Complete Works of Emile Zola (355 page)

‘When the fire once reaches one,’ he said in conclusion,
‘
it can only be a matter of few seconds. Of course, it depends, to some extent, upon the violence of the conflagration.’

Monsieur de Condamin was counting upon his fingers.

‘Even if Madame Mouret is with her parents, as is asserted, that still leaves four — Abbé Faujas, his mother, his sister, and his brother-in-law. It’s a pretty bad business!’

Just then Madame Rastoil inclined her head towards her husband’s ear. ‘Give me my watch,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t feel easy about it. You are always fidgetting, and you may sit on it.’

Someone now called out that the wind was carrying the sparks towards the Sub-Prefecture, and Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies immediately sprang up, and, apologising for his departure, hastened off to guard against this new danger.

Monsieur Delangre was anxious that a last attempt should be made to rescue the victims. But the captain of the fire brigade roughly told him to go up the ladder himself if he thought such a thing possible; he had never seen such a fire before, he declared. The devil himself must have lighted it, for the house was burning like a bundle of chips, at all points at once. The mayor, followed by some kindly disposed persons, then went round into the Impasse des Chevillottes. Perhaps, he said, it would be possible to get to the windows from the garden side.

‘It would be very magnificent if it were not so sad,’ remarked Madame de Condamin, who was now calmer.

The fire was certainly becoming a superb spectacle. Showers of sparks rushed up in the midst of huge blue flames; chasms of glowing red showed themselves behind each of the gaping windows, while the smoke rolled gently away in a huge purplish cloud, like the smoke from Bengal lights set burning at some display of fireworks. The ladies and gentlemen were comfortably seated in their chairs, lean­ing on their elbows and stretching out their legs as they watched the spectacle before them; and whenever there was a more violent burst of flames than usual, there came an interval of silence, broken by exclamations. At some dis­tance off, in the midst of the flickering brilliance which every now and then lighted up masses of serried heads, there rose the murmur of the crowd, the sound of gushing water, a general confused uproar. Ten paces away the engine, with its regular, snorting breath, continued vomiting streams of water from its metal throat.

‘Look at the third window on the second floor!’ suddenly cried Monsieur Maffre. ‘You can see a bed burning quite distinctly on the left hand. It has yellow curtains, and they are blazing like so much paper.’

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies now returned at a gentle trot to reassure the ladies and gentlemen. It had been a false alarm.

‘The sparks,’ he said, ‘are certainly being carried by the wind towards the Sub-Prefecture, but they are extinguished in the air before they reach it. There is no further danger. They have got the fire well in hand now.’

‘But is it known how the fire originated?’ asked Madame de Condamin.

Monsieur de Bourdeu asserted that he had first of all seen a dense smoke issuing from the kitchen. Monsieur Maffre alleged, on the other hand, that the flames had first appeared in a room on the first floor. But the sub-prefect shook his head with an air of official prudence, and said in a low voice:

‘I am much afraid that malice has had something to do with the disaster. I have ordered an inquiry to be made.’

Then he went on to tell them that he had seen a man lighting the fire with a vine-branch.

‘Yes, I saw him too,
’
interrupted Aurélie Rastoil. ‘It was Monsieur Mouret.’

This statement created the greatest astonishment. The thing seemed impossible. Monsieur Mouret escaping and burning down his house — what a frightful story! They over­whelmed Aurélie with questions. She blushed, and her mother looked at her severely. It was scarcely proper for a young girl to be constantly looking out of her window at night-time.

‘I assure you that I distinctly recognised Monsieur Mouret,’ she continued. ‘I had not gone to sleep, and I got up when I saw a bright light. Monsieur Mouret was dancing about in the midst of the fire.’

Then the sub-prefect spoke out:

‘Mademoiselle is quite correct. I recognise the unhappy man now. He looked so terrible that I was in doubt as to who it might be, although his face seemed familiar. Excuse me; this is a very serious matter, and I must go and give some orders.’

He went away again, while the company began to discuss this terrible affair of a landlord burning his lodgers to death. Monsieur de Bourdeu inveighed hotly against lunatic asylums. The surveillance exercised in them, he said, was most imper­fect. The truth was that Monsieur de Bourdeu was greatly afraid lest the prefecture which Abbé Faujas had promised him should be burnt away in the fire before his eyes.

‘Maniacs are extremely revengeful,’ said Monsieur de Condamin, in all simplicity.

This remark seemed to embarrass everyone, and the con­versation dropped. The ladies shuddered slightly, while the men exchanged peculiar glances. The burning house had become an object of still greater interest now that they knew whose hand had set it on fire. They blinked with a thrill of delicious terror as they gazed upon the glowing pile, and thought of the drama that had been enacted there.

‘If old Mouret is in there, that makes five,’ said Monsieur de Condamin. Then the ladies hushed him and told him that he was a cold-blooded, unfeeling man.

The Paloques, meanwhile, had been watching the fire since its commencement from the window of their dining-room. They were just above the drawing-room that had been improvised upon the pathway. The judge’s wife at last went out, and graciously offered shelter and hospitality to the Rastoil ladies and the friends surrounding them.

‘We can see very well from our windows, I assure you,’ she said.

And, as the ladies declined her invitation, she added:

‘You will certainly take cold; it is a very sharp night.’

But Madame de Condamin smiled and stretched out her little feet, which showed from beneath her skirts.

‘Oh dear no! we’re not at all cold,’ she said. ‘My feet are quite toasted. I am very comfortable indeed. Are you cold, mademoiselle?’

‘I am really too warm,’ Aurélie replied. ‘One could imagine that it was a summer night. This fire keeps one quite warm and cosy.’

Everyone declared that it was very pleasant, and so Madame Paloque determined to remain there with them and to take a seat in one of the easy-chairs. Monsieur Maffre had just gone off. He had caught sight, in the midst of the crowd, of his two sons, accompanied by Guillaume Porquier, who had all three run up from a house near the ramparts to see the fire. The magistrate, who was certain that he had locked his lads up in their bedroom, dragged Alphonse and Ambroise away by the ears.

‘I think we might go off to bed now,
’
said Monsieur de Bourdeu, who was gradually growing more cross-grained.

However, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies had reappeared again, and showed himself quite indefatigable, though he never neglected the ladies, in spite of the duties and anxieties of all kinds with which he was overwhelmed. He sprang hastily forward to meet Monsieur Delangre, who was just coming back from the Impasse des Chevillottes. They talked together in low tones. The mayor had apparently witnessed some terrible sight, for he kept passing his hand over his face, as though trying to drive away some awful vision that was pursuing him. The ladies could only hear him mur­muring, ‘We arrived too late! It was horrible!’ He would not answer any questions.

‘Only Bourdeu and Delangre will regret Abbé Faujas,’ Monsieur de Condamin whispered in Madame Paloque’s ear.

‘They had business on hand with him,’ the latter replied quietly. ‘Ah! here is Abbé Bourrette. He is weeping from genuine sorrow.’

Abbé Bourrette, who had formed part of the chain of men who passed the buckets on, was sobbing bitterly. The poor man refused all consolation. He would not sit down, but remained standing, with anxious, troubled eyes, watching the last beams burn away. Abbé Surin had also been seen; but he had disappeared after picking up in the crowd all the information he could.

‘Come along; let us be off to bed,’ exclaimed Monsieur de Bourdeu. ‘It is foolish of us to stop here.’

The whole party rose. It was settled that Monsieur Rastoil and his wife and daughter should spend the night at the Paloques’. Madame de Condamin gently tapped her dress, which had got slightly creased, in order to straighten it. The easy-chairs were pushed out of the way, and the company lingered yet a few more moments while bidding each other good-night. The engine was still snorting, and the fire was dying down amidst dense black smoke. Nothing was to be heard but the tramping of the diminishing crowd and the last blows of a fireman’s axe striking down a beam.

‘It is all over!’ thought Macquart, who still kept his position on the opposite pathway.

He remained there a few moments longer, listening to the last words which Monsieur de Condamin exchanged in low tones with Madame Paloque.

‘Bah!’ said the judge’s wife, ‘no one will cry for him, unless it’s that big gander Bourrette. He had grown quite unendurable, and we were nothing but his slaves. His lord­ship the Bishop, I dare say, has got a smiling face just now. Plassans is at last delivered!’

‘And the Rougons!’ exclaimed Monsieur de Condamin. ‘They must be quite delighted.’

‘I should think so, indeed. The Rougons must be up in the heavens. They will inherit the Abbé’s conquest. Ah! they would have paid anyone well who would have run the risk of setting the house on fire.’

Macquart went away feeling extremely dissatisfied. He was beginning to fear that he had been duped. The joy of the Rougons filled him with consternation. The Rougons were crafty folks who always played a double game, and whose opponents were quite certain to end by getting the worst of the struggle. As Macquart crossed the Place of the Sub-Prefecture he swore to himself that he would never set to work in this blind way again.

As he went up to the room where Marthe lay dying he found Rose sitting on one of the stairs. She was in a fuming rage.

‘No, indeed, I will certainly not stop in the room!’ she cried. ‘I won’t look on and see such things. Let her die without me; let her die like a dog! I no longer have any love for her; I have no love for anyone. To send for the poor little fellow to kill him! And I consented to go for him! I shall hate myself for it all my life! He was as white as his nightshirt, the angel! I was obliged to carry him here from the Seminary. I thought he was going to give up the ghost on the way, he cried so. Oh! it’s a cruel shame! And there he has gone into the room now to kiss her! It quite makes my flesh creep. I wish the whole house would topple down on our heads and finish us all off at one stroke! I will shut myself up in some hole somewhere, and live quite alone, and never see anyone again — never, never! One’s whole life seems made up of things that make one weep and make one angry!’

Macquart entered the room. Madame Rougon was on her knees, burying her face in her hands, and Serge, with tears streaming down his cheeks, was standing by the bedside supporting the head of the dying woman. She had not yet regained consciousness. The last flickering flames of the conflagration cast a ruddy reflection upon the ceiling of the room.

At last a convulsive tremor shook Marthe’s body. She opened her eyes with an expression of surprise, and sat up in bed to glance around her. Then she clasped her hands together with a look of unutterable terror, and died even as she caught sight of Serge’s cassock in the crimson glow.

THE END

ABBE MOURET’S TRANSGRESSION

Translated by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret
(1875) follows on from the horrifying events related at the conclusion of
La Conquête de Plassans
, focussing on the remote Provençal village Artauds. The novel is particularly anticlerical in tone, with the plot concerning the neurotic young priest Serge Mouret, who takes his orders and becomes the parish priest for the village. Nevertheless, the villagers have no interest in religion and Serge is portrayed giving his enthusiastic Masses in an empty and dilapidated church. Serge not only seems content by this solitude, but actually prefers his own private contemplation of religious affairs. Ultimately, he suffers a nervous breakdown, being placed in the care of his relative the doctor Pascal Rougon.

Unlike the previous novels in the series,
La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret
takes a new direction in terms of both tone and style, featuring few characters and locations, though it remains an extraordinarily powerful and readable work, recognised by critics as one of the author’s most linguistically inventive and well-crafted novels.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

BOOK I

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI