Some years after the affair at Makta, an old lady, dressed in black,
leaning on the arm of a man about thirty-four years of age, in whom
observers would recognize a retired officer, from the loss of an arm and
the rosette of the Legion of honor in his button-hole, was standing, at
eight o’clock, one morning in the month of May, under the porte-cochere
of the Lion d’Argent, rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis, waiting, apparently,
for the departure of a diligence. Undoubtedly Pierrotin, the master of
the line of coaches running through the valley of the Oise (despatching
one through Saint-Leu-Taverny and Isle-Adam to Beaumont), would scarcely
have recognized in this bronzed and maimed officer the little Oscar
Husson he had formerly taken to Presles. Madame Husson, at last a widow,
was as little recognizable as her son. Clapart, a victim of Fieschi’s
machine, had served his wife better by death than by all his previous
life. The idle lounger was hanging about, as usual, on the boulevard du
Temple, gazing at the show, when the explosion came. The poor widow
was put upon the pension list, made expressly for the families of the
victim, at fifteen hundred francs a year.
The coach, to which were harnessed four iron-gray horses that would
have done honor to the Messageries-royales, was divided into three
compartments, coupe, interieur, and rotonde, with an imperiale above. It
resembled those diligences called “Gondoles,” which now ply, in rivalry
with the railroad, between Paris and Versailles. Both solid and light,
well-painted and well-kept, lined with fine blue cloth, and furnished
with blinds of a Moorish pattern and cushions of red morocco, the
“Swallow of the Oise” could carry, comfortably, nineteen passengers.
Pierrotin, now about fifty-six years old, was little changed. Still
dressed in a blue blouse, beneath which he wore a black suit, he smoked
his pipe, and superintended the two porters in livery, who were stowing
away the luggage in the great imperiale.
“Are your places taken?” he said to Madame Clapart and Oscar, eyeing
them like a man who is trying to recall a likeness to his memory.
“Yes, two places for the interieur in the name of my servant,
Bellejambe,” replied Oscar; “he must have taken them last evening.”
“Ah! monsieur is the new collector of Beaumont,” said Pierrotin. “You
take the place of Monsieur Margueron’s nephew?”
“Yes,” replied Oscar, pressing the arm of his mother, who was about to
speak.
The officer wished to remain unknown for a time.
Just then Oscar thrilled at hearing the well-remembered voice of Georges
Marest calling out from the street: “Pierrotin, have you one seat left?”
“It seems to me you could say ‘monsieur’ without cracking your throat,”
replied the master of the line of coaches of the Valley of the Oise,
sharply.
Unless by the sound of the voice, Oscar could never have recognized the
individual whose jokes had been so fatal to him. Georges, almost bald,
retained only three or four tufts of hair above his ears; but these were
elaborately frizzed out to conceal, as best they could, the nakedness
of the skull. A fleshiness ill-placed, in other words, a pear-shaped
stomach, altered the once elegant proportions of the ex-young man. Now
almost ignoble in appearance and bearing, Georges exhibited the traces
of disasters in love and a life of debauchery in his blotched skin and
bloated, vinous features. The eyes had lost the brilliancy, the vivacity
of youth which chaste or studious habits have the virtue to retain.
Dressed like a man who is careless of his clothes, Georges wore a pair
of shabby trousers, with straps intended for varnished boots; but his
were of leather, thick-soled, ill-blacked, and of many months’ wear. A
faded waistcoat, a cravat, pretentiously tied, although the material was
a worn-out foulard, bespoke the secret distress to which a former dandy
sometimes falls a prey. Moreover, Georges appeared at this hour of the
morning in an evening coat, instead of a surtout; a sure diagnostic of
actual poverty. This coat, which had seen long service at balls, had
now, like its master, passed from the opulent ease of former times to
daily work. The seams of the black cloth showed whitening lines; the
collar was greasy; long usage had frayed the edges of the sleeves into
fringes.
And yet, Georges ventured to attract attention by yellow kid gloves,
rather dirty, it is true, on the outside of which a signet ring
defined a large dark spot. Round his cravat, which was slipped into a
pretentious gold ring, was a chain of silk, representing hair, which,
no doubt, held a watch. His hat, though worn rather jauntily, revealed,
more than any of the above symptoms, the poverty of a man who was
totally unable to pay sixteen francs to a hat-maker, being forced to
live from hand to mouth. The former admirer of Florentine twirled a cane
with a chased gold knob, which was horribly battered. The blue trousers,
the waistcoat of a material called “Scotch stuff,” a sky-blue cravat and
a pink-striped cotton shirt, expressed, in the midst of all this ruin,
such a latent desire to SHOW-OFF that the contrast was not only a sight
to see, but a lesson to be learned.
“And that is Georges!” said Oscar, in his own mind,--“a man I left in
possession of thirty thousand francs a year!”
“Has Monsieur _de_ Pierrotin a place in the coupe?” asked Georges,
ironically replying to Pierrotin’s rebuff.
“No; my coupe is taken by a peer of France, the son-in-law of Monsieur
Moreau, Monsieur le Baron de Canalis, his wife, and his mother-in-law. I
have nothing left but one place in the interieur.”
“The devil! so peers of France still travel in your coach, do they?”
said Georges, remembering his adventure with the Comte de Serizy. “Well,
I’ll take that place in the interieur.”
He cast a glance of examination on Oscar and his mother, but did not
recognize them.
Oscar’s skin was now bronzed by the sun of Africa; his moustache was
very thick and his whiskers ample; the hollows in his cheeks and his
strongly marked features were in keeping with his military bearing.
The rosette of an officer of the Legion of honor, his missing arm,
the strict propriety of his dress, would all have diverted Georges
recollections of his former victim if he had had any. As for Madame
Clapart, whom Georges had scarcely seen, ten years devoted to the
exercise of the most severe piety had transformed her. No one would ever
have imagined that that gray sister concealed the Aspasia of 1797.
An enormous old man, very simply dressed, though his clothes were good
and substantial, in whom Oscar recognized Pere Leger, here came slowly
and heavily along. He nodded familiarly to Pierrotin, who appeared by
his manner to pay him the respect due in all lands to millionaires.
“Ha! ha! why, here’s Pere Leger! more and more preponderant!” cried
Georges.
“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” asked old Leger, curtly.
“What! you don’t recognize Colonel Georges, the friend of Ali pacha?
We travelled together once upon a time, in company with the Comte de
Serizy.”
One of the habitual follies of those who have fallen in the world is to
recognize and desire the recognition of others.
“You are much changed,” said the ex-farmer, now twice a millionaire.
“All things change,” said Georges. “Look at the Lion d’Argent and
Pierrotin’s coach; they are not a bit like what they were fourteen years
ago.”
“Pierrotin now controls the whole service of the Valley of the Oise,”
replied Monsieur Leger, “and sends out five coaches. He is the bourgeois
of Beaumont, where he keeps a hotel, at which all the diligences stop,
and he has a wife and daughter who are not a bad help to him.”
An old man of seventy here came out of the hotel and joined the group of
travellers who were waiting to get into the coach.
“Come along, Papa Reybert,” said Leger, “we are only waiting now for
your great man.”
“Here he comes,” said the steward of Presles, pointing to Joseph Bridau.
Neither Georges nor Oscar recognized the illustrious artist, for his
face had the worn and haggard lines that were now famous, and his
bearing was that which is given by success. The ribbon of the Legion
of honor adorned his black coat, and the rest of his dress, which was
extremely elegant, seemed to denote an expedition to some rural fete.
At this moment a clerk, with a paper in his hand, came out of the office
(which was now in the former kitchen of the Lion d’Argent), and stood
before the empty coupe.
“Monsieur and Madame de Canalis, three places,” he said. Then, moving
to the door of the interieur, he named, consecutively, “Monsieur
Bellejambe, two places; Monsieur de Reybert, three places;
Monsieur--your name, if you please?” he said to Georges.
“Georges Marest,” said the fallen man, in a low voice.
The clerk then moved to the rotunde, before which were grouped a number
of nurses, country-people, and petty shopkeepers, who were bidding each
other adieu. Then, after bundling in the six passengers, he called
to four young men who mounted to the imperial; after which he cried:
“Start!” Pierrotin got up beside his driver, a young man in a blouse,
who called out: “Pull!” to his animals, and the vehicle, drawn by four
horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg Saint-Denis at
a slow trot.
But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a
mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop
was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through the
valley of Montmorency.
It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which
the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.
“We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere Leger?”
he said, pulling out a silver watch.
“Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger,” said the
millionaire.
“Why, here’s our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles,” cried
Joseph Bridau. “Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or
America?”
“Sacrebleu! I’ve made the revolution of July, and that’s enough for me,
for it ruined me.”
“Ah! you made the revolution of July!” cried the painter, laughing.
“Well, I always said it never made itself.”
“How people meet again!” said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de
Reybert. “This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you
undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles.”
“We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,” said
Joseph Bridau, “and the little young man who was stupid enough to talk
to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and about
his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace.”
“And the count himself, you lack him,” said old Reybert.
“I’m afraid,” said Joseph Bridau, sadly, “that the last journey the
count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present at
my marriage.”
“He still drives about the park,” said Reybert.
“Does his wife come to see him?” asked Leger.
“Once a month,” replied Reybert. “She is never happy out of Paris. Last
September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom, since
the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very rich young
Pole, the Comte Laginski.”
“To whom,” asked Madame Clapart, “will Monsieur de Serizy’s property
go?”
“To his wife, who will bury him,” replied Georges. “The countess is
still fine-looking for a woman of fifty-four years of age. She is very
elegant, and, at a little distance, gives one the illusion--”
“She will always be an illusion to you,” said Leger, who seemed inclined
to revenge himself on his former hoaxer.
“I respect her,” said Georges. “But, by the bye, what became of that
steward whom the count turned off?”
“Moreau?” said Leger; “why, he’s the deputy from the Oise.”
“Ha! the famous Centre man; Moreau de l’Oise?” cried Georges.
“Yes,” returned Leger, “Moreau de l’Oise. He did more than you for the
revolution of July, and he has since then bought the beautiful estate of
Pointel, between Presles and Beaumont.”
“Next to the count’s,” said Georges. “I call that very bad taste.”
“Don’t speak so loud,” said Monsieur de Reybert, “for Madame Moreau and
her daughter, the Baronne de Canalis, and the Baron himself, the former
minister, are in the coupe.”
“What ‘dot’ could he have given his daughter to induce our great orator
to marry her?” said Georges.
“Something like two millions,” replied old Leger.
“He always had a taste for millions,” remarked Georges. “He began his
pile surreptitiously at Presles--”
“Say nothing against Monsieur Moreau,” cried Oscar, hastily. “You ought
to have learned before now to hold your tongue in public conveyances.”
Joseph Bridau looked at the one-armed officer for several seconds; then
he said, smiling:--
“Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made his
way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named him in
their reports.”
“Oscar Husson!” cried Georges. “Faith! if it hadn’t been for your voice
I should never have known you.”
“Ah! it was monsieur who so bravely rescued the Vicomte Jules de Serizy
from the Arabs?” said Reybert, “and for whom the count has obtained the
collectorship of Beaumont while awaiting that of Pontoise?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Oscar.
“I hope you will give me the pleasure, monsieur,” said the great
painter, “of being present at my marriage at Isle-Adam.”
“Whom do you marry?” asked Oscar, after accepting the invitation.
“Mademoiselle Leger,” replied Joseph Bridau, “the granddaughter of
Monsieur de Reybert. Monsieur le comte was kind enough to arrange the
marriage for me. As an artist I owe him a great deal, and he wished,
before his death, to secure my future, about which I did not think,
myself.”
“Whom did Pere Leger marry?” asked Georges.
“My daughter,” replied Monsieur de Reybert, “and without a ‘dot.’”
“Ah!” said Georges, assuming a more respectful manner toward Monsieur
Leger, “I am fortunate in having chosen this particular day to do the
valley of the Oise. You can all be useful to me, gentlemen.”
“How so?” asked Monsieur Leger.
“In this way,” replied Georges. “I am employed by the ‘Esperance,’ a
company just formed, the statutes of which have been approved by an
ordinance of the King. This institution gives, at the end of ten years,
dowries to young girls, annuities to old men; it pays the education of
children, and takes charge, in short, of the fortunes of everybody.”
“I can well believe it,” said Pere Leger, smiling. “In a word, you are a
runner for an insurance company.”
“No, monsieur. I am the inspector-general; charged with the duty of
establishing correspondents and appointing the agents of the company
throughout France. I am only operating until the agents are selected;
for it is a matter as delicate as it is difficult to find honest
agents.”
“But how did you lose your thirty thousand a year?” asked Oscar.
“As you lost your arm,” replied the son of Czerni-Georges, curtly.
“Then you must have shared in some brilliant action,” remarked Oscar,
with a sarcasm not unmixed with bitterness.
“Parbleu! I’ve too many--shares! that’s just what I wanted to sell.”
By this time they had arrived at Saint-Leu-Taverny, where all the
passengers got out while the coach changed horses. Oscar admired the
liveliness which Pierrotin displayed in unhooking the traces from the
whiffle-trees, while his driver cleared the reins from the leaders.
“Poor Pierrotin,” thought he; “he has stuck like me,--not far advanced
in the world. Georges has fallen low. All the others, thanks to
speculation and to talent, have made their fortune. Do we breakfast
here, Pierrotin?” he said, aloud, slapping that worthy on the shoulder.
“I am not the driver,” said Pierrotin.
“What are you, then?” asked Colonel Husson.
“The proprietor,” replied Pierrotin.
“Come, don’t be vexed with an old acquaintance,” said Oscar, motioning
to his mother, but still retaining his patronizing manner. “Don’t you
recognize Madame Clapart?”
It was all the nobler of Oscar to present his mother to Pierrotin,
because, at that moment, Madame Moreau de l’Oise, getting out of the
coupe, overheard the name, and stared disdainfully at Oscar and his
mother.
“My faith! madame,” said Pierrotin, “I should never have known you; nor
you, either, monsieur; the sun burns black in Africa, doesn’t it?”
The species of pity which Oscar thus felt for Pierrotin was the last
blunder that vanity ever led our hero to commit, and, like his other
faults, it was punished, but very gently, thus:--
Two months after his official installation at Beaumont-sur-Oise, Oscar
was paying his addresses to Mademoiselle Georgette Pierrotin, whose
‘dot’ amounted to one hundred and fifty thousand francs, and he married
the pretty daughter of the proprietor of the stage-coaches of the Oise,
toward the close of the winter of 1838.
The adventure of the journey to Presles was a lesson to Oscar Husson in
discretion; his disaster at Florentine’s card-party strengthened him in
honesty and uprightness; the hardships of his military career taught him
to understand the social hierarchy and to yield obedience to his lot.
Becoming wise and capable, he was happy. The Comte de Serizy, before his
death, obtained for him the collectorship at Pontoise. The influence
of Monsieur Moreau de l’Oise and that of the Comtesse de Serizy and the
Baron de Canalis secured, in after years, a receiver-generalship for
Monsieur Husson, in whom the Camusot family now recognize a relation.
Oscar is a commonplace man, gentle, without assumption, modest, and
always keeping, like his government, to a middle course. He excites
neither envy nor contempt. In short, he is the modern bourgeois.
ADDENDUM
The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
Beaupre, Fanny
Modest Mignon
The Muse of the Department
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Bridau, Joseph
The Purse
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Modeste Mignon
Another Study of Woman
Pierre Grassou
Letters of Two Brides
Cousin Betty
The Member for Arcis
Bruel, Jean Francois du
A Bachelor’s Establishment
The Government Clerks
A Prince of Bohemia
The Middle Classes
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Daughter of Eve
Cabirolle, Madame
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Cabirolle, Agathe-Florentine
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Canalis, Constant-Cyr-Melchior, Baron de
Letters of Two Brides
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Modeste Mignon
The Magic Skin
Another Study of Woman
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
The Member for Arcis
Cardot, Jean-Jerome-Severin
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
At the Sign of the Cat and Racket
Cesar Birotteau
Coralie, Mademoiselle
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Crottat, Alexandre
Cesar Birotteau
Colonel Chabert
A Woman of Thirty
Cousin Pons
Derville
Gobseck
The Gondreville Mystery
Father Goriot
Colonel Chabert
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Desroches (son)
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Colonel Chabert
A Woman of Thirty
The Commission in Lunacy
The Government Clerks
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Firm of Nucingen
A Man of Business
The Middle Classes
Finot, Andoche
Cesar Birotteau
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Government Clerks
Gaudissart the Great
The Firm of Nucingen
Gaudron, Abbe
The Government Clerks
Honorine
Giroudeau
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Godeschal, Francois-Claude-Marie
Colonel Chabert
A Bachelor’s Establishment
The Commission in Lunacy
The Middle Classes
Cousin Pons
Godeschal, Marie
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Cousin Pons
Gondreville, Malin, Comte de
The Gondreville Mystery
Domestic Peace
The Member for Arcis
Grevin
The Gondreville Mystery
The Member for Arcis
Grindot
Cesar Birotteau
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Beatrix
The Middle Classes
Cousin Betty
Lora, Leon de
The Unconscious Humorists
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Pierre Grassou
Honorine
Cousin Betty
Beatrix
Loraux, Abbe
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Cesar Birotteau
Honorine
Lupin, Amaury
The Peasantry
Marest, Frederic
The Seamy Side of History
The Member for Arcis
Marest, Georges
The Peasantry
Maufrigneuse, Duc de
The Secrets of a Princess
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Poiret, the elder
The Government Clerks
Father Goriot
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Middle Classes
Rouvre, Marquis du
The Imaginary Mistress
Ursule Mirouet
Schinner, Hippolyte
The Purse
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Pierre Grassou
Albert Savarus
The Government Clerks
Modeste Mignon
The Imaginary Mistress
The Unconscious Humorists
Serizy, Comte Hugret de
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Honorine
Modeste Mignon
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Serizy, Comtesse de
The Thirteen
Ursule Mirouet
A Woman of Thirty
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Another Study of Woman
The Imaginary Mistress
Serizy, Vicomte de
Modeste Mignon
The Imaginary Mistress
Vandenesse, Marquis Charles de
A Woman of Thirty
A Daughter of Eve
Vandenesse, Comte Felix de
The Lily of the Valley
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Cesar Birotteau
Letters of Two Brides
The Marriage Settlement
The Secrets of a Princess
Another Study of Woman
The Gondreville Mystery
A Daughter of Eve