The Conquest of Plassans (Les Rougon-Macquart Book 4) (17 page)

Abbé Faujas made a brusque gesture. In a short burst of impatience he said:

‘Oh, forget about the libellous things being said about me, and that I arrived in Plassans with holes in my surplice! When a desperate man is sent to a dangerous post they will deny him till the day he triumphs… Help me to succeed, Monsignor, and you’ll see I have friends in Paris.’

Then, as the bishop, surprised by this energetic, adventurous figure who had just materialized in front of him, continued looking at him silently, he softened, and went on:

‘These are suppositions, I mean that I have a lot to be forgiven for. My friends are waiting for my situation to become secure before thanking you.’

Monsignor Rousselot was silent for another moment. He had a very fine nature, having learnt about human vice in books. He was aware of his great weakness, was even a bit ashamed of it; but he consoled himself by judging men for what they were worth. In his life as an Epicurean man of letters there was at times a profound mockery of the ambitious figures who surrounded him, squabbling over what was left of his power.

‘Come, come,’ he smiled, ‘you are an obstinate man, my dear Monsieur Faujas. Since I have made you a promise, I shall keep it… Six months ago, I admit, I should have been afraid to make all Plassans rise up against me. But you have won them over, the ladies of Plassans often praise you to the skies. By making you priest-in-charge at Saint-Saturnin, I am paying the debt for the Work of the Virgin.’

The bishop had recovered his cheerful friendliness, his exquisite manners, charming prelate that he was. Abbé Surin at that moment put his boyish head round the door.

‘No, my child,’ said the bishop, ‘I don’t want to dictate that letter… I don’t need you any more, you can go.’

‘Abbé Fenil is here,’ whispered the young priest.

‘Well, let him wait.’

Monsignor Rousselot had shuddered slightly; but he made a decisive gesture that was almost comic, giving Abbé Faujas a look of complicity.

‘Go out this way,’ he told him, opening a door hidden beneath a portière.
*

He halted him on the threshold, still looking at him and laughing.

‘Fenil will be furious… Promise you’ll stand up for me against him if he shouts too much? I’m going to leave him to you, I warn you. I am counting on you not to re-elect the Marquis of Lagrifoul… Oh, my goodness, you are my mainstay now, my dear Monsieur Faujas.’

He extended his pale hand, then went back nonchalantly to his warm office. The priest remained bowed, surprised at the womanly ease with which Monsignor Rousselot changed sides and gave himself up to the stronger. However, he felt the bishop had just been making fun of him, as he must be now making fun of Abbé Fenil, from the comfortable depths of the armchair where he translated Horace.

The following Thursday towards ten, at the time when Plassans society was crowded into the Rougons’ green drawing room, Abbé Faujas appeared in the doorway. Tall and wearing his fine rose-coloured soutane which shone like satin, he cut a superb figure. He remained solemn, a faint smile on his face which amounted to scarcely more than a slight puckering of the lips, the bare minimum necessary to lighten his austere face with a ray of goodwill.

‘Ah, it’s our dear priest!’ Madame de Condamin cried gaily.

But the mistress of the house rushed forward. She took one of the priest’s hands in her own two hands, drawing him into the middle of the salon, cajoling him with her look, her head slightly on one side.

‘What a surprise, what a lovely surprise!’ she repeated. ‘We haven’t seen you for an age. So you must have had a stroke of fortune to be remembering your friends like this?’

He greeted her without ado. Around him there was a flattering ovation, the whispering of delighted women. Madame Delangre and
Madame Rastoil did not wait for him to come over and greet them. They moved forward to compliment him on his nomination which had been official since that morning. The mayor, the judge, even Monsieur de Bourdeu shook his hand vigorously several times.

‘He’s quite a man!’ murmured Monsieur de Condamin, in Doctor Porquier’s ear. ‘He will go far. I sensed that the very first day… But they are lying through their teeth, you know, the old Rougon woman and him with their play-acting. I’ve caught him creeping into this house at least ten times, as soon as it gets dark. They must be up to something, the pair of them!’

But Doctor Porquier was petrified that he would be compromised by Monsieur de Condamin. He hurried to take his leave of him, to go and shake hands with Abbé Faujas, like the others, though he had never spoken to him before.

This triumphal entry was the big event of the evening. Once the priest had sat down, three tiers of skirts surrounded him. He chatted with charming sociability, talked of this and that, carefully avoided responding to any allusive remarks. When Félicité asked him a direct question, he only said he would not live in the assistant bishop’s lodgings, preferring those he had been living in so peacefully for nearly the last three years. Marthe was there amongst the ladies, very reserved, as was her wont. She simply smiled at the priest, and gazed at him from a distance, looking a little pale, tired and worried. But when he had announced his intention of not leaving the Rue Balande, she blushed deeply and got up to go into the small drawing room, as if she found the warmth stifling. Madame Paloque, whom Monsieur de Condamin had gone to sit next to, said to him jeeringly, loud enough to be overheard:

‘Did you see that! She really shouldn’t arrange to meet him here, when they’ve got all day together at home.’

Monsieur de Condamin was the only one to laugh. The others looked disapproving. Madame Paloque, realizing she had not done herself any favours, tried to turn it into a joke. Meanwhile in the corners they were gossiping about Abbé Fenil. The big question was whether he would put in an appearance or not. Monsieur de Bourdeu, one of his friends, told them with authority that he was not well. The news of this illness was received with discreet smiles. Everyone knew about the revolution which had taken place in the bishop’s house. Abbé Surin passed on to the ladies some very interesting details about the dreadful scene that had ensued between Monsignor and
Abbé Fenil. The latter, defeated by Monsignor, put it around that he was kept at home by an attack of gout. But that was by no means all, and Abbé Surin added that ‘we certainly haven’t seen the last of it yet’. That was the whisper that went round, accompanied by little exclamations, nods of the head, pouts of surprise and doubt. For the moment at least it was Abbé Faujas who was in the ascendant, and so the church ladies basked gently in the warmth of this rising sun.

Towards the middle of the evening, Abbé Bourrette came in. Conversation ceased and curious eyes were fixed upon him. Everyone knew that, as recently as the night before, he was counting on the office in Saint-Saturnin. He had stood in for Abbé Compan during his long illness; the post was his. He remained a moment in the doorway blinking, a little out of breath, without noticing the interest his arrival had produced. Then, seeing Abbé Faujas, he hurried over to him and wrung his hands, crying:

‘Oh, my friend, allow me to congratulate you… I’ve just come from your house, where I learned from your mother you were here… I am very happy to see you.’

Abbé Faujas had got up, embarrassed, in spite of his very collected manner, taken by surprise at this completely unexpected display of affection.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I had to accept, although I scarcely deserved it… First I refused, citing the names of more worthy priests, mentioning your own name…’

Abbé Bourrette winked; then, leading him to one side, said in a low voice:

‘Monsignor told me everything… It seems that Fenil wouldn’t hear of me. He would have set fire to the place, if I had been appointed. Those are his own words. My crime is that I closed poor Compan’s eyes… And he was insisting, as you know, on the appointment of Abbé Chardon. No doubt a pious priest, but not sufficiently well known. Abbé Fenil was hoping to wield power in his name at Saint-Saturnin… It was then that Monsignor gave you the job, to escape from him and thwart his plans. That is my vengeance. I am delighted, my friend… Did you know about any of this?’

‘No, not in detail.’

‘Well, that’s how it all came about, I assure you. I have it from Monsignor himself… Between ourselves, he hinted he would more than make it up to me. The second priest-in-charge, Abbé Vial, has
for a long time wanted to settle in Rome; the position would have become vacant, if you follow me. However, all this is on the quiet… I’m not banking on it.’

And he carried on wringing Abbé Faujas’s hands, his broad face beaming with satisfaction. Around them the ladies looked at one another in astonishment, smiling. But the pleasure of this simple priest was so genuine that it soon spread throughout the green drawing room, where the ovation given to the new priest-in-charge took on a more familiar and affectionate character. The skirts moved nearer. They talked about the cathedral organ which needed repair. Madame de Condamin promised a splendid altar for the forthcoming Corpus Christi procession.
*

Abbé Bourrette was also enjoying this triumph when Madame Paloque, making her long, monstrous face even longer, touched him on the shoulder, saying in his ear:

‘So Monsieur l’Abbé, tomorrow you won’t be taking confession in the Saint-Michel chapel?’

Ever since the priest had stood in for Abbé Compan he had taken confession in the Saint-Michel chapel, the biggest and most comfortable in the church which was reserved especially for the priest-in-charge. At first he didn’t understand what Madame Paloque meant. He blinked at her.

‘I’m wondering if tomorrow you will take back your former confessional in the chapel of the Holy Angels?’ she asked.

He went a little pale and remained silent for a moment. He looked down at the carpet, feeling a slight pain in the back of his neck, as though he had been hit from behind. Then, realizing that Madame Paloque was still there staring at him:

‘Of course,’ he stammered, ‘I shall go back to my old confessional… Come to the chapel of the Holy Angels, the last one on the left by the cloisters… It’s very damp. Wrap up well, dear lady, wrap up well.’

He was near to tears. He had become very fond of the fine confessional in the Saint-Michel chapel where, in the afternoon, the sun came in just at the hour of confession. Until then he had not felt any regret at putting the church into the hands of Abbé Faujas. But this little detail, this moving from one chapel to another, pained him sorely. It seemed to him that the whole point of his life was lost. Madame Paloque observed aloud that he had suddenly become sad. But he protested, still trying to smile. He left the salon early.

Abbé Faujas was one of the last to leave. Rougon had come over to congratulate him, engaging in serious conversation, facing each other on the sofa. They spoke of the necessity for religious sentiments in any state that was wisely governed; and every lady made a deep curtsey to them on leaving.

‘Monsieur l’Abbé,’ Felicity said graciously, ‘you know you are taking my daughter home.’

He rose. Marthe was waiting for him near the door. The night was black. Out in the street the darkness blinded them. They crossed the Place de la Préfecture without a word; but in the Rue Balande outside the house Marthe touched his arm, at the moment when he was about to put the key in the lock.

‘I am very happy about your good fortune,’ she told him in a voice that shook with emotion… ‘Be good to me today, do me the favour you have refused until now. I assure you Abbé Bourrette doesn’t understand me. You are the only one who can guide me and bring me salvation.’

He brushed her aside. Then when he had opened the door and lit the little lamp that Rose left at the bottom of the stairs, he went up, saying softly to her:

‘You promised to be reasonable. I’ll think about what you ask. We’ll talk about it.’

She could have kissed his hands. She went to her room only when she had heard his door close on the floor above. And while she was getting undressed and ready for bed she wasn’t listening to Mouret who, half-asleep, was recounting at length the gossip that was going round the town. He had gone to his club, the Commercial, in which he rarely set foot.

‘Abbé Faujas has conned Abbé Bourrette,’ he repeated for the tenth time, turning his head over slowly on the pillow. ‘What a poor fellow Abbé Bourrette is! All the same it’s funny to watch the bigots devouring one another. The other day, if you remember, when they were cosying up at the bottom of the garden, wouldn’t you have thought they were brothers? Yet they even steal their church ladies… Why don’t you answer, my dear? Do you think it’s not true? No, you’re asleep, aren’t you? Well then, goodnight. Till tomorrow.’

He fell asleep, his words getting mixed up. Marthe, eyes wide open, gazed up at the ceiling lit up by the night light and followed the shuffling of Abbé Faujas’s slippers as he was getting into bed.

CHAPTER 12

W
HEN
summer returned, the priest and his mother came down again every evening to take the air on the terrace. Mouret grew morose. He refused the offer of piquet with the old lady. He stayed there, tipping back and forth on his chair. As he yawned, not even attempting to hide his boredom, Marthe said to him:

‘Why don’t you go to your club, my dear?’

He went more often than he used to. When he came home he would find his wife and the priest in the same place on the terrace, while Madame Faujas, a little way away, maintained the demeanour of an unspeaking, unseeing sentinel.

In the town when people mentioned the new priest-in-charge to Mouret he carried on praising him to the skies. He was definitely a superior being. He, Mouret, had never doubted his fine abilities. Madame Paloque could never squeeze from him a word of bitterness, in spite of the insinuating way she had of asking him for news of his wife, right in the middle of a remark about Abbé Faujas. Nor could old Madame Rougon make any better sense of the secret worries she imagined lay beneath that cheerful exterior. She stared at him, with a shrewd smile on her lips, and set little traps for him. But this incorrigible chatterer, whose sharp tongue had been felt by the whole town, was now overwhelmed with embarrassment when it was a matter to do with his own household.

‘Has your husband finally seen reason, then?’ Félicité asked her daughter one day. ‘He has given you your freedom?’

Marthe looked at her in surprise.

‘I’ve always been free,’ she said.

‘My dear child, it’s just that you don’t wish to blame him… You told me he didn’t care for Abbé Faujas.’

‘No, I assure you. On the contrary, you are the one who has imagined that… My husband gets on perfectly well with Abbé Faujas. They have no reason not to like each other.’

Marthe was astonished at the way they all persisted in implying that her husband and the priest were not friends. Often at the committee meetings of the Work of the Virgin the ladies asked her questions which made her impatient. The truth was that she was
very happy and very serene. Never had the house in the Rue Balande seemed duller. Abbé Faujas had given her to understand he would be responsible for her spiritual well-being when he judged Abbé Bourrette could no longer manage to fulfil that role, and she lived for that day, with the naïve joy of a First Communicant
*
to whom holy images have been promised if she is a good girl. She felt at times she had become a child again; the whole world seemed new, her childish desires moved her to tears. In spring Mouret, pruning his tall box trees, caught her in the arbour at the end of the garden, among the young shoots, in the warm air, in tears.

‘Whatever’s the matter, my dear?’ he enquired in some concern.

‘Nothing, I assure you,’ she said with a smile. ‘I am happy, very happy.’

He shrugged, at the same time delicately applying his shears to even out the line of box. He took great pride every year in having the tidiest bushes in the neighbourhood. Marthe had wiped her eyes, but warm tears gushed forth again; her throat was tight, her emotions stirred by the scent of these trimmings from the bushes. She was then forty years old and it was her youth that was weeping.

Meanwhile, ever since Abbé Faujas had been made priest-in-charge of Saint-Saturnin, he had acquired a becoming dignity which seemed only to add to his stature. He carried his breviary and wore his hat in a magisterial way. In the cathedral he had revealed himself to be a man of strong action, which guaranteed the clergy’s respect. Abbé Fenil, defeated again on two or three minor matters, was apparently leaving the field clear for his adversary. But the latter was not so foolish as to crow about it. He possessed a particular self-esteem that was at the same time surprisingly adaptable and humble. He was perfectly aware that Plassans was far from belonging to him yet. So he stopped sometimes in the road to shake Monsieur Delangre’s hand, and exchanged just a brief greeting with Monsieur de Bourdeu, Monsieur Maffre, and the other guests of President Rastoil. A whole section of society in the town harboured a deep mistrust of him. He was accused of holding distinctly shady political opinions. He ought, they said, to come clean and declare himself for one party or another. But he just smiled and said he belonged to the party of decent people, which dispensed him from the need for further clarification. Moreover, he was in no hurry, but continued to keep his distance, waiting for doors to open to him of their own accord.

‘No, my friend, we’ll see later on,’ he said to Abbé Bourrette, who was urging him to pay Monsieur Rastoil a visit.

And it was known he had refused two invitations to dinner at the sub-prefecture. He sought only the company of the Mourets. He remained there between the two enemy camps as if at an observation post. On Tuesdays when the two parties had gathered together in their gardens to the right and left, he took up his position at the window, watching the sun go down in the distance, behind the forest of the Seille. Then, before withdrawing, he looked down and responded with an equally amiable wave to the salutations of the Rastoils and the sub-prefecture. Those were all the dealings with the neighbours that he had so far.

One Tuesday, however, he went down into the garden. The Mourets’ garden was also his now. He no longer contented himself with the arbour at the end when reading his breviary; all paths, all flower beds were his to enjoy. His soutane made a black mark amidst the greenery. That Tuesday he walked around the garden and greeted Monsieur Maffre and Madame Rastoil, whom he could see lower down. Then he walked under the terrace of the sub-prefecture, where Monsieur de Condamin was leaning, in the company of Doctor Porquier. When these gentlemen had saluted him and he was going back up the path, the doctor called over:

‘Monsieur l’Abbé, could I have a word?’

And he asked him what time he could see him the next day. It was the first time that anyone from either party had addressed the priest like that, from one garden to the other. The doctor was extremely worried. His rascal of a son had just been caught with a band of other ne’er-do-wells in a house of ill repute behind the prison. The worst thing was that Guillaume was accused of being the ringleader and of leading the Maffre brothers—much younger than him—astray.

‘Pah!’ said Monsieur de Condamin with a sceptical laugh. ‘You are only young once. What a fuss about nothing! The whole town up in arms simply because these lads were playing baccarat and it was discovered a woman was with them.’

The doctor was very shocked.

‘I want to ask your advice,’ he said, addressing the priest. ‘Monsieur Maffre arrived at my house in a terrible rage. He blamed me in the most violent manner, shouting that it was my fault for bringing up my son so badly… My position is truly distressing. But they ought
to know me better. I am a man of sixty, with not a blemish to my character.’

And he carried on complaining, talking about all the sacrifices he had made for his son, and the clients he was afraid of losing. Abbé Faujas, who had stopped halfway up the path, raised his head and listened gravely.

‘I ask nothing better than to be of service,’ he said obligingly. ‘I’ll see Monsieur Maffre and make him realize that his righteous indignation has run away with him. I’ll even ask him if he can meet me tomorrow. He’s there in the next-door garden.’

He crossed the garden. Monsieur Maffre was indeed still there with Madame Rastoil. But when the judge realized the priest wished to speak to him, he would not put him to that trouble, he said; he was at his disposal, and would be delighted to pay him a visit the next day.

‘Oh, Monsieur le Curé,’ added Madame Rastoil, ‘congratulations on your Sunday homily. All the ladies were extremely moved, I do assure you.’

He took his leave and crossed the garden again, to go and set Doctor Porquier’s mind at rest. Then he walked slowly up and down the paths until nightfall, without taking any further part in the conversations, listening to the laughter that wafted over from the two parties to right and left.

When Monsieur Maffre arrived the next day Abbé Faujas was watching two workmen repairing the pond. He had expressed a wish to see the fountain working; this pond without any water was gloomy, he said. Mouret wasn’t in favour, claiming there could be an accident; but Marthe had gone ahead with the idea, deciding that they would put a fence around the pond.

‘Monsieur le Curé,’ shouted Rose, ‘Monsieur le Juge is here waiting.’

Abbé Faujas hurried inside. He intended to receive Monsieur Maffre on the top floor in his rooms, but Rose had already opened the sitting-room door.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘This is your house, isn’t it? There’s no point making Monsieur le Juge walk up two flights of stairs… Only if you had warned me this morning I would have dusted the sitting room.’

When she had opened the shutters and was closing the door after them, Mouret called her into the dining room.

‘That’s fine, Rose,’ he said, ‘you can give your priest my supper
tonight, and if he hasn’t got enough blankets up there, you will bring him into my bed, won’t you?’

The cook exchanged a meaningful glance with Marthe, working in front of the window until the sun left the terrace. Then, shrugging her shoulders, she muttered:

‘Well, you never were kind-hearted, sir.’

And she left. Marthe went on sewing without looking up. For the last few days she had been applying herself to her work again in a sort of fever. She was embroidering an altar cloth. It was a gift for the cathedral. The ladies wished to donate a whole altar. Mesdames Rastoil and Delangre had taken responsibility for the candelabra, Madame de Condamin had sent for a splendid silver Christ from Paris.

Meanwhile in the sitting room, Abbé Faujas was reproving Monsieur Maffre in his mild manner, saying that Doctor Porquier was a religious man and extremely honourable, and was the first to suffer from his son’s deplorable conduct. The judge listened in admiration. His broad face, big eyes popping out of his head, assumed a look of ecstasy at some of the pious pronouncements of the priest. He agreed that he had been a little hasty, he said he was ready to make a full apology if Monsieur le Curé considered he had committed a sin.

‘And what about your sons?’ the priest asked. ‘You should send them to me and I’ll talk to them.’

Monsieur Maffre shook his head and gave a little laugh.

‘You needn’t fear, Monsieur le Curé: the rascals won’t do that again. They’ve been locked up in their room with bread and water for the last three days. When I learned of it, if I’d had a stick, I’d have broken it on their backs.’

The priest looked at him, remembering that Mouret had accused him of killing his wife with his harsh treatment of her and his greed; then, with a gesture of protest, he said:

‘No no, you mustn’t treat young people like that. Your eldest, Ambroise, is twenty, and the younger one will soon be eighteen, won’t he? You have to remember they aren’t children any more; you have to be tolerant of some of the things they do to amuse themselves.’

The judge was dumbstruck.

‘So would you let them smoke and allow them to go to cafés?’

‘Of course,’ replied the priest with a smile. ‘I tell you that young people need to get together and chat, smoke cigarettes, even play the
odd game of billiards or chess… If you don’t allow them to do anything they will permit themselves everything… Only, as you must know, I wouldn’t let them go to every café. I should like to see them in a special establishment, a club, like those I’ve seen in several towns.’

And he outlined a whole plan. Monsieur Maffre gradually understood, and nodded his head, saying:

‘Yes, yes, it would be a worthy opposite number to the Work of the Virgin. Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we
must
put this fine plan into practice.’

‘Well then,’ the priest concluded, going out on to the street with him, ‘since you approve of the idea, tell your friends about it. I’ll see Monsieur Delangre and I’ll tell him about it too… Sunday after vespers we could all meet at the cathedral and come to a decision.’

On Sunday, Monsieur Maffre brought Monsieur Rastoil with him. They found Abbé Faujas and Monsieur Delangre in a room adjoining the sacristy. These gentlemen proved very enthusiastic. It was decided in principle to form a club for young people, except that they debated for some time what name the club should have. Monsieur Maffre was determined they should call it the Jesus Club.

‘Definitely not!’ cried the priest, finally losing patience. ‘You won’t get anyone, and they will make fun of the few who do go. You must understand that we don’t want to bring religion into this project. Quite the opposite, I am hoping to leave religion to one side. We want to entertain young people decently and win them over to our cause, nothing more.’

The judge looked at the president in such astonishment, and with such a worried expression, that Monsieur Delangre had to bow his face to hide a smile. He gave a surreptitious little tug at the priest’s soutane. The priest, calming down, went on more quietly:

‘I suppose you trust me, gentlemen. I beg you to leave the conduct of this affair to me. I propose choosing a very simple name, for example this one: “The Youth Club”, that says just what it is.’

Monsieur Rastoil and Monsieur Maffre bowed to this opinion, although it seemed a bit feeble to them. They went on to discuss the appointment of Monsieur le Curé to be president of a provisional committee.

‘I believe’, muttered Monsieur Delangre with a glance at Abbé Faujas, ‘that Monsieur le Curé will not be receptive to that idea.’

‘Of course not, I refuse,’ said the priest, shrugging his shoulders
slightly. ‘My soutane would frighten off the shy ones, the unenthusiastic. We would only have the religious ones, and it’s not for them that we are setting up the club. We want to bring in the ones who have gone astray. To make disciples, in a word, don’t we?’

‘Obviously,’ replied the president.

‘Well then, it’s better that we keep ourselves in the shade, especially me. This is what I suggest. Your son, Monsieur Rastoil, and yours, Monsieur Delangre, will be the only ones to put themselves forward. They will be the ones who have had the idea for the club. Send them to me tomorrow, I will have a long chat with them. I already have somewhere in mind, and a draft of the statutes in my head… As for your two sons, Monsieur Maffre, they will of course be the first to join.’