by Emile Zola
The three deputies remained standing near the President’s desk, to the left, quietly discussing the possibility of Rougon’s fall. It was a complex story. A distant relative of the Empress, a gentleman by the name of Rodriguez, had since 1818 been suing the French government for two million francs. During the war with Spain, this Rodriguez, a shipowner, had a cargo of sugar and coffee seized in the Bay of Biscay and taken to Brest by a French frigate, the Vigilante. The result of the local enquiry was that the government representatives declared, without consulting with the Conseil des prises,* that the seizure was justified. However, Rodriguez immediately lodged an appeal with the Council of State. Subsequently he died, but his son, through all the changes of government, had been trying without success to relaunch the suit, when at last a word behind the scenes from his illustrious great-grandcousin had got the case put back on the list.
Over their heads the three deputies could hear the monotonous tones of the President, droning on:
‘Submission of a bill to authorize the department of Calvados to float a loan of three hundred thousand francs… Submission of a bill to authorize the city of Amiens to float a loan of two hundred thousand francs for the construction of new walkways… Submission of a bill to authorize the department of Côtes-du-Nord to float a loan of three hundred and forty-five thousand francs, to cover the deficits of the past five years…’
‘The truth’, said Monsieur Kahn, lowering his voice still further, ‘is that the original Rodriguez had thought up a very ingenious scheme. In partnership with a son-in-law, based in New York, he owned twin ships which, depending on the danger of the crossing, sailed under either the American or the Spanish flag… Rougon has assured me that the ship seized undoubtedly belonged to Rodriguez, but there were no grounds at all for recognizing his claim.’
‘All the more so,’ added Monsieur Béjuin, ‘because the procedure followed was foolproof. According to the custom of the port, the officer in charge at Brest had every right to pronounce the seizure justified, without any reference to the Conseil des prises.’
There was a silence. Monsieur La Rouquette, leaning against the marble pediment of the President’s desk, was looking up and trying to attract Clorinde’s attention.
‘But why’, he asked naïvely, ‘does Rougon not want this Rodriguez fellow to have his two million? What would it matter to him?’
‘There’s a principle involved,’ declared Monsieur Kahn gravely.
Monsieur La Rouquette looked first at one, then at the other of his colleagues, but, finding them very solemn, he did not venture a smile.
‘In any case,’ Monsieur Kahn went on, as if responding to questions he did not put in so many words, ‘Rougon has had problems ever since the Emperor appointed de Marsy minister of the interior. They could never stand each other… Rougon told me himself that, if he were not so devoted to the Emperor, whom he has already served so well, he would have returned to private life long ago… In short, Rougon is no longer in favour at the Tuileries and feels he needs to make a fresh start.’
‘He wants to do the right thing,’ said Monsieur Béjuin.
‘Indeed,’ said Monsieur La Rouquette knowingly. ‘If he wants to retire, this is a good opportunity… All the same, his friends will be very disappointed. Just look at the Colonel up there, he’s obviously worried; he was counting on having a bit of red ribbon round his neck on 15 August*… And pretty little Madame Bouchard, who had sworn that her dear husband would be a divisional head in the Ministry of the Interior within six months! Rougon’s favourite, little d’Escorailles, was going to slip the letter of appointment under Bouchard’s plate on Madame’s birthday… But where are they, little d’Escorailles and Madame Bouchard?’
All three looked around for them. Finally they spotted them, as the sitting began, at the far end of the gallery, on the front row. They were hiding there, in the shadows, behind a bald, elderly man.
At this point the President brought his reading to a close. He pronounced the final words in a lower key, as if embarrassed by the crudity of the final sentence:
‘Submission of a bill to authorize an increase in the rate of interest of a loan authorized by the law of 9 June 1853, likewise a special surtax by the department of La Manche.’
Monsieur Kahn had just run to greet a deputy entering the Chamber. He brought him across, saying:
‘Here’s Monsieur de Combelot… He’ll know what’s happening!’
However, Monsieur de Combelot, a chamberlain* appointed deputy for the department of Les Landes at the express request of the Emperor, simply greeted them and waited for them to ask questions. He was a tall, handsome man, with very white skin and an ink-black beard, which made him very popular with the ladies.
‘Well,’ asked Monsieur Kahn, ‘what’s the news at the Tuileries? What has the Emperor decided?’
‘Goodness gracious,’ replied Monsieur de Combelot, who had a very guttural way of speaking. ‘People are saying all sorts of things… The Emperor is certainly very fond of the President of the Council of State. Their meeting was very cordial… Yes, very cordial!’
But then he paused, weighing his words, thinking he might have said too much.
‘So the resignation is withdrawn?’ cried Monsieur Kahn, brightening up.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said the chamberlain nervously. ‘I don’t know anything. You must understand I’m in a difficult position…’
He did not go on, but just smiled and hurried away to his seat. Monsieur Kahn shrugged, and turned to Monsieur La Rouquette.
‘I was just thinking,’ he said, ‘you ought to know what’s happening. Doesn’t your sister, Madame de Llorentz, tell you anything?’
‘Oh, my sister says even less than Monsieur de Combelot,’ replied the young deputy, laughing. ‘Ever since she became a lady-in-waiting she has taken herself as seriously as if she were a minister… But she did tell me yesterday that the resignation would be accepted… And there’s a nice little story behind it. Apparently a lady was sent to help Rougon to change his mind. And do you know what Rougon did? He showed her the door—and she was a very attractive woman!’
‘Rougon is immune to such things,’ declared Monsieur Béjuin gravely.
Monsieur La Rouquette burst into uncontrollable laughter. He would have none of it. He could tell them a thing or two, he said, if he wanted.
‘You know,’ he whispered, ‘Madame Correur…’
‘Never!’ cried Monsieur Kahn. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, what about the lovely Clorinde?’
‘Nonsense! Rougon is far too strong to let himself be seduced by that she-devil.’
At this the three of them leaned forward and began to talk very crudely. They went over the various stories people had heard about the two Italian women, mother and daughter, half adventuresses and half society ladies, who were to be found everywhere: at ministerial receptions, in the stage boxes of little theatres, at fashionable watering-places, in distant country inns. The mother, some swore, had been the mistress of a certain crowned head; while the daughter, with an ignorance of French conventions that made her a ‘she-devil’, behaved very strangely, riding horses to death, traipsing about town on foot on rainy days, getting her stockings muddy and her petticoats dirty, and brazenly looking for a husband, smiling the while as a true woman of the world. Monsieur La Rouquette described how she had recently attended a ball given by the Italian legate, Count Rusconi, as Diana the Huntress, and so scantily dressed that she nearly had an offer of marriage the very next morning from old Monsieur de Nougarède, a senator who was very fond of women. Throughout this story, the three deputies kept glancing at Clorinde, who, ignoring all the rules, was now peering at one member of the legislative body after another through large opera glasses.
‘No, no,’ insisted Monsieur Kahn, ‘Rougon would never be crazy enough! He says she’s very clever and jokingly calls her “Mademoiselle Machiavelli”. She amuses him, that’s all.’
‘All the same,’ said Monsieur Béjuin in conclusion, ‘Rougon is wrong not to marry… It settles a man.’
They were in complete agreement on the kind of wife Rougon ought to have: not too young, thirty-five at least, with plenty of money, and an excellent housekeeper.
The hubbub in the Chamber was increasing; but they were so engrossed in their gossip that they failed to notice what was happening around them. The cries of the ushers were already receding down the corridors: ‘In session, Messieurs, in session!’ Deputies were pouring in from all sides; the great mahogany doors were wide open, revealing the gilt stars on their panelling. Until now half-empty, the Chamber was gradually filling up. The little groups chatting to each other from one bench to another, and the sleepers, stifling their yawns, were all submerged under a mounting flood, lost in a general distribution of handshakes. Taking their seats, to right and left alike, the deputies exchanged smiles; it was rather like a family gathering, though at the same time their faces clearly showed their awareness of the power they had come to exercise. A burly fellow on the last bench to the left, who had fallen into too deep a slumber, was woken up by his neighbour; and when at last he grasped the meaning of the few words whispered in his ear, he rubbed his eyes and assumed a more seemly pose. After dragging through business which they all found most tedious, the sitting was about to become extremely interesting.
Moved along by the incoming throng, Monsieur Kahn and his two colleagues arrived at their seats without even noticing. They carried on chatting all the way, choking with laughter. Monsieur La Rouquette was telling yet another story about Clorinde. One day, apparently, she had had the fantastic idea of having black curtains covered with silver tears hung in her bedroom, and had received people in bed, with a black counterpane drawn up to her chin and no more than the tip of her nose showing.
Only as he was sitting down did Monsieur Kahn come to himself.
‘What a fool that fellow La Rouquette is with his gossip!’ he muttered. ‘Now he’s made me miss Rougon again!’
Turning angrily to his neighbour, he snapped:
‘Really, Béjuin, you might have tipped me off.’
Rougon, who had just entered the Chamber, conducted to his place in the usual ceremonial fashion, was now seated between two Councillors of State, on the government bench,* which was a sort of monumental mahogany chest placed immediately under the President’s desk, just where the speaker’s rostrum, which had been removed, used to be. His huge shoulders seemed to be bursting out of his green uniform, with its gold facings on the collar and cuffs. Facing the Chamber, with his thick grizzled hair falling over his square forehead, his eyes could hardly be seen under the heavy lids which were never more than half open; and his large nose, fleshy lips, and elongated face, on which his sixty-six years had left no wrinkle, gave an impression of coarseness, transfigured at moments by a sense of his enormous vitality. He leaned back, his chin buried in his coat collar, looking bored and rather weary.
‘He looks as he usually looks,’ murmured Monsieur Béjuin.
The deputies all craned their necks to study Rougon’s expression. There was much whispering along the benches. But it was in the gallery that Rougon’s entry had made the biggest impression. To indicate their presence, the Charbonnels, a look of rapture on their faces, had leaned so far forward that they were in danger of falling over the edge. Madame Correur had put on a little show of coughing, and taken out a handkerchief which she waved slightly as she pressed it to her lips. Colonel Jobelin had drawn himself up straight, while pretty little Madame Bouchard had slipped quickly down again to the front row. A little out of breath, she busily retied the ribbon on her hat, while Monsieur d’Escorailles, who had followed her, said nothing and looked quite annoyed. As for Clorinde, she was quite shameless: seeing that Rougon was not going to look up, she gave a series of very audible taps with her opera glasses on the marble column against which she was leaning; and when Rougon still did not look at her, she turned to her mother and said in such a loud voice that the whole Chamber heard her:
‘The old fox is sulking!’
Several deputies looked up at her, grinning. At this point, Rougon decided to accord her a glance. When he added an imperceptible nod, she was so triumphant that she threw her head back, clapped her hands, and laughed, after which she chattered away quite loudly to her mother, without the slightest concern for all the men staring at her.
Slowly, before lowering his heavy lids again, Rougon surveyed the gallery with an all-embracing glance, taking in immediately Madame Bouchard, Colonel Jobelin, Madame Correur, and the Charbonnels. His face remained expressionless. Again he sank his chin in his coat collar, his eyes half closed, and stifled a yawn.
‘I’ll go and have a quick word with him,’ Monsieur Kahn whispered in Monsieur Béjuin’s ear.
However, just as Monsieur Kahn was getting up, the President, who had been casting an eye round to make sure that the deputies were all present and seated, imperiously rang the bell. Immediately there was a dead silence.
A fair-haired man rose to his feet on the front bench, which was of white marble. He was holding a huge sheet of paper at which he gazed intently as he spoke.
‘I have the honour’, he intoned in a sing-song voice, ‘to offer the Chamber an analysis of a bill granting the Ministry of State the right, under the provisions of 1856, to make an allocation of four hundred thousand francs for the christening ceremony of the Prince Imperial and the celebration thereof.’*
He seemed about to step forward to place the bill on the table when, in absolute unison, the whole assembly cried out:
‘Text, please! Full text!’
The deputy who had introduced the bill waited until the President had decided that the whole text should be read out. Then, in tones verging on the sentimental, he began:
‘Messieurs, the bill before us is one of those that make the ordinary methods of voting seem far too slow, for they inhibit the spontaneous enthusiasm of the legislative body.’
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted a number of deputies.
‘In the humblest home,’ the speaker continued, pronouncing every word with rhetorical emphasis, ‘the birth of a son, of an heir, with all those notions of handing something on which the word implies, is the occasion for such joy that any trials of the past are forgotten, and hope alone hovers over the cradle of the newborn. What, then, must we say of that family celebration when it is also that of a great nation, and when, in addition, it is a significant event in the history of Europe!’
This delighted everybody. The speaker’s eloquence thrilled the Chamber. Rougon, who looked as if he might be asleep, saw before him nothing but row after row of radiant faces. Some deputies even showed their attentiveness by cupping their ears in their hands, as if anxious not to lose a single word of such perfect prose. After a brief pause, the speaker raised his voice and continued:
‘Here, Messieurs, is it not indeed the great family of all Frenchmen that calls on every one of its members to express his or her joy? If it were possible for mere outward show to match the immensity of the legitimate hopes of our citizens, what pomp and ceremony would be required!’
Here he contrived a further pause, and the same voices as before cried:
‘Hear, hear!’
‘Very nicely put,’ observed Monsieur Kahn. ‘Don’t you agree, Béjuin?’
Monsieur Béjuin’s gaze was fixed on the great chandelier in the apse of the Chamber. His head was swaying slightly. He was transported.
In the gallery, her opera glasses trained on the speaker’s face, Clorinde was studying his every change of expression. The Charbonnels were on the verge of tears, Madame Correur had assumed the attentive pose of a respectable lady, the Colonel was showing his approval with a series of nods, and pretty Madame Bouchard was almost sitting on Monsieur d’Escorailles’s knees. The President at his desk, however, together with his secretaries and the ushers, listened impassively.
‘The cradle of the Prince Imperial�
��, the speaker resumed, ‘is henceforth the rock on which our future will be built, for by ensuring the dynasty we have all acclaimed, that cradle serves to guarantee our country’s well-being and its enduring stability, and thereby that of all Europe.’
At this point, cries of ‘Shush!’ were required to keep the enthusiasm from exploding into a furore of applause at this touching invocation of the cradle.
‘In an earlier age, a scion of this same illustrious lineage seemed similarly destined to play a great role, but between that time and our own there is no resemblance. Just as it was the spirit of war that gave us the epic that was the First Empire, so now our peace derives from the wise and perspicacious rule the fruits of which we are now harvesting. Greeted at his birth by the guns which from North to South were proclaiming the triumph of our armies, the King of Rome* was not to be blessed with the opportunity to serve his native land; Providence decreed otherwise.’
‘What on earth is he saying now? He’s really going on a bit,’ whispered the sceptical Monsieur La Rouquette. ‘Very clumsy, that whole passage. He’s going to ruin his speech!’
The deputies were indeed getting worried. What was the point of the reference to past history? It dampened their enthusiasm. A number of deputies went so far as to blow their noses. But the speaker, aware of the sudden chill produced by this last piece of rhetoric, smiled. Raising his voice again, he proceeded to the antithesis. Sure of the result, he gave careful emphasis to his words:
‘But, on this occasion, come into the world on one of those solemn days when in a single birth is to be seen the well-being of all, this Child of France seems to bestow upon us, both the present generation and the generations of the future, the right to live and die in the homes of our ancestors. This is what, henceforth, God’s mercy grants us.’
The antithesis was perfectly judged. Every one of the deputies understood its meaning, and a feeling of relief swept through the Chamber. The assurance of eternal peace was sweet indeed. Thus reassured, these gentlemen resumed their joyful posturing, men of politics revelling for once in literature. Yes, they could now relax. Europe belonged to their master. Becoming even more expansive, the speaker continued:
