in yellow letters on a green ground. It was an offence to him that his
father’s name should be thus posted up in a place where every carriage
passed.
Every evening, when he closed the ugly iron gate and went up to Beaulieu
to give his arm to Mme. de Bargeton among the dandies of the upper town,
he chafed beyond all reason at the disparity between his lodging and his
fortune.
“I love Mme. de Bargeton; perhaps in a few days she will be mine, yet
here I live in this rat-hole!” he said to himself this evening, as he
went down the narrow passage into the little yard behind the shop. This
evening bundles of boiled herbs were spread out along the wall, the
apprentice was scouring a caldron, and M. Postel himself, girded about
with his laboratory apron, was standing with a retort in his hand,
inspecting some chemical product while keeping an eye upon the shop
door, or if the eye happened to be engaged, he had at any rate an ear
for the bell.
A strong scent of camomile and peppermint pervaded the yard and the poor
little dwelling at the side, which you reached by a short ladder, with a
rope on either side by way of hand-rail. Lucien’s room was an attic just
under the roof.
“Good-day, sonny,” said M. Postel, that typical, provincial tradesman.
“Are you pretty middling? I have just been experimenting on treacle, but
it would take a man like your father to find what I am looking for. Ah!
he was a famous chemist, he was! If I had only known his gout specific,
you and I should be rolling along in our carriage this day.”
The little druggist, whose head was as thick as his heart was kind,
never let a week pass without some allusion to Chardon senior’s unlucky
secretiveness as to that discovery, words that Lucien felt like a stab.
“It is a great pity,” Lucien answered curtly. He was beginning to think
his father’s apprentice prodigiously vulgar, though he had blessed the
man for his kindness, for honest Postel had helped his master’s widow
and children more than once.
“Why, what is the matter with you?” M. Postel inquired, putting down his
test tube on the laboratory table.
“Is there a letter for me?”
“Yes, a letter that smells like balm! it is lying on the corner near my
desk.”
Mme. de Bargeton’s letter lying among the physic bottles in a druggist’s
shop! Lucien sprang in to rescue it.
“Be quick, Lucien! your dinner has been waiting an hour for you, it will
be cold!” a sweet voice called gently through a half-opened window; but
Lucien did not hear.
“That brother of yours has gone crazy, mademoiselle,” said Postel,
lifting his face.
The old bachelor looked rather like a miniature brandy cask, embellished
by a painter’s fancy, with a fat, ruddy countenance much pitted with the
smallpox; at the sight of Eve his face took a ceremonious and amiable
expression, which said plainly that he had thoughts of espousing the
daughter of his predecessor, but could not put an end to the strife
between love and interest in his heart. He often said to Lucien, with a
smile, “Your sister is uncommonly pretty, and you are not so bad looking
neither! Your father did everything well.”
Eve was tall, dark-haired, dark of complexion, and blue-eyed; but
notwithstanding these signs of virile character, she was gentle,
tender-hearted, and devoted to those she loved. Her frank innocence,
her simplicity, her quiet acceptance of a hard-working life, her
character--for her life was above reproach--could not fail to win David
Séchard’s heart. So, since the first time that these two had met, a
repressed and single-hearted love had grown up between them in the
German fashion, quietly, with no fervid protestations. In their secret
souls they thought of each other as if there were a bar between that
kept them apart; as if the thought were an offence against some jealous
husband; and hid their feelings from Lucien as though their love in some
way did him a wrong. David, moreover, had no confidence in himself, and
could not believe that Eve could care for him; Eve was a penniless girl,
and therefore shy. A real work-girl would have been bolder; but Eve,
gently bred, and fallen into poverty, resigned herself to her dreary
lot. Diffident as she seemed, she was in reality proud, and would not
make a single advance towards the son of a father said to be rich.
People who knew the value of a growing property, said that the vineyard
at Marsac was worth more than eighty thousand francs, to say nothing of
the traditional bits of land which old Séchard used to buy as they came
into the market, for old Séchard had savings--he was lucky with his
vintages, and a clever salesman. Perhaps David was the only man in
Angoulême who knew nothing of his father’s wealth. In David’s eyes
Marsac was a hovel bought in 1810 for fifteen or sixteen thousand
francs, a place that he saw once a year at vintage time when his father
walked him up and down among the vines and boasted of an output of wine
which the young printer never saw, and he cared nothing about it.
David was a student leading a solitary life; and the love that gained
even greater force in solitude, as he dwelt upon the difficulties in the
way, was timid, and looked for encouragement; for David stood more in
awe of Eve than a simple clerk of some high-born lady. He was awkward
and ill at ease in the presence of his idol, and as eager to hurry away
as he had been to come. He repressed his passion, and was silent. Often
of an evening, on some pretext of consulting Lucien, he would leave the
Place du Mûrier and go down through the Palet Gate as far as L’Houmeau,
but at the sight of the green iron railings his heart failed. Perhaps he
had come too late, Eve might think him a nuisance; she would be in bed
by this time no doubt; and so he turned back. But though his great
love had only appeared in trifles, Eve read it clearly; she was proud,
without a touch of vanity in her pride, of the deep reverence in David’s
looks and words and manner towards her, but it was the young printer’s
enthusiastic belief in Lucien that drew her to him most of all. He had
divined the way to win Eve. The mute delights of this love of theirs
differed from the transports of stormy passion, as wildflowers in
the fields from the brilliant flowers in garden beds. Interchange of
glances, delicate and sweet as blue water-flowers on the surface of
the stream; a look in either face, vanishing as swiftly as the scent
of briar-rose; melancholy, tender as the velvet of moss--these were the
blossoms of two rare natures, springing up out of a rich and fruitful
soil on foundations of rock. Many a time Eve had seen revelations of the
strength that lay below the appearance of weakness, and made such full
allowance for all that David left undone, that the slightest word now
might bring about a closer union of soul and soul.
Eve opened the door, and Lucien sat down without a word at the little
table on an X-shaped trestle. There was no tablecloth; the poor little
household boasted but three silver spoons and forks, and Eve had laid
them all for the dearly loved brother.
“What have you there?” she asked, when she had set a dish on the table,
and put the extinguisher on the portable stove, where it had been kept
hot for him.
Lucien did not answer. Eve took up a little plate, daintily garnished
with vine-leaves, and set it on the table with a jug full of cream.
“There, Lucien, I have had strawberries for you.”
But Lucien was so absorbed in his letter that he did not hear a word.
Eve came to sit beside him without a murmur; for in a sister’s love
for a brother it is an element of great pleasure to be treated without
ceremony.
“Oh! what is it?” she cried as she saw tears shining in her brother’s
eyes.
“Nothing, nothing, Eve,” he said, and putting his arm about her waist,
he drew her towards him and kissed her forehead, her hair, her throat,
with warmth that surprised her.
“You are keeping something from me.”
“Well, then--she loves me.”
“I knew very well that you kissed me for somebody else,” the poor sister
pouted, flushing red.
“We shall all be happy,” cried Lucien, swallowing great spoonfuls of
soup.
“_We_?” echoed Eve. The same presentiment that had crossed David’s mind
prompted her to add, “You will not care so much about us now.”
“How can you think that, if you know me?”
Eve put out her hand and grasped his tightly; then she carried off the
empty plate and the brown earthen soup-tureen, and brought the dish that
she had made for him. But instead of eating his dinner, Lucien read
his letter over again; and Eve, discreet maiden, did not ask another
question, respecting her brother’s silence. If he wished to tell her
about it, she could wait; if he did not, how could she ask him to tell
her? She waited. Here is the letter:--
“MY FRIEND,--Why should I refuse to your brother in science the
help that I have lent you? All merits have equal rights in my
eyes; but you do not know the prejudices of those among whom I
live. We shall never make an aristocracy of ignorance understand
that intellect ennobles. If I have not sufficient influence to
compel them to accept M. David Séchard, I am quite willing to
sacrifice the worthless creatures to you. It would be a perfect
hecatomb in the antique manner. But, dear friend, you would not,
of course, ask me to leave them all in exchange for the society of
a person whose character and manner might not please me. I know
from your flatteries how easily friendship can be blinded. Will
you think the worse of me if I attach a condition to my consent?
In the interests of your future I should like to see your friend,
and know and decide for myself whether you are not mistaken. What
is this but the mother’s anxious care of my dear poet, which I am
in duty bound to take?
“LOUISE DE NEGREPELISSE.”
Lucien had no suspicion of the art with which polite society puts
forward a “Yes” on the way to a “No,” and a “No” that leads to a “Yes.”
He took this note for a victory. David should go to Mme. de Bargeton’s
house! David would shine there in all the majesty of his genius! He
raised his head so proudly in the intoxication of a victory which
increased his belief in himself and his ascendency over others, his face
was so radiant with the brightness of many hopes, that his sister could
not help telling him that he looked handsome.
“If that woman has any sense, she must love you! And if so, to-night she
will be vexed, for all the ladies will try all sorts of coquetries
on you. How handsome you will look when you read your _Saint John in
Patmos_! If only I were a mouse, and could just slip in and see it!
Come, I have put your clothes out in mother’s room.”
The mother’s room bore witness to self-respecting poverty. There were
white curtains to the walnut wood bedstead, and a strip of cheap
green carpet at the foot. A chest of drawers with a wooden top, a
looking-glass, and a few walnut wood chairs completed the furniture. The
clock on the chimney-piece told of the old vanished days of prosperity.
White curtains hung in the windows, a gray flowered paper covered the
walls, and the tiled floor, colored and waxed by Eve herself, shone with
cleanliness. On the little round table in the middle of the room stood a
red tray with a pattern of gilt roses, and three cups and a sugar-basin
of Limoges porcelain. Eve slept in the little adjoining closet, where
there was just room for a narrow bed, an old-fashioned low chair, and a
work-table by the window; there was about as much space as there is in a
ship’s cabin, and the door always stood open for the sake of air. But if
all these things spoke of great poverty, the atmosphere was sedate and
studious; and for those who knew the mother and children, there was
something touchingly appropriate in their surroundings.
Lucien was tying his cravat when David’s step sounded outside in the
little yard, and in another moment the young printer appeared. From his
manner and looks he seemed to have come down in a hurry.
“Well, David!” cried the ambitious poet, “we have gained the day! She
loves me! You shall come too.”
“No,” David said with some confusion, “I came down to thank you for this
proof of friendship, but I have been thinking things over seriously. My
own life is cut out for me, Lucien. I am David Séchard, printer to His
Majesty in Angoulême, with my name at the bottom of the bills posted
on every wall. For people of that class, I am an artisan, or I am in
business, if you like it better, but I am a craftsman who lives over a
shop in the Rue de Beaulieu at the corner of the Place du Mûrier. I have
not the wealth of a Keller just yet, nor the name of a Desplein, two
sorts of power that the nobles still try to ignore, and I am so far
agreed with them--this power is nothing without a knowledge of the
world and the manners of a gentleman. How am I to prove my claim to this
sudden elevation? I should only make myself a laughing-stock for nobles
and _bourgeoisie_ to boot. As for you, your position is different. A
foreman is not committed to anything. You are busy gaining knowledge
that will be indispensable by and by; you can explain your present work
by your future. And, in any case, you can leave your place to-morrow and
begin something else; you might study law or diplomacy, or go into
civil service. Nobody had docketed and pigeon-holed _you_, in fact. Take
advantage of your social maiden fame to walk alone and grasp honors.
Enjoy all pleasures gladly, even frivolous pleasures. I wish you luck,
Lucien; I shall enjoy your success; you will be like a second self for
me. Yes, in my own thoughts I shall live your life. You shall have the
holiday life, in the glare of the world and among the swift working
springs of intrigue. I will lead the work-a-day life, the tradesman’s
life of sober toil, and the patient labor of scientific research.
“You shall be our aristocracy,” he went on, looking at Eve as he spoke.
“If you totter, you shall have my arm to steady you. If you have reason
to complain of the treachery of others, you will find a refuge in our
hearts, the love there will never change. And influence and favor and
the goodwill of others might fail us if we were two; we should stand in
each other’s way; go forward, you can tow me after you if it comes to
that. So far from envying you, I will dedicate my life to yours. The
thing that you have just done for me, when you risked the loss of your
benefactress, your love it may be, rather than forsake or disown me,
that little thing, so great as it was--ah, well, Lucien, that in itself
would bind me to you forever if we were not brothers already. Have
no remorse, no concern over seeming to take the larger share. This
one-sided bargain is exactly to my taste. And, after all, suppose that
you should give me a pang now and again, who knows that I shall not
still be your debtor all my life long?”
He looked timidly towards Eve as he spoke; her eyes were full of tears,
she saw all that lay below the surface.
“In fact,” he went on, turning to Lucien, who stood amazed at this, “you
are well made, you have a graceful figure, you wear your clothes with
an air, you look like a gentleman in that blue coat of yours with the
yellow buttons and the plain nankeen trousers; now I should look like
a workingman among those people, I should be awkward and out of my
element, I should say foolish things, or say nothing at all; but as for
you, you can overcome any prejudice as to names by taking your mother’s;
you can call yourself Lucien de Rubempré; I am and always shall be David
Séchard. In this society that you frequent, everything tells for you,
everything would tell against me. You were born to shine in it. Women
will worship that angel face of yours; won’t they, Eve?”
Lucien sprang up and flung his arms about David. David’s humility
had made short work of many doubts and plenty of difficulties. Was it
possible not to feel twice tenderly towards this friend, who by the way
of friendship had come to think the very thoughts that he, Lucien, had
reached through ambition? The aspirant for love and honors felt that the
way had been made smooth for him; the young man and the comrade felt all
his heart go out towards his friend.
It was one of those moments that come very seldom in our lives, when all
the forces in us are sweetly strung, and every chord vibrating gives out
full resonance.
And yet, this goodness of a noble nature increased Lucien’s human
tendency to take himself as the centre of things. Do not all of us
say more or less, “_L’État, c’est moi!_” with Louis Quatorze? Lucien’s
mother and sister had concentrated all their tenderness on him, David
was his devoted friend; he was accustomed to see the three making every
effort for him in secret, and consequently he had all the faults of a
spoiled eldest son. The noble is eaten up with the egoism which their
unselfishness was fostering in Lucien; and Mme. de Bargeton was doing
her best to develop the same fault by inciting him to forget all that he
owed to his sister, and mother, and David. He was far from doing so
as yet; but was there not ground for the fear that as his sphere of
ambition widened, his whole thought perforce would be how he might
maintain himself in it?
When emotion had subsided, David had a suggestion to make. He thought
that Lucien’s poem, _Saint John in Patmos_, was possibly too biblical to
be read before an audience but little familiar with apocalyptic poetry.
Lucien, making his first appearance before the most exacting public in
the Charente, seemed to be nervous. David advised him to take André de
Chénier and substitute certain pleasure for a dubious delight. Lucien
was a perfect reader, the listeners would enjoy listening to him, and
his modesty would doubtless serve him well. Like most young people, the
pair were endowing the rest of the world with their own intelligence and
virtues; for if youth that has not yet gone astray is pitiless for the
sins of others, it is ready, on the other hand, to put a magnificent
faith in them. It is only, in fact, after a good deal of experience
of life that we recognize the truth of Raphael’s great saying--“To
comprehend is to equal.”
The power of appreciating poetry is rare, generally speaking, in France;
_esprit_ soon dries up the source of the sacred tears of ecstasy; nobody
cares to be at the trouble of deciphering the sublime, of plumbing the
depths to discover the infinite. Lucien was about to have his first
experience of the ignorance and indifference of worldlings. He went
round by way of the printing office for David’s volume of poetry.
The two lovers were left alone, and David had never felt more
embarrassed in his life. Countless terrors seized upon him; he half
wished, half feared that Eve would praise him; he longed to run away,
for even modesty is not exempt from coquetry. David was afraid to utter
a word that might seem to beg for thanks; everything that he could think
of put him in some false position, so he held his tongue and looked
guilty. Eve, guessing the agony of modesty, was enjoying the pause; but
when David twisted his hat as if he meant to go, she looked at him and
smiled.
“Monsieur David,” she said, “if you are not going to pass the evening at
Mme. de Bargeton’s, we can spend the time together. It is fine; shall we
take a walk along the Charente? We will have a talk about Lucien.”
David longed to fling himself at the feet of this delicious girl.
Eve had rewarded him beyond his hopes by that tone in her voice; the
kindness of her accent had solved the difficulties of the position,
her suggestion was something better than praise; it was the first grace
given by love.
“But give me time to dress!” she said, as David made as if to go at
once.
David went out; he who all his life long had not known one tune
from another, was humming to himself; honest Postel hearing him with
surprise, conceived a vehement suspicion of Eve’s feelings towards the
printer.
The most trifling things that happened that evening made a great
impression on Lucien, and his character was peculiarly susceptible to
first impressions. Like all inexperienced lovers, he arrived so early
that Louise was not in the drawing-room; but M. de Bargeton was there,
alone. Lucien had already begun to serve his apprenticeship in the
practice of the small deceits with which the lover of a married woman
pays for his happiness--deceits through which, moreover, she learns the
extent of her power; but so far Lucien had not met the lady’s husband
face to face.
M. de Bargeton’s intellect was of the limited kind, exactly poised
on the border line between harmless vacancy, with some glimmerings of
sense, and the excessive stupidity that can neither take in nor give out
any idea. He was thoroughly impressed with the idea of doing his duty in
society; and, doing his utmost to be agreeable, had adopted the smile of
an opera dancer as his sole method of expression. Satisfied, he smiled;
dissatisfied, he smiled again. He smiled at good news and evil tidings;
with slight modifications the smile did duty on all occasions. If he was
positively obliged to express his personal approval, a complacent laugh
reinforced the smile; but he never vouchsafed a word until driven to the
last extremity. A _tête-à-tête_ put him in the one embarrassment of his
vegetative existence, for then he was obliged to look for something to
say in the vast blank of his vacant interior. He usually got out of
the difficulty by a return to the artless ways of childhood; he thought
aloud, took you into his confidence concerning the smallest details of
his existence, his physical wants, the small sensations which did
duty for ideas with him. He never talked about the weather, nor did he
indulge in the ordinary commonplaces of conversation--the way of escape
provided for weak intellects; he plunged you into the most intimate and
personal topics.
“I took veal this morning to please Mme. de Bargeton, who is very fond
of veal, and my stomach has been very uneasy since,” he would tell you.
“I knew how it would be; it never suits me. How do you explain it?” Or,
very likely--
“I am just about to ring for a glass of _eau sucrée_; will you have some
at the same time?”
Or, “I am going to take a ride to-morrow; I am going over to see my
father-in-law.”
