Complete Works of Emile Zola (1126 page)

However, the door opened, and Huret with his air of feigned simplicity came in.

‘Ah! so here you are, Judas!’ said Saccard.

Having learnt that Rougon had decided to abandon his brother, Huret had become reconciled to the minister; for he was convinced that as soon as Saccard should have Rougon against him, a catastrophe would be inevitable. To earn his pardon, he had now re-entered the great man’s service, again doing his errands and exposing himself to kicks and insults in order to please him. ‘Judas!’ he repeated, with the shrewd smile that sometimes lighted up his heavy peasant face; ‘at any rate, a good-natured Judas, who comes to give some disinterested advice to the master whom he has betrayed.’

But Saccard, as if unwilling to hear him, shouted by way of affirming his triumph: ‘Two thousand five hundred and twenty yesterday, two thousand five hundred and twenty-five to-day! Those are the last quotations, eh?’

‘I know; I have just sold.’

At this blow the wrath which Saccard had been concealing under a jesting air burst forth. ‘What! you have sold? So it’s perfect then! You drop me for Rougon, and you go over to Gundermann!’

The Deputy looked at him in amazement. ‘To Gundermann, why so? I simply look after my interests. I’m not a dare-devil, you know. I prefer to realise as soon as there is a decent profit. And that is perhaps the reason why I have never lost.’

He smiled again like a prudent, cautious Norman farmer, garnering his crop in a cool collected way.

‘To think of it! A director of the Bank!’ continued Saccard violently. ‘Whom can we expect to have confidence? What must folks think on seeing you sell in that fashion when the shares are still rising? I am no longer surprised that people should assert that our prosperity is artificial, and that the day of the downfall is at hand. These gentlemen, the directors, sell, so let us all sell. That spells panic!’

Huret made a vague gesture. In point of fact, he did not care a button what might happen henceforth; he had made sure of his own pile, and all that remained for him to do now was to fulfil the mission entrusted to him by Rougon with as little unpleasantness for himself as possible. ‘I told you, my dear fellow,’ said he, ‘that I had come to give you a piece of disinterested advice. Here it is. Be careful; your brother is furious, and he will leave you altogether in the lurch if you allow yourself to be beaten.’

Restraining his anger, Saccard asked impassively: ‘Did he send you to tell me that?’

After hesitating for a moment, the Deputy thought it best to confess that it was so. ‘Well, yes, he did. Oh! you cannot suppose that the attacks made upon him in “L’Espérance” have anything to do with his irritation. He is above such personal considerations. Still, it is none the less true that the Catholic campaign in your paper is, as you yourself must realise, of a nature to embarrass him in his present policy. Since the beginning of all these unfortunate complications with regard to Rome he has had the entire clergy on his back. He has just been obliged to have another bishop censured by the Council of State for issuing an aggressive pastoral letter. And you choose for your attacks the very moment when he has so much difficulty to prevent himself from being swamped by the Liberal evolution brought about by the reforms of January 19 — reforms which, as folks say, he has only decided to carry out in order that he may prudently circumscribe them. Come, you are his brother, and can you imagine that your conduct pleases him?’

‘Of course,’ answered Saccard sneeringly, ‘it is very wrong on my part. Here is this poor brother of mine, who, in his rage to remain a Minister, governs in the name of the principles which he fought against yesterday, and lays all the blame upon me because he can no longer keep his balance between the Right, which is angry at having been betrayed, and the Third Estate, which longs for power. To quiet the Catholics, he only the other day launched his famous “Never!” swearing that never would France allow Italy to take Rome from the Pope. And now, in his terror of the Liberals, he would like very much to give them a guarantee also, and thinks of ruining me to satisfy them. A week ago Emile Ollivier gave him a fine shaking in the Chamber.’

‘Oh,’ interrupted Huret, ‘he still has the confidence of the Tuileries; the Emperor has sent him the star of the Legion of Honour in diamonds.’

But, with an energetic gesture, Saccard retorted that he was not to be duped. ‘The Universal is growing too powerful, that is the worry, is it not? A Catholic bank, which threatens to conquer the world by money as it was formerly conquered by faith, can that be tolerated? All the Freethinkers, all the Freemasons, ambitious to become Ministers, shiver at the thought. Perhaps, too, there is some loan which they want to work with Gundermann. What would become of a Government that did not allow itself to be preyed upon by those dirty Jews? And so my fool of a brother, in order to retain power six months longer, is going to throw me as food to the dirty Jews, to the Liberals, to the entire riff-raff, in the hope that he will be left in peace while they are devouring me. Well, go back and tell him that I don’t care a fig for him.’

He straightened up his short figure, his passion prevailing over his irony, in a trumpet-flourish of battle. ‘Do you understand? I don’t care a fig for him! That is my answer; I wish him to know it.’

Huret slightly stooped. As soon as folks lost their tempers in matters of business he had nothing more to say. And after all, in this particular affair, he was only a messenger. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, ‘he shall be told. You will get your back broken, but that is your own lookout!’

An interval of silence followed. Jantrou, who had remained perfectly silent, pretending to be entirely absorbed in correcting some proofs, raised his eyes to admire Saccard. How fine the bandit was in his passion! These rascals of genius triumph at times when they reach this state of recklessness, and are carried along by the intoxication of success. And at this moment Jantrou was on Saccard’s side, firmly believing in his star.

‘Ah, I was forgetting,’ resumed Huret; ‘it seems that Delcambre, the Public Prosecutor, hates you. Well, you probably do not yet know it, but the Emperor this morning appointed him Minister of Justice.’

Saccard, who had been pacing up and down the room, stopped short. With darkened face he at last exclaimed:

‘Another nice piece of goods! So they have made a Minister of that thing! But why should I care about it?’

‘Well,’ rejoined Huret, exaggerating his expression of feigned simplicity, ‘if any misfortune should happen to you, as may happen to anybody in business, your brother does not wish you to rely upon him to defend you against Delcambre.’

‘But, d — it all!’ shrieked Saccard, ‘I tell you that I don’t care a button for the whole gang, either for Rougon, or for Delcambre, or for you either!’

At that moment, fortunately, Daigremont entered the room. He had never before called at the newspaper office, so that his appearance was a surprise to them all and averted further violence. Studiously polite, he shook hands all round, smiling upon one and the other with the wheedling affability of a man of the world. His wife was going to give a soirée at which she intended to sing, and, in order to secure a good article, he had come to invite Jantrou in person. However, Saccard’s presence seemed to delight him.

‘How goes it, my great man?’ he asked.

Instead of answering, Saccard inquired: ‘You haven’t sold, have you?’

‘Sold! Oh no, not yet.’ And there was a ring of sincerity in his laughter. He was made of firmer stuff than that.

‘One ought never to sell in our position!’ cried Saccard.

‘Never. That is what I meant to say. We all of us have the same interests, and you know very well that you can rely on me.’

His eyelids had drooped, and he gave a side glance while referring to the other directors, Sédille, Kolb and the Marquis de Bohain, answering for them as for himself. Their enterprise was prospering so well, he said, that it was a real pleasure to be all of one mind in furthering the most extraordinary success which the Bourse had witnessed for the last half century. Then he found some flattering remark for each of them, Saccard, Huret, and Jantrou, and went off repeating that he should expect to see them all three at his soirée; Mounier, the tenor at the Opera, would, he said, give his wife her cue. Oh, the performance would be a very effective one!

‘So that’s all the answer you have to give me?’ asked Huret, in his turn preparing to leave.

‘Quite so,’ replied Saccard in a curt, dry voice. And to emphasise his decision he made a point of not going down with Huret as he usually did.

Then, finding himself alone again with the editor, he exclaimed: ‘This means war, my brave fellow! There is no occasion to spare anybody any further; belabour the whole gang! Ah, at last, then, I shall be able to fight the battle according to my own ideas!’

‘All the same, it is rather stiff!’ concluded Jantrou, whose perplexities were beginning again.

Meantime, on the bench in the passage, Marcelle was still waiting. It was hardly four o’clock, and Dejoie had already lighted the lamps, so early had it grown dark amid the grey, obstinate downpour. Every time that the good fellow passed her he found some little remark with which to entertain her. Moreover, the comings and goings of contributors were becoming more frequent; loud voices rang out in an adjoining room; there was all the growing fever which attends the making up of a newspaper.

