LE COMTE SIXTE DU CHATELET,
Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Prefect of the Charente,
Councillor of State.
“You are in favor,” said old Séchard; “they are talking about you in the
town as if you were somebody! Angoulême and L’Houmeau are disputing as
to which shall twist wreaths for you.”
“Eve, dear,” Lucien whispered to his sister, “I am exactly in the same
condition as I was before in L’Houmeau when Mme. de Bargeton sent me
the first invitation--I have not a dress suit for the prefect’s
dinner-party.”
“Do you really mean to accept the invitation?” Eve asked in alarm, and a
dispute sprang up between the brother and sister. Eve’s provincial good
sense told her that if you appear in society, it must be with a smiling
face and faultless costume. “What will come of the prefect’s dinner?”
she wondered. “What has Lucien to do with the great people of Angoulême?
Are they plotting something against him?” but she kept these thoughts to
herself.
Lucien spoke the last word at bedtime: “You do not know my influence.
The prefect’s wife stands in fear of a journalist; and besides, Louise
de Nègrepelisse lives on in the Comtesse du Châtelet, and a woman
with her influence can rescue David. I am going to tell her about my
brother’s invention, and it would be a mere nothing to her to obtain a
subsidy of ten thousand francs from the Government for him.”
At eleven o’clock that night the whole household was awakened by the
town band, reinforced by the military band from the barracks. The Place
du Mûrier was full of people. The young men of Angoulême were giving
Lucien Chardon de Rubempré a serenade. Lucien went to his sister’s
window and made a speech after the last performance.
“I thank my fellow-townsmen for the honor that they do me,” he said in
the midst of a great silence; “I will strive to be worthy of it; they
will pardon me if I say no more; I am so much moved by this incident
that I cannot speak.”
“Hurrah for the writer of _The Archer of Charles IX._! . . . Hurrah for
the poet of the _Marguerites_! . . . Long live Lucien de Rubempré!”
After these three salvos, taken up by some few voices, three crowns and
a quantity of bouquets were adroitly flung into the room through the
open window. Ten minutes later the Place du Mûrier was empty, and
silence prevailed in the streets.
“I would rather have ten thousand francs,” said old Séchard, fingering
the bouquets and garlands with a satirical expression. “You gave them
daisies, and they give you posies in return; you deal in flowers.”
“So that is your opinion of the honors shown me by my fellow-townsmen,
is it?” asked Lucien. All his melancholy had left him, his face was
radiant with good humor. “If you knew mankind, Papa Séchard, you would
see that no moment in one’s life comes twice. Such a triumph as this can
only be due to genuine enthusiasm! . . . My dear mother, my good sister,
this wipes out many mortifications.”
Lucien kissed them; for when joy overflows like a torrent flood, we
are fain to pour it out into a friend’s heart. “When an author is
intoxicated with success, he will hug his porter if there is nobody else
on hand,” according to Bixiou.
“Why, darling, why are you crying?” he said, looking into Eve’s face.
“Ah! I know, you are crying for joy!”
“Oh me!” said Eve, when she and her mother were left alone in the
bedroom, “there is a pretty woman of the worst kind in a poet, I think.”
“You are right, said her mother, shaking her head as she spoke. “Lucien
has forgotten everything already; not merely his own troubles, but ours
as well.”
Mother and daughter separated, and neither dared to utter all her
thoughts.
In a country eaten up with the kind of social insubordination disguised
by the word Equality, a triumph of any kind whatsoever is a sort of
miracle which requires, like some other miracles for that matter, the
co-operation of skilled labor. Out of ten ovations offered to ten living
men, selected for this distinction by a grateful country, you may be
quite sure that nine are given from considerations connected as remotely
as possible with the conspicuous merits of the renowned recipient. What
was Voltaire’s apotheosis at the Théâtre-Français but the triumph of
eighteenth century philosophy? A triumph in France means that everybody
else feels that he is adorning his own temples with the crown that he
sets on the idol’s head.
The women’s presentiments proved correct. The distinguished provincial’s
reception was antipathetic to Angoumoisin immobility; it was too
evidently got up by some interested persons or by enthusiastic stage
mechanics, a suspicious combination. Eve, moreover, like most of her
sex, was distrustful by instinct, even when reason failed to justify her
suspicions to herself. “Who can be so fond of Lucien that he could rouse
the town for him?” she wondered as she fell asleep. “The _Marguerites_
are not published yet; how can they compliment him on a future success?”
The ovation was, in fact, the work of Petit-Claud.
Petit-Claud had dined with Mme. de Senonches, for the first time, on the
evening of the day that brought the curé of Marsac to Angoulême with the
news of Lucien’s return. That same evening he made formal application
for the hand of Mlle. de la Haye. It was a family dinner, one of the
solemn occasions marked not so much by the number of the guests as by
the splendor of their toilettes. Consciousness of the performance
weighs upon the family party, and every countenance looks significant.
Françoise was on exhibition. Mme. de Senonches had sported her most
elaborate costume for the occasion; M. du Hautoy wore a black coat; M.
de Senonches had returned from his visit to the Pimentels on the receipt
of a note from his wife, informing him that Mme. du Châtelet was to
appear at their house for the first time since her arrival, and that
a suitor in form for Françoise would appear on the scenes. Boniface
Cointet also was there, in his best maroon coat of clerical cut, with a
diamond pin worth six thousand francs displayed in his shirt frill--the
revenge of the rich merchant upon a poverty-stricken aristocracy.
Petit-Claud himself, scoured and combed, had carefully removed his gray
hairs, but he could not rid himself of his wizened air. The puny little
man of law, tightly buttoned into his clothes, reminded you of a torpid
viper; for if hope had brought a spark of life into his magpie eyes, his
face was icily rigid, and so well did he assume an air of gravity, that
an ambitious public prosecutor could not have been more dignified.
Mme. de Senonches had told her intimate friends that her ward would meet
her betrothed that evening, and that Mme. du Châtelet would appear
at the Hôtel de Senonches for the first time; and having particularly
requested them to keep these matters secret, she expected to find
her rooms crowded. The Comte and Comtesse du Châtelet had left cards
everywhere officially, but they meant the honor of a personal visit to
play a part in their policy. So aristocratic Angoulême was in such
a prodigious ferment of curiosity, that certain of the Chandour camp
proposed to go to the Hôtel de Bargeton that evening. (They persistently
declined to call the house by its new name.)
Proofs of the Countess’ influence had stirred up ambition in many
quarters; and not only so, it was said that the lady had changed so
much for the better that everybody wished to see and judge for himself.
Petit-Claud learned great news on the way to the house; Cointet told him
that Zéphirine had asked leave to present her dear Françoise’s
betrothed to the Countess, and that the Countess had granted the
favor. Petit-Claud had seen at once that Lucien’s return put Louise de
Nègrepelisse in a false position; and now, in a moment, he flattered
himself that he saw a way to take advantage of it.
M. and Mme. de Senonches had undertaken such heavy engagements when they
bought the house, that, in provincial fashion, they thought it imprudent
to make any changes in it. So when Madame du Châtelet was announced,
Zéphirine went up to her with--“Look, dear Louise, you are still in your
old home!” indicating, as she spoke, the little chandelier, the paneled
wainscot, and the furniture, which once had dazzled Lucien.
“I wish least of all to remember it, dear,” Madame la Préfète answered
graciously, looking round on the assemblage.
Every one admitted that Louise de Nègrepelisse was not like the same
woman. If the provincial had undergone a change, the woman herself
had been transformed by those eighteen months in Paris, by the first
happiness of a still recent second marriage, and the kind of dignity
that power confers. The Comtesse du Châtelet bore the same resemblance
to Mme. de Bargeton that a girl of twenty bears to her mother.
She wore a charming cap of lace and flowers, fastened by a
diamond-headed pin; the ringlets that half hid the contours of her face
added to her look of youth, and suited her style of beauty. Her foulard
gown, designed by the celebrated Victorine, with a pointed bodice,
exquisitely fringed, set off her figure to advantage; and a silken
lace scarf, adroitly thrown about a too long neck, partly concealed her
shoulders. She played with the dainty scent-bottle, hung by a chain from
her bracelet; she carried her fan and her handkerchief with ease--pretty
trifles, as dangerous as a sunken reef for the provincial dame. The
refined taste shown in the least details, the carriage and manner
modeled upon Mme. d’Espard, revealed a profound study of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain.
As for the elderly beau of the Empire, he seemed since his marriage to
have followed the example of the species of melon that turns from green
to yellow in a night. All the youth that Sixte had lost seemed to appear
in his wife’s radiant countenance; provincial pleasantries passed from
ear to ear, circulating the more readily because the women were furious
at the new superiority of the sometime queen of Angoulême; and the
persistent intruder paid the penalty of his wife’s offence.
The rooms were almost as full as on that memorable evening of Lucien’s
readings from Chénier. Some faces were missing: M. de Chandour and
Amélie, M. de Pimental and the Rastignacs--and M. de Bargeton was no
longer there; but the Bishop came, as before, with his vicars-general
in his train. Petit-Claud was much impressed by the sight of the great
world of Angoulême. Four months ago he had no hope of entering the
circle, to-day he felt his detestation of “the classes” sensibly
diminished. He thought the Comtesse du Châtelet a most fascinating
woman. “It is she who can procure me the appointment of deputy public
prosecutor,” he said to himself.
Louise chatted for an equal length of time with each of the women; her
tone varied with the importance of the person addressed and the position
taken up by the latter with regard to her journey to Paris with Lucien.
The evening was half over when she withdrew to the boudoir with the
Bishop. Zéphirine came over to Petit-Claud, and laid her hand on his
arm. His heart beat fast as his hostess brought him to the room where
Lucien’s troubles first began, and were now about to come to a crisis.
“This is M. Petit-Claud, dear; I recommend him to you the more warmly
because anything that you may do for him will doubtless benefit my
ward.”
“You are an attorney, are you not, monsieur?” said the august
Nègrepelisse, scanning Petit-Claud.
“Alas! yes, _Madame la Comtesse_.” (The son of the tailor in L’Houmeau
had never once had occasion to use those three words in his life before,
and his mouth was full of them.) “But it rests with you, Madame la
Comtesse, whether or no I shall act for the Crown. M. Milaud is going to
Nevers, it is said----”
“But a man is usually second deputy and then first deputy, is he not?”
broke in the Countess. “I should like to see you in the first deputy’s
place at once. But I should like first to have some assurance of your
devotion to the cause of our legitimate sovereigns, to religion, and
more especially to M. de Villèle, if I am to interest myself on your
behalf to obtain the favor.”
Petit-Claud came nearer. “Madame,” he said in her ear, “I am the man to
yield the King absolute obedience.”
“That is just what _we_ want to-day,” said the Countess, drawing back
a little to make him understand that she had no wish for promises given
under his breath. “So long as you satisfy Mme. de Senonches, you can
count upon me,” she added, with a royal movement of her fan.
Petit-Claud looked toward the door of the boudoir, and saw Cointet
standing there. “Madame,” he said, “Lucien is here, in Angoulême.”
“Well, sir?” asked the Countess, in tones that would have put an end to
all power of speech in an ordinary man.
“Mme. la Comtesse does not understand,” returned Petit-Claud, bringing
out that most respectful formula again. “How does Mme. la Comtesse wish
that the great man of her making should be received in Angoulême? There
is no middle course; he must be received or despised here.”
This was a dilemma to which Louise de Nègrepelisse had never given a
thought; it touched her closely, yet rather for the sake of the past
than of the future. And as for Petit-Claud, his plan for arresting David
Séchard depended upon the lady’s actual feelings towards Lucien. He
waited.
“M. Petit-Claud,” said the Countess, with haughty dignity, “you mean
to be on the side of the Government. Learn that the first principle
of government is this--never to have been in the wrong, and that the
instinct of power and the sense of dignity is even stronger in women
than in governments.”
“That is just what I thought, madame,” he answered quickly, observing
the Countess meanwhile with attention the more profound because it was
scarcely visible. “Lucien came here in the depths of misery. But if
he must receive an ovation, I can compel him to leave Angoulême by
the means of the ovation itself. His sister and brother-in-law, David
Séchard, are hard pressed for debts.”
In the Countess’ haughty face there was a swift, barely perceptible
change; it was not satisfaction, but the repression of satisfaction.
Surprised that Petit-Claud should have guessed her wishes, she gave him
a glance as she opened her fan, and Françoise de la Haye’s entrance at
that moment gave her time to find an answer.
“It will not be long before you are public prosecutor, monsieur,” she
said, with a significant smile. That speech did not commit her in any
way, but it was explicit enough. Françoise had come in to thank the
Countess.
“Oh! madame, then I shall owe the happiness of my life to you,” she
exclaimed, bending girlishly to add in the Countess’ ear, “To marry a
petty provincial attorney would be like being burned by slow fires.”
It was Francis, with his knowledge of officialdom, who had prompted
Zéphirine to make this set upon Louise.
“In the very earliest days after promotion,” so the ex-consul-general
told his fair friend, “everybody, prefect, or monarch, or man of
business, is burning to exert his influence for his friends; but a
patron soon finds out the inconveniences of patronage, and then turns
from fire to ice. Louise will do more now for Petit-Claud than she would
do for her husband in three months’ time.”
“Madame la Comtesse is thinking of all that our poet’s triumph entails?”
continued Petit-Claud. “She should receive Lucien before there is an end
of the nine-days’ wonder.”
The Countess terminated the audience with a bow, and rose to speak
with Mme. de Pimentel, who came to the boudoir. The news of old
Nègrepelisse’s elevation to a marquisate had greatly impressed the
Marquise; she judged it expedient to be amiable to a woman so clever as
to rise the higher for an apparent fall.
“Do tell me, dear, why you took the trouble to put your father in
the House of Peers?” said the Marquise, in the course of a little
confidential conversation, in which she bent the knee before the
superiority of “her dear Louise.”
“They were all the more ready to grant the favor because my father has
no son to succeed him, dear, and his vote will always be at the disposal
of the Crown; but if we should have sons, I quite expect that my oldest
will succeed to his grandfather’s name, title, and peerage.”
Mme. de Pimentel saw, to her annoyance, that it was idle to expect a
mother ambitious for children not yet in existence to further her own
private designs of raising M. de Pimentel to a peerage.
“I have the Countess,” Petit-Claud told Cointet when they came away. “I
can promise you your partnership. I shall be deputy prosecutor before
the month is out, and Séchard will be in your power. Try to find a buyer
for my connection; it has come to be the first in Angoulême in my hands
during the last five months----”
“Once put _you_ on the horse, and there is no need to do more,” said
Cointet, half jealous of his own work.
The causes of Lucien’s triumphant reception in his native town must now
be plain to everybody. Louise du Châtelet followed the example of that
King of France who left the Duke of Orléans unavenged; she chose to
forget the insults received in Paris by Mme. de Bargeton. She would
patronize Lucien, and overwhelming him with her patronage, would
completely crush him and get rid of him by fair means. Petit-Claud knew
the whole tale of the cabals in Paris through town gossip, and shrewdly
guessed how a woman must hate the man who would not love when she was
fain of his love.
The ovation justified the past of Louise de Nègrepelisse. The next day
Petit-Claud appeared at Mme. Séchard’s house, heading a deputation of
six young men of the town, all of them Lucien’s schoolfellows. He meant
to finish his work, to intoxicate Lucien completely, and to have him in
his power. Lucien’s old schoolfellows at the Angoulême grammar-school
wished to invite the author of the _Marguerites_ and _The Archer of
Charles IX._ to a banquet given in honor of the great man arisen from
their ranks.
“Come, this is your doing, Petit-Claud!” exclaimed Lucien.
“Your return has stirred our conceit,” said Petit-Claud; “we made it a
point of honor to get up a subscription, and we will have a tremendous
affair for you. The masters and the headmaster will be there, and, at
the present rate, we shall, no doubt, have the authorities too.”
“For what day?” asked Lucien.
“Sunday next.”
“That is quite out of the question,” said Lucien. “I cannot accept an
invitation for the next ten days, but then I will gladly----”
“Very well,” said Petit-Claud, “so be it then, in ten days’ time.”
Lucien behaved charmingly to his old schoolfellows, and they regarded
him with almost respectful admiration. He talked away very wittily for
half an hour; he had been set upon a pedestal, and wished to justify the
opinion of his fellow-townsmen; so he stood with his hands thrust into
his pockets, and held forth from the height to which he had been raised.
He was modest and good-natured, as befitted genius in dressing-gown and
slippers; he was the athlete, wearied by a wrestling bout with Paris,
and disenchanted above all things; he congratulated the comrades who had
never left the dear old province, and so forth, and so forth. They were
delighted with him. He took Petit-Claud aside, and asked him for the
real truth about David’s affairs, reproaching him for allowing his
brother-in-law to go into hiding, and tried to match his wits against
the little lawyer. Petit-Claud made an effort over himself, and gave
his acquaintance to understand that he (Petit-Claud) was only an
insignificant little country attorney, with no sort of craft nor
subtlety.
The whole machinery of modern society is so infinitely more complex than
in ancient times, that the subdivision of human faculty is the result.
The great men of the days of old were perforce universal geniuses,
appearing at rare intervals like lighted torches in an antique world. In
the course of ages the intellect began to work on special lines, but the
great man still could “take all knowledge for his province.” A man “full
cautelous,” as was said of Louis XI., for instance, could apply that
special faculty in every direction, but to-day the single quality is
subdivided, and every profession has its special craft. A peasant or a
pettifogging solicitor might very easily overreach an astute diplomate
over a bargain in some remote country village; and the wiliest
journalist may prove the veriest simpleton in a piece of business.
Lucien could but be a puppet in the hands of Petit-Claud.
That guileful practitioner, as might have been expected, had written
the article himself; Angoulême and L’Houmeau, thus put on their
mettle, thought it incumbent upon them to pay honor to Lucien. His
fellow-citizens, assembled in the Place du Mûrier, were Cointets’
workpeople from the papermills and printing-house, with a sprinkling
of Lucien’s old schoolfellows and the clerks in the employ of Messieurs
Petit-Claud and Cachan. As for the attorney himself, he was once more
Lucien’s chum of old days; and he thought, not without reason, that
before very long he should learn David’s whereabouts in some unguarded
moment. And if David came to grief through Lucien’s fault, the poet
would find Angoulême too hot to hold him. Petit-Claud meant to secure
his hold; he posed, therefore, as Lucien’s inferior.
“What better could I have done?” he said accordingly. “My old chum’s
sister was involved, it is true, but there are some positions that
simply cannot be maintained in a court of law. David asked me on the
first of June to ensure him a quiet life for three months; he had a
quiet life until September, and even so I have kept his property out
of his creditors’ power, for I shall gain my case in the Court-Royal;
I contend that the wife is a privileged creditor, and her claim is
absolute, unless there is evidence of intent to defraud. As for you,
you have come back in misfortune, but you are a genius.”--(Lucien turned
about as if the incense were burned too close to his face.)--“Yes, my
dear fellow, a _genius_. I have read your _Archer of Charles IX._; it
is more than a romance, it is literature. Only two living men could have
written the preface--Chateaubriand and Lucien.”
Lucien accepted the eulogies, and did not think it necessary to mention
that d’Arthez had written the preface. Ninety-nine writers out of a
hundred would have done the same.
“Well, nobody here seemed to have heard of you!” Petit-Claud continued,
with apparent indignation. “When I saw the general indifference, I made
up my mind to change all that. I wrote that article in the paper----”
“What? Did you write it?” exclaimed Lucien.
“I myself. Angoulême and L’Houmeau were stirred to rivalry; I arranged
for a meeting of your old schoolfellows, and got up yesterday’s
serenade; and when once the enthusiasm began to grow, we started a
committee for the dinner. ‘If David is in hiding,’ said I to myself,
‘Lucien shall be crowned at any rate.’ And I have done even better than
that,” continued Petit-Claud; “I have seen the Comtesse du Châtelet and
made her understand that she owes it to herself to extricate David from
his position; she can do it, and she ought to do it. If David had really
discovered the secret of which he spoke to me, the Government ought to
lend him a hand, it would not ruin the Government; and think what a fine
thing for a prefect to have half the credit of the great invention
for the well-timed help. It would set people talking about him as an
enlightened administrator.--Your sister has taken fright at our musketry
practice; she was scared of the smoke. A battle in the law-courts costs
quite as much as a battle on the field; but David has held his ground,
he has his secret. They cannot stop him, and they will not pull him up
now.”
“Thanks, my dear fellow; I see that I can take you into my confidence;
you shall help me to carry out my plan.”
Petit-Claud looked at Lucien, and his gimlet face was a point of
interrogation.
“I intend to rescue Séchard,” Lucien said, with a certain importance. “I
brought his misfortunes upon him; I mean to make full reparation. . . .
I have more influence over Louise----”
“Who is Louise?”
“The Comtesse du Châtelet!”
Petit-Claud started.
“I have more influence over her than she herself suspects,” said Lucien;
“only, my dear fellow, if I can do something with your authorities here,
I have no decent clothes.”--Petit-Claud made as though he would offer
his purse.
“Thank you,” said Lucien, grasping Petit-Claud’s hand. “In ten days’
time I will pay a visit to the Countess and return your call.”
The shook hands like old comrades, and separated.
“He ought to be a poet,” said Petit-Claud to himself; “he is quite mad.”
“There are no friends like one’s school friends; it is a true saying,”
Lucien thought at he went to find his sister.
“What can Petit-Claud have promised to do that you should be so friendly
with him, my Lucien?” asked Eve. “Be on your guard with him.”
“With _him_?” cried Lucien. “Listen, Eve,” he continued, seeming to
bethink himself; “you have no faith in me now; you do not trust me, so
it is not likely you will trust Petit-Claud; but in ten or twelve days
you will change your mind,” he added, with a touch of fatuity. And he
went to his room, and indited the following epistle to Lousteau:--
_Lucien to Lousteau._
“MY FRIEND,--Of the pair of us, I alone can remember that bill for
a thousand francs that I once lent you; and I know how things will
be with you when you open this letter too well, alas! not to add
immediately that I do not expect to be repaid in current coin of
the realm; no, I will take it in credit from you, just as one
would ask Florine for pleasure. We have the same tailor;
therefore, you can order a complete outfit for me on the shortest
possible notice. I am not precisely wearing Adam’s costume, but I
cannot show myself here. To my astonishment, the honors paid by
the departments to a Parisian celebrity awaited me. I am the hero
of a banquet, for all the world as if I were a Deputy of the Left.
Now, after that, do you understand that I must have a black coat?
Promise to pay; have it put down to your account, try the
advertisement dodge, rehearse an unpublished scene between Don
Juan and M. Dimanche, for I must have a gala suit at all costs. I
have nothing, nothing but rags: start with that; it is August, the
weather is magnificent, ergo see that I receive by the end of the
week a charming morning suit, dark bronze-green jacket, and three
waistcoats, one a brimstone yellow, one a plaid, and the third
must be white; furthermore, let there be three pairs of trousers
of the most fetching kind--one pair of white English stuff, one
pair of nankeen, and a third of thin black kerseymere; lastly,
send a black dress-coat and a black satin waistcoat. If you have
picked up another Florine somewhere, I beg her good offices for
two cravats. So far this is nothing; I count upon you and your
skill in these matters; I am not much afraid of the tailor. But
the ingenuity of poverty, assuredly the most active of all poisons
at work in the system of man (_id est_ the Parisian), an ingenuity
that would catch Satan himself napping, has failed so far to
discover a way to obtain a hat on credit!--How many a time, my
dear friend, have we deplored this! When one of us shall bring a
hat that costs one thousand francs into fashion, then, and not
till then, can we afford to wear them; until that day comes we are
bound to have cash enough in our pockets to pay for a hat. Ah!
what an ill turn the Comédie-Française did us with, ‘Lafleur, you
will put gold in my pockets!’
“I write with a profound sense of all the difficulties involved by
the demand. Enclose with the above a pair of boots, a pair of
pumps, a hat, half a dozen pairs of gloves. ‘Tis asking the
impossible; I know it. But what is a literary life but a
periodical recurrence of the impossible? Work the miracle, write a
long article, or play some small scurvy trick, and I will hold
your debt as fully discharged--this is all I say to you. It is a
debt of honor after all, my dear fellow, and due these twelve
months; you ought to blush for yourself if you have any blushes
left.
“Joking apart, my dear Lousteau, I am in serious difficulties, as
you may judge for yourself when I tell you that Mme. de Bargeton
has married Châtelet, and Châtelet is prefect of Angoulême. The
precious pair can do a good deal for my brother-in-law; he is in
hiding at this moment on account of that letter of exchange, and
the horrid business is all my doing. So it is a question of
appearing before Mme. la Préfète and regaining my influence at all
costs. It is shocking, is it not, that David Séchard’s fate should
hang upon a neat pair of shoes, a pair of open-worked gray silk
stockings (mind you, remember them), and a new hat? I shall give
out that I am sick and ill, and take to my bed, like Duvicquet, to
save the trouble of replying to the pressing invitations of my
fellow-townsmen. My fellow-townsmen, dear boy, have treated me to
a fine serenade. _My fellow-townsmen_, forsooth! I begin to wonder
how many fools go to make up that word, since I learned that two
or three of my old schoolfellows worked up the capital of the
Angoumois to this pitch of enthusiasm.
“If you could contrive to slip a few lines as to my reception in
among the news items, I should be several inches taller for it
here; and besides, I should make Mme. la Préfète feel that, if I
have not friends, I have some credit, at any rate, with the
Parisian press. I give up none of my hopes, and I will return the
compliment. If you want a good, solid, substantial article for
some magazine or other, I have time enough now to think something
out. I only say the word, my dear friend; I count upon you as you
may count upon me, and I am yours sincerely.
“LUCIEN DE R.
“P. S.--Send the things to the coach office to wait until called
for.”
Lucien held up his head again. In this mood he wrote the letter, and as
he wrote his thoughts went back to Paris. He had spent six days in the
provinces, and the uneventful quietness of provincial life had already
entered into his soul; his mind returned to those dear old miserable
days with a vague sense of regret. The Comtesse du Châtelet filled
his thoughts for a whole week; and at last he came to attach so much
importance to his reappearance, that he hurried down to the coach office
in L’Houmeau after nightfall in a perfect agony of suspense, like a
woman who has set her last hopes upon a new dress, and waits in despair
until it arrives.
“Ah! Lousteau, all your treasons are forgiven,” he said to himself, as
he eyed the packages, and knew from the shape of them that everything
had been sent. Inside the hatbox he found a note from Lousteau:--