Complete Works of Emile Zola (311 page)

When she arrived, only Marthe and Mouret were in the dining-room.

‘Hallo!’ cried the latter in great surprise, as he saw her coming, ‘here’s your mother! I wonder what she wants! She was here less than a month ago. She’s scheming after something or other, I know.’

The Rougons, whose assistant Mouret had been prior to his marriage, when their shabby little shop in the old quarter of the town had ever suggested bankruptcy, were the objects of his constant suspicions. They returned the feeling with bitter and deep-seated animosity, their rancour being espe­cially aroused by the speedy success which had attended him in business. When their son-in-law said, ‘I simply owe my fortune to my own exertions,’ they bit their lips and under­stood quite well that he was accusing them of having gained theirs by less honourable means. Notwithstanding the fine house she now had on the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, Félicité silently envied the peaceful little home of the Mourets, with all the bitter jealousy of a retired shopkeeper who owed her fortune to something else than the profits of her business.

Félicité kissed Marthe on the forehead and then gave her hand to Mouret. She and her son-in-law generally affected a mocking tone in their conversations together.

‘Well,’ she said to him with a smile, ‘the gendarmes haven’t been for you yet then, you revolutionist?’

‘No, not yet,’ he replied with a responsive smile; ‘they are waiting till your husband gives them the order.’

‘It’s very nice and polite of you to say that!’ exclaimed Félicité, whose eyes were beginning to glisten.

Marthe turned a beseeching glance upon Mouret. He had gone too far; but his feelings were roused and he added:

‘Good gracious! What are we thinking of to receive you in the dining-room? Let us go into the drawing-room, I beg you.’

This was one of his usual pleasantries. He affected all Félicité’s fine airs whenever he received a visit from her. It was to no purpose that Marthe protested that they were very comfortable where they were; her husband insisted that she and her mother should follow him into the drawing-room. When they got there, he bustled about, opening the shutters and drawing out the chairs. The drawing-room, which was seldom entered, and the shutters of which were generally kept closed, was a great wilderness of a room, with furniture swathed in white dust-covers which were turning yellow from the proximity of the damp garden.

‘It is really disgraceful!’ muttered Mouret, wiping the dust from a small console; ‘that wretched Rose neglects everything abominably.’

Then, turning towards his mother-in-law, he said with ill-concealed irony:

‘You will excuse us for receiving you in this way in our poor dwelling. We cannot all be wealthy.’

Félicité was choking with rage. She scanned Mouret for a moment, and almost indulged in a burst of anger; but she made an effort to restrain herself and slowly dropped her eyes. When she again raised them she spoke in a pleasant tone.

‘I have just been calling upon Madame de Condamin,’ she said, ‘and I thought I would look in here and see how you all were. The children are well, I hope, and you, too, my dear Mouret?’

‘Yes, we are all wonderfully well,’ he replied, quite astonished by this amiability.

But the old lady gave him no time to import any fresh unpleasantness into the conversation, for she began to ques­tion Marthe affectionately about all sorts of trifles, playing the part of a fond grandmother and scolding Mouret for not sending the dear children to see her oftener, for she was always so delighted to have them with her, said she.

‘Well, here we are in October again,’ she remarked care­lessly, after awhile, ‘and I shall be having my day again, Thursdays, as in former seasons. I shall count upon seeing you, my dear Marthe, of course; and you too, Mouret, you will look in occasionally, won’t you, and not go on sulking with us for ever?’

Mouret, who was growing a little suspicious of all his mother-in-law’s affectionate chatter, was at a loss how to reply. He had not expected such a thrust, but there was nothing in it to which he could take exception; so he merely said:

‘You know very well that I can’t go to your house; you receive a lot of people who would be delighted to have an opportunity of making themselves disagreeable to me. And, besides, I don’t want to mix myself up with politics.’

‘You are quite mistaken, Mouret, quite mistaken!’ Félicité replied. ‘My drawing-room is not a club; I would never allow it to become one. All the town knows that I do all I can to make my house as pleasant as possible; and if political matters ever are discussed there, it is only in corners, I assure you. Ah! believe me, I had quite enough of politics long ago. What makes you say such a thing?’

‘Why, you receive all the Sub-Prefecture set,’ Mouret said shortly.

‘The Sub-Prefecture set!’ she repeated, ‘the Sub-Prefecture set! Certainly I receive those gentlemen. But I don’t think that Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies will be found very often in my house this winter. My husband has told him pretty plainly what he thought of his conduct in connection with the last elections. He allowed himself to be tricked like a mere nincompoop. But his friends are very pleasant men. Monsieur Delangre and Monsieur de Condamin are extremely amiable, and that worthy Paloque is kindness itself, while I’m sure you can have nothing to say against Doctor Porquier.’

Mouret shrugged his shoulders.

‘Besides,’ she continued, with ironic emphasis, ‘I also receive Monsieur Rastoil’s circle, worthy Monsieur Maffre and our clever friend Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect. So you see we are not at all bigoted or exclusive, the repre­sentatives of all opinions find a welcome among us. Of course when I am inviting a party of people, I don’t ask those to meet each other who would be likely to quarrel. But wit and cleverness are welcome in whomsoever they are found, and we pride ourselves upon having at our gatherings all the most distinguished persons in Plassans. My drawing-room is neutral ground, remember that, Mouret; yes, neutral ground that is the right expression.’

She had grown quite animated whilst talking. Her drawing-room was her great glory, and it was her desire to reign there, not as a chief of a party, but as a queen of society. It is true that her friends said that she was adopting con­ciliatory tactics merely in conformity with the advice of her son Eugène, the minister,
1
who had charged her to personify at Plassans the gentleness and amiability of the Empire.

‘You may say what you like,’ Mouret growled, ‘but that Maffre of yours is a bigot, and your Bourdeu is a fool, and most of all the others are a pack of rascals. That’s my opinion of them. I am much obliged to you for your invita­tion, but it would disturb my habits too much to accept it. I like to go to bed in good time, and I prefer stopping at home.’

Félicité rose from her seat, and turning her back upon Mouret, she said to her daughter:

‘Well, at any rate I may expect you, mayn’t I, my dear?’

‘Of course you may,’ replied Marthe, who wished to soften the bluntness of her husband’s blunt refusal.

The old lady was just going to leave, when a thought seemed to strike her, and she asked if she might kiss Désirée, whom she had seen playing in the garden. She would not let them call the girl into the house, but insisted on going herself to the terrace, which was still damp from a slight shower which had fallen in the morning. When she found Désirée, she was profuse in her caresses of the girl, who seemed rather frightened of her. Then she raised her head as if by chance and looked at the curtains at the second-floor windows.

‘Ah! you have let the rooms, then? Oh, yes! I remember now; to a priest, isn’t it? I’ve heard it spoken of. What sort of a person is he, this priest of yours?’

Mouret looked at her keenly. A sudden suspicion flashed through his mind, and he began to guess that it was entirely on account of Abbé Faujas that his mother-in-law had favoured them with this visit.

‘Upon my word,’ he replied, without taking his eyes off her, ‘I really know nothing about him. But perhaps you are able to give me some information concerning him yourself?’

‘I!’ she cried, with an appearance of great surprise. ‘Why, I’ve never even seen him! Stay, though, I know he is one of the curates at Saint-Saturnin; Father Bourrette told me that. By the way, that reminds me that I ought to ask him to my Thursdays. The director of the seminary and the bishop’s secretary are already amongst my circle of visitors.’

And, turning to Marthe, she added:

‘When you see your lodger you might sound him, so as to be able to tell me whether an invitation from me would be acceptable.’

‘We scarcely ever see him,’ Mouret hastily interposed. ‘He comes in and goes out without ever opening his mouth. And, besides, it is really no business of ours.’

He still kept his eyes fixed suspiciously upon her. He felt quite sure that she knew much more about Abbé Faujas than she was willing to admit. However, she did not once flinch beneath his searching gaze.

‘Very well, it’s all the same to me,’ she said, with an appearance of unconcern. ‘I shall be able to find out some other way of inviting him, if he’s the right sort of person, I’ve no doubt. Good-bye, my children.’

As she was mounting the steps again, a tall old man appeared on the hall threshold. He was dressed very neatly in blue cloth, and had a fur cap pressed over his eyes. In his hand he carried a whip.

‘Hallo! why there’s Uncle Macquart!’ cried Mouret, casting a curious glance at his mother-in-law.

An expression of extreme annoyance passed over Félicité’s face. Macquart, Rougon’s illegitimate brother, had, by the latter’s aid, returned to France after he had compromised himself in the rising of 1851. Since arriving from Piedmont he had been leading the life of a sleek and well-to-do citizen. He had purchased, though where the money had come from no one knew, a small house at the village of Les Tulettes, about three leagues from Plassans. And by degrees he had fitted up an establishment there, and had now even become possessed of a horse and trap, and was constantly to be met on the high roads, smoking his pipe, enjoying the sunshine, and sniggering like a tamed wolf. Rougon’s enemies whispered that the two brothers had perpetrated some black business together, and that Pierre Rougon was keeping Antoine Macquart.

‘Good day, Uncle!’ said Mouret affectedly; ‘have you come to pay us a little visit?

‘Yes, indeed,’ Macquart replied, in a voice as guileless as a child’s. ‘You know that whenever I come to Plassans — Hallo, Félicité! I didn’t expect to find you here! I came over to see Rougon. There was something I wanted to talk to him about.’

‘He was at home, wasn’t he?’ she exclaimed with uneasy haste.

‘Yes, he was at home,’ Uncle Macquart replied tranquilly.

‘I saw him, and we had a talk together. He is a good fellow, is Rougon.’

He laughed slightly, and while Félicité stamped her feet with restless anxiety, he went on talking in his drawling voice, which made it seem as if he was always laughing at those whom he addressed.

‘Mouret, my boy, I have brought you a couple of rabbits,’ he said. ‘They are in a basket over there. I have given them to Rose. I brought another couple with me for Rougon.

You will find them at home, Félicité, and you must tell me how they turn out. They are beautifully plump; I fattened them up for you. Ah, my dears! it pleases me very much to be able to make you these little presents.’

Félicité turned quite pale, and pressed her lips tightly, while Mouret continued to look at her with a quiet smile.

She would have been glad to get away, if she had not been afraid of Macquart gossiping as soon as her back should be turned.

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ said Mouret. ‘The plums that you brought us the last time you came were very good. Won’t you have something to drink?’

‘Well, that’s an offer I really can’t refuse.’

When Rose had brought him out a glass of wine, he sat down on the balustrade of the terrace and slowly sipped the beverage, smacking his tongue and holding up the glass to the light.

‘This comes from the district of Saint-Eutrope,’ he said. ‘I’m not to be deceived in matters of this kind. I know the different districts thoroughly.’

He wagged his head and again sniggered.

Then Mouret, with an intonation that was full of meaning, suddenly asked him:

‘And how are things getting on at Les Tulettes?’

Macquart raised his eyes and looked at them all. Then giving a final cluck of his tongue and putting down the glass on the stone-work by his side, he said, quite unconcernedly.

‘Oh! very well. I heard of her the day before yesterday. She is still just the same.’

Félicité had turned her head away. For a moment no one spoke. Mouret had just put his finger upon one of the family’s sore places, by alluding to old Adelaide, the mother of Rougon and Macquart, who for several years now had been shut up as a mad woman in the asylum at Les Tulettes. Macquart’s little property was near the mad-house, and it seemed as though Rougon had posted the old scamp there to keep watch over their mother.

‘It is getting late,’ Macquart said at last, rising from his seat on the balustrade,’ and I want to get back again before night I shall expect to see you over at my house one of these days, Mouret, my boy. You have promised me several times to come, you know.’

‘Oh, yes! I’ll come, Uncle, I’ll come.’

‘Ah! but that isn’t enough. I want you all to come; all of you, do you hear? I am very dull out there all by myself. I will give you some dinner.’

Then, turning to Félicité, he added:

‘Tell Rougon that I shall expect him and you, too. You needn’t stop from coming just because the old mother happens to be near there. She is
going on very well, I tell you, and is properly looked after. You may safely trust yourselves to me, and I will give you some wine from one of the slopes of La Seille, a light wine that will warm you up famously.’

He began to walk towards the gate as he spoke. Félicité followed him so closely that it almost seemed as if she were pushing him out of the garden. They all accompanied him to the street. While he was untethering his horse, which he had fastened by the reins to one of the house shutters, Abbé Faujas, who was just returning home, passed the group with a slight bow. He glided on as noiselessly as a black shadow, but Félicité quickly turned and watched him till he reached the staircase. Unfortunately she had not had time to catch sight of his face. Macquart on perceiving the priest had shaken his head in utter surprise.