allow him a little more credit. There is a great deal of generosity
in him; virility too and strength; he is capable of indignation. He
enjoys hearing himself talk a little too much; but it’s a fact that he
talks well. I mistrust feelings that find their expression too quickly.
He is very good at his studies, but new feelings do not easily fill
forms that have been learnt by heart. A little invention would make him
stammer. He has already read too much, remembered too much, and learnt
a great deal more from books than from life.
I cannot console myself for the turn of chance which made him take
Olivier’s place beside Edouard. Events fell out badly. It was Olivier
that Edouard loved. With what care he would have ripened him! With
what lover-like respect he would have guided, supported, raised him to
his own level! Passavant will ruin him to a certainty. Nothing could
be more pernicious for him than to be enveloped in so unscrupulous an
atmosphere. I had hoped that Olivier would have defended himself a
little better; but his is a tender nature and sensitive to flattery.
Everything goes to his head. Moreover I seem to gather from certain
accents in his letter to Bernard that he is a little vain. Sensuality,
pique, vanity--to what does not all this lay him open? When Edouard
finds him again, I very much fear it will be too late. But he is still
young and one has the right to hope.
Passavant...? best not speak of him, I think. Nothing spreads more
ruin or receives more applause than men of his stamp--unless it be
women like Lady Griffith. At the beginning, I must confess, she rather
took me in. But I soon recognized my mistake. People like her are
cut out of a cloth which has no thickness. America exports a great
many of them, but is not the only country to breed them. Fortune,
intelligence, beauty--they seem to possess everything, except a soul.
Vincent, we may be sure, will soon find it out. No past weighs upon
them--no constraint; they have neither laws, nor masters, nor scruples;
by their freedom and spontaneity, they make the novelist’s despair; he
can get nothing from them but worthless reactions. I hope not to see
Lady Griffith again for a long time to come. I am sorry she has carried
off Vincent, who interested me more, but who becomes commonplace by
frequenting her. Rolling in her wake, he loses his angles. It’s a pity;
he had rather fine ones.
If it ever happens to me to invent another story, I shall allow only
well-tempered characters to inhabit it--characters that life, instead
of blunting, sharpens. Laura, Douviers, La Pérouse, Azaïs ... what is
to be done with such people as these? It was not I who sought them out;
while following Bernard and Olivier I found them in my path. So much
the worse for me; henceforth it is my duty to attend them.
THIRD PART
PARIS
_When we are in possession of a few more local monographs--then,
and only then, by grouping their data, by minutely confronting and
comparing them, we shall be able to re-consider the subject as a whole,
and take a new and decisive step forward. To proceed otherwise, would
be merely to start, armed with two or three rough and simple ideas,
on a kind of rapid excursion. It would be, in most cases, to pass by
everything that is particular, individual, irregular--that is to say,
everything, on the whole, that is most interesting_.
LUCIEN FÈBVRE: _La Terre et L’Evolution Humaine_.
I
EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: OSCAR MOLINIER
_Son retour à Paris ne lui causa point de plaisir._
FLAUBERT: _L’Education Sentimentale_.
_Sept. 22nd._--Hot; bored. Have come back to Paris a week too
soon. My eagerness always makes me respond before I am summoned.
Curiosity rather than zeal; desire to anticipate. I have never been
able to come to terms with my thirst.
Took Boris to see his grandfather. Sophroniska, who had been the day
before to prepare him, tells me that Madame de La Pérouse has gone into
the home. Heavens! What a relief!
I left the little boy on the landing, after ringing the bell, thinking
it would be more discreet not to be present at the first meeting; I was
afraid of the old fellow’s thanks. Questioned the boy later on, but
could get nothing out of him. Sophroniska, when I saw her later, told
me he had not said anything to her either. When she went to fetch him
after an hour’s interval, as had been arranged, a maid-servant opened
the door; she found the old gentleman sitting in front of a game of
draughts and the child sulking by himself in a corner at the other end
of the room.
“It’s odd,” said La Pérouse, very much out of countenance, “he seemed
to be amused, but all of a sudden he got tired of it. I am afraid he is
a little wanting in patience.”
It was a mistake to leave them alone together too long.
