by Emile Zola
Once alone, Madame Caroline did not move. She just sat, crushed, on her chair, in the suddenly heavy silence of the vast room, gazing fixedly at the lamp with eyes widened. It was as if a veil had suddenly been torn away: what she had been refusing to see clearly until then, what she had only tremulously suspected, she now saw it all, in all its hideous crudeness, with no possible mitigation. She saw Saccard stripped naked, with his ravaged money-man’s soul, a soul complicated and murky in its decay; he really knew no ties nor barriers, just pursuing his appetites with the unbridled instincts of a man who recognizes no limit save his own impotence. He had shared his wife with his son, sold his son, sold his wife, sold everyone who came within his reach; he had sold himself, and he would sell her too, would sell her brother, and turn their hearts and minds into cash. He was no more than a money-maker, one who threw things and beings alike into the melting-pot to turn them into money. In a brief moment of lucidity she saw the Universal sweating money from every pore, forming a lake, an ocean of money, in the midst of which, suddenly, with a terrible cracking noise, the whole enterprise sank to the bottom. Ah! Money! Horrible money that soils and devours everything!
With an angry movement Madame Caroline got up. No, no! It was monstrous, it was over, she could not stay with this man any longer. His betrayal of her she would have forgiven; but she felt sickened by all this filth in his past, and she shook with terror at the threat of further crimes yet to come. She simply had to leave at once if she didn’t want to be spattered with mud herself, and crushed beneath the wreckage. And she felt a need to go far away, very far, to rejoin her brother in the Orient, a need to disappear even more than a need to warn him. To get away, get away immediately! It was not yet six o’clock, she could catch the express for Marseilles at seven fifty-five, for she felt it quite beyond her to set eyes on Saccard again. She would buy what she needed in Marseilles before going on board. Just some underwear in a trunk, a spare dress, and she would be off. She would be ready in a quarter of an hour. Then the sight of her work on the table, the report she had begun, made her pause for a moment. What was the use of taking all that, since everything was bound to collapse, being rotten at the base? She began, nevertheless, to put the documents and notes carefully away, out of her good housewifely habit of never leaving things in a mess. That task took her a few minutes, and calmed down the initial fever of her decision. And she was quite self-possessed again, casting a final glance around the room before leaving it, when the valet reappeared and handed her a bundle of newspapers and letters.
Madame Caroline automatically looked at the addresses, and recognized in the pile a letter for her from her brother. It had been sent from Damascus, where Hamelin was then occupied with the planned branch-line from that city to Beirut. At first, she started to skim through it, standing near the lamp, promising herself she would read it slowly later, in the train, but every sentence gripped her attention, she was unable to skip a single word, and eventually she sat down again at the table, and gave herself over entirely to reading the long and exciting twelve-page letter.
Hamelin appeared to be having one of his happier days. He thanked his sister for the latest good news she had sent him from Paris, and he was now sending her even better news, for everything was going very well. The first balance-sheet of the General United Steamboat Company promised to be splendid, for the new steamboats were proving very successful, thanks to their excellent equipment and improved speed. He jokingly added that people travelled on them just for pleasure, and described the sea-ports as being overrun by people from the West; he couldn’t go anywhere off the beaten track, he wrote, without bumping into someone from the Paris boulevards. The Orient really had been opened up to France, just as he had predicted. Soon towns would spring up again on the fertile slopes of Lebanon. But above all, he painted a very vivid picture of the remote Carmel Gorge, where the silver mine was now fully operative. That wild site was becoming more human, for springs had been discovered in the gigantic pile of fallen rocks that blocked the valley to the north, and fields were being created; wheat was replacing the mastic trees, while a whole village had already been built close to the mine, simple wooden huts at first, just shacks for the workers, but now small stone-built houses with gardens, the beginnings of a city which was going to keep on growing for as long as the deposits of ore were not exhausted. About five hundred inhabitants lived there, and a road had just been built, linking the village to Saint-Jean-d’Acre. From dawn to dusk the digging machines were roaring, waggons started up with a loud cracking of whips, women sang and children played and shouted here in this desert, where once the only sound that had broken the death-like silence was the slow beating of eagles’ wings. The scent of myrtles and broom still filled the air, so warm and deliciously pure. Finally Hamelin went on at length about the first railway line he was to open, from Bursa to Beirut via Angora and Aleppo. All the formalities had been concluded in Constantinople, and he was very pleased with some excellent modifications he had made to the planned route for the difficult passage through the Taurus mountains; he wrote of the mountain-passes and the plains that lay at the foot of the mountains with the rapture of a scientist who had found new coal mines and could already see the country covered with factories. His guidelines were in place, the location of the stations had been decided, some of them in totally isolated spots; with one town here and another further off, new towns would grow up around these stations, each placed at the crossing of natural highways. The seed was already sown for the future harvests of men and great things, and it was all germinating; within a few years it would be a new world. He ended with a tender kiss for his beloved sister, happy to associate her with this resurrection of a people, telling her that she was an important part of it, she who for so long had helped him, with her courage and her robust strength.
Madame Caroline had finished the letter, which now lay open on the table, and she was lost in thought, her eyes once more fixed upon the lamp. Then, without thinking, she looked up, scanning the walls, pausing at each of the maps, and every watercolour. In Beirut, the residence of the managing director of the General United Steamboat Company had now been built, with vast warehouses all around it. At Mount Carmel, the floor of that savage gorge, choked with bushes and rocks, was now being populated like the gigantic nest of a new race. In the Taurus range, levellings and new outlines were altering the horizons, opening up a path for the development of trade. And before her eyes, from these sheets pinned on the wall, with their geometric lines and faded colours, arose a whole image of that far-off country, visited so long ago and loved so much for its eternally blue sky and fertile soil. She saw once more the terraced gardens of Beirut, the valleys of the Lebanon, full of olive groves and mulberry trees, and the plains of Antioch and Aleppo with their vast orchards of delicious fruit. She could see herself once more with her brother in their continual journeying through that wonderful country where incalculable wealth was being wasted, unrecognized or spoiled, in a land of idleness and ignorance, with no roads, no industry, no agriculture and no schools. But now it was all springing to life in an extraordinary burst of new vigour. In this vision of the Orient of tomorrow, she could already see prosperous cities, cultivated fields and happy people. She could see them, she could hear the noisy work on the building-sites, and she saw that this ancient dormant land, now reawakened, was giving birth.
Madame Caroline then had the sudden conviction that money was the manure in which this humanity of tomorrow was growing. Various phrases of Saccard’s came back to her, fragments of theories about speculation. She recalled his idea that without speculation there would be no great lively and fertile ventures, just as without lustfulness there would be no children. That excess of passion, and that base expenditure and wasting of life, were all necessary for the very continuation of life. If her brother was rejoicing and singing of victory far away, where construction work was under way and buildings were springing from the ground, it was because in Paris money was pouring down, rottin
g everything in the madness of speculation. Money, poisonous, destructive money, became the ferment of all social vegetation, providing the necessary compost for the accomplishment of the great works that would bring nations together and create peace on the earth. She had cursed money, but now she was falling into a terrified admiration of it: for was it not money that alone had strength enough to raze a mountain, fill up a stretch of sea, and at last make the earth habitable for men, delivered from toil and now merely the drivers of machines? From money, which did so much evil, everything good was being born. Now she didn’t know what to think, shaken to the roots of her being, already resolved not to leave after all, since there seemed to be such complete success in the East, and the battle was here in Paris; but she could not yet be calm, with her heart still bleeding.
Madame Caroline rose, and went to lean her brow against the pane of one of the windows overlooking the Beauvilliers garden. Night had fallen and she could only see a faint light in the little side-room where the Countess and her daughter lived, to avoid getting the other rooms dirty, and having to spend money on heating. Behind the thin muslin curtains she could just make out the profile of the Countess, mending some garment with her own hands, while Alice painted watercolours, which she knocked off by the dozen, and must be selling in secret. They had a stroke of bad luck when their horse had fallen sick, so they had been tied to the house for two weeks, determined not to be seen out on foot, but shrinking from hiring a carriage. But in that poverty, so heroically concealed, one hope now kept them going with more courage, and that was the continued rise of the Universal shares and the already very considerable gains which they could see falling upon them in a dazzling shower of gold on the day they decided to sell with the share-price at its peak. The Countess was promising herself a genuinely new dress, and dreaming of giving four dinner parties a month in the winter, without having to live on bread and water for a fortnight. Alice no longer just laughed with her look of affected indifference when her mother spoke about her marriage, but listened, with slightly trembling hands, beginning to think it might even happen, that she too might come to have a husband and children. And Madame Caroline, looking at the little lamp that cast its light on them, felt a great wave of calmness rising up to her, and compassion, as she recalled the remark that money, even the mere hope of money, was enough to give happiness to these poor creatures. If Saccard made them rich, wouldn’t they bless his name, and wouldn’t he always be, in their eyes, a good and charitable man? So goodness was everywhere, even in the worst of people, for they are always good for someone, and even in the midst of general execration, a few humble voices will be thankful and adoring. This reflection made her think of the Work Foundation, while her eyes went on staring blindly at the darkness of the garden. The day before, acting on Saccard’s behalf, she had handed out toys and sweets to celebrate a birthday, and she gave an involuntary smile at the memory of the children’s noisy delight. For the past month they had been happier about Victor at the Foundation; she had read some satisfactory reports about him during her long, twice-weekly discussions about the institution with Princess d’Orviedo. But as the recollection of Victor suddenly came to mind, she was astonished at having quite forgotten him in her crisis of despair, when she was thinking of leaving. Could she really have abandoned him like that, undermining the good deed she had accomplished with so much difficulty? A feeling of gentleness rose from the obscurity of the tall trees, filling her ever more deeply with a wave of inexpressible renunciation and divine tolerance, which seemed to make her heart grow bigger, while down below, the poor little lamp of the Beauvilliers ladies continued to shine like a star.
When Madame Caroline got back to her table she gave a slight shiver. What was that about? She was cold! And that amused her—she who always boasted of spending the whole winter without a fire! It was as if she had just emerged, rejuvenated and strong, with a steady pulse, from an ice-cold bath. This was how she felt on getting up in the morning when she was in the bloom of health. Then she decided to put another log on the fire, and when she saw the fire had gone out, she resolved to light it again herself rather than ring for the servant. It was quite hard work, as she had no firewood, but she managed to get the logs to catch, just using old newspapers that she burned one after another. Down on her knees in front of the hearth, she found she was laughing at herself. For a moment she stayed there, surprised and happy. So another of her great crises was now over, and she still had hope, but of what? She still had no idea, just the inevitable unknown, that lies at the end of life, at the end of humanity. Just being alive had to be enough, and life would always bring healing for the wounds that it caused. Once again she recalled the disasters of her existence, her dreadful marriage, her hard times in Paris, her abandonment by the only man she had loved, and yet after every calamity she had rediscovered the vital energy, the immortal joy that set her on her feet again, even among the ruins. Hadn’t everything just collapsed on her? She had lost all esteem for her lover in the face of his frightful past; she was like the sainted women who, faced by loathsome wounds, go on dressing them night and morning, never expecting them to heal. She would continue to belong to him, knowing that he belonged to others, and not even seek to win him back from them. She would live on hot coals, in the breathless forge of speculation, with the constant threat of a final catastrophe, in which her brother might lose both his honour and his life. And yet here she stood, almost carefree, as if squarely facing up to danger on the morning of a beautiful day, enjoying the exhilaration of battle. Why? For no good reason, for the simple pleasure of living. As her brother was always telling her, she was invincible hope.
When Saccard returned, he found Madame Caroline buried in her work, finishing, in her firm hand, a page of the report on the Oriental railways. She raised her head and gave him a tranquil smile, while he touched with his lips her beautiful, radiant white hair.
‘You’ve been very busy, my dear?’
‘Oh, just one thing after another! I saw the Minister of Public Works, met up with Huret again, then I had to go back to see the minister, but there was only a secretary there… In the end I did get his promise for our overseas concerns.’
In fact, since leaving Baroness Sandorff, he had hardly stopped for breath, entirely occupied with business affairs, and carried away by his customary zeal. She passed him Hamelin’s letter, which delighted him; and she watched as he exulted over the coming triumph, telling herself that she would henceforth keep a close eye on him, to try to prevent the follies he was certain to commit. However, she couldn’t manage to be severe.
‘Your son came with an invitation for you from Madame de Jeumont.’
He protested.
‘But she wrote to me!… I forgot to tell you I was going there this evening… That really is a chore, when I’m so tired!’
And he left, after once more kissing her white hair. She went back to her work, with her friendly smile, full of indulgence. Wasn’t she simply a friend, who gave herself to him? Her jealousy made her feel ashamed, as if she had somehow further sullied their relationship. She intended to be above any anguish at sharing, quite free of the carnal selfishness of love. Belonging to him, knowing he belonged to others, was of no importance. And yet she loved him, with all her brave and charitable heart. It was a triumph of love that this Saccard, this bandit of the financial streets, should be loved so absolutely by this adorable woman, because she saw him as brave and dynamic, creating a world, creating life.
CHAPTER VIII
IT was on 1 April that the Universal Exhibition of 1867 opened,* with great celebrations and ostentatious splendour. It was the start of the grand season of the Empire, a season of supreme festivity that would turn Paris into the hostelry of the world, a gaily beflagged hostelry, full of music and song, with feasting and fornication in every room. Never had any regime at the height of its power summoned the nations of the world to so colossal a spree. The long procession of emperors, kings, and princes from the four corners of the
earth set forth for the Tuileries, which blazed with light like the finale of a theatrical extravaganza.
It was just then, a fortnight after the opening of the Exhibition, that Saccard opened the monumental mansion he had always wanted as the majestic new home of the Universal Bank. It had only taken six months to build, for work had gone on day and night, never wasting an hour, achieving a miracle only possible in Paris; and the façade now stood there in all its flowery ornamentation, like a cross between a temple and a music-hall, with such a lavish display of opulence that passers-by stopped on the pavement to gaze at it. Inside, it was utterly sumptuous, as if the millions in the coffers were streaming out along the walls. A grand staircase led up to the boardroom, resplendent in red and gold, like the auditorium of an opera house.* There were carpets and hangings everywhere, and offices equipped with furniture of dazzling wealth. In the basement, where the share offices were, huge safes were fixed, showing gullets deep as ovens behind plate-glass that allowed the public to see them lined up there like the barrels in storybooks, full of countless fairy treasures. And the nations and their kings on their way to the Exhibition, could come and file past: it was all ready, the new building was waiting to dazzle them and catch them, one after another, in that irresistible snare of gold, blazing in the sun.
Saccard was enthroned in the most sumptuous of the offices, with Louis-Quatorze furniture in gilded wood, covered in Genoese velvet. The staff had just been increased again: there were now more than four hundred employees. This was the army that Saccard commanded, with all the pomp of a tyrant who was both adored and obeyed, for he was very generous with his rewards. In reality, in spite of being nominally just the manager, it was he who ruled, above the chairman of the board, indeed even above the board itself, which merely ratified his orders. Madame Caroline was now constantly on the alert, busily finding out about his decisions, in order to try to counter them if necessary. She disapproved of this new establishment, which was far too magnificent, and yet could not entirely condemn it in principle, for in the happy days of her tender confidence in Saccard, she had recognized the need for a larger building, and had joshed her brother for being worried about it. The fear that she acknowledged, and her argument against all this luxury, was that the bank was losing its air of respectable integrity and lofty, religious gravity. What would customers, used to the monkish restraint and sober half-light of the ground-floor in the Rue Saint-Lazare, make of this palace in the Rue de Londres,* with its many floors, all so lively and noisy, and flooded with light? Saccard had replied that they would be struck with admiration and respect, and those who were bringing in five francs, once they were filled with self-esteem and intoxicating confidence, would produce ten from their pockets. And it was he, with his brutal flashiness, who was proved right. The success of the building was prodigious, creating a stir more effective than even the most extraordinary of Jantrou’s advertisements. Well-off, pious people from the quiet parts of the city, and needy country priests just off the train that morning, all gaped in beatitude at the door, and came out flushed with pleasure at having funds in such a building.
