Complete Works of Emile Zola (346 page)

‘I told you so; he is the very man we want. I shall be curious to see what the sub-prefect will say when the mayor’s name heads the list. The authorities can scarcely accuse us of having voted like a lot of sulking school-boys, any more than they can reproach us with having gone down on our knees before the government. If the Empire could only receive a few lessons like this, things would go much better.’

The whole thing was like a train of gunpowder. The mine was laid, and a spark was sufficient to set it off. In every part of Plassans simultaneously, in all the three quar­ters of the town, in every house, and in every family, Mon­sieur Delangre’s name was pronounced amidst unanimous eulogies. He had become the expected Messiah, the saviour, unknown the previous day, revealed in the morning, and worshipped ere night.

Even in the sacristies and confessionals of Plassans, his name was buzzed about; it mingled with the echoes in the naves, sounded from pulpits in the suburbs, was passed on from ear to ear like a sacrament, and made its way into the most distant homes of the pious. The priests carried it about with them in the folds of their cassocks; Abbé Bourrette bestowed on it the respectable cheeriness of his corporation, Abbé Surin the grace of his smile, and Monseigneur Rousselot the charm of his pastoral blessing. The fashion­able ladies were never tired of talking of Monsieur Delangre. He had such a kind disposition, they said, and such a fine sensible face. Madame Rastoil learned to blush again at mention of him; Madame Paloque grew almost pretty in her enthusiasm, while as for Madame de Condamin, she was ready to fight for him, and won all hearts to his side by the tender way in which she pressed the hands of the electors who promised to vote for him. The Young Men’s Club, too, grew passionately enthusiastic on his behalf. Séverin made quite a hero of him, and Guillaume and the young Maffres went canvassing for him through all the dis­reputable parts of the town.

On the day of the election his majority was overwhelming. The whole town seemed to have conspired together to return him. The Marquis de Lagrifoul and Monsieur de Bourdeu, bursting with indignation and crying that they had been betrayed, had retired from the contest, and thus Monsieur Delangre’s only opponent was the hatter Maurin. The latter received the votes of some fifteen hundred intractable Repub­licans of the outskirts of the town; while the mayor had the support of the country districts, the fervent Bonapartists, the townsmen of the new quarter who were amenable to clerical influence, the timid shopkeepers of the old town, and even certain simple-minded Royalists of the district of Saint-Marc, whose aristocratic denizens chiefly abstained from voting. Monsieur Delangre thus obtained thirty-three thousand votes. The business was managed so promptly, the victory was won with such a dash, that Plassans felt quite amazed, on the evening of the election, to find itself so unanimous. The town half fancied that it had just had a wonderful dream, that some powerful hand must have struck the soil and drawn from it those thirty-three thousand electors, that army, almost alarming in its numbers, whose strength no one had ever before suspected. The politicians of the Commercial Club looked at one another in perplexity, like men dazed with victory.

In the evening, Monsieur Rastoil’s friends joined those of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, to congratulate each other, in a little drawing-room at the Sub-Prefecture, overlooking the gardens, Tea was served to them. The great victory of the day ended by a coalition of the two parties. All the usual guests were present.

‘I have never systematically opposed any government,’ said Monsieur Rastoil, after a time, as he accepted some little cakes which Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies offered him. ‘The judicial bench ought to take no part in political struggles. I willingly admit that the Empire has already accomplished some great things, and that it has a still nobler future before it, if it continues to advance in the paths of justice and liberty.’

The sub-prefect bowed, as though this eulogy was addressed to himself personally. The previous evening, Monsieur Rastoil had read in the ‘Moniteur’ a decree appointing his son assis­tant public prosecutor at Faverolles. There was also a good deal of talk about a marriage between his eldest daughter and Lucien Delangre.

‘Oh, yes! it is quite settled,’ Monsieur de Condamin said in low tones to Madame Paloque, who had just been question­ing him upon the subject. ‘He has chosen Angéline. I believe that he would rather have had Aurélie, but it has probably been hinted to him that it would not be seemly for the younger sister to be married before the elder one.’

‘Angéline! Are you quite sure?’ Madame Paloque mur­mured maliciously. ‘I fancy that Angéline has a likeness — ‘

The conservator of rivers and forests put his finger to his lips, with a smile.

‘Well, it’s just a toss-up, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘It will strengthen the ties between the two families. We are all good friends now. Paloque is expecting his cross, and I am quite satisfied with everything.’

Monsieur Delangre did not arrive till late. He received, as newspaper writers say, a perfect ovation. Madame de Condamin had just informed Doctor Porquier that his son Guillaume had been nominated chief clerk at the post-office. She was circulating good news through the room, declaring that Abbé Bourrette would be vicar-general the following year; that Abbé Surin would be a bishop before he was forty, and that Monsieur Maffre was to have a cross.

‘Poor Bourdeu!’ exclaimed Monsieur Rastoil, with a last sigh of regret.

‘Oh, there’s no occasion to pity him!’ cried Madame de Condamin, gaily. ‘I will undertake to console him. He is not cut out for the Chamber. What he wants is a prefecture. Tell him that he shall have one before long.’

The merriment increased. The fair Octavie’s high spirits, and the desire which she showed to please everybody, delighted the company. It was really she who was doing the honours of the Sub-Prefecture. She was the queen of the place. And, while she seemed to be speaking quite playfully, she gave Monsieur Delangre the most practical advice in the world about the part he ought to play in the Corps Législatif. She took him aside and offered to introduce him to several influential people, an offer which he gratefully accepted. About eleven o’clock, Monsieur de Condamin suggested that the garden should be illuminated, but his wife calmed the enthusiasm of the gentlemen, and said that such a course would be inadvisable, for it would not do to appear to be exulting over the town.

‘Well, what about Abbé Fenil?’ she suddenly asked Abbé Faujas, as she took him aside into one of the window recesses. ‘He has not made any movement, has he?’

‘Abbé Fenil is a man of sense,’ the priest replied. ‘It has been hinted to him that he would do well not to interfere in political matters for the future.’

In the midst of all the triumphant joy, Abbé Faujas remained grave. He had won after a hard fight. Madame de Condamin’s chatter wearied him; and the satisfaction of these people, with their poor vulgar ambitions, filled him with disdain. As he stood leaning against the mantel-piece, with a far-off look in his eyes, he seemed to be buried in thought. He was master now, and no longer compelled to veil and suppress his real feelings. He could reach out his hand and seize the town, and make it tremble in his grasp. His tall, black figure seemed to fill the room. The guests gradually drew their chairs closer to him, and formed a circle round him. The men awaited some expression of satisfaction from his lips, the women besought him with their eyes, like submissive slaves. But he bluntly broke through the circle and went away the first, saying but a brief word or two as he took his leave.

When he returned to the Mourets’ house, going thither by way of the Impasse des Chevillottes and the garden, he found Marthe alone in the dining-room, sitting listlessly on a chair against the wall, looking very pale, and gazing with a blank expression at the lamp, the wick of which was beginning to char. Upstairs, Trouche was having a party, and could be heard singing a broad comic song, which Olympe and his guests accompanied by striking their glasses with the handles of their knives.

CHAPTER XX

Abbé Faujas laid his hand on Marthe’s shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.’ Why haven’t you gone to bed? I told you that you were not to wait for me.’

She started up and stammered:

‘I thought you would be back much earlier than this. I fell asleep. I dare say Rose will have got some tea ready.’

The priest called for the cook and rated her for not having made her mistress go to bed. He spoke in authoritative tones that admitted of no reply.

‘Bring the tea for his reverence, Rose,’ said Marthe.

‘No, I don’t want any tea,’ the priest said with a show of vexation. ‘Go to bed immediately. It is absurd. I can scarcely control myself. Show me a light, Rose.’

The cook went with him as far as the foot of the staircase.

‘Your reverence knows that I am not to blame,’ she said. ‘Madame is very strange. Ill as she is, she can’t stop for a single hour in her room. She can’t keep from coming and going up and down, and fidgetting about merely for the sake of being on the move. She puts me out quite as much as anyone else; she is always in my way, preventing me from getting on with anything. Then she drops down on a chair and sits staring in front of her with a terrified look, as though she could see something horrible. I told her half a score of times at least, to-night, that you would be very angry with her for not going to bed; but she didn’t even seem to hear what I said.’

The priest went upstairs without replying. As he passed the Trouches’ room he stretched out his arm as though he was going to bang his fist on the door. But the singing had stopped, and he could tell from the sounds within that the visitors were about to take their departure, so he quickly stepped into his own room. Almost immediately afterwards Trouche went downstairs with a couple of men whom he had picked up in some low café, crying out on the staircase that he knew how to behave himself and was going to see them home. Olympe leant over the banisters.

‘You can fasten the doors,’ she said to Rose. ‘He won’t be back before to-morrow morning.’

Rose, from whom she had not been able to conceal her husband’s misconduct, expressed much pity for her, and growled as she fastened the doors:

‘What fools women are to get married! Their husbands either beat them or go off after hussies. For my part, I’d very much rather keep as I am.’

When she went back into the dining-room she found her mistress again in a sort of melancholy stupor, with her eyes fixed upon the lamp. She shook her and made her go upstairs to bed. Marthe had become very timid. She said she saw great patches of light on the walls of her room at nighttime, and heard violent blows at the head of her bed. Rose now slept near her, in a little dressing-room whence she hastened to calm her at the slightest uneasiness. That night she had not finished undressing herself before she heard Marthe groaning, and, on rushing into her room, she found her lying amidst the disordered bed-clothes, her eyes staring widely in mute horror, and her clenched fists pressed closely against her mouth to keep herself from shrieking. Rose was obliged to talk to her and soothe her as though she were a mere child, and even had to look behind the curtains and under the furniture, and assure her that she was mistaken, for there was really no one there. These attacks of terror ended in cataleptic seizures, when the unhappy woman lay back on her pillow, with her eyelids rigidly opened as though she were dead.

‘It is the thought of the master that torments her,’ Rose muttered, as she at last got into bed.

The next day was one of those when Doctor Porquier called. He came regularly twice a week to see Madame Mouret. He patted her hands and said to her with his amiable optimism:

‘Oh! nothing serious will come of this, my dear lady. You still cough a little, don’t you? Ah! it’s a mere cold which has been neglected, but which we will cure with some syrups.’

But Marthe complained to him of intolerable pains in her back and chest, and kept her eyes upon him, as if trying to discover from his face and manner what he would not say in words.

‘I am afraid of going mad!’ she suddenly cried, breaking into a sob.

The doctor smilingly reassured her. The sight of him always caused her keen anxiety, she felt a sort of alarm of this gentle and agreeable man. She often told Rose not to admit him, saying that she was not ill, and had no need to have a doctor constantly to see her. Rose shrugged her shoulders, however, and ushered the doctor into the room. However, he had almost ceased speaking to Marthe about her ailments, and seemed to be merely making friendly calls upon her.

As he was going away, he met Abbé Faujas, who was returning from Saint-Saturnin’s. The priest questioned him respecting Madame Mouret’s condition.

‘Science is sometimes quite powerless,’ said the doctor gravely, ‘but the goodness of Providence is inexhaustible. The poor lady has been sorely shaken, but I don’t altogether give her up. Her chest is only slightly attacked as yet, and the climate here is favourable.’

Then he started a dissertation upon the treatment of pul­monary diseases in the neighbourhood of Plassans. He was preparing a pamphlet on the subject, not for publication, for he was too shrewd to wish to seem a
savant,
but for the perusal of a few intimate friends.

‘I have weighty reasons,’ he said in conclusion, ‘for believing that the equable temperature, the aromatic flora, and the salubrious springs of our hills, are extremely effective for the cure of pulmonary complaints.’

The priest had listened to him with his usual stern ex­pression.

‘You are mistaken,’ he said slowly, ‘Plassans does not agree with Madame Mouret. Why not send her to pass the winter at Nice?’

‘At Nice?’ repeated the doctor, uneasily.

He looked at the priest for a moment, and then continued in his complacent way:

‘Nice certainly would be very suitable for her. In her present condition of nervous excitement, a change of surround­ings would probably have very beneficial results. I must advise her to make the journey. It is an excellent idea of yours, Monsieur le Curé.’