Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  She inspected the suite Rougon had been allotted. It consisted of an anteroom, off which, on the right, opened a small servant’s room; a bedroom at the far end, a very large room decorated in a buff cretonne, with big red flowers, and a big mahogany bed next to an immense fireplace in which several huge logs were burning.

  ‘Good heavens,’ cried Rougon, ‘you should have insisted on something better. I would never have put up with a room over the courtyard. Of course, if you’re prepared to be treated like that… I told your husband the same thing last night.’

  Clorinde shrugged.

  ‘Oh, he wouldn’t object even if they stuck me in an attic,’ she murmured.

  She insisted on seeing the whole suite, including the lavatory, which was all in Sèvres china — white, with gold ornamentation and the Imperial initials. Then she went to the window and let out a faint cry of surprise and wonder. Before her, for mile after mile, the Compiègne forest filled the horizon with the rolling sea of its tall trees; monstrous peaks frothed and foamed, then dispersed as the swell smoothed and slowed; and in the pale October sunlight the scene was covered with pools of gold and purple, as if a richly braided cloak had been stretched from one end of the skyline to the other.

  ‘Come on, let’s have breakfast!’ she cried.

  They cleared a table on which there was an inkstand and some blotting paper. They found it great fun to do without their servants. Laughing, Clorinde told them that when she woke up she had thought she had reached the end of a long journey made in her dreams and was in an inn kept by some prince. The improvised breakfast on silver trays delighted her, as if, she said, it was part of an adventure in some faraway foreign land. Delestang, for his part, marvelled at the amount of wood burning in the hearth. At last, staring into the flames, lost in thought, he muttered:

  ‘I’ve been told they burn fifteen hundred francs’ worth of wood every day in this chateau. Fifteen hundred francs’ worth! I say, Rougon, doesn’t that seem a bit much to you?’

  Rougon, slowly sipping his chocolate, merely nodded. He was intrigued by Clorinde’s excellent mood. This morning she seemed to have risen looking even more beautiful than ever. Her big eyes shone as if with a fighting spirit.

  ‘What was that bet you were talking about last night?’ he suddenly asked.

  She began to laugh, but did not reply. He insisted, but all she said was:

  ‘You’ll see!’

  He became annoyed, and was quite sharp with her. He could not hide his jealousy, at first making veiled allusions, but soon making blunt accusations: she had made an exhibition of herself, she had let Count de Marsy hold her hand for more than two minutes. Unperturbed, Delestang carried on dipping long fingers of bread in his coffee.

  ‘Oh, if I was your husband!’ cried Rougon.

  Clorinde had risen from her chair and was standing behind Delestang, her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Yes? If you were my husband…?’ she said.

  Then, bending forward, she murmured into Delestang’s hair, ruffling it with her warm breath:

  ‘He’d be a good boy, wouldn’t he, my dear, as good as you?’

  Delestang’s only response was to twist his head and kiss the hand resting on his left shoulder. Now looking upset, and somewhat embarrassed, he blinked at Rougon, to intimate to him that he was perhaps going a little far. Rougon was about to call him a fool when Clorinde made a sign over her husband’s head and he followed her to the window, where she leaned out. For a moment she remained silent, gazing at the scene before her. Then, without mincing her words, she said:

  ‘Why do you want to leave Paris? Don’t you love me any more? Listen, I’ll be sensible and follow your advice, if you give up this notion of exiling yourself down there, in that wretched Midi of yours.’

  Faced with this offer, he became very serious. He outlined the many commitments he had made, and from which it was impossible for him to withdraw. As he spoke, Clorinde studied his face in a vain attempt to read his real feelings. He seemed determined to go.

  ‘Very well then, you don’t love me any more,’ she resumed. ‘That being so, I can do whatever I please… You’ll see.’

  She left the window, not in the least put out, as relaxed as before. Delestang was still thinking about the fire. He was trying to calculate how many such fireplaces there were in the chateau. But Clorinde interrupted him. She had just enough time to dress, and did not want to miss the hunt. Rougon went out into the corridor with them. It ran the whole length of the building, like the corridor in a convent, and had green pile carpeting. As she walked along, she amused herself by reading the guests’ names, written on cards inserted in little wooden frames. At the end of the corridor, she swung round; she thought Rougon looked puzzled, and was about to call her back. She halted, waited a few moments, smiling, but he went back into his suite, slamming the door.

  Lunch was early that morning. In the Map Gallery there was much talk about the weather, which was excellent for the hunt. There was hazy sunshine, the air was fresh and clear, it was as still as a lake. Carriages were to leave the chateau a little before midday. The meet was at Puits-du-Roi, a great intersection of roads deep in the forest. The Imperial hunt had already been waiting there for an hour, the grooms on horseback, in red cloth breeches and big braided hats, the kennel boys with black, silver-buckled shoes, made for easy running through the undergrowth. The carriages of guests invited from neighbouring country houses were neatly arranged in a semicircle, opposite the pack, kept on the leash by the kennel boys, while in the centre were groups of ladies and huntsmen in uniform, as if they were figures in an old painting, a hunt in the days of Louis XV, which had come to life in the pale sunshine. The Emperor and Empress themselves were not riding. Shortly after the start, their coaches turned down a side road, to go back to the chateau. Many others followed suit. At first Rougon tried to keep up with Clorinde, but she rode so madly that he soon fell behind. Furious at the sight of her galloping alongside Count de Marsy, far away down one of the rides, he too returned to the chateau.

  At about half past five Rougon was asked by the Empress to come down to take tea in the Imperial suite. This was a favour usually accorded to men known for their wit. Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère and Monsieur de Plouguern were already there. The latter told a smutty story in very delicate terms, provoking much laughter. So far, very few of the hunt were back. Madame de Combelot came in, affecting to be exhausted. When she was asked for a report, she launched into technical details:

  ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘it took more than four hours to get a kill… The stag broke cover once we were in open country. It had had a breather in the trees. Then it went off into the Red Swamp and got taken there. It was a wonderful chase!’

  Count Rusconi, looking worried, added another detail:

  ‘Madame Delestang’s horse bolted. She disappeared over by the road to Pierrefonds. There’s still no news of her.’

  He was bombarded with questions. The Empress seemed very concerned. Rusconi told them Clorinde had been following the hounds at a tremendous pace, and had impressed even the most accomplished huntsmen. Then, all of a sudden, her horse had made off down a sidetrack.

  ‘Yes,’ added Monsieur La Rouquette, who was dying to get a word in, ‘she whipped the poor horse quite violently… Count de Marsy galloped after her to help. He disappeared as well.’

  Madame de Llorentz, seated behind Her Majesty, rose to her feet. She had the impression that they were all looking at her and smirking. She turned very pale. They were now talking about the many dangers of riding to hounds. One day a stag had taken refuge in a farmyard, and had turned on the dogs so savagely that in the melee a lady had broken her leg. Then they began to speculate. Perhaps, if the Count had managed to bring Madame Delestang’s horse under control, they had both dismounted to rest for a few minutes. The forest was full of places to shelter — log cabins, barns, sheds. Madame de Llorentz now had the impression that the grins on people’s faces were broader than ever as
, out of the corner of their eyes, they watched her anger and jealousy mount. Rougon, meanwhile, said nothing, and simply sat tapping nervously on his knees.

  ‘Hmm! What if they spend the whole night outside,’ muttered Monsieur de Plouguern.

  The Empress had given instructions for Clorinde to be invited to come and have tea if she reappeared. All at once, there were cries of surprise: there she was, standing in the doorway, smiling and triumphant, with wonderful colour in her cheeks. She thanked Her Majesty for being so concerned about her. Then, as cool as a cucumber, she added:

  ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have been so worried… I had bet Count de Marsy that I would arrive first at the kill. If it hadn’t been for that wretched horse…’

  Then she added cheerfully:

  ‘But neither of us lost, that’s the main thing.’

  They made her tell the whole story in detail. She was not in the least embarrassed. After ten minutes’ furious gallop, her horse had collapsed from exhaustion. She had come to no harm, however. But seeing that she was rather shaken by the whole thing, Count de Marsy had insisted that they take shelter for a few moments in a shed.

  ‘We guessed as much!’ cried Monsieur La Rouquette. ‘A shed, you say? I thought you might have found a hunting lodge.’

  ‘It must have been rather uncomfortable,’ added Monsieur de Plouguern maliciously.

  Still smiling, and savouring her words, she replied:

  ‘No, not at all. There was some straw I could sit on. It was a big shed, with lots of cobwebs. It was getting dark. It felt really funny.’

  Then, staring straight at Madame de Llorentz, she went on, dragging her words out even more to make them seem even more meaningful:

  ‘Count de Marsy looked after me very well.’

  All the time that Clorinde had been telling her story, Madame de Llorentz had been pressing two fingers to her lips. On hearing the final details, she was overcome by such fury that she closed her eyes in a fit of dizziness. She remained like this for another minute, then, unable to bear it any longer, left the room. Most intrigued, Monsieur de Plouguern slipped out after her. Clorinde, who had been watching her closely, made an involuntary gesture of triumph.

  The subject was changed. Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère spoke about a scandalous legal case that was attracting a great deal of attention: it concerned a plea for the dissolution of a marriage because of the impotence of the husband. He related certain details in such discreet judicial terms that Madame de Combelot was unable to follow him and kept asking questions. Count Rusconi then delighted everybody by crooning some Piedmontese folk songs, all about love, following each of them with a French translation. In the middle of one of these songs, Delestang came in. He had just got back from the forest, where he had spent two hours going up and down the paths, looking for his wife. His distraught appearance raised fresh smiles, while the Empress, seeming all at once to have taken a great liking to Clorinde, made her sit next to her, and talked horses. Pyramis, Clorinde’s mount for the hunt, was very difficult, she said; she would make sure that the next day she would be given Caesar.

  The moment Clorinde had appeared, Rougon had withdrawn to one of the windows, apparently interested in the lamps being lit in the far distance, over to the left, beyond the park. In this way nobody was able to see the faint twitching of his features. He stood there for a long time, looking out into the night. At last, when Monsieur de Plouguern came in and joined him, he turned round, impassive. In the feverish tones of someone whose curiosity has just been satisfied, de Plouguern whispered in Rougon’s ear:

  ‘My God, there’s just been a tremendous row… You must have seen me follow Madame de Llorentz. She ran straight into de Marsy at the end of the corridor. They went into one of the rooms, and I heard de Marsy tell her straight out that he’s getting utterly tired of her… She stormed out and went straight to the Emperor’s study… I’m sure she went there to leave the famous letters on his desk…’

  At this very moment, Madame de Llorentz reappeared. She was as white as a sheet, her hair was falling over her temples, and she was breathing heavily. She resumed her place behind the Empress with the desperate calm of an invalid who has just undergone a terrible operation that might spell death.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, she’s left the letters,’ repeated Monsieur de Plouguern, after studying her closely.

  And when Rougon seemed not to understand what he meant, he leaned over Clorinde’s shoulder and told her the whole story. She was in raptures as she listened, her eyes sparkling with delight. It was only when it was time for dinner, and they left the Imperial suite, that Clorinde seemed to notice Rougon. She took his arm and, with Delestang walking behind, said:

  ‘So, you’ve seen what’s happened… If you’d been nicer this morning, I wouldn’t have had to risk breaking my neck.’

  In the evening, the dogs had their part of the stag, by torchlight, in the palace courtyard. When they left the dining room, the procession of guests, instead of going straight back to the Map Gallery, positioned themselves in the front rooms, where the windows had been thrown open. The Emperor came out on to the central balcony, where a score of people were able to join him.

  In the courtyard below, from the iron gate to the entrance hall, two rows of footmen with powdered hair formed a broad pathway. Each of them held a long pike, at the end of which, in a goblet, was a torch of tow soaked in wine-spirit. Tall greenish flames danced in the air, lending colour to the night without providing any illumination. All they picked out in the darkness was the double row of scarlet waistcoats, turning them purple. On two sides of the courtyard was a great gathering of people, the bourgeois of Compiègne and their wives, pale faces swarming in the shadows, every now and then one of the torches picking out the verdigris head of some little rentier. Then, in the centre, in front of the steps up to the chateau, the offal of the stag was laid out in little piles on the flagstones and covered with the animal’s pelt, the head forward. At the far end, at the gate, the pack waited, surrounded by pikemen, and kennel boys in green coats and white cotton stockings, waving their torches, whose ruddy glare was surrounded by clouds of sooty smoke, which drifted away towards the town. The light from the flames picked out the dogs, all pressing close to each other, breathing fiercely, jaws agape.

  The Emperor remained standing. Every now and then a sudden burst of flame from the torches illuminated his inscrutable features. Throughout the dinner Clorinde had studied his every gesture, without being able to discern in him anything but a gloomy weariness, the melancholy of a sick man suffering in silence. Just once she thought she saw him cast a sidelong glance, with those veiled eyes of his, at Count de Marsy. There he stood, on the edge of the balcony, morose, stooping slightly, twisting his moustache, while behind him all the guests craned their necks.

  ‘Come on, Firmin!’ he said, as if impatient.

  The pikemen blew a royal fanfare. The dogs gave voice, straining forward, rearing up, howling, making a terrible din. All at once, just as a kennel boy showed the maddened pack the stag’s head, Firmin, master of hounds, positioned on the steps, lowered his whip. This was what the pack had been waiting for. In three bounds, their flanks pumping madly in their greed for flesh, they were across the yard. But Firmin raised his whip again. Stopping short, just a few feet away from the stag, the dogs all lay down flat on the stone paving. Their hackles quivered, their howling became hoarse with desire, and they had to fall back, to take up position again at the far end, by the gate.

  ‘Oh, the poor things!’ cried Madame de Combelot.

  ‘Magnificent!’ cried Monsieur La Rouquette.

  Count Rusconi applauded. Ladies leaned forward, very excited, their lips trembling, longing to see the dogs eat. But they still had to wait. It was most exciting.

  ‘No, no, not yet!’ cried a number of hoarse voices.

  By now Firmin had twice raised and lowered his whip. The pack was foaming at the mouth. The third time, the master of hounds d
id not raise his whip again. The kennel boy had slipped away, bearing with him the pelt and the head of the stag. The dogs leapt forward and fell upon the offal, their savage barking subsiding into low growls as they shuddered in delight. The bones cracked. There was great satisfaction on the balcony and at the windows. The ladies smiled viciously, clenching their white teeth. The men breathed heavily, bright-eyed, some of them twirling toothpicks brought from the dining room. In the courtyard there was now a sudden finale, with the pikemen sounding fanfares, the kennel boys shaking their torches, and Bengal fires burning red, setting the night alight, covering the heads of the placid burghers of Compiègne, packed close on both sides, with great drops of red rain.

  Suddenly the Emperor turned his back. Finding Rougon at his side, he seemed to emerge from the deep reverie that had held him in such a morose state since dinner.

  ‘Monsieur Rougon,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about that proposal of yours. There are obstacles you know, many obstacles…’ He paused, opened his mouth for a moment, but closed it again. Then, turning to go, he said:

  ‘You must stay in Paris, Monsieur Rougon.’

  Hearing these words, Clorinde made a gesture of triumph. The Emperor’s words spread like wildfire. Everyone assumed a serious, pensive expression as Rougon slowly made his way past one group after another, to the Map Gallery.

  Down below, the dogs were finishing off their bones, furiously squeezing underneath each other to get to the centre of the pile of offal, until there was a single expanse of rippling spines, black and white, heaving and straining, a seething mass of greed. Jaws could not gobble fast enough. There were brief quarrels, ending in howls. Suddenly one huge hound, a magnificent animal, enraged at finding itself still on the outer edge, drew back, and with a great leap threw itself into the middle of the pack. It thrust its way in, and a second later was sucking down a long string of the stag’s entrails.

  Chapter 8

  Weeks passed. Rougon had resumed his dull, uneventful life. He never once spoke of the Emperor’s injunction that he stay in Paris. All he spoke about was his failure to make any progress with his great project — the alleged obstacles to his plan. That was something he was always ready to talk about. What obstacles could there be? At times he vented his frustration with the Emperor. One simply could not get an explanation out of him, he said. Was it that His Majesty had been afraid he might have to subsidize the venture?