The Conquest of Plassans (Classic Reprint) Read online

  ‘Ah, that’s a fishy business, my friend… Their son Eugène, the one who had such an astonishing career in politics, deputy, minister, family councillor of the Tuileries, secured a good income and an honour for his father, who had been up to a thing or two here. As for the house, it was apparently paid for with the help of a settlement. They borrowed money from some banker… In any case, today they are rolling in money, getting their hands dirty, making up for lost time. I imagine their son has remained in touch with them, for they haven’t done anything silly yet.’

  The voice went quiet, only to go on again with a suppressed laugh:

  ‘No, all the same I have to laugh when I see her with her airs and graces like a duchess, that old toad of a Félicité… I still remember her yellow drawing room,* with its worn-out carpet, grimy tables, the muslin on her little lamp covered in fly droppings… And now she’s greeting the Rastoil girls. Look at the way she swishes the hem of her dress… That old lady, you mark my words, will drop dead in triumph one evening in the middle of her green drawing room.’

  Abbé Faujas had slowly turned his head, in order to see what was going on in the large salon. He saw Madame Rougon there, truly splendid, in the middle of her circle; she seemed to have grown taller on her dwarfish feet, and looked like a conquering queen, with all backs bent towards her. From time to time she appeared to swoon and her eyelids fluttered in the golden reflections from the ceiling, in the softness of the imposing hangings.

  ‘Oh, here’s your father,’ said the throaty voice; ‘here’s our good doctor arriving… It’s very strange that the doctor didn’t tell you all this. He knows more about it than I do.’

  ‘Huh, my father is afraid he’ll be compromised,’ the other went on gaily. ‘He curses me and swears I’ll make him lose his clients… Excuse me, I’ve just seen the Maffre boys, I’ll go and say hello.’

  There was a scraping of chairs, and Abbé Faujas saw a tall young man with a face that already looked weary, walk across the small salon. The other person, the one who had been insulting the Rougons so cheerfully, also rose. A lady who was passing received very pretty compliments from him; she laughed, called him ‘our dear Monsieur de Condamin’. The priest then recognized the handsome sexagenarian that Mouret had pointed out in the garden of the sub-prefecture. Monsieur de Condamin came and sat down on the other side of the hearth. There he was most surprised to see the Abbé Faujas, who had been concealed from him by the back of the armchair. But not in the least disconcerted, he smiled, and with charming aplomb, said:

  ‘Monsieur l’Abbé, I believe we have just made our inadvertent confession… It’s a heinous sin, is it not, to speak ill of one’s neighbour? Happily you are here to forgive us our sin.’

  Though so much in control of his facial expression, the abbé could not refrain from reddening a little. He fully understood that Monsieur de Condamin was chiding him for not speaking out while he listened. But Condamin was not a man to bear a grudge against someone who was curious, quite the contrary. He was delighted at the hint of complicity he had just created between the priest and himself. That gave him the licence to gossip freely, to make the evening pass quickly by relating scandalous stories of the people who were present. It was what he enjoyed most. This priest who had just arrived in Plassans seemed to him an excellent audience. All the more so because he had an unattractive face, that of a man who would listen to anything, and was wearing a soutane that was really too shabby for there to be any lasting consequences from what one permitted oneself to say to him.

  After a quarter of an hour, Monsieur de Condamin had got into his stride. He was expounding the whole of Plassans to Abbé Faujas, with the impeccable manners of a man of the world.

  ‘You are a stranger in our midst, my dear abbé,’ he said; ‘I should be delighted to be of service to you… Plassans is a small town that one gets used to in the end. I am from near Dijon. Well, you know, when I got my post as forestry commissioner here, I detested the place, I was bored out of my mind. It was just before the Empire. Life in the provinces was not much fun, I can tell you, especially after ’51.* People living in this department were scared of their own shadows. The very sight of a gendarme would have them running for cover… They’ve gradually got less fearful, gone back to their usual ways, and in the end I resigned myself. I live out in the open air, I go for long rides on horseback, and I’ve made a few friends.’

  He dropped his voice, and went on in a confidential tone:

  ‘If you want my advice, Monsieur l’Abbé, you’ll be careful. You wouldn’t credit what a hornets’ nest I almost fell into… Plassans is divided into three distinct sections: the old quarter, where you’ll only have to bring them alms and comfort; the Saint-Marc district, where the local nobility live, a place of boredom and backbiting you should be extremely wary of; and the new town, the quarter being built at this very moment around the sub-prefecture, the only possible, respectable district… I was silly enough to take lodgings in the Saint-Marc district, where I felt called to by my station in life. But everyone there is either a stiff and starchy dowager or a penniless marquis; they all hark back to the time when Berthe was at her spinning wheel. Not the whiff of a social occasion, not the sniff of a party. Just a subdued conniving against the blessed peace we live in… I don’t mind telling you, I almost compromised myself. Péqueur teased me about it… Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect, do you know him? So I moved to the other side of the Cours Sauvaire and took an apartment there on the square. In Plassans, you see, the people doesn’t exist and the nobility is beyond hope; the only tolerable, charming folk who go to a lot of trouble for prominent people are a few nouveaux riches. Our little world of civil servants is very happy. We keep ourselves to ourselves, live how we want to, without worrying about the inhabitants, as if we had pitched our tents in a conquered land.’

  He laughed in a self-satisfied way and stretched out in front of the fire warming the soles of his feet; then he took a glass of punch from the tray of a passing servant and drank slowly, still looking at Faujas out of the corner of his eye. The priest felt that politeness required him to say something.

  ‘This house seems very agreeable,’ he said, half turning in the direction of the green drawing room, where conversation was becoming more animated.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Monsieur de Condamin, who stopped from time to time to take a little mouthful of punch, ‘the Rougons make us forget Paris. Here you would never think you were in Plassans, it’s the only salon where you can have a good time, because it’s the only one where all opinions rub shoulders with one another… Péqueur also gives good parties. It must cost the Rougons a packet and they don’t get paid their expenses like Péqueur; but they do better than that because they have money from the taxpayers.’

  This little joke enchanted him. He placed the empty glass he was holding down on the mantelpiece; and, bending over, drew nearer:

  ‘What’s amusing is the constant dramas that are played out. If you only knew the characters!… You see Madame Rastoil over there, in between her two daughters, that lady of about forty-five, with a head like a sheep baa-ing…? Well, did you notice how her eyelids fluttered when Delangre came to sit opposite her? That fellow who looks like a puppet, there on the left… They had an intimate relationship ten years ago. They say that one of the two girls is his, but they are not sure which… The funniest thing is that Delangre had a few problems with his wife at the same time; they say her daughter is by a painter known to everyone in Plassans.’

  Abbé Faujas thought he should assume a serious expression in order to receive confidences like these; he shut his eyes completely; he seemed not to be listening. Monsieur de Condamin went on, as though to justify his remarks:

  ‘If I allow myself to talk about Delangre in this way, it’s because I know him very well. He is fantastically strong, that fellow! I think his father was a builder. Fifteen years ago he defended people in minor cases that the other lawyers wouldn’t take on. Madame Rastoil
positively dragged him out of poverty. She even used to send him wood in winter, so he would be warm. It’s through her he won his first cases… Note that Delangre was clever enough not to show evidence of any political bias. So, in ’52, when they were looking for a mayor, he was the one who sprang to mind straight away. He was the only man who could take on a position like that without scaring any of the three districts in the town. Since then, he’s been successful in everything. He has the finest career ahead of him. Unfortunately he and Péqueur don’t see eye to eye. They are always falling out over the silliest little matters.’

  He stopped talking when he saw the tall young man whom he had been chatting to a moment before, coming over again.

  ‘Monsieur Guillaume Porquier,’ he said, introducing him to the priest. ‘Doctor Porquier’s son.’

  Then when Guillaume had sat down he asked him, with a chuckle:

  ‘Well, what interesting things have you seen next door?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ the young man answered with a smile. ‘I saw the Paloques. Madame Rougon always tries to hide them behind a curtain to avoid any mishaps. A pregnant woman who saw them on the Cours one day nearly had a miscarriage… Paloque stares at President Rastoil all the time, no doubt hoping to kill him with a look. You know that monster of a Paloque hopes to be president before he dies?’

  Both were enjoying themselves. The ugliness of the Paloques was a subject of everlasting mockery amongst the civil servants in their little world. Porquier’s son continued, lowering his voice:

  ‘I also saw Monsieur de Bourdeu. Don’t you think he’s lost weight since the Marquis of Lagrifoul got elected? Bourdeu will never get over not being prefect any longer. He’s placed his Orléanist resentment in the service of the Legitimists, in the hope that it will lead him straight to the Chamber of Deputies* where he will get elected to the office of prefect that he so much misses… He’s wounded to the core that the marquis, a fool, an ass, who doesn’t know the first thing about politics, was preferred above him; whereas he, Bourdeu, is able, quite able.’

  ‘He gets on my nerves, that Bourdeu, with his buttoned-up coat and his pompous flat hat,’ said Monsieur de Condamin, with a shrug. ‘If you gave them their head, those people would make France into a Sorbonne* chock-full of lawyers and diplomats, which we would find exceedingly boring, I assure you… Oh, I meant to say, Guillaume, I was hearing things about you. It seems you are having a gay old time.’

  ‘Me!’ laughed the young man.

  ‘Yes, you, my dear fellow; and I have heard it from your father. He is worried, he says you are gaming, spending the night in the club and other places. Is it true you’ve found a shady café behind the prison where you go and have a merry old time with a lot of delinquents? They are even saying…’

  Monsieur de Condamin, seeing two ladies come in, continued to whisper in Guillaume’s ear. The latter, nodding and chuckling, bent over to do likewise, no doubt to add a few details. And the pair, with eyes twinkling, leaned towards one another, for some time enjoying the anecdote that one could not risk in front of the ladies.

  Abbé Faujas had remained there throughout. He was no longer listening; he was watching the gestures of the animated Monsieur Delangre, in the green salon, who was bending over backwards to be nice to everyone. This spectacle was so absorbing that he didn’t see Abbé Bourrette beckoning him. The priest had to come and touch his hand and ask him to come with him. He led him into the room where they were playing cards, with all the caution of a man who has something delicate to impart.

  ‘My dear friend,’ he said when they were alone together in a corner, ‘you’ll be forgiven, it’s the first time you have been here; but I must warn you that you have been sorely compromised by chatting for so long to the people you have just left.’

  And as Abbé Faujas gave him a look of great surprise:

  ‘Those people are not well thought of… Of course I don’t want to criticize them, I don’t wish to enter into any malicious gossip. I am just warning you as a friend, that’s all.’

  He made to move away, but the other held him there a moment, saying quickly:

  ‘You have me worried now, my dear Monsieur Bourrette; do explain, I beg you. It seems to me that without gossiping, you could furnish me with some explanation.’

  ‘Well,’ the old priest went on after a moment’s hesitation, ‘the young man, Doctor Porquier’s son, is the despair of his honourable father and sets an extremely bad example to the studious youth of Plassans. He left only debts behind in Paris, and he’s creating havoc here in the town. As for Monsieur de Condamin…’

  He stopped again, embarrassed by the enormity of what he had to recount; then, closing his eyes, said:

  ‘Monsieur de Condamin has a loose tongue and I fear he has no sense of morality. He has no consideration for anyone and he has scandalized all respectable souls… Well, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but apparently he entered into a not exactly respectable marriage. Do you see that young woman, less than thirty years old, in the midst of a group of people? Well, he brought her back to Plassans one day, nobody knows where from. The very day after she arrived she was ruling the roost here. It was she who obtained the honours for her husband and Doctor Porquier. She has friends in Paris… Please don’t repeat these things. Madame de Condamin is very charming, does a great deal of good. Sometimes I visit her and I should be sorry if she thought I was her enemy. If she has faults that need forgiving, our duty is to help her along the right path, is it not? As for her husband, between ourselves, he is a nasty piece of work. Keep your distance from him.’

  Abbé Faujas looked straight at the worthy Bourrette. He had just noticed that Madame Rougon was following their conversation at a distance with some interest, as it seemed.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Madame Rougon who asked you to give me some good advice?’ he asked the old priest abruptly.

  ‘Good heavens! How did you know that?’ cried the latter in astonishment. ‘She asked me not to mention her name but since you have guessed… She’s a good woman and would be very distressed to see a priest thought ill of in her house. She is unfortunately obliged to entertain all sorts of people.’

  Abbé Faujas thanked him, and promised to be careful. The card players round about didn’t look up. He went back into the big drawing room, where he felt he was once more in a hostile environment. He felt there was even more coolness, even more unspoken scorn. Skirts were swept aside as he crossed the room, as if he would soil them. Black suits turned away and there was whispered mockery. He kept superbly calm. Thinking he heard the word ‘Besançon’ uttered meaningfully in the corner of the room presided over by Madame de Condamin, he walked straight over to the group that had formed around her; but as he approached, the conversation stopped abruptly and all eyes, gleaming with malicious curiosity, were fixed upon him. It was certain they were talking about him, telling some slanderous story. As he was standing behind the Rastoil girls, who hadn’t realized he was there, he heard the younger one asking the other:

  ‘So what did he do in Besançon, this priest that everybody’s talking about?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ replied the other girl. ‘I think he almost strangled the priest-in-charge in a quarrel. Papa also says that he got mixed up in some big industrial affair that went wrong.’

  ‘But he’s here, isn’t he? In the small drawing room… He’s just been seen laughing with Monsieur de Condamin.’

  ‘Well, if he’s laughing with Monsieur de Condamin, that’s a good reason not to trust him.’

  The two girls’ chatter made a sweat break out on Abbé Faujas’s forehead. He didn’t bat an eyelid. His mouth tightened, his cheeks took on a leaden hue. Now he could hear the whole salon talking about the priest he had strangled, about the corruption he had been involved in. Opposite him Monsieur Delangre and Doctor Porquier remained severe; Monsieur de Bourdeu’s lip was curled in scorn, as he chatted quietly to a lady; Monsieur Maffre, the judge, was eyeing him intently, s
niffing him out from a distance before deciding whether to show his teeth. And on the other side of the room, the elongated faces of the Paloques, the two monsters, disfigured with venom, lit up with delighted malice at all the cruel gossip that was being peddled around in hushed tones. Abbé Faujas slowly retreated, seeing Madame Rastoil, standing a few paces away, coming back to sit between her two daughters, as if to fold them under her wing and protect them from contact with him. He leaned against the piano that he found behind him, and remained there, head held high, his expression hard and betraying nothing, as if he were made of stone. For surely there was a conspiracy, he was being treated like a pariah.

  Standing there motionless, the priest, his eyes scanning the salon under half-closed lids, made a movement which he immediately suppressed. He had just caught sight of Abbé Fenil behind a veritable barricade of skirts, stretched out in an easy chair, smiling discreetly. Their eyes met, they stared at one another for a second or two, in the manner of two duellists about to begin a fight to the death. Then there was a rustle of skirts and the assistant bishop vanished again in a cloud of lace.

  In the meantime, Félicité had expertly manoeuvred herself into a position near the piano, where she installed the elder of the two Rastoil girls, who had a nice voice and sang ballads. Then, when she could speak without being overheard, she drew Abbé Faujas into a window recess, and enquired:

  ‘What did you do to Abbé Fenil then?’

  They went on talking in low voices. The priest had first of all pretended to be surprised. But when Madame Rougon whispered a few words and accompanied them with shoulder-shrugging, he seemed to open up, and start chatting. They were both smiling and apparently exchanging civilities, but the gleam in their eyes gave the lie to this banal play-acting. The piano stopped, and the elder of the two girls was prevailed upon to sing the ‘Colombe du soldat’ which was very popular at that time.

  ‘Your introduction into society is most unfortunate,’ murmured Félicité. ‘You have made yourself into an impossible guest, I advise you not to come back here for some time… You have to win friends, you understand? If you try strong-arm tactics you will be lost.’