The Kill - Emile Zola [20]
“You’re right, gentlemen,” Mignon interjected, as if to round out the conversation while everyone was still smiling and murmuring appreciatively over the baron’s remark. “These are good times. I know more than one fellow who’s added a tidy sum to his nest egg. When you’re making money, you know, everything looks good.”
These last words cast an icy chill over the grave men at the center of the table. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, and neighbor avoided looking at neighbor. It was as though the former bricklayer, in trying to pay these very serious gentlemen a compliment, had dropped a ton of bricks on them. Michelin, who had as a matter of fact been contemplating Saccard in a most pleasant manner, stopped smiling, terrified at the thought that he might have seemed for a moment to take the contractor’s words as applying to their host. Saccard himself glanced at Mme Sidonie, who again turned her full attention to Mignon: “So you like pink, do you?” He then complimented Mme d’Espanet at length. The young woman’s dark, sly face almost touched her milky white shoulders, which she threw back slightly as she laughed.
When the time for dessert arrived, the footmen picked up their pace. There was a pause while the table was heaped with fruits and sweets. At Maxime’s end, the laughter grew brighter. Louise’s rather shrill voice could be heard: “I assure you that Sylvia was wearing a blue satin dress when she played Dindonette.” To which another high-pitched voice added, “Yes, but the dress was trimmed with white lace.” Warmth suffused the room. The faces of the guests, now somewhat flushed, seemed softened by some inner bliss. Two footmen went around the table pouring Alicante and Tokay.16
From the moment dinner began Renée had seemed distracted. She had done her duty as mistress of the house with a mechanical smile. With each gale of merriment from the end of the table where Maxime and Louise were sitting side by side and bantering like old friends, she glared in their direction. She was bored. The serious men were deadly. Mme d’Espanet and Mme Haffner shot desperate glances in her direction.
“How do things look for the upcoming elections?” Saccard abruptly asked Hupel de la Noue.
“Very good,” came the answer from the prefect, who coupled it with a smile. “Only I still have no candidates designated for my département. The ministry apparently hasn’t made up its mind.”
M. de Mareuil, who had glanced at Saccard to thank him for broaching this subject, looked as though he was walking on hot coals. He blushed slightly and waved his hands with some embarrassment. The prefect, turning now to address him, continued: “Many people in the district have spoken to me about you, sir. Your large estates in the region have won you many friends, and your devotion to the Emperor is well-known. Your prospects are excellent.”
At that moment Maxime shouted to his father from his end of the table. “Papa, isn’t it true that little Sylvia used to sell cigarettes in Marseilles in 1849?”
But Saccard pretended not to hear him, so the young man continued in a lower tone of voice: “My father was a particular friend of hers.”
Muffled laughs were heard. Meanwhile, as M. de Mareuil continued to wave his hands, M. Haffner began to speak in a sententious tone. “Devotion to the Emperor is the only virtue, the only form of patriotism, in this age of self-interested democracy. Whoever loves the Emperor loves France. We would welcome you as a colleague, sir, with sincere pleasure.”
“You will win, sir,” Toutin-Laroche put in. “Men of substantial wealth have to rally round the throne.”
Renée could stand no more. Across from her, the marquise stifled a yawn. As Saccard was about to hold forth once again, she interrupted. “Please, dear, show us a little pity,” she said with a pretty smile. “Enough of your wretched politics.”
At that point, M. Hupel de la Noue, displaying