by Emile Zola
At that time of the afternoon not a single woman was at prayer in the church; the nave and the side aisles were deserted, encumbered with piles of chairs which two beadles were putting away, making a great noise as they did so. Masons called to each other from the tops of their ladders, in the midst of the sound of trowels scraping on walls. The atmosphere in Saint-Saturnin was not in the least holy, so Marthe had not even made the sign of the cross. She sat down in front of the chapel that was being repaired, between the Abbé and Monsieur Lieutaud, as if she were in the latter’s office and had gone to ask his advice there.
The conversation lasted more than half an hour. The architect was very agreeable. His opinion was that it was not necessary to build anything new for the Work of the Virgin, as the priest called the projected house. It would turn out to be too expensive; better to buy a place already built, and adapt it to their needs. And he even suggested an old boarding school in the town, that had later become a forage merchant’s premises and which was now for sale. A few thousand francs and he was confident he would be able to completely transform this ruin. He even promised such marvels as an elegant entrance, spacious rooms, a courtyard planted with trees. Marthe and the priest had gradually raised their voices, discussing the details beneath the echoing vault of the nave, while Monsieur Lieutaud scratched the flagstones with the end of his stick to give them some idea of the façade.
‘So it’s agreed, Monsieur,’ said Marthe, as she took her leave of the architect, ‘you make us out an estimate so that we know what we can spend. And you will keep our secret, won’t you?’
Abbé Faujas accompanied her to the church door. As they both passed in front of the high altar and she was continuing to talk excitedly to him, she was somewhat surprised to find him no longer at her side. Looking around, she saw him bending down in front of the enormous cross hidden in its muslin casing. The priest bending like that, still covered in plaster, gave her a queer sensation. Remembering where she was, she cast an anxious glance about her, and softened the sound of her footsteps. At the door the priest, now very serious, silently held out to her his finger, damp with the holy water. Somewhat taken aback, she made the sign of the cross. Behind her the padded double doors fell to gently, with a stifled sigh.
From there Marthe went to Madame de Condamin’s. She was happy to be out in the street in the open air. The few errands she still had to make seemed a real pleasure to her. Madame de Condamin greeted her friend with shrieks of delight. Dear Madame Mouret visited so rarely! When she learned the purpose of her visit, she declared herself delighted, ready to help in whatever way she could. She was wearing an enchanting mauve dress with bows of pearly grey ribbon, in a boudoir where she played at being the Parisienne in exile in the provinces.
‘You’ve done exactly the right thing in asking me!’ she said wringing Marthe’s hands. ‘These poor girls, who is going to help them if we don’t, and they accuse us of setting them a bad example in our life of luxury. But it’s terrible to think that children are exposed to all those dreadful things. I make myself ill thinking about it… Be assured I’ll help in any way I can.’
And when Marthe told her that her mother couldn’t form part of the committee her goodwill increased immeasurably.
‘How maddening she has so much to do,’ she went on with just a touch of irony. ‘She would have been a great help to us… But never mind, we shall do what we can. I have friends. I’ll go and see Monsignor. I’ll move heaven and earth if necessary… We’ll succeed, I promise.’
She did not want to hear any details about renovations or cost. They would always be able to find the necessary money. She felt sure the project would bring honour on the committee and that everything would be attractive and comfortable. She added with a laugh that she panicked at the sight of figures, but would take responsibility in particular for making the first moves, and for the general conduct of the project. Dear Madame Mouret wasn’t used to asking favours. She would accompany her as she went about her business, she might even spare her making several errands. A quarter of an hour later the whole thing had become her idea, and she was the one giving the instructions to Marthe. The latter was on the point of leaving when Monsieur de Condamin came in. She stayed, embarrassed, not daring to talk about the reason for her visit in front of the forestry commissioner who was, so they said, himself compromised in the business over the poor girls, whose shame was the talk of the town.
It was Madame de Condamin who explained the whole idea to her husband, who looked perfectly composed and full of goodwill. He thought it all extremely moral.
‘It’s an idea that only a mother could have had,’ he said gravely, without it being possible to tell if he was making fun of them or not. ‘Plassans will owe its good morals to you, Madame.’
‘I admit I only stole someone else’s idea,’ responded Marthe, who was embarrassed by this praise. ‘It was inspired by a person I hold in high esteem.’
‘What person might that be?’ enquired Madame Condamin, curiously.
‘Monsieur l’Abbé Faujas.’
And Marthe, with great simplicity, gave them her opinion of the priest’s good character. Moreover, she made no allusion to the malicious rumours that had been flying around; she gave him out to be a man worthy of everyone’s respect, and whom she was happy to entertain in her house. Madame de Condamin listened and nodded.
‘I always said so!’ she cried. ‘Faujas is a most distinguished priest… If you knew what wicked tongues some people have! But since he’s been at your house they don’t dare say anything. That’s put paid to all the false assumptions… So you say it was his idea? Well, we must make sure he comes forward. Till then it is understood we should be discreet… I assure you I always liked this priest and stuck up for him…’
‘I’ve had a chat with him, he seems a very good fellow,’ the forestry commissioner interrupted.
But his wife silenced him with a gesture. She often treated him like her manservant. People blamed Monsieur de Condamin for their shady marriage and he’d been the one who had to put up with the scandal. The young wife he had brought from who knew where, had been forgiven, and accepted as a friend by the whole town, because of her manners and attractive personality, to which people living in the provinces are more sensitive than you might think. He realized he was de trop in this virtuous conversation.
‘Well, I shall leave you to your godly concerns,’ he remarked with light irony. ‘I’m going to have a cigar… Octavie, don’t forget to dress early; we go to the sub-prefecture tonight.’
When he had gone, the two women went on chatting for a while, returning again to what had already been said, pitying the poor girls who turned out badly, getting more and more excited about keeping them safe from all temptation. Madame de Condamin spoke very eloquently against debauchery.
‘Well, it’s agreed then,’ she said, shaking Marthe’s hand one last time, ‘I am all yours as soon as you need me… If you go and see Madame Rastoil and Madame Delangre, tell them I’ll take responsibility for everything. They will only have to put their names to it… My idea is a good one, isn’t it? We shan’t be deflected, not the tiniest bit… My compliments to Abbé Faujas.’
Marthe went at once to Madame Delangre’s house, and then Madame Rastoil’s. She found them to be polite, though not so warmly supportive as Madame de Condamin. Both talked about the financial aspect of the project. A great deal of money would be required, they would never manage to fund the necessary amount out of public charity, they risked an outcome that would make them look ridiculous. Marthe reassured them, gave them the figures. They wanted to know which ladies had agreed to form part of the committee. The name of Madame Condamin left them speechless. Then, when they knew that Madame Rougon had excused herself, they became more agreeable.
Madame Delangre received Marthe in her husband’s office. She was a small pale woman, of sweet and docile temperament, whose extravagances had remained legendary in Plassans.
‘My goodness,’ she sa
id finally, ‘I can’t think of anything better. It would be a school of good behaviour for working girls. We should save their poor souls. I cannot refuse, for I feel I should be very useful to you through my husband, as his mayoral functions mean that he has to deal constantly with influential people. But I would ask you to give me till tomorrow to say yes or no. In our situation we have to exercise a great deal of prudence and I would like to consult Monsieur Delangre first.’
At Madame Rastoil’s Marthe found a woman who was just as amenable, very prudish, trying to find chaste words to describe the unhappy girls who are forgetful of their duties. Madame Rastoil was a plump person; she was embroidering a very ornate alb, sitting with a daughter on either side of her. She made them go out of the room as soon as she heard the first words.
‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ she said, ‘but really I would find it very difficult. I already belong to several committees and I don’t know if I should have time… I had the same idea as you, except that my idea was on a grander scale and more developed, I suppose. For over a month I have been promising myself to go and talk to Monsignor about it, without ever finding a minute. Well, we could combine forces. I’ll tell you my own views, for I think you are mistaken about quite a few things… I’ll put my mind to it again, since needs must. My husband said to me only yesterday: “Really you have no time for your own affairs; you are always concerning yourself with others.” ’
Marthe looked at her with curiosity, thinking of her former liaison with Monsieur Delangre, salacious talk of which was still doing the rounds in the cafés on the Cours Sauvaire. The mayor’s wife and the president’s wife were very wary when they heard the name of Abbé Faujas. The second especially. Marthe had even got a little annoyed by this distrust of a person whom she thought well of. So she emphasized the fine qualities the abbé possessed, which obliged the two ladies to agree about the merits of this priest who lived a life of retreat and took care of his mother.
On leaving Madame Rastoil’s Marthe had only to cross the road to go to Madame Paloque, who lived on the other side of the Rue Balande. It was seven o’clock. But she also wanted to get this last visit over and done with, even if it meant making Mouret wait and being scolded by him. The Paloques were just sitting down to a meal in a cold dining room, in which a decent feeling of provincial embarrassment was palpable. Madame Paloque hastened to put a cover on the soup she was about to serve, disconcerted to be found at table in this way. She was very polite, almost humble, and underneath made anxious by this visit she wasn’t expecting. Her husband, the judge, sat with his empty plate in front of him, hands on his knees.
‘Those little scoundrels!’ he cried, when Marthe mentioned the girls in the old quarter. ‘I’ve heard some fine things about them today in court. They are the ones who provoked some very honourable people into debauchery… You are wrong to take an interest in that scum, Madame.’
‘And anyway,’ put in Madame Paloque, ‘I’m afraid I shouldn’t be the least little bit useful to you. I don’t know anyone. My husband would rather cut off his hand than ask for the slightest favour. We have kept ourselves to ourselves, disgusted at all the injustices we have witnessed. We live modestly here, happy to be forgotten… For example, if my husband were offered promotion now, he would refuse, wouldn’t you, dear?’
The judge nodded his head as if in assent. The couple exchanged a thin smile, and Marthe was embarrassed in the face of these two appalling creatures, with their pale, ravaged faces, sick with worry, colluding so ably in this comedy of hypocritical resignation. Luckily she remembered her mother’s advice.
‘But I’d been counting on you,’ she said, in her most winning tones. ‘We shall have all these ladies, Madame Delangre, Madame Rastoil, Madame de Condamin; but, between you and me, these ladies will only be there nominally. I should be glad to find a most respectable, committed person who would take the project to heart, and I had thought that you would want to be that person… Just think how grateful Plassans will be to us if we bring such a project to fruition!’
‘That’s true, that’s true,’ murmured Madame Paloque, delighted by these blandishments.
‘And also you are wrong to say you don’t have any influence. It’s well known that Monsieur Paloque is very highly thought of at the sub-prefecture. Between ourselves he is expected to succeed Monsieur Rastoil. Don’t try to deny it; your merits are well known, you can’t hide them. And surely this is an excellent opportunity for Madame Paloque to come out of the shadows and show us what an intelligent and good-hearted woman she is.’
The judge was very nervous. He blinked at his wife.
‘Madame Paloque didn’t say no,’ he said.
‘No, that’s true,’ said the latter. ‘Since you truly need me, that is enough for me. Perhaps I’m doing something silly, I shall be giving myself a lot of trouble and never get any reward for it. Ask Monsieur Paloque about all the good we’ve done on the quiet. See where that has got us… Never mind, we are as we are, it can’t be helped. We shall be fools to the very end… Count on me, my dear Madame Mouret.’
The Paloques got up and Marthe took her leave, thanking them for their support. As she stopped a moment on the landing to pull out the frill on her dress which had caught between the banisters and the steps, she could hear them speaking animatedly behind the door.
‘They are asking you because they need you,’ said the judge acidly. ‘You will be doing all the donkey work.’
‘Goodness!’ replied his wife. ‘Don’t you think they’ll pay for that along with everything else?’
When Marthe finally got home it was almost eight o’clock. Mouret had been waiting supper for more than half an hour. She was fearing some terrible scene. But when she changed and came downstairs she found her husband sitting astride a chair, tapping out the retreat with the tips of his fingers on the tablecloth. He was merciless in his teasing and mockery.
‘I thought you would be sleeping in a confessional tonight… Now you are a churchgoer you’ll have to tell me in advance, and I’ll have supper out when the priests invite you round.’
