Oxford World’s Classics

by Emile Zola

  All this time, silence reigned in the big, warm room. Suddenly, after studying the signature on one of the envelopes, d’Escorailles handed it to Rougon without opening it.

  ‘From my father,’ he said.

  With extreme humility, the Marquis thanked the Minister for having taken Jules into his service. Slowly, Rougon perused the two pages of fine handwriting, then folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Resuming his work, he asked whether Du Poizat had written.

  ‘Yes, he has, Monsieur,’ replied the secretary, searching through the pile for the letter in question. ‘He’s getting to know the department. He says that the Deux-Sèvres, especially the town of Niort, needs a very firm hand.’

  Rougon glanced through the letter. When he had read it, he murmured:

  ‘Of course, he can have all the powers he’s asking for… Don’t reply to him, there’s no point. My circular covers his case exactly.’

  He took up his pen again, to compose the final sentences. It had been Du Poizat’s wish to be prefect at Niort, in his own part of the country, and now, when making any serious decision, the Minister paid special attention to that department, the Deux-Sèvres, ruling France in the light of the opinions and needs of his one-time comrade in poverty. He was just finishing the confidential letter to all prefects when Monsieur Kahn exploded in anger.

  ‘This is appalling!’ he cried, tapping on the newspaper he had been reading.

  ‘Have you seen this? The leading article makes the cheapest kind of appeal. Just listen to this sentence: “The hand that punishes should be faultless, for if justice proves defective, the bonds that hold society together will be undone.” Can you understand that? And on the back page there’s a story about a countess abducted by the son of a corn merchant. Stories like that shouldn’t be allowed. They destroy the respect of the common man for the upper classes.’

  Monsieur d’Escorailles interjected:

  ‘And the novel they’re serializing is even worse! It’s all about a well-brought-up woman who deceives her husband. The writer doesn’t even make her feel remorse!’*

  Rougon wagged his finger.

  ‘I know!’ he said. ‘That edition has already been brought to my attention. You will have seen I’ve marked some passages in red… And that paper is on our side! Every day I have to run my red pencil through it, line by line. They’re a disgrace. They should all have their necks wrung!’

  Then, lowering his voice, through pursed lips, he added:

  ‘I’ve sent for the editor. I’m expecting him today.’

  The Colonel had taken the paper out of Monsieur Kahn’s hands. His blood began to boil too, and he handed it on to Monsieur Béjuin, who in turn seemed quite disgusted. Rougon, his elbows on the desk, was thinking, his eyes half closed.

  ‘By the way,’ he said suddenly, turning to his secretary. ‘That poor fellow, Huguenin, died yesterday. That leaves an inspectorship vacant. We’ll need to appoint somebody.’

  The friends round the fireplace immediately pricked up their ears.

  ‘Oh, it’s not a very important post,’ he said. ‘Six thousand francs a year. It’s true there’s absolutely nothing to do.’

  However, he was interrupted. The door to the adjoining room opened suddenly.

  ‘Come in, come in, Monsieur Bouchard!’ he cried. ‘I was going to ask you to come.’

  Divisional head for a week now, Monsieur Bouchard had brought a report on mayors and prefects who had applied to become Knights or Officers of the Legion of Honour. Rougon had twenty-five awards to give to the most meritorious. He took the report, examined the list of names, and began to leaf through their files. Meanwhile, Monsieur Bouchard had gone over to the fireplace to shake hands with the other gentlemen. Turning round, he lifted his coat tails, to warm himself.

  ‘All this rain is dreadful, isn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘Spring will be late.’

  ‘Terrible,’ said the Colonel. ‘I feel an attack coming on. I’ve had stabbing pains in my left foot all night.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘How’s your wife?’ asked Monsieur Kahn.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ replied Monsieur Bouchard. ‘I think she’ll be dropping in later this morning.’

  There was another silence. Rougon was still leafing through the files. He halted at one of the names.

  ‘Isidore Gaudibert… Hasn’t that man written poetry?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Monsieur Bouchard. ‘He has been mayor of Barbeville since 1852. At every happy event, the Emperor’s marriage, the Empress’s confinement, the christening of the Prince Imperial, he has sent Their Majesties very tasteful odes.’

  The Minister pulled a face to show his contempt. But the Colonel said he had read the odes, and found them very clever. He quoted one in particular, in which the Emperor was compared to a fireworks display. And without any encouragement, no doubt spontaneously, they all began to murmur nice things about the Emperor. Now the whole gang were passionate Bonapartists. The two cousins, the Colonel and Monsieur Bouchard, had become reconciled, no longer hurling at each other the names of the Orléans princes and the Count de Chambord. Their contest now consisted in seeing who could praise the sovereign in the most fulsome terms.

  ‘Oh, no! Not this man!’ Rougon cried suddenly. ‘This fellow Jusselin is one of de Marsy’s creatures. I don’t have to reward my predecessor’s friends, do I?’ And with a stroke of the pen which dug into the paper, he struck the man off the list. ‘But we’ll have to find somebody to take his place on the list of Officers,’ he said.

  None of them responded. Despite his great youth, Monsieur d’Escorailles had been awarded the rank of Knight the week before. Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Bouchard were both Officers. The Colonel had just been made Commander.

  ‘Come on, think of someone,’ he said, fumbling through the papers. Then he stopped, as if he had had an idea. ‘Aren’t you mayor somewhere, Béjuin?’ he asked. Monsieur Béjuin contented himself with a couple of nods. Monsieur Kahn answered for him:

  ‘Of course, he’s the mayor of Saint-Florent, the little commune where his glassworks are.’

  ‘Then the matter’s settled,’ said the Minister, delighted to have this chance to put one of his own people forward. ‘He’s only a Knight at present… Monsieur Béjuin, you never ask for anything. I always have to think for you.’

  Monsieur Béjuin smiled and thanked the Minister. It was true that he never asked for anything. But he was always there, silent, unassuming, ready to pick up any crumbs, and never failing to do so.

  ‘Louis Béjuin, right? Well, you’re taking the place of Pierre-François Jusselin,’ said Rougon as he altered the list.

  ‘Béjuin, Jusselin — it rhymes,’ observed the Colonel.

  This observation was taken as a subtle piece of humour, and provoked much laughter. At last, Monsieur Bouchard bore away the documents, duly signed. Rougon had risen from his desk. His legs were aching, he said; rainy weather didn’t agree with him. Meanwhile, the morning wore on. Offices were buzzing with activity in the distance, people could be heard striding about in adjoining rooms, doors were opened and closed, and there were whisperings that were muffled by the curtains. More officials came in, with documents for the Minister to sign. There was a constant stream of them, the machinery of administration functioning with astonishing quantities of paper moving from office to office. Meanwhile, amid all this hustle and bustle, on the other side of the door, in the anteroom, there was the heavy, resigned silence of more than a score of people becoming increasingly drowsy under Merle’s watchful gaze, as they waited for His Excellency to deign to receive them. At the centre of it all was Rougon, in a fever of activity, managing it all, issuing orders in hushed tones in a corner of his office, then exploding in sudden anger with some divisional head. With curt commands, he distributed tasks and took instant decisions, a colossus, arrogant, bull-necked, his whole person bursting with energy.

  In came Merle, with his air of sangfroid, impervi
ous to any number of rebuffs.

  ‘The Prefect of the Somme, Monsieur…,’ he began.

  ‘Again!’ Rougon snapped ferociously.

  The commissioner bowed his head, and waited until he could speak.

  ‘The Prefect of the Somme, Monsieur’, he began again, at last, ‘asks me to enquire if Your Excellency intends to see him this morning. If not, he asks, would Your Excellency kindly give him an appointment tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll see him this morning… Damn it all, can’t he show a little patience!’

  The door to the anteroom had been left half open, disclosing a view of a huge room with a big table in the centre and red-plush upholstered armchairs ranged round the walls. Every chair was occupied. There were even two ladies standing by the table. Heads turned cautiously, eyes peered into the Minister’s office, full of supplication, glowing with a longing to step inside. Near the door the Prefect of the Somme, a pale little man, was chatting with his opposite numbers from the Jura and the Cher. And just as he made as if to stand up, no doubt under the illusion that at last he was to be allowed in, Rougon said to Merle:

  ‘In ten minutes, you understand… I can see absolutely no one at the moment.’

  But just as he said this, he saw Monsieur Beulin-d’Orchère walk through the anteroom, and immediately leapt up to meet him. He grasped the judge’s hand warmly and ushered him into his office.

  ‘Come in, my friend!’ he cried. ‘You’ve just arrived, I assume. You haven’t been waiting, have you?… So, what’s new?’

  And the door closed on the flabbergasted waiting room. Rougon led Beulin-d’Orchère to one of the window recesses, where they talked in hushed tones. The judge had recently been appointed first president of the Court of Paris, and his ambition now was to become minister of justice. But the Emperor, when sounded out, had been non-committal.

  ‘Good, good,’ said the Minister, raising his voice. ‘I’m pleased to hear that. I’ll do what I can, I promise.’

  He had just shown Beulin-d’Orchère out through his private suite when Merle reappeared, and announced Monsieur La Rouquette.

  ‘No, no, I’m busy, why does he keep bothering me?’ cried Rougon, signalling to Merle that he should close the door. Monsieur La Rouquette heard every word. But that did not prevent his stepping into the room, a smile on his lips and his hand outstretched.

  ‘Your Excellency! How are you? My sister sent me. Yesterday, at the Palace, you looked rather tired… I expect you know the Empress is arranging a charade — a proverb — in the Imperial suite next Monday. My sister is taking part. The costumes have been designed by Combelot. You will come, won’t you?’

  And he stayed for a good quarter of an hour, smooth and ingratiating, fawning on Rougon, whom he called either ‘Your Excellency’ or ‘Cher maître’. He told several stories about the music halls, recommended a particular dancer, then asked Rougon to write a note to the managing director of the tobacco monopoly, so he could get some good cigars. And his final pleasantry was a shocking revelation concerning Count de Marsy.

  ‘I must confess, he’s not a bad sort,’ said Rougon, when the young deputy had disappeared. ‘But I must go and dip my face in a basin of cold water, or my head will burst.’

  He vanished for a moment behind a door, and there was a tremendous splashing noise as Rougon puffed and blew in the water. Monsieur d’Escorailles had finished sorting the mail, and was now daintily filing his nails. Monsieur Béjuin and the Colonel were gazing up at the ceiling, so deeply ensconced in their armchairs that they gave the impression they would remain there forever. Monsieur Kahn looked through the pile of newspapers, scanning the headlines, then stood up.

  ‘Are you going?’ asked Rougon, who reappeared, wiping his face with a towel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Monsieur Kahn, ‘I’ve read the papers, I’m off.’

  But Rougon said he should wait. Taking him in turn to one side, he told him that in all likelihood he would go down to the Deux-Sèvres department himself the following week, to attend the inauguration of work on the Niort–Angers railway line. Monsieur Kahn was delighted. He had finally obtained the concession early in March. All that was needed now was to set the project in train, and he was fully aware of the value of the Minister’s presence at the ceremony, the details of which he was already working out.

  ‘So it’s agreed, I can count on you to fire the first blasting charge?’ he said as he left.

  Rougon had sat down again at his desk. He consulted a list of names. In the anteroom, the queue was growing.

  ‘I’ve barely a quarter of an hour left,’ he muttered. ‘Well, I’ll see as many as I can.’

  He rang and told Merle to bring in the Prefect of the Somme, then at once, as he went on peering at the list, thought better of it.

  ‘Wait a second! Are Monsieur and Madame Charbonnel there? Let them come in.’

  Merle’s voice was then heard calling: ‘Monsieur and Madame Charbonnel’, and the bourgeois couple from Plassans appeared in the doorway, as the whole waiting room looked on in surprise. Monsieur Charbonnel was formally dressed in a square-tailed frock coat with a velvet collar, and Madame Charbonnel was wearing a puce-coloured silk gown and a hat with yellow ribbons. They had been waiting patiently for two hours.

  ‘You should have sent your card in,’ said Rougon. ‘Merle knows who you are.’

  Then, giving them no chance to stammer fine phrases with much repetition of ‘Your Excellency’, he cried cheerily: ‘Victory! The Council of State has made its decision. We’ve beaten that terrible bishop.’

  The old lady became so emotional that she was obliged to sit down, while her husband grabbed one of the armchairs to steady himself.

  ‘I heard last night,’ the Minister went on. ‘I asked you to come round this morning because I wanted to give you the news myself… So there’s a fine windfall for you, half a million francs!’

  Happy to see their flabbergasted faces, he began to tease them. At last, in a strangled, timid voice, Madame Charbonnel asked:

  ‘So it’s all settled? Really settled?… The case will be closed?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry! The inheritance is yours.’

  He went into details. The Council of State had taken its decision because of the existence of natural heirs, and also by reason of the quashing of a will which seemed to lack some of the essential signs of authenticity. Monseigneur Rochart was beside himself. Rougon had come upon him only the day before in the office of his colleague the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was still laughing at the furious looks Rochart had given him. His victory over the Bishop pleased him very much.

  ‘So, you see, he didn’t gobble me up,’ he reminded them. ‘I’m too big a mouthful… Not that I’ve heard the last of him. I could see that from the glint in his eyes. He’s not a man to forget anything. But that’s my affair.’

  The Charbonnels thanked him profusely, with endless bowing and curtsies. They said they would leave Paris that very evening. But they suddenly had a terrible thought. Cousin Chevasseau’s house at Faverolles was in the care of a pious old servant who was very devoted to the Sisters. Perhaps, when she came to hear what had happened, the house would be stripped bare. Those nuns were capable of anything.

  ‘Yes, go down tonight,’ he said. ‘If anything has happened, let me know.’

  He opened the door for them, and as they left he noticed how amazed some of the faces in the anteroom were. The Prefect of the Somme was smiling to his Jura and Cher colleagues, and the two ladies standing at the table pursed their lips in disdain. Seeing this, he deliberately raised his voice.

  So you’ll write to me, won’t you? You know how concerned I am about you… And when you get to Plassans, tell my mother I’m well.’

  He crossed the anteroom and saw them all the way to the other door, to make a point. He was not ashamed of them. He was very proud at this moment to be a son of that little town of Plassans and today to be in a position to set them as high as he chose. And all
these people craving an audience with him, and all the officials bowing as he passed, also bowed to the Charbonnels’ puce-coloured gown and old-fashioned frock coat.

  When he got back to his office, the Colonel was on his feet.

  ‘I’ll see you this evening, then,’ he said. ‘It’s getting a bit too hot in here.’

  He leaned forward to whisper something in Rougon’s ear. It concerned his boy, Auguste. He was going to take him out of school, having given up hope of getting him through the baccalauréat. Rougon had promised he would find a place for him at the Ministry, despite the fact that the regulations stipulated that all employees should have passed the bac.

  ‘All right then, bring him over,’ Rougon replied. ‘I’ll deal with the formalities somehow… And he’ll start earning at once, since that’s what you want.’

  This left Monsieur Béjuin alone before the fire. He pushed his armchair round to face the hearth, as if he had not noticed that the room was emptying. He was always the last to leave, always waiting till the others had left, always hoping to be offered some stray crumb from the table.

  Once again Merle was told to bring in the Prefect of the Somme, but instead of going to the door to do so, he walked up to Rougon’s desk and, with his ingratiating smile, said: