to the market in case Suez should indeed be about to crash. Looking out of the window onto the middle of the square, lined by carriages and crammed with pedestrians, Saccard could see the sunlit steps of the Bourse, speckled now with the continual surge of human insects, men smartly dressed in black gradually filling the colonnade, while behind the railings a few women appeared, prowling around beneath the chestnut trees.
Suddenly, as he was about to start on the cheese he’d just ordered, a loud voice made him look up.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear chap, I really was unable to get here any sooner.’
It was Huret at last, a Norman from Calvados with the thick, broad face of a wily peasant, but who affected to be a simple man. He immediately ordered something, whatever was available, the dish of the day, with a vegetable.
‘Well…?’ said Saccard curtly, trying to contain his annoyance.
But the other was in no hurry, looking at him with the air of a man both crafty and cautious. Then, starting to eat, he leaned towards him, lowering his voice:
‘Well, I saw the great man… Yes, at his home, this morning… Oh, he was very kind, very well-disposed towards you…’
He paused, drank a large glass of wine, and popped a potato into his mouth.
‘So…?’
‘So, my dear chap, this is how it is… He’s very willing to do all he can for you, he’ll find you a very good position, but not in France… For instance, the governorship of one of our colonies, one of the better ones. You’d be the master there, a real little prince.’
Saccard had turned pale.
‘Come now, you can’t be serious, this is a joke!… Why not just deport me straight off!… Oh yes, he wants to be rid of me. He’d better be careful or I might end up seriously embarrassing him.’
Huret sat there with his mouth full, looking conciliatory.
‘Come, come now, we only want what’s best for you, just let us get on with it.’
‘And allow myself to be wiped out, eh?… Well, just a little while back they were saying here that the Empire soon wouldn’t have any more mistakes left to make. Yes, after the Italian war, and Mexico, and the attitude to Prussia. My word, it’s the truth… You’ll do so many stupid and crazy things that the whole of France will rise up to kick you out.’
With that the Deputy, faithful servant of his minister, turned pale and looked about him anxiously.
‘Ah, please, allow me to say… I can’t go along with you there… Rougon is an honest man, there is no danger of that, so long as he is there… No, don’t say another word, you misjudge him, I must insist.’
Saccard interrupted him violently, controlling his voice between clenched teeth:
‘So be it, go on loving him, carry on cooking up plans with him… Yes or no, will he give me his support in P
aris?’
‘In Paris, never!’
Without another word Saccard stood up and called the waiter over to pay the bill, while Huret, accustomed to his fits of rage, very calmly went on swallowing big mouthfuls of bread and let him go, for fear of a scene. But just then there was a great commotion in the room.
Gundermann had just come in, the banker-king, master of the Bourse and the world, a man of sixty, whose huge bald head, thick nose, and round, protruding eyes seemed to express immense obstinacy and weariness. He never went to the Bourse, even affecting not to send any official representative; nor did he ever eat in a public place. Only once in a while he would happen, as on this day, to enter Champeaux’s restaurant and sit at one of the tables, to order just a glass of Vichy water, on a plate. For the last twenty years he had suffered from a gastric complaint, and the only food he took was milk.
The restaurant staff were immediately in a flurry to bring the glass of water, and all the diners kept their heads down. Moser, looking quite overwhelmed, gazed at this man who knew all the secrets and made the market go up or down as he pleased, the way God controls the thunder. Pillerault, having faith only in the irresistible force of a billion francs, greeted him. It was half-past twelve, and Mazaud, swiftly abandoning Amadieu, came back and bowed to the banker, who occasionally did him the honour of placing an order. Many of the brokers who were just leaving stopped and stood around the god, paying court with their spines respectfully inclined, in the midst of the clutter of messy tables; and watched with veneration as he took the glass of water and raised it with trembling hands to his colourless lips.