by Emile Zola
‘I’ve got one of my migraines, I’m going to lie down for a while.’
‘Flaminio,’ Clorinde cried to the valet, ‘fetch a bed warmer to put at Maman’s feet, will you?’
The three political refugees did not sit down. For a few moments they stood there, in a row, chewing the butt ends of their cigars. Then, with equal delicacy and precision, they tossed the remains into a corner, behind the pile of modelling clay. One after the other, they filed past Clorinde, out of the room.
‘My word!’ said Monsieur La Rouquette, who had begun a conversation with Rougon, ‘of course I know how very important this sugar question is. It concerns a whole section of France’s industries. The unfortunate thing is that nobody in the Chamber seems to have studied the matter seriously.’
Rougon, whom he was boring, did no more than nod. But the young deputy drew closer, his baby face suddenly becoming very serious.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘I happen to have an uncle in sugar. He owns one of the most successful refineries in Marseilles… Well, I recently spent three months with him, and took some notes, quite a lot in fact. I talked to the men, in short I conducted a thorough study… As you can imagine, I wanted to speak in the Chamber on the subject…’
He was acting a part for Rougon’s benefit, taking enormous trouble to talk to the great man about things which he thought should interest him. He was anxious to present himself as a serious politician.
‘And didn’t you speak?’ interrupted Clorinde, whom the continued presence of Monsieur La Rouquette seemed to annoy.
‘No, I didn’t speak,’ La Rouquette resumed, speaking slowly. ‘I thought it would not be wise… At the last moment I was afraid my figures might not be entirely accurate.’
Looking him in the eye, Rougon asked:
‘Do you know how many lumps of sugar are used every day at the Café Anglais?’
For a moment La Rouquette was taken off guard and hesitated. Then, bursting out laughing, he cried:
‘Very good, very good! You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?… That’s a question of sugar consumption; I was talking about sugar production… Very good, though! Can I use that with somebody else?’
He bounced up and down in his armchair in delight. His cheeks turned quite pink. He was at ease again, trying to make witty conversation. Now, however, it was Clorinde who attacked him, about women. Two days before, she said, she had seen him at the Variétés* with a terribly ugly little blonde woman, with hair as unkempt as a poodle’s. At first La Rouquette denied it, but after a while Clorinde’s savage treatment of the ‘little poodle’ began to annoy him and, forgetting himself, he took up the lady’s defence, saying that she was a very respectable person and hardly bad-looking. He began to talk at length about her hair, her figure, even her legs. Clorinde returned, however, to the attack, and, in the end, Monsieur La Rouquette cried:
‘Well, she’s expecting me. Goodbye!’
As soon as he closed the door behind him, Clorinde clapped her hands in triumph, and said:
‘That got rid of him. Good riddance!’
Leaping nimbly down from the table, she ran to Rougon and held out both hands. She was all attention, saying how upset she was that he had not found her alone. How difficult it was to get rid of them all! People never seemed to understand, really they didn’t! How ridiculous La Rouquette was with his talk about sugar! But now perhaps they would not be disturbed and could talk. There were so many things she had to tell him! As she babbled on, she led him to a sofa, and he had sat down, still with her hands in his, when Luigi, plainly irritated, began tapping his hand-rest again, repeating:
‘Clorinda! Clorinda!’
‘Oh, of course, the portrait!’ she said, laughing.
Letting go of Rougon’s hands, she skipped across the room and leaned over the painter’s shoulder. How lovely the painting was so far! It was coming along wonderfully! But she really was just a little tired. Yes, she must have a quarter of an hour’s rest. He could be getting on with her costume, couldn’t he? There was no need for her to pose for the costume, was there? Luigi kept looking daggers at Rougon and muttering darkly. Then, knitting her eyebrows, though still smiling, she said something very quickly to him in Italian. He fell silent at once and resumed his work, with little touches of his brush.
‘It’s true, I’m very tired,’ she said, returning to her place next to Rougon on the sofa. ‘My left leg is completely numb.’
She began to pummel her leg, to encourage the circulation, she explained. Through the gauze her knees showed pinkish. All this time she had forgotten her state of undress. She leaned forward, looking serious, until her shoulder was rubbing against the rough cloth of his coat, when all at once, the touch of a button sent a shudder over her breasts. Turning scarlet, she looked down at her body, and ran to fetch a length of black lace, with which she covered herself.
‘I’m rather chilly,’ she said, pulling up an armchair opposite Rougon, and sitting down. All that showed outside the lace now were her hands. She had knotted the lace round her neck, so that it formed a huge scarf, in which she buried her chin. Thus enwrapped, her breasts completely shrouded, she was black all over, except for her pale, serious face.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything.’
With childlike curiosity, she began to interrogate him about his fall from power. She was a foreigner, she said, and she made him repeat three times details which she said she did not understand. Several times she interrupted with an exclamation in Italian; and in her black eyes he could see just how his account affected her. Why had he quarrelled with the Emperor? How had he found it possible to give up such an eminent position? Who were his enemies, that he had let himself be brought down in this way? And when he hesitated, when she forced him into making an admission he was loath to make, there was such innocence in her eyes that he gave in and told her everything. Soon she no doubt knew all she wanted to know, but she went on asking questions, questions that had nothing to do with the subject, strange questions that surprised Rougon. At last, she put her hands together and fell silent. Her eyes closed, she sat deep in thought.
‘Well?’ he asked, with a smile.
‘Nothing,’ she murmured. ‘It’s so upsetting.’
He was touched. He would have taken her hands again, but she buried them in the lace wrap. The silence continued. After two long minutes, she opened her eyes again.
‘Do you have any plans?’ she asked.
He looked at her closely. A suspicion had crossed his mind. But she looked so adorable, lying back in the armchair, in a languid pose, as if the problems of her ‘dear friend’ had worn her out, that he hardly noticed the slight chill he felt on the back of his neck. She now began to heap flattery on him. Of course he would not be out of office for long, he would be master again some day. She was sure he had grand ideas and confidence in his star. It was written on his forehead. Why did he not make her his confidante? She was so discreet, she would be delighted to play a part in his future. Intoxicated, and trying again to catch hold of those little hands buried deep in lace, Rougon started talking again, pouring out all his thoughts, hopes, and beliefs. She did not try to encourage him, but let him talk, sitting perfectly still, so as not to do anything to distract him. She weighed up his whole person, his brain, his broad shoulders, his powerful chest. He was truly massive. Although she herself was sturdy enough, he could have tossed her over his shoulders with a flick of his wrist and carried her off, bearing her to whatever heights she wanted.
She stood up, spread her arms wide, and let the lace slip down. There she was again, even more naked than before, her breasts thrust forward, her whole body bursting out of the gauze. She did this with such a lithe, feline movement that she seemed to leap out of her bodice, offering him a fleeting vision that was at once a reward and a promise. Was it not the wrap that had slipped from her? She was already pulling it back and knotting it more tightly.
‘Shh!’ she whispered, ‘Luigi is un
happy again.’
Running to the painter, she bent over him again and whispered something quickly in his ear. The moment she was no longer there, in all her vitality, Rougon rubbed his hands together, feeling excited and almost annoyed. She did have an extraordinary effect on him; and he cursed himself for it. He could not have been more susceptible when he was twenty. She had just got everything out of him as if he were a child, whereas for the past two months he had been the one trying to make her talk, yet had not extracted from her anything but a lot of laughter. All she had needed to do was to withhold her little hands from him for a moment and he had lost control of himself to the point of babbling everything, just to be able to hold those hands again. He was beginning to realize that she wanted to take control of him, but was not yet sure whether he was worth seducing.