_Sept. 27th._--This morning met Molinier under the arcades
of the Odéon. Pauline and George are not coming back till the day
after to-morrow. If Molinier, who has been by himself in Paris since
yesterday, was as bored as I am, it’s no wonder that he seemed
enchanted to see me. We went and sat down in the Luxembourg, till it
should be time for lunch, and agreed to take it together.
Molinier, when he is with me, affects a rather jocose--even, at times,
a kind of rakish tone--which he no doubt thinks the correct thing to
please an artist. A desire too to show that he is still full of beans.
“At heart,” he declared, “I am a passionate man.” I understand that
what he really meant was that he was a libidinous one. I smiled, as
one would if one heard a woman declare she had very fine legs--a smile
which signifies “I never doubted it for a moment.” Until that day I had
only seen the magistrate; the man at last threw aside his toga.
I waited till we were seated at table at Foyot’s before speaking to him
of Olivier; I told him that I had recently had news of him through one
of his schoolfellows, and that I had heard he was travelling in Corsica
with the Comte de Passavant.
“Yes, he’s a friend of Vincent’s: he offered to take him with him.
As Olivier had just passed his _bachot_ rather brilliantly, his
mother thought it would be hard to refuse him such a pleasure.... The
Comte de Passavant is a writer. I expect you know him.”
I did not conceal that I had no great liking for either his books or
his person.
“Amongst _confrères_ one is sometimes apt to be a little severe in
one’s judgments,” he retorted. “I tried to read his last novel; certain
critics think very highly of it. I didn’t see much in it myself; but
it’s not my line, you know....” Then as I expressed my fear as to the
influence Passavant might have over Olivier:
“In reality,” he added in his rather woolly way, “I personally didn’t
approve of this expedition. But it’s no good not realizing that when
they get to a certain age our children escape from our control. It’s
in the nature of things and there’s nothing to be done. Pauline would
like to go on hanging over them for ever. She’s like all mothers.
I sometimes say to her: ‘But you worry your sons to death. Leave
them alone. It’s you who put things into their heads with all your
questions....’ For my part I consider it does no good to watch over
them too long. The important thing is that a few good principles should
be inculcated into them during their early education. The important
thing above all is that they should come of a good stock. Heredity, my
dear friend, heredity triumphs over everything. There are certain bad
lots whom nothing can improve--the predestined, we call them. Those
must have a tight hand kept over them. But when one has to do with
well-conditioned natures, one can let them go a bit easy.”
“But you were telling me,” I insisted, “that you didn’t approve of
Olivier’s being carried off in this way.”
“Oh! approve ... approve!” he said with his nose in his plate, “there’s
no need for my approval. There are many households, you know--and those
the most united--where it isn’t always the husband who settles things.
But you aren’t married; such things don’t interest you....”
“Oh!” said I, laughing, “but I’m a novelist.”
“Then you have no doubt remarked that it isn’t always from weakness of
character that a man allows himself to be led by his wife.”
“Yes,” I conceded by way of flattery, “there are strong and even
dominating men whom one discovers to be of a lamb-like docility in
their married life.”
“And do you know why?” he went on. “Nine times out of ten, when the
husband submits to his wife, it is because he has something to be
forgiven him. A virtuous woman, my dear fellow, takes advantage of
everything. If the man stoops for a second, there she is sitting on his
shoulders. Oh! we poor husbands are sometimes greatly to be pitied.
When we are young, our one wish is to have chaste wives, without a
thought of how much their virtue is going to cost us.”
I gazed at Molinier, sitting there with his elbows on the table and
his chin in his hands. The poor man little suspected how naturally his
backbone fell into the stooping attitude of which he complained; he
kept mopping his forehead, ate a great deal--not like a gourmet, but
like a glutton--and seemed particularly to appreciate the old Burgundy
which we had ordered. Happy to feel himself listened to, understood,
and, no doubt he thought, approved, he overflowed in confessions.
“In my capacity as magistrate,” he continued, “I have known women who
only lent themselves to their husbands against the grain of their heart
and senses ... and who yet are indignant when the poor wretch who has
been repulsed, seeks his provender elsewhere.”
The magistrate had begun his sentence in the past; the husband finished
it in the present, with an unmistakable allusion to himself. He added
sententiously between two mouthfuls:
“Other people’s appetites easily appear excessive when one doesn’t
share them.” He drank a long draught of wine, then: “And this explains,
my dear friend, how a husband loses the direction of his household.”
I understood, indeed--it was clear under the apparent incoherence of
his talk--his desire to make the responsibility of his own shortcomings
fall upon his wife’s virtue. Creatures as disjointed as this puppet,
I said to myself, need every scrap of their egoism to bind together
the disconnected elements of which they are formed. A moment’s
self-forgetfulness, and they would fall to pieces. He was silent. I
felt I must pour a few reflections over him, as one pours oil on an
engine that has accomplished a bout of work; and to set him going again
I remarked:
“Fortunately Pauline is intelligent.”
He prolonged his “ye-e-s” till it turned into a query; then:
“But still there are things she doesn’t understand. However intelligent
a woman may be, you know.... Still, I must admit that in the
circumstances I didn’t manage very cleverly. I began telling her about
a little affair of mine at a time when I thought--when I was absolutely
convinced--that it wouldn’t go any further. It did go further ... and
Pauline’s suspicions too. It was a mistake to put her on the ‘_qui
vive_,’ as people say. I have been obliged to hide things from
her--to tell lies.... That’s what comes of not holding one’s tongue
to begin with. It’s not my fault. I’m naturally confiding.... But
Pauline’s jealousy is alarming. You can’t imagine how careful I have
had to be.”
“Was it long ago?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s been going on for about five years now; and I flatter myself
I had completely reassured her. But now the whole thing has to begin
all over again. What do you think! When I got back home the day before
yesterday.... Suppose we order another bottle of Pommard, eh?”
“Not for me, please.”
“Perhaps I could have a half bottle. I’ll go home and take a little nap
after lunch. I feel this heat so.... Well, I was telling you that the
day before yesterday, when I got back, I went to my writing desk to put
some papers away. I pulled open the drawer where I had hidden ... the
person in question’s letters. Imagine my stupefaction, my dear fellow;
the drawer was empty! Deuce take it! I see exactly what has happened;
about a fortnight ago, Pauline came up to Paris with George, to go to
the wedding of the daughter of one of my colleagues. I wasn’t able to
attend it myself; I was away in Holland.... And besides, functions of
that kind are women’s business. Well, there she was, with nothing to
do, in an empty flat; under pretence of putting things straight ... you
know what women are like--always rather curious ... she began nosing
about ... oh! intending no ill--I’m not blaming her. But Pauline has
always had a perfect mania for tidying.... Well, what on earth am I to
say to her, now that she’s got all the proofs? If only the silly little
thing didn’t call me by my Christian name! Such a united couple! When I
think what I’m in for!...”
The poor man stuck in the slough of his confidences. He dabbed his
forehead--fanned himself. I had drunk much less than he. The heart does
not furnish compassion at command; I merely felt disgust for him. I
could put up with him as the father of a family (though it was painful
to me to think that he was Olivier’s father), as a respectable, honest,
retired bourgeois; but as a man in love, I could only imagine him
ridiculous. I was especially made uncomfortable by the clumsiness and
triviality of his words, of his pantomime; neither his face nor his
voice seemed suited to the feelings he expressed; it was like a double
bass trying to produce the effects of an alto; his instrument brought
out nothing but squeaks.
“You said that she had George with her....”
“Yes; she didn’t want to leave him at the sea-side alone. But naturally
in Paris he wasn’t in her pocket the whole time.... Why, my dear
fellow, in twenty-six years of married life I have never had the
smallest scene, the slightest altercation.... When I think of what’s in
store for me!... for Pauline’s coming back in two days.... Oh! I say,
let’s talk of something else. Well, what do you think of Vincent? The
Prince of Monaco--a cruise.... By Jove!... What! didn’t you know?...
Yes; he has gone out in charge of soundings and deep-sea fishing near
the Azores. Ah! there’s no need to be anxious about him, I assure you.
_He’ll_ make his way all right, without help from anyone.”
“His health?”
“Completely restored. With his intelligence, I think he is on the high
road to becoming famous. The Comte de Passavant made no bones about
saying that he considered him one of the most remarkable men he ever
met. He even said ‘the _most_ remarkable’ ... but one must make
allowances for exaggeration.”
The meal was finished; he lit a cigar.
“May I ask you,” he went on, “who the friend is who gave you news of
Olivier? I must tell you that I attach particular importance to the
company my children keep. I consider that it’s a thing it’s impossible
to pay too much attention to. My sons fortunately have a natural
tendency to make friends with only the best people. Vincent, you see,
with his prince; Olivier with the Comte de Passavant.... As for George,
he has been going about at Houlgate with one of his schoolfellows--a
young Adamanti--he’s to be at the Vedel-Azaïs school next term too; a
boy in whom one can have complete confidence; his father is senator
for Corsica. But just see how prudent one has to be! Olivier had a
friend who seemed to belong to an excellent family--a certain Bernard
Profitendieu. I must tell you that old Profitendieu is a colleague of
mine; a most distinguished man. I have particular esteem for him. But
... (between ourselves) ... it has just come to my knowledge that he is
not the father of the boy who bears his name! What do you say to that?”
“Young Bernard Profitendieu is the very person who spoke to me about
Olivier,” I said.
Molinier drew a few deep puffs from his cigar and raised his eyebrows
very high, so that his forehead was covered with wrinkles:
“I had rather Olivier saw as little as possible of that young fellow.
I have heard the most deplorable things about him--not that I’m much
astonished at that. We must admit that there’s no grounds for expecting
any good from a boy who has been born in such unfortunate conditions. I
don’t mean to say that a natural child mayn’t have great qualities--and
even virtues; but the fruit of lawlessness and insubordination must
necessarily be tainted with the germs of anarchy. Yes, my dear friend,
what was bound to happen has happened. Young Bernard has suddenly left
the shelter of the family which he ought never to have entered. He has
gone “to live his life,” as Emile Augier says; live Heaven knows how
or where. Poor Profitendieu, when he told me about this extravagant
behaviour, seemed exceedingly upset about it. I made him understand
that he ought not to take it so much to heart. In reality the boy’s
departure puts everything to rights again.”
I protested that I knew Bernard well enough to vouch for his being a
charming, well-behaved boy. (Needless to say I took good care not to
mention the affair of the suit-case.) But Molinier only went on all the
more vigorously.
“So! So! I see I must tell you more.”
Then, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper:
“My colleague Profitendieu has recently had to investigate an
exceedingly shady and disagreeable affair, both on its own account
and because of the scandalous consequences it may entail. It’s a
preposterous story and one would be only too glad if one could
disbelieve it.... Imagine, my dear fellow, a regular concern of
organized prostitution, in fact of a ... no, I don’t want to use
bad words; let’s say a tea-shop, with this particularly scandalous
feature, that its habitués are mostly, almost exclusively, very young
schoolboys. I tell you it’s incredible. The children certainly don’t
realize the gravity of their acts, for they hardly attempt to conceal
themselves. It takes place when they come out of school. They take
tea, they talk, they amuse themselves with the ladies; and the play
is carried further in the rooms which adjoin the tea rooms. Of course
not everyone is allowed in. One has to be introduced, initiated. Who
stands the expense of these orgies? Who pays the rent? It wouldn’t
have been very difficult to find out; but the investigations had to
be conducted with extreme prudence, for fear of learning too much, of
being carried further than one meant, of being forced to prosecute and
compromise the respectable families whose children are suspected of
being the principal clients of the affair. I did what I could therefore
to moderate Profitendieu’s zeal. He charged into the business like a
bull, without suspecting that with the first stroke of his horns ...
(oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t say it on purpose; ha! ha! ha! how funny! It
came out quite unintentionally) ... he ran the risk of sticking his own
son. Fortunately the holidays broke everything up. The schoolboys were
scattered and I hope the whole business will peter out, be hushed up
after a warning or so and a few discreet penalties.”
“Are you quite sure Bernard Profitendieu was mixed up in it?”
“Not absolutely, but....”
“What makes you think so?”
“First, the fact that he is a natural child. You don’t suppose that a
boy of his age runs away from home without having touched the lowest
depths?... And then I have an idea that Profitendieu was seized with
some suspicions, for his zeal suddenly cooled down; more than that,
he seemed to be backing out, and the last time I asked him how the
affair was going on he seemed embarrassed: ‘I think, after all that
nothing will come of it,’ he said and hastily changed the subject.
Poor Profitendieu! I must say he doesn’t deserve it. He’s an honest
man, and what’s rarer perhaps, a good fellow. By the way, his daughter
has just married exceedingly well. I wasn’t able to go to the wedding
because I was in Holland, but Pauline and George came back on purpose.
Did I tell you that before? It’s time I went and had my nap.... What!
really? You want to pay it all? No, no! You mustn’t. Bachelors--old
friends--go shares.... No use? Well! well! Good-bye! Don’t forget that
Pauline is coming back in two days. Come and see us. And don’t call me
Molinier. Won’t you say Oscar?... I’ve been meaning to ask you for a
long time.”
This evening a note from Rachel, Laura’s sister:
“I have something very serious to say to you. Could you, without
inconvenience, look in at the school to-morrow afternoon? It would be
doing me a great service.”
If she had wanted to speak about Laura, she wouldn’t have waited so
long. This is the first time she has written to me.
II
EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: AT THE VEDELS’
_Sept. 28th._--I found Rachel standing at the door of the big
class-room on the ground floor. Two servants were washing the boards.
She herself had a servant’s apron on and was holding a duster in her
hand.
“I knew I could count on you,” she said, holding out her hand with a
look on her face of tender, resigned sadness, and yet a look that was
smiling too, and more touching than beauty itself. “If you aren’t in
too great a hurry, the best thing would be for you first to go up and
pay grandfather a little visit, and then Mamma. If they heard you had
been here without seeing them, they would be hurt. But keep a little
time for me; I simply must speak to you. You will find me here; you
see, I am superintending the maids’ work.”
Out of a kind of modesty, she never says “my work.” Rachel has effaced
herself all her life and nothing could be more discreet, more retiring
than her virtue. Abnegation is so natural to her, that not one of her
family is grateful to her for her perpetual self-sacrifice. She has the
most beautiful woman’s nature that I know.
I went up to the second floor to see old Azaïs. He hardly ever leaves
his arm-chair nowadays. He made me sit down beside him and began
talking about La Pérouse almost at once.
“It makes me feel anxious to know that he is living all alone, and I
should like to persuade him to come and stay here. We are old friends,
you know. I went to see him the other day. I am afraid he has been very
much affected by his dear wife’s leaving him to go to Sainte Périne.
His maid told me he hardly eats anything. I consider that as a rule
we eat too much; but there should be moderation in all things and we
should avoid excess in both directions. He thinks it useless to have
things cooked only for him; but if he took his meals with us, seeing
others eat would encourage him to do the same. Moreover, he would be
with his charming little grandson, whom he would otherwise see very
little of; for Rue Vavin is quite a long journey away from the Faubourg
St. Honoré. And moreover, I shouldn’t much care to let the child go
out by himself in Paris. I have known Anatole de La Pérouse for a long
time. He was always eccentric. I don’t mean it as a reproach, but he is
a little proud by nature, and perhaps he wouldn’t accept my hospitality
without wishing to make some return. So I thought I might propose that
he should take school preparation; it wouldn’t be tiring, and moreover
it would have the advantage of distracting him, of taking him out of
himself a little. He is a good mathematician, and if necessary he might
give algebra and geometry lessons. Now that he has no pupils left, his
furniture and his piano are of no use to him; he ought to give notice;
and as coming here would save his rent, I thought we might agree on a
little sum for his board and lodging, to put him more at his ease, so
that he shouldn’t feel himself too much under an obligation to me. You
ought to try and persuade him--and without much delay, for with his
poor style of living, I am afraid he may soon become too enfeebled.
Moreover, the boys are coming back in two days; so it would be a good
thing to know how the matter stands and whether we may count on him--as
he may count on us.”
I promised to speak to La Pérouse the following day. As if relieved, he
went on at once: