THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
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Douglas, rogue, rascal, thief, hypocrite, you won’t play any more of your pranks, my friend; you won’t go again to church to pray to have your forgeries concealed!”
Marius breathed more freely. The cries he heard told him at last who was the sufferer. Then he recognised Douglas, he caught a distinct view of the ex-notary’s pale fat face. But, in the inmost recesses of his heart, he thought of his brother, and remembered that Philippe also might have to confront the jeers and howls of the mob.
The multitude was still roaring.
“He’s ruined more than fifty families. Penal servitude is too light a punishment for him.”
“We should take the law into our own hands.”
“Yes, that’s it, we’ll capture him and lynch him, when he passes by.”
“Look how comfortable he seems up there.”
“He doesn’t suffer half enough, he ought to be hung up by his feet.”
“Ah! there’s the executioner about to untie him. Come along.”
It was true, and Douglas left the scaffold. He was placed in a little open cart, drawn by a single horse, which was to take him back to the prison. At this moment, there was a great commotion amongst the people. Everybody rushed forward, to hoot and perhaps kill the wretch. But the foot soldiers surrounded the cart whilst those on horseback galloped about and broke up the mob.
Marius looked a last time at the culprit with intense pity. The man was, no doubt, very guilty, but the calvary of shame he was ascending turned him rather into an object of commiseration than of anger. The young man had remained leaning against a shop. As he was watching the departure of the cart, he heard two workmen, who were passing by, say:
“We’ll come back next month. You know, they’re going to exhibit that fellow who carried off the young lady. It’ll be more amusing.”
“Ah! yes, Philippe Cayol. I knew him, he’s a big chap. We must find out the proper day so as not to miss it. There’ll be a fine to-do.”
The workmen went off, and Marius remained with a pale face and an aching heart. The men were right: in a month’s time it would be his brother’s turn. And he reflected that chance had caused him to assist at all the horrors Philippe would have to go through. He knew now what sufferings awaited him, he could fancy him in Douglas’ place and pictured to himself the horrible scene that would be enacted. His anguish kept him a long time with closed eyes and ears full of a confused hum: he was seeing Philippe on the scaffold, and listening to the laughing crowd insulting him.
CHAPTER XII
MARIUS LOSES HIS WITS
As Marius was leaning against the shop-front, his eyes fixed on the ground, and deeply affected by the scene at which he had been assisting, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder with friendly roughness. He looked up and beheld Sauvaire, the master-stevedore, before him.
“Well! my young friend, what on earth are you doing there?” Sauvaire exclaimed, with a hearty laugh. “One would think you were going to be tied to that post.” And he pointed to the scaffold.
Sauvaire was gaily dressed: he wore a coat and trousers of fine cloth, and his partly buttoned waistcoat gave a view of his white shirt. His heavy watch-chain, with its massive charms, was displayed complacently. As it was scarcely ten o’clock, the master-stevedore was still in his slippers, with his soft felt hat cocked on his head and his beautiful meerschaum pipe between his teeth. One felt that the whole pavement of the Cannebière belonged to him; he was quite at home there, occupying as much room as possible, and watching the passersby in a familiar and patronizing way. With his hands in his pockets stretching out his trousers, his legs wide apart, he examined Marius with a look of superiority that was full of condescension.
“You seem worried and ill,” he added. “Do as I do: keep well, eat and drink heartily, lead a merry life. Ah! as for me, I don’t know what grief is. I’m strong, I’ve got a good digestion, and I can spend a hundred francs whenever I like. I know one must be well off to do as I do. Everybody isn’t rich.”
He eyed Marius pitifully, and found him so puny and pale, that he was delighted at feeling himself plump and red beside him. At that moment he would willingly have lent the young man a thousand francs.
Marius was not listening to his prating. He had shaken his hand in an absent-minded way, and had then plunged again into his gloomy thoughts. He was thinking with despair that he had been vainly struggling for three months without having made the slightest headway. The post erected before him was awaiting Philippe; and it seemed to him that his feet were rooted to the pavement, and that he was unable to run to his brother’s assistance. At that moment, he would have sold himself to obtain a few thousand francs, he would have committed a mean action. Receiving no reply, Sauvaire continued prating. He liked to hear the sound of his own voice.
“Deuce take it!” he said, “a young man should amuse himself. But poor you! you don’t amuse yourself enough, you work too hard, my young friend. Ah! it requires a lot of money: pleasures cost dear. As for myself, I some weeks spend enormous sums. You can’t amuse yourself as much as that, it’d be impossible; but yet you might have a bit of a fling. You’ve got a trifle of money, haven’t you? Listen! shall I take you some evenings to places that’ll enliven you up?”
The master-stevedore thought himself very generous in making Marius this proposal. He waited awhile for the young man to thank him. But as he still maintained his silence of despair, he took his arm in an authoritative way and led him along the pavement.
“I’ll take you in hand,” he exclaimed, “I’ll show you life. I intend you to be almost as lively as myself in a week’s time. I eat in the best restaurants; I know the prettiest women in Marseille, and, as you see, I stroll about all day. That’s the way to live!”
He stopped, and, folding his arms, planted himself abruptly before Marius.
“Do you know at what time I went to bed?” he resumed. “At three o’clock this morning! And would you like to know where I passed the night? At the Corneille Club, where there was a fine old gamble. Just fancy, there were two delightful creatures there, women attired in velvet, with jewels and lace, things so costly that one is afraid to touch them with the tips of one’s fingers. Clairon, a little dark woman, won over five thousand francs.”
Marius looked up sharply.
“Ah!” he said in a strange voice, “can one win five thousand francs in a single night?”
Sauvaire burst out laughing.
“Good heavens! what a simpleton you are! I have seen larger sums than that won. Some people have luck. Last year I knew a young man who won sixteen thousand francs in a couple of nights. He came to the club with me, and hadn’t a copper on him. I lent him five francs, and two days after he was in possession of sixteen thousand. We spent them together. Heavens! didn’t I just amuse myself during the month they lasted!”
A red flush came to Marius’ face. He felt a tremor pass up him and burn his chest. He had never before experienced so painful a sensation.
“Doesn’t one have to be a member of a club to be able to play there?” he asked.
The master-stevedore smiled and winked his eye in a knowing manner, shrugging his shoulders the while.
“I thought,” resumed Marius, “that strangers were not allowed in a club, and that only the members, who had paid a subscription, could play there.”
“Yes, yes, that’s correct,” replied Sauvaire laughing, “only members have the right to play. But strangers, who have not that right, are generally more numerous around the gaming-table, and play for higher stakes than the members. Do you understand?”
It was now Marius who took hold of Sauvaire’s arm, and they went a few steps in silence. Then the young man asked his companion in a stifled voice: