THE SITTING
That morning there were no guests to lunch at 32 Place Vendome, sothat towards one o'clock might have been seen the majestic form of M.Barreau, gleaming white at the gate, among four or five of his scullionsin their cook's caps, and as many stable-boys in Scotch caps--animposing group, which gave to the house the aspect of an hotel where thestaff was taking the air between the arrivals of the trains. To completethe resemblance, a cab drew up before the door and the driver took downan old leather trunk, while a tall old woman, her upright figure wrappedin a little green shawl, jumped lightly to the footpath, a basket onher arm, looked at the number with great attention, then approached theservants to ask if it was there that M. Bernard Jansoulet lived.
"It is here," was the answer; "but he is not in."
"That does not matter," said the old lady simply.
She returned to the driver, who put her trunk in the porch, and paidhim, returning her purse to her pocket at once with a gesture that saidmuch for the caution of the provincial.
Since Jansoulet had been deputy for Corsica, the domestics had seenso many strange and exotic figures at his house, that they were notsurprised at this sunburnt woman, with eyes glowing like coals, atrue Corsican under her severe coif, but different from the ordinaryprovincial in the ease and tranquility of her manners.
"What, the master is not here?" said she, with an intonation whichseemed better fitted for farm people in her part of the country, thanfor the insolent servants of a great Parisian mansion.
"No, the master is not here."
"And the children?"
"They are at lessons. You cannot see them."
"And madame?"
"She is asleep. No one sees her before three o'clock."
It seemed to astonish the good woman a little that any one could stayin bed so late; but the tact which guides a refined nature, even withouteducation, prevented her from saying anything before the servants, andshe asked for Paul de Gery.
"He is abroad."
"Bompain Jean-Baptiste, then."
"He is with monsieur at the sitting."
Her great gray eyebrows wrinkled.
"It does not matter; take up my trunk just the same."
And with a little malicious twinkle of her eye, a proud revenge fortheir insolent looks, she added: "I am his mother."
The scullions and stable-boys drew back respectfully. M. Barreau raisedhis cap:
"I thought I had seen madame somewhere."
"And I too, my lad," answered Mme. Jansoulet, who shivered still at theremembrance of the Bey's _fete_.
"My lad," to M. Barreau, to a man of his importance! It raised her atonce to a very high place in the esteem of the others.
Well! grandeur and splendour hardly dazzled this courageous old lady.She did not go into ecstasies over gilding and petty baubles, and as shewalked up the grand staircase behind her trunk, the baskets of flowerson the landings, the lamps held by bronze statues, did not prevent herfrom noticing that there was an inch of dust on the balustrade, andholes in the carpet. She was taken to the rooms on the second floorbelonging to the Levantine and her children; and there, in an apartmentused as a linen-room, which seemed to be near the school-room (to judgeby the murmur of children's voices), she waited alone, her basket onher knees, for the return of her Bernard, perhaps the waking of herdaughter-in-law, or the great joy of embracing her grandchildren. Whatshe saw around her gave her an idea of the disorder of this houseleft to the care of the servants, without the oversight and foreseeingactivity of a mistress. The linen was heaped in disorder, piles onpiles in great wide-open cupboards, fine linen sheets and table-clothscrumpled up, the locks prevented from shutting by pieces of torn lace,which no one took the trouble to mend. And yet there were many servantsabout--negresses in yellow Madras muslin, who came to snatch herea towel, there a table-cloth, walking among the scattered domestictreasures, dragging with their great flat feet frills of fine lacefrom a petticoat which some lady's-maid had thrown down--thimble here,scissors there--ready to pick up again in a few minutes.
Jansoulet's mother was doubly wounded. The half-rustic artisan in herwas outraged in the tenderness, the respect, the sweet unreasonablenessthe woman of the provinces feels towards a full linen cupboard--acupboard filled piece by piece, full of relics of past struggles, whosecontents grow finer little by little, the first token of comfort, ofwealth, in the house. Besides, she had held the distaff from morningtill night, and if the housewife in her was angry, the spinner couldhave wept at the profanation. At last, unable to contain herself longer,she rose, and actively, her little shawl displaced at each movement, sheset herself to pick up, straighten, and carefully fold this magnificentlinen, as she used to do in the fields of Saint-Romans, when she gaveherself the treat of a grand washing-day, with twenty washerwomen, theclothes-baskets flowing over with floating whiteness, and the sheetsflapping in the morning wind on the clothes-lines. She was in the midstof this occupation, forgetting her journey, forgetting Paris, eventhe place where she was, when a stout, thick-set, bearded man, withvarnished boots and a velvet jacket, over the torso of a bull, came intothe linen-room.
"What! Cabassu!"
"You here, Mme. Francoise! What a surprise!" said the _masseur_, staringlike a bronze figure.
"Yes, my brave Cabassu, it is I. I have just arrived; and as you see, Iam at work already. It made my heart bleed to see all this muddle."
"You came up for the sitting, then?"
"What sitting?"
"Why, the grand sitting of the legislative body. It's do-day."
"Dear me, no. What has that got to do with me? I should understandnothing at all about it. No, I came because I wanted to know my littleJansoulets, and then, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I have writtenseveral times without getting an answer. I was afraid that there was achild sick, that Bernard's business was going wrong--all sorts of ideas.At last I got seriously worried, and came away at once. They are wellhere, they tell me."
"Yes, Mme. Francoise. Thank God, every one is quite well."
"And Bernard. His business--is that going on as he wants it to?"
"Well, you know one has always one's little worries in life--still,I don't think he should complain. But, now I think of it, you must behungry. I will go and make them bring you something."
He was going to ring, more at home and at ease than the old motherherself. She stopped him.
"No, no, I don't want anything. I have still something left in mybasket." And she put two figs and a crust of bread on the edge of thetable. Then, while she was eating: "And you, lad, your business? Youlook very much sprucer than you did the last time you were at Bourg. Howsmart you are! What do you do in the house?"
"Professor of massage," said Aristide gravely.
"Professor--you?" said she with respectful astonishment; but she didnot dare ask him what he taught, and Cabassu, who felt such questions alittle embarrassing, hastened to change the subject.
"Shall I go and find the children? Haven't they told them that theirgrandmother is here?"
"I didn't want to disturb them at their work. But I believe it must beover now--listen!"
Behind the door they could hear the shuffling impatience of the childrenanxious to be out in the open air, and the old woman enjoyed this stateof things, doubling her maternal desire, and hindering her from doinganything to hasten its pleasure. At last the door opened. The tutor cameout first--a priest with a pointed nose and great cheek-bones, whom wehave met before at the great _dejeuners_. On bad terms with his bishop,he had left the diocese where he had been engaged, and in the precariousposition of an unattached priest--for the clergy have their Bohemianstoo--he was glad to teach the little Jansoulets, recently turned out ofthe Bourdaloue College. With his arrogant, solemn air, overweighted withresponsibilities, which would have become the prelates charged with theeducation of the dauphins of France, he preceded three curled and glovedlittle gentlemen in short jackets, with leather knapsacks, and great redstockings reaching half-way up t
heir little thin legs, in complete suitsof cyclist dress, ready to mount.
"My children," said Cabassu, "that is Mme. Jansoulet, your grandmother,who has come to Paris expressly to see you."
They stopped in a row, astonished, examining this old wrinkled visagebetween the folds of her cap, this strange dress of a simplicityunknown to them; and their grandmother's astonishment answered theirs,complicated with a heart-breaking discomfiture and constraint in dealingwith these little gentlemen, as stiff and disdainful as any of thenobles or ministers whom her son had brought to Saint-Romans. On thebidding of their tutor "to salute their venerable grandmother," theycame in turn to give her one of those little half-hearted shakes ofthe hand of which they had distributed so many in the garrets theyhad visited. The fact is that this good woman, with her agriculturalappearance and clean but very simple clothes, reminded them of thecharity visits of the College Bourdaloue. They felt between them thesame unknown quality, the same distance, which no remembrance, noword of their parents had ever helped to bridge. The abbe felt thisconstraint, and tried to dispel it--speaking with the tone of voice andgestures customary to those who always think they are in the pulpit.
"Well, madame, the day has come, the great day when Jansoulet willconfound his enemies--_confundantur hostes mei, quia injuste iniquitatemfecerunt in me_--because they have unjustly persecuted me."
The old lady bent religiously before the Latin of the Church, but herface expressed a vague expression of uneasiness at this idea of enemiesand of persecutions.
"These enemies are powerful and numerous, my noble lady, but let usnot be alarmed beyond measure. Let us have confidence in the decrees ofHeaven and in the justice of our cause. God is in the midst of it, itshall not be overthrown--_in medio ejus non commovebitur_."
A gigantic negro, resplendent with gold braid, interrupted him byannouncing that the bicycles were ready for the daily lesson on theterrace of the Tuileries. Before setting out, the children againshook solemnly their grandmother's wrinkled and hardened hand. Shewas watching them go, stupefied and oppressed, when all at once, by anadorable spontaneous movement, the youngest turned back when he had gotto the door and, pushing the great negro aside, came to throw himselfhead foremost, like a little buffalo, into Mme. Jansoulet's skirts,squeezing her to him, while holding out his smooth forehead, coveredwith brown curls, with the grace of a child offering its kiss like aflower. Perhaps this one, nearer the warmth of the nest, the cradlingknees of the nurses with their peasant songs, had felt the maternalinfluence, of which the Levantine had deprived him, reach his heart.The old woman trembled all over with the surprise of this instinctiveembrace.
"Oh! little one, little one," said she, seizing the little silky, curlyhead which reminded her so much of another and she kissed it wildly.Then the child unloosed himself, and ran off without saying anything,his head moist with hot tears.
Left alone with Cabassu, the mother, comforted by this embrace, askedsome explanation of the priest's words. Had her son many enemies?
"Oh!" said Cabassu, "it is not astonishing, in his position."
"But what is this great day--this sitting of which you all speak?"
"Well, then, it is to-day that we shall know whether Bernard will bedeputy or no."
"What? He is not one now, then? And I have told them everywhere in thecountry. I illuminated Saint-Romans a month ago. Then they have made metell a lie."
The _masseur_ had a great deal of trouble in explaining to her theparliamentary formalities of the verification of elections. She onlylistened with one ear, walking up and down the linen-room feverishly.
"That's where my Bernard is now, then?"
"Yes, madame."
"And can women go to the Chamber? Then why is his wife not there? Forone does not need telling that it is an important matter for him. On aday like this he needs to feel all those whom he loves at his side. See,my lad, you must take me there, to this sitting. Is it far?"
"No, quite near. Only, it must have begun already. And then," added he,a little disconcerted, "it is the hour when madame wants me."
"Ah! Do you teach her this thing you are professor of? What do you callit?"
"Massage. We have learned it from the ancients. Yes, there she isringing for me, and some one will come to fetch me. Shall I tell her youare here?"
"No, no; I prefer to go there at once."
"But you have no admission ticket."
"Bah! I will tell them I am Jansoulet's mother, come to hear himjudged." Poor mother, she spoke truer than she knew.
"Wait, Mme. Francoise. I will give you some one to show you the way, atleast."
"Oh, you know, I have never been able to put up with servants. I have atongue. There are people in the streets. I shall find my way."
He made a last attempt, without letting her see all his thought. "Takecare; his enemies are going to speak against him in the Chamber. Youwill hear things to hurt you."
Oh, the beautiful smile of belief and maternal pride with which sheanswered: "Don't I know better than them all what my child is worth?Could anything make me mistaken in him? I should have to be veryungrateful then. Get along with you!"
And shaking her head with its flapping cap wings, she set off fiercelyindignant.
With head erect and upright bearing the old woman strode along under thegreat arcades which they had told her to follow, a little troubled bythe incessant noise of the carriages, and by the idleness of this walk,unaccompanied by the faithful distaff which had never quitted herfor fifty years. All these ideas of enmities and persecutions, themysterious words of the priest, the guarded talk of Cabassu, frightenedand agitated her. She found in them the meaning of the presentimentswhich had so overpowered her as to snatch her from her habits, herduties, the care of the house and of her invalid. Besides, since Fortunehad thrown on her and her son this golden mantle with its heavy folds,Mme. Jansoulet had never become accustomed to it, and was always waitingfor the sudden disappearance of these splendours. Who knows if thebreak-up was not going to begin this time? And suddenly, through thesesombre thoughts, the remembrance of the scene that had just passed,of the little one rubbing himself on her woollen gown, brought on herwrinkled lips a tender smile, and she murmured in her peasant tongue:
"Oh, for the little one, at any rate."
She crossed a magnificent square, immense, dazzling, two fountainsthrowing up their water in a silvery spray, then a great stone bridge,and at the end was a square building with statues on its front, arailing with carriages drawn up before it, people going on, numbers ofpolicemen. It was there. She pushed through the crowd bravely and cameup to the high glass doors.
"Your card, my good woman?"
The "good woman" had no card, but she said quite simply to one of theporters in red who were keeping the door:
"I am Bernard Jansoulet's mother. I have come for the sitting of myboy."
It was indeed the sitting of her boy; for everywhere in this crowdbesieging the doors, filling the passages, the hall, the tribune, thewhole palace, the same name was repeated, accompanied with smiles andanecdotes. A great scandal was expected, terrible revelations from thechairman, which would no doubt lead to some violence from the barbarianbrought to bay, and they hurried to the spot as to a first night or acelebrated trial. The old mother would hardly have been heard in themiddle of this crowd, if the stream of gold left by the Nabob whereverhe had passed, marking his royal progress, had not opened all the roadsto her. She went behind the attendant in this tangle of passages,of folding-doors, of empty resounding halls, filled with a hum whichcirculated with the air of the building, as if the walls, themselvessoaked with babble, were joining to the sound of all these voices theechoes of the past. While crossing a corridor she saw a little dark mangesticulating and crying to the servants:
"You will tell Moussiou Jansoulet that it is I, that I am the Mayor ofSarlazaccio, that I have been condemned to five months' imprisonment forhim. In God's name, surely that is worth a card for the sitting."
Five months' imprisonment for her son! Why? Very much disturbed, shearrived at last, her ears singing, at the top of the staircase, wheredifferent inscriptions--"Tribune of the Senate, of the Diplomatic Body,of the Deputies"--stood above little doors like boxes in a theatre. Sheentered, and without seeing anything at first except four or five rowsof seats filled with people, and opposite, very far off, separated fromher by a vast clear space, other galleries similarly filled. She leanedup against the wall, astonished to be there, exhausted, almost ashamed.A current of hot air which came to her face, a chatter of rising voices,drew her towards the slope of the gallery, towards the kind of gulf openin the middle where her son must be. Oh! how she would like to see him.So squeezing herself in, and using her elbows, pointed and hard as herspindle, she glided and slipped between the wall and the seats, takingno notice of the anger she aroused or the contempt of the well-dressedwomen whose lace and fresh toilettes she crushed; for the assemblywas elegant and fashionable. Mme. Jansoulet recognised, by his stiffshirt-front and aristocratic nose, the marquis who had visited them atSaint-Romans, who so well suited his name, but he did not look at her.She was stopped farther progress by the back of a man sitting down,an enormous back which barred everything and forbade her go farther.Happily, she could see nearly all the hall from here by leaning forwarda little; and these semi-circular benches filled with deputies, thegreen hanging of the walls, the chair at the end, occupied by a bald manwith a severe air, gave her the idea, under the studious and gray lightfrom the roof, of a class about to begin, with all the chatter andmovement of thoughtless schoolboys.
One thing struck her--the way in which all looks turned to one side,to the same point of attraction; and as she followed this currentof curiosity which carried away the entire assembly, hall as well asgalleries, she saw that what they were all looking at--was her son.
In the Jansoulet's country there is still, in some old churches, at theend of the choir, half-way up the crypt, a stone cell where lepers wereadmitted to hear mass, showing their dark profiles to the curious andfearful crowd, like wild beasts crouched against the loopholes in thewall. Francoise well remembered having seen in the village where she hadbeen brought up the leper, the bugbear of her infancy, hearing mass fromhis stone cage, lost in the shade and in isolation. Now, seeing her sonseated, his head in his hands, alone, up there away from the others,this memory came to her mind. "One might think it was a leper," murmuredthe peasant. And, in fact, this poor Nabob was a leper, his millionsfrom the East weighing on him like some terrible and mysterious disease.It happened that the bench on which he had chosen to sit had severalrecent vacancies on account of holidays or deaths; so that while theother deputies were talking to each other, laughing, making signs,he sat silent, alone, the object of attention to all the Chamber; anattention which his mother felt to be malevolent, ironic, which burnedinto her heart. How was she to let him know that she was there, nearhim, that one faithful heart beat not far from his? He would not turn tothe gallery. One would have said that he felt it hostile, that he fearedto look there. Suddenly, at the sound of the bell from the presidentialplatform, a rustle ran through the assembly, every head leaned forwardwith that fixed attention which makes the features unmovable, and a thinman in spectacles, whose sudden rise among so many seated figures gavehim the authority of attitude at once, said, opening the paper he heldin his hand:
"Gentlemen, in the name of your third committee, I beg to move thatthe election of the second division of the department of Corsica beannulled."
In the deep silence following this phrase, which Mme. Jansoulet did notunderstand, the giant seated before her began to puff vigorously, andall at once, in the front row of the gallery, a lovely face turned roundto address him a rapid sign of intelligence and approval. Forehead pale,lips thin, eyebrows too black for the white framing of her hat, it allproduced in the eyes of the good old lady, without her knowing why, theeffect of the first flash of lightning in a storm and the apprehensionof the thunderbolt following the lightning.
Le Merquier was reading his report. The slow, dull monotonous voice,the drawling, weak Lyonnese accent, while the long form of the lawyerbalanced itself in an almost animal movement of the head and shoulders,made a singular contrast to the ferocious clearness of the brief. First,a rapid account of the electoral irregularities. Never had universalsuffrage been treated with such primitive and barbarous contempt. AtSarlazaccio, where Jansoulet's rival seemed to have a majority, theballot-box was destroyed the night before it was counted. The same thingalmost happened at Levia, at Saint-Andre, at Avabessa. And it was themayors themselves who committed these crimes, who carried the urns homewith them, broke the seals, tore up the voting papers, under coverof their municipal authority. There had been no respect for the law.Everywhere fraud, intrigue, even violence. At Calcatoggio an armedman sat during the election at the window of a tavern in front ofthe _mairie_, holding a blunderbuss, and whenever one of Sebastiani'selectors (Sebastiani was Jansoulet's opponent) showed himself, the mantook aim: "If you come in, I will blow out your brains." And whenone saw the inspectors of police, justices, inspectors of weights andmeasures, not afraid to turn into canvassing agents, to frighten orcajole a population too submissive before all these little tyrannicallocal influences, was that not proof of a terrible state of things? Evenpriests, saintly pastors, led astray by their zeal for the poor-box andthe restoration of an impoverished building, had preached a mission infavour of Jansoulet's election. But an influence still more powerful,though less respectable, had been called into play for the goodcause--the influence of the banditti. "Yes, banditti, gentlemen; I amnot joking." And then came a sketch in outline of Corsican banditti ingeneral, and of the Piedigriggio family in particular.
The Chamber listened attentively, with a certain uneasiness. For, afterall, it was an official candidate whose doings were thus described, andthese strange doings belonged to that privileged land, cradle of theimperial family, so closely attached to the fortunes of the dynasty,that an attack on Corsica seemed to strike at the sovereign. But whenpeople saw the new minister, successor and enemy of Mora, glad of theblow to a _protege_ of his predecessor, smile complacently fromthe Government bench at Le Merquier's cruel banter, all constraintdisappeared at once, and the ministerial smile repeated on three hundredmouths, grew into a scarcely restrained laugh--the laugh of crowds underthe rod which bursts out at the least approbation of the master. In thegalleries, not usually treated to the picturesque, but amused by thesestories of brigands, there was general joy, a radiant animation on allthese faces, pleased to look pretty without insulting the solemnity ofthe spot. Little bright bonnets shook with all their flowers and plumes,round gold-encircled arms leaned forward the better to hear. The graveLe Merquier had imported into the sitting the distraction of a show,the little spice of humour allowed in a charity concert to bribe theuninitiated.
Impassable and cold in the midst of his success, he continued to read inhis gloomy voice, penetrating like the rain of Lyons:
"Now, gentlemen, one asks how a stranger, a Provencial returned from theEast, ignorant of the interests and needs of this island where he hadnever been seen before the election, a true type of what the Corsicandisdainfully calls a 'continental'--how has this man been able to excitesuch an enthusiasm, such devotion carried to crime, to profanity.His wealth will answer us, his fatal gold thrown in the face of theelectors, thrust by force into their pockets with a barefaced cynicismof which we have a thousand proofs." Then the interminable series ofdenunciations: "I, the undersigned, Croce (Antoine), declare in theinterests of truth, that the Commissary of Police Nardi, calling on usone evening, said: 'Listen, Croce (Antoine), I swear by the fire of thislamp that if you vote for Jansoulet you will have fifty francsto-morrow morning.'" And this other: "I, the undersigned, Lavezzi(Jacques-Alphonse), declare that I refused with contempt seventeenfrancs offered me by the Mayor of Pozzonegro to vote against mycousin Sebastiani." It is probably that for three francs more Lavezzi(Jacques-Alphonse) would have swallowed hi
s contempt in silence. But theChamber did not look into things so closely.
Indignation seized on this incorruptible Chamber. It murmured, itfidgeted on its padded seats of red velvet, it raised a positiveclamour. There were "Oh's" of amazement, eyes lifted in astonishment,brusque movements on the benches, as if in disgust at this spectacle ofhuman degradation. And remark that the greater part of these deputieshad used the same electoral methods, that these were the heroes of thosefamous orgies when whole oxen were carried in triumph, ribanded anddecorated as at Gargantuan feasts. Just these men cried louder thanothers, turned furiously towards the solitary seat where the poor leperlistened, still and downcast. Yet in the midst of the general uproar,one voice was raised in his favour, but low, unpractised, less a voicethan a sympathetic murmur, through which was distinguishedvaguely: "Great services to the Corsican population--Considerableworks--Territorial Bank."
He who mumbled thus was a little man in white gaiters, an albinohead, and thin hair in scattered locks. But the interruption of thisunfortunate friend only furnished Le Merquier with a rapid and naturaltransition. A hideous smile parted his flabby lips. "The honourable M.Sarigue mentions the Territorial Bank. We shall be able to answer him."He seemed in fact to be very familiar with the Paganetti den. In afew neat and lively phrases he threw the light on to the depths of thegloomy cave, showed all the traps, the gulfs, the windings, the snares,like a guide waving his torch above the _oubliettes_ of some sinisterdungeon. He spoke of the fictitious quarries, of the railways on paper,of the chimeric liners disappearing in their own steam. The frightfuldesert of the Taverna was not forgotten, nor the old Genoese castle, theoffice of the steamship agency. But what amused the Chamber most was thestory of a swindling ceremony organized by the governor for the piercingof a tunnel through Monte Rotondo, a gigantic undertaking always inproject, put off from year to year, demanding millions of money andthousands of workmen, and which was begun in great pomp a week beforethe election. His report gave the thing a comic air--the first blow ofthe pickaxe given by the candidate in the enormous mountain covered byancient forests, the speech of the Prefect, the benediction of the flagswith the cries of "Long live Bernard Jansoulet!" and the two hundredworkmen beginning the task at once, working day and night for a week;then, when the election was over, leaving the fragments of rock heapedround the abandoned excavation for a laughing-stock--another asylumfor the terrible banditti. The game was over. After having extorted theshareholders' money for so long, the Territorial Bank this time wasused as a means to swindle the electors of their votes. "Furthermore,gentlemen, another detail, with which perhaps I should have begun andspared you the recital of this electoral pasquinade. I learn that ajudicial inquiry has been opened to-day into the affairs of the CorsicanBank, and that a serious examination of its books will very probablyreveal one of those financial scandals--too frequent, alas! in ourdays--and in which, for the honour of the Chamber, we would wish thatnone of our members were concerned."
With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a moment, like an actormaking his point; and in the heavy silence weighing on the assembly, thenoise of a closing door was heard. It was the Governor Paganetti leavingthe tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, his mouth half opened,like some Pierrot scenting in the air a formidable blow. Monpavon,motionless, expanded his shirtfront. The big man puffed violently intothe flowers of his wife's little white hat.
Jansoulet's mother looked at her son.
"I have spoken of the honour of the Chamber, gentlemen. On that pointI have more to say." Now Le Merquier was reading no longer. After thechairman of the committees, the orator came on the scene, or ratherthe judge. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden; nothing lived,nothing moved in all his body save the right arm--the long angular armwith short sleeves--which rose and fell automatically, like a sword ofjustice, making at the end of each sentence the cruel and inexorablegesture of beheading. And truly it was an execution at which they werepresent. The orator would leave on one side scandalous legends, themystery which brooded over this colossal fortune acquired in distantlands, far from all control. But there were in the life of the candidatecertain points difficult to clear up, certain details. He hesitated,seemed to select his words; then, before the impossibility offormulating a direct accusation: "Do not let us lower the debate,gentlemen. You have understood me. You know to what infamous stories Iallude--to what calumnies, I wish I could say; but truth forces me tostate that when M. Jansoulet called before your committee, was asked todeny the accusations made against him, his explanations were so vaguethat, though convinced of his innocence, a scrupulous regard for yourhonour forced us to reject a candidature so besmirched. No, this manmust not sit among you. Besides, what would he do there? Living so longin the East, he has unlearned the laws, the manners, and the usages ofhis country. He believes in rough and ready justice, in fights in theopen street; he relies on the abuses of power, and worse still, onthe venality and crouching baseness of all men. He is the merchant whothinks that everything can be bought at a price--even the votes of theelectors, even the conscience of his colleagues."
One should have seen with what naive admiration these fat deputies,enervated with good fortune, listened to this ascetic, this manof another age, like some Saint-Jerome who had left his Thebaid tooverwhelm with his vigorous eloquence, in a full assembly of theRoman Empire, the shameless luxury of the prevaricators and of the_concussionaires_. How well they understood now this grand surname of"My conscience" which the courts had given him. In the galleries theenthusiasm rose higher still. Lovely heads leaned to see him, to drinkin his words. Applause went round, bending the bouquets here and there,like the wind in a wheat-field. A woman's voice cried with a littleforeign accent, "Bravo! Bravo!"
And the mother?
Standing upright, immovable, concentrated in her desire to understandsomething of this legal phraseology, of these mysterious allusions, shewas there like deaf-mutes who only understand what is said before themby the movement of the lips and the expression of the faces. But it wasenough for her to watch her son and Le Merquier to understand what harmone was doing to the other, what perfidious and poisoned meaning fellfrom this long discourse on the unfortunate man whom one might havebelieved asleep, except for the trembling of his strong shoulders andthe clinching of his hands in his hair, while hiding his face. Oh,if she could have said to him: "Don't be afraid, my son. If they allmisconstrue you, your mother loves you. Let us come away together. Whatneed have we of them?" And for one moment she could believe that whatshe was saying to him thus in her heart he had understood by somemysterious intuition. He had just raised and shaken his grizzled head,where the childish curve of his lips quivered under a possibility oftears. But instead of leaving his seat, he spoke from it, his greathands pounded the wood of the desk. The other had finished, now it washis time to answer:
"Gentlemen," said he.
He stopped at once, frightened by the sound of his voice, hoarse,frightfully low and vulgar, which he heard for the first time in public.He must find the words for his defence, tormented as he was by thetwitchings of his face, the intonations which he could not express. Andif the anguish of the poor man was touching, the old mother up there,leaning, gasping, moving her lips nervously as if to help him findwords, reflected the picture of his torture. Though he could not seeher, intentionally turned away from her gallery, as he evidently was,this maternal inspiration, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes,ended by giving him life, and suddenly his words and gestures flowedfreely:
"First of all, gentlemen, I must say that I do not defend the methods ofmy election. If you believe that electoral morals have not been alwaysthe same in Corsica, that all the irregularities committed are due tothe corrupting influence of my gold and not to the uncultivated andpassionate temperament of its people, reject me--it will be justiceand I will not murmur. But in this debate other matters have been dealtwith, accusations have been made which involve my personal honour, andthose, and those alone, I wish to answer." H
is voice was growing firmer,always broken, veiled, but with some soft cadences. He spoke rapidly ofhis life, his first steps, his departure for the East. It sounded likean eighteenth century tale of the Barbary corsairs sailing the Latinseas, of Beys and of bold Provencals, as sunburned as crickets, whoused to end by marrying some sultana and "taking the turban," in theold expression of the Marseillais. "As for me," said the Nabob, with hisgood-humoured smile. "I had no need of taking the turban to grow rich. Ihad only to take into this land of idleness the activity and flexibilityof a southern Frenchman; and in a few years I made one of those fortuneswhich can only be made in those hot countries, where everything isgigantic, prodigious, disproportionate, where flowers grow in a night,and one tree produces a forest. The excuse of such fortunes is themanner in which they are used; and I make bold to say that never has anyfavourite of fortune tried harder to justify his wealth. I have notbeen successful." No! he had not succeeded. From all the gold he hadscattered he had only gathered contempt and hatred. Hatred! Who couldboast more of it than he? like a great ship in the dock when its keeltouches the bottom. He was too rich, and that stood for every vice,and every crime pointed him out for anonymous vengeances, cruel andincessant enmities.
"Ah, gentlemen," cried the poor Nabob, lifting his clinched hands, "Ihave known poverty, I have struggled face to face with it, and it is adreadful struggle, I swear. But to struggle against wealth, to defendone's happiness, honour--rest--to have no shelter but piles of goldwhich fall and crush you, is something more hideous, more heart-breakingstill. Never, in the darkest days of my distress, have I had the pains,the anguish, the sleepless nights with which fortune has loaded me--thishorrible fortune which I hate and which stifles me. They call me theNabob, in Paris. It is not the Nabob they should say, but the Pariah--asocial pariah holding out wide arms to a society which will have none ofhim."
Written down, the words may appear cold; but there, before the assembly,the defence of this man was stamped with an eloquent and grandiosesincerity, which at first, coming from this rustic, this upstart,without culture or education, with the voice of a boatman, firstastonished and then singularly moved his hearers just on account ofits wild, uncultivated style, foreign to every notion of parliamentaryetiquette. Already marks of favour had agitated members, used to theflood of gray and monotonous administrative speech. But at this cryof rage and despair against wealth, uttered by the wretch whom itwas enfolding, rolling, drowning in its floods of gold, while he wasstruggling and calling for help from the depths of his Pactolus, thewhole Chamber rose with loud applause, and outstretched hands, as if togive the unfortunate Nabob more testimonies of esteem, of which he wasso desirous, and at the same time to save him from shipwreck. Jansouletfelt it; and warmed by this sympathy, he went on, with head erect andconfident look:
"You have just been told, gentlemen, that I was unworthy of sittingamong you. And he who said it was the last from whom I should haveexpected it, for he alone knew the sad secret of my life, he alone couldspeak for me, justify me, and convince you. He has not done it. Well,I will try, whatever it may cost me. Outrageously calumniated before mycountry, I owe it to myself and my children this public justification,and I will make it."
With a brusque movement he turned towards the tribune where he knew hisenemy was watching him, and suddenly stopped, full of fear. There,in front of him, behind the pale, malignant head of the baroness, hismother, his mother whom he believed to be two hundred leagues awayfrom the terrible storm, was looking at him, leaning against the wall,bending down her saintly face, flooded with tears, but proud and beamingnevertheless with her Bernard's great success. For it was really asuccess of sincere human emotion, which a few more words would changeinto a triumph. Cries of "Go on, go on!" came from all sides of theChamber to reassure and encourage him. But Jansoulet did not speak. Hehad only to say: "Calumny has wilfully confused two names. I am calledBernard Jansoulet, the other Jansoulet Louis." Not a word more wasneeded.
But in the presence of his mother, still ignorant of his brother'sdishonour, he could not say it. Respect--family ties forbade it. Hecould hear his father's voice: "I die of shame, my child." Would not shedie of shame too, if he spoke? He turned from the maternal smile with asublime look of renunciation, then in a low voice, utterly discouraged,he said:
"Excuse me, gentlemen; this explanation is beyond my power. Order aninvestigation of my whole life, open as it is to all, alas! since anyone can interpret all my actions. I swear to you that you will findnothing there which unfits me to sit among the representatives of mycountry."
In the face of this defeat, which seemed to everybody the suddencrumbling of an edifice of effrontery, the astonishment anddisillusionment were immense. There was a moment of excitement on thebenches, the tumult of a vote taken on the spot, which the Nabob sawvaguely through the glass doors, as the condemned man looks down fromthe scaffold on the howling crowd. Then, after that terrible pause whichprecedes a supreme moment, the president made, amid deep silence, thesimple pronouncement:
"The election of M. Bernard Jansoulet is annulled."
Never had a man's life been cut off with less solemnity or disturbance.
Up there in her gallery, Jansoulet's mother understood nothing, exceptthat the seats were emptying near her, that people were rising and goingaway. Soon there was no one else there save the fat man and the ladyin the white hat, who leaned over the barrier, watching Bernard withcuriosity, who seemed also to be going away, for he was putting upgreat bundles of papers in his portfolio quite calmly. When they werein order, he rose and left his place. Ah! the life of public men hadsometimes cruel situations. Gravely, slowly, under the gaze of the wholeassembly, he must descend those steps which he had mounted at the costof so much trouble and money, to whose feet an inexorable fatality wasprecipitating him.
The Hemerlingues were waiting for this, following to its last stage thishumiliating exit, which crushes the unseated member with some of theshame and fear of a dismissal. Then, when the Nabob had disappeared,they looked at each other with a silent laugh, and left the gallerybefore the old woman had dared to ask them anything, warned by herinstinct of their secret hostility. Left alone, she gave all herattention to a new speech, persuaded that her son's affairs were stillin question. They spoke of an election, of a scrutiny, and the poormother leaning forward in her red hood, wrinkling her great eyebrows,would have religiously listened to the whole of the report of theSarigue election, if the attendant who had introduced her had not cometo say that it was finished and she had better go away. She seemed verymuch surprised.
"Indeed! Is it over?" said she, rising almost regretfully.
And quietly, timidly:
"Has he--has he won?"
It was innocent, so touching that the attendant did not even dream ofsmiling.
"Unfortunately, no, madame. M. Jansoulet has not won. But why did hestop in that way? If it is true that he never came to Paris, and thatanother Jansoulet did everything they accuse him of, why did he not sayso?"
The old mother, turning pale, leaned on the balustrade of the staircase.She had understood.
Bernard's brusque interruption on seeing her, the sacrifice he had madeto her so simply--that noble glance as of a dying animal, came to hermind, and the shame of the elder, the favourite child, mingled itselfwith Bernard's disaster--a double-edged maternal sorrow, which tore herwhichever way she turned. Yes, yes, it was on her account he would notspeak. But she would not accept such a sacrifice. He must come back atonce and explain himself before the deputies.
"My son, where is my son?"
"Below, madame, in his carriage. It was he who sent me to look for you."
She ran before the attendant, walking quickly, talking aloud, pushingaside out of her way the little black and bearded men who weregesticulating in the passages. After the waiting-hall she crossed agreat round antechamber where servants in respectful rows made a livingwainscotting to the high, blank wall. From there she could see throughthe glass doors, the outside railing, th
e crowd in waiting, and amongthe other vehicles, the Nabob's carriage waiting. As she passed, thepeasant recognised in one of the groups her enormous neighbour of thegallery, with the pale man in spectacles who had attacked her son, whowas receiving all sorts of felicitation for his discourse. At thename of Jansoulet, pronounced among mocking and satisfied sneers, shestopped.
"At any rate," said a handsome man with a bad feminine face, "he has notproved where our accusations were false."
The old woman, hearing that, wrenched herself through the crowd, andfacing Moessard said:
"What he did not say I will. I am his mother, and it is my duty tospeak."
She stopped to seize Le Merquier by the sleeve, who was escaping:
"Wicked man, you must listen, first of all. What have you got against mychild? Don't you know who he is? Wait a little till I tell you."
And turning to the journalist:
"I had two sons, sir."
Moessard was no longer there. She returned to Le Merquier: "Two sons,sir." Le Merquier had disappeared.
"Oh, listen to me, some one, I beg," said the poor mother, throwing herhands and her voice round her to assemble and retain her hearers; butall fled, melted away, disappeared--deputies, reporters, unknown andmocking faces to whom she wished at any cost to tell her story, carelessof the indifference where her sorrows and her joys fell, her pride andmaternal tenderness expressed in a tornado of feeling. And while she wasthus exciting herself and struggling--distracted, her bonnet awry--atonce grotesque and sublime, as are all the children of nature whenbrought into civilization, taking to witness the honesty of her sonand the injustice of men, even the liveried servants, whose disdainfulimpassibility was more cruel than all, Jansoulet appeared suddenlybeside her.
"Take my arm, mother. You must not stop there."
He said it in a tone so firm and calm that all the laughter ceased, andthe old woman, suddenly quieted, sustained by this solid hold, stilltrembling a little with anger, left the palace between two respectfulrows. A dignified and rustic couple, the millions of the son gilding thecountrified air of the mother, like the rags of a saint enshrined in agolden _chasse_--they disappeared in the bright sunlight outside, in thesplendour of their glittering carriage--a ferocious irony in their deepdistress, a striking symbol of the terrible misery of the rich.
They sat well back, for both feared to be seen, and hardly spoke atfirst. But when the vehicle was well on its way, and he had behindhim the sad Calvary where his honour hung gibbeted, Jansoulet, utterlyovercome, laid his head on his mother's shoulder, hid it in the oldgreen shawl, and there, with the burning tears flowing, all his greatbody shaken by sobs, he returned to the cry of his childhood: "Mother."