Complete Works of Emile Zola (419 page)

‘Don’t you think you could get me in?’ she asked him, when she had attracted his attention by waving her hand­kerchief.

Du Poizat went and spoke to an officer, and then led Madame Correur in front of the church.

‘If you’ll take my advice,’ he said to her, ‘you’ll stay here with me. It’s perfectly packed inside. I was nearly suffo­cated myself, and so I came out. See, there are Colonel Jobelin and Monsieur Bouchard, who have given up all hope of finding room.’

She looked and saw the two men on her left, near the Rue du Cloître Notre Dame. M. Bouchard was saying that he had just left his wife in charge of M. d’Escorailles, who had an excellent seat for a lady at his disposal, while the colonel’s chief regret seemed to be that he was not able to explain the ceremony to his son Auguste.

‘I much wished to show him the famous vase,’ he said. ‘It is, as you know, the genuine vase of Saint Louis — a vase of copper, damascened and ornamented with niello-work in the most perfect Persian manner. It is a relic of the times of the Crusades, and has been used at the christenings of all our kings ever since.’

‘Did you see all the insignia?’ M. Bouchard asked Du Poizat.

‘Yes,’ replied the latter. ‘Madame de Llorentz was carrying the chrisom.’

Then he entered into details. The chrisom was the christening cloth, a fact of which neither of the men had been aware. But Du Poizat went on to enumerate, not only the insignia of the Prince Impérial, the chrisom, the candle and the salt-cellar, but the insignia of the godfather and god­mother, the basin, the ewer and the towel, all of which were carried by ladies-in-waiting. Then there was also the little prince’s mantle, a most magnificent and wonderful mantle, which was hung over an arm-chair near the font.

‘Isn’t there really the smallest corner where I could squeeze myself?’ cried Madame Correur, in whom all these details had roused a fever of curiosity.

Then they told her of all the great state bodies and high officials and innumerable deputations that they had seen pass. It was an almost endless procession, they said; the Diplo­matic body, the Senate, the Corps Législatif, the Council of State, the Supreme Court, the Exchequer Court, the Appeal Court, the Tribunals of Commerce and of First Instance; to say nothing of the ministers, the prefects, the mayors and their deputies, the academicians, the general officers, and a host of others, including even delegates from the Jewish and Protestant consistories.

‘Oh! what a splendid sight it must be!’ Madame Correur exclaimed with a sigh.

Du Poizat shrugged his shoulders. He was in a very bad humour. All those people bored him, he said, and he seemed irritated by the length of the ceremony. How much longer would they be? They had sung the
Veni Creator
and had censed themselves and walked about and saluted one another. Surely the child must be christened by this time!

Meanwhile M. Bouchard and the colonel manifested greater patience and examined the decorated windows of the square; then, as a sudden peal of the bells shook the towers, they turned their heads and quivered uneasily at their close proximity to the huge church, whose summit they could not even discern in the sky. However, Auguste had slipped towards the porch, whither Madame Correur followed him. But when she reached the great door, which was wide open, the magnificent sight she beheld kept her rooted to the ground.

Between the two great curtains of the porch the church appeared like a vision of some superhuman temple. The vaulted arches, of a soft blue, were spangled with stars. Around this wondrous firmament the stained-glass windows gleamed like mystic planets, sparkling with burning jewels. From the lofty pillars on all sides hung drapery of crimson velvet, which still further shut the daylight out of the usually dim nave; and in the centre of this roseate twilight there blazed a multitude of tapers — thousands of tapers — so closely crowded that they seemed like a great sun flaming out amidst a rain of stars. This blaze was that of the altar, set on a platform in the centre of the transept. Thrones were placed on the right and left of it. Over the higher of the two thrones a spreading canopy of velvet lined with ermine showed like a huge bird with snowy breast and purple wings. The church was filled with a glittering crowd, bright with gold and jewels. Near the altar a group of clergy, bishops with mitres and croziers, formed, as it were, a glory, one of those dazzling splendours which suggest heaven itself. Around the altar princes, princesses and great dignitaries were ranged in sovereign pomp and circumstance. Then tiers of seats had been set up in the arms of the transept, for the Diplomatic body and the Senate, on the right, and for the Corps Législatif and the Council of State on the left; while representative bodies of every kind crowded the rest of the nave, and ladies displayed their bright, variegated gowns in the galleries above. A sanguineous haze floated over everything. The heads which showed in tiers on all sides had the roseate hue of painted porcelain. The dresses, the satin and silk and velvet, glowed with a dull splendour as though they would soon burst into a blaze. Rows of people suddenly seemed to flare. The whole deep church was like some wondrous furnace.

Then Madame Correur saw an assistant master of the ceremonies advance to the centre of the choir, where he thrice shouted energetically: ‘Long live the Prince Impérial! Long live the Prince Impérial! Long live the Prince Impérial!’

And as the lofty arches shook with a mighty acclamation, Madame Correur saw the Emperor standing on the altar steps overlooking the throng. He stood out black and distinct against the background of blazing gold which the bishops formed behind him. He was presenting the Prince Impérial to the people, holding the infant, who seemed a mere bundle of white lace, aloft in his upstretched arms.

But a beadle suddenly motioned to Madame Correur to retire. She took a couple of steps backwards, and the next moment saw nothing but one of the curtains of the porch. The vision had disappeared. The bright daylight made her blink, and for an instant she remained confused, half fancying that she had been gazing upon some old picture like those in the Louvre, some picture baked by age, purpled and gilded, and depicting people of a past-away time, such as one no longer met in the streets.

‘Don’t stop there,’ Du Poizat said to her, as he led her back to the colonel and M. Bouchard.

The latter were now discussing the floods, which had caused terrible destruction in the valleys of the Rhone and the Loire. Thousands of families had been rendered homeless. The subscriptions which had been opened on all sides were insufficient for the relief of such great distress. However, they asserted that the Emperor had exhibited most admirable courage and generosity. At Lyons he had been seen fording the low parts of the inundated city, and at Tours he had spent three hours rowing in a boat through the submerged streets; and everywhere he had lavishly distributed alms.

‘Ah, listen!’ interrupted the colonel.

The organ was now pealing through the church, and a sonorous chant rolled through the porch, whose curtains swayed as the great gust of sound swept out.

‘It is the
Te Deum!’
exclaimed M. Bouchard.

Du Poizat heaved a sigh of relief. They were getting to an end at last! M. Bouchard, however, informed him that the registers had yet to be signed, and, afterwards, the Cardinal-Legate would have to give the pontifical benediction. Some of the congregation were, however, already leaving. Rougon was one of the first to appear, giving his arm to a lady of slight build, who had a sallow complexion, and was very plainly dressed. They were accompanied by a personage who wore the dress of a president of an Appeal Court.

‘Who are those?’ asked Madame Correur.

Du Poizat told her their names. M. Beulin-d’Orchère, the president, had become acquainted with Rougon some time before the Coup d’état, and had manifested much esteem for him since that period, without, however, attempting to esta­blish any close intimacy. Mademoiselle Véronique, his sister, lived with him in a house in the Rue Garancière, which she seldom left except to attend low mass at Saint Sulpice.

‘Ah!’ said the colonel, lowering his voice, ‘that is the wife for Rougon!’

‘Exactly,’ assented M. Bouchard. ‘She has got a suit­able fortune; her family is good, and she is a steady-going woman of experience. He will never find a wife more fitted for him.’

Du Poizat, however, protested. The lady, he said, was as over-ripe as a forgotten medlar. She was at least thirty-six years of age, and looked forty. A nice broom-handle in all truth! A devotee with hair brushed smooth and smug! As faded and as washed-out as though she had been soaking her head in holy water for the last six months!

‘You are young,’ rejoined the head-clerk, gravely. ‘Rougon ought to make a sensible marriage. I myself married for love, but that does not succeed with everyone.’

‘Oh! I don’t apprehend any danger from the lady herself,’ continued Du Poizat; ‘it’s Beulin-d’Orchère’s look that alarms me. He’s got a regular dog’s jaw. Just look at him with his heavy muzzle and forest of woolly hair, without a single silver thread in it, in spite of his fifty years. What’s he thinking about, I wonder? Why does he still drive his sister into Rougon’s arms now that our friend is out of favour?’

M. Bouchard and the colonel kept silent, and exchanged uneasy glances. Was ‘the dog,’ as the ex-sub-prefect called him, going to make Rougon his own prey?

However, Madame Correur slowly opined: ‘It is a good thing to have the judicial bench on one’s side.’

Meantime, Rougon was conducting Mademoiselle Véronique to her carriage, and, before she got into it, he bowed to her. Just at that moment the fair Clorinde came out of the church, leaning upon Delestang’s arm. She became quite grave, and cast a fiery glance at that tall sallow creature, the door of whose carriage Rougon was gallantly closing, notwith­standing his senatorial uniform. And as soon as the carriage had gone off, Clorinde dropped Delestang’s arm, and stepped straight up to the great man, breaking out into her old gay laugh. All the others followed.

‘I have lost my mother!’ merrily said the girl to Rougon. ‘She has been carried off somewhere in the crowd. Will you give me a little corner in your brougham?’

At this Delestang, who had hoped to take her home, seemed very much annoyed. She was wearing a dress of orange silk, brocaded with such showy flowers that the very footmen stared at her. Rougon had immediately granted her request, but they had to wait for the brougham for another ten minutes. And they all remained standing where they were, even Delestang, though his carriage was in the first row, only a yard or two away. In the meanwhile the congre­gation continued to leave the church. M. Kahn and M. Béjuin, who were passing, came up and joined the group. And as the great man shook hands in a listless way, and looked somewhat out of sorts, M. Kahn asked with anxious concern: ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he answered, ‘but those lights inside there rather dazed me.’ He remained silent for a moment, and then continued in a low voice: ‘It was a splendid sight. I never saw such an expression of happiness upon a man’s face before.’

He was referring to the Emperor, and, as he spoke, he slowly spread out his arms with a sweeping majestic gesture, as though he were recalling the scene in the church. But he added not a word, and the others likewise kept silence. They formed quite a little group in a corner of the square. In front of them the stream of people leaving the church grew larger; there were judges in their robes, officers and function­aries in full uniform, a crowd of belaced and bedizened and decorated personages who trod over the flowers strewing the square, amidst the calls of footmen and sudden rolling of carriage-wheels. The soaring glory of the Empire blazed, as it were, in the crimson of the setting sun; and the towers of Notre Dame, all roseate and musical, seemed to attest the lofty peace and greatness to which the future reign of the child, baptized beneath their shadow, would some day attain. But in Rougon’s group, the splendour of the ceremony, the pealing bells, the streaming banners, and the enthusiasm of the city only aroused feelings of envy and desire. For the first time Rougon himself felt the chilly weight of the dis­favour into which he had fallen. His face was very pale, and, as he stood there deep in thought, he envied the Emperor.

‘Well, good afternoon; I’m off! I can’t stand it any longer!’ exclaimed Du Poizat, shaking hands with the others.

‘What’s the matter with you to-day?’ asked the colonel, ‘you seem very fractious.’

But the sub-prefect quietly replied, as he went away: ‘Well, you can scarcely expect me to be in very high spirits. I saw in the
Moniteur
this morning that that ass of a Campenon has been appointed to the prefecture which was promised to me.’

The others exchanged glances. Du Poizat was quite right. They had no share in the fête. They were all left out in the cold. Ever since the birth of the prince, Rougon had promised them a shower of presents for the day of the christening. M, Kahn was to have had his railway grant; the colonel was to have had a commander’s cross, and Madame Correur was to have had the five or six tobacco-shops for which she had asked. And now they were all huddled there in a corner of the square, empty-handed. At this thought they cast such a distressful and reproachful look at Rougon, that the latter shrugged his shoulders furiously. And as his brougham at last drew up, he hastily pushed Clorinde inside, got in himself, and closed the door with a bang, never saying a word.

‘There’s Marsy under the porch,’ muttered M. Kahn, dragging M. Béjuin on one side. ‘How arrogant the rascal looks! Don’t show him your face; it would only give him the opportunity of cutting us.’

Delestang had hastily got into his carriage in order to follow Rougon’s brougham. M. Bouchard, however, waited for his wife, and when the church was empty he was surprised at not seeing her appear; however, he went off with the colonel, who had grown equally tired of waiting for his son Auguste. As for Madame Correur, she accepted the escort of a lieutenant of dragoons, who came from her own part of France, and who was to some extent indebted to her for his epaulets.