Текст книги "The Kill"

Автор книги: Émile Zola

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Just now, however, darkness was gathering under the trees, and the façade lay sleeping. In the courtyard, a footman had respectfully helped Renée down from the carriage. On the right were the stables, with walls of striped red brick and broad doors of brown oak that opened onto a large area lit by skylights. On the left, as if to balance the composition, a very ornate niche was embedded in the wall of the house next door, in which a stream of water flowed perpetually from a shell that two Cupids held in outstretched arms. The young woman stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, lightly tapping at her skirt, which refused to hang properly. The courtyard, into which the clatter of horses and carriage had erupted only a moment earlier, now sank back into solitude, its aristocratic silence broken only by the eternal refrain of running water. In all the dark mass of the mansion, whose chandeliers would soon be lit for the first great banquet of the fall season, only the lower windows were ablaze, coloring the neat, regular checkerboard of small paving stones with the intense glow of a roaring conflagration.

As Renée pushed open the door of the vestibule, she found herself face-to-face with her husband’s manservant on his way to the servants’ hall with a silver kettle. The man was magnificent, all dressed in black, tall, solid, with the white face and neatly trimmed side-whiskers of an English diplomat and the grave, dignified air of a judge.

The young woman detained him with a question. “Baptiste, has Monsieur returned?”

“Yes, Madame, he is dressing,” the servant replied, with a nod worthy of a prince saluting a crowd.

Renée climbed the stairs slowly, pulling off her gloves as she went.

The vestibule was most luxurious. On entering it, one experienced a slight feeling of suffocation. The thick carpets covering the floor and staircase and the broad expanses of red velvet that hid the walls and doors made the air heavy with the silence, the stale fragrance, of a chapel. Draperies hung down from above, and the very high ceiling was adorned with ornamental rosettes on a latticework of gilt molding. The staircase had a double balustrade of white marble equipped with a red velvet handrail, and it opened out into two gently curving branches, between which stood the door of the drawing room. An immense mirror covered the entire wall of the first landing. Below, at the foot of each branch of the staircase, standing on marble pedestals, two women of gilt bronze, naked to the waist, held up two large lamps with five burners each, whose intense light was softened by globes of frosted glass. On either side, rows of lovely majolica pots were filled with rare plants.

Renée climbed, and with each step her image in the mirror grew larger. With doubt akin to that felt by the most acclaimed of actresses, she wondered if she was really as delectable as people said she was.

When she reached her apartment on the second floor, with its windows overlooking the Parc Monceau, she rang for her chambermaid Céleste to dress her for dinner. That took a full hour and a quarter. After the last pin had been set in place, she opened the window because the room was very hot, leaned against the sill, and stood there lost in thought. Céleste worked discreetly behind her, putting away the various items of her toilette one by one.

The park below was a seething sea of shadows. Inky masses of lofty foliage, buffeted by sudden gusts of wind, ebbed and flowed over a broad expanse, and the dry leaves made a sound reminiscent of waves draining from a pebbly beach. In the swirl of shadows only the two yellow eyes of an occasional carriage stood out now and then, appearing and disappearing amid the stands of trees lining the road that runs from the avenue de la Reine-Hortense to the boulevard Malesherbes. Staring at this melancholy autumn scene, Renée felt her heart fill once again with sadness. She imagined herself a child back in her father’s house, a big silent town house on the Ile Saint-Louis, ¹⁰ which for two centuries had been home to the black-robed gravity of a family of magistrates, the Béraud Du Châtels. Then she recalled the magical stroke of her marriage, to a widower who had sold himself to marry her, who had bartered the name of Rougon for that of Saccard, whose two sharp syllables had, on first hearing, struck her ear with the brutality of two rakes scraping up gold. He had taken her and propelled her into this life of excess, which with each passing day left her poor mind a little more unhinged. Then, with childish pleasure, she dreamt of the wonderful games of badminton she used to play with her younger sister, Christine. And one morning she would wake from the voluptuous dream in which she’d been living for the past ten years, and she would be mad, and her reputation would have been destroyed by some speculation of her husband’s, which would have sucked him under with it. This came to her as a quick premonition. The wailing of the trees grew louder. Upset by these thoughts of shame and punishment, Renée gave in to instincts that lay dormant deep inside her, the instincts of an old and respectable bourgeois family. She promised the dark night that she would mend her ways, spend less on clothes, and find some innocent pastime with which to amuse herself, as in her happy days at boarding school, where the girls all sang “Nous n’irons plus au bois” while cavorting sweetly under the sycamores.

At that moment, Céleste, who had gone downstairs, returned and whispered in her mistress’s ear: “Monsieur would like Madame to come down. Several guests are already waiting in the salon.”

Renée gave a start. She had not felt the cold air nipping at her shoulders. As she passed the mirror, she stopped and looked at herself in a mechanical way. An involuntary smile crossed her lips, and she went down to her guests.

In fact, nearly all the guests had arrived. Waiting below were her sister Christine, a young woman of twenty, dressed very simply in white muslin; her Aunt Elisabeth, the widow of the notary Aubertot, in black satin—a little old lady of sixty with an exquisitely friendly manner; her husband’s sister Sidonie Rougon, a skinny, artificial woman of uncertain age with a soft, waxy face that her faded dress made even less memorable; and the Mareuils, father and daughter: a tall, handsome man who had only recently been in mourning for his wife and who, with his blank, serious visage, bore a striking resemblance to the servant Baptiste, and poor Louise, as the daughter was called, a child of seventeen, undersized and slightly hunchbacked, who with sickly grace wore a white twill gown with red polka dots. Then there was a substantial group of grave-looking men: highly decorated gentlemen, officials with pale, solemn faces. Some distance away, another group of young men with a dissolute air about them and coats wide open had gathered around five or six supremely elegant ladies, among whom the reigning queens were the Inseparables, little marquise d’Espanet, in yellow, and blonde Mme Haffner, in violet. M. de Mussy, the horseman whose greeting Renée had ignored that afternoon in the Bois, was also there, with the worried look of a lover who senses that he is about to be sent packing. And amid the long trains of the women’s gowns spread across the carpet, two building contractors, the newly wealthy bricklayers Mignon and Charrier, with whom Saccard was to conclude a piece of business the next day, clumped about in heavy boots, their hands behind their backs, looking ridiculous in their black frock coats.

Aristide Saccard, standing near the door and holding forth to the group of grave men with his nasal twang and southern verve, nevertheless managed to find a way to greet each arriving guest. He shook their hands and had a kind word for each and every one. A short man with a sly look on his face, he bowed like a marionette. What one noticed most about this skinny, crafty, darkish little figure was the red splash of the Légion d’honneur, ¹¹ which he wore quite ostentatiously.

When Renée entered the room, a murmur of admiration greeted her. She was truly divine. Over a tulle skirt embellished in back with an abundance of flounces, she wore a tunic of delicate green satin trimmed with high English lace, which was accentuated and held fast by big bunches of violets. A single flounce adorned the front of the skirt, to which bouquets of violets joined by garlands of ivy attached a sheer chiffon. Above the regal fullness of this rather too elaborate skirt, her head and bodice were done up adorably. Her breasts exposed almost to the nipples, her arms bare but for bunches of violets on the shoulders, the young woman seemed to emerge stark naked from her sheath of tulle and satin, like one of those nymphs whose bosom protrudes from a sacred oak. Her white throat and supple body seemed to revel in their partial freedom with such delight that one expected bodice and skirt to slip away little by little, like the clothing of a bather aroused by the sight of her own flesh. Her tall headdress and fine blonde hair, gathered up in the shape of a helmet with a sprig of ivy woven through it and held by a knot of violets, enhanced her nudity still more by uncovering the back of her neck, tinted by a golden down. Around her neck she wore a rivière of dangling diamonds, admirable for their clarity, and on her forehead a diamond-studded aigrette of fine silver. For a few seconds she stood this way on the threshold, in her magnificent costume with her shoulders shimmering in the warm glow like watered silk. Having descended the stairs quickly, she was a little out of breath. Her eyes, filled with shadows by the darkness of the park, blinked at the sudden flood of light, giving her a hesitant, nearsighted look that only added to her grace.

On seeing her, the little marquise got up eagerly, ran over to her, and took both her hands. While examining her from head to toe, she murmured in a piping voice, “Ah! Chère belle, chère belle!”

A considerable bustle ensued as all the guests came over to greet beautiful Madame Saccard, to use the name by which Renée was known in society. She touched the hand of nearly every man in the room. Then she kissed Christine and asked for news of their father, who never visited the town house at Parc Monceau. She remained on her feet, smiling, still nodding at her guests, her shoulders slumping slightly as she stood before the circle of women, who were carefully scrutinizing the rivière and the aigrette.

Blonde Mme Haffner could not resist temptation. She moved toward Renée, stared at the jewelry for quite some time, and then said in a jealous voice, “You’re wearing the rivière and aigrette, aren’t you?”

Renée nodded. After that, compliments came gushing forth from all the women: the jewels were ravishing, divine. With admiration tinged with envy, they discussed the Aurigny sale, where Saccard had bought these pieces for his wife. They complained that tarts like Laure d’Aurigny took all the most beautiful things, that soon there would be no diamonds left for respectable women. Their complaints betrayed a desire to feel against their naked skin jewels like these, which all Paris had seen on the shoulders of an illustrious debauchee—jewels that might whisper in their ears of the bedroom scandals to which these grandes dames were so eagerly attuned. They knew the high prices that had been paid. They mentioned a superb cashmere and some splendid lace. The aigrette had sold for 15,000 francs, the rivière for 50,000. These figures roused Mme d’Espanet to enthusiasm. She called out to Saccard. “Come over here so that we can congratulate you. Now, there’s a good husband!”

Aristide Saccard came over, bowed, and feigned modesty, but the expression on his face betrayed keen satisfaction. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the two contractors, the two masons who had struck it rich and who were standing just a few feet away, and saw that on hearing the figures 15,000 and 50,000 they reacted with obvious signs of respect.

At that moment, Maxime, who had just come in and who looked adorably stiff in his black frock coat, leaned familiarly on his father’s shoulder and spoke to him in a low voice, as to a friend, gesturing toward the bricklayers with a flick of his eyes. Saccard smiled discreetly, like an actor taking his bows.

Still more guests arrived. At least thirty people were now gathered in the salon. Conversation resumed. During the moments of silence, faint sounds of china and silver could be heard on the other side of the wall. At last Baptiste opened the double doors and majestically uttered the sacramental phrase, “Dinner is served, madame.”

Slowly the parade began. Saccard offered his arm to the little marquise. Renée took the arm of an elderly gentleman, a senator, Baron Gouraud, before whom everyone bowed and scraped. Maxime, for his part, was obliged to offer his arm to Louise de Mareuil, after which the remainder of the guests followed in procession, with the two contractors bringing up the rear, arms dangling.

The vast dining room was square in design, and the stained and varnished pear-wood wainscoting was as tall as a man and decorated with thin fillets of gold. The four large panels must have been intended to hold still lifes, but they remained empty, no doubt because the owner of the house had recoiled at the thought of spending so much for mere works of art. Swaths of bright green velvet filled the space instead. Upholstery, drapes, and door curtains of the same fabric gave the room a grave and sober character calculated to focus all the radiance of the lighting on the table.

At that moment, in fact, the table—set in the middle of a broad, dark-colored Persian rug that muffled the sound of footsteps, bathed in the garish light of the chandelier, and surrounded by chairs whose black backs bordered by ribbons of gold made a frame of somber outline—was like an altar, a candle-lit chapel in which pieces of crystal and silver glowed like bright flames against the white splendor of the table linen. Beyond the sculpted backs of the chairs, in the flickering shadows, one could barely make out the wainscoting, the large, low buffet, and the pads of velvet lying about here and there. Of necessity everyone’s eyes turned back to the table to feast on the dazzling scene. An admirable centerpiece of matte silver occupied the middle of the table, its chase work gleaming. This depicted a band of fauns making off with a number of nymphs. Above the centerpiece, spilling out of a large cornucopia, an enormous bouquet of wildflowers hung down in bunches. At either end of the table vases held additional sprays of flowers; and two candelabra, each matched to the centerpiece and figuring a satyr on the run carrying a swooning woman in one arm while supporting ten candles with the other, added their luster to the radiance of the central chandelier. Between these prominent items, warming ovens both large and small were arrayed symmetrically, keeping the first course warm, and these were flanked by shells containing hors d’oeuvres and interspersed with china bowls, crystal vases, flatware, and heaping fruit bowls holding the portion of the dessert that had already been brought to the table. Reinforcing the cordon of dishes stood an army of glasses, carafes of water and wine, and little salt cellars. All the crystal on the table was as thin and light as muslin, devoid of engraving, and so transparent that it cast no shadow. The centerpiece and other large items looked like fountains of fire. Lightning flashed from the burnished flanks of the warming ovens. The forks, spoons, and knives with their handles of pearl could have been mistaken for flaming ingots. Rainbows illuminated the glassware. And amid this shower of sparks, this incandescent mass, the decanters of wine added a ruby tinge to table linen as radiant as white-hot metal.

On entering the dining room, the male guests, smiling at the ladies on their arms, wore expressions of discreet beatitude. Flowers freshened the tepid air. Delicate aromas hovered in the room, mingled with the fragrance of roses. The sharp smell of crayfish and sour scent of lemon dominated all the rest.

After the guests located their names on the backs of the menus, one heard the sound of chairs being moved, accompanied by much rustling of silk dresses. Bare shoulders studded with diamonds and flanked by dark frock coats that accentuated their whiteness added their milky hue to the table’s radiance. As the first dishes were served, neighbors exchanged smiles in near silence broken only by the soft clink of spoons. Baptiste discharged his duties as butler with a grave diplomatic air. Under his command, in addition to the two footmen, were four assistants whom he recruited solely for important dinners. As he removed each dish for carving at a sideboard at one end of the room, three servants padded softly around the table, plates in hand, quietly naming each dish as they went. Others poured wine and kept an eye on the bread and carafes. Savories and appetizers slowly made their rounds, but the pearly laughter of the ladies had yet to take on a sharper edge.

The guests were too numerous to allow for easy general conversation. By the time the second course was served, however, and roasts and sweets had taken the place of savories and appetizers and great Burgundy wines—a Pommard and a Chambertin—had supplanted the Léoville and Château-Lafitte, ¹² the sound of voices had grown louder, and bursts of laughter made the fine crystal ring. Renée, seated at the middle of the table, had Baron Gouraud on her right and, on her left, M. Toutin-Laroche, formerly a candle manufacturer but now a city councilor, director of the Crédit Viticole, and member of the board of overseers of the Société Générale des Ports du Maroc, a slender yet substantial individual, whom Saccard, seated opposite between Mme d’Espanet and Mme Haffner, referred to in a flattering voice now as “my dear colleague” and now as “our illustrious administrator.” Then came the politicians: M. Hupel de la Noue, a prefect who spent eight months a year in Paris; three deputies, among whom M. Haffner displayed his broad Alsatian face; M. de Saffré, a charming young man who served as secretary to a minister; M. Michelin, the head of the bureau of roads; and other high-level bureaucrats. M. de Mareuil, a perpetual candidate for a seat as deputy, settled in opposite the prefect, at whom he made eyes. As for M. d’Espanet, he never joined his wife for social occasions. The ladies of the family were seated among the most prominent of these personages. Saccard had nevertheless reserved a special role for his sister Sidonie, whom he had placed farther down the table, between the two contractors, with the estimable Charrier on her right and the honorable Mignon on her left—a position of trust in which victory was essential. Mme Michelin, the wife of the bureau chief, a pretty brunette, amply endowed, was seated next to M. de Saffré, with whom she chatted eagerly in a low voice. Finally, at either end of the table sat the young people: auditors from the Conseil d’Etat,¹³ sons of powerful fathers, budding young millionaires, M. de Mussy, who darted desperate looks in Renée’s direction, and Maxime, with Louise de Mareuil on his right seemingly holding him in her thrall. The gales of laughter coming from their direction slowly gained in volume. Gaiety gradually spread from their corner to the rest of the table.

“Will we have the pleasure of seeing His Excellency this evening?” M. Hupel de la Noue politely inquired in the meantime.

“I think not,” Saccard answered with an air of importance that hid a secret annoyance. “My brother is so busy! . . . He sent his secretary, M. de Saffré, to offer his regrets.”

The young secretary, whom Mme Michelin was unmistakably monopolizing, looked up at the sound of his name and, thinking that he was being addressed, blurted out the first thing that popped into his head: “Yes, yes, there is to be a meeting of ministers at nine o’clock in the offices of the minister of justice.”

Meanwhile, M. Toutin-Laroche, who had been interrupted, plodded gravely on as if holding forth to a silently attentive city council. “The results have been superb. This municipal bond issue will go down in history as one of the finest financial operations of the era. Gentlemen—”

At that moment, however, his voice was once again drowned out by the laughter that suddenly erupted at the far end of the table. In the midst of this burst of gaiety one could make out the voice of Maxime, who was coming to the end of an anecdote: “Wait, now, I haven’t finished. The poor amazon was picked up by a ditch digger. They say she’s arranged for him to receive an excellent education, so that she can marry him later on. No one but her husband should be able to boast of having seen a certain mole on her body somewhere above her knee.” The laughter resumed, louder than before. Louise joined in heartily, laughing even louder than the men. Softly, as if deaf to the laughter all around, the footmen at that moment stuck their grave pale faces between the shoulders of the guests and in low voices offered each of the diners a helping of aiguillettes de canard sauvage.¹⁴

Saccard was angry that no one was paying attention to Toutin-Laroche. To show that he had been listening, he said, “The municipal bond issue—”

But M. Toutin-Laroche was not a man to lose the thread of an idea. “Gentlemen,” he continued when the laughter subsided, “yesterday was a great consolation to those of us whose administration has been the butt of so many scurrilous attacks. They say that the city council has led Paris to ruin, but as you see, the moment the city floats a bond issue, everybody comes to us with money, even those who rail against us.”

“You’ve worked miracles,” Saccard said. “Paris has become the capital of the world.”

“Yes, it’s truly astounding,” Hupel de la Noue interrupted. “Just imagine, I’m a Parisian from way back, and I no longer know my way around my own city. Yesterday I got lost going from the Hôtel de Ville to Luxembourg.¹⁵ It’s astounding, astounding!”

Silence followed. All the serious men were listening now.

“The transformation of Paris,” Toutin-Laroche continued, “will be the glory of the Emperor’s reign. People are ungrateful: they ought to kiss his feet. I said as much to the council just this morning, when we were discussing the huge success of the bond issue. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘let those loudmouths in the opposition say what they will: to turn Paris over, as it were, is to make the city fertile.’ ”

Saccard shut his eyes and smiled, as if to savor the finesse of the phrase all the more. He leaned over behind Mme d’Espanet and made a comment to Hupel de la Noue in a voice loud enough to be heard: “What a delightful wit.”

Now that the talk had turned to construction projects in Paris, the worthy Charrier was craning his neck as if to take part in the conversation. His partner Mignon was fully taken up with Mme Sidonie, who was keeping him quite busy. Since the beginning of the dinner Saccard had been watching the contractors out of the corner of his eye.

“The government,” he said, “is fortunate to have found such dedicated partners. Everyone was eager to contribute to such a grand design. Without the aid of well-endowed companies, the city would never have been able to accomplish so much in so short a time.”

Then he turned and in a flatteringly direct way added, “Messieurs Mignon and Charrier know a thing or two about it, for they had their share in the toil and will have their share of the glory.”

The former bricklayers, now both men of means, naïvely swelled with pride at this blunt comment. Mignon had been listening to Sidonie’s simpering: “Oh, sir, you flatter me. No, pink would be too young for me—” But now he left her hanging in midsentence to respond to Saccard.

“You’re too kind. We were just going about our business, that’s all.”

Charrier was more polished. While finishing his glass of Pommard, he managed to come up with a phrase: “The renewal of Paris has been the lifeblood of the working man.”

“To which,” Toutin-Laroche replied, “one must add that it’s given a magnificent boost to banking and industry as well.”

“And don’t forget the artistic side: the new avenues are majestic,” added Hupel de la Noue, who prided himself on having taste.

“Yes, yes, it’s been a fine undertaking,” murmured M. de Mareuil, so as to say something.

“As for the expense,” gravely declared the deputy Haffner, who never opened his mouth except on great occasions, “our children will pay for it, as is only right.”

As he said this, he happened to be looking at M. de Saffré, from whom the pretty Mme Michelin seemed to have turned away a moment earlier, so that the young secretary, in order to appear to have been following what people were saying, repeated, “As is only right, indeed.”

All of the serious men in the group at the center of the table had now had their say. M. Michelin, the head of the road department, smiled and nodded. This was his usual way of taking part in a conversation. He had smiles to greet, to respond, to approve, to thank, and to bid farewell, a whole collection of lovely smiles that virtually dispensed him from ever having to utter a word, for he no doubt judged it both more polite and more beneficial to his career to hold his tongue.

Another personage had also remained silent: Baron Gouraud, who chewed his cud slowly, like a heavy-lidded ox. Until that moment he had seemed wholly absorbed in the spectacle of his plate. Renée, who had made a great fuss over him, had obtained nothing more than faint grunts of satisfaction for her pains. So it came as a surprise when he raised his head, wiped his fat lips, and said, “As a landlord, when I renovate and decorate an apartment, I raise the rent.”

It was Haffner’s remark—“Our children will pay”—that had roused the senator. As everyone clapped discreetly, M. de Saffré exclaimed, “Oh, charming, charming! I’ll send that one to the newspapers tomorrow.”

“You’re right, gentlemen,” Mignon interjected, as if to round out the conversation while everyone was still smiling and murmuring appreciatively over the baron’s remark. “These are good times. I know more than one fellow who’s added a tidy sum to his nest egg. When you’re making money, you know, everything looks good.”

These last words cast an icy chill over the grave men at the center of the table. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, and neighbor avoided looking at neighbor. It was as though the former bricklayer, in trying to pay these very serious gentlemen a compliment, had dropped a ton of bricks on them. Michelin, who had as a matter of fact been contemplating Saccard in a most pleasant manner, stopped smiling, terrified at the thought that he might have seemed for a moment to take the contractor’s words as applying to their host. Saccard himself glanced at Mme Sidonie, who again turned her full attention to Mignon: “So you like pink, do you?” He then complimented Mme d’Espanet at length. The young woman’s dark, sly face almost touched her milky white shoulders, which she threw back slightly as she laughed.

When the time for dessert arrived, the footmen picked up their pace. There was a pause while the table was heaped with fruits and sweets. At Maxime’s end, the laughter grew brighter. Louise’s rather shrill voice could be heard: “I assure you that Sylvia was wearing a blue satin dress when she played Dindonette.” To which another high-pitched voice added, “Yes, but the dress was trimmed with white lace.” Warmth suffused the room. The faces of the guests, now somewhat flushed, seemed softened by some inner bliss. Two footmen went around the table pouring Alicante and Tokay.¹⁶

From the moment dinner began Renée had seemed distracted. She had done her duty as mistress of the house with a mechanical smile. With each gale of merriment from the end of the table where Maxime and Louise were sitting side by side and bantering like old friends, she glared in their direction. She was bored. The serious men were deadly. Mme d’Espanet and Mme Haffner shot desperate glances in her direction.

“How do things look for the upcoming elections?” Saccard abruptly asked Hupel de la Noue.

“Very good,” came the answer from the prefect, who coupled it with a smile. “Only I still have no candidates designated for my département. The ministry apparently hasn’t made up its mind.”

M. de Mareuil, who had glanced at Saccard to thank him for broaching this subject, looked as though he was walking on hot coals. He blushed slightly and waved his hands with some embarrassment. The prefect, turning now to address him, continued: “Many people in the district have spoken to me about you, sir. Your large estates in the region have won you many friends, and your devotion to the Emperor is well-known. Your prospects are excellent.”

At that moment Maxime shouted to his father from his end of the table. “Papa, isn’t it true that little Sylvia used to sell cigarettes in Marseilles in 1849?”

But Saccard pretended not to hear him, so the young man continued in a lower tone of voice: “My father was a particular friend of hers.”

Muffled laughs were heard. Meanwhile, as M. de Mareuil continued to wave his hands, M. Haffner began to speak in a sententious tone. “Devotion to the Emperor is the only virtue, the only form of patriotism, in this age of self-interested democracy. Whoever loves the Emperor loves France. We would welcome you as a colleague, sir, with sincere pleasure.”

“You will win, sir,” Toutin-Laroche put in. “Men of substantial wealth have to rally round the throne.”

Renée could stand no more. Across from her, the marquise stifled a yawn. As Saccard was about to hold forth once again, she interrupted. “Please, dear, show us a little pity,” she said with a pretty smile. “Enough of your wretched politics.”