The Kill - Emile Zola [164]
Saccard and Maxime were strolling slowly arm in arm. The father must have called on the son, and together they must have walked down the avenue de l’Impératrice to the lake, chatting as they went.
“You heard me,” Saccard was repeating. “You’re a fool. . . . When a fellow has the kind of money you have, he doesn’t stick it away in the bottom of a drawer. There’s a hundred percent profit to be made in the deal I’ve been telling you about. It’s a sure thing. You know very well I wouldn’t pull a fast one on you.”
But the young man seemed bored by his father’s insistence. He smiled prettily and looked at the carriages.
“See that little woman over there, the woman in violet?” he asked abruptly. “She’s a laundress that ass Mussy has set up.”
They looked at the woman in violet. Then Saccard pulled a cigar out of his pocket and turned to Maxime, who was smoking. “Give me a light.”
They stopped for a moment, face-to-face, and brought their heads together. When the cigar was lit, Saccard took his son’s arm, squeezed it tightly under his own, and continued with what he had been saying: “You know, you’re an imbecile if you don’t listen to me. So, do we have a deal? Will you bring me the 100,000 francs tomorrow?”
“You know I don’t go to your house anymore,” Maxime replied with a pout.
“Bah! Nonsense! It’s time to put an end to all that!”
As they walked on a few more steps in silence, and Renée, feeling faint, buried her head in the coupé’s upholstery so as not to be seen, a growing buzz raced along the line of carriages. On the sidewalks, pedestrians stopped and turned, mouths agape, eyes fixed on something coming toward them. The wheels made a scraping sound as carriages drew aside respectfully, and two outriders appeared, dressed in green and wearing round caps trimmed with golden tassels that formed a dancing curtain around their heads. Leaning slightly forward, they trotted past on big bay horses. Behind them, they left a void, and in that void the Emperor appeared.
He was riding in the back of a landau, alone on the rear seat. Dressed in black, with his frock coat buttoned up to his chin, he wore a very high top hat, slightly tilted to one side and made of shiny silk. Opposite him, on the front seat, dressed with the punctilious elegance that was then in favor at the Tuileries, two gentlemen sat gravely with their hands in their laps—two taciturn wedding guests exposed to a gawking crowd.
Renée found that the Emperor had aged. Under his thick waxed mustache, his jaw hung more listlessly than before. His eyelids drooped to the point where they half covered his lifeless eyes, whose hazel irises now seemed clouded. Only his nose remained unchanged, still looking like a dry fish bone sticking out of a rather nondescript face.
In the meantime, while the ladies in the carriages smiled discreetly, the people on foot pointed out the sovereign to one another. One fat man maintained that the Emperor was