Complete Works of Emile Zola (417 page)

Three or four false alarms had already caused a great deal of jostling in the crowd.

‘I tell you that they won’t pass before half-past five,’ said a tall fellow who was sitting in front of a café on the Quai de Gèvres with M. and Madame Charbonnel.

It was Gilquin, Théodore Gilquin, Madame Mélanie Correur’s old lodger, and Rougon’s redoubtable friend. He was dressed that day in a complete suit of yellow duck, a cheap ready-made line, stained and creased, and here and there unsewn at the seams. His boots, too, were split, and his straw hat lacked a ribbon. However, he wore tan coloured gloves, and for that reason considered that he was in full dress. He had been acting since noon as a guide to the Charbonnels, whose acquaintance he had made one evening in the kitchen at Rougon’s house.

‘You shall see everything, my children,’ he said to them, as he brushed aside the long black moustaches which swept across his tipsy-looking face. ‘You have put yourselves in my hands, haven’t you? Very well, then let me manage our little holiday.’

Gilquin had already drunk three nips of brandy and five glasses of beer. For the last two hours he had been keeping the Charbonnels prisoners at the café, whither he had brought them, on the pretext that it was absolutely necessary to be in good time. It was a little café with which he was well acquainted, and where they would be very comfortable, he assured them, and he seemed to be on most familiar terms with the waiter. The Charbonnels had resigned themselves to their fate, and listened to his talk, feeling much surprised at its abundance and variety. Madame Charbonnel had declined to take anything beyond a glass of
eau sucrée,
and M. Charbonnel had ordered for himself a glass of anisette, such as he occasionally indulged in at the Commercial Club at Plassans. Meanwhile Gilquin discoursed to them about the Baptism as explicitly as though he had spent the morning at the Tuileries for the purpose of acquiring information.

‘The Empress is in very high spirits,’ he said. ‘She got over her delivery splendidly. She’s a fine woman! You will see by-and-bye what a figure she has. The Emperor got back from Nantes on the day before yesterday. He went there on account of the floods. What a dreadful calamity those floods are!’

Madame Charbonnel pushed her chair back. She was beginning to feel rather afraid of the crowd which was stream­ing past her in increasing numbers. ‘What a lot of people!’ she muttered.

‘Yes, indeed,’ cried Gilquin, ‘I should think so. There are more than three hundred thousand visitors in Paris. Ex­cursion trains have been bringing them here for the last week from all parts of the country. See, over yonder there are some people from Normandy, and there are some from Gascony, and some from Franche-Comté. I can spot them at once; I’ve knocked about a good deal in my time.’

He next told them that the courts and the Bourse were closed, and that all the clerks in the government offices had got a holiday. The whole capital was holding festival in honour of the Baptism. Then he began to quote figures, and calculate what the ceremony and rejoicings would cost. The Corps Législatif had voted 400,000 francs, but that was a mere nothing, for a groom at the Tuileries had informed him that the procession alone would cost nearly 200,000. If the Emperor got off with a million from the civil list, he might think himself lucky. The layette alone had cost 100,000 francs.

‘What, 100,000 francs!’ cried Madame Charbonnel in amazement. ‘Why, how can they have possibly spent all that? What can it have gone in?’

Gilquin laughed as he told her that some laces cost an enormous sum. He himself had travelled in the lace business in former days. Then he went on with his calculations: 50,000 francs had gone to the parents of children who had been born on the same day as the little prince, and of whom the Emperor and Empress had expressed their intention to be godfather and godmother respectively. Then 85,000 francs were to be spent in purchasing medals for the authors of the cantatas which were sung at the theatres. Finally, there were 120,000 commemorative medals distributed among the colle­gians, the pupils of the primary schools and asylums and the non-commissioned officers and privates of the army of Paris. He had got one of those medals himself, and showed it to them. It was about the size of a half-franc piece, and bore on one side the profiles of the Emperor and Empress, and on the other that of the Prince Impérial, with the date of the latter’s baptism, namely, June 14, 1856.

‘Would you mind selling it me?’ M. Charbonnel inquired of Gilquin.

The other expressed his willingness to do so, but as Charbonnel, embarrassed as to what he should offer for it, handed him a twenty-sous-piece, he declined it, saying that the medal was not worth more than ten sous. Madame Charbonnel, meanwhile, was gazing at the profiles of the imperial couple, and seemed quite affected by emotion: ‘How good they look!’ she said. ‘There they are, side by side, like an affectionate pair. See, Monsieur Charbonnel, you would say two heads lying on the same pillow when you look at them this way.’

Then Gilquin returned to the subject of the Empress, of whose charitable disposition he spoke in the most laudatory terms. But a short time before her delivery she had devoted whole afternoons to furthering the establishment of an educa­tional institute for poor girls in the Faubourg Saint Antoine. Moreover, she had just refused to accept an offering of 80,000 francs which had been collected in sums of five sous amongst the poorer classes for the purpose of buying a present for the young prince; and by her express desire the money was to be devoted to the apprenticing of a hundred poor orphans. Gilquin, who was already somewhat tipsy, twisted his eyes about in the most dreadful manner as he sought for tender phrases and expressions which should combine the respect of the subject with the passionate admiration of the man. He declared that he would gladly offer up his life in sacrifice at the feet of that noble woman. And nobody protested against this. The murmur of the crowd seemed indeed like a distant echo of his praises. It was now growing into a continuous clamour, while over the house-tops from the bells of Notre Dame rolled peal on peal of clanging, tumultuous joy.

‘Don’t you think it time for us to go and take our places?’ timidly suggested M. Charbonnel, who felt tired of sitting still.

At this Madame Charbonnel rose up and fastened her yellow shawl about her neck. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is,’ she said. ‘You wanted to be there in good time, and we’re sitting here and letting everyone go past us.’

Gilquin, however, became indignant; and, with an oath, brought his fist down on the little zinc table. Didn’t he know all about Paris? he asked; and then, as Madame Charbonnel timidly dropped upon her chair again, he cried to the waiter: ‘Jules, a glass of absinthe and some cigars!’

But as soon as he had dipped his big moustaches in the absinthe, he angrily called the waiter back again. ‘Are you having a game with me? Just take this filth away, and give me some out of the other bottle; the same as I had on Friday. I have travelled in the liquor-trade, my fine fellow. You can’t bamboozle me.’

He calmed down, however, when the waiter, who seemed afraid of him, had brought the other bottle, and then he tapped the Charbonnels on the shoulders, and called them ‘old fellow’ and ‘old lady.’ ‘Ah! so you’re itching to be on the move, are you, old lady?’ said he. ‘You’ll have plenty of use for your feet between now and to-night, so you needn’t be in a hurry. We’re very comfortable at this café; don’t you think so, old fellow? We can take our ease and watch the people go by. We’ve plenty of time, I assure you, so you’d better order something else.’

‘Thank you, we’ve had all that we want,’ said M. Char­bonnel.

Gilquin had just lighted a cigar. He leaned back in his chair, inserted his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, thrust out his chest, and began to rock himself backwards and forwards. His eyes glowed with an expression of perfect content. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he cried; ‘I’ll call for you at seven o’clock to-morrow morning, and take you off with me and show you all the festivities. We’ll have a splendid day of it.’

The Charbonnels looked at each other very uneasily. But Gilquin proceeded to explain his programme after the manner of a strolling showman. In the morning they would lunch at the Palais Royal, and walk about the city. In the after­noon they would go to the Esplanade of the Invalides, where there would be military performances, greasy poles, three hundred balloons laden with packets of sweets, and one large balloon raining down sugared almonds. In the evening they would dine at a wineshop which he knew of, on the Quai de Billy; then they would see the fireworks, the principal set-piece of which would represent a baptistery, and afterwards they could stroll among the illuminations. And he also told them of a fiery cross which was to be fixed on the Hôtel de la Legion d’Honneur; of a fairy palace on the Place de la Concorde, in the building of which 950,000 pieces of coloured glass had been used; and of the image atop of the tower of Saint Jacques, which would look like a blazing torch in mid­air.

As the Charbonnels still hesitated, however, he leaned towards them and added in lower tones: ‘And then, as we come back, we might look in at a creamery in the Hue de Seine where they give you such stunning onion soup with cheese.’

At this the Charbonnels no longer dared to refuse. Child­ish curiosity and alarm mingled in the expression of their dilated eyes. They felt that they could not escape from that terrible man, and must do whatever he told them. Madame Charbonnel simply murmured: ‘Oh! this Paris! this Paris! Well, well, since we are here, I suppose we must see all that there is to be seen. But if you only knew, Monsieur Gilquin, how quiet we were at Plassans! I have a store-room full of preserves and brandied cherries and pickles which are all mouldering away!’

‘Don’t alarm yourself, old lady,’ replied Gilquin, who was growing more and more familiar; ‘when you gain your case, you can ask me to come and stay with you, and then we’ll all have a go at the jam-pots!’

So saying, he poured himself out another glass of absinthe. He was now perfectly tipsy. For a moment he looked at the Charbonnels with loving affection; but, all at once, he sprang to his feet and waved his long arms while calling
:
‘Eh! eh! Hallo! you there!’

Madame Mélanie Correur, arrayed in a dress of dove-coloured silk, was just then passing on the opposite footwalk. She turned her head and seemed extremely annoyed at seeing Gilquin. However, she crossed over with the majestic gait of a princess, but on reaching the table required a deal of press­ing before she would accept any refreshment.

‘Come now,’ cried Gilquin, ‘have a little glass of black­currant brandy. I know you like it. You haven’t forgotten the Rue Vanneau, eh? We used to have fine times then, didn’t we? Ah! that big old stupid of a Correur!’

Just as Madame Correur was at last sitting down, a loud shouting was heard among the crowd. The promenaders scuttled off like sheep, as though swept along by a gust of wind. The Charbonnels had instinctively risen with the idea of following the others, but Gilquin’s heavy hand brought them to their chairs again. His face was quite purple.’

‘Just keep still and wait for orders, will you?’ said he. ‘Those folks are making fools of themselves. It is only five o’clock, isn’t it? Well, then, it’s the Cardinal-Legate who’s coming; and we don’t want to see the Cardinal-Legate, do we? For my part, I think it’s very neglectful of the Pope not to have come himself. When a man is a godfather he ought to behave as such, it seems to me. However, I tell you that the youngster won’t be here for another half-hour.’

His intoxication was rapidly depriving him of all sense of decorum. He had cocked his chair back and begun to smoke in people’s faces, winking the while at the women and glaring defiantly at the men. A few yards away, near the bridge of Notre Dame, there was now a block in the road traffic. Horses were pawing the ground with impatience, and the uniforms of high functionaries and officers, embroidered with gold and glittering with decorations, appeared at the windows of the passing carriages.

‘There’s a nice show of tinsel and pewter!’ sneered Gilquin, with the smile of a man who cares nothing for gew­gaws.

However, as a brougham came along from the Quai de la Mégisserie, he almost upset the table as he sprang up and cried: ‘Hallo, Rougon!’

He saluted the great man with his gloved hand, and then, fearing that he had not been recognised, snatched off his straw hat and began to wave it. At this, Rougon, whose senatorial uniform was attracting a deal of notice, quickly withdrew to a corner of his brougham. And thereupon Gilquin began to call him, raising his hand to his mouth and using it as a speaking-trumpet. The people on the footway stopped and turned to see what was the matter with this strange-looking fellow dressed in yellow duck. At last, however, the coach­man was able to urge his horse forward, and the brougham turned on to the bridge of Notre Dame.

‘Do be quiet!’ said Madame Correur in a low voice, while catching hold of Gilquin’s arms.

But he would not at once sit down again. He remained on tip-toes, watching the brougham as it mingled with the other carriages, and at last he hurled a parting shout after the fleeing wheels: ‘Ah! the turn-tail! just because he wears gold lace on his coat now! All the same, my fat fellow, you were deucedly hard up once upon a time!’

Some middle-class citizens and their wives who were sitting at the seven or eight tables of the little café heard this and opened their eyes in astonishment. At one table there was a family, consisting of the father and mother and three children, who seemed profoundly interested in Gilquin’s proceedings. The latter puffed himself out, quite delighted to find that he had an audience. He let his eyes travel round the customers of the café, and said in a loud voice as he dropped into his seat again: ‘Rougon! why it was I who made him what he is!’

Then turning to Madame Correur, who was trying to quiet him, he appealed to her for corroboration. She knew that he was speaking the truth, he proclaimed. It had all happened at the Hôtel Vanneau in the Rue Vanneau. She surely wouldn’t deny that he had lent Rougon his boots a score of times to enable him to go to the houses of highly-placed people and mix in a lot of mysterious goings-on. Why, in those days Rougon only possessed an old pair of split shoes, which a rag-picker wouldn’t have taken as a gift. Then with a triumphant air Gilquin bent towards the family at the next table, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, she won’t confess it, but it was she who paid for his first pair of new boots in Paris.’