These short observations did not permit of discussion; a “Yes” or “No,”
extracted from his interlocutor, the conversation dropped dead. Then
M. de Bargeton mutely implored his visitor to come to his assistance.
Turning westward his old asthmatic pug-dog countenance, he gazed at you
with big, lustreless eyes, in a way that said, “You were saying?”
The people whom he loved best were bores anxious to talk about
themselves; he listened to them with an unfeigned and delicate interest
which so endeared him to the species that all the twaddlers of Angoulême
credited M. de Bargeton with more understanding than he chose to show,
and were of the opinion that he was underrated. So it happened that when
these persons could find nobody else to listen to them, they went off to
give M. de Bargeton the benefit of the rest of the story, argument, or
what not, sure beforehand of his eulogistic smile. Madame de Bargeton’s
rooms were always crowded, and generally her husband felt quite at ease.
He interested himself in the smallest details; he watched those who came
in and bowed and smiled, and brought the new arrivals to his wife; he
lay in wait for departing visitors, and went with them to the door,
taking leave of them with that eternal smile. When conversation grew
lively, and he saw that every one was interested in one thing or
another, he stood, happy and mute, planted like a swan on both feet,
listening, to all appearance, to a political discussion; or he looked
over the card-players’ hands without a notion of what it was all about,
for he could not play at any game; or he walked about and took snuff to
promote digestion. Anaïs was the bright side of his life; she made
it unspeakably pleasant for him. Stretched out at full length in his
armchair, he watched admiringly while she did her part as hostess, for
she talked for him. It was a pleasure, too, to him to try to see
the point in her remarks; and as it was often a good while before he
succeeded, his smiles appeared after a delay, like the explosion of a
shell which has entered the earth and worked up again. His respect for
his wife, moreover, almost amounted to adoration. And so long as we
can adore, is there not happiness enough in life? Anaïs’ husband was as
docile as a child who asks nothing better than to be told what to
do; and, generous and clever woman as she was, she had taken no undue
advantage of his weaknesses. She had taken care of him as you take care
of a cloak; she kept him brushed, neat, and tidy, looked closely after
him, and humored him; and humored, looked after, brushed, kept tidy, and
cared for, M. de Bargeton had come to feel an almost dog-like affection
for his wife. It is so easy to give happiness that costs nothing! Mme.
de Bargeton, knowing that her husband had no pleasure but in good cheer,
saw that he had good dinners; she had pity upon him, she had never
uttered a word of complaint; indeed, there were people who could not
understand that a woman might keep silence through pride, and argued
that M. de Bargeton must possess good qualities hidden from public view.
Mme. de Bargeton had drilled him into military subordination; he yielded
a passive obedience to his wife. “Go and call on Monsieur So-and-So
or Madame Such-an-One,” she would say, and he went forthwith, like a
soldier at the word of command. He stood at attention in her presence,
and waited motionless for his orders.
There was some talk about this time of nominating the mute gentleman
for a deputy. Lucien as yet had not lifted the veil which hid such an
unimaginable character; indeed, he had scarcely frequented the house
long enough. M. de Bargeton, spread at full length in his great chair,
appeared to see and understand all that was going on; his silence added
to his dignity, and his figure inspired Lucien with a prodigious awe. It
is the wont of imaginative natures to magnify everything, or to find a
soul to inhabit every shape; and Lucien took this gentleman, not for
a granite guard-post, but for a formidable sphinx, and thought it
necessary to conciliate him.
“I am the first comer,” he said, bowing with more respect than people
usually showed the worthy man.
“That is natural enough,” said M. de Bargeton.
Lucien took the remark for an epigram; the lady’s husband was jealous,
he thought; he reddened under it, looked in the glass and tried to give
himself a countenance.
“You live in L’Houmeau,” said M. de Bargeton, “and people who live a
long way off always come earlier than those who live near by.”
“What is the reason of that?” asked Lucien politely.
“I don’t know,” answered M. de Bargeton, relapsing into immobility.
“You have not cared to find out,” Lucien began again; “any one who could
make an observation could discover the cause.”
“Ah!” said M. de Bargeton, “final causes! Eh! eh!...”
The conversation came to a dead stop; Lucien racked his brains to
resuscitate it.
“Mme. de Bargeton is dressing, no doubt,” he began, shuddering at the
silliness of the question.
“Yes, she is dressing,” her husband naturally answered.
Lucien looked up at the ceiling and vainly tried to think of something
else to say. As his eyes wandered over the gray painted joists and the
spaces of plaster between, he saw, not without qualms, that the little
chandelier with the old-fashioned cut-glass pendants had been stripped
of its gauze covering and filled with wax candles. All the covers had
been removed from the furniture, and the faded flowered silk damask had
come to light. These preparations meant something extraordinary. The
poet looked at his boots, and misgivings about his costume arose in
his mind. Grown stupid with dismay, he turned and fixed his eyes on
a Japanese jar standing on a begarlanded console table of the time
of Louis Quinze; then, recollecting that he must conciliate Mme. de
Bargeton’s husband, he tried to find out if the good gentleman had a
hobby of any sort in which he might be humored.
“You seldom leave the city, monsieur?” he began, returning to M. de
Bargeton.
“Very seldom.”
Silence again. M. de Bargeton watched Lucien’s slightest movements
like a suspicious cat; the young man’s presence disturbed him. Each was
afraid of the other.
“Can he feel suspicious of my attentions?” thought Lucien; “he seems to
be anything but friendly.”
Lucien was not a little embarrassed by the uneasy glances that the
other gave him as he went to and fro, when luckily for him, the
old man-servant (who wore livery for the occasion) announced “M. du
Châtelet.” The Baron came in, very much at ease, greeted his friend
Bargeton, and favored Lucien with the little nod then in vogue, which
the poet in his mind called purse-proud impertinence.
Sixte du Châtelet appeared in a pair of dazzling white trousers with
invisible straps that kept them in shape. He wore pumps and thread
stockings; the black ribbon of his eyeglass meandered over a white
waistcoat, and the fashion and elegance of Paris was strikingly apparent
in his black coat. He was indeed just the faded beau who might be
expected from his antecedents, though advancing years had already
endowed him with a certain waist-girth which somewhat exceeded the
limits of elegance. He had dyed the hair and whiskers grizzled by his
sufferings during his travels, and this gave a hard look to his
face. The skin which had once been so delicate had been tanned to the
copper-red color of Europeans from India; but in spite of his absurd
pretensions to youth, you could still discern traces of the Imperial
Highness’ charming private secretary in du Châtelet’s general
appearance. He put up his eyeglass and stared at his rival’s nankeen
trousers, at his boots, at his waistcoat, at the blue coat made by the
Angoulême tailor, he looked him over from head to foot, in short, then
he coolly returned his eyeglass to his waistcoat pocket with a gesture
that said, “I am satisfied.” And Lucien, eclipsed at this moment by the
elegance of the inland revenue department, thought that it would be his
turn by and by, when he should turn a face lighted up with poetry upon
the assembly; but this prospect did not prevent him from feeling the
sharp pang that succeeded to the uncomfortable sense of M. de Bargeton’s
imagined hostility. The Baron seemed to bring all the weight of his
fortune to bear upon him, the better to humiliate him in his poverty.
M. de Bargeton had counted on having no more to say, and his soul was
dismayed by the pause spent by the rivals in mutual survey; he had a
question which he kept for desperate emergencies, laid up in his mind,
as it were, against a rainy day. Now was the proper time to bring it
out.
“Well, monsieur,” he said, looking at Châtelet with an important air,
“is there anything fresh? anything that people are talking about?”
“Why, the latest thing is M. Chardon,” Châtelet said maliciously. “Ask
him. Have you brought some charming poet for us?” inquired the vivacious
Baron, adjusting the side curl that had gone astray on his temple.
“I should have asked you whether I had succeeded,” Lucien answered; “you
have been before me in the field of verse.”
“Pshaw!” said the other, “a few vaudevilles, well enough in their way,
written to oblige, a song now and again to suit some occasion, lines
for music, no good without the music, and my long Epistle to a Sister
of Bonaparte (ungrateful that he was), will not hand down my name to
posterity.”
At this moment Mme. de Bargeton appeared in all the glory of an
elaborate toilette. She wore a Jewess’ turban, enriched with an Eastern
clasp. The cameos on her neck gleamed through the gauze scarf gracefully
wound about her shoulders; the sleeves of her printed muslin dress were
short so as to display a series of bracelets on her shapely white arms.
Lucien was charmed with this theatrical style of dress. M. du Châtelet
gallantly plied the queen with fulsome compliments, that made her smile
with pleasure; she was so glad to be praised in Lucien’s hearing.
But she scarcely gave her dear poet a glance, and met Châtelet with a
mortifying civility that kept him at a distance.
By this time the guests began to arrive. First and foremost appeared
the Bishop and his Vicar-General, dignified and reverend figures both,
though no two men could well be more unlike, his lordship being tall and
attenuated, and his acolyte short and fat. Both churchmen’s eyes were
bright; but while the Bishop was pallid, his Vicar-General’s countenance
glowed with high health. Both were impassive, and gesticulated but
little; both appeared to be prudent men, and their silence and reserve
were supposed to hide great intellectual powers.
Close upon the two ecclesiastics followed Mme. de Chandour and her
husband, a couple so extraordinary that those who are unfamiliar with
provincial life might be tempted to think that such persons are purely
imaginary. Amélie de Chandour posed as the rival queen of Angoulême;
her husband, M. de Chandour, known in the circle as Stanislas, was a
_ci-devant_ young man, slim still at five-and-forty, with a countenance
like a sieve. His cravat was always tied so as to present two menacing
points--one spike reached the height of his right ear, the other pointed
downwards to the red ribbon of his cross. His coat-tails were violently
at strife. A cut-away waistcoat displayed the ample, swelling curves of
a stiffly-starched shirt fastened by massive gold studs. His dress, in
fact, was exaggerated, till he looked almost like a living caricature,
which no one could behold for the first time with gravity.
Stanislas looked himself over from top to toe with a kind of
satisfaction; he verified the number of his waistcoat buttons, and
followed the curving outlines of his tight-fitting trousers with fond
glances that came to a standstill at last on the pointed tips of his
shoes. When he ceased to contemplate himself in this way, he looked
towards the nearest mirror to see if his hair still kept in curl; then,
sticking a finger in his waistcoat pocket, he looked about him at the
women with happy eyes, flinging his head back in three-quarters profile
with all the airs of a king of the poultry-yard, airs which were
prodigiously admired by the aristocratic circle of which he was the
beau. There was a strain of eighteenth century grossness, as a rule,
in his talk; a detestable kind of conversation which procured him some
success with women--he made them laugh. M. du Châtelet was beginning
to give this gentleman some uneasiness; and, as a matter of fact, since
Mme. de Bargeton had taken him up, the lively interest taken by the
women in the Byron of Angoulême was distinctly on the increase. His
coxcomb superciliousness tickled their curiosity; he posed as the man
whom nothing can arouse from his apathy, and his jaded Sultan airs were
like a challenge.
Amélie de Chandour, short, plump, fair-complexioned, and dark-haired,
was a poor actress; her voice was loud, like everything else about her;
her head, with its load of feathers in winter and flowers in summer, was
never still for a moment. She had a fine flow of conversation,
though she could never bring a sentence to an end without a wheezing
accompaniment from an asthma, to which she would not confess.
M. de Saintot, otherwise Astolphe, President of the Agricultural
Society, a tall, stout, high-colored personage, usually appeared in the
wake of his wife, Élisa, a lady with a countenance like a withered fern,
called Lili by her friends--a baby name singularly at variance with
its owner’s character and demeanor. Mme. de Saintot was a solemn and
extremely pious woman, and a very trying partner at a game of cards.
Astolphe was supposed to be a scientific man of the first rank. He was
as ignorant as a carp, but he had compiled the articles on Sugar and
Brandy for a Dictionary of Agriculture by wholesale plunder of newspaper
articles and pillage of previous writers. It was believed all over
the department that M. Saintot was engaged upon a treatise on modern
husbandry; but though he locked himself into his study every morning, he
had not written a couple of pages in a dozen years. If anybody called
to see him, he always contrived to be discovered rummaging among his
papers, hunting for a stray note or mending a pen; but he spent the
whole time in his study on puerilities, reading the newspaper through
from end to end, cutting figures out of corks with his penknife, and
drawing patterns on his blotting-paper. He would turn over the leaves of
his Cicero to see if anything applicable to the events of the day might
catch his eye, and drag his quotation by the heels into the conversation
that evening saying, “There is a passage in Cicero which might have
been written to suit modern times,” and out came his phrase, to the
astonishment of his audience. “Really,” they said among themselves,
“Astolphe is a well of learning.” The interesting fact circulated all
over the town, and sustained the general belief in M. de Saintot’s
abilities.
After this pair came M. de Bartas, known as Adrien among the circle.
It was M. de Bartas who boomed out his song in a bass voice, and made
prodigious claims to musical knowledge. His self-conceit had taken a
stand upon solfeggi; he began by admiring his appearance while he sang,
passed thence to talking about music, and finally to talking of nothing
else. His musical tastes had become a monomania; he grew animated only
on the one subject of music; he was miserable all evening until somebody
begged him to sing. When he had bellowed one of his airs, he revived
again; strutted about, raised himself on his heels, and received
compliments with a deprecating air; but modesty did not prevent him from
going from group to group for his meed of praise; and when there was
no more to be said about the singer, he returned to the subject of the
song, discussing its difficulties or extolling the composer.
M. Alexandre de Brébian performed heroic exploits in sepia; he
disfigured the walls of his friends’ rooms with a swarm of crude
productions, and spoiled all the albums in the department. M. Alexandre
de Brébian and M. de Bartas came together, each with his friend’s wife
on his arm, a cross-cornered arrangement which gossip declared to
be carried out to the fullest extent. As for the two women, Mesdames
Charlotte de Brébian and Joséphine de Bartas, or Lolotte and Fifine,
as they were called, both took an equal interest in a scarf, or the
trimming of a dress, or the reconciliation of several irreconcilable
colors; both were eaten up with a desire to look like Parisiennes, and
neglected their homes, where everything went wrong. But if they dressed
like dolls in tightly-fitting gowns of home manufacture, and exhibited
outrageous combinations of crude colors upon their persons, their
husbands availed themselves of the artist’s privilege and dressed as
they pleased, and curious it was to see the provincial dowdiness of the
pair. In their threadbare clothes they looked like the supernumeraries
that represent rank and fashion at stage weddings in third-rate
theatres.
One of the queerest figures in the rooms was M. le Comte de Senonches,
known by the aristocratic name of Jacques, a mighty hunter, lean and
sunburned, a haughty gentleman, about as amiable as a wild boar, as
suspicious as a Venetian, and jealous as a Moor, who lived on terms of
the friendliest and most perfect intimacy with M. du Hautoy, otherwise
Francis, the friend of the house.
Madame de Senonches (Zéphirine) was a tall, fine-looking woman, though
her complexion was spoiled already by pimples due to liver complaint,
on which grounds she was said to be exacting. With a slender figure and
delicate proportions, she could afford to indulge in languid manners,
savoring somewhat of affectation, but revealing passion and the
consciousness that every least caprice will be gratified by love.
Francis, the house friend, was rather distinguished-looking. He had
given up his consulship in Valence, and sacrificed his diplomatic
prospects to live near Zéphirine (also known as Zizine) in Angoulême.
He had taken the household in charge, he superintended the children’s
education, taught them foreign languages, and looked after the fortunes
of M. and Mme. de Senonches with the most complete devotion. Noble
Angoulême, administrative Angoulême, and _bourgeois_ Angoulême alike had
looked askance for a long while at this phenomenon of the perfect union
of three persons; but finally the mysterious conjugal trinity appeared
to them so rare and pleasing a spectacle, that if M. du Hautoy had
shown any intention of marrying, he would have been thought monstrously
immoral. Mme. de Senonches, however, had a lady companion, a
goddaughter, and her excessive attachment to this Mlle. de la Haye was
beginning to raise surmises of disquieting mysteries; it was thought,
in spite of some impossible discrepancies in dates, that Françoise de la
Haye bore a striking likeness to Francis du Hautoy.
When “Jacques” was shooting in the neighborhood, people used to inquire
after Francis, and Jacques would discourse on his steward’s little
ailments, and talk of his wife in the second place. So curious did this
blindness seem in a man of jealous temper, that his greatest friends
used to draw him out on the topic for the amusement of others who did
not know of the mystery. M. du Hautoy was a finical dandy whose
minute care of himself had degenerated into mincing affectation and
childishness. He took an interest in his cough, his appetite, his
digestion, his night’s rest. Zéphirine had succeeded in making a
valetudinarian of her factotum; she coddled him and doctored him; she
crammed him with delicate fare, as if he had been a fine lady’s lap-dog;
she embroidered waistcoats for him, and pocket-handkerchiefs and cravats
until he became so used to wearing finery that she transformed him into
a kind of Japanese idol. Their understanding was perfect. In season and
out of season Zizine consulted Francis with a look, and Francis seemed
to take his ideas from Zizine’s eyes. They frowned and smiled together,
and seemingly took counsel of each other before making the simplest
commonplace remark.
The largest landowner in the neighborhood, a man whom every one envied,
was the Marquis de Pimentel; he and his wife, between them, had an
income of forty thousand livres, and spent their winters in Paris. This
evening they had driven into Angoulême in their calèche, and had brought
their neighbors, the Baron and Baroness de Rastignac and their party,
the Baroness’ aunt and daughters, two charming young ladies, penniless
girls who had been carefully brought up, and were dressed in the simple
way that sets off natural loveliness.
These personages, beyond question the first in the company, met with
a reception of chilling silence; the respect paid to them was full of
jealousy, especially as everybody saw that Mme. de Bargeton paid marked
attention to the guests. The two families belonged to the very small
minority who hold themselves aloof from provincial gossip, belong to no
clique, live quietly in retirement, and maintain a dignified reserve. M.
de Pimentel and M. de Rastignac, for instance, were addressed by their
names in full, and no length of acquaintance had brought their wives and
daughters into the select coterie of Angoulême; both families were
too nearly connected with the Court to compromise themselves through
provincial follies.
The Prefect and the General in command of the garrison were the last
comers, and with them came the country gentleman who had brought the
treatise on silkworms to David that very morning. Evidently he was the
mayor of some canton or other, and a fine estate was his sufficient
title to gentility; but from his appearance, it was plain that he was
quite unused to polite society. He looked uneasy in his clothes, he was
at a loss to know what to do with his hands, he shifted about from
one foot to another as he spoke, and half rose and sat down again when
anybody spoke to him. He seemed ready to do some menial service; he was
obsequious, nervous, and grave by turns, laughing eagerly at every joke,
listening with servility; and occasionally, imagining that people were
laughing at him, he assumed a knowing air. His treatise weighed upon his
mind; again and again he tried to talk about silkworms; but the luckless
wight happened first upon M. de Bartas, who talked music in reply,
and next on M. de Saintot, who quoted Cicero to him; and not until the
evening was half over did the mayor meet with sympathetic listeners in
Mme. and Mlle. du Brossard, a widowed gentlewoman and her daughter.
Mme. and Mlle. du Brossard were not the least interesting persons in
the clique, but their story may be told in a single phrase--they were
as poor as they were noble. In their dress there was just that tinge
of pretension which betrays carefully hidden penury. The daughter, a
big, heavy young woman of seven-and-twenty, was supposed to be a good
performer on the piano, and her mother praised her in season and out
of season in the clumsiest way. No eligible man had any taste which
Camille did not share on her mother’s authoritative statement. Mme.
du Brossard, in her anxiety to establish her child, was capable of
saying that her dear Camille liked nothing so much as a roving life
from one garrison to another; and before the evening was out, that she
was sure her dear Camille liked a quiet country farmhouse existence
of all things. Mother and daughter had the pinched sub-acid dignity
characteristic of those who have learned by experience the exact value
of expressions of sympathy; they belonged to a class which the world
delights to pity; they had been the objects of the benevolent interest
of egoism; they had sounded the empty void beneath the consoling
formulas with which the world ministers to the necessities of the
unfortunate.
M. de Séverac was fifty-nine years old, and a childless widower. Mother
and daughter listened, therefore, with devout admiration to all that he
told them about his silkworm nurseries.
“My daughter has always been fond of animals,” said the mother. “And as
women are especially interested in the silk which the little creatures
produce, I shall ask permission to go over to Séverac, so that my
Camille may see how the silk is spun. My Camille is so intelligent,
she will grasp anything that you tell her in a moment. Did she not
understand one day the inverse ratio of the squares of distances!”
This was the remark that brought the conversation between Mme. du
Brossard and M. de Séverac to a glorious close after Lucien’s reading
that night.
A few habitués slipped in familiarly among the rest, so did one or two
eldest sons; shy, mute young men tricked out in gorgeous jewelry, and
highly honored by an invitation to this literary solemnity, the boldest
men among them so far shook off the weight of awe as to chatter a good
deal with Mlle. de la Haye. The women solemnly arranged themselves in
a circle, and the men stood behind them. It was a quaint assemblage of
wrinkled countenances and heterogeneous costumes, but none the less it
seemed very alarming to Lucien, and his heart beat fast when he felt
that every one was looking at him. His assurance bore the ordeal with
some difficulty in spite of the encouraging example of Mme. de
Bargeton, who welcomed the most illustrious personages of Angoulême with
ostentatious courtesy and elaborate graciousness; and the uncomfortable
feeling that oppressed him was aggravated by a trifling matter which any
one might have foreseen, though it was bound to come as an unpleasant
shock to a young man with so little experience of the world. Lucien, all
eyes and ears, noticed that no one except Louise, M. de Bargeton, the
Bishop, and some few who wished to please the mistress of the house,
spoke of him as M. de Rubempré; for his formidable audience he was M.
Chardon. Lucien’s courage sank under their inquisitive eyes. He could
read his plebeian name in the mere movements of their lips, and hear the
anticipatory criticisms made in the blunt, provincial fashion that too
often borders on rudeness. He had not expected this prolonged ordeal
of pin-pricks; it put him still more out of humor with himself. He grew
impatient to begin the reading, for then he could assume an attitude
which should put an end to his mental torments; but Jacques was giving
Mme. de Pimentel the history of his last day’s sport; Adrien was holding
forth to Mlle. Laure de Rastignac on Rossini, the newly-risen music
star, and Astolphe, who had got by heart a newspaper paragraph on
a patent plow, was giving the Baron the benefit of the description.
Lucien, luckless poet that he was, did not know that there was scarce a
soul in the room besides Mme. de Bargeton who could understand poetry.
The whole matter-of-fact assembly was there by a misapprehension, nor
did they, for the most part, know what they had come out for to see.
There are some words that draw a public as unfailingly as the clash of
cymbals, the trumpet, or the mountebank’s big drum; “beauty,” “glory,”
“poetry,” are words that bewitch the coarsest intellect.
When every one had arrived; when the buzz of talk ceased after repeated
efforts on the part of M. de Bargeton, who, obedient to his wife,
went round the room much as the beadle makes the circle of the church,
tapping the pavement with his wand; when silence, in fact, was at last
secured, Lucien went to the round table near Mme. de Bargeton. A fierce
thrill of excitement ran through him as he did so. He announced in an
uncertain voice that, to prevent disappointment, he was about to read
the masterpieces of a great poet, discovered only recently (for although
André de Chénier’s poems appeared in 1819, no one in Angoulême had so
much as heard of him). Everybody interpreted this announcement in one
way--it was a shift of Mme. de Bargeton’s, meant to save the poet’s
self-love and to put the audience at ease.
Lucien began with _Le Malade_, and the poem was received with a murmur
of applause; but he followed it with _L’Aveugle_, which proved too great
a strain upon the average intellect. None but artists or those endowed
with the artistic temperament can understand and sympathize with him in
the diabolical torture of that reading. If poetry is to be rendered by
the voice, and if the listener is to grasp all that it means, the most
devout attention is essential; there should be an intimate alliance
between the reader and his audience, or swift and subtle communication
of the poet’s thought and feeling becomes impossible. Here this close
sympathy was lacking, and Lucien in consequence was in the position of
an angel who should endeavor to sing of heaven amid the chucklings of
hell. An intelligent man in the sphere most stimulating to his faculties
can see in every direction, like a snail; he has the keen scent of a
dog, the ears of a mole; he can hear, and feel, and see all that is
going on around him. A musician or a poet knows at once whether his
audience is listening in admiration or fails to follow him, and feels
it as the plant that revives or droops under favorable or unfavorable
conditions. The men who had come with their wives had fallen to
discussing their own affairs; by the acoustic law before mentioned,
every murmur rang in Lucien’s ear; he saw all the gaps caused by the
spasmodic workings of jaws sympathetically affected, the teeth that
seemed to grin defiance at him.
When, like the dove in the deluge, he looked round for any spot on which
his eyes might rest, he saw nothing but rows of impatient faces. Their
owners clearly were waiting for him to make an end; they had come
together to discuss questions of practical interest. With the exceptions
of Laure de Rastignac, the Bishop, and two or three of the young men,
they one and all looked bored. As a matter of fact, those who understand
poetry strive to develop the germs of another poetry, quickened within
them by the poet’s poetry; but this glacial audience, so far from
attaining to the spirit of the poet, did not even listen to the letter.
Lucien felt profoundly discouraged; he was damp with chilly
perspiration; a glowing glance from Louise, to whom he turned, gave him
courage to persevere to the end, but this poet’s heart was bleeding from
countless wounds.
“Do you find this very amusing, Fifine?” inquired the wizened Lili, who
perhaps had expected some kind of gymnastics.
“Don’t ask me what I think, dear; I cannot keep my eyes open when any
one begins to read aloud.”
“I hope that Naïs will not give us poetry often in the evenings,” said
Francis. “If I am obliged to attend while somebody reads aloud after
dinner, it upsets my digestion.”
“Poor dearie,” whispered Zéphirine, “take a glass of eau _sucrée_.”
“It was very well declaimed,” said Alexandre, “but I like whist better
myself.”
After this dictum, which passed muster as a joke from the play on the
word “whist,” several card-players were of the opinion that the reader’s
voice needed a rest, and on this pretext one or two couples slipped
away into the card-room. But Louise, and the Bishop, and pretty Laure
de Rastignac besought Lucien to continue, and this time he caught the
attention of his audience with Chénier’s spirited reactionary _Iambes_.
Several persons, carried away by his impassioned delivery, applauded
the reading without understanding the sense. People of this sort are
impressed by vociferation, as a coarse palate is tickled by strong
spirits.
During the interval, as they partook of ices, Zéphirine despatched
Francis to examine the volume, and informed her neighbor Amélie that the
poetry was in print.
Amélie brightened visibly.
“Why, that is easily explained,” said she. “M. de Rubempré works for a
printer. It is as if a pretty woman should make her own dresses,” she
added, looking at Lolotte.
“He printed his poetry himself!” said the women among themselves.
“Then, why does he call himself M. de Rubempré?” inquired Jacques. “If a
noble takes a handicraft, he ought to lay his name aside.”
“So he did as a matter of fact,” said Zizine, “but his name was
plebeian, and he took his mother’s name, which is noble.”
“Well, if his verses are printed, we can read them for ourselves,” said
Astolphe.
This piece of stupidity complicated the question, until Sixte du
Châtelet condescended to inform these unlettered folk that the prefatory
announcement was no oratorical flourish, but a statement of fact,
and added that the poems had been written by a Royalist brother of
Marie-Joseph Chénier, the Revolutionary leader. All Angoulême, except
Mme. de Rastignac and her two daughters and the Bishop, who had really
felt the grandeur of the poetry, were mystified, and took offence at
the hoax. There was a smothered murmur, but Lucien did not heed it.
The intoxication of the poetry was upon him; he was far away from the
hateful world, striving to render in speech the music that filled his
soul, seeing the faces about him through a cloudy haze. He read the
sombre Elegy on the Suicide, lines in the taste of a by-gone day,
pervaded by sublime melancholy; then he turned to the page where the
line occurs, “Thy songs are sweet, I love to say them over,” and ended
with the delicate idyll _Néere_.
Mme. de Bargeton sat with one hand buried in her curls, heedless of
the havoc she wrought among them, gazing before her with unseeing eyes,
alone in her drawing-room, lost in delicious dreaming; for the first
time in her life she had been transported to the sphere which was hers
by right of nature. Judge, therefore, how unpleasantly she was disturbed
by Amélie, who took it upon herself to express the general wish.
“Naïs,” this voice broke in, “we came to hear M. Chardon’s poetry, and
you are giving us poetry out of a book. The extracts are very nice, but
the ladies feel a patriotic preference for the wine of the country; they
would rather have it.”
“The French language does not lend itself very readily to poetry, does
it?” Astolphe remarked to Châtelet. “Cicero’s prose is a thousand times
more poetical to my way of thinking.”
“The true poetry of France is song, lyric verse,” Châtelet answered.
“Which proves that our language is eminently adapted for music,” said
Adrien.
“I should like very much to hear the poetry that has cost Naïs her
reputation,” said Zéphirine; “but after receiving Amélie’s request in
such a way, it is not very likely that she will give us a specimen.”
“She ought to have them recited in justice to herself,” said Francis.
“The little fellow’s genius is his sole justification.”
“You have been in the diplomatic service,” said Amélie to M. du
Châtelet, “go and manage it somehow.”
“Nothing easier,” said the Baron.
The Princess’ private secretary, being accustomed to petty manoeuvres of
this kind, went to the Bishop and contrived to bring him to the fore.
At the Bishop’s entreaty, Naïs had no choice but to ask Lucien to recite
his own verses for them, and the Baron received a languishing smile from
Amélie as the reward of his prompt success.
“Decidedly, the Baron is a very clever man,” she observed to Lolotte.
But Amélie’s previous acidulous remark about women who made their own
dresses rankled in Lolotte’s mind.
“Since when have you begun to recognize the Emperor’s barons?” she
asked, smiling.
Lucien had essayed to deify his beloved in an ode, dedicated to her
under a title in favor with all lads who write verse after leaving
school. This ode, so fondly cherished, so beautiful--since it was the
outpouring of all the love in his heart, seemed to him to be the one
piece of his own work that could hold its own with Chénier’s verse; and
with a tolerably fatuous glance at Mme. de Bargeton, he announced “TO
HER!” He struck an attitude proudly for the delivery of the ambitious
piece, for his author’s self-love felt safe and at ease behind Mme.
de Bargeton’s petticoat. And at the selfsame moment Mme. de Bargeton
betrayed her own secret to the women’s curious eyes. Although she had
always looked down upon this audience from her own loftier intellectual
heights, she could not help trembling for Lucien. Her face was troubled,
there was a sort of mute appeal for indulgence in her glances, and while
the verses were recited she was obliged to lower her eyes and dissemble
her pleasure as stanza followed stanza.