One of the five deputies on the left leapt indignantly to his feet, and cried:
‘But you were the minister of absolute repression!’
And another added passionately:
‘Those who sent their victims to Cayenne and Lambèse* have no right to speak in the name of liberty!’
There were loud murmurs. Many deputies, not having caught what was said, were leaning forward, asking their neighbours. De Marsy pretended not to have heard. He simply threatened to call any interrupters to order.
‘I have just been reproached…’, Rougon went on.
But now there were shouts from the right, which made it impossible for him to continue.
‘No, no, don’t answer!’
‘Take no notice of insults like that!’
With a single gesture he pacified the Chamber. Resting his fists on the edge of the lectern, he swung round to the left, like a wild boar at bay.
‘I won’t answer that,’ he said calmly.
This was merely an opening remark, for although he had said he would not respond to what the deputy of the left had said, he now proceeded to address in great detail the issues raised. First, he outlined his critic’s arguments. He did this in quite a mocking way, flaunting a kind of studied impartiality. This had a tremendous effect, suggesting he was utterly scornful of all those fine arguments and was ready to cast them aside from one moment to the next. Then, he seemed to forget to deal with them at all. He did not address a single point. But then he attacked the weakest of the arguments with tremendous violence, in a flood of eloquence that completely demolished it and elicited a burst of applause. He was exultant. His great bulk seemed to fill the entire rostrum. His shoulders rose and fell to the rhythm of his sentences. His rhetorical performance was in one sense quite ordinary, full of incorrect language, bristling with points of law, and padded with clichés stretched to breaking point. The only thing in which as orator he was without peer was his incredible ability to keep going. He was indefatigable. He could keep a sentence in the air endlessly, magnificently, sweeping all before it.
When he had been speaking for a whole hour, he took a few sips of water and drew breath, putting his notes in order.
‘Take a rest!’ suggested a number of deputies.
But he did not feel in the least tired. He wanted to bring his speech to a conclusion.
‘What are they asking of you, Messieurs?’ he asked.
Cries of ‘Listen! Listen!’ came from the benches. All faces were now turned in rapt attention towards Rougon. From time to time, as his voice rang out, a wave of emotion seemed to sweep through the Chamber, like a great gust of wind.
‘They are asking you to abrogate the Law of Public Safety. I will not remind you of the terrible moment when that law became a vital arm of government; the country needed reassurance, France had to be saved from a fresh cataclysm. Today that weapon rests in its scabbard. The government, which always used it with restraint…’
‘Very true!’
‘The government now uses it only in the most exceptional circumstances. That weapon poses no threat to anyone, except perhaps to those sectarian groups who still harbour the mad desire to see the worst days in our national history come back again. Travel through our towns, travel through the countryside, everywhere you will find peace and prosperity. Ask orderly folk and you will find that there is not one who feels burdened by these extraordinary laws for which we are attacked as if they were a crime. I repeat, in the paternal hands of the government those laws continue to act as a safeguard against any despicable attempts to undermine our society, though it is now impossible for such attempts ever to succeed. Decent folk need never be concerned by the existence of those safeguards. Let us leave them where they are, until such time as the Sovereign feels that they may be done away with… And what else is it they ask, Messieurs? Free elections, freedom of the press, all manner of freedoms. Please allow me to pause for a moment and consider the many achievements of the Empire. Around me, wherever I look, I see public freedoms growing and bearing magnificent fruit. I find it deeply moving to be able to say that France, once brought so low, is now rising high, offering the world the example of a people winning its freedom by virtue of its own good behaviour. Our time of trial is over. There is no longer any question of dictatorship, of authoritarian government. We are all builders of liberty…’
‘Bravo! Bravo!’
‘They call for free elections. But is not universal suffrage, applied in the widest possible way, the essential condition of the Empire’s very existence? Admittedly, the government puts forward its own candidates. But does the revolutionary party also not propose its own men, with shameless audacity? We are attacked and we defend ourselves, what could be fairer? They would like to gag us, tie our hands, immobilize us completely. That is what we will never allow. Because of our love of our country, we shall ever be at hand to counsel it and signal its true interests. The nation, after all, is the master of its own destiny. It votes, and we bow to its will. By belonging to this assembly, and enjoying here complete freedom of speech, the members of the opposition themselves are proof of our respect for the determinations of universal suffrage. If the country votes, by a crushing majority, in support of the Empire, it is to the country that the revolutionaries should complain… In this parliament every barrier to the exercise of freedom has today been removed. It has been the Sovereign’s will to give the great institutions of state a more direct role in his policies, and that is remarkable proof of his confidence. From now on you will be able to debate every action proposed by the government, with full rights of amendment and complete freedom to express, in a reasoned manner, your own views and preferences. Every year, the address from the throne will serve as a meeting point between the Emperor and the nation’s representatives, at which the latter will have the opportunity to say whatever they like. It is from such open discussion that strong states are born. This rostrum, graced by so many illustrious speakers before me, has been restored. A parliament that engages in debate is a parliament that works. Would you like to know what I really think? I will tell you: it makes me happy to see a group of opposition deputies here. In our midst there will always be adversaries who will try to fault us, thereby highlighting our integrity. For them we demand the greatest privileges possible. We fear neither passion nor scandal nor even abuse of free speech, however dangerous such things might be… And as for the press, Messieurs, it has never enjoyed greater freedom, under any government that wishes to be respected. All important ideas, all matters of significance, are able to find expression in the press. The administration is merely concerned to combat the propagation of evil doctrines, the peddling of poison. But for the decent press, which is the great voice of public opinion, we have the greatest respect. That press assists us in our task, it is the great tool of our age. If the government did once take control of it, that was only to prevent it from falling into the hands of its enemies…’
There was a burst of approving laughter. But Rougon was now coming to his peroration. Gripping the front of the rostrum, he lunged forward and made a great sweeping gesture with his right arm. His powerful voice rang out. Suddenly, in the middle of his liberal idyll, he seemed overcome with rage. His clenched fist was a battering ram, threatening something unseen, in the distance. The invisible foe was the red spectre of revolution. In a few dramatic sentences he evoked that spectre waving its bloodstained flag, sweeping across the countryside with burning torches, leaving in its wake rivers of mud and blood. What could now be heard in his voice were the warning bells from the time of street riots, with the whistle of bullets, the sound of strongboxes in the banks being broken open, the savings of the bourgeoisie plundered and redistributed. The deputies sat pale on their benches. Then Rougon became calm again. With extravagant words of praise that had the rhythmic balance of a censer, he brought his speech to a close by speaking once more of the Emperor.
‘Praise be to God that we enjoy the protection of the Prince chosen by
Providence to save us. In the shelter of his infinite wisdom we can find rest. He has taken us by the hand and, step by step, weaving his way between the reefs, he is leading us safely to port.’
There was deafening applause. The sitting was suspended for nearly ten minutes. Deputies rushed across to the Minister as he resumed his seat, his forehead moist with sweat, his shoulders still heaving from his exertions. Monsieur La Rouquette, Monsieur de Combelot, and a hundred others congratulated him and reached out their hands in an effort to shake his as he passed. It was as if an earthquake was rumbling through the Chamber. Even in the public gallery people were chattering and gesticulating. Under the sunlit expanse of the ceiling with all its gilt and marble, an imposing combination of temple and administrative office, there was all the hubbub of a public square, incredulous laughter, cries of astonishment and admiration, all the clamour of a crowd in the grip of high emotion. Count de Marsy and Clorinde exchanged a momentary glance, and nodded. They recognized the great man’s triumph. With this speech Rougon had inaugurated the extraordinary upturn in his fortunes which was to take him to such heights.*
Meanwhile, another deputy had taken his place at the rostrum. He had a clean-shaven face, white as wax, and long blond hair, a few locks of which even fell to his shoulders. Standing very stiffly, and making no gesture, he ran his eye over some enormous sheets of paper, the manuscript of a speech which he began to read in a lacklustre way.
‘Pray silence, pray silence!’ cried the ushers.
The speaker asked the government to explain itself. He was very annoyed by its wait-and-see policy in the face of Italy’s threat to the Holy See. The Church’s temporal power was the Holy Ark, and the address should have contained some formal commitment, even an injunction, with regard to the integrity of the papal state. The speech entered into historical considerations, to show that Christian law, several centuries before the treaties of 1815,* had established the political system of Europe. Then came a rhetoric of fear, the speaker declaring that he could see the dissolution of the old order of Europe amid popular upheavals. At certain points, when he made too direct allusions to the King of Italy, there were signs of unrest in the assembly. But the compact group of clerical deputies on the right, nearly a hundred of them, were most attentive. They strongly approved of every part of the speech, and each time their colleague referred to the Pope they indicated their support with a slight nod.
The speaker concluded with a sentence that was met with cries of approval.
‘I do not like’, he said, ‘to see Venice the magnificent, the Queen of the Adriatic, turned into a petty vassal of Turin.’
Rougon, his neck still covered in sweat, his voice husky, his great frame exhausted by his speech, insisted on giving an immediate response. It was a superb spectacle. He made the most of his fatigue, he played to the gallery with it, dragging himself to the rostrum, and beginning his reply with a few muttered words that were barely audible. He expressed his deep regret that among the opponents of the government there were decent men, who until now had been so devoted to the institutions of the Empire. Surely there was some misunderstanding, surely they did not really wish to swell the ranks of the revolutionaries, nor to undermine the authority of a government that strove unremittingly to ensure the victory of the faith? Turning to the benches on the right, he gestured imploringly to them and spoke with a humility full of guile, as if to powerful enemies, the only enemies he really feared.
Little by little, his voice regained all its resonance, till it filled the Chamber; and as he spoke he thumped his chest with his mighty fists.
‘We have been accused of irreligion. That is a lie! We are the respectful offspring of the Church and it is our good fortune to be true believers… Yes, Messieurs, our faith is our guide and our support in the sometimes burdensome task of government. What would become of us if we could not place ourselves in the hands of Providence? Our sole ambition is to be the humble instrument of His designs, the obedient tool of God’s will. This gives us the strength to speak out and to do good… Messieurs, I am happy here and now to kneel, with all the fervour of my Catholic heart, before the sovereign Pontiff, before that august old man of whom France will ever be the vigilant, devoted daughter.’
They did not wait for him to finish his sentence before bursting into applause. The rafters shook. Rougon’s triumph became an apotheosis.
As they left, Clorinde looked out for him. They had not spoken to each other for three years. When he appeared, he looked rejuvenated, as if suddenly relieved of a burden. In one hour he had cancelled out his whole political life hitherto and was now ready, under the guise of parliamentary government, to gratify his insatiable appetite for power. She yielded to her natural impulse and went up to him, her hand outstretched, her eyes moist with tenderness, saying:
‘I must say you’re very impressive, you know!’
Explanatory Notes
3 Chamber: this opening scene is set in the Palais Bourbon, the seat of the legislative body (the present Chamber of Deputies) in 1856, the year of the christening (on 13 May) of the Prince Imperial. At this time, the 261 deputies, elected for six years by universal suffrage, had virtually no power; each constituency had an ‘official candidate’ who was obliged to swear an oath of allegiance to the Emperor; 256 such candidates were elected in 1852.
Council of State: the Council of State was established by the French Consulate government in 1799 as a judicial body mandated to act as legal adviser of the executive branch, to adjudicate claims against the State, and to assist in the drafting of legislation and the presentation of the budget.
4 Charter: the constitutional Charter of 1830, established at the beginning of the ‘July Monarchy’ of King Louis-Philippe (r. 1830–48), removed from the king the power to instigate legislation; hereditary peerage was also eliminated.
5 public: from 1852 to 1860 Le Moniteur universel published reports on debates in the legislative body, and, subject to official authorization, the text of speeches by deputies. The Moniteur was an official organ of government; newspapers were not allowed to publish reports on debates, but only an official communiqué approved by the President of the legislative body.
quaestors’ box: the quaestors were administrators with special responsibility for financial matters.
8 Tuileries: the Tuileries Palace, situated between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde, was the official residence in Paris of the Emperor. It was destroyed by fire during the Paris Commune in May 1871.
Conseil des prises: the Conseil des prises, or Conseil des prises maritimes, was a judicial body charged with judging the validity of maritime seizures (of ships or cargo) by the French navy.
9 15 August: the birthday of Napoleon I, 15 August, was declared a national holiday by a decree dated 16 February 1852. The ‘red ribbon’ is that of the Legion of Honour.
10 chamberlain: a senior official who managed the household of a monarch or noble.
12 government bench: ministers did not attend the legislative body; it was the task of that body’s president, who was a member of the Council of Ministers, to speak for the government in the assembly.
13 celebration thereof: Zola reproduces here, word for word, the report read in the Chamber on 13 May 1856, and printed in Le Moniteur universel on 15 May.
15 King of Rome: Napoleon II, the son of Napoleon I, was given this title on his birth in 1811. He died at the age of 21.
20 indifference: the foregoing debate is as reported in Le Moniteur universel on 2 July 1856.
23 ‘Legislative Assembly’: the reference here is to the Legislative Assembly under the Second Republic, from 28 May 1849 to 2 December 1851. At this time Rougon served as a deputy for the Deux-Sèvres.
24 Élysée: the Élysée Palace was the official residence of the President during the Second Republic. When Louis-Napoleon became emperor he chose the Tuileries as his official residence: see note to p. 8.
28 Count de Marsy: the most obvious model for Count de Marsy, both
onomastically and in terms of his detailed characterization in this chapter and later, is Charles de Morny, Duc de Morny (1811–65). He was the illegitimate son of Hortense de Beauharnais (the wife of Louis Bonaparte and Queen of Holland) and General Charles de Flahaut, and thus half-brother of Emperor Napoleon III. He was appointed minister of the interior after the coup d’état of 1851 and was president of the legislative body from 1854 until his death. He used his office to further his speculative projects and for financial gain generally (for example, he requested a million francs in exchange for granting a concession to build a railway line from Bourges to Montluçon).
Compagnie de l’Ouest: large private railway companies began to be formed in the 1840s. Through them, the railway network in France underwent spectacular growth during the Second Empire. The State assumed regulatory powers in the late 1850s. The nationalization of the railways did not come until 1 January 1938, with the creation of the SNCF (Société nationale des Chemins de fer françaises).
29 soil: see The Fortune of the Rougons, chapter 2.
30 senator: the Senate is the upper chamber of the Parliament of France. The Second Republic introduced a unicameral system in 1848, but soon after the establishment of the Second Empire in 1852, a Senate was reintroduced.
Palais Bourbon: it was in fact the statesman and diplomat, the Duc de Persigny, an old ally of Louis-Napoleon, who took control of the National Assembly, with the 42nd Infantry Regiment, on 2 December 1851.
34 vaudeville artist: Morny wrote light comedies, operettas, and verse under the pseudonym Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.
37 Commander: the Legion of Honour is the highest French order of merit for military and civil distinction. It was established in 1802 by Napoleon Bonaparte. The order is divided into five degrees of increasing distinction: Knight (Chevalier), Officer (Officier), Commander (Commandeur), Grand Officer (Grand Officier), and Grand Cross (Grand-Croix).