Part 35

M. Kahn, M. Béjuin, the colonel, indeed the whole coterie, received the new minister with open arms. His appointment would not be officially notified in the _Moniteur_ till the following morning, when it would appear beneath the announcement of Rougon's resignation, but the decree was signed, and so they were at liberty to triumph. They greeted him with much vigorous hand-shaking, grinning, and whispered congratulation; indeed the presence of the crowd alone kept their enthusiasm within bounds. It was a gradual assumption of possession on the part of intimates, who kiss one's hands and one's feet before making one's entire body their prey. They already considered that Delestang belonged to them. One of them was holding him by the right arm, another by the left; a third had grasped one of the buttons of his coat, while a fourth, standing behind him, craned forward and breathed words of praise to the nape of his neck. Delestang, on his side, held his handsome head erect with affable dignity, preserving the stately yet imbecile demeanour of some monarch on his travels, such as one sees in official prints, receiving bouquets from the ladies of petty towns. Rougon looked at the group, very pale and stung to the quick by this triumph of mediocrity, and yet he could not restrain a smile. He remembered.

'I always predicted that Delestang would go a long way,' he said with a subtle expression to Count de Marsy, who had stepped up to him with outstretched hand.

The Count replied by a slight pout instinct with delicate irony. He had doubtless had much amusement since he had struck up a friendship with Delestang after rendering certain services to his wife. He detained Rougon for a moment, evincing the most refined politeness. Constant rivals as they were, antagonists by reason of their very temperaments, these two skilful men saluted each other at the termination of each of their duels, like enemies of equal strength who looked forward to an endless succession of return combats. Rougon had previously wounded Marsy; Marsy had now wounded Rougon; and so it would go on until one or other of them should be left dead on the field. It is possible that neither would have cared to see the other absolutely ruined, for their rivalry was at once a source of amusement and occupation. And, moreover, they vaguely felt that they were counterpoises necessary for the equilibrium of the Empire; one the shaggy fist which killed by a knock-down blow, the other the slender gloved hand which clutched the throat and strangled.

However, Delestang was a prey to painful embarrassment. He had seen Rougon, but he did not know whether he ought to step up and shake hands with him. In his perplexity, he glanced at Clorinde, who seemed absorbed in her duties and indifferent to everything else. She was now hurrying about the room with sandwiches and pastry. However, her husband thought he could gather instruction from a glance she cast at him, so he at last advanced towards Rougon, nervous and seeking to justify himself.

'I hope, my dear friend, that you don't bear me any ill will,' he said. 'I refused at first, but they forced me to accept. There are demands, you know----'

But Rougon interrupted him. The Emperor had acted in his wisdom, and the country would find itself in excellent hands.

At this Delestang took courage. 'I said all I could in your defence,' he continued. 'We all did. But really, between ourselves, you had gone a little too far. The greatest grievance against you was what you did in connection with the Charbonnel affair; the matter of those poor Sisters, you know----'

M. de Marsy restrained a smile.

'Oh, yes, the perquisition at the convent,' replied Rougon, with all the good humour of his successful days. 'Well, really, among the various acts of folly which my friends led me to commit, that was perhaps the only sensible and just act of my five months of power.'

He was already going off, when he noticed Du Poizat come in and seize hold of Delestang. The prefect pretended not to see him. For the last three days he had been hiding in Paris and waiting. And apparently he was now successful in his request to be transferred to another prefecture, for he began to express the most profuse thanks with a wolfish smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. Then, on the new minister turning round, Merle, whom Madame Correur had just pushed forward, almost fell into his arms. The usher kept his eyes lowered, like a big bashful girl, while Madame Correur spoke warmly in his favour.

'He is not a favourite in the office,' she murmured, 'because he protested by his silence against abuses of authority; and he saw some very strange ones under Monsieur Rougon!'

'Yes, yes; very strange ones indeed,' added Merle. 'I could tell a long story about them. Monsieur Rougon won't be much regretted. I've no reason to love him myself. It was all through him that I was nearly turned adrift.'

Rougon heard none of this; he was already slowly passing down the great hall, where the stalls were now quite denuded of their wares. To please the Empress, who was the patroness of the charity, the visitors had carried everything away; and the delighted stall-holders were talking of opening again in the evening with a fresh supply of goods. They counted up the money they had taken, and different sums were shouted out amidst peals of triumphant laughter. One lady had taken three thousand francs, another seven thousand, and another ten thousand. The last was radiant with delight at having made so much money.

Madame de Combelot, however, was in despair. She had just disposed of her last rose, and yet customers were still thronging round her kiosk. She stepped out of it to ask Madame Bouchard if she could not give her something to sell, no matter what. But the latter's lucky-wheel had likewise disposed of everything. A lady had just carried off the last prize, a doll's washing-basin. However, they obstinately hunted about, and at last found a bundle of tooth-picks, which had fallen on the ground. Madame de Combelot carried it off with a shout of triumph. Madame Bouchard followed her, and they both mounted into the kiosk.

'Gentlemen! gentlemen!' cried Madame de Combelot boldly, standing up, and collecting the men together with a beckoning sweep of her bare arm. 'This is all that we have left, a bundle of tooth-picks. There are twenty-five of them. I shall put them up to auction.'

The men jostled one another, laughing, and waving their gloved hands in the air. Madame de Combelot's idea was hailed with great enthusiasm.

'A tooth-pick!' she now cried. 'We'll start it at five francs. Now, gentlemen, five francs!'

'Ten francs!' said a voice.

'Twelve francs!'

'Fifteen francs!'

However, on M. d'Escorailles suddenly going up to a bid of twenty-five francs, Madame Bouchard quickly called out in her fluty voice: 'Sold for twenty-five francs!'

The other tooth-picks fetched still higher prices. M. La Rouquette paid forty-three francs for the one that was knocked down to him. Chevalier Rusconi, who had just made his appearance, bid as much as seventy-two francs for another one. And eventually the very last, a very small one, which was split, as Madame Combelot kindly announced, not wishing to impose upon her audience, was knocked down for a hundred and seventeen francs to an old gentleman whose eyes glistened at the sight of the young woman's heaving bosom, as she vigorously plied the calling of auctioneer.

'It is split, gentlemen, but it is still a serviceable article. We've got to a hundred and eight francs for it. A hundred and ten are bid over there! a hundred and eleven! a hundred and twelve! a hundred and thirteen! a hundred and fourteen! Come, a hundred and fourteen! It's worth more than that, gentlemen! A hundred and seventeen! A hundred and seventeen! Won't any one bid any more? Sold, then, for a hundred and seventeen francs!'

Pursued by these figures, Rougon left the hall. He slackened his steps when he reached the terrace overlooking the river. Stormy-looking clouds were rising in the distance. Below him, the Seine, greasy and dirty green, flowed sluggishly past the pale quays, along which the dust was sweeping. In the Tuileries gardens, puffs of hot air shook the trees, whose branches fell languidly, lifelessly, without a quiver of their leaves. Rougon took his way beneath the tall chestnuts. It was almost quite dark there, and the atmosphere was damp and clammy like that of a vault. As he emerged into the main avenue, he saw the Charbonnels sitting on a bench. They were quite transformed, magnificent. The husband wore light-coloured trousers and a frock-coat fitting tightly at the waist, while his wife sported a light mantle over a robe of lilac silk, and her bonnet was ornamented with red flowers. Astride one end of the bench, however, there was a ragged, shirtless fellow, wearing a wretched old shooting-jacket. He was gesticulating energetically, and gradually drawing nearer to the Charbonnels. It was Gilquin. Administering frequent slaps to his canvas cap, which kept on slipping off his head, he exclaimed: 'They're a parcel of scoundrels. Has Théodore ever tried to cheat any one out of a single copper? They invented a fine story about a military substitute in order to ruin me. Then, of course, as you can understand, I left them to get on as they could without me. Ah! they are afraid of me! They know very well what my political opinions are. I have never belonged to Badinguet's gang. I only regret one person down there,' he continued in a lower tone, leaning forward and rolling his eyes sentimentally. 'Ah! such an adorable woman, a lady of society! She was fair. I had some of her hair given me.' Then, edging himself up to Madame Charbonnel, he broke into a loud voice again, and tapped her on the knee. 'Well, old lady, when are you going to take me with you to Plassans to taste those preserves of yours--the apples and the cherries and the jam? You've got your nest pretty well lined now, eh?'

But the Charbonnels seemed to be much annoyed by Gilquin's familiarity. 'We are stopping in Paris for some time,' replied Madame Charbonnel, stiffly, while gathering up her lilac silk dress. 'We shall probably spend six months here every year.'

'Ah, yes,' added her husband with an air of profound admiration, 'Paris is the only place!' Then as the gusts of wind became stronger, and a troop of nurses with children passed hastily through the garden, he resumed, turning to his wife, 'We had better be getting home my dear, if we don't want to be soaked through. Fortunately, we have only a step or two to take.'

They were now staying at the Hôtel du Palais Royal in the Rue de Rivoli. Gilquin watched them go off, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. 'So they leave me in the lurch too!' he muttered. 'Ah, they're all alike.'

But then he suddenly caught sight of Rougon, and, rising with a swagger, he waited for him to pass. 'I haven't been to see you yet,' he said, again tapping his cap. 'I hope you're not offended. That mountebank Du Poizat has told you some fine stories about me, I dare say. But they are all lies, my good fellow, as I can prove to you whenever you like. Well, for my part I don't bear you any ill will; and I'll prove it by giving you my address, 25 Rue du Bon Puits, at La Chapelle, five minutes' walk from the barrier. So if I can be of any further use to you, you see, you have merely to let me know.'

Then he walked away with a slouching gait. For a moment he glanced round as if taking his bearings, and then, shaking his fist at the Tuileries, which showed grey and gloomy beneath the black sky at the end of the avenue, he cried: 'Long live the Republic!'

Rougon passed out of the garden and went up the Champs Élysées. He experienced a strong desire to go and look at his little house in the Rue Marbeuf. He intended to quit his official residence on the morrow and again instal himself in his old home. He felt tired but calm, with just a slight pain in the depths of his being. He already dreamt hazily of some day proving his powers by again doing great things. Every now and then, too, he raised his head and looked at the sky. The rain did not seem inclined to come down just yet, though the horizon was streaked with coppery clouds, and loud claps of thunder travelled over the deserted avenue of the Champs Élysées, with a crash like that of some detachment of artillery at full gallop. The crests of the trees shook with the reverberation. As Rougon turned the corner of the Rue Marbeuf the first drops of rain began to fall.

A brougham was standing in front of the house, and Rougon found his wife examining the rooms, measuring the windows and giving orders to an upholsterer. He felt much surprised, but she explained to him that she had just seen her brother, M. Beulin-d'Orchère. The judge, who had already heard of Rougon's fall, had desired to overwhelm his sister, and after informing her of his approaching assumption of office as Minister of Justice, he had again tried to create discord between her and her husband. Madame Rougon, however, had merely ordered her brougham to be got ready, so that she might at once prepare for removal into their old house. She still retained a calm, pale, nun-like face, the unchangeable serenity of a good housewife. And with faint steps she went through the rooms, again taking possession of that house which she had indued with such cloistral quietude. Her only thought was to administer like a faithful stewardess the fortune which had been entrusted to her. Rougon felt quite touched at the sight of her spare withered face and all her scrupulous attention.

However, the storm now burst with tremendous violence. The thunder pealed and the rain came down in torrents. Rougon was obliged to remain there for nearly three quarters of an hour, for he wanted to walk back. When he set out again the Champs Élysées was a mass of mud, yellow liquid mud, which stretched from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde like the bed of a freshly drained river. In the avenue there were but few pedestrians, who carefully picked their way along the kerbstones. The trees stood dripping in the calm fresh air. Overhead in the heavens the storm had left a trail of ragged coppery clouds, a low murky veil, from which fell a glimmer of weird, mournful light.

Rougon had again lapsed into his dreams for the future. He felt stiff and bruised, as though he had come into violent collision with some obstacle that had blocked his progress. But suddenly he heard a loud noise, behind him, the approach of galloping hoofs which made the ground tremble. He turned to see what it could be.

It was a _cortège_ dashing through the mire of the roadway beneath the faint glimmer of the coppery sky, a _cortège_ returning from the Bois and illumining the dimness of the Champs Élysées with the brilliance of uniforms. In front and behind galloped detachments of dragoons. And in the centre there was a closed landau drawn by four horses and flanked by two mounted equerries in gorgeous gold-embroidered uniforms, each of them imperturbably enduring the splashing of the mire, which was covering them from their high boots to their cocked hats. And inside the dim closed carriage only a child was to be seen, the Prince Imperial, who gazed out of the window, with his ten fingers and his red nose pressed to the glass.

'Hallo, it's the little chap!' said a road-sweeper, with a smile, as he trundled his barrow along.

Rougon had halted, looking thoughtful, and his eyes followed the _cortège_ as it hurried away through the splashing puddles, speckling even the lower leaves of the trees with all the mire it raised.

XIV

TRANSFORMATION

One day in March, three years later, there was a very stormy sitting in the Corps Législatif. The privilege of presenting an address to the Crown had been conceded by the Emperor, and, for the first time, this address was being discussed.

M. La Rouquette and M. de Lamberthon, an old deputy, and the husband of a charming wife, sat opposite one another in the 'buvette' or refreshment room, quietly drinking grog. 'Well, shall we go back into the Chamber?' said Lamberthon, who had been straining his ear to listen. 'I fancy things are getting pretty warm there.'

Every now and then indeed one heard distant shouting, a sudden roar like some squall of wind, but afterwards complete silence ensued. M. La Rouquette continued smoking with an air of utter indifference. 'Oh, we needn't go just yet,' he said; 'I want to finish my cigar. They'll let us know if we are wanted. I told them to do so.'

La Rouquette and Lamberthon were the only members then in the 'buvette,' a sort of smart little café established at the end of the narrow garden at the corner of the quay and the Rue de Bourgogne. Painted a soft green, covered with bamboo trellis-work, and having large windows that opened right on to the garden, the place looked like some conservatory transformed into a refreshment room for a garden party. It was panelled with mirrors; the tables and counter were of red marble, and the seats were upholstered with green rep. One of the windows was open, and through it there came the soft air of the lovely spring afternoon, freshened by the breezes from the Seine.

'The Italian war filled the cup of his glory,' said M. La Rouquette, continuing a conversation that had been interrupted. 'To-day, in conferring liberty on the country, he displays all the greatness of his genius.'

He was speaking of the Emperor, and he went on to extol the provisions of the November decrees,[21] the more direct participation of the great state bodies in the policy of the sovereign, and the creation of ministers without departments for the purpose of representing the government in the Chambers. It was a return to constitutional government, he said, in all its most wholesome and desirable features. A new era, that of the liberal Empire, was beginning. Then he knocked the ash from his cigar in a transport of enthusiasm.

But M. de Lamberthon shook his head. 'I'm afraid the Emperor has gone rather too fast,' he said. 'It would have been better to have waited a little longer, there was no pressing hurry.'

'Oh, yes, I assure you there was. It was quite necessary to do something,' replied the young deputy with animation. 'It is just in that respect that his genius----'

Then he lowered his voice, and with a profound expression began to explain the political situation. The charges issued by the bishops on the subject of the Pope's temporal power, which was threatened by the government of Turin, were greatly disturbing the Emperor. On the other hand, the opposition was growing more active, and an uneasy thrill was passing through the country. So the moment had come for making an attempt to reconcile the different parties, and win political malcontents over by wise concessions. La Rouquette now considered that the despotic Empire had been very defective; whereas the liberal Empire would be a blaze of glory, illumining the whole of Europe.

'Well, I'm still of opinion that he has gone too fast,' repeated M. de Lamberthon, again shaking his head. 'It's all very well to talk about the liberal Empire; but the liberal Empire is the Unknown, my dear sir; the Unknown, the Unknown----'

He thrice repeated this expression, each time in a different tone, and waving his hand in the air. M. La Rouquette said nothing further; he was finishing his grog. However, they still sat where they were, gazing blankly out of the open window, as though they were looking for the unknown fate of the liberal Empire across the quay, in the direction of the Tuileries, where hung a thick grey haze. Behind them, beyond the lobbies, the hurricane of voices rose afresh, with the uproar of an approaching storm.

M. de Lamberthon turned his head uneasily. 'It's Rougon who is going to reply, isn't it?' he asked after a pause.

'Yes, I believe so,' replied M. La Rouquette with an air of reserve.

'He was very much compromised,' the old deputy continued. 'The Emperor has made a singular choice in appointing him as a minister without department, and commissioning him to defend his new policy.'

M. La Rouquette did not immediately express an opinion, but slowly stroked his fair moustache. 'The Emperor knows Rougon,' he said at last.

Then in in quite a different tone he exclaimed: 'I say, these grogs were not up to much. I'm dreadfully thirsty. I think I shall have a glass of syrup and water.'

He ordered one, and, after some hesitation, M. de Lamberthon decided that he would have a glass of Madeira. Then they began to talk of Madame de Lamberthon, and the old deputy chided his young colleague for the rarity of his visits. The latter was lounging back on the settee, furtively admiring himself in the mirrors, quite pleased by the soft green tint of the walls, and the general freshness of the buvette, which seemed almost like a Pompadour arbour reared in some princely forest for love assignations.

However, an usher suddenly came in, almost breathless. 'Monsieur La Rouquette, you are wanted immediately--immediately!' he gasped.

Then, as the young deputy made a gesture of vexation, the usher stooped and whispered that he had been sent by M. de Marsy, the President of the Chamber, himself. And he added in a louder tone, 'Everybody is wanted; so come at once.'

M. de Lamberthon at once rushed off in the direction of the Chamber and M. La Rouquette was following him, when he appeared to change his mind. It had indeed occurred to him that it might be advisable to hunt up all the deputies lounging in different parts of the building, and send them back to their places. So he hastened first into the Conference Hall, a beautiful apartment lighted by a glazed roof and boasting a huge chimney-piece of green marble, ornamented with two white marble female figures, nude and recumbent. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a great wood fire was burning there. At the large table sat three deputies with sleepy eyes, which wandered over the pictures on the walls and the famous clock, which was only wound up once a year. A fourth deputy, who had installed himself at the fire, so as to warm his back, seemed to be gazing with emotion at a plaster statuette of Henri IV. which at the other end of the room stood out against a trophy of Austrian and Prussian standards captured at Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena. As M. La Rouquette went from one to the other of his colleagues, bidding them at once hurry to the Chamber, they started up as if suddenly awakened, and hastened away in procession.

In his enthusiasm, La Rouquette was already rushing off to the library, when it occurred to him that it would be as well to glance into the lavatory. There he found M. de Combelot, who, with his hands plunged in a large basin, was gently rubbing them, and smiling admiringly at their whiteness. He did not show the least excitement, but said that he would return to his seat in a moment. Before doing so, however, he lingered for some time wiping his hands on a warm towel, which he then replaced in the copper-doored stove. And finally he took his stand before a lofty mirror, and carefully combed his handsome black beard.

There was no one in the library, which La Rouquette next visited. The books were slumbering on their oak shelves; the two huge tables with covers of green cloth stood severely bare; and the book-rests attached to the arms of the chairs were folded back, and covered with a slight coating of dust.