by Emile Zola
In the hall, she gave Delestang a last look over before leaving him. One of the buttons on his frock coat worried her. The coat was a little tight and the button pulled at the cloth. Then, just as an usher came to bid her to join the Empress, she watched her husband go off with Rougon, a smile on her lips.
The meeting was held in a room adjoining the Emperor’s study. In the centre of the room a dozen armchairs were arranged round a large, baize-covered table. The tall windows gave on to the terrace. When Rougon and Delestang entered, all their colleagues were already there, except for the Minister of Public Works and the Minister for the Navy and the Colonies, who were both on holiday. The Emperor had not yet appeared. They chatted for nearly ten minutes, standing in twos and threes, looking out of the windows or clustered by the table. There were among them two sour-looking individuals who so hated the sight of each other that they never spoke, but the others all seemed relaxed and in good humour as they awaited the serious business to come. Paris at this time was greatly preoccupied with the arrival of a mission from a remote place in the Far East, a people with strange modes of dress and extraordinary styles of greeting. The Minister of Foreign Affairs described his visit the previous day to the head of this mission. Though kept within the bounds of propriety, his account was full of subtle irony. Then the conversation shifted to more frivolous matters. The Minister of State had news about the health of a ballerina at the Opera who had nearly broken her leg. But even when at their ease, these gentlemen were unsure of themselves and constantly on the alert, careful about what they said, even cutting themselves off as they were speaking, ever on their guard despite their smiles, and suddenly becoming very quiet the moment they felt somebody’s eye on them.
‘So it’s just a sprain, is it?’ said Delestang, who took a great interest in ballerinas.
‘That’s all it is, a sprain,’ the Minister of State repeated. ‘The poor girl will be fully recovered if she stays in bed for two weeks… She’s terribly ashamed of having fallen.’
A slight noise made them turn round. Then they all bowed. The Emperor had just entered the room. For a moment he stood with his hands on the back of a chair. Then, slowly, in his toneless voice, he asked:
‘Is she better?’
‘Much better, Sire,’ the Minister replied, with another bow. ‘I heard the latest bulletin this morning.’
At a sign from the Emperor, the ministers all took their places round the table. There were nine of them. Some spread papers in front of them. Others sat back and examined their fingernails. There was silence. The Emperor seemed in pain. Gently, he twisted the tips of his moustache between fingers and thumb, with a blank expression. Then, as nobody spoke, he seemed to remember, and uttered a few words.
‘Gentlemen, the present sitting of the legislative body will be brought to a close…’
First they discussed the budget, which the Chamber had just passed in five days. The Minister of Finance rehearsed the points made by the sponsor of the motion. For the first time, there were hints of criticism in the Chamber. For instance, the speaker had said he would like to see liquidation proceed normally, and would also like the government to be satisfied with the allocations made by the Chamber, without always having recourse to supplementary credits. Members had also complained of being ignored by the Council of State when they tried to reduce certain items of expenditure. One of them had even claimed that the legislative body itself should have the right to draw up the budget.*
‘In my opinion there is no reason to take any notice of these demands,’ concluded the Minister of Finance. ‘The government draws up its budgets with the greatest possible economy, so much so that the budget committee found it extremely difficult to trim it by two million francs. At the same time, I think it would be wise to add three requests for supplementary credits, which are under consideration. The money needed can be provided by a transfer of credits within the budget, and the situation regularized at a later date.’
The Emperor nodded his approval. He might well not have been listening at all. His eyes were expressionless; he was staring, as if blinded, at the sunlight pouring in through the main window opposite. There was a fresh silence. The ministers all followed the Emperor’s lead and gave their approval. For a moment, all that could be heard was the faint sound of rustling paper, as the Minister of Justice turned over the pages of a document lying on the table. With a quick glance, he consulted his colleagues.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I have brought a draft memorandum on the introduction of a new system of nobility.* It is still quite rough, but I thought that, before going any further, it would be wise to read it to this Council to have the advice of colleagues.’
‘Yes, please read it,’ the Emperor said. ‘I agree with you.’
He half turned, to watch the Minister of Justice as he read. He seemed to come to life. His grey eyes seemed to glow.
The question of a new system of nobility was a major concern of the Court at this time. The government had begun by submitting to the legislative body a bill to punish by fine and imprisonment any person convicted of having attributed to himself any title of nobility whatsoever. The aim was to prohibit former titles and so prepare the ground for new ones. This bill had provoked a heated discussion in the Chamber. Some deputies, though strong supporters of the Empire, had protested that in a democratic state titles were unthinkable; and when it was put to the vote, twenty-three voted against. Nevertheless, the Emperor had continued to pursue his dream. It was he who had suggested a great new scheme to the Minister of Justice.
The memorandum began with a section on the historical background. Next, the proposed system was outlined in detail. Titles were to be given according to functions, in such a way that the new nobility would be open to all citizens. This would produce a democratic system which seemed particularly pleasing to the Minister of Justice. Finally, there came a draft decree. When he came to Article II, the Minister raised his voice and read very slowly:
‘The title of Count shall be granted, after five years’ service in any function or position, or after the award by us of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, to ministers and members of the privy council; to cardinals, marshals, admirals, and senators; to ambassadors and generals who have held supreme command.’
He paused for a moment and glanced at the Emperor as if to ask if he had left anybody out. His head drooping slightly to the right, the Emperor appeared to reflect, then murmured:
‘I think you should add presidents of the legislative body and the Council of State.’
The Minister of Justice nodded vigorously, to show how much he agreed, and hastened to make a marginal note. He was then just about to go on reading, when the Minister of Public Instruction and Faiths interrupted him. He had an omission to point out:
‘Archbishops…’, he began.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the Minister of Justice, sharply, ‘archbishops are not to be more than barons. Let me read the whole decree.’
But he had now lost his place in his pile of papers. There was a long pause while he looked for a sheet which had got lost among the others. Rougon was comfortably installed in his chair, his head sunk in his broad peasant shoulders, a faint smile playing on his lips. When he looked round, he saw his neighbour, the Minister of State — the last representative of an ancient Norman family — also smiling a subtle smile of contempt. They winked to each other. The parvenu and the aristocrat were of the same mind.
‘Ah, here we are,’ resumed the Minister of Justice. ‘Article III: the title of baron will be granted (1) to members of the legislative body three times honoured by the mandate of their fellow citizens; (2) to Councillors of State of eight years’ standing; (3) to senior presidents of the Court of Appeal and to the Public Prosecutor, to major generals and rear admirals, archbishops and ministers (plenipotentiary) of five years’ standing, if possessing the rank of Commander of the Legion of Honour…’
And he ploughed on. Presidents of other courts, brigadiers,
bishops, and even mayors of towns that were the administrative centres of prefectures, were also to be made barons, though in these cases ten years’ service was required.
‘Then everybody’s going to be a baron,’ muttered Rougon.
His colleagues, affecting to look on him as a person lacking in breeding, assumed very serious expressions, to indicate that they found his witticism out of place. The Emperor did not seem to have heard. And when the reading was finished, he asked:
‘So, gentlemen, what do you think of the bill?’
There was some hesitation. They wanted to wait for a more direct question.
‘Monsieur Rougon,’ His Majesty said, ‘what do you think of the proposal?’
‘I must say, Sire,’ Rougon replied, with his usual smile, ‘I really don’t think much of it. It leaves us open to the worst of all dangers — ridicule. I fear that all those barons would simply be laughed at… Besides which, there are more serious objections to the proposal — the egalitarian mood that is so strong these days, and the epidemic of vanity such a system would cause…’
At this point he was interrupted by the Minister of Justice, very hurt, as if attacked personally. He defended his proposal by saying that he himself was a man of the middle classes, with middle-class parents, and could never be accused of undermining the egalitarian principles of modern society. The new nobility should be a democratic nobility. This expression — ‘a democratic nobility’ — seemed to express his conception of it so well that he repeated it several times. Unperturbed, still smiling, Rougon responded. The Minister of Justice, a small, swarthy man, made several hurtful personal remarks to Rougon. The Emperor seemed oblivious. His shoulders swaying slightly, he again stared at the great flood of light pouring in through the window opposite. All the same, when the ministers’ voices became raised and the dignity of the occasion was threatened, he murmured:
‘Gentlemen, please!’ Then, after a pause, he said: ‘Monsieur Rougon may be right. The issue needs further consideration. We need to think about alternatives. We’ll see later.’
The Council of Ministers now turned to less weighty matters. In particular, they discussed the newspaper Le Siècle, and an article in it that had scandalized the Court. Not a week passed without at least one of the Emperor’s courtiers begging him to close the paper down. It was the only republican organ still in existence. But the Emperor himself had rather a weak spot for the press. In the seclusion of his study he amused himself by writing long articles in response to attacks on his regime. His secret dream was to create his own newspaper, in which he would be able to publish manifestos and write polemical essays. However, on this occasion, he did agree that Le Siècle should be sent a warning.*
The ministers thought the sitting was over. It was obvious from the way they were now sitting on the edge of their chairs. The Minister of War, a bored-looking general who had not uttered a word throughout the whole meeting, was even pulling his gloves out of his pocket, when Rougon suddenly planted his elbows on the table and began:
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I would like to bring to the Council’s attention a dispute that has developed between the censorship committee and myself, about a work submitted for approval.’
His colleagues sat back again in their chairs. The Emperor half turned and gave a slight nod to indicate that Rougon could proceed.
Rougon first provided some background information. His smile and his good-natured air had vanished. Leaning against the table, his right arm sweeping the baize at regular intervals, he told them that he had wanted to take the chair himself at one of the recent sittings of the committee, to encourage its members in their work.
‘I told them that the regime feels improvements should be made in their important work… The selling of books by hawkers would become a danger to society if it became a weapon in the hands of revolutionaries and began to stir up conflict and ill will. This means, as I pointed out to them, that it is the committee’s duty to turn down any work that might foment or exacerbate feelings that are no longer appropriate to our age. On the other hand, it should welcome all books the decency of which is likely to encourage worship of God, love of our country, and gratitude to our Sovereign.’
For all their moroseness, the ministers thought it their duty to indicate their approval of the concluding phrase of this exposé:
‘The number of bad books increases daily,’ Rougon continued. ‘They constitute a rising tide against which the country cannot be too well protected. Of twelve books published, eleven and a half deserve burning. That is the proportion… Never have dangerous ideas, subversive theories, and antisocial feelings been so widely promoted… I sometimes have to read certain works, and I can vouch for what I say from first-hand knowledge.’
The Minister of Public Instruction ventured an interjection:
‘Novels…,’ he began.
‘I never read novels,’ Rougon declared bluntly.
His colleague made a gesture of horror and rolled his eyes, as if to swear that he too never read novels. He made his position quite clear.
‘All I wanted to say was that novels in particular are tainted food, served up to satisfy the unhealthy curiosity of the crowd.’
‘No doubt,’ resumed Rougon. ‘But there are other works just as dangerous. I mean those popularizing works in which the authors try to give the peasant and the worker a basic understanding of the social sciences and economics. What they do, of course, is to confuse their poor brains… At this very moment, a book of this sort, entitled Old Jacques’s Evening Colloquies, is before the committee. In it there is a sergeant who returns to his native village and chats every evening with the schoolmaster and a score or so of farm workers. Every conversation deals with a particular subject, new agricultural methods, trade unions and cooperatives, and the important role of the producer in the social order. I’ve read this work, which one of my assistants brought to my attention, and I found it all the more disturbing because it hides its dangerous theories behind false admiration of the institutions of our Empire. There’s no mistake about it, it’s the work of a demagogue. So I was most surprised when several members of the committee talked about it quite approvingly. I discussed several passages with them without managing to convince them. The author, they assured me, has even dutifully presented a copy to Your Majesty… Therefore, Sire, before putting any pressure on them, I thought I should seek your advice and that of the Council.’
He looked the Emperor in the face. The Emperor’s unsteady gaze fastened on a paper knife which lay before him. He picked up the knife and turned it between his fingers before murmuring:
‘Yes, indeed, Old Jacques’s Evening Colloquies.’ Then, without making his own position any clearer, he squinted to left and right round the table, and said: ‘Perhaps you have had a look at this book, gentlemen. I’d be interested to know…’
He did not even finish his sentence, it ended in a mumble. The ministers shot furtive glances at one another, each one thinking his neighbour might be able to reply and give an opinion. There was an embarrassed silence. It was clear that none of them had even heard of the book. At last the Minister of War took it upon himself to indicate their collective ignorance. The Emperor twisted his moustache. He was in no hurry.
‘What about you, Monsieur Delestang?’ he asked.
Delestang wriggled in his chair, as if in the grip of some inner conflict, but this direct question decided the matter, though before he spoke he glanced sideways at Rougon.
‘I have certainly seen the book, Sire.’
He paused, feeling Rougon’s big grey eyes on him. But, seeing that the Emperor was obviously pleased to hear him speak, he carried on, though his lips trembled slightly. ‘And I’m sorry to say I am not of the same opinion as my friend and colleague the Minister of the Interior… There is no doubt that the work could have included certain strictures and made far more of the slowness, and prudence, with which any real progress can be achieved. But for all that, Old Jacques’s Evening
Colloquies seems to me a book written with the best of intentions. The aspirations it expresses regarding the future do not conflict in any way with the institutions of the Empire. On the contrary, in a sense they suggest a legitimate and natural development of them…’
He broke off again. In spite of the fact that he had deliberately looked at the Emperor as he spoke, he was aware of Rougon’s huge bulk leaning forward, his face pale with astonishment, on the other side of the table. As a rule, Delestang always sided with the great man. This gave Rougon hope that, even now, a further word from him might rally his rebellious disciple to his side.
‘Come, come,’ he cried, cracking his fingers as he did so, ‘let’s take an example. I’m sorry I didn’t bring the book with me… But take this example… There’s a chapter I remember very clearly in which Jacques talks about two tramps who go from house to house in a village, begging. The schoolmaster asks him a question, and he says he will show the peasants how to ensure that they will never see anyone living in poverty. An elaborate system is then described, how to wipe out pauperism, and we’re given a strong dose of communist theory… The Minister of Agriculture and Commerce can’t possibly approve of that chapter.’
Delestang suddenly gained in confidence. He turned round and looked boldly at Rougon.
‘Communist theory?’ he cried. ‘You’re going a bit far. All I saw in it was a skilful exposition of the principles of trade unionism.’ As he spoke, he fumbled in his satchel. ‘As a matter of fact, I have the book here,’ he said at last.
He began to read the chapter in question. He read in a soft monotone. At certain passages his handsome, statesmanlike face assumed an expression of extreme solemnity. The Emperor listened intently. He actually seemed to enjoy some of the more sentimental parts, where the author made his peasants talk with childlike naïveté. As for the ministers, they were delighted. What a lovely story! Rougon was thus abandoned by Delestang, whom he had managed to make a minister with the express purpose of having his support in the face of the underlying hostility of the other ministers! Rougon’s colleagues were hostile because of the way he was always encroaching on their authority. They disliked his need to dominate everybody, which made him treat them like clerks, while he saw himself as the special adviser and right-hand man of the Emperor. He would now be quite isolated! They would have to cultivate this fellow Delestang.