After a time, suddenly raising her eyes, Marcelle saw Jordan in front of her. He was drenched, and looked overwhelmed, with that trembling of the lips, that slightly crazy expression which one notices in those who have long been pursuing some hope without attaining it. Marcelle realised that he had been unsuccessful.

‘You could get nothing, eh?’ she asked, turning pale.

‘Nothing, my darling, nothing at all — nowhere, it wasn’t possible.’

She uttered only a low lament, but it was instinct with all her agony of heart: ‘Oh, my God!’

Just then Saccard came out of Jantrou’s office and was astonished to find her still there. ‘What, madame, has your truant husband only just come back? Ah! I told you that it would be better for you to wait in my office.’

She looked at him fixedly, and a sudden inspiration dawned in her large desolate eyes. She did not pause to reflect, but yielded to that reckless bravery which throws women forward in moments of passion. ‘Monsieur Saccard,’ said she, ‘I have something to ask you. If you are willing, we will now go to your room.’

‘Why, certainly, madame.’

Jordan, who feared that he could divine her purpose, tried to hold her back, stammering ‘No, no,’ in the sickly anguish which always came upon him when pecuniary matters were in question. However, she released herself, and he had to follow her.

‘Monsieur Saccard,’ she resumed as soon as the door was closed, ‘for the last two hours my husband has been vainly running about, trying to find five hundred francs, and he doesn’t dare to apply to you. So it is I who have come to ask you for them—’

And then, in a spirited way, with the amusing air of a gay, resolute little woman, she described the scene which had taken place in the morning — the brutal entrance of Busch, the invasion of her home by the three horrid men, the manner in which she had managed to repel the assault, and the promise which she had made to pay the money that very day. Ah! those pecuniary sores so common among the humble, those great sorrows caused by shame and powerlessness — the very existence of human beings continually put in question through the lack of a few paltry pieces of silver!

‘Busch!’ repeated Saccard. ‘So it’s that old swindler Busch, is it, who holds you in his clutches?’

Then, with affable good-nature, turning to Jordan, who remained silent and pale, feeling supremely uncomfortable, he said: ‘Well, I will advance you the five hundred francs. You ought to have asked me for them in the first place.’

He had seated himself at his table to sign a cheque, when he stopped to reflect. He remembered the letter which he had received from Busch, the visit which he had to make to him, and which he had been postponing from day to day in his annoyance over the nasty affair that he scented. Why should he not at once go to the Rue Feydeau, taking advantage of the opportunity now that he had a pretext for going there?

‘Listen,’ said he, ‘I know this rascal through and through. It is better that I should go to pay him in person, to see if I can’t get your notes back at half price.’

Marcelle’s eyes now sparkled with gratitude. ‘Oh, Monsieur Saccard, how kind you are!’ she exclaimed. And, addressing her husband, she added: ‘You see, you big silly, that Monsieur Saccard has not eaten us!’

Yielding to an irresistible impulse, he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her, as though to thank her for being more energetic and skilful than himself in these material difficulties which paralysed his energy.

‘No, no!’ said Saccard, when the young man finally pressed his hand, ‘the pleasure is mine; it is very pleasant to see you love one another so much. Go home, and be easy.’

In a couple of minutes his brougham, which was waiting for him, conveyed him to the Rue Feydeau, through muddy Paris, amid the jostling of umbrellas and splashing of puddles. But once upstairs he rang in vain at the dirty old door, on which was a plate bearing the inscription ‘Disputed Claims’ in big letters. It did not open, there was no sound within, and he was on the point of going away, when, in his keen vexation, he shook it violently with his fist. Then a halting step was heard, and at last Sigismond appeared.

‘What! it is you! I thought that it was my brother, who had come up again and forgotten his key. I never answer the door myself. Oh, he won’t be long, and you can wait for him if you wish to see him.’

With the same painful, unsteady step he returned, followed by Saccard, into the room which he occupied overlooking the Place de la Bourse. It was still quite light at that height above the mist, whence the rain was pouring into the streets. The room was frigidly bare with its little iron bedstead, its table and two chairs, and its few shelves of books. A small stove stood in front of the chimney-piece, and the fire, carelessly looked after, forgotten, had just gone out.