The Rougon-Macquart: Complete 20 Book Collection. Эмиль Золя
“will be the glory of the reign. The nation is ungrateful; it ought to kiss the Emperor’s feet. As I said this morning in the council, when they were talking of the great success of the loan: ‘Gentlemen, let those brawlers of the opposition say what they will; to plough up Paris is to make it productive.’“
Saccard smiled, and closed his eyes, as though the better to relish the subtlety of the epigram. He leant behind the back of Mme. d’Espanet, and said to M. Hupel de la Noue, loud enough to be heard:
“He is adorably witty.”
Meantime, while they were discussing the alterations being made in Paris, the Sieur Charrier had been stretching out his neck, as though to take part in the conversation. His partner Mignon was fully occupied with Mme. Sidonie, who was giving him plenty to do. Saccard had been watching the two contractors from the corner of his eye since the commencement of dinner.
“The administration,” he said, “has met with so much devotion. Everyone was eager to contribute to the great work. Without the wealthy companies that came to its assistance, the city would never have done so well nor so quickly.”
He turned round, and with a sort of fawning brutality:
“MM. Mignon and Charrier know something of that; they have had their share of the labour, and they will have their share of the glory.”
The bricklayers who had made their fortunes received this uncouth compliment with radiant faces. Mignon, to whom Mme. Sidonie was saying, in her mincing tones: “Ah, monsieur, you flatter me; no, pink would be too young for me….” left her in the middle of her sentence to reply to Saccard:
“You are too kind; we merely did our business.”
But Charrier was more polished. He drank off his glass of Pomard, and managed to deliver himself of a phrase:
“The alterations of Paris,” he said, “have given a living to the workman.”
“And we may add,” resumed M. Toutin-Laroche, “that they have given a magnificent impulse to industry and finance.”
“And do not forget the artistic side of the question: the new thoroughfares are majestic in their beauty,” added M. Hupel de la Noue, who prided himself on his taste.
“Yes, yes, it is a fine undertaking,” murmured M. de Mareuil, for the sake of saying something.
“As to the cost,” declared Haffner seriously, the deputy who never opened his mouth except on great occasions, “that will be for our children to bear, nothing could be fairer.”
And as, in speaking, he looked towards M. de Saffré, who appeared to have given a momentary offence to the pretty Mme. Michelin, the young secretary, to shew that he had been following the conversation, repeated:
“Nothing could be fairer indeed.”
Each member of the group of serious men at the middle of the table had had his say. M. Michelin, the Chief Commissioner, smiled and wagged his head: this was his ordinary method of taking part in a conversation: he had smiles of greeting, of response, of approval, of thanks, of leave-taking, quite a pretty collection of smiles which saved him almost any necessity for speech, an arrangement which he looked upon as doubtless more polite and more favourable to his advancement.
Yet one other personage had kept silence, the Baron Gouraud, who munched his food slowly like a drowsy ox. Up to that moment he had appeared absorbed in the contemplation of his plate. Renée, who paid him every attention, received nothing for it but little grunts of satisfaction. And consequently it was a surprise to see him lift his head and observe, as he wiped his greasy lips:
“As a landlord, whenever I have a flat done up and painted, I raise the rent.”
M. Haffner’s expression: “The cost will be for our children to bear” had had the effect of arousing the senator. All discreetly clapped their hands, and M. de Saffré exclaimed:
“Ah, charming, charming, I must send that to the papers tomorrow.”
“You are quite right, messieurs, these are good times we live in,” said Mignon, by way of summing up, in the midst of the smiles and admiration aroused by the baron’s epigram. “I know a few who have made a good thing out of them. You see, everything is fine so long as you make money by it.”
These last words seemed to freeze the serious men. The conversation dropped flat, and each appeared to avoid his neighbour’s eyes. The bricklayer’s aphorism struck home, deadly as the paving-stone of la Fontaine’s bear. Michelin, who happened to be beaming upon Saccard with a pleasant air, ceased smiling, very anxious lest he should seem for one instant to have applied the contractor’s words to the master of the house. The latter threw a glance to Mme. Sidonie, who tackled Mignon afresh, saying, “And so you like pink, monsieur…?” And Saccard paid an elaborate compliment to Mme. Espanet; his dark, sorry face almost touched her milky shoulders, as she threw herself back and tittered.
They were at the dessert. The lackeys moved round the table at a quicker pace. There was a pause while the cloth was being covered with the remainder of the fruit and sweets. At Maxime’s end of the table the laughter increased in brightness; Louise’s little shrill voice was heard saying: “I assure you, Sylvia wore blue satin as Dindonette;” and another childish voice added: “Yes, but her dress was trimmed with white lace.” Tepid fumes pervaded the air. The flushed faces seemed to be softened by a sense of inward felicity. Two lackeys went round the table serving Alicante and Tokay.
Renée had worn a look of vacancy ever since the beginning of dinner. She fulfilled her duties as hostess with a mechanical smile. At every outburst of merriment that came from the end of the table where Maxime and Louise sat side by side, jesting like boon companions, she threw a lurid glance in their direction. She felt bored. The serious men were too much for her. Mme. d’Espanet and Mme. Haffner looked towards her in despair.
“And what are the prospects of the forthcoming elections?” asked Saccard, suddenly, of M. Hupel de la Noue.
“Very promising,” answered the latter, smiling: “only I have had no candidates appointed as yet for my department. The minister has not made up his mind, it would seem.”
M. de Mareuil, who had thanked Saccard with a glance for broaching this subject, appeared to be on hot coals. He blushed, and bowed disconcertedly when the préfet turned to him and continued:
“I have heard much of you in the country, monsieur. Your extensive property there has won you many friends, and your devotion to the Emperor is well known. Your chances are excellent.”
“Papa, isn’t it true that little Sylvia used to sell cigarettes at Marseilles in 1849?” cried Maxime at this moment from the end of the table.
Aristide Saccard pretended not to hear, and his son continued in a lower tone:
“My father has known her intimately.”
This aroused some smothered laughter. Meantime, while M. de Mareuil kept up his bowing, M. Haffner had resumed in sententious tones:
“Devotion to the Emperor is the only virtue, the only patriotism, in these days of self-interested democracy. Who loves the Emperor loves France. It would give us unfeigned pleasure if monsieur were to become our colleague.”
“Monsieur will succeed,” said M. Toutin-Laroche in his turn. “All large fortunes should gather round the throne.”
Renée could bear it no longer. The marquise was stifling a yawn in front of her. And as Saccard was about to resume, she said to him, with her pretty smile:
“Take pity on us, dear, and spare us any more of your horrid politics.”
Then M. Hupel de la Noue, with a préfet’s gallantry, exclaimed that the ladies were right. And he began to tell an indecent story of something that had happened in his district. The marquise, Mme. Haffner, and the other ladies, laughed heartily at certain of the details. The préfet told his story in a very pungent style,