‘Rougon? I’m the one who made him what he is!’
When Madame Correur tried to restrain him, he merely asked her to bear witness. She knew! It all happened at her place, didn’t it? Hôtel Vaneau, Rue Vaneau! Surely she would never deny that he had lent Rougon his boots scores of times, to go calling on ‘posh’ folk when he was busy setting up shady deals of one sort or another, nobody knew quite what. In those days all Rougon had to his name was a single pair of down-at-heel shoes, which any rag-and-bone man would have turned his nose up at. Leaning sideways towards the next table, to draw the family party into the conversation, Gilquin cried triumphantly:
‘You see, of course she won’t deny it. In fact, she was the one who bought him the first pair of new boots he had in Paris!’
Madame Correur turned her chair away, as if to indicate that she had nothing to do with Gilquin, while the Charbonnels became deathly pale on hearing the man who was to put half a million in their pockets referred to in such terms. But Gilquin had got going, and he now related in endless detail the whole story of how Rougon had started off; he could laugh about it all now. Taking first one table, then another, into his confidence, as he smoked and spat and tippled, he told them he was quite used to man’s ingratitude, all he cared about was his self-respect. But, he kept repeating, he had made Rougon. He was travelling in perfumery at the time; but business was bad, because of the Republic. Rougon and he had rooms on the same landing. They were both starving. It was he who had hit on the idea of getting Rougon to persuade a landowner down in Plassans to send him some olive oil. They had set to work, dividing Paris between them and tramping the streets till ten at night with samples of the oil. Rougon was not much good at it, though he did sometimes bring back good orders from the nobs whose receptions he went to. What a rogue he was! As dumb as they come in many ways, but so crafty! How cleverly, later on, he had made Théodore slave away for him in his political work! At this point, winking knowingly, Gilquin lowered his voice a little. After all, he had been one of the gang. He used to do the dance halls on the outskirts of Paris, where he would shout ‘Vive la République!’ You had to be a keen republican to recruit anybody.* The Empire owed him a lot, no doubt about it. And he’d not even had so much as a thank you. While Rougon and his clique shared out the cake, he was kicked out of the door, like a mangy dog. But that suited him better. He would rather be independent. The only thing he regretted was never having gone the whole hog with those rotten republicans. They should have shot the lot of them.
‘Take that little runt Du Poizat, who pretends he doesn’t know me these days!’ he concluded. ‘Many’s the time I filled his pipe for him… Du Poizat a sub-prefect! I’ve seen him in his nightshirt with big Amélie, she’d throw him out with a good clip on the ear whenever he stepped out of line.’
He fell silent for a moment, suddenly maudlin, his eyes swimming with absinthe. Then, apostrophizing the whole gathering, he went on:
‘Well, you’ve just seen Rougon… I’m as tall as he is. I’m the same age. I’m pretty sure I look a bit less like a crook than him. Don’t you think I’d cut a finer figure in a brougham, plastered all over with gold braid, than that swine?’
At this point there was such a commotion on the Place de la Concorde that none of the customers in the café bothered to respond. The crowd surged forward again. For a moment, all that could be seen were the soles of men’s boots and the women holding their skirts up to their knees, showing their white stockings, so that they could run more easily. The commotion was coming closer, swelling into a more and more distinct sound, like a great yelping of dogs. Gilquin suddenly shouted:
‘Hey! That’ll be the brat!… Come on, Papa Charbonnel! Quick! Settle the bill! Follow me, everybody!’
In order not to get separated from him in the crowd, Madame Correur grabbed one of the tails of his yellow twill coat, while Madame Charbonnel panted after them. They nearly left Monsieur Charbonnel behind, for Gilquin now charged forward, elbowing through the crowd, opening a passage for them; he worked his way forward with such authority that the densest ranks of spectators made way for him. When he reached the embankment wall, he marshalled his little company. He heaved the ladies up so that they could sit on the wall, with their legs towards the river, an operation accompanied by lots of frightened little squeals. He and Monsieur Charbonnel took up standing positions behind them.
‘Well now, my dears,’ he said, to reassure them, ‘you’re in the front boxes. No need to be afraid, we’ll put our arms round you to make sure.’
He put his arms round the ample waist of Madame Correur, who gave him a beaming smile. It was impossible to be angry with the rascal. But they could not see anything. Over towards the square, the heads in the crowd were like lapping water, and a great wave of cheering rose up; in the distance, invisible hands were waving hats, creating a vast rippling effect over the crowd, which came ever closer. Then the houses along the Quai Napoléon, facing the square, were the first to come to life, with people leaning out of every window, elbowing one another, faces enraptured, outstretched arms pointing to something on the left, in the direction of the Rue de Rivoli. For three minutes, which seemed to last forever, the bridge remained empty. The bells of Notre-Dame, seeming to go mad with joy, rang louder and louder.
All at once, from the depths of the crowd, trumpeters appeared, and advanced onto the deserted bridge. A huge sigh swept over the multitude, and subsided. Behind the trumpeters, and the brass band that followed, came a general on horseback, with his staff. Next, after squadrons of cavalry, dragoons, and men of the guides regiment, the first decorated carriages appeared. First came eight all together, each drawn by six horses. These first carriages bore Imperial ladies-in-waiting, Court chamberlains, officers of the Emperor’s and Empress’s households, and ladies-in-waiting of the Grand Duchess of Baden, representing the godmother. Without loosening his grip on Madame Correur, Gilquin explained to her from behind that, just like the godfather, the godmother—the Queen of Sweden—had simply not bothered to put in a personal appearance. When, next, the seventh and eighth carriages passed, he named the persons in them with a familiarity that showed he was well up in Court matters. Those two ladies, he said, were Princess Mathilde and Princess Marie. Those three gentlemen were King Jérôme, Prince Napoleon,* and the Crown Prince of Sweden; with them was the Grand Duchess of Baden. The procession advanced slowly. On the carriage steps rode grooms, aides-de-camp, and principal officers, keeping the horses on a tight rein to ensure they remained at walking pace.
‘But where’s the baby?’ asked Madame Charbonnel impatiently.
‘Well, he’s not tucked under a seat!’ laughed Gilquin. ‘Just wait, he’s coming.’
He was now squeezing Madame Correur quite amorously, and she was relaxing into his arms because, she said, she was afraid of falling. Overcome with wonder, his eyes shining, he murmured:
‘You’ve got to admit, it really is rather splendid, isn’t it? They certainly do themselves proud, the devils, in all their finery… And to think I helped to make it all possible!’
He was swollen with pride; the procession, the crowds, the whole world were his. Now the brief hush caused by the first appearance of the carriages gave way to a tremendous burst of cheering; and along the embankment, too, men’s hats began to fly up over the sea of heads. Six Imperial Lancers came riding down the middle of the bridge, wearing green livery and round caps, from which dangled the gilt fringe of a large tassel. At last, drawn by eight horses, the Empress’s carriage came into sight, with four lanterns, very ornate, at its four corners; all windows, this spacious, rounded vehicle was more like a large cut-glass casket, with ornate gold framing, and mounted on gold wheels. Inside, in a cloud of white lace, could clearly be seen the Prince, a little pink blotch on the lap of the governess of the Children of France; close behind her was the wet-nurse, a comely Burgundian lass with an enormous bosom. Next, some distance behind, after a group of stable boys on foot and some grooms, came the Emperor.
His coach, too, was drawn by eight horses and was of similar grandeur. He sat with the Empress, waving to the crowd. On the steps of the two coaches rode sergeants, apparently oblivious to the dust thrown up onto the braiding of their uniforms by the carriage wheels.
‘Just think what would happen if the bridge collapsed!’ sniggered Gilquin, who had a penchant for imagining the most terrible disasters.
Madame Correur was quite alarmed, and tried to shut him up. But he insisted. Cast-iron bridges, he said, were never very safe, and when both carriages were on the bridge, he declared he could see the floor plates shaking. What a soaking they would have, they would all three go right under, wouldn’t they? The carriages rolled on soundlessly, at an even pace, and the floor plates of the bridge were so fragile and curved so gently that the carriages seemed suspended in mid-air over the river; they were reflected in the blue reach, like so many strange goldfish that had swum in at the turn of the tide. Slightly wearied, glad for a moment to be free of the crowds and not have to wave, the Emperor and Empress had leaned their heads back on the quilted satin upholstery. The governess of the Children of France likewise was taking advantage of the empty bridge to set the little prince, who had slipped down, firmly back on her lap; while the wet-nurse leaned forward and smiled at the infant to keep him amused. The whole procession was bathed in sunlight. The uniforms, the fine clothes, and the harness were all aglitter; the carriages blazed brightly, sparkled like stars, their plate glass reflected on the dingy houses of the Quai Napoléon. In the distance, above the bridge, as background to the scene, rose the monumental advertisement painted on the wall of the six-storey building on the Île Saint-Louis, the giant grey frock coat, without a body inside it, illuminated by the sun in a supreme blaze of glory.
Gilquin noticed the coat as it loomed over the two coaches.
‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Look at uncle over there!’
From the people around them came an appreciative ripple of laughter. Monsieur Charbonnel, who had not understood the reference, wanted to know what the joke was. But by then it was impossible to hear what people were saying to each other, deafening cheering had broken out, and the three hundred thousand people, crammed together, were all clapping. When the little prince was halfway across the bridge, and the Emperor and Empress had been sighted behind him, on that broad expanse where nothing impeded the view, the onlookers were overcome by an extraordinary burst of emotion. It was one of those moments of mass excitement when people are carried away, as if caught in a tornado. They went wild from one end of Paris to the other. Men stood on tiptoe, hoisting dazed little children onto their shoulders, and women wept, stuttering sentimental remarks about how ‘sweet’ the baby was, thus sharing, to the bottom of their hearts, the domestic joy of the Imperial couple. A storm of applause continued to come from the square in front of the Hôtel-de-Ville; and the embankments on both sides of the river, upstream and downstream, presented an uninterrupted forest of waving, gesticulating arms. Handkerchiefs fluttered from the windows full of people leaning far out, their gaping mouths dark gashes in their shining faces. And in the far distance, downstream, narrow as fine lines of charcoal, the windows on the Île Saint-Louis, flecks of white, glinted in the sun. And all the while, the oarsmen in red jerseys, now standing in their boat in midstream, pulled away by the current, yelled their heads off; and the washerwomen, half emerging from the glass-covered shelter of their barge, bare-armed, wild with excitement, and determined to make themselves heard, banged away with their beetles, so hard that it seemed they might break them.
‘That’s all,’ said Gilquin. ‘Let’s go.’
But the Charbonnels wanted to stay to the end. The tail of the procession—squadrons of household cavalry, cuirassiers, and heavy cavalry—was turning into the Rue d’Arcole. Chaos ensued. The double barrier of National Guard and soldiers was broken at several points; women began to scream.
‘Let’s go,’ repeated Gilquin. ‘We don’t want to be crushed.’
When he had set the ladies down again on the pavement, he led them across the road, despite the crowd. Madame Correur and the Charbonnels had wanted to walk along the embankment up to the Notre-Dame bridge, and then go and see what was happening on the Place du Parvis. But Gilquin would not hear of it, and dragged them off. When they were back outside the little café, he hustled them unceremoniously to the table they had occupied before, and made them sit down.
‘Are you mad?’ he bellowed. ‘Do you think I want to get my toes trodden on by all those gawpers? We should just sit down and have a nice little drink. We’re better off here than in the middle of a crowd. We’ve had enough of the celebrations, haven’t we? It was getting a bit much… So, Maman, what’ll you have?’
He kept glaring at the Charbonnels, who raised faint objections. They would have liked to see them come out of church. So he explained that the thing to do was to let the gawpers disperse a bit; he’d take them round in a quarter of an hour, if there weren’t too many people about. While he was giving Jules a fresh order for beer and cigars, Madame Correur made a discreet exit.
‘Just relax for a while,’ she said to the Charbonnels. ‘I’ll be over there.’
She crossed the Notre-Dame bridge and began walking up the Rue de la Cité, but there were such crowds that it took her more than a quarter of an hour to reach the Rue de Constantine. She then had to cut through the Rue de la Licorne and the Rue des Trois-Canettes. At last, she emerged on to the Place du Parvis, having left a complete flounce of her dove-grey dress on a ventilator outside some shady-looking establishment. The square had been covered in sand and was full of flowers and poles with banners bearing the Imperial coat of arms. A huge canopy of red velvet with gold fringes and tassels, erected to form an awning, was draped tent-like against the bare stones.
Here, Madame Correur was stopped by a row of soldiers, who were holding back the crowds. In the large square, which was being kept clear, footmen were pacing up and down beside the carriages lined up in five rows, while the drivers sat impassively on their boxes, reins in hand. As she peered round, looking for a way to get through, Madame Correur noticed Du Poizat, quietly smoking a cigar in a corner of the square, surrounded by footmen.
‘Can’t you get me in?’ she asked, after managing to attract his attention by waving her handkerchief.
He said something to a policeman, then took her to the entrance of the church.
‘Believe me, you’d be better off staying here with me,’ he said. ‘It’s jam-packed in there. It was so stifling, I came out… Look, the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard have given up trying to squeeze in.’
Indeed, there they were, to the left, over by the Rue du Cloître-Notre-Dame. Monsieur Bouchard was saying he had entrusted his wife to Monsieur d’Escorailles, because that gentleman had a wonderful seat for a lady; while the Colonel was saying he was sorry he couldn’t explain the ceremony to his son Auguste.
‘I would have liked to show him the famous christening chalice. As you know of course, it was Saint Louis’s own chalice, copper engraved and enamelled in the most beautiful Persian style, an antiquity from the Crusades, used ever since for the christening of all our kings.’
‘Did you see the ceremony?’ Monsieur Bouchard asked Du Poizat.
‘I did,’ he replied. ‘The chrisom was carried by Madame de Llorentz.’
He had to tell them all about it. The chrisom was the christening robe. Neither of the two men had been aware of this fact; they were duly impressed. So Du Poizat ran through all the regalia of the Prince Imperial—chrisom, candle, salt cellar—then those of the godfather and godmother—the stoup, the ewer, the towel. All these objects were carried by ladies-in-waiting. There was also the little prince’s cloak. A superb piece of clothing, an extraordinary spectacle, it had been laid out on a chair near the font.
‘Are you sure there isn’t even a tiny spot in there for me?’ cried Madame Correur, trembling with curiosity on hearing all these details.
The men now enumerated for
her all the great bodies, authorities, and delegations they had seen go by. An endless stream of them: the Diplomatic Corps, the Senate, the legislative body, the Council of State, the Court of Appeal, the Audit Office, the Imperial Household, the Commercial Courts, the Magistrates’ Courts, not to speak of the ministers, the prefects, the mayors, and deputy mayors, the members of the Academy, the senior police officers, even representatives of the Jewish and Protestant communities. And still more.
‘Heavens! How lovely it must have been!’ gasped Madame Correur, heaving a sigh.
Du Poizat shrugged his shoulders. He was in a foul mood. He ‘couldn’t stand’ all those dignitaries. He even seemed irritated by the length of the ceremony. Would it never end? They had sung the Veni Creator, they had been incensed, they had processed, they had applauded. By now the kid must have been baptized. Monsieur Bouchard and the Colonel were more patient. They gazed at the bunting-decked windows of the square; then, as a sudden peal of bells shook the towers, they cocked their heads back to look up. A shiver ran through them. The proximity of the huge cathedral alarmed them, it seemed to rise up forever into the sky. Meanwhile, Auguste had crept close to the porch. Madame Correur followed him. But when she stood in front of the main entrance, with the great double door now wide open, she was rooted to the spot by the wonder of what she saw.
Between the two wide curtains stretched the immense cathedral. The soft blue vaults of the ceiling were spangled with stars. Around this firmament, the stained-glass windows, like mystic celestial bodies, added flames of fire as from braziers of precious stones. On all sides, red velvet curtains hung from the lofty pillars, absorbing what little natural light there was in the nave; and in the centre of this crimson night glowed a great pyre of candles, thousands of candles packed so close that they formed a single sun blazing fiercely in a shower of sparks. It was the altar, which, in the middle of the transept, on a platform, seemed ablaze. To left and right towered the thrones. On a broad base of ermine-edged velvet, above the higher throne, was a giant bird with snowy breast and purple wings. And a concourse of the wealthy, shimmering with gold, glittering with jewellery, filled the church; behind all this, near the altar, the clergy, the bishops with their crosses and mitres, offered a vision of glory, a pathway to heaven; round the raised dais were princes and princesses and great dignitaries, in all their splendour; while on either side, in the wings of the transept, rose tiers of seats, on the right the Diplomatic Corps and the Senate, on the left the legislative body and the Council of State; while delegations of all sorts were crowded into the rest of the nave, and higher, beside the galleries, the ladies with their bright dresses formed patches of colour. The air was filled with a blood-coloured haze. The heads rising up one above the other, behind, to left, to right, had the pinkness of Dresden china. The costumes—satin, silk, velvet—shone darkly, as if they were about to catch fire. Every now and then, whole rows suddenly seemed ablaze. The depths of the cathedral glowed furnace-hot with luxury beyond belief.