Rougon smiled. It was the smile of a strong man. He could break her whenever he wanted. She was the one who had started this game. Crude thoughts came into his mind, a scheme of seduction in which, having overpowered her, he would make her do whatever he wanted. He could hardly make a fool of himself with this young woman who flaunted her body like that. But he was no longer sure that the lace wrap had slipped off accidentally.
‘Tell me,’ said Clorinde, moving very close to him again, ‘would you say my eyes were grey?’
He stood up and studied her. She returned his gaze without blinking. But when he stretched out his hands, she smacked them. There was no need to touch. She was very frigid now. She buried herself in her lace, seeming suddenly embarrassed by the gaps in it. No matter how much he joked and teased her, pretending he would use force, she wrapped herself still tighter, uttering little cries every time he so much as touched the fringe of the lace. And she refused to sit down again.
‘I’d rather walk a little,’ she said, ‘to take the stiffness out of my legs.’
So they walked together, up and down the long room. Now it was his turn to ask her questions. Normally she did not respond to questions, but on this occasion she chattered away, jumping from one thing to another, interrupting herself with exclamations, starting stories she never finished. When he questioned her closely about an absence of two weeks, with her mother, the previous month, she replied with an endless string of little anecdotes about their travels. She had been everywhere, to England, Spain, Germany; she had seen everything. There followed a stream of puerile comments on food and fashions and the weather. She began some stories in which she herself played a part, together with known personalities, whom she named; Rougon was then all ears, thinking she might at last let something out. But the stories either became purely childish or were never finished. Thus, once again, he learned nothing. She wore her usual mask of a smile and, despite all her chatter, remained totally inscrutable. Totally bemused by all these bizarre, sometimes contradictory, scraps of information, Rougon could not decide whether he had before him a little girl of twelve, innocent to the point of simple-mindedness, or a very clever woman who knew how to put on a show of childlike innocence.
She was telling him about an adventure she had had in a small Spanish town—about the gallantry of a fellow traveller whose bed she had had to accept, while he slept on a chair—when she suddenly broke off and said, out of the blue:
‘You should stay away from the Tuileries. Make the Emperor miss you!’
‘Thank you for your advice, Mademoiselle Machiavelli,’ he replied with a laugh.
She laughed even more than he did. However, she carried on giving him advice; but when, playfully, he made as if to pinch her arms, she became quite angry and protested that they should at least be able to have a couple of minutes’ serious talk together. If only she had been born a man, she would have gone far! Men were so stupid!
‘Now, tell me about your friends,’ she resumed, sitting on the edge of the table, while Rougon stood facing her.
Luigi, who had not taken his eyes off them, suddenly closed his paintbox with a loud bang.
‘I’m going,’ he declared.
But Clorinde ran to the door and brought him back, assuring him that she would carry on posing. No doubt she was afraid of being left alone with Rougon. While Luigi hesitated, she tried to gain time.
‘You must let me have something to eat. I’m terribly hungry. Just a mouthful.’
She opened the door, summoned Antonia, and gave her an order in Italian. She had just resumed her seat on the edge of the table when Antonia entered, carrying in each hand a slice of bread and butter. She held them out to her mistress as if on a tray, grinning as usual like an animal being tickled, a grin that made her mouth seem like a red gash in her swarthy face. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt and went out, but Clorinde called her back to ask for a glass of water.
‘Would you like to share a piece?’ she said to Rougon. ‘It’s very good butter. I put sugar on it sometimes. But it’s not good to be too greedy.’
She certainly wasn’t, in fact. One morning Rougon had found her lunching on a piece of cold omelette left over from the day before. He suspected she was rather miserly—an Italian vice.
‘Give me three minutes, Luigi,’ she cried, biting into her first slice.
Then, turning back again to Rougon, who was still standing there, she asked:
‘Tell me about Monsieur Kahn, for example. How did he become a deputy?’
In the hope of extracting some involuntary admission from her, Rougon submitted to this new interrogation. He knew her to be most inquisitive about the lives of others, always keen to know about any indiscretion, always eager to learn about the intrigues going on around her. She was particularly interested in the lives of the very rich.
‘Well,’ he said, laughing, ‘Kahn didn’t become a deputy, he was born one. He probably cut his teeth on the benches of the Chamber. He was already a centre-right man under Louis-Philippe, and he was a passionate supporter of the constitutional monarchy when he was a young man. After ’48, he went over to the centre-left, but with no less enthusiasm; he wrote a very eloquent profession of faith in the Republic. Today, he’s on the centre-right again, defending the Empire with the same fervour... What else? Well, he’s the son of a Jewish banker from Bordeaux, he’s in charge of an ironworks near Bressuire, he has made himself an expert on finance and industry, and he lives quite modestly, hoping he’ll make big money one of these days, and on 15 August he was made an Officer of the Legion of Honour.’*
He thought for a moment, gazing into space.
‘I don’t think I’ve left anything out…’, he murmured. ‘Oh yes, he doesn’t have any children.’
‘What? Is he married?’ cried Clorinde.
With a gesture she intimated that Monsieur Kahn no longer interested her. He was a sly devil; he hid his wife away. Rougon explained that, though Madame Kahn lived in Paris, she was very retiring. Then, without waiting for further questions, he said:
‘Would you like Monsieur Béjuin’s life story now?’
‘Not at all,’ she said.
But he insisted.
‘A product of the École polytechnique. Has written booklets nobody has read. Manages the cut-glass works at Saint-Florent, ten miles from Bourges… He’s a protégé of the Prefect of the Cher…’
‘Oh, do stop!’ she cried.
‘Solid enough,’ he continued. ‘A good voter, never makes a speech, very patient, bides his time, always there looking at you, so that he won’t be forgotten… I’ve had him nominated Knight of the Legion of Honour.’*
Becoming quite irked, she had to put her hand over his mouth, saying:
‘Yes, he’s married too and he’s not much fun… I’ve seen his wife at your house. What a frump! She invited me down to Bourges to see their factory.’
She stuffed the rest of the first slice of bread into her mouth and washed it down with a great gulp of water. With her legs dangling, hunched forward a little, and her head thrown back, she began to swing her feet rhythmically backwards and forwards, inducing Rougon to follow the rhythm. With every swing, her calves f
lexed under the gauze.
‘And Monsieur Du Poizat?’ she enquired, after a pause.
‘Du Poizat has been a sub-prefect,’ was all he said.
She stared at him, surprised by the brevity of this description.
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘What else?’
‘What else? He’ll be a prefect later on, and then he’ll get a decoration.’
She understood. He did not want to say any more. In any case, she had had no particular purpose in asking about Du Poizat. Now she counted them all on her fingers. Starting with her thumb, she murmured:
‘Monsieur d’Escorailles. He’s not serious, he likes all women… Monsieur La Rouquette, no use, I know him too well… Monsieur de Combelot, married as well…’
And then, when she paused at her ring finger, unable to think of anybody else, Rougon suddenly said, looking at her hard:
‘You’re forgetting Delestang.’
‘So I am!’ she cried. ‘Tell me about him!’
‘He’s very handsome,’ Rougon said, without taking his eyes off hers. ‘He’s very rich. I’ve always said he’ll go far.’
He continued in this vein, with extravagant praise and all figures doubled. The model farm of La Chamade, he said, was worth two million. Delestang would certainly be a minister one of these days. But she maintained a disdainful pout.
‘He’s terribly stupid,’ she murmured after a while.
‘Of course!’ said Rougon, with an ironic smile.
He seemed delighted by her characterization of Delestang. Then, with one of the sudden changes of tack he was now used to, she asked another question, and it was now she who looked him in the eye as she did so.
‘You must know Count de Marsy very well?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, without batting an eyelid, ‘indeed I do.’
He seemed even more amused by this particular question. Then, becoming serious again, and weighing his words carefully, he said:
