They entered Niort at half past ten. To avoid going through the town the Superintendent took the route round by the ramparts. He had to ring the bell at the prison gate, but when the warder saw what sort of prisoner he had been brought, all pale and rigid, he went to wake the Governor. The Governor himself was unwell, and arrived in carpet slippers. He became quite angry, and categorically refused to accept a man in such a state — did they take his prison for a hospital?
‘Well, he’s under arrest, so what do you suggest I should do with him?’ asked Gilquin, for whom this was the last straw.
‘Whatever you like, my dear Superintendent,’ replied the Governor. ‘I repeat: he’s not coming in here. I would never dream of accepting such a responsibility.’
Madame Martineau had taken advantage of this exchange to get into the coupé next to her husband. She suggested taking him to a hotel.
‘Yes, take him to a hotel, or wherever you damn well please,’ cried Gilquin. ‘I’m sick of this! Just take him!’
Nevertheless, he did carry his duty so far as to accompany the lawyer to the Hôtel de Paris, which had been chosen by Madame Martineau herself. The Place de la Préfecture was just beginning to empty. There were only a few young kids left, cavorting on the pavement. But the light from the six windows of the ballroom was still flooding the square, making it seem as if it was still daytime; the brass of the orchestra seemed louder than ever; and the ladies, whose bare shoulders could be seen every now and then through the gaps in the curtains, were tossing their chignons from side to side as they moved round the room. Just as they were carrying the lawyer up to a first-floor room, Gilquin happened to look up, and saw Madame Correur and Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq, who had spent the whole evening at their window. There they were, looking this way and that, excited by the festivities. But Madame Correur must have seen her brother, for she leaned out, at risk of falling. On seeing her waving to him, Gilquin decided he should go up.
Later, towards midnight, the ball was reaching its climax. The doors to the dining room had just been opened, and a cold buffet was served. Red in the face, the ladies fanned themselves, or stood about eating and laughing. Others went on dancing, not wanting to miss a single quadrille, asking for no more refreshment than the first glass of cordial their menfolk brought them. Shiny particles of dust floated in the air, as if rising up from coiffures and petticoats and gold-bangled arms waving in the air. There was too much gold, too much music, too much heat. Feeling that he was suffocating, Rougon lost no time in slipping away at a discreet sign from Du Poizat.
Then, in the room adjoining the ballroom — the same room in which he had seen them the previous evening — he found Madame Correur and Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq waiting for him, both sobbing.
‘My poor brother, my poor brother!’ gasped Madame Correur, stifling her sobs in her handkerchief. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to save him… Dear God, why couldn’t you save him?’
He was about to say something, but she gave him no time.
‘He was arrested earlier today. I just saw him… Oh dear God, dear God!’
‘Don’t despair,’ Rougon said at last. ‘The case will be investigated. I sincerely hope he will be released.’
Madame Correur stopped dabbing her eyes and stared at him. Then, in a quite matter-of-fact way, she cried:
‘But he’s dead!’
And she began sobbing again, burying her face once more in her handkerchief.
Dead? Rougon felt a slight shiver run down his spine. He did not know what to say. For the first time, he was aware of a kind of black hole in front of him, full of shadows, into which he was gradually being pushed. So now he was dead! This was something he had never wanted. Things were going too far.
‘Alas, yes, the poor dear man, he has passed away,’ said Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq, sighing deeply. ‘Apparently the prison governor refused to take him. And when we saw him brought into the hotel in such a sad state, Madame Correur went down and made them let her in by shouting that she was his sister. Tell me, hasn’t a sister the right to see her own brother breathe his last? That’s what I said to that awful Madame Martineau, who wanted to turn us out again. But she was obliged to let us have a place at the bedside… Heavens, how quickly it all went. His death throes didn’t last more than an hour. He lay on the bed, all in black, just like a lawyer going to a wedding. And he went out like a candle, with a little grimace. I don’t think he suffered very much.’
‘And then Madame Martineau started attacking me!’ said Madame Correur, continuing the story. ‘She carried on about the legacy, accusing me of delivering the fatal blow, just to get at the money. I told her that if I’d been in her shoes, I’d never have let them take him away, I’d rather have let them hack me to pieces. That’s what they would have had to do. Isn’t that the honest truth, Herminie?’
‘It is, it is,’ the tall girl replied.
‘My tears won’t bring him back, I’m crying because I can’t help it… Oh, my poor brother!’
Rougon felt very uneasy now. Madame Correur had grasped his hands, but he withdrew them. He still did not know what to say, horrified by the details of this death, which he found abominable.
‘Look,’ cried Herminie, as she stood by the window, ‘you can see the room from here. It’s the one opposite, lit up, on the first floor, the third window from the left… You can see there’s a light behind the curtains.’
He sent them away, with Madame Correur finding excuses for him, declaring him to be her true friend. Her first instinct, she said, had been to come and tell him the dreadful news.’
‘This is all very bothersome,’ Rougon murmured in Du Poizat’s ear when he went back to the ballroom, still very pale.
‘It’s that lunatic Gilquin,’ replied the Prefect, with a shrug.
The ball was still in full swing. In the dining room, a corner of which could be seen very clearly through the wide open door, the first Deputy Mayor was stuffing the three daughters of the Warden of Forests and Waters with sweets, and the Colonel of the 78th was drinking punch while straining to hear the malicious stories being told by the chief government engineer, who was munching chocolates. Near the door was Monsieur Kahn, loudly repeating to the President of the Civil Court his speech, from the afternoon, about the benefits of the new railway line, with the additional audience of a compact body of serious, open-mouthed individuals: the Tax Inspector, two magistrates, and the delegates of the Chamber of Agriculture and the Statistical Society. Meanwhile, under the five chandeliers, a waltz the orchestra was playing with a great blaring of brass kept the couples moving round the ballroom, the Tax Collector’s son with the Mayor’s sister, one of the Deputy Prosecutors with a girl in blue, the other Deputy Prosecutor with a girl in pink. But one couple in particular was now attracting murmurs of admiration. It was the Police Superintendent and the headmaster’s wife, locked in each other’s arms, gyrating very slowly. Gilquin had made haste to dress properly, and there he was, in a black tunic, gleaming boots, and white gloves. The pretty blonde had forgiven his late arrival. She was gazing dreamily into his eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder. Waggling his behind, Gilquin was showing all the skill he had acquired in the public dance halls of Paris, his torso thrown back, his bold foot-play delighting the gallery. They nearly knocked Rougon over. He had to flatten himself against the wall as they passed by in a swirl of gold-spangled muslin.
Chapter 11
Rougon had at last got Delestang the portfolio of Agriculture and Commerce. One morning, early in May, he went round to the Rue du Colisée to fetch his new colleague. There was to be a meeting of all the ministers at Saint-Cloud, where the Court had just taken up residence.
‘Goodness me, are you coming with us?’ he cried in surprise when he saw Clorinde climb into the landau waiting at the front door.
‘Yes, of course, I’m coming too,’ she replied, laughing. But when she had tucked the flounces of her long skirt of pale cherry-coloured silk bet
ween the seats, she added seriously: ‘I’ve got a meeting with the Empress. I’m treasurer of a charity organization for young factory girls, and she’s very interested.’
The two men followed her into the landau, Delestang settling down next to his wife. He had a lawyer’s buff-coloured leather satchel, which he held on his lap. Rougon carried nothing. He sat opposite Clorinde. It was half past nine; the meeting had been scheduled for ten. Told to make good speed and to take the shortest route, the coachman cut down the Rue Marbeuf into the Chaillot neighbourhood, which the pickaxes of the demolition squads had already begun to gut. They gazed out at empty streets, flanked by gardens and wooden scaffolding, steep, winding alleys, and tiny squares with straggly trees, a variegated city scene basking in the morning sun on a slope scattered with detached houses and an untidy assortment of shops.
