Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  ‘The Emperor, having become the dominant figure in the affairs of Europe, is preparing to sign the generous peace treaty which, now that it has pleased God to crown his fame and his fortune at one stroke, will bring together the productive forces of all nations and will constitute an alliance of peoples as much as of kings. Is it not legitimate to think that, when the Emperor looks down on the cradle in which—still so small—lies he who will continue his great political programme, from that moment onwards one may envisage many long years of prosperity?’

  This was another fine image. And indeed, it was certainly legitimate to think as he suggested: with gentle nods, the deputies all confirmed that it was so. Nevertheless, the speech was beginning to seem somewhat overlong. Many members were assuming grave expressions again, and some were casting surreptitious glances at the public gallery. Were they not practical men? They could not help feeling a certain embarrassment, exposing themselves and the undressed side of their politics thus. Others were lost in thought, their faces grey, their minds on their own affairs as they strummed on the mahogany benches with their fingers; vague memories returned of earlier sittings, and loyalties of times past, when powers were accorded to another cradle. Monsieur La Rouquette kept turning round to look at the clock. When the hands reached a quarter to three, he made a gesture of resignation; he would miss an appointment. Side by side, Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Béjuin were motionless, arms folded, their eyes blinking as they looked up at the long panels of green velvet and the white marble bas-relief against which the President’s frock coat formed a black silhouette. Clorinde, still holding up her opera glasses, was examining Rougon once more, very carefully. He remained motionless, like a magnificent bull sleeping.

  The speaker, however, was in no hurry, reading as if to please himself, with reverent, rhythmic movements of his shoulders.

  ‘So let us rest assured that we may be completely confident, and on this great and solemn occasion may the legislative body not forget the parity of origin it shares with the Emperor—a parity that gives it almost family rights, so that over and above all other State bodies it can claim to share fully in the Sovereign’s delight.

  ‘Since, like the Emperor himself, it is the offspring of the free will of the people, the legislative body at this moment becomes the very voice of the Nation, in order to pay the august infant the homage of unfailing respect and undying devotion, as well as the infinite love that transforms political faith into a religion the observance of which is sacred.’

  Now that he had come to homage, religion, and sacred duty, it was felt that he must be getting near the end. The Charbonnels, indeed, now risked a whispered exchange of impressions, while Madame Correur stifled another faint cough in her handkerchief. Madame Bouchard withdrew discreetly again to the back of the government box, with Monsieur Jules d’Escorailles beside her.

  Now the speaker adopted a different tone, suddenly descending from solemnity to familiarity as he gabbled out:

  ‘And so, Messieurs, we propose the adoption in its entirety, without amendment, of this bill as presented by the Council of State.’

  He sat down amid general applause and cries of ‘Bravo!’ Monsieur de Combelot, whose beaming attention had not wavered for an instant, even ventured a cry of ‘Long Live the Emperor!’, though it was lost in the general hubbub. Colonel Jobelin, standing at the edge of the box which he alone occupied, almost came in for an ovation, for he so far forgot himself that he clapped his bony hands, despite the rules. All the effusiveness of the speaker’s opening sentences reappeared in a fresh flood of congratulations. The task had been accomplished. There was an exchange of pleasantries from bench to bench. A wave of friends surged towards the man who had introduced the bill, to grasp him by both hands.

  Soon, however, a repeated phrase began to rise above the din.

  ‘Open the debate! Open the debate!’

  This seemed what the President, now standing at his desk, had been waiting for. He rang his bell, then addressed the assembly, which had fallen respectfully silent.

  ‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘many members are requesting that we proceed immediately to the debate.’

  The entire Chamber indicated its approval as with a single voice. No one spoke against the motion. The two sections of the bill were put to the vote immediately, one after the other, with the ayes to rise from their seats. No sooner had the President finished reading than there was a great shuffling of feet from top to bottom of the Chamber; the deputies rose in a solid block, as if lifted up by a great wave of enthusiasm. The voting urns were then taken round, the ushers making their way between the rows, collecting the votes in tin boxes. The allocation of four hundred thousand francs was granted by a unanimous vote of two hundred and thirty-nine deputies.

  ‘A good job well done,’ declared Monsieur Béjuin naively, bursting into laughter as if he had uttered a fine witticism.

  ‘It’s gone three, I must run,’ murmured Monsieur La Rouquette, squeezing past Monsieur Kahn.

  The Chamber began to empty. As they reached the doors, the deputies seemed to melt into the walls. The agenda now consisted of bills of purely local interest. Soon there were no deputies left except those good souls who no doubt had nothing else to do that afternoon; they resumed their naps or continued their conversations from where they had been broken off. The sitting ended as it had begun, in a mood of general apathy. Even the murmur of voices gradually died down, as if the legislative body had finally fallen asleep in a quiet corner of Paris.

  ‘I say, Béjuin,’ said Monsieur Kahn, ‘see what you can get out of Delestang on the way out. He came in with Rougon, he must know something.’

  ‘You’re right, it is Delestang,’ said Monsieur Béjuin in an undertone, staring at the Councillor of State seated on Rougon’s left. ‘I never recognize them in those damned uniforms.’

  ‘The only reason I’m staying is to get hold of the great man,’ added Monsieur Kahn. ‘We must find out.’

  The President put an endless string of bills to the vote, and they were all dealt with by the same procedure. Mechanically the deputies rose from their seats and sat down again, without breaking off their conversations or even their sleep. The tedium became such that the handful of onlookers in the gallery had left. Only Rougon’s friends remained. They were still hoping to hear him speak.

  Suddenly a deputy with neat side-whiskers, like a country lawyer, stood up. This halted the mechanical functioning of the voting process. All heads turned in surprise.

  ‘Messieurs,’ declared the deputy, ‘I must explain the reasons which, almost against my will, compel me to take a different view from the majority of the committee.’

  The man’s voice was so sharp and sounded so odd that Clorinde had to bury her face in her hands to prevent herself from laughing. The deputies were amazed. Who could this person be? Why was he speaking? Upon enquiry, it emerged that the President had just opened the debate on a new bill which would authorize the department of Pyrénées-Orientales to raise a loan of two hundred thousand francs for the building of new law courts in Perpignan. The speaker was a local councillor, and he was opposed to the suggestion. This looked as if it might be interesting. The deputies were all ears.

  The person with neat side-whiskers proceeded with enormous caution, speaking in a highly reticent manner and doffing his hat to a great variety of public offices. The financial burdens of the department were already great, he said; and he proceeded to give an exhaustive account of the whole financial position of the Pyrénées-Orientales. In any case, he went on, the need for a new building had not been clearly demonstrated. He argued these points for nearly fifteen minutes. By the time he sat down he was quite worked up. Meanwhile, Rougon had opened his eyes, but his lids had slowly drooped again.

  Now it was the turn of the sponsor of the bill, a sprightly veteran deputy, to speak. He had a very precise way of speaking, like a man very sure of his ground. He had a number of complimentary things to say about his honourable colleague, bu
t, regretfully, he did not agree with him. The Pyrénées-Orientales were far from being as financially burdened as his colleague had made out; he too gave a full analysis of the financial position of the department, but used quite different figures. Moreover, it was impossible, he said, to deny the need for a new law courts building in Perpignan. He went into details. The old building was in such a crowded part of the town that the noise of the traffic made it impossible for the judges to hear what the lawyers were saying. In addition, it was too small: whenever there were numerous witnesses in a case, they had to wait on a landing, which left them exposed to dangerous influences. The little deputy wound up by throwing in, as conclusive, the argument that the bill had been the initiative of the Minister of Justice himself.

  Rougon remained motionless, his fists on his thighs, his head resting firmly on the bench behind him. When the debate had opened, his shoulders had seemed to become even broader. But now, slowly, as the first speaker began to indicate his desire to reply, he raised his massive frame, but without straightening up completely, and in his ponderous way delivered himself of a single sentence:

  ‘The sponsor of the bill omitted to mention that both the Minister of the Interior and the Finance Minister have given it their approval.’

  He slumped back in his seat and resumed his sleeping-bull posture. A shiver of excitement ran through the Chamber. The man with side-whiskers bowed deeply and resumed his seat. And the bill was passed. The handful of members who had shown interest in the debate assumed once more an air of indifference.*

  Rougon had spoken. From their respective boxes, Colonel Jobelin and the Charbonnels exchanged winks, while Madame Correur got ready to leave her seat, much as, before the curtain comes down, people slip out of a theatre box the moment the leading man has delivered his final speech. Monsieur d’Escorailles and Madame Bouchard had already left. Clorinde, standing against a background of velvet, a magnificent figure dominating the Chamber, slowly wrapped a lace shawl round her shoulders, sweeping the benches with her gaze as she did so. The rain had now stopped beating on the bay windows, but a huge cloud still darkened the sky. In the murky light, the mahogany writing-rests seemed black. The benches were enveloped in shadow; the only patches of light were the bald pates of deputies. The President, the secretaries, and the ushers, in a row, stood out like stiff Chinese shadows against the marble of the podium, beneath the pallor of the statuary. The sitting was swallowed up in the darkness.

  ‘How deadly!’ remarked Clorinde, as she urged her mother out of the gallery. The ushers dozing on the landing were all startled by the flamboyant way in which she wrapped her lace scarf round her waist.

  Down below, in the hall, the ladies came upon Colonel Jobelin and Madame Correur.

  ‘We’re waiting for him,’ said the Colonel. ‘He might come out this way… Besides, I asked Kahn and Béjuin to come and let me know what’s happening.’

  Madame Correur went up to Countess Balbi, and, in tones of lamentation, said: ‘What a tragedy it would be!’, without specifying what she was referring to.

  The Colonel raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘The country needs men like Rougon,’ he said, after a pause. ‘The Emperor would be making a mistake.’

  Another silence fell. Clorinde tried to peer into the entrance hall, but an usher quickly closed the door. She rejoined her mother, now in a black veil, and murmured:

  ‘Do we have to wait? It’s so boring.’

  A contingent of soldiers entered. The Colonel announced that the sitting was over. Indeed it was. The Charbonnels now appeared at the top of the stairs. Cautiously they descended, holding the banister, one behind the other. When Monsieur Charbonnel saw the Colonel, he cried:

  ‘Well, he didn’t say much, but he certainly shut them up, didn’t he?’

  ‘He didn’t have much of an opportunity to speak,’ replied the Colonel. ‘Otherwise you would have heard him. He needs to get warmed up, you know!’

  Meanwhile, the armed guard had formed into two lines, from the Chamber to the Presidential Gallery, which gave on to the hall. A procession now appeared, while the drums beat a ruffle. Two ushers led the way, all in black, cocked hats under their arms, chains round their necks, steel-pommelled swords at their sides. Next came the President, flanked by two officers. Then the Secretaries of the Desk and the Secretary General of the Presidential Office. As the President passed in front of Clorinde, he gave her a man-of-the-world smile, despite the solemnity of the procession.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ cried Monsieur Kahn, running up to them, appearing most agitated.

  Although the entrance hall was at that time out of bounds to the public, he insisted that they all go in, and led them across to one of the large casement windows opening on to the garden. He seemed beside himself.

  ‘I’ve missed him again!’ he said. ‘He slipped out into the Rue de Bourgogne while I was looking for him in General Foy’s room… But no matter, we’ll find out all the same. I’ve sent Béjuin after Delestang.’

  There was now a further wait, for a good ten minutes. Meanwhile, with a nonchalant air, the deputies emerged, pushing aside the green curtains that masked the doors. Some of them lingered for a few moments, lighting up cigars. Others stood about in little groups, laughing and exchanging handshakes. Madame Correur had stepped across to study the Laocoon, and while the Charbonnels turned the other way, to gape at a gull which some painter’s bourgeois fantasy had daubed on the framing of a fresco, as if the bird had flown out of the actual picture, Clorinde planted herself in front of the large bronze Minerva, intrigued by the arms and breasts of the giant goddess. Colonel Jobelin and Monsieur Kahn, in the window recess, were carrying on a lively conversation in hushed tones.

  ‘Ah, here’s Béjuin!’ suddenly cried the latter.

  They all clustered together expectantly. Monsieur Béjuin was breathing hard.

  ‘Well?’ they asked.

  ‘The resignation has been accepted. Rougon is no longer president of the Council of State.’

  It was like a sledgehammer blow. There was a deathly hush. Then Clorinde, who was nervously tying the ends of her scarf, saw pretty Madame Bouchard strolling in the garden on Monsieur d’Escorailles’s arm, her head almost resting on his shoulder. They had come out before the others, and had taken advantage of an unlocked door to air their mutual affection under a lace canopy of young foliage, along paths usually reserved for serious discussions. Clorinde beckoned to them.

  ‘The great man has resigned,’ she told the smiling young woman.

  Madame Bouchard, becoming pale and very serious, immediately relinquished her admirer’s arm, while Monsieur Kahn, standing in the middle of Rougon’s shocked group of friends, raised his arms up to heaven in silent protest.

  Chapter 2

  That morning the Moniteur had carried the news of Rougon’s resignation, saying it was ‘for health reasons’. He had gone to the Council of State after lunch, anxious to clean out his office and have it ready for his successor that very evening. Seated at his huge rosewood desk in the red and gold room which served as the President’s office, he was busy emptying drawers and sorting out papers, which he was tying in bundles with pieces of pink string.

  He rang. His commissioner entered, a fine figure of a man, who had served in the cavalry.

  ‘Can you give me a lighted candle?’ Rougon asked.

  When the man had placed on the desk one of the little mantelpiece lamps, and was withdrawing, Rougon called him back.

  ‘By the way, Merle… You’re to let nobody in. Nobody at all!’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur le Président,’ the commissioner replied, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Rougon’s features betrayed a faint smile. Turning to Delestang, who was standing in front of some cardboard box files at the far end of the room, carefully sorting through it, he murmured:

  ‘Merle doesn’t seem to have read the Moniteur yet.’

  Delestang shook his head, and said nothing. He had a ma
gnificent head, almost entirely bald, but the sort of premature baldness that appeals to the ladies. The stretch of denuded skull extended his forehead enormously, giving him a very intelligent look. His slightly rubicund cheeks and rather square jowl, which had not a hint of hair on it, was suggestive of those serious, pensive faces that imaginative painters like to give to great political figures.

  ‘Merle is devoted to you,’ he said after a pause. Then he refocused his attention on the file he was sorting out. Crumpling up a handful of papers, Rougon lit them with the candle and tossed them into a big bronze bowl standing on a corner of the desk. He watched them burn.

  ‘Leave the bottom files, Delestang,’ he said. There are some documents there that only I can make sense of.’

  They continued with their work in silence. For a quarter of an hour not a word was spoken. It was a lovely day, with sunlight pouring in through the windows, which gave on to the Seine embankment. Through one window, which had been opened, gusts of fresh air came in from the river, occasionally making the silk fringes of the curtains puff up. Crumpled papers they had dropped on to the carpet flew about, making a faint rustling noise.

  ‘I say, look at this!’ said Delestang, handing Rougon a letter he had just discovered.

  Rougon glanced through it, then calmly lit it with the candle. It was a highly confidential letter. Thus every few minutes they looked up from the mass of papers to make some quick comment. Rougon said he was grateful to Delestang for coming in to help him. His ‘good friend’ was the only person with whom he could freely sort out the dirty linen of his five years as head of the government. He had first met Delestang in the days of the ‘Legislative Assembly’,* where they had sat next to each other. He had taken a real liking to the man, finding him a delightful mixture of stupidity and good looks. He would often declare, with evident conviction, that ‘the damned fellow will go far’. Later, he did what he could to advance his career, attaching him to himself by bonds of personal gratitude, and making use of him as a kind of repository for everything he could not carry on his own person.