by Emile Zola
In the meantime, Monsieur Kahn, who had dined with the Minister and the Prefect, was being closely interrogated about the ceremony to be held the next day. They would have to travel several miles out of town, to a place called Les Moulins. Here the tunnel of the proposed Niort–Angers railway was to be cut into the hillside, and His Excellency the Minister of the Interior was to fire the first blasting charge. This greatly impressed everyone. Rougon, however, downplayed his role. All he was there for, he said, was to honour the enterprise and hard work of his old friend. Apart from that, of course, he considered himself the adopted son, as it were, of the Deux-Sèvres department, which had once returned him as deputy to the Legislative Assembly. In actual fact the purpose of his trip, for which Du Poizat had argued very strongly, was to show him off in all his power to his former electors and thereby make sure of his being elected again, should he ever need once more to get into the legislative body.
From the windows of this little room in the Prefecture they could see the town as it slumbered in the darkness. Visitors had stopped arriving. Some people had got the news of the Minister’s arrival too late. This made it a real triumph for the zealous gentlemen who were present. There was no sign of their withdrawing. They were bursting with pride to be the first to meet His Excellency, in a select party. Once again, louder than before, but in a voice not quite doleful enough to disguise his delight, the first Deputy Mayor cried:
‘Bless me! The Mayor will be mortified! And so will the Chief Magistrate and the Public Prosecutor! And all the other notables.’
Nevertheless, at about nine o’clock one might have thought that the whole town was suddenly clumping into the hall of the Prefecture, for there was a great tramping of feet, after which a servant appeared and said that the Police Superintendent was there, and would like to offer his respects to His Excellency. It was Gilquin who appeared, magnificently attired in a black frock coat, yellow gloves, and kid leather bootees. Du Poizat had given Gilquin the job of superintendent. And highly respectable he had become, the only trace of his former self being a rather vulgar swagger and his mania for never being without his hat, which he held against his hip as he stood, leaning slightly backwards in a studied pose, as if modelling himself on a tailor’s fashion plate. He bowed to Rougon in mock humility, and said:
‘May I respectfully remind Your Excellency of our previous encounters? I have had the honour of meeting him on several occasions in Paris.’
Rougon grinned. They chatted for a moment, after which Gilquin made a beeline for the dining room, where tea had just been poured. There, at one end of the table, he found Monsieur Kahn running through the list of invitees for the following day. Meanwhile, in the little adjoining room, the conversation had turned to the greatness of the regime. Standing at Rougon’s side, Du Poizat was singing the praises of the Empire, and after this the two men exchanged bows, as if congratulating each other on a personal achievement, while the Niortais stood gaping with respect and admiration.
‘Don’t they sound impressive?’ murmured Gilquin, watching through the open door.
Pouring a good tot of rum into his tea, he gave Monsieur Kahn a nudge. Thin and feverish, white teeth higgledy-piggledy in his childlike face, now ablaze with his triumph, Du Poizat made Gilquin laugh heartily. Yes, Du Poizat was ‘pulling it off ’ really well.
‘Did you see him when he first came down here?’ Gilquin went on in a whisper. ‘I did. I was with him. He really threw his weight about! He must have had a terrible score to settle with these folk down here. Ever since he’s been prefect he’s been taking it out on them for what he went through as a kid. There isn’t one of those local bigwigs who knew him in the old days, when he was such a poor thing, who feels like laughing at him now when he comes their way — I can tell you that! He’s a tough prefect, if ever there was one. Like a dog with a bone! Not a bit like that man Langlade, the one we replaced. A real ladies’ man, he was! We even found photographs of women with almost nothing on in his office files!’
Then Gilquin fell silent for a moment. He had suddenly got the impression that the wife of the lycée headmaster was staring at him. To show what a fine figure he was cutting, he puffed out his chest as he began to apostrophize Monsieur Kahn again:
‘Have you heard the story of Du Poizat’s meeting with his father? So funny!… As you know, the old boy used to be a bailiff. He made a bit of money by running a short-term moneylender’s business, and now lives like a hermit in a tumbledown house, with loaded guns behind the door… Well, he never stopped saying his son would come to a bad end, and Du Poizat has been dreaming for ages of getting back at him. That was one of the main reasons why he was so keen to be prefect here… So, one morning, Du Poizat puts on his best uniform and makes a tour of inspection of the district as an excuse to knock at the old man’s door. For a good quarter of an hour father and son argue away, through the door, before the old boy finally opens up. And there was this pale, little old man staring blankly at all that gold braid. And do you know what he said, as soon as his son had managed to explain he was now the prefect? “Is that right, Leopold? Then please tell the tax collector to stop coming round and bothering me!” No reaction, no surprise, at the fact that his son was prefect… When Du Poizat had recovered from the shock, he was as white as a sheet. He just stared at his father, maddened by how indifferent the old man was. He could see there was one man in the department he would never get the better of.’
Monsieur Kahn nodded politely. He had put the invitations back into his pocket. He kept glancing into the other room as he sipped his tea.
‘Rougon’s dead tired,’ he said. ‘These fools should let him go to bed. He really needs to rest before tomorrow’s ceremony.’
‘I hadn’t seen him since he got back into power,’ Gilquin said. ‘He’s put on weight.’
Then, lowering his voice still further, he said:
‘An amazing lot, those plotters… When you think what they dreamed up. I tipped Rougon off, you know. And when the big day came, bless me, it all happened as they’d planned, just as if I’d never said a word. Rougon made out he’d already gone to the police, but nobody would believe him. At least that’s his story… That day Du Poizat gave me a slap-up lunch in one of the boulevard restaurants. What a day it was! We must have gone to the theatre that evening. But I can’t remember a damned thing, I didn’t wake up for hours.’
Monsieur Kahn must have found these confidences rather disturbing, because he walked away, leaving Gilquin alone. Gilquin now became convinced that the wife of the lycée headmaster was indeed giving him the eye, so he made his way back to the little room and went up to her, finally bringing her tea, biscuits, and cake. He certainly was a fine figure of a man, rough in manner but elegant in dress; it was a combination that seemed to intrigue the lady in question. Meanwhile, the deputy had been arguing the case for a new church in Niort, while the first Deputy Mayor wanted a bridge, and the headmaster talked of extensions to his school. The six members of the Statistical Society silently nodded their approval of every proposal.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ replied Rougon, his eyes half closed, ‘we must see about all that later. I’m here to apprise myself of your needs, and to see that your requests get a hearing.’
The clock was striking ten when a servant entered and whispered something to the Prefect, who immediately whispered something in the Minister’s ear. Rougon hurried out of the room. Madame Correur had come to see him and was waiting in the adjoining room. With her was a tall, very thin girl with a blotchy complexion.
‘Good heavens! What are you doing here?’ cried Rougon.
‘We arrived this afternoon,’ said Madame Correur. ‘We’re staying at the Hôtel de Paris, on the Place de la Préfecture, opposite.’
She explained that she had come from Coulonges, where she had spent a couple of days. She broke off to introduce the tall girl.
‘Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq was so kind as to come with me,’ she said.
Herm
inie Billecoq curtsied most respectfully.
Madame Correur continued:
‘I didn’t tell you I was planning to come because I thought you might have scolded me. But I absolutely had to come, to see my brother… And when I heard you were here, I came over at once. In fact, we saw you earlier, when you arrived at the Prefecture; but we thought we’d better wait a little while. There’s so much gossip in these little towns.’
Rougon nodded. It was true: plump, pink, powdered Madame Correur, in her bright yellow dress, would be sure to set tongues wagging in a country town like Niort.
‘And did you see your brother?’ he enquired.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘Yes, I did see him. Madame Martineau didn’t dare keep me out. She had just started to caramelize some sugar… Oh, my poor brother! I knew he was ill, but it was really heartbreaking to see him looking so thin and poorly. He promised, though, that he wouldn’t disinherit me. It would be against his principles, he said. The will has been drawn up and whatever he leaves is to be divided between me and Madame Martineau… Isn’t that right, Herminie?’
‘Yes, it’s to be shared,’ the tall girl confirmed. ‘He said so when you went in and he said it again when he saw you out. He was quite definite, I heard him.’
By now Rougon was edging the two women out.
‘Well, I’m delighted,’ he said. ‘Your mind is at rest, then? Good heavens, family disputes always work out in the end… Well, goodnight. It’s time I was getting to bed.’
But Madame Correur stopped him. She had taken her handkerchief out of her pocket and was dabbing her eyes. She was having a sudden attack of nerves.
‘Poor Martineau!’ she whimpered. ‘He was so kind, he forgave me without any fuss! If you only knew… It was for his sake I came here to see you — to beg you to do something for him…’
Her tears prevented her from continuing. She began to sob violently. Rougon stared in astonishment at the two women, unable to comprehend what it was all about. Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq was also crying now, though less demonstratively. She was a very sensitive soul. To her, tears were contagious. She was the first to stammer an explanation:
‘Monsieur Martineau got mixed up in politics,’ she said.
This was the signal for Madame Correur to tell her story, very volubly.
‘Do you remember?’ she asked. ‘I told you some time ago how worried I was. I had a foreboding… Martineau was going over to the Republicans. At the last election, it seems he got carried away and campaigned very strongly for the opposition candidate. I heard a few things then, but I won’t go into that now. It was obvious it was going to get him into trouble… As soon as I got to Coulonges, and put up at the Lion d’Or, I started talking to people and I learned a lot more. My brother has done all sorts of stupid things. Nobody around here would be in the least surprised if he was arrested. They fully expect the gendarmes to come and cart him off any day… You can imagine what a shock it has all been for me. I thought of you at once, my dear friend…’
Once again she was forced to stop, choking with sobs. Rougon tried to set her mind at ease. He would have a word with Du Poizat, he said. He would put a stop to the prosecution, if anything had been begun. He even went so far as to say:
‘I can control everything. You can sleep easy.’
All her tears having disappeared, Madame Correur folded her handkerchief and shook her head. Then, in an undertone, she began again.
‘You don’t know everything. It’s much more serious than you think… He takes Madame Martineau to mass, but he stays outside, saying he’ll never set foot in a church again. Every Sunday the same. It’s the scandal of the town. He’s fallen in with a man who used to be a lawyer in the district, a man of 1848. They spend hours together, and they’ve been heard planning terrible things. Dubious-looking characters have often been seen slipping through my brother’s garden at night, no doubt to get instructions.’
At every fresh detail, Rougon merely shrugged until, unable to bear his phlegmatic responses any longer, Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq suddenly cried:
‘And he’s been getting letters from all over the world, letters with red seals. The postman told us. He didn’t want to say anything at first, he was as white as a sheet. We had to give him a couple of francs to get him to talk… Then there’s the trip Monsieur Martineau went on recently, just a month ago. He was away a whole week, and to this day nobody in the district has any idea where he went. The landlady of the Lion d’Or assures us he didn’t even take a suitcase.’
‘Herminie, that’s enough!’ cried Madame Correur anxiously. ‘My poor brother’s in a very tricky position. We mustn’t make it worse.’
Looking at each woman in turn, Rougon had begun to prick up his ears. He was becoming quite serious.
‘If he has got himself into such a mess…’, he murmured. He thought he saw Madame Correur’s eyes light up. He went on:
‘Of course, I’ll do whatever I can, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Oh dear, there’s no hope left for him!’ she lamented. ‘None at all! I can feel it… We would rather say nothing. But if you knew everything we know…!’
She broke off and bit her handkerchief.
‘And when I think,’ she continued, ‘I hadn’t seen him for twenty years, and now I’ve seen him again, it may be for the last time! He was so kind, so kind.’
Herminie gave a slight shrug, and by signs tried to intimate to Rougon that he should make allowances for the sister’s grief, but that the old lawyer really was a vile creature.
‘If I were you,’ she said to Madame Correur, ‘I’d tell His Excellency everything. It would be far better.’
At this Madame Correur seemed to brace herself for a supreme effort. Lowering her voice even more, she said:
‘Do you remember the thanksgiving services in all the churches when the Emperor had that miraculous escape at the Opera? Well, when they had a special Te Deum at Coulonges, a neighbour of my brother’s asked him if he was not going to put in an appearance, to which the devil replied: ‘What on earth for? I don’t give a damn about the Emperor!’
‘I don’t give a damn about the Emperor!’ repeated Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq, looking appalled.
‘Now perhaps you can understand why I’m so worried,’ continued the former hotel keeper. ‘As I said before, nobody around here would be in the least surprised if my brother was arrested.’
As she uttered these words, she held Rougon in her gaze. But he made no immediate response. He seemed to be making a final effort to read the truth in that chubby face, with the light-coloured eyes blinking under sparse blond eyelashes. For a moment his gaze rested on the plump white neck. Then, throwing up his arms, he said:
‘I can’t do anything. It’s beyond my powers.’
He gave his reasons. He made a point, he said, of never interfering personally in such cases. If the law had been infringed, matters must take their course. He wished he had not known Madame Correur personally, for their friendship tied his hands. Of course, he would find out how things stood. With this assurance, he even began to console Madame Correur, as if her brother was already on the way to some overseas penal colony. She bowed her head. The great pile of flaxen hair rolled high on the nape of her neck shook as she began to sob. But, slowly, she grew calmer and was on the point of taking her leave when, suddenly, she pushed Herminie forward.
‘Mademoiselle Herminie Billecoq,’ she cried. ‘I did introduce her, I believe, but I’m not sure, I’m in such a state. This is the young lady for whom we succeeded in getting that marriage grant. The officer in question — her seducer, that is — has still not been able to marry her, because of endless formalities… You should thank His Excellency, my dear!’
Blushing, the tall girl did so, with an air of startled innocence, as if somebody had uttered an obscene word in her presence. Madame Correur let her lead the way; then, shaking Rougon very firmly by the hand, she added:
‘I’m counting on you, Eugène!’
When Rougon returned to the reception, he found the room empty. Du Poizat had managed to get rid of the deputy, the first Deputy Mayor, and the half-dozen members of the Statistical Society. Monsieur Kahn had also left, after arranging to meet Rougon the following day at ten o’clock. In the dining room there remained only Gilquin and the headmaster’s wife. They were nibbling at petits fours and talking about Paris. Gilquin was making eyes at the young blonde while holding forth about the races at Longchamps, the pictures at the Salon, and a first night at the Comédie-Française, all in the easy-going manner of one familiar with every aspect of the city. Meanwhile, the headmaster was quietly feeding the Prefect with information concerning a certain fourth-form master suspected of republicanism. It was eleven o’clock. The company now at last prepared to take their leave of His Excellency. Gilquin was about to depart with the headmaster and his wife, to whom he had just offered his arm, when Rougon called him back.
‘Superintendent,’ he said, ‘can I have a word, please?’
As they were now alone, Rougon addressed the Police Superintendent and the Prefect together.
