Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  ‘He absolutely must go to Compiègne!’

  The friends looked nervously round; but they were quite alone. Madame Rougon had vanished a few minutes before. In hushed tones, and keeping an eye on all the doors, they now discussed the matter freely. The ladies were standing round the fireplace, in which a huge log fire was blazing. Monsieur Bouchard and the Colonel were as usual absorbed in their piquet, while the other gentlemen had pushed their armchairs into a corner, to be alone. Clorinde stood in the middle of the room, deep in thought.

  ‘Was he expecting somebody, then?’ asked Du Poizat. ‘Who could it be?’

  The others shrugged. They had no idea.

  ‘Perhaps somebody else for that stupid plan of his,’ Du Poizat continued. ‘I’m fed up hearing about it. One of these evenings, I’ll tell him straight out what I think. You’ll see.’

  ‘Not so loud!’ said Kahn, putting a finger to his lips.

  The former sub-prefect had raised his voice rather alarmingly. For a few seconds, they all listened. Then Monsieur Kahn himself spoke, very softly:

  ‘It must be said: he has obligations towards each one of us.’

  ‘You could say he has incurred a debt,’ added the Colonel, laying down his cards.

  ‘Yes, indeed, that’s a good way to put it — a debt,’ declared Monsieur Bouchard. ‘On that last day, at the Council of State, we didn’t let him down, did we?’

  The others nodded vigorously in agreement. A general lamentation began. Rougon had ruined them all. Monsieur Bouchard added that if he had not been so loyal to him in his misfortune he would have been a departmental head long ago, while the Colonel said that Count de Marsy had offered him the Commander’s cross and a post for his boy Auguste, but out of friendship for Rougon he had refused. Pretty Madame Bouchard said that Monsieur d’Escorailles’s father and mother were most upset to see their son still a junior official; for the last six months at least, they had been expecting to see him appointed a master of petitions in the Council of State. Even those who said nothing — Delestang, Monsieur Béjuin, Madame Correur, and the Charbonnels — pursed their lips and raised their eyes heavenwards like martyrs whose patience was beginning to run out.

  ‘In a word, we’ve been robbed,’ said Du Poizat. ‘But he won’t go down there, I’m quite sure of that. Is there any sense in going to mess about with stones and rocks in some godforsaken hole, when you have important things to do in Paris? Perhaps you’d like me to have a word with him?’

  Clorinde now emerged from her reverie. She imposed silence with a single gesture. Then, after opening a door to make sure nobody was there, she repeated what she had said before:

  ‘Do you hear? He absolutely must go to Compiègne!’

  But when they all looked at her, she cut off their questions with another gesture.

  ‘No, we can’t discuss it here!’

  She did say, however, that she and her husband had also been invited to Compiègne; she even let slip the names of Count de Marsy and Madame de Llorentz, but gave no explanation. They would push the great man back into power, despite him; they would force him if necessary. Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère and the whole of the High Court bench were on his side. Monsieur La Rouquette added that, though the Emperor’s entourage all detested Rougon, the Emperor himself never spoke ill of him; whenever Rougon’s name was mentioned, he became very serious, his eyes expressionless, his mouth hidden by his moustache.

  ‘It’s not about us,’ declared Monsieur Kahn, finally. ‘If we succeed, the whole country will be better off.’

  They carried on singing the praises of the master of the house. Meanwhile, voices could now be heard in the adjoining room. Bitten by curiosity, Du Poizat opened the door as if to go out, then closed it again, but slowly enough to catch a glimpse of Rougon’s visitor. It was Gilquin, wearing an almost clean overcoat, and holding a big stick with a brass handle. Making no effort to keep his voice down, he was saying, in a very familiar tone:

  ‘I say, old man, don’t write to me in the Rue Virginie in Grenelle any more; I’ve had a spot of bother there, I’m staying in Batignolles now — Passage Guttin. Anyway, you can count on me. So long!’

  He shook Rougon’s hand. When Rougon came back into the drawing room, he apologized, but gave Du Poizat a very sharp look.

  ‘He’s a good man, Gilquin, isn’t he, Du Poizat? He’s recruiting settlers for my new world down in the Landes… Of course, you’ll all come with me, won’t you? You can make your fortunes. Kahn will be my prime minister. Delestang and his wife can share the Foreign Affairs portfolio. Béjuin can look after the postal service. And I’m not forgetting the ladies: Madame Bouchard will wield the sceptre of beauty, and I’ll put Madame Charbonnel in charge of the warehouses.’

  He was joking, of course, but they were not at all sure and were wondering whether he had overheard them through a crack in the wall. When he said he would give the Colonel as many decorations as he wanted, the old soldier nearly lost his temper. And all the while, Clorinde was studying the invitation to Compiègne, which she had taken from the mantelpiece.

  ‘Will you go to the house party?’ she suddenly asked, quite casually.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Rougon, looking surprised. ‘I have every intention of using the occasion to get the Emperor to give me my department.’

  Ten o’clock struck. Madame Rougon reappeared; tea was served.

  Chapter 7

  It was nearly seven o’clock on the evening of Clorinde’s arrival at Compiègne, and she was chatting with Monsieur de Plouguern, near a window in the Map Gallery. They were all waiting for the Emperor and Empress to arrive and for everyone to go into the dining hall. The second batch of the season’s guests had only been at the chateau since about three o’clock; and as not all the guests had come down yet, Clorinde was engaged in commenting on each person who entered. As they appeared in the doorway, the ladies with their décolleté gowns and flowers in their hair smiled wanly, while the men, in white tie and knee breeches, calves tight in silk stockings, remained quite solemn.

  ‘Ah, here’s Count Rusconi!’ murmured Clorinde. ‘Doesn’t he look fine!… But look, godfather, there’s Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère! You’d swear that at any moment he’ll start barking like a dog! And what amazing legs!’

  These mischievous comments delighted Monsieur de Plouguern, who sniggered each time. Count Rusconi came over to greet Clorinde, with all the easy gallantry of a handsome Italian male; then he made his round of the ladies, his head and shoulders rising and falling as one bow followed another. They were all charmed. A few feet away, Delestang, looking very serious, was staring at the huge maps of Compiègne forest that lined the walls of the gallery.

  ‘Which carriage did you get into?’ Clorinde asked him. ‘I looked for you everywhere, so we could travel together. I had to squeeze into a carriage full of men…’

  She broke off and clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  ‘Here’s Monsieur La Rouquette,’ she said. ‘What a get-up!’

  ‘A dog’s dinner,’ said the senator maliciously.

  At this moment there was a great rustling of silk at the door, then a hand thrust it open, and in swept a woman in a gown so smothered in bows, flowers, and laces that she had to squeeze her petticoats in with both hands to get through. It was Clorinde’s sister-in-law, Madame de Combelot. Clorinde looked her up and down, and murmured:

  ‘The things people are prepared to do!’

  When Monsieur de Plouguern turned to look at her own dress — simple muslin over badly-cut pink faille — she simply said, blithely:

  ‘Oh, there’s no point looking at me, godfather! I don’t care what I wear. People must take me as I am.’ By now Delestang had decided he had had enough of the maps, and went over to his sister-in-law, whom he brought across to his wife. They were hardly fond of each other. They exchanged tart greetings, and Madame de Combelot then swept on her way, trailing behind her a train of satin petticoats rather like a s
ection of flower bed. She went straight through the silent throng of men, who stepped back as the mass of lace flounces passed by. Alone again with Monsieur de Plouguern, Clorinde laughingly alluded to the passion which the lady in question had conceived for the Emperor. And when the senator remarked how admirable it was of the Emperor not to take advantage of it, Clorinde cried:

  ‘You surely don’t think he deserves praise? She’s all skin and bone! And so plain! I’ve heard some men call her beautiful, but I have no idea why.’

  As she chatted, she kept looking anxiously at the door.

  ‘Ah, at last,’ she said, ‘this must be Monsieur Rougon.’

  But a moment later, her eyes flashing, she corrected herself:

  ‘No! It’s Count de Marsy!’

  Impeccably dressed in black coat and knee breeches, the Minister walked up to Madame de Combelot with a smile; and as he greeted her, he glanced vaguely round at the other guests, as if he hardly knew them. Then, as one person after another bowed to him, he deigned to bow back. Several of the men came up to him, and he was soon the centre of a little group. His pale face, with its sharp, sardonic expression, stood out amid the people jostling round him.

  ‘By the way,’ Clorinde said, edging Monsiur de Plouguern further into the window recess, ‘I’ve been counting on you for some information… What do you know about those famous letters of Madame de Llorentz?’

  ‘Only what everybody knows,’ he replied.

  Three letters were said to have been written by Count de Marsy to Madame de Llorentz, nearly five years previously, shortly before the Emperor’s marriage. At the time, Madame de Llorentz had just lost her husband (a general of Spanish extraction), and was in Madrid sorting out some legal matters. It was the heyday of their liaison, and, to entertain her, the Count was said to have indulged his penchant for comedy, and included in his letters some very spicy details about certain august persons with whom he was very close. The story went that ever since then Madame de Llorentz, who was not only beautiful but also inclined to jealousy, had kept these letters carefully hidden, ready to be used as a weapon of revenge.

  ‘When he decided that he had to marry a Wallachian princess,’ the senator said, ‘Madame de Llorentz allowed herself to be talked into giving her consent, but having allowed de Marsy to take the princess on a month’s honeymoon, she made it clear to him that if he did not come to heel, one fine morning she would leave those terrible letters on the Emperor’s desk. So he took up his chains again… He pays her every attention in an effort to get her to return those accursed letters.’

  Clorinde laughed heartily. She found this a very amusing story. And she wanted to know more. Did it mean that if the Count cheated on Madame de Llorentz, she would indeed carry out her threat? Where did she keep the letters? Someone had told her that she kept them tucked into her bosom, stitched between two satin ribbons. But Monsieur de Plouguern could tell her nothing more. Apparently nobody had read the letters. He knew a young man who had turned himself into Madame de Llorentz’s absolute slave for nearly six months in a vain attempt to make a copy of them.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said suddenly, ‘he won’t take his eyes off you, my dear. But of course, I was forgetting: he has fallen for you!… Is it true that at his last reception, at the Ministry, you talked together for nearly an hour?’

  Clorinde did not reply. She was no longer listening. Motionless and majestic, she stood waiting, as Count de Marsy continued to stare across the room at her. Then, slowly raising her head, she returned his gaze, and awaited his greeting. He came over and bent low. She smiled, most graciously. All without a word. The Count then went back to the little group he had left. Monsieur La Rouquette was holding forth in a loud voice, referring constantly to de Marsy by his title: ‘His Excellency…’, ‘His Excellency…’

  Meanwhile the Map Gallery had gradually filled. There were nearly a hundred people present — senior officials, generals, foreign diplomats, five deputies, three prefects, two painters, a novelist, two Academicians, not to mention the Palace personnel, chamberlains, aides-de-camp, and equerries. A murmur of voices rose up beneath the brilliant chandeliers. Those used to being invited to the chateau edged their way through the throng, while those invited for the first time stood where they were, not daring to force a path among the ladies. This initial awkwardness of a crowd of people many of whom did not know each other, but were thus suddenly brought together on the threshold of the Imperial dining hall, gave their faces an expression of morose dignity. Every now and then there would be a sudden hush, all heads turning, vaguely tense. The Empire furnishing of the huge room, with its straight-legged console tables and square armchairs, all seemed to add to the solemnity of the occasion.

  ‘Here he is, at last!’ whispered Clorinde.

  Rougon had just come in. He halted for a moment just inside the room. He had his familiar, stolid manner, shoulders slightly hunched, face impassive. With a brief glance he detected the slight shudder of hostility provoked in some of the guests by his mere presence. Unperturbed, and distributing handshakes as he went, he directed his steps so as to bring himself face to face with de Marsy. They both bowed, seeming delighted to see each other. Then, looking into each other’s eyes, like enemies who respect each other, they chatted in a friendly fashion. An empty space formed around them. The ladies followed their slightest gestures, while the men, affecting great discretion, looked the other way, but occasionally glanced furtively round at them. There was whispering in corners. What could be the Emperor’s secret intention? Why had he brought these two personalities together like this? Monsieur La Rouquette was most perplexed. He suspected something momentous would happen. He went across to Monsieur de Plouguern to ask what he thought, and the latter saw fit to say:

  ‘Heaven knows! Perhaps Rougon will push de Marsy out. Better keep on the right side of him… Unless the Emperor has some dirty trick in mind. He does sometimes… Though it’s just as likely that all he wanted was to watch them together, just for fun.’

  The whispering ceased, and the crowd began to move forward. Two Palace officials went from group to group, repeating a short phrase each time. The guests, suddenly very serious again, began to move towards the left-hand door, where they formed two lines, gentlemen on one side, ladies on the other. Keeping Rougon by his side, de Marsy took up a position near the door; behind them stretched all the others, according to rank or position. And like this, in a state of great reverence, they waited three more minutes.

  Suddenly both wings of the door swung open. The Emperor entered, his chest barred by the red ribbon of the Grand Cross;* at his heels was the Chamberlain Adjutant, Monsieur de Combelot. The Emperor smiled faintly and halted in front of de Marsy and Rougon, his body swaying slightly, his fingers slowly twisting his long moustache. Then, rather awkwardly, he murmured:

  ‘Please tell Madame Rougon how sorry we were to hear she is indisposed. We would so much have liked to see her. But let’s hope it’s nothing. There are so many colds going round just now.’

  And he continued on his way. Two paces further he shook hands with a general whom he asked for news of his son, referring to the boy as ‘my little friend Gaston’. Gaston was the same age as the Prince Imperial, but was much sturdier. As the Emperor proceeded, the gentlemen bowed one by one. At the far end, Monsieur de Combelot introduced one of the two Academicians, a writer who had come to Court for the first time. The Emperor talked about a book this gentleman had recently published; he had read some passages with great pleasure, he said.

  Meanwhile the Empress too had appeared, attended by Madame de Llorentz. She was dressed in a very modest outfit, a blue silk gown under a tunic of white lace. With short steps she moved forward, smiling, graciously inclining her head. From a plain blue velvet ribbon a heart-shaped set of diamonds dangled against her bare neck. She progressed down the line of ladies. The continuous curtseys involved much rustling of skirts, from which rose musky odours. Madame de Llorentz introduced a young lady, who seemed to becom
e quite emotional. Madame de Combelot affected towards her an attitude of sympathetic familiarity.

  When the sovereigns had both reached the end of the double line, they made their way back again, the Emperor now turning to the ladies and the Empress to the gentlemen. There were further introductions. No one dared speak; there was an awkward silence as the ladies and gentlemen stood facing each other. But when the Palace Adjutant-General came in to announce that dinner was served, the ranks at last broke up; at first there were some murmured exchanges, then several peals of laughter.

  ‘So, you don’t need me any more, do you?’ whispered Monsieur de Plouguern in Clorinde’s ear.

  She smiled. She had halted opposite de Marsy, to force him to offer her his arm, which he did, with an air of great gallantry. For a moment, there was some hesitation. Then the Emperor and the Empress led the way into the dining hall, followed by those chosen to sit on their right and left hands. On this occasion there were two foreign diplomats, a young American woman and the wife of a minister. The other guests followed behind as they chose, each gentleman arming in his lady. Gradually the procession took shape.

  The entry into the dining hall made a magnificent spectacle. Above the long table, glittering with a silver centrepiece decorated with hunting scenes — the stag at the start, the horns sounding the halloo, the dogs at the kill — there was a blaze of light from five chandeliers. The silver plate bordered the cloth with a series of silver moons, while the flickering flames of the hotplates, with their reflections in the polished metal, and all the cut glass, streaming with liquid light, and the baskets of fruit and the vases of flowers with their bright pink, all gave the Imperial table a splendour whose brilliance filled every corner of the vast room. In through the double doors, wide open, came the procession of diners, after its slow passage through the guardroom. The men lowered their heads to speak, then raised them high again, feeling secretly proud to be involved in this triumphal march; the women, with the light playing on their bare shoulders, were all rapturous sweetness. Their long dresses kept the couples well distanced on the rich carpeting, which, with the rustle of all their silks and satins, gave the procession additional majesty. It was almost a lovers’ approach, as the avid throng advanced into the luxurious surroundings, all light and warmth, like a sensuous bathing pool in which the musky odours of the ladies’ gowns mingled with a faint aroma of game set off with shreds of lemon. And as they entered, and saw the magnificence of the table, they were greeted by a military band hidden in an adjoining gallery, which, like the opening of a fairyland ball, welcomed them with a fanfare of trumpets. The men, though slightly embarrassed by their knee breeches, instinctively squeezed their ladies’ arms, and smiled.