The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete. Emile ZolaЧитать онлайн книгу.
de Morigny wagged his head. “She is still very beautiful,” said he. “And then there’s the daughter. It would be graver still if he were to marry her – ”
“But the daughter’s infirm?”
“Yes, and you know what would be said: A Quinsac marrying a monster for the sake of her millions.”
This was their mutual terror. They knew everything that went on at the Duvillards, the affectionate friendship of the uncomely Camille and the handsome Gerard, the seeming idyll beneath which lurked the most awful of dramas. And they protested with all their indignation. “Oh! that, no, no, never!” the Countess declared. “My son in that family, no, I will never consent to it.”
Just at that moment General de Bozonnet entered. He was much attached to his sister and came to keep her company on the days when she received, for the old circle had gradually dwindled down till now only a few faithful ones ventured into that grey gloomy salon, where one might have fancied oneself at thousands of leagues from present-day Paris. And forthwith, in order to enliven the room, he related that he had been to dejeuner at the Duvillards, and named the guests, Gerard among them. He knew that he pleased his sister by going to the banker’s house whence he brought her news, a house, too, which he cleansed in some degree by conferring on it the great honour of his presence. And he himself in no wise felt bored there, for he had long been gained over to the century and showed himself of a very accommodating disposition in everything that did not pertain to military art.
“That poor little Camille worships Gerard,” said he; “she was devouring him with her eyes at table.”
But M. de Morigny gravely intervened: “There lies the danger, a marriage would be absolutely monstrous from every point of view.”
The General seemed astonished: “Why, pray? She isn’t beautiful, but it’s not only the beauties who marry! And there are her millions. However, our dear child would only have to put them to a good use. True, there is also the mother; but, mon Dieu! such things are so common nowadays in Paris society.”
This revolted the Marquis, who made a gesture of utter disgust. What was the use of discussion when all collapsed? How could one answer a Bozonnet, the last surviving representative of such an illustrious family, when he reached such a point as to excuse the infamous morals that prevailed under the Republic; after denying his king, too, and serving the Empire, faithfully and passionately attaching himself to the fortunes and memory of Caesar? However, the Countess also became indignant: “Oh! what are you saying, brother? I will never authorize such a scandal, I swore so only just now.”
“Don’t swear, sister,” exclaimed the General; “for my part I should like to see our Gerard happy. That’s all. And one must admit that he’s not good for much. I can understand that he didn’t go into the Army, for that profession is done for. But I do not so well understand why he did not enter the diplomatic profession, or accept some other occupation. It is very fine, no doubt, to run down the present times and declare that a man of our sphere cannot possibly do any clean work in them. But, as a matter of fact, it is only idle fellows who still say that. And Gerard has but one excuse, his lack of aptitude, will and strength.”
Tears had risen to the mother’s eyes. She even trembled, well knowing how deceitful were appearances: a mere chill might carry her son off, however tall and strong he might look. And was he not indeed a symbol of that old-time aristocracy, still so lofty and proud in appearance, though at bottom it is but dust?
“Well,” continued the General, “he’s thirty-six now; he’s constantly hanging on your hands, and he must make an end of it all.”
However, the Countess silenced him and turned to the Marquis: “Let us put our confidence in God, my friend,” said she. “He cannot but come to my help, for I have never willingly offended Him.”
“Never!” replied the Marquis, who in that one word set an expression of all his grief, all his affection and worship for that woman whom he had adored for so many years.
But another faithful friend came in and the conversation changed. M. de Larombiere, Vice-President of the Appeal Court, was an old man of seventy-five, thin, bald and clean shaven but for a pair of little white whiskers. And his grey eyes, compressed mouth and square and obstinate chin lent an expression of great austerity to his long face. The grief of his life was that, being afflicted with a somewhat childish lisp, he had never been able to make his full merits known when a public prosecutor, for he esteemed himself to be a great orator. And this secret worry rendered him morose. In him appeared an incarnation of that old royalist France which sulked and only served the Republic against its heart, that old stern magistracy which closed itself to all evolution, to all new views of things and beings. Of petty “gown” nobility, originally a Legitimist but now supporting Orleanism, he believed himself to be the one man of wisdom and logic in that salon, where he was very proud to meet the Marquis.
They talked of the last events; but with them political conversation was soon exhausted, amounting as it did to a mere bitter condemnation of men and occurrences, for all three were of one mind as to the abominations of the Republican regime. They themselves, however, were only ruins, the remnants of the old parties now all but utterly powerless. The Marquis for his part soared on high, yielding in nothing, ever faithful to the dead past; he was one of the last representatives of that lofty obstinate noblesse which dies when it finds itself without an effort to escape its fate. The judge, who at least had a pretender living, relied on a miracle, and demonstrated the necessity for one if France were not to sink into the depths of misfortune and completely disappear. And as for the General, all that he regretted of the two Empires was their great wars; he left the faint hope of a Bonapartist restoration on one side to declare that by not contenting itself with the Imperial military system, and by substituting thereto obligatory service, the nation in arms, the Republic had killed both warfare and the country.
When the Countess’s one man-servant came to ask her if she would consent to receive Abbe Froment she seemed somewhat surprised. “What can he want of me? Show him in,” she said.
She was very pious, and having met Pierre in connection with various charitable enterprises, she had been touched by his zeal as well as by the saintly reputation which he owed to his Neuilly parishioners.
He, absorbed by his fever, felt intimidated directly he crossed the threshold. He could at first distinguish nothing, but fancied he was entering some place of mourning, a shadowy spot where human forms seemed to melt away, and voices were never raised above a whisper. Then, on perceiving the persons present, he felt yet more out of his element, for they seemed so sad, so far removed from the world whence he had just come, and whither he was about to return. And when the Countess had made him sit down beside her in front of the chimney-piece, it was in a low voice that he told her the lamentable story of Laveuve, and asked her support to secure the man’s admittance to the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour.
“Ah! yes,” said she, “that enterprise which my son wished me to belong to. But, Monsieur l’Abbe, I have never once attended the Committee meetings. So how could I intervene, having assuredly no influence whatever?”
Again had the figures of Eve and Gerard arisen before her, for it was at this asylum that the pair had first met. And influenced by her sorrowful maternal love she was already weakening, although it was regretfully that she had lent her name to one of those noisy charitable enterprises, which people abused to further their selfish interests in a manner she condemned.
“But, madame,” Pierre insisted, “it is a question of a poor starving old man. I implore you to be compassionate.”
Although the priest had spoken in a low voice the General drew near. “It’s for your old revolutionary that you are running about, is it not,” said he. “Didn’t you succeed with the manager, then? The fact is that it’s difficult to feel any pity for fellows who, if they were the masters, would, as they themselves say, sweep us all away.”
M. de Larombiere jerked his chin approvingly. For some time past he had been haunted by the Anarchist peril. But Pierre, distressed and quivering, again began to plead his cause. He spoke of all the frightful misery, the homes where there was no food, the women and children shivering with cold, and