All through dinner he cracked jokes like that. Marthe suffered more than if he had been cross with her. Two or three times she threw him a beseeching look, she begged him to leave her alone. But it only made him worse. Octave and Désirée laughed, Serge kept quiet, taking his mother’s side. At dessert Rose, in a lather, came to say that Monsieur Delangre was there and wanted to speak to Madame.
‘Aha, so you are consorting with the Establishment now, as well, are you?’ Mouret mocked.
Marthe went to receive the mayor in the drawing room. Very charming—almost gallant—he told her he wouldn’t let another day go by before congratulating her on her noble idea. Madame Delangre was a little lacking in confidence and was wrong not to say yes straight away. He had come to tell Marthe on her behalf that she would be very flattered to be part of the committee of patron ladies for the Work of the Virgin. As for himself, he would contribute as much as he could to the success of a project that was so useful and so moral.
Marthe went with him as far as the door and while Rose was lifting the lamp to light the way, the mayor added:
‘Tell Monsieur Faujas I should be delighted to talk to him, if he would be so good as to call. Since he has seen an establishment of this sort in Besançon, he could give me valuable information. I would like the town to pay for the building at least. Goodbye, dear Madame. My compliments to Monsieur Mouret, I don’t want to disturb him.’
At eight, when the priest and his mother came downstairs, Mouret contented himself with the joking remark:
‘So you have carried off my wife today? Don’t ruin her, though, don’t make her into a saint.’
Then he threw himself into his game of cards. He had to take a terrible revenge on Madame Faujas, a revenge all the greater because of losing to her for the last three days. Marthe was at liberty to tell the priest about the progress she had made. She was happy as a little girl, still excited by the
afternoon that she had spent out of her house. The priest made her go over some details again; he promised to go and see Monsieur Delangre, although he would have preferred to remain completely out of the picture.
‘You were wrong to mention my name straight away like that,’ he said to her brusquely, seeing her so excited and open with him. ‘But you are like all women, even the noblest causes are ruined when they get hold of them.’
She looked at him, taken by surprise at this unkind remark, and drew back, with the same fear she still sometimes felt when she saw him wearing his soutane. It seemed as if iron hands were pressing down on her shoulders and bending her. For each and every priest Woman is the enemy. When he saw that she had been upset by his over-severe admonition, he softened and murmured:
‘I’m only thinking of the success of your noble project. I’m afraid of compromising its outcome, if I get involved. You know I am not liked in the town.’
When she saw his humility, she assured him that he was wrong, that all the ladies had spoken of him in glowing terms. They knew he was looking after his mother, that he lived a quiet life, deserving of everyone’s praise. Then, till eleven, they chatted about the grand plan, going over it time and again in fine detail. It was a delightful evening.
Between two hands of cards Mouret had picked up a little of the conversation.
‘So,’ he said as they were going to bed, ‘the pair of you are going to wipe out Vice… A laudable scheme indeed.’
Three days later the committee of patron ladies was inaugurated. These ladies having elected Marthe as their president, she made haste to designate Madame Paloque treasurer, having secretly consulted her mother. Both made every effort, drafting circulars, busying themselves with a thousand domestic details. Meanwhile Madame de Condamin went from the sub-prefect to the bishop and from the bishop to other influential people, graciously expounding the ‘blessed project she had conceived’, wearing her fancy clothes, garnering charitable donations and promises of support. As for Madame Rastoil, she piously told the priests she entertained on Tuesdays how the idea of saving so many poor children from a life of vice had come to her, at the same time contenting herself with giving Abbé Bourrette the responsibility for making overtures to the Sisters of Saint-Joseph, to ascertain whether they wanted to be of service to the project. Madame Delangre, for her part, confided to those who held public office that the town would owe this establishment to her husband, who had already graciously allowed the committee to meet and confer in a room in the town hall whenever they liked. Plassans was buzzing with this pious furore. Soon the talk was only of the Work of the Virgin. Then there was a veritable explosion of acclaim, with the friends of each patron lady joining in, and each group working for the good of the whole enterprise. Subscription lists covering the three districts were filled within a week. As the Gazette de Plassans published these lists, along with the amount of money donated, people’s pride was pricked and the most prominent families rivalled each other in their generosity.
