ROSANETTE AS A LOVELY TURK.
His return to Paris gave him no pleasure. It was an evening at the close
of August. The boulevards seemed empty. The passers-by succeeded each
other with scowling faces. Here and there a boiler of asphalt was
smoking; several houses had their blinds entirely drawn. He made his way
to his own residence in the city. He found the hangings covered with
dust; and, while dining all alone, Frederick was seized with a strange
feeling of forlornness; then his thoughts reverted to Mademoiselle
Roque. The idea of being married no longer appeared to him preposterous.
They might travel; they might go to Italy, to the East. And he saw her
standing on a hillock, or gazing at a landscape, or else leaning on his
arm in a Florentine gallery while she stood to look at the pictures.
What a pleasure it would be to him merely to watch this good little
creature expanding under the splendours of Art and Nature! When she had
got free from the commonplace atmosphere in which she had lived, she
would, in a little while, become a charming companion. M. Roque's
wealth, moreover, tempted him. And yet he shrank from taking this step,
regarding it as a weakness, a degradation.
But he was firmly resolved (whatever he might do) on changing his mode
of life--that is to say, to lose his heart no more in fruitless
passions; and he even hesitated about executing the commission with
which he had been intrusted by Louise. This was to buy for her at
Jacques Arnoux's establishment two large-sized statues of many colours
representing negroes, like those which were at the Prefecture at Troyes.
She knew the manufacturer's number, and would not have any other.
Frederick was afraid that, if he went back to their house, he might once
again fall a victim to his old passion.
These reflections occupied his mind during the entire evening; and he
was just about to go to bed when a woman presented herself.
"'Tis I," said Mademoiselle Vatnaz, with a laugh. "I have come in behalf
of Rosanette."
So, then, they were reconciled?
"Good heavens, yes! I am not ill-natured, as you are well aware. And
besides, the poor girl--it would take too long to tell you all about
it."
In short, the Marechale wanted to see him; she was waiting for an
answer, her letter having travelled from Paris to Nogent. Mademoiselle
Vatnaz did not know what was in it.
Then Frederick asked her how the Marechale was going on.
He was informed that she was now _with_ a very rich man, a Russian,
Prince Tzernoukoff, who had seen her at the races in the Champ de Mars
last summer.
"He has three carriages, a saddle-horse, livery servants, a groom got up
in the English fashion, a country-house, a box at the Italian opera, and
a heap of other things. There you are, my dear friend!"
And the Vatnaz, as if she had profited by this change of fortune,
appeared gayer and happier. She took off her gloves and examined the
furniture and the objects of virtu in the room. She mentioned their
exact prices like a second-hand dealer. He ought to have consulted her
in order to get them cheaper. Then she congratulated him on his good
taste:
"Ha! this is pretty, exceedingly nice! There's nobody like you for these
ideas."
The next moment, as her eyes fell on a door close to the pillar of the
alcove:
"That's the way you let your friends out, eh?"
And, in a familiar fashion, she laid her finger on his chin. He trembled
at the contact of her long hands, at the same time thin and soft. Round
her wrists she wore an edging of lace, and on the body of her green
dress lace embroidery, like a hussar. Her bonnet of black tulle, with
borders hanging down, concealed her forehead a little. Her eyes shone
underneath; an odour of patchouli escaped from her head-bands. The
carcel-lamp placed on a round table, shining down on her like the
footlights of a theatre, made her jaw protrude.
She said to him, in an unctuous tone, while she drew forth from her
purse three square slips of paper:
"You will take these from me?"
They were three tickets for Delmar's benefit performance.
"What! for him?"
"Certainly."
Mademoiselle Vatnaz, without giving a further explanation, added that
she adored him more than ever. If she were to be believed, the comedian
was now definitely classed amongst "the leading celebrities of the age."
And it was not such or such a personage that he represented, but the
very genius of France, the People. He had "the humanitarian spirit; he
understood the priesthood of Art." Frederick, in order to put an end to
these eulogies, gave her the money for the three seats.
"You need not say a word about this over the way. How late it is, good
heavens! I must leave you. Ah! I was forgetting the address--'tis the
Rue Grange-Batelier, number 14."
And, at the door:
"Good-bye, beloved man!"
"Beloved by whom?" asked Frederick. "What a strange woman!"
And he remembered that Dussardier had said to him one day, when talking
about her:
"Oh, she's not much!" as if alluding to stories of a by no means
edifying character.
Next morning he repaired to the Marechale's abode. She lived in a new
house, the spring-roller blinds of which projected into the street. At
the head of each flight of stairs there was a mirror against the wall;
before each window there was a flower-stand, and all over the steps
extended a carpet of oil-cloth; and when one got inside the door, the
coolness of the staircase was refreshing.
It was a man-servant who came to open the door, a footman in a red
waistcoat. On a bench in the anteroom a woman and two men, tradespeople,
no doubt, were waiting as if in a minister's vestibule. At the left,
the door of the dining-room, slightly ajar, afforded a glimpse of empty
bottles on the sideboards, and napkins on the backs of chairs; and
parallel with it ran a corridor in which gold-coloured sticks supported
an espalier of roses. In the courtyard below, two boys with bare arms
were scrubbing a landau. Their voices rose to Frederick's ears, mingled
with the intermittent sounds made by a currycomb knocking against a
stone.
The man-servant returned. "Madame will receive Monsieur," and he led
Frederick through a second anteroom, and then into a large drawing-room
hung with yellow brocatel with twisted fringes at the corners which were
joined at the ceiling, and which seemed to be continued by flowerings of
lustre resembling cables. No doubt there had been an entertainment there
the night before. Some cigar-ashes had been allowed to remain on the
pier-tables.
At last he found his way into a kind of boudoir with stained-glass
windows, through which the sun shed a dim light. Trefoils of carved wood
adorned the upper portions of the doors. Behind a balustrade, three
purple mattresses formed a divan; and the stem of a narghileh made of
platinum lay on top of it. Instead of a mirror, there was on the
mantelpiece a pyramid-shaped whatnot, displaying on its shelves an
entire collection of curiosities, old silver trumpets, Bohemian horns,
jewelled clasps, jade studs, enamels, grotesque figures in china, and a
little Byzantine virgin with a vermilion ape; and all this was mingled
in a golden twilight with the bluish shade of the carpet, the
mother-of-pearl reflections of the foot-stools, and the tawny hue of the
walls covered with maroon leather. In the corners, on little pedestals,
there were bronze vases containing clusters of flowers, which made the
atmosphere heavy.
Rosanette presented herself, attired in a pink satin vest with white
cashmere trousers, a necklace of piasters, and a red cap encircled with
a branch of jasmine.
Frederick started back in surprise, then said he had brought the thing
she had been speaking about, and he handed her the bank-note. She gazed
at him in astonishment; and, as he still kept the note in his hand,
without knowing where to put it:
"Pray take it!"
She seized it; then, as she flung it on the divan:
"You are very kind."
She wanted it to meet the rent of a piece of ground at Bellevue, which
she paid in this way every year. Her unceremoniousness wounded
Frederick's sensibility. However, so much the better! this would avenge
him for the past.
"Sit down," said she. "There--closer." And in a grave tone: "In the
first place, I have to thank you, my dear friend, for having risked your
life."
"Oh! that's nothing!"
"What! Why, 'tis a very noble act!"--and the Marechale exhibited an
embarrassing sense of gratitude; for it must have been impressed upon
her mind that the duel was entirely on account of Arnoux, as the latter,
who believed it himself, was not likely to have resisted the temptation
of telling her so.
"She is laughing at me, perhaps," thought Frederick.
He had nothing further to detain him, and, pleading that he had an
appointment, he rose.
"Oh! no, stay!"
He resumed his seat, and presently complimented her on her costume.
She replied, with an air of dejection:
"'Tis the Prince who likes me to dress in this fashion! And one must
smoke such machines as that, too!" Rosanette added, pointing towards the
narghileh. "Suppose we try the taste of it? Have you any objection?"
She procured a light, and, finding it hard to set fire to the tobacco,
she began to stamp impatiently with her foot. Then a feeling of languor
took possession of her; and she remained motionless on the divan, with a
cushion under her arm and her body twisted a little on one side, one
knee bent and the other leg straight out.
The long serpent of red morocco, which formed rings on the floor, rolled
itself over her arm. She rested the amber mouthpiece on her lips, and
gazed at Frederick while she blinked her eyes in the midst of the cloud
of smoke that enveloped her. A gurgling sound came from her throat as
she inhaled the fumes, and from time to time she murmured:
"The poor darling! the poor pet!"
He tried to find something of an agreeable nature to talk about. The
thought of Vatnaz recurred to his memory.
He remarked that she appeared to him very lady-like.
"Yes, upon my word," replied the Marechale. "She is very lucky in having
me, that same lady!"--without adding another word, so much reserve was
there in their conversation.
Each of them felt a sense of constraint, something that formed a barrier
to confidential relations between them. In fact, Rosanette's vanity had
been flattered by the duel, of which she believed herself to be the
occasion. Then, she was very much astonished that he did not hasten to
take advantage of his achievement; and, in order to compel him to return
to her, she had invented this story that she wanted five hundred francs.
How was it that Frederick did not ask for a little love from her in
return? This was a piece of refinement that filled her with amazement,
and, with a gush of emotion, she said to him:
"Will you come with us to the sea-baths?"
"What does 'us' mean?"
"Myself and my bird. I'll make you pass for a cousin of mine, as in the
old comedies."
"A thousand thanks!"
"Well, then, you will take lodgings near ours."
The idea of hiding himself from a rich man humiliated him.
"No! that is impossible."
"Just as you please!"
Rosanette turned away with tears in her eyes. Frederick noticed this,
and in order to testify the interest which he took in her, he said that
he was delighted to see her at last in a comfortable position.
She shrugged her shoulders. What, then, was troubling her? Was it,
perchance, that she was not loved.
"Oh! as for me, I have always people to love me!"
She added:
"It remains to be seen in what way."
Complaining that she was "suffocating with the heat," the Marechale
unfastened her vest; and, without any other garment round her body, save
her silk chemise, she leaned her head on his shoulder so as to awaken
his tenderness.
A man of less introspective egoism would not have bestowed a thought at
such a moment on the possibility of the Vicomte, M. de Comaing, or
anyone else appearing on the scene. But Frederick had been too many
times the dupe of these very glances to compromise himself by a fresh
humiliation.
She wished to know all about his relationships and his amusements. She
even enquired about his financial affairs, and offered to lend him money
if he wanted it. Frederick, unable to stand it any longer, took up his
hat.
"I'm off, my pet! I hope you'll enjoy yourself thoroughly down there.
_Au revoir!_"
She opened her eyes wide; then, in a dry tone:
"_Au revoir!_"
He made his way out through the yellow drawing-room, and through the
second anteroom. There was on the table, between a vase full of
visiting-cards and an inkstand, a chased silver chest. It was Madame
Arnoux's. Then he experienced a feeling of tenderness, and, at the same
time, as it were, the scandal of a profanation. He felt a longing to
raise his hands towards it, and to open it. He was afraid of being seen,
and went away.
Frederick was virtuous. He did not go back to the Arnouxs' house. He
sent his man-servant to buy the two negroes, having given him all the
necessary directions; and the case containing them set forth the same
evening for Nogent. Next morning, as he was repairing to Deslauriers'
lodgings, at the turn where the Rue Vivienne opened out on the
boulevard, Madame Arnoux presented herself before him face to face.
The first movement of each of them was to draw back; then the same smile
came to the lips of both, and they advanced to meet each other. For a
minute, neither of them uttered a single word.
The sunlight fell round her, and her oval face, her long eyelashes, her
black lace shawl, which showed the outline of her shoulders, her gown of
shot silk, the bouquet of violets at the corner of her bonnet; all
seemed to him to possess extraordinary magnificence. An infinite
softness poured itself out of her beautiful eyes; and in a faltering
voice, uttering at random the first words that came to his lips:
"How is Arnoux?"
"Well, I thank you!"
"And your children?"
"They are very well!"
"Ah! ah! What fine weather we are getting, are we not?"
"Splendid, indeed!"
"You're going out shopping?"
And, with a slow inclination of the head:
"Good-bye!"
She put out her hand, without having spoken one word of an affectionate
description, and did not even invite him to dinner at her house. No
matter! He would not have given this interview for the most delightful
of adventures; and he pondered over its sweetness as he proceeded on his
way.
Deslauriers, surprised at seeing him, dissembled his spite; for he
cherished still through obstinacy some hope with regard to Madame
Arnoux; and he had written to Frederick to prolong his stay in the
country in order to be free in his manoeuvres.
He informed Frederick, however, that he had presented himself at her
house in order to ascertain if their contract stipulated for a community
of property between husband and wife: in that case, proceedings might be
taken against the wife; "and she put on a queer face when I told her
about your marriage."
"Now, then! What an invention!"
"It was necessary in order to show that you wanted your own capital! A
person who was indifferent would not have been attacked with the species
of fainting fit that she had."
"Really?" exclaimed Frederick.
"Ha! my fine fellow, you are betraying yourself! Come! be honest!"
A feeling of nervous weakness stole over Madame Arnoux's lover.
"Why, no! I assure you! upon my word of honour!"
These feeble denials ended by convincing Deslauriers. He congratulated
his friend, and asked him for some details. Frederick gave him none, and
even resisted a secret yearning to concoct a few. As for the mortgage,
he told the other to do nothing about it, but to wait. Deslauriers
thought he was wrong on this point, and remonstrated with him in rather
a churlish fashion.
He was, besides, more gloomy, malignant, and irascible than ever. In a
year, if fortune did not change, he would embark for America or blow out
his brains. Indeed, he appeared to be in such a rage against everything,
and so uncompromising in his radicalism, that Frederick could not keep
from saying to him:
"Here you are going on in the same way as Senecal!"
Deslauriers, at this remark, informed him that that individual to whom
he alluded had been discharged from Sainte-Pelagie, the magisterial
investigation having failed to supply sufficient evidence, no doubt, to
justify his being sent for trial.
Dussardier was so much overjoyed at the release of Senecal, that he
wanted to invite his friends to come and take punch with him, and begged
of Frederick to be one of the party, giving the latter, at the same
time, to understand that he would be found in the company of Hussonnet,
who had proved himself a very good friend to