THE COMPLETE ROUGON-MACQUART SERIES (All 20 Books in One Edition). Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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in society. She touched hands with most of the men. Then she kissed Christine, and asked after her father, who never came to the house in the Parc Monceau. And smiling, still bowing, her arms languidly rounded, she remained standing before the circle of ladies, who examined anxiously the necklace and the aigrette.
The fair-haired Mme. Haffner could no longer withstand the temptation. She drew nearer, and after a wistful look at the gems, asked with envy in her voice:
“That is the necklace and aigrette, is it not?”
Renée nodded. Thereupon all the women burst out into praise; the jewels were delicious, divine; then they proceeded to discuss, with admiration full of envy, Laure d’Aurigny’s sale, at which Saccard had bought them for his wife; they complained that those creatures got the prettiest of everything: soon there would be no diamonds left for the honest women. And through their complaints there filtered the longing to feel on their bare skins some of the jewellery that all Paris had seen on the shoulders of a noted courtesan, that might perhaps whisper in their ears scandals of the alcoves in which the thoughts of these great ladies so gladly lingered. They knew of the high prices, they mentioned a gorgeous cashmere shawl, some magnificent lace. The aigrette had cost fifteen thousand francs, the necklace fifty thousand. These figures roused Mme. d’Espanet to enthusiasm. She called Saccard over, exclaiming:
“Come and let me congratulate you! What a good husband you are!”
Aristide Saccard came up, bowed, made little of it. But his grinning features betrayed a lively satisfaction. And he watched from the corner of his eye the two contractors, the two bricklayers who had made their fortunes, as they stood a few steps off, listening with evident respect to the sound of such figures as fifteen and fifty thousand francs.
At this moment Maxime, who had just come in, charmingly pinched in his dress-clothes, leant familiarly on his father’s shoulder, and whispered to him as to a schoolfellow, glancing towards the bricklayers. Saccard wore the discreet smile of an actor called before the curtain.
Some more guests arrived. There were at least thirty persons in the drawingroom. Conversation was resumed; in intervals of silence the faint clatter of silver and crockery was heard through the walls. At last Baptiste opened the folding-doors, and majestically pronounced the sacramental phrase:
“Dinner is served, madame.”
Then, slowly, the procession formed. Saccard gave his arm to the little marquise; Renée took the arm of an old gentleman, a senator, the Baron Gouraud, before whom everybody bowed down with great humility; as to Maxime, he was obliged to offer his arm to Louise de Mareuil; then followed the rest of the guests, in double file; and right at the end, the two contractors, swinging their arms.
The dining-room was a huge, square room, whose wainscotting of stained and varnished pear-wood rose to the height of a man, and was decorated with slender headings of gold. The four large panels had evidently been prepared so that they might be filled up with paintings of still life; but this had never been done, the landlord having doubtless recoiled before a purely artistic expenditure. They had been hung simply with dark-green velvet. The chairs, curtains, and door-hangings of the same material gave the room a look of sober seriousness, calculated to concentrate on the table all the splendour of the light.
And indeed, at this hour, the table, standing in the centre of the wide, dark Persian carpet, which deadened the sounds of the footsteps, and under the glaring light of the chandelier, surrounded by chairs whose black backs, with fillets of gold, encircled it with a dark frame, seemed like an altar, like a mortuary chapel, as the bright scintillations of the crystal glass and silver plate sparkled on the dazzling whiteness of the cloth. Beyond the carved chairbacks, one could just perceive, in a floating shadow, the wainscotting of the walls, a large low sideboard, ends of velvet hanging here and there. The eye was of necessity drawn back to the table, and became filled with the splendour of it. A beautiful dead-silver centre-piece, glittering with its chased work, stood in the middle of the table; it represented a troop of satyrs carrying off nymphs; above the group, issuing from a large cornucopia, an enormous bouquet of real flowers hung down in clusters. At either end of the table stood vases with more flowers, a pair of candelabra, matching the centre group, and each consisting of a satyr running off with a swooning woman on one arm, and holding in the other a ten-branched candlestick which added the brilliancy of its candles to the lustre of the central chandelier. Between these principal ornaments the first dishes, large and small, were ranged symmetrically, flanked by shells containing the hors d’œuvre, and separated by Porcelain bowls, crystal vases, flat plates and tall preserve-stands, filled with that portion of the dessert that was already on the table. Along the line of plates ran an army of glasses, of water-bottles, of decanters, of salt-cellars, and all this glass was as thin and light as muslin, uncut, and so transparent that it cast no shadow. And the centre-piece and candelabra seemed like fountains of fire; sparks glittered in the burnished silver dishes; the forks, the spoons, and the knives with handles of mother-of-pearl were as bars of flame; colours kaleidoscopic filled the glasses; and, in the midst of this rain of light, of this mass of incandescence, the decanters threw red stains upon the white-hot cloth.
On entering, a discreet expression of felicity overspread the faces of the men, as they smiled to the ladies on their arms. The flowers imparted a freshness to the heavy atmosphere. Delicately the fumes of cooked food mingled with the perfume of the roses. The sharp odour of prawns predominated, and the sour scent of citrons.
Then, when each had found his name written on the back of his menu-card, there was a noise of chairs, a great rustling of silken dresses. The bare shoulders, studded with diamonds, separated by black coats, which served to throw up their pallor, added their creamy whiteness to the gleam of the table. The dinner began amidst little smiles exchanged between neighbours, in a semi-silence only broken as yet by the muffled clattering of spoons. Baptiste fulfilled his office of majordomo with his serious diplomatic attitudes; under his orders were, in addition to the two footmen, four assistants whom he only engaged for the great dinners. As he removed each dish to the end of the room and carved it at a side-table, three of the servants passed noiselessly round the table, dish in hand, naming the contents in an undertone as they handed them. The others served the wine, and saw to the bread and the decanters. The removes and entrées thus slowly went round and disappeared; the ladies’ pearly laughter grew no shriller.
The guests were too many for the conversation easily to become general. Nevertheless, at the second course, when the game and side-dishes had replaced the removes and entrées, and the generous wines of Burgundy, Pomard and Chambertin, succeeded the Léoville and Chateau-Lafitte, the sound of voices increased, and bursts of laughter caused the light glass to ring again. Renée, seated at the middle of the table, had on her right the Baron Gouraud, and on her left M. Toutin-Laroche, a retired candle-manufacturer, and now a Municipal Councillor, a director of the Crédit Viticole, and a member of the committee of inspection of the Société Générale of the Ports of Morocco, a lean, important person, whom Saccard, sitting opposite between Mme. d’Espanet and Mme. Haffner, addressed at one moment, in unctuous tones, as “My dear colleague,” and at another as “Our great administrator.” Next came the politicians: M. Hupel de la Noue, a provincial préfet, who spent eight months of the year in Paris; three deputies, among whom M. Haffner displayed his broad Alsatian face; then M. de Saffré, a charming young man, secretary to one of the ministers; and M. Michelin, the First Commissioner of Roads. M. de Mareuil, a perpetual candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, sat square, facing the préfet, whom he ogled persistently. As to M. d’Espanet, he never accompanied his wife into society. The ladies of the family were placed between the most prominent of these personages. Saccard had, however, kept his sister Sidonie, whom he had placed further off, for the seat between the two contractors, the Sieur Charrier on her right, the Sieur Mignon on her left, as being a post of trust where it was a question of conquest. Mme. Michelin, the wife of the First Commissioner, a plump, pretty, dark woman, sat next to M. de Saffré, with whom she carried on an animated conversation in a low voice. And at either end of the table were the young people, auditors to the Council of State, sons of useful fathers, budding millionaires, M. de Mussy, casting despairing glances at Renée, and Maxime, apparently quite vanquished by Louise de Mareuil, who sat on his right. Little by little they had begun to laugh very