'If you will take my advice, Monsieur l'Abbé, you will be careful what you do. You can't imagine what a scrape I once nearly fell into. Plassans, you know, is divided into three absolutely distinct divisions: the old district, where your duties will be confined to administering consolation and alms; the district of Saint-Marc, where our aristocrats live, a district that is full of boredom and ill-feeling, and where you can't be too much upon your guard; and, lastly, the new town, the district which is now springing up round the Sub-Prefecture, and which is the only one where it is possible to live with any degree of comfort. At first I was foolish enough to take up my quarters in the Saint-Marc district, where I thought that my position required me to reside. There, alack! I found myself surrounded by a lot of withered old dowagers and mummified marquises. There wasn't an atom of sociability, not a scrap of gaiety, nothing but sulky mutiny against the prosperous peace that the country was enjoying. I only just missed compromising myself, upon my word I did. Péqueur used to chaff me, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect; you know him, don't you? Well, then I crossed the Cours Sauvaire, and took rooms on the Place. At Plassans, you must know, the people have no existence, and the aristocracy are a dreadful lot that it's quite impossible to get on with; the only tolerable folks are a few parvenus, some delightful persons who are ready to incur any expense in entertaining their official acquaintances. Our little circle of functionaries is a very delightful one. We live amongst ourselves after our own inclinations, without caring a rap about the townspeople, just as if we had pitched our camp in some conquered country.'
He laughed complacently, stretched himself further back in his chair, and turned up his feet to the fire; then he took a glass of punch from a tray which one of the servants handed to him, and sipped it slowly while still watching Abbé Faujas out of the corner of his eye. The latter felt that politeness required him to say something.
'This house seems a very pleasant one,' he remarked, turning slightly towards the green drawing-room, whence the sound of animated conversation was proceeding.
'Yes, yes,' resumed Monsieur de Condamin, who checked his remarks every now and then to take a little sip of punch. 'The Rougons almost make us forget Paris. You would scarcely fancy here that you were in Plassans. It is the only pleasant and amusing drawing-room in the whole place, because it is the only one where all shades of opinion elbow one another. Péqueur, too, has very pleasant assemblies. It must cost the Rougons a lot of money, and they haven't the public purse behind them like Péqueur has; though they have something better still, the pockets of the taxpayers.'
He seemed quite pleased with this witticism of his. He set his empty glass, which he had been holding in his hand, upon the mantelpiece, and then, drawing his chair near to Abbé Faujas and leaning towards him, he began to speak again:
'The most amusing comedies are continually being played here. But you ought to know the actors to appreciate them. You see Madame Rastoil over yonder between her two daughters—that lady of about forty-five with a head like a sheep's? Well, have you noticed how her eyelids trembled and blinked when Delangre came and sat down in front of her? Delangre is the man there on the left, with a likeness to Punch. They were acquainted intimately some ten years ago, and he is said to be the father of one of the girls, but it isn't known which. The funniest part of the business is that Delangre himself didn't get on very well with his wife about the same time; and people say that the father of his daughter is an artist very well known in Plassans.'
Abbé Faujas had considered it his duty to assume a very serious expression on being made the recipient of such confidences as these, and he even closed his eyes and seemed to hear nothing; while Monsieur de Condamin went on, as though in justification of himself:
'I allow myself to speak in this way of Delangre, as I know him so well. He is a wonderfully clever, pushing fellow. His father was a bricklayer, I believe. Fifteen years ago he used to take up the petty suits that other lawyers wouldn't be bothered with. Madame Rastoil extricated him from a condition of absolute penury; she supplied him even with wood in the winter-time to enable him to keep himself warm. It was through her influence that he won his first cases. It's worth mentioning that at that time Delangre had been shrewd enough to manifest no particular political proclivities; and so, in 1852, when people were looking out for a mayor, his name was at once thought of. He was the only man who could have been chosen without alarming one or other of the three divisions of the town. From that time everything has prospered with him, and he has a fine future before him. The only unfortunate part of the matter is that he doesn't get on very well with Péqueur; they are always wrangling about some silly trifles or other.'
He broke off as he saw the tall young man, with whom he had been chatting previously, come up to him again.
'Monsieur Guillaume Porquier,' he said, introducing him to the Abbé, 'the son of Doctor Porquier.'