by Emile Zola
Madame Correur now saw a master of ceremonies come forward, in the middle of the choir, and cry out three times, at the top of his voice:
‘Long live the Prince Imperial! Long live the Prince Imperial! Long live the Prince Imperial!’
Then, amid loud cries of acclamation that shook the very roof, Madame Correur saw that, to one side of the platform, the Emperor was on his feet, dominating the whole concourse. A black figure, standing out against the flaming gold of the bishops, he proceeded to present the Prince Imperial to the people of France, holding high above his head a small packet of white lace.
At this point, a guard waved Madame Correur back. She took just two steps, but suddenly there was nothing in front of her but the curtains of the improvised porch. The vision had vanished. Stunned, she stood there, thinking she had been gazing at some old painting, like the ones in the Louvre, a canvas matured by age, rich with purple and gold, and people of antiquity whom one never comes across in the streets of Paris.
‘Don’t stand there,’ she heard Du Poizat say. He led her over to where the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard were standing.
They were now talking about the floods. The Rhône and Loire valleys had been devastated. Thousands of families had lost their homes. Donations to the relief funds, opened everywhere, were proving insufficient to relieve the suffering. But the Emperor was showing admirable courage and generosity: in Lyons, he had been seen wading through low-lying parts of the town which were now under water; in Tours, he had taken a boat and rowed through the flooded streets for three hours. And everywhere he had given alms most generously.
‘Listen!’ the Colonel said all of a sudden.
It was the organ, resounding in the cathedral. From the gaping orifice of the porch came the sound of massed singing, so powerful that it made the curtains flap.
‘It’s the Te Deum,’ Monsieur Bouchard said.
Du Poizat heaved a sigh of relief. At last they were going to finish! But Monsieur Bouchard pointed out that the documents had yet to be signed; and, after that, the papal legate was to deliver the Pope’s blessing. Nevertheless, people were beginning to come out. One of the first was Rougon, on his arm a thin, plainly dressed woman with a sallow complexion. Accompanying them was a judge, in the garb of President of the Court of Appeal.
‘Who are they?’ asked Madame Correur.
Du Poizat named them both. Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère had met Rougon shortly before the coup d’état, and ever since had shown a particular respect for him, though he had never tried to develop any real friendship. Mademoiselle Véronique, his sister, lived with him in a house in the Rue Garancière, from which she never emerged except to attend low mass at Saint-Sulpice.
‘There now,’ declared the Colonel, lowering his voice, ‘that’s the sort of wife Rougon needs.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Monsieur Bouchard. ‘Plenty of money, a good family, very respectable but also quite worldly. He couldn’t find a better match.’
Du Poizat, however, disagreed entirely. She was all shrivelled up, he said. She was at least thirty-six but looked forty. A man doesn’t want to take a garden rake to bed with him! A pious old maid who tied her hair with simple headbands! A face so worn and colourless that you might think she’d been soaking it in holy water for the past six months!
‘You’re young,’ the office head said gravely. ‘Rougon needs to marry sensibly… True, I married for love, but not everybody can do that.’
‘Well, I’m not so concerned about her,’ Du Poizat admitted at last, ‘it’s the way Beulin-d’Orchère looks that worries me. The old devil has got a face like a bulldog… Just look at him, with his great snout and all that frizzy hair without a single white one, despite the fact that he’s fifty! Have you got any idea what goes on in his head? Can you tell me why he’s still pushing his sister into Rougon’s arms, now that Rougon’s down and out?’
Monsieur Bouchard and the Colonel said nothing, but merely exchanged uneasy glances. Was the ‘bulldog’, as the former sub-prefect dubbed him, really going to sink his teeth into Rougon? Madame Correur said slowly:
‘It’s a big advantage, you know, when you’ve got the law on your side.’
Meanwhile, Rougon had accompanied Mademoiselle Beulin-d’Orchère to her carriage; as she was about to climb in, he bowed. At that very moment, Clorinde emerged from the cathedral, on Delestang’s arm. Her face darkened and she shot a fierce glance at the tall, sallow creature with Rougon as, with great courtesy, he closed the carriage door. A moment later, as the carriage moved off, she detached herself from Delestang and made straight for Rougon, now wearing her usual adolescent smile. They all followed her.
‘I’ve lost Maman!’ she cried, laughing. ‘She’s been abducted in all this crowd… Do you think I could squeeze into your brougham?’
Delestang, who was on the point of offering to take her home himself, seemed quite put out. She was wearing a dress of orange silk worked with such gaudy flowers that the footmen were all staring. Rougon nodded his assent, but they were obliged to wait for his brougham for nearly ten minutes. Everybody waited with them, even Delestang, whose carriage was parked in the first row, a few steps away. The cathedral was still emptying slowly. Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Béjuin, who were crossing the square, hurried over to join the little group. As the great man shook hands very limply, and seemed in a bad mood, Monsieur Kahn asked him if he felt unwell.
‘No, just tired of all those lights in there,’ he replied, and then, a moment later, added quietly: ‘It was a great occasion… I’ve never seen a man so happy.’
He was referring to the Emperor. He spread his arms wide, in a slow, majestic gesture, as if to evoke the whole scene in the cathedral; but he said no more, and his friends, grouped round him, were also silent. They now formed a rather conspicuous little gathering in one corner of the square. The swelling crowd passed by—judges in robes, officers in tunics, officials in uniform, all of them heavy with epaulettes, gold braid, and decorations. They trampled on the flowers with which the square was covered, amid bawling footmen and the clatter of carriages driving off. The splendour of the Second Empire at its apogee was reflected in the crimson of the setting sun, while the towers of Notre-Dame, rosy-hued and vibrant with sound, seemed to be raising to a great height, towards a pinnacle of peace and greatness, the future reign of the child baptized under their arches. The little group, however, was not happy. The grandeur of the ceremony, the pealing of the bells, the display of banners, the enthusiasm of the crowds, and the pomp of the dignitaries had provoked in them a tremendous feeling of envy. For the first time, Rougon had felt the chill of his fall from grace; pale and pensive, he was jealous of the Emperor.
‘Goodnight, I’m going now, it’s all so boring,’ said Du Poizat, shaking hands all round.
‘What’s got into you today?’ asked the Colonel. ‘You’re very ill-tempered.’
The sub-prefect calmly replied:
‘Why on earth do you think I should be cheerful? This morning, in the Moniteur, I read that that fool de Campenon has been appointed to the prefecture I’d been promised!’
The others looked at each other. Du Poizat was right. They had nothing to be happy about. When the Prince was born, Rougon had promised to shower them with gifts on the day of the christening: Monsieur Kahn would get his concession, the Colonel his Commander’s cross, Madame Correur the five or six tobacco licences she had been asking for; and here they all were, huddled in a corner, empty-handed. They now looked at Rougon in such a distressed, reproachful way that he heaved his shoulders in an enormous shrug. At last his brougham arrived, he bundled Clorinde into it, leapt in himself, and without a word to any of them, slammed the door shut.
‘There’s de Marsy over there, under the awning,’ whispered Monsieur Kahn, as he led Monsieur Béjuin away. ‘Doesn’t the devil look pleased with himself! But do look the other way. He might snub us if we greet him.’
Delestang had hurried to his carriage, to follow Rougon’s brough
am. Monsieur Bouchard waited for his wife; then, when the cathedral was empty, was surprised to find himself left with the Colonel, who was equally tired of looking for his son Auguste. As for Madame Correur, she had just accepted the arm of a lieutenant of dragoons from her part of the country, a young officer who owed his commission partly to her.
In the meantime, in the brougham, Clorinde was talking to Rougon excitedly about the ceremony. He lay back, looking drowsy, and let her run on. She had seen the Easter celebrations in Rome, and they were no grander. She then explained that, for her, religion gave a glimpse of Paradise, with God the Father seated on his throne, like a sort of sun, all the angels in their glory gathered round him, a big circle of handsome young men clad in gold. But all at once she stopped, and cried:
‘Are you coming to the banquet at the Hôtel-de-Ville this evening? It will be wonderful!’
She had an invitation. She would wear a pink outfit, covered with forget-me-nots. Monsieur de Plouguern would be taking her, as her mother did not want to go anywhere in the evening now, because of her migraines. Then she broke off, to ask abruptly:
‘Tell me, who was that judge you were with just now?’
Raising his head slightly, Rougon gabbled:
‘Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère, fifty, comes from a family of judges, appointed deputy procurer at Montbrison, then royal procurer at Orléans, then public prosecutor at Rouen, member of the Joint Tribunal* in 1852, finally came to Paris as councillor of the Court of Appeal, and now presides over that court… Oh yes, I was forgetting, he was the one who confirmed the decree of 22 January 1852, which confiscated the property of the Orléans family… Satisfied?’
Clorinde laughed. He was making fun of her for her curiosity; but there was nothing wrong with wanting to know about the people one might meet. And she had not even said a word about Mademoiselle Beulin-d’Orchère. She started talking again about the banquet at the Hôtel-de-Ville. She had heard that the reception hall had been done out at unheard-of expense, and an orchestra would be playing all through dinner. Oh, France was a great country. Nowhere, not in Britain, nor in Germany, nor in Spain, nor in Italy, had she seen more dazzling balls or more amazing receptions than in France. So, she said, her face glowing with enthusiasm, her choice was made: she wanted to become French.
‘Soldiers!’ she suddenly cried. ‘Look! Soldiers!’
The brougham, having followed the Rue de la Cité, was now held up at the end of the Notre-Dame bridge by a regiment marching past on the embankment. They were soldiers of the line, little soldiers trudging along like so many sheep, in rather disorderly fashion, because of the trees bordering the pavements. They were returning from their job of lining the route. Their faces showed the effect of the scorching midday sun, their boots were white with dust, their backs were bent under the weight of their kitbags and rifles, and they were so sick of the jostling of the crowds that they looked completely stupefied.
‘I love the French army,’ said Clorinde in delight, leaning forward to get a better view.
Rougon seemed to wake up at this point, and he too peered out. The might of the Empire was passing by along the dusty roadway. Carriages were slowly backing up on the bridge, but the drivers waited respectfully as the soldiers trudged along, while from the carriage doors peered dignitaries in full costume, vague smiles on their faces, looking quite touched as they gazed at the little soldiers dazed by their long day of duty. The rifles, shining in the sun, lit up the occasion.
‘And those there, right at the end, can you see them?’ Clorinde resumed. ‘There’s a whole line of them who are just boys. The darlings!’
In an access of enthusiasm, she began to blow kisses to the soldiers, with both hands, but sitting back a little, to remain hidden from view. She loved soldiers, and delighted in the sight of these sweet boys. Rougon smiled a paternal smile; it was the first moment of pleasure he had had all day.
‘What’s happening here?’ he asked, when at last the brougham was able to turn on to the bridge. There was quite a crowd, on the roadway as well as the pavement. Again the brougham was forced to stop. Somebody in the crowd shouted:
‘It’s a drunk. He insulted the boys, and the police have just grabbed hold of him.’
When the crowd parted, who did Rougon see but Gilquin, dead drunk, held by the scruff of the neck by two policemen. His yellow twill suit, beginning to split at the seams, revealed patches of bare flesh. His moustache hanging limply, and his face very red, he was still perfectly affable. He was talking in a very friendly fashion to the policemen, calling them ‘boys’, and explaining to them that he had spent a nice quiet afternoon in a café with some very rich people. They could check up at the Palais-Royal theatre, where Monsieur and Madame Charbonnel had gone to see the Dragées du baptême;* they would certainly confirm his story.
‘So let me go, you clowns!’ he cried, suddenly rearing up. ‘For Christ’s sake, the café’s just over there! I’ll show you, if you don’t believe me! I wasn’t bothered about the soldiers, I tell you, but one of the little sods started laughing at me, so I told him where to get off. Insult the French army? Me? Never! Just mention Théodore to the Emperor, and you’ll see what he says… My God, you’d be in trouble!’
The crowd, highly amused, was roaring with laughter. The two policemen were unimpressed. Without letting go for an instant, they slowly pushed Gilquin towards the Rue Saint-Martin, down which, at some distance, could be seen the red light of a police station. Rougon had thrown himself back in his brougham, but all at once Gilquin looked up and caught sight of him. Then, drunk though he was, his native craftiness came to his aid. Screwing his eyes up, but squinting at Rougon, he began to talk for the latter’s benefit:
‘That’s enough, boys, that’s enough! I could make a lot of trouble if I wanted to, but I won’t, I’ve got too much dignity for that… But let me tell you, you wouldn’t lay a finger on Théodore if he gadded about with princesses, like a gentleman of this town I happen to know. I’ve worked with people in high places, and very sensitive work it was too, very important work, but without expecting to be paid thousands for it. I know what I’m worth. Money consoles mean souls… God Almighty, is there no friendship left in the world?’
He was becoming maudlin, and his voice was broken by hiccups. Rougon discreetly beckoned to a man in a big overcoat buttoned up to the neck, and whom he clearly knew. He whispered something in his ear, and gave him Gilquin’s address, 17 Rue Virginie, Grenelle. The man went over to the two policemen, as if to help them hold the drunk, who was beginning to struggle. To the crowd’s surprise, the two policemen executed a sharp left turn, packed Gilquin into a cab, gave the driver instructions, and watched him drive off along the Quai de la Mégisserie. Gilquin’s huge, dishevelled head appeared one last time, at the door of the cab; roaring with triumphant laughter, he yelled:
‘Vive la République!’
When the crowd had dispersed, the embankments resumed their customary calm. Exhausted from its own excitement, Paris had now sat down to dinner; the three hundred thousand sightseers who had crushed each other in the streets had now invaded the restaurants on the river embankment and in the Temple district. Only people from the country, worn out, were still dragging their feet along the deserted pavements, not knowing where to go for dinner. Down by the water’s edge, on either side of the barge, the washerwomen were still banging away, and a ray of sunshine was still gilding the tops of the towers of Notre-Dame, which looked silently down at the houses, dark in shadow. A light mist was rising from the Seine, and in the distance, at the tip of the Île Saint-Louis, the only thing that stood out in the grey expanse of the housefronts was the giant frock coat, the monumental advertisement, as if hung on a nail on the skyline, the cast-off, bourgeois clothing of some Titan whose limbs had been blown away by lightning.
Chapter 5
One morning, at about eleven, Clorinde called to see Rougon at his house in the Rue Marbeuf. She was on her way back from the Bois; at the door, a servant
took charge of her horse. She made her way round the house, to the left, straight to the garden, and stood in front of one of the study windows, which was wide open. The great man was working.
‘Aha! You weren’t expecting me, were you?’ she cried.
Rougon looked up with a start. She stood laughing in the warm June sunshine. Her thick blue riding habit, the long skirt of which she had caught up over her left arm, made her seem even taller than she was, while the bodice that went with it, cut like a waistcoat, close-fitting, with little rounded tails, was like real skin stretched tightly over her shoulders, bosom, and hips. She had white linen cuffs and a collar to match, complete with a thin blue silk tie. On her coiled tresses she had jauntily set a man’s hat, round which she had wound a gauze scarf, adding a bluish haze which seemed to sparkle with the gold dust of the sun.
