The Conquest of Plassans (Les Rougon-Macquart Book 4) by Émile Zola Page A

Paloque is kindness itself and I imagine you have nothing against Doctor Porquier.’
    Mouret shrugged.
    ‘And what’s more,’ she went on, giving ironic emphasis to her words, ‘I also invite Monsieur Rastoil’s
crowd
, the worthy Monsieur Maffre and our learned friend Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect… So you can see we do not exclude anyone, all shades of opinion are welcome in our house. But surely you can see I’d hardly have anyone if I chose all my guests from one side! After all, we love good conversation wherever it can be found, we flatter ourselves we have the most distinguished society in Plassans at our parties… My salon is neutral ground, bear that in mind, Mouret. Yes, neutral ground—that’s the right word.’
    She had become very animated while she was speaking. Every time she started on this subject she ended up getting cross. Her salon was her pride and joy. As she said, she wanted to rule over it, not as party leader, but as society hostess. It is true that her intimates claimed she was following the tactics of conciliation, as advised by her son, Eugène, the minister, who had made her the person in Plassans responsible for exemplifying the moderate and friendly character of the Empire.
    ‘Say what you like,’ Mouret muttered under his breath, ‘your Maffre is a sanctimonious fool, your Bourdeu is an idiot, and the others are scoundrels, most of them. That’s what I think… I thank you for your invitation, but it’s not at all convenient for me. I go to bed early. I’ll stay in my own house.’
    Félicité rose, turned her back on Mouret, saying to her daughter:
    ‘Can I still count on you, darling?’
    ‘Of course,’ replied Marthe, who wanted to soften her husband’s brutal refusal.
    The old lady was on the point of leaving, when she seemed to change her mind. She asked if she could give Désirée a kiss—she had caught sight of her in the garden. She didn’t even want to call the child in; she went down the terrace, which was still very damp from the shower they had had that morning. There she lavished caresses on her granddaughter who was rather frightened by her; then, raising her head, as though casually, to the curtains on the second floor, she cried:
    ‘Oh, have you got lodgers?… Oh yes, a priest, I think. I heard about that… What kind of priest is he?’
    Mouret stared at her. A suspicion flitted across his mind—that she had only come to see Abbé Faujas.
    ‘I really don’t know…,’ he said, without taking his eyes off her. ‘But perhaps you have some information?’
    ‘Me?’ she cried, with a great show of surprise. ‘I haven’t ever clapped eyes on him… Oh, just a minute, I know he’s the priest at Saint-Saturnin; Father Bourrette told me that. And you know that reminds me, I must invite him to my “Thursdays”. I’ve already entertained the director of the Grand Seminary and Monsignor’s secretary.’
    Then, turning to Marthe:
    ‘You know, when you see your lodger you ought to find out if he would like to receive an invitation and let me know.’
    ‘We hardly see him,’ Mouret replied hastily. ‘He comes and goes without opening his mouth… But then, it’s not my business.’
    He went on looking at her suspiciously. She certainly knew more about Abbé Faujas than she was letting on. But she did not flinch beneath the watchful stare of her son-in-law.
    ‘Anyway I don’t mind,’ she went on, completely unabashed. ‘If he’s an acceptable sort of person I shall always find some way of inviting him… Goodbye, children.’
    As she was going back up the steps a tall, elderly man appeared in the entrance to the hall. He wore a waistcoat and trousers in a very clean blue material, with a fur cap pulled down over his eyes. He had a whip in his hand.
    ‘Oh, it’s Uncle Macquart!’ cried Mouret, casting a quizzical glance at his mother-in-law.
    Félicité had shown her strong disapproval. Macquart, Rougon’s illegitimate brother, had,