Complete Works of Emile Zola (458 page)

They were now staying at the Hôtel du Palais Royal in the Rue de Rivoli. Gilquin watched them go off, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. ‘So they leave me in the lurch too!’ he muttered. ‘Ah, they’re all alike.’

But then he suddenly caught sight of Rougon, and, rising with a swagger, he waited for him to pass. ‘I haven’t been to see you yet,’ he said, again tapping his cap. ‘I hope you’re not offended. That mountebank Du Poizat has told you some fine stories about me, I dare say. But they are all lies, my good fellow, as I can prove to you whenever you like. Well, for my part I don’t bear you any ill will; and I’ll prove it by giving you my address, 25 Rue du Bon Puits, at La Chapelle, five minutes’ walk from the barrier. So if I can be of any further use to you, you see, you have merely to let me know.’

Then he walked away with a slouching gait. For a moment he glanced round as if taking his bearings, and then, shaking his fist at the Tuileries, which showed grey and gloomy beneath the black sky at the end of the avenue, he cried: ‘Long live the Republic!’

Rougon passed out of the garden and went up the Champs Elysées. He experienced a strong desire to go and look at his little house in the Rue Marbeuf. He intended to quit his official residence on the morrow and again instal himself in his old home. He felt tired but calm, with just a slight pain in the depths of his being. He already dreamt hazily of some day proving his powers by again doing great things. Every now and then, too, he raised his head and looked at the sky. The rain did not seem inclined to come down just yet, though the horizon was streaked with coppery clouds, and loud claps of thunder travelled over the deserted avenue of the Champs Elysées, with a crash like that of some detachment of artillery at full gallop. The crests of the trees shook with the reverberation. As Rougon turned the corner of the Rue Marbeuf the first drops of rain began to fall.

A brougham was standing in front of the house, and Rougon found his wife examining the rooms, measuring the windows and giving orders to an upholsterer. He felt much surprised, but she explained to him that she had just seen her brother, M. Beulin-d’Orchère. The judge, who had already heard of Rougon’s fall, had desired to overwhelm his sister, and after informing her of his approaching assumption of office as Minister of Justice, he had again tried to create dis­cord between her and her husband. Madame Rougon, how­ever, had merely ordered her brougham to be got ready, so that she might at once prepare for removal into their old house. She still retained a calm, pale, nun-like face, the unchangeable serenity of a good housewife. And with faint steps she went through the rooms, again taking possession of that house which she had indued with such cloistral quietude. Her only thought was to administer like a faithful stewardess the fortune which had been entrusted to her. Rougon felt quite touched at the sight of her spare withered face and all her scrupulous attention.

However, the storm now burst with tremendous violence. The thunder pealed and the rain came down in torrents. Rougon was obliged to remain there for nearly three quarters of an hour, for he wanted to walk back. When he set out again the Champs Elysées was a mass of mud, yellow liquid mud, which stretched from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde like the bed of a freshly drained river. In the avenue there were but few pedestrians, who carefully picked their way along the kerbstones. The trees stood dripping in the calm fresh air. Overhead in the heavens the storm had left a trail of ragged coppery clouds, a low murky veil, from which fell a glimmer of weird, mournful light.

Rougon had again lapsed into his dreams for the future. He felt stiff and bruised, as though he had come into violent collision with some obstacle that had blocked his progress. But suddenly he heard a loud noise behind him, the approach of galloping hoofs which made the ground tremble. He turned to see what it could be.

It was a
cortège,
dashing through the mire of the roadway beneath the faint glimmer of the coppery sky, a
cortège,
re­turning from the Bois and illumining the dimness of the Champs Elysées with the brilliance of uniforms. In front and behind galloped detachments of dragoons. And in the centre there was a closed landau drawn by four horses and flanked by two mounted equerries in gorgeous gold-em­broidered uniforms, each of them imperturbably enduring the splashing of the mire, which was covering them from their high boots to their cocked hats. And inside the dim closed carriage only a child was to be seen, the Prince Impérial, who gazed out of the window, with his ten fingers and his red nose pressed to the glass.

‘Hallo, it’s the little chap!’ said a road-sweeper, with a smile, as he trundled his barrow along.

Rougon had halted, looking thoughtful, and his eyes followed the
cortège
as it hurried away through the splashing puddles, speckling even the lower leaves of the trees with all the mire it raised.

CHAPTER XIV

TRANSFORMATION

One day in March, three years later, there was a very stormy sitting in the Corps Législatif. The privilege of presenting an address to the Crown had been conceded by the Emperor, and, for the first time, this address was being discussed.

M. La Rouquette and M. de Lamberthon, an old deputy, and the husband of a charming wife, sat opposite one another in the ‘buvette’ or refreshment room, quietly drinking grog. ‘Well, shall we go back into the Chamber?’ said Lamber­thon, who had been straining his ear to listen. ‘I fancy things are getting pretty warm there.’

Every now and then indeed one heard distant shouting, a sudden roar like some squall of wind, but afterwards complete silence ensued. M. La Rouquette continued smoking with an air of utter indifference. ‘Oh, we needn’t go just yet,’ he said; ‘I want to finish my cigar. They’ll let us know if we are wanted. I told them to do so.’

La Rouquette and Lamberthon were the only members then in the ‘buvette,’ a sort of smart little café established at the end of the narrow garden at the corner of the quay and the Rue de Bourgogne. Painted a soft green, covered with bamboo trellis-work, and having large windows that opened right on to the garden, the place looked like some conser­vatory transformed into a refreshment room for a garden party. It was panelled with mirrors; the tables and counter were of red marble, and the seats were upholstered with green rep. One of the windows was open, and through it there came the soft air of the lovely spring afternoon, freshened by the breezes from the Seine.

‘The Italian war filled the cup of his glory,’ said M. La Rouquette, continuing a conversation that had been inter­rupted. ‘To-day, in conferring liberty on the country, he displays all the greatness of his genius.’

He was speaking of the Emperor, and he went on to extol the provisions of the November decrees,
1
the more
direct participation of the great state bodies in the policy of the sovereign, and the creation of ministers without depart­ments for the purpose of representing the government in the Chambers. It was a return to constitutional government, he said, in all its most wholesome and desirable features. A new era, that of the liberal Empire, was beginning. Then he knocked the ash from his cigar in a transport of en­thusiasm.

But M. de Lamberthon shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the Emperor has gone rather too fast,’ he said. ‘It would have been better to have waited a little longer, there was no pres­sing hurry.’

‘Oh, yes, I assure you there was. It was quite necessary to do something,’ replied the young deputy with animation.

‘It is just in that respect that his genius — ‘

Then he lowered his voice, and with a profound expression began to explain the political situation. The charges issued by the bishops on the subject of the Pope’s temporal power, which was threatened by the government of Turin, were greatly disturbing the Emperor. On the other hand, the opposition was growing more active, and an uneasy thrill was passing through the country. So the moment had come for making an attempt to reconcile the different parties, and win political malcontents over by wise concessions. La Rouquette now considered that the despotic Empire had been very de­fective; whereas the liberal Empire would be a blaze of glory, illumining the whole of Europe.

‘Well, I’m still of opinion that he has gone too fast,’ repeated M. de Lamberthon, again shaking his head. ‘It’s all very well to talk about the liberal Empire; but the liberal Empire is the Unknown, my dear sir; the Unknown, the Unknown — ‘

He thrice repeated this expression, each time in a diffe­rent tone, and waving his hand in the air. M. La Rou­quette said nothing further; he was finishing his grog. However, they still sat where they were, gazing blankly out of the open window, as though they were looking for the unknown fate of the liberal Empire across the quay, in the direction of the Tuileries, where hung a thick grey haze. Behind them, beyond the lobbies, the hurricane of voices rose afresh, with the uproar of an approaching storm.

M. de Lamberthon turned his head uneasily. ‘It’s Rougon who is going to reply, isn’t it?’ he asked after a pause.

‘Yes, I believe so,’ replied M. La Rouquette with an air of reserve.

‘He was very much compromised,’ the old deputy con­tinued. ‘The Emperor has made a singular choice in appointing him as a minister without department, and com­missioning him to defend his new policy.’

M. La Rouquette did not immediately express an opinion, but slowly stroked his fair moustache. ‘The Emperor knows Rougon,’ he said at last.

Then in quite a different tone he exclaimed: ‘I say, these grogs were not up to much. I’m dreadfully thirsty. I think I shall have a glass of syrup and water.’

He ordered one, and, after some hesitation, M. de Lamberthon decided that he would have a glass of Madeira. Then they began to talk of Madame de Lamberthon, and the old deputy chided his young colleague for the rarity of his visits. The latter was lounging back on the settee, furtively admiring himself in the mirrors, quite pleased by the soft green tint of the walls, and the general freshness of the buvette, which seemed almost like a Pompadour arbour reared in some princely forest for love assignations.

However, an usher suddenly came in, almost breathless. ‘Monsieur La Rouquette, you are wanted immediately — im­mediately!’ he gasped.

Then, as the young deputy made a gesture of vexation, the usher stooped and whispered that he had been sent by M. de Marsy, the President of the Chamber, himself. And he added in a louder tone, ‘Everybody is wanted; so come at once.’

M. de Lamberthon at once rushed off in the direction of the Chamber and M. La Rouquette was following him, when he appeared to change his mind. It had indeed occurred to him that it might be advisable to hunt up all the deputies lounging in different parts of the building, and send them back to their places. So he hastened first into the Conference Hall, a beautiful apartment lighted by a glazed roof and boasting a huge chimney-piece of green marble, ornamented with two white marble female figures, nude and recumbent.

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a great wood fire was burning there. At the large table sat three deputies with sleepy eyes, which wandered over the pictures on the walls and the famous clock, which was only wound up once a year. A fourth deputy, who had installed himself at the fire, so as to warm his back, seemed to be gazing with emotion at a plaster statuette of Henri IV. which at the other end of the room stood out against a trophy of Austrian and Prussian standards captured at Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena. As M. La Rouquette went from one to the other of his colleagues, bidding them at once hurry to the Chamber, they started up as if suddenly awakened, and hastened away in procession.

In his enthusiasm, La Rouquette was already rushing off to the library, when it occurred to him that it would be as well to glance into the lavatory. There he found M. de Combelot, who, with his hands plunged in a large basin, was gently rubbing them, and smiling admiringly at their whiteness. He did not show the least excitement, but said that he would return to his seat in a moment. Before doing so, however, he lingered for some time wiping his hands on a warm towel, which he then replaced in the copper-doored stove. And finally he took his stand before a lofty mirror, and carefully combed his handsome black beard.

There was no one in the library, which La Rouquette next visited. The books were slumbering on their oak shelves; the two huge tables with covers of green cloth stood severely bare; and the book-rests attached to the arms of the chairs were folded back, and covered with a slight coating of dust.

‘There is never any one here!’ exclaimed La Rouquette in a loud voice which sounded quite strange amid all the silence and solitude; and having closed the door with a bang he went on searching a series of passages and halls. He crossed the Distribution Hall, floored with marble from the Pyrenees, where his footsteps echoed as though he had been walking through a church. And an usher having told him that a deputy he knew, M. de la Villardière, was showing the palace to a lady and gentleman, he obstinately set about finding him. He hastened into the severe-looking vestibule known as General Foy’s Hall, where the statues of Mirabeau, Foy, Bailly, and Casimir Périer invariably command the respectful admiration of country visitors. And, near by, in the Throne Room, he at last discovered M. de la Villardière, with a fat lady on one side of him and a fat gentleman on the other, an influential elector and notary of Dijon and his wife.

‘You are wanted,’ said M. La Rouquette. ‘Quick to your place, eh?’

‘Yes, I’ll go at once,’ replied the deputy. But he could not make his escape. The fat gentleman had taken his hat off, much impressed by the magnificence of the hall, with its glittering gilding and mirrored panels; and he clung firmly to his ‘dear deputy,’ as he called him, and would not let him go. He was asking for some explanations of Delacroix’s paintings, the great decorative figures representing the seas and rivers of France;
Mediterraneum Mare, Oceanus, Ligeris, Rhenus, Sequana, Rhodanus, Garumna, Araris.
These Latin words seemed to puzzle him.