Oxford World’s Classics Read online

  ‘Please sit down,’ she murmured. ‘Do forgive me. I have a bug inside me, I can’t think how it got there…’

  Pozzo went on plucking at the guitar, singing in a low voice, a rapturous expression on his face, lost in his dreams. Madame Correur pushed an armchair up to Clorinde’s bedside. Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Béjuin eventually found two chairs with nothing on them. It was not easy to sit down, as most of the half-dozen chairs scattered about the room were lost under piles of petticoats. When Colonel Jobelin and his son Auguste arrived, five minutes later, they had to remain standing.

  ‘Little fellow,’ said Clorinde to Auguste — whom she still addressed as tu, though he was now seventeen — ‘would you fetch a couple of chairs from my dressing room.’

  They were cane chairs from which all the varnish had come off because of the wet linen always piled on them. A single lamp, with a pink lace-paper shade, provided the light in the room. There was another in the dressing room and a third in the boudoir, through the open doors of which one could make out other rooms, dimly lit by night lights. The bedroom itself, which had once been done out in a soft lilac colour, but had now faded to dirty grey, seemed filled with a permanent haze. One could hardly see the chipped furniture, the streaks of dust, or a huge ink stain in the middle of the carpet, where an inkstand had fallen, spattering the woodwork all around. At the back of the room was a bed, with curtains drawn, no doubt to hide the fact that it was not made. From the shadows rose a powerful odour, as if all the perfume bottles in the dressing room had been left uncorked. Even in the hottest weather, Clorinde refused to have any windows open.

  ‘It smells lovely in here,’ said Madame Correur, trying to be polite.

  ‘It’s me you can smell,’ Clorinde replied ingenuously.

  And she proceeded to talk about the essences she had obtained from the Sultan’s perfumery. She held one of her bare arms under Madame Correur’s nose. Her black velvet tunic had slipped a little off her shoulders and her feet stuck out from under her skirts, showing her little red slippers. Pozzo, feeling almost faint because of the powerful scents she exuded, tapped gently at his instrument with his thumb.

  After a few minutes, the conversation inevitably turned to Rougon, as it always did on Thursdays and Sundays. The gang came together solely to hammer away at that eternal subject, with an increasing undercurrent of rancour, a need to relieve themselves in endless recriminations. Clorinde no longer needed to make any effort to encourage them. They always had fresh things to complain about, fresh grounds for resentment, made worse by everything Rougon had done for them, gripped as they were by a fever of ingratitude.

  ‘Have you seen anything of the big man today?’ asked the Colonel.

  Rougon was no longer ‘great’.

  ‘No,’ Clorinde replied. ‘He may come this evening. My husband wants to bring him over.’

  ‘This afternoon,’ said the Colonel after a pause, ‘I was sitting in a café and heard some people talking about him in very negative terms. They were saying his position is shaky, that he wouldn’t be able to hold on for more than a couple of months.’

  Monsieur Kahn, with a scornful gesture, said:

  ‘I wouldn’t give him three weeks myself. It’s plain he’s not a team player. He likes power too much, he gets carried away, and starts laying about in all directions, in the most brutal way… When you think about it, he’s done outrageous things these last five months.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ the Colonel interrupted, ‘all sorts of little fiddles, injustices, and crazy decisions… He abuses his position, there’s no doubt about it.’

  Madame Correur said nothing, but simply made a gesture with her finger, as if to suggest that Rougon was not right in the head.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Monsieur Kahn. ‘He’s got a screw loose, eh?’

  Monsieur Béjuin, seeing everybody looking at him, thought he had to say something.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘there’s definitely something wrong with him.’

  Clorinde, lolling back on her pillows, gazed at the circle of light cast by the lamp and let them go on. When they had finished, she in turn, as if to egg them on even further, said:

  ‘Of course he has abused his position, but he makes out he’s done it all for his friends… I was talking to him about it the other day. The things he’s done for you…’

  ‘For us?’ they cried, all four together, indignantly.

  They all wanted to talk at once, and voice their objections. But it was Monsieur Kahn who spoke loudest.

  ‘The things he’s done for me? What a joke! I had to wait two years for my concession. It ruined me. The scheme was first-rate, but the costs were too high… If he likes me so much, why isn’t he helping me now? I asked him to get the Emperor to agree to a law merging my company with the Compagnie de l’Ouest. But he just said I’d have to wait… Help from Rougon? Ha! That’ll be the day! He never did anything when he could, and now he can’t!’

  ‘And what about me?’ the Colonel broke in, gesturing to Madame Correur that he wanted to say his piece before her. ‘Do you really think I owe him anything? He seemed to have forgotten about the Commander decoration he promised me five years ago. True, he gave Auguste a job in his office, but I regret that now. If I’d put Auguste into industry, he’d be earning twice as much by now. That blasted Rougon told me only yesterday he can’t give Auguste a rise for another eighteen months! Yes, that’s how he loses all credit with his friends.’

  At last, Madame Correur managed to have her say. Leaning closer to Clorinde, she said:

  ‘You know, Madame, I’ve never had a thing from him! I’m still waiting for him to do something. He couldn’t say the same thing about me, and if I wanted to open my mouth… I don’t deny that I asked for favours on behalf of several lady friends of mine. I like helping other people. Besides, as I once said, whatever he does for you turns out badly, his favours seem to bring people bad luck. There’s poor Herminie Billecoq, the former pupil at Saint-Denis, who was seduced by an officer. He got a small dowry for her, but just this morning she came to tell me how badly that’s turned out — no marriage, and the officer has disappeared after spending all the money… Mark you, everything I’ve done has been for others, not for me. I thought it only right, when I got back from Coulonges with my legacy, to tell him all about Madame Martineau’s schemes. In the share-out, what I wanted was the house I was born in, but that woman managed to keep it for herself… And would you believe the only thing that man said, three times, was that he wanted to have nothing more to do with what he called “that dreadful business”?’

  By now Monsieur Béjuin too was getting worked up. He stammered:

  ‘My case is just like Madame Correur’s… I never asked a thing of him, never! All he could do was in spite of me, without my knowing it. If you don’t say anything, he takes advantage of you!’

  His voice trailed off in a mumble, and all four went on nodding, in unison. Then Monsieur Kahn started up again, in very solemn tones:

  ‘The truth is, Rougon is never grateful. Do you remember when we tramped all over Paris to get him back into the Ministry? We threw ourselves into that, almost to the point of going without food and drink. At that time he contracted a debt he would need more than one lifetime to repay. Now he finds it difficult to show his gratitude, so he’s just dropping us. It was bound to come.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right!’ cried the others. ‘He owes us everything, and look at the way he thanks us!’

  They continued to heap abuse on Rougon, enumerating everything they had done for him. When one of them fell silent, another recalled an even more telling detail. Suddenly, the Colonel became concerned about his son, who had vanished. Then a peculiar sound was heard in the dressing room, a sort of soft, continuous bubbling. The Colonel hurried to see what it was, and found Auguste happily playing with the bath, which Antonia had forgotten to empty. Slices of lemon, which Clorinde had used for her nails, were floating in the water.
Auguste was dipping his fingers in and sniffing them, like a sensuous schoolboy.

  ‘He’s impossible, that boy,’ murmured Clorinde. ‘He’s always poking into everything.’

  ‘You know,’ Madame Correur continued, as if she had been waiting for the Colonel to leave the room, ‘Rougon’s biggest problem is that he has no tact… I must say, while the Colonel isn’t here, Rougon made a huge mistake in taking that boy on at the Ministry, in spite of the regulations. That’s not the kind of favour to do your friends. It brings discredit.’

  But Clorinde interrupted her:

  ‘Madame Correur, please do go and see what they’re doing.’

  Monsieur Kahn smiled. It was his time to whisper:

  ‘Isn’t she charming! Rougon did everything he could for the Colonel. And she can’t talk. Rougon got himself into hot water for her over that dreadful Martineau affair. And what that showed was his complete lack of moral sense. You don’t kill a man just to please an old friend, do you?’

  He had risen to his feet and now began to trot up and down. He had just gone to the hall to get his cigar case from his overcoat pocket, when the Colonel and Madame Correur came back.

  ‘Well, well, Kahn has flown!’ said the Colonel, and, without pausing, continued: ‘We’ve got every reason to flay Rougon, but I do think Kahn should keep quiet… I didn’t say anything just now, but in the café this afternoon, people were saying very clearly that Rougon was going to come a cropper because he had lent his name to that great Niort–Angers railway swindle. He should have known! The big loon, going down to set off dynamite charges and make long speeches, and even going so far as to suggest the Emperor is backing it… There you have it, my friends, Kahn is the one who has landed us in this mess. Don’t you agree, Béjuin?’

  Béjuin nodded vigorously, indicating his agreement just as he had already indicated his approval of what Madame Correur and then Monsieur Kahn had said. Clorinde continued to lean back on the cushions, toying with the tassel of her waist-belt, with which she was tickling her face, her eyes wide open and an amused expression on her face.

  ‘Sh!’ she whispered.

  It was Monsieur Kahn coming back, biting off the end of a cigar. He lit it, gave three or four big puffs, for the gentlemen smoked in Clorinde’s bedroom. Then, picking up where he had left off, he said:

  ‘So, if Rougon maintains that he has weakened his position by helping us, I maintain, on the contrary, that it’s we who have been terribly compromised by his protection. He has a way of pushing people around so much that he causes them harm… And that incredibly crude approach of his will again see him down and out. Well, I have no desire to pick him up a second time. When a man has no idea how to keep his credit sound, there must be something wrong with him. He’s a liability to us, a complete liability… I for one have great responsibilities, I have to drop him.’

  Nevertheless, he was a little hesitant, and his voice trailed off, while the Colonel and Madame Correur were now staring at the floor, as if to avoid making any clear pronouncement. After all, Rougon was still minister of the interior, and if they were going to drop him, they would have to have somebody else to lean on first.

  ‘He’s not the only powerful man in politics,’ Clorinde remarked nonchalantly.

  They all looked at her, hoping for something more precise. But she simply made a gesture, as if to say they should bide their time a little longer. This unspoken promise of a new source of credit, the benefits of which would shower down on them, was the essential reason for their assiduous attendance at these ‘at homes’ of Clorinde’s every Thursday and Sunday. They sensed the approach of victory in this highly scented bedroom. Now they thought they had exhausted Rougon in the satisfaction of their original aspirations, they awaited the coming of a new, younger person of power, who would satisfy their current dreams, which were far greater and more ambitious than their earlier ones.

  Meanwhile, Clorinde had raised herself up on her cushions. Resting her elbow on the arm of the settee, she suddenly leaned towards Pozzo and began blowing down his neck and giggling, as if most pleased with herself. When she was very happy, she was given to childish behaviour of this kind. Pozzo, whose fingers seemed to have fallen asleep on the guitar, threw back his head and showed his brilliant white teeth. He gave a slight shiver, as if her blowing tickled him; this made her laugh even more and blow harder, making him beg for mercy. She said something sharp to him in Italian, and then turned to Madame Correur, saying:

  ‘He should sing something, don’t you think? If he sings, I’ll leave him alone… He has written a very lovely song.’

  They all wanted to hear the song. Pozzo began plucking at his guitar again, then sang, gazing at Clorinde. It was a passionate lament, with delicate accompaniment. The Italian words could not be made out clearly. They sighed and undulated round the room. At the final verse, no doubt all about love’s suffering, Pozzo’s voice assumed sombre tones, but he continued to smile, with all the rapturousness of hopeless love. When he had finished, there was a burst of applause. Why ever did he not publish such delightful things? His position as a diplomat was no obstacle.

  ‘I once knew a captain who staged a comic opera,’ said Colonel Jobelin. ‘It lost him no credit in the eyes of his regiment.’

  ‘Yes, but the diplomatic service is rather different…,’ Madame Correur murmured, shaking her head.

  ‘Oh no, I think you’re wrong there,’ said Monsieur Kahn. ‘Diplomats are no different from other men. Quite a number are devotees of the arts.’

  Clorinde gave Pozzo a gentle little kick, and whispered an order. He stood up and tossed the guitar on to a pile of clothes, and when he returned, five minutes later, he was followed by Antonia carrying a tray with a carafe and some glasses. He was carrying a sugar-bowl too big for the tray. Nobody ever drank anything other than sugared water at Clorinde’s. For that matter, her friends knew they could please her best by drinking only plain water.

  ‘What’s that?’ Clorinde exclaimed, turning towards the dressing room, where a door had squeaked. Then, as if remembering, she cried:

  ‘Oh, it’s Maman… She was in bed.’

  It was indeed Countess Balbi, wrapped in a black wool dressing gown, her head covered in a piece of lace, the ends of which were tied round her neck. Flaminio, a big valet with a long beard and the appearance of a bandit, was supporting her from behind, almost carrying her in his arms. She did not seem to have aged at all. She still wore the same perpetual smile of a former beauty queen.

  ‘Just a moment, Maman,’ said Clorinde, ‘you can have this chaise longue. I can lie on the bed… I’m not feeling well. I’ve swallowed some insect. It’s beginning to gnaw at me again.’

  There was a general shifting round. Pozzo and Madame Correur helped Clorinde to her bed, then they had to fold back the blankets and shake up the pillows. Meanwhile, the Countess lay down on the chaise longue, with Flaminio standing behind her, glowering at the strangers in the house.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you,’ Clorinde said again, ‘if I get into bed? I feel much better lying down… At least I’m not throwing you out. You must stay.’

  She stretched out, one elbow deep in a pillow, her black tunic spread over the white sheets like a great pool of ink. Not that anybody had had the least thought of going. Madame Correur was discussing Clorinde’s physical perfection with Pozzo, now that they had both carried her to bed. Monsieur Kahn, Monsieur Béjuin, and the Colonel paid their respects to the Countess. With a faint smile, she bowed her head. From time to time, without turning round, she murmured softly:

  ‘Flaminio!’

  The tall valet always understood what she wanted, and raised a cushion, brought a footstool, or drew from his pocket a bottle of scent, all with the same brigand-like air.

  At this moment, Auguste had an accident. He had been wandering about from room to room, examining every piece of female clothing he could find. Then, becoming bored, he had taken it into his head to drink glass after glass of sugared wat
er. Clorinde had been watching him for a while, for she had noticed how low the sugar was getting in the bowl, which he stirred so violently that he broke the glass.

  ‘It’s the sugar,’ she cried. ‘He puts too much in!’

  ‘You idiot!’ said the Colonel. ‘Can’t you just drink plain water?… A big glass every morning and evening. There’s nothing better. It keeps you healthy.’

  Fortunately, Monsieur Bouchard now arrived. He was late, coming after ten o’clock, because he had had to go out to dinner in town. And he seemed surprised not to find his wife there.

  ‘Monsieur d’Escorailles said he would bring her,’ he said. ‘I promised to collect her on the way home.’

  Madame Bouchard did indeed arrive, but half an hour later, with Monsieur d’Escorailles and Monsieur La Rouquette. After having fallen out and not seen each other for a year, the young marquis had taken up again with the pretty little blonde. Now their relationship was becoming a habit; they would come together for a week at a time, and could not resist kissing and cuddling behind doors whenever they met. They couldn’t help these sudden little explosions of desire. On the way to the Delestangs in an open carriage, they had come upon Monsieur La Rouquette, and all three had gone on to the Bois, laughing raucously and making spicy jokes. Indeed, at one moment Monsieur d’Escorailles thought he felt the deputy’s hand when he put his arm round Madame Bouchard’s waist. They brought into the room a breath of light-heartedness, the freshness of the dark avenues in the Bois, the magic of the silent leaves, which had stifled their ribald laughter.

  ‘Yes, we’ve just been round the lake,’ said Monsieur La Rouquette. ‘My word, these two have been leading me astray… I was on my way home to work.’

  Suddenly he became very serious. During the last session, he made a speech in the Chamber on a question of amortization, after a whole month of special study. Since then, he had assumed the sober manner of a family man, as if he had brought his bachelor existence to a close, not at the altar, but on the stage of parliament. Kahn took him aside for a moment.