‘Isn’t it ugly here!’ said Clorinde, lolling back in the landau.
Half turned towards her husband, she looked at him for a moment, very serious; then, as if despite herself, she smiled. Delestang, very smart in his tightly buttoned frock coat, was sitting very straight, looking most dignified. His handsome, thoughtful-looking face, and the premature baldness that gave him such a high forehead, made passers-by turn round and stare. Clorinde had noticed that nobody ever looked at Rougon, who, with his heavy features, always seemed half-asleep. With a maternal gesture, she plucked her husband’s left cuff down a trifle. It had slipped back inside his coat sleeve.
‘Whatever were you doing last night?’ she asked the great man, seeing him raise his hand to stifle another yawn.
‘Working late,’ he murmured. ‘Lots of little things to take care of.’
The conversation lapsed again. Now it was Rougon’s turn to be scrutinized. He was moving backwards and forwards as the cab jolted along. His frock coat was a little too small for his broad shoulders, his hat was badly brushed, you could see the marks of old raindrops on it. She recalled buying a horse, the previous month, from a dealer who looked just like him. She smiled again. There was a hint of disdain in her expression.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ he asked, irritated at being examined in this way.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I was just looking at you. Isn’t that allowed? Are you afraid I might eat you?’
She was being provocative, her white teeth flashing. But he simply laughed.
‘I’m too big,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be able to swallow me.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she retorted. ‘It depends on how hungry I am.’
At last the landau reached the Porte de La Muette. After the narrow little streets of Chaillot, the Bois de Boulogne now came into view in front of them. It was a magnificent morning, flooding the distant greensward with bright light, a warm breeze playing on the saplings. Leaving the deer park to the left, they took the road to Saint-Cloud. Now the carriage sped along a sandy avenue, as lightly and smoothly as a sledge over snow.
‘Weren’t those cobbles dreadful?’ Clorinde said, stretching out in her seat. ‘It’s easier to breathe here, we can talk… Tell me, have you heard from our friend Du Poizat?’
‘Yes,’ said Rougon. ‘He’s well.’
‘Still happy to be a prefect?’
He made an evasive gesture, obviously not wanting to say anything definite. Clorinde was no doubt aware of some of the problems the Prefect of the Deux-Sèvres was beginning to give him because of the harshness of his administration. She did not insist. Instead, she began to talk about Monsieur Kahn and Madame Correur. With an air of malicious curiosity, she asked about his trip to Niort, then broke off to cry:
‘By the way, yesterday I bumped into Colonel Jobelin and his cousin, Monsieur Bouchard. We talked about you…’
He hunched his shoulders and said nothing. Then she reminded him of something:
‘Do you remember those lovely evening parties we used to have at your house? Nowadays you’re always too busy, nobody can get near you. Your friends complain. They keep saying you’re forgetting them… You know me, I always tell the truth. Well, they’re saying you’re very fickle, my dear.’
At this moment, just as the landau was between the two lakes, they met a coupé on its way back to Paris, and they glimpsed a coarse face drawing quickly back inside, obviously to avoid having to greet them.
‘Wasn’t that your brother-in-law!’ cried Clorinde.
‘Yes, he’s not well,’ Rougon replied with a smile. ‘His doctor has ordered him to take morning outings.’
Then, as the landau bowled along the avenue of tall trees, gently curving round, he went on:
‘What do they expect? I can’t give them the moon… There’s Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère, with his dream of being Minister of Justice. I tried to do the impossible. I sounded out the Emperor. But to no avail. I rather think the Emperor’s afraid of him. Well, is that my fault?… Damn it all, Beulin-d’Orchère is head of his profession now. Surely he should be satisfied, until something better turns up. Yet he cuts me. He’s a fool.’
Clorinde sat back, eyes half closed, motionless, her fingers playing with the tassel of her sunshade. She let him go on, listening intently.
‘The others are just as unreasonable. If the Colonel and Bouchard complain, they shouldn’t, because I’ve already done more than I should for them… I put in a word for all my friends. I’ve got a dozen of them, a nice little load to carry about. But they won’t be satisfied until they’ve sucked me dry.’
He fell silent for a moment, then went on cheerfully:
‘Pooh! If they really were in need, I’d certainly do more for them… But once you open your hand in generosity, you can never close it again. In spite of all the nasty things my friends say about me, I spend each day soliciting endless favours for them.’
He put his hand on her knee, to make her look up at him:
‘You, for instance. I’ll be talking with the Emperor this morning… Is there anything you want?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied drily.
When he repeated the offer, she became quite annoyed, charging him with throwing in their faces whatever little favours he had managed to do them, her husband and herself. They were not his biggest burdens. She wound up saying:
‘I do my own errands, thank you. I’m a big girl now, you know.’
The landau had just emerged from the Bois, and was passing through the village of Boulogne, amidst the din of a convoy of big carts going down the main street. Delestang sat completely silent, a blissful expression on his face, his hands resting on his leather satchel. He looked as if he was deep in some lofty intellectual exercise. But all at once he bent forward and, raising his voice to make himself heard above the din, cried:
‘Do you think His Majesty will keep us for lunch?’
Rougon shrugged, to indicate he had no idea, then added:
‘If the sitting drags on, we usually have lunch at the Palace.’
Delestang settled back in his corner, and once again seemed lost in thought. However, he leaned forward a second time, and asked:
‘Will there be a lot on the agenda this morning?’
‘Possibly,’ Rougon replied. ‘You never know. I believe some of our colleagues are to report on certain public works… And I want to raise the question of this book I’m battling over with the censorship committee that controls books sold by hawkers.’
‘What book is that?’ Clorinde asked, seeming very interested.
‘It’s rubbish. One of those books put together specially for the peasantry. It’s called Old Jacques’s Evening Colloquies. There’s a bit of everything in it — socialism, witchcraft, agriculture, even an article on the benefits of trade unions… It’s a dangerous book,* in short.’
This was not quite enough to satisfy Clorinde’s curiosity. She turned round, as if to ask her husband what he thought.
‘You’re being rather severe, Rougon,’ Delestang said. ‘I’ve had a look at it and I thought there were some quite good things in it. The chapter on unions, for instance
, is well done… I’d be surprised if the Emperor condemned the ideas it puts forward.’
Rougon looked annoyed. He spread his arms to indicate his disagreement. Then, suddenly, he was calm again. He did not seem to want to argue. He did not say another word, but simply kept looking at the view on either side. The landau was now halfway across the Saint-Cloud bridge. The river below, shimmering in the sun, offered wide, still expanses of pale blue, while the trees along its banks cast long, dark shadows into the water. Upstream and downstream, the sky rose high above it all, very white with the limpidity of spring, the merest hint of blue streaked across it.
When the landau had drawn up in the courtyard of the chateau, Rougon got out first and offered his hand to Clorinde. But she made a point of not accepting his aid and leapt lightly down. Then, seeing him still holding out his hand, she raised her parasol and gave him a little rap across the knuckles.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she murmured. ‘I’m a big girl now.’
She seemed, indeed, to have no respect for the master’s massive fists, which once upon a time she had held for minutes at a time, the obedient pupil keen to steal some of their strength. No doubt she thought now that she had extracted enough strength from them. She no longer behaved like an adoring disciple. She was becoming powerful in her own right. When Delestang had jumped down too, she let Rougon lead the way into the chateau, so she might whisper in her husband’s ear:
‘I hope you’re not going to stop him from making a fool of himself with his Evening Colloquies,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a good opportunity for you not to just parrot, as you usually do, whatever he says.’