Complete Works of Emile Zola (55 page)

“What would you have me do?” inquired the President in an unsteady voice.

“We desire, if it be possible, that you will prevent a fresh scandal. M. Philippe Cayol has been sentenced to be publicly exhibited, and he is to undergo this punishment within the next few days. But the infamy will not attain him alone; it will not be a case of one culprit being fastened to the pillory, there will be a poor suffering child who now implores your pity. You understand, do you not? The yells and insults of the mob will recoil on Mademoiselle de Cazalis; she will be dragged in the mud by the people, and her name will be passed from mouth to mouth around the abominable post, with sneers of hatred and foul expressions.”

The President seemed deeply affected. He preserved silence for a moment. Then, as if struck with a sudden idea, he inquired,

“But, was it M. de Cazalis who sent you here? Is he aware of the steps you are taking?”

“No,” replied the priest with frank dignity, “M. de Cazalis does not know we are here. Men have interests, passions that bear them along, and which sometimes prevent them forming a clear judgment as to their position. Perhaps we are acting contrary to the wish of Mademoiselle de Cazalis’ uncle, in coming to solicit you. But above the passions and interests of men, are goodness and justice. And so I do not fear to place my sacred character in jeopardy, by taking upon myself to ask you to be good and just.”

“You are right, sir,” said the President. “I understand the motives that brought you here; and, as you see, I am deeply affected by your words. Unfortunately I cannot prevent the punishment, it is not within my power to modify a sentence of a Court of Assizes.”

Blanche joined her hands.

“Sir,” she stammered, “I know not what you can do for me; but, I implore you to be merciful; say to yourself that it is I whom you have sentenced, and endeavour to ease my sufferings.”

The President took her hands, and answered her with parental tenderness.

“My poor child, I understand everything. The part I have played in this affair has been a painful one. At this moment I am in despair at not being able to say to you: ‘Fear nothing, I have the power to overthrow the pillory, and you shall not be attached to the post with the condemned man.’”

“Then,” asked the dejected priest, “the exhibition will take place shortly? You are not even allowed to delay this deplorable scene?”

The President had risen.

“The Minister of Justice,” he said, “can put it off at the request of the crown advocate. Will you have this exhibition take place at the end of December? I shall be glad to give you a proof of my compassion and good will.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Blanche, warmly. “Delay the terrible moment as long as possible. I shall perhaps feel stronger.”

Abbé Chastanier who knew what Marius’ projects were, thought that in presence of the President’s promise, he ought to retire without insisting further. So he joined Blanche in accepting the offer made them.

“Very well, that is understood,” said the President, accompanying them to the door, “I shall make the request, and I feel sure it will be granted, that justice shall not take its course before the expiration of four months. Until then rest in peace, Mademoiselle. Hope, heaven will perhaps send you some balm to your wounds.”

The two supplicants proceeded downstairs.

As soon as Fine perceived them she ran to meet them.

“Well?” she inquired, panting for breath.

“As I told you,” answered Abbé Chastanier, “the President cannot prevent the execution of the sentence.”

The flower-girl turned quite pale.

“But,” the old priest hastened to add, “he has promised to intercede and to have the date of the exhibition adjourned. You have four months before you to labour for the prisoner’s welfare.”

Marius had approached the little group formed by the two young girls and the abbé, in spite of his desire to stand aloof. The silent, solitary street appeared quite white in the intense heat of the noonday sun; grass had sprung up between the bright paving stones, and a dog, that was giving an airing to its lean spine in the narrow streak of shade which fell from the houses, was the only other living thing about. When the young man heard the words that fell from Abbé Chastanier, he rushed forward and grasped his hands effusively.

“Ah! my father,” he exclaimed in a trembling voice, “you have brought me back hope and faith. Since yesterday I had been doubting Providence. How can I thank you, how can I prove to you my gratitude? Now I feel possessed of invincible courage, I am certain of saving my brother.”

Blanche, at the sight of Marius, had hung her head. A warm blush had suffused her cheeks. She stood there confused and embarrassed, suffering horridly at the presence of this youth, who was aware of her perjury, and whom her uncle and she had plunged into despair. When the young man’s joy had somewhat subsided, he regretted he had approached. The despairing attitude of Mademoiselle de Cazalis aroused his pity.

“My brother has been very guilty,” he said to her at last. “Pardon him as I pardon you.”

These few words were all he could find. He would have liked to have spoken to her of her child, to have questioned her as to the lot reserved to this poor little creature, to have claimed it in the name of Philippe; but he saw her so bowed down, that he dared not torture her further.

Fine doubtless understood what was passing within him. While he walked a few steps with Abbé Chastanier, she said rapidly to Blanche:

“Remember that I offered you to be a mother to your child. Now, I love you, for I see you have a good heart. Make a sign and I’ll hasten to your assistance. But apart from that, I shall be on the watch, for the little creature must not suffer from the folly of its parents.”

Blanche’s only answer was to silently squeeze the flower-girl’s hand. Big tears were trickling down her cheeks.

Mademoiselle de Cazalis and Abbé Chastanier returned at once to Marseille. Fine and Marius hastened to the gaol. They told Revertégat that they had four months to prepare the escape, and the gaoler swore he would abide by his word, on whatever day and hour they might remind him of it.

The two young people desired to see Philippe before leaving Aix, so as to let him know what had taken place and tell him to have hope. At eleven o’clock in the evening Revertégat conducted them again to the cell.

Philippe, who was becoming accustomed to the prison regulations, did not seem particularly depressed.

“Provided I am spared the disgrace of the public exhibition,” he said to them, “I will consent to everything. I would rather break my head open against a wall, than be fastened to the post of infamy.”

And the following day the diligence brought Marius and Fine back to Marseille. They were about to continue the struggle to which their hearts urged them, on a much larger scale than before; they were about to dive to the bottom of human misery and behold the bare wounds of a great city abandoned to all the passions of modern industry.

PART II

CHAPTER I

M. SAUVAIRE, THE MASTER-STEVEDORE

CADET COUGOURDAN’S employer, the master-stevedore Sauvaire, was a short, lively, dark man with thickset powerful limbs. His great hooked nose, thin lips and elongated visage, were expressive of that vain-glorious confidence and artful bragging which are the distinctive features of certain types in the south of France.

Brought up in the port, a simple labourer in his youth, he had saved up his earnings for ten years. He raised enormous weights and was possessed of vigorous strength that did wonders. He was in the habit of saying he did not fear big men.

The truth was that this dwarf could have thrashed a giant. But he displayed prudence and wisdom in the use he made of his power, avoiding quarrels, knowing that the tension of his muscles was worth money, and that a blow with the fist only brings trouble. He lived soberly, given up entirely to work and avarice, impatient to attain the end he dreamed of.

At last he had before him the few thousand francs he required to accomplish his object. He became a master from one day to another, took men into his employ, and with folded arms watched them toiling and perspiring. From time to time he gave them a little help with a grumble.

Sauvaire, at the bottom, was a downright lazy fellow; he had worked out of obstinacy, preferring to perform his indolence of a wealthy man. Now that he had poor wretches to win him a fortune, he walked about with his hands in his pockets, piling up money, waiting until he had amassed a large sum to satisfy his instincts of free and noisy life.

Little by little the avaricious workman became transformed into a wealthy prodigal. Sauvaire was possessed of a tremendous appetite for wealth and pleasure: he wished to have plenty of money in order to enjoy himself beyond measure, and he desired to do that, so as to show he had plenty of money. He was urged on by the vanity of a parvenu to make his pleasures fiendishly riotous. When he laughed he insisted on all Marseille hearing his peal of merriment.

He now wore clothes fashioned out of fine cloth, under which it was easy to distinguish the stiff limbs of the former workman. A heavy gold chain was spread out across his waistcoat, it was as thick as one’s finger and from it hung a bunch of massive charms which seemed almost sufficient to stun an ox. On the left hand he wore a gold ring without any stone. With patent leather shoes on his feet and a soft felt hat on his head he sauntered up and down the Cannebière and round about the Port all day, smoking a magnificent meerschaum pipe mounted in silver; and, as he walked along he made the charms dance on his stomach, while his eyes wandered over the crowd with a half-bantering, half-kindly expression. He was enjoying himself.

Sauvaire had, little by little, entrusted the management of his business to Cadet Cougourdan, whose smart manners pleased him: this youth of twenty summers was gifted with an upright and candid mind that gave him positive superiority over the other stevedores. The master was delighted at having such a workman at his elbow; he appointed him overseer of the men working for him, and from that moment was able to make a grand display in Marseille of his natural desires. He limited his work to making up his accounts in the morning and pocketing the money that had been earned.

The existence he had been dreaming of commenced.

Sauvaire became a member of a club. He gambled, but prudently, being of opinion that the pleasure derived from the card-table is not worth what it costs; he wanted his money’s worth of amusement and he therefore sought after substantial and lasting enjoyment. He dined at the best eating-houses, and associated with ladies whom he showed off in public. His vanity was deliciously tickled when he was able to lounge on the cushions of a carriage beside a huge silk skirt. The lady was nothing, the silk gown all. He dragged it into private dining-rooms and there threw the windows open, so that all the passers-by might see that he was having a rare time with a well-dressed lady, and ordering expensive dishes. Others would have closed the shutters and bolted the door; his dream was to kiss his fair companions in a glass house, so that the multitude might know that he was wealthy enough to love such pretty creatures. He had his own idea of love.

For a month he had been living in rapture. He had met a young woman whose acquaintance tickled his self-esteem. This young person was protected by a Count and was looked upon as one of the Queens of the demimonde at Marseille. She called herself Thérèse-Armande but was better known by the familiar name of Armande.

When Armande placed her little gloved hand in Sauvaire’s huge paw for the first time, the master-stevedore almost fainted with delight. This pressure of the hand was exchanged in the Alices de Meilhan, opposite the door of the house where the lorette resided, and the passers-by stopped and turned round, at the sight of this man and young woman, smiling and bowing to each other. Sauvaire went off bursting with pride, and in ecstasies about Armande’s dress and superior manners. He had but one thought: that of protecting this person himself, supplanting the Count and walking about with lace and velvet leaning on his arm.

He watched for Armande and placed himself in her path. He fell in love with the luxuriant finery she wore, and the perfumery that escaped from her clothes. He was proud at getting a bow from her, at appearing to be one of her friends, and it would certainly not have displeased him to have been thought one of her lovers.

At length she succumbed. He thought it a victory due to the charms of his person. For a week his conceit was unbearable. He went about casting a look of mocking pity on the people he met in the street. When Armande was leaning on his arm the pavement seemed too small for him. The gentle swaying to and fro in the lady’s gait, the frou-frou of her skirts threw him into a delicious reverie. He was very fond of crinolines which take up a great deal of room and interfere with pedestrian traffic.

He related his good fortune to everyone. Cadet was one of his first confidents.

“Ah! If you only knew!” he said to him, “the charming person, and how she adores me! She has everything imaginable at her place, carpets, curtains, glasses. You would think yourself in high society, ‘pon my word! And with all that, not in the least proud, a good-natured girl with her hand always open. Yesterday I lunched in her small drawing-room, and we then took an open carriage and drove to the Prado. Everyone was staring at us. It is enough to make you die of joy to be in such a woman’s society.”

Cadet smiled. His dream was to be loved by a robust girl, and in his eyes Armande had all the appearance of a mechanical doll, of a brittle toy, which he would have broken between his fingers. But he did not wish to annoy his employer, and so he went into ecstasies with him over the lorette’s charms. In the evening he gave Fine an account of Sauvaire’s follies.

The flower-girl had resumed her place in her little kiosk on the Cours St. Louis. While selling her flowers, she kept her eyes on the alert, in search of opportunities to come to Marius’ assistance. She had not lost sight of the loan of fifteen thousand francs and each day she built up a new plan dreaming of taxing those whom chance brought near her.