Complete Works of Emile Zola (415 page)

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Machiavelli,’ he replied, with a laugh.

She laughed louder than he did, but none the less she went on giving him excellent advice. However, as he still sportively tried to pinch her arms, she seemed to grow vexed and declared that it was impossible to talk to him seriously for a couple of minutes together. Ah! if she were a man, she said, she would know how to mount high. But men were so light-headed. ‘Come now and tell me about your friends,’ she continued, seating herself on the edge of the table, while Rougon remained standing in front of her.

Just then, however, Luigi, who had kept his eyes on them, violently closed his paint-box and exclaimed: ‘I’m going!’

At this Clorinde ran up to him, and brought him back, after promising to resume her pose. Probably, however, her only motive in asking him to remain was that she felt afraid of being left alone with Rougon, for when Luigi had assented to her request, she began to make further excuses for the purpose of gaining time. ‘Just let me get something to eat,’ she said; ‘I am dreadfully hungry. Just a couple of mouthfuls.’ And then opening the door, she called out: ‘Antonia! Antonia!’

She gave an order in Italian, and had just seated herself again on the edge of the table when Antonia came into the room, holding on each of her outspread hands, a slice of bread and butter. She held her hands out to Clorinde as though they had been plates, breaking into a giggle as she did so, a laugh which made her mouth look like a red gash across her dusky face. Then she went off, wiping her hands on her skirt. Clorinde, however, called her back and told her to get a glass of water.

‘Will you have some?’ she said to Rougon, ‘I’m very fond of bread and butter. Sometimes I put sugar on it; but it doesn’t always do to be so extravagant.’

She was certainly not given to extravagance, and Rougon remembered that he had found her one morning breakfasting off a fragment of cold omelet which had been left over from the previous day. He rather suspected her of avarice, which is an Italian vice.

‘Three minutes, eh, Luigi?’ she said, as she began her first slice of bread and butter. Then turning once more to Rougon, who was still standing in front of her, she ex­claimed: ‘Now there’s Monsieur Kahn, for instance: tell me about him. How did he get to be a deputy?’

Rougon yielded to this fresh request, hoping that he would somehow be able to worm some information out of the girl. He knew that she was very curious about everyone, ever on the alert to gather information concerning the intrigues in the midst of which her life was passed. She always seemed particularly anxious to know the origin of any great fortune.

‘Oh!’ he replied, with a laugh, ‘Kahn was born a deputy. He cut his teeth on the benches of the Chamber. As early as Louis Philippe’s time he sat in the Right centre and supported the constitutional monarchy with youthful enthusiasm. After 1848 he went over to the Left centre, still keeping very enthusiastic. He made a confession of republican principles in magnificent style. Now, however, he has gone back to the Right centre and is a passionate supporter of the Empire. As for the rest, he’s the son of a Jewish banker at Bordeaux. He has some blast furnaces at Bressuire, has made a specialty of financial and industrial questions, lives in a quiet way until he comes into the large fortune which he will one day secure, and was promoted to the rank of officer in the Legion of Honour on the fifteenth of last August — ‘

Rougon hesitated for a moment and seemed to be thinking. ‘No,’ he resumed, ‘I don’t think I have omitted anything. He has no children.’

‘What! is he married?’ exclaimed Clorinde, indicat­ing by a gesture that she took no further interest in M. Kahn. He was an impostor: he had never let them know that he had a wife. Rougon thereupon explained to her that Madame Kahn led a very retired life in Paris; and without waiting to be questioned further, he continued: ‘Would you like to hear Béjuin’s biography?’

‘No, no,’ replied the girl.

All the same, however, he went on with it. ‘He comes from the Polytechnical School. He has written pamphlets which nobody has read. He is head of the Saint-Florent cut-glass works, about seven or eight miles from Bourges. It was the prefect of the Cher who discovered him — ‘

‘Oh, give over!’ cried Clorinde.

‘He is a very worthy fellow, votes straight, never speaks, is very patient and waits contentedly till you think of him, but he is always on the spot to take care that you sha’n’t forget him. I got him named chevalier — ‘

Thereupon Clorinde impatiently placed her hand over Rougon’s mouth, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, he is married too! He isn’t a bit interesting. I saw his wife at your house. She’s a perfect bundle! She invited me to visit the works at Bourges.’

She now swallowed the last mouthful of her first slice of bread and butter, and then gulped down some water. ‘And Monsieur Du Poizat?’ she asked, after a pause.

‘Du Poizat has been a sub-prefect,’ was all that Rougon replied.

She glanced at him, surprised by the brevity of this account. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘What else?’

‘Well, by-and-bye he will be a prefect, and then he will be decorated.’

She saw that he did not want to say anything further about Du Poizat; whose name, moreover, she herself had merely mentioned at random. However, she now began to mention other men, counting their names on her fingers. Touching her thumb, she began: ‘Monsieur d’Escorailles; he’s flippant and in love with every woman — Monsieur La Rouquette; he’s no good, I know him only too well — Monsieur de Combelot; he’s another married man — ‘

Then, as she stopped short at the ring-finger, unable to think of another name, Rougon, keeping his eyes on her, remarked: ‘You are forgetting Delestang.’

‘So I am!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me about him!’

‘He’s a handsome fellow,’ said Rougon, still watching her attentively. ‘He is very rich, and I have always pro­phesied a great future for him.’

He went on in this strain, exaggerating his praises and doubling his figures. The model-farm of La Chamade, said he, was worth a couple of million francs. Delestang would certainly be a minister some day. Clorinde, however, curled her lips disdainfully. ‘He is a big booby,’ she said at last.

‘What?’ cried Rougon with a subtle smile. He seemed quite charmed by her remark.

But with one of those sudden transitions which were habitual with her, she asked him a fresh question, keenly scrutinising him in her turn: ‘You must know Monsieur de Marsy very well?’

‘Oh yes, we know each other,’ he replied unconcernedly, amused that the girl should have asked him such a question. Then he became serious, and showed himself very dignified and impartial. ‘Marsy is a man of extraordinary intelli­gence,’ he continued. ‘I am honoured by having such a man for my enemy. He has filled every position. At twenty-eight years of age, he was a colonel. Later on, he was at the head of a great business. And since then, he has successively occupied himself with agriculture, finance and commerce. I hear, too, that he paints portraits and writes novels.’

Clorinde had grown thoughtful, and was forgetting her bread and butter. ‘I was talking to him the other day,’ she said in a low tone. ‘He’s perfect — a genuine queen’s son.’

‘In my estimation,’ continued Rougon, ‘it is his wit that spoils him. My idea of ability is quite different. I have heard him making puns under the gravest circumstances. Well, anyhow, he has been very successful, and is as much the sovereign as the Emperor himself. All these natural children
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are lucky fellows. However, his greatest charac­teristic is his grip of iron; he has firm and resolute hands, though they are light and slender.’

Clorinde unconsciously let her eyes wander to Rougon’s hands, so large and powerful. He noticed it, and with a smile continued: ‘Ah, mine are mere paws, aren’t they? That’s why Marsy and I have never been able to get on well together. He gallantly sabres his foes without soiling his white gloves, while I knock mine down.’

Thereupon he clenched his heavy hairy fists and shook them, seemingly proud of their enormous size. Clorinde took up her second slice of bread and butter and dug her teeth into it, still absorbed in thought. At length she raised her eyes to Rougon’s face. ‘And now about yourself?’ she asked.

‘Ah, you want to hear my history, do you?’ said he. ‘Well, it’s very easily told. My grandfather sold vegetables. I myself, till I was thirty-eight years of age, kicked up my heels as a country lawyer in the depths of the provinces. Yesterday I was unknown, for I haven’t, like our friend Kahn, helped to back up every Government in turn, and I haven’t come, like Béjuin, from the Polytechnical School. I can’t boast of little Escorailles’ fine name or poor Combelot’s handsome face. I haven’t even as good family connections as La Rouquette, who is indebted for his seat in the Chamber to his sister, the widow of General de Llorentz and now a lady-in-waiting. My father did not leave me five million francs gained in the wine trade, as Delestang’s left him. I wasn’t born on the steps of a throne, like Count de Marsy was, nor have I grown up tied to the apron-strings of a clever woman, under the favour of Talleyrand. No, I’m a self-made man; I’ve only my own hands — ‘

Then he clapped his hands together, laughing loudly, and turning what he had said into a joke. Finally he braced himself to his full height and looked as though he were crushing stones with his clenched fists. Clorinde gazed at him admiringly.

‘I was nothing; I shall now be whatever I like,’ he con­tinued, as though he were speaking to himself and had forgotten the presence of others. ‘I am a power. Those
other fellows make me shrug my shoulders when they prate of their devotion to the Empire! Do they really care for it? Do they appreciate it? Wouldn’t they conform to all kinds of governments? For my own part, I have grown up with the Empire! I have made it, and it has made me! I was named a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour after the tenth of December, an officer in January 1851, a commander on the fifteenth of August 1854, and a grand officer three months ago. Under the Presidency, I was entrusted for a short time with the portfolio of Public Works; later on the Emperor gave me a mission to England, and since then I have entered the Council of State and the Senate — ‘

‘And, to-morrow, what will you enter?’ Clorinde inter­rupted with a laugh, by which she tried to conceal her ardent curiosity.

He stopped short and looked at her. ‘You are very inquisitive, Mademoiselle Machiavelli,’ he said.

Then Clorinde began to swing her legs more briskly, and there was an interval of silence. Rougon, seeing her absorbed in a fresh reverie, thought that a favourable moment had come for extorting a confession from her. ‘Women — ‘ he began.

But in a low tone she interrupted him, smiling at her own thoughts, with a vague expression in her eyes: ‘Oh, women are quite different!’

This was all the confession she made. She finished her bread and butter and drained her glass of water. Then she leapt to her feet on the table, with a spring that testified to her adroitness as a horsewoman. ‘Now, Luigi!’ she cried.

For the last few minutes the artist, who had left his seat, had been impatiently gnawing his moustache while irritably walking up and down in front of Rougon and Clorinde. With a sigh, he now sat down again and took up his palette. The three minutes’ grace which Clorinde had asked for had expanded into a quarter of an hour. Now, however, she was again standing on the table, still enveloped in her black lace. When she had set herself in the proper attitude, she uncovered herself with a light movement of the hand, and became a marble statue once more.

Fewer carriages were now rolling along the Champs Elysées, over which the declining sun cast a stream of hazy light, enveloping the trees in a ruddy haze that might almost have been taken for a coating of dust stirred up by the passing vehicles. Clorinde’s shoulders gleamed as with sheeny gold in the light that fell through the lofty windows. The sky gradually became greyer.

‘Is Monsieur de Marsy’s intended marriage with the Wallachian princess settled yet?’ asked the girl.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Rougon replied. ‘She is very rich, and Marsy is always short of money. And they say, too, that he is madly in love with her.’

A spell of silence followed. Rougon stayed on, perfectly at his ease, without any further thought of going away. He was absorbed in meditation, and began to pace the room again. That Clorinde, he said to himself, was certainly a remarkably fascinating creature. He thought of her as though he had left her some time ago; and, as he walked up and down, with his eyes turned to the floor, his mind dwelt on dimly formulated, but very alluring thoughts, from which he derived a tender pleasure. He seemed, moreover, to be breathing some strangely perfumed atmosphere, and would have liked to throw himself upon one of the couches and drop off to sleep amidst that odorous air.

A sound of words suddenly recalled him to himself. A tall old man, whose entrance he had not observed, was kissing Clorinde on the brow, while the girl smilingly stooped over the edge of the table.

‘Good-morning, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘How pretty you look! You are exhibiting your charms, I see.’ Then he gave a little snigger, and as Clorinde in confusion picked up her lace wrapper, he quickly added: ‘No, no! You are very nice as you are! You needn’t be afraid of us.’

Then he turned towards Rougon, whom he addressed as ‘dear colleague,’ as he shook his hand. ‘I dandled her many a time on my knees, when she was a little thing,’ he added. ‘Ah! what a dazzling creature she is now!’

The new-comer was M. de Plouguern. He was seventy years of age. A representative of Finistère in the Chamber during the reign of Louis Philippe, he had been one of those Legitimist deputies who made the pilgrimage to Belgrave Square,
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and he had resigned in consequence of the vote of censure then passed upon himself and his companions. Later on, after the Revolution of February 1848, he had manifested a sudden affection for the Republic, which he vigorously applauded from the benches of the Constituent Assembly. Now that the Emperor had granted him the well-earned refuge of the Senate, he was a Bonapartist. But he knew how to be a Bonapartist and a man of high birth and breeding at the same time. With all his great humility he occasionally indulged in a spice of opposition. Ingratitude amused him, and, though he was a sceptic to the backbone, he defended religion and family-life. He thought that he owed that much to his name, one of the most illustrious in Brittany. Accord­ingly every now and then he found the Empire immoral, and said so openly. He himself had lived a life of dissolute intrigue and elaborate pleasure-seeking, and stories were told even of his old age which set young men dreaming. It was during a journey in Italy that he had first met Countess Balbi, whose lover he had remained for nearly thirty years. After separa­tions, which lasted sometimes for years, they would come together for a short time in some town where they happened to meet. According to some, Clorinde was his daughter; however, since the girl had grown up and had become a plump and pretty young woman, he asserted, while gazing at her with his still glistening eyes, that he had known her father well in former days. At the same time he treated her with considerable freedom as being an old friend. This tall, withered, scraggy old Plouguern bore some resemblance to Voltaire; and the likeness was the source of much secret pleasure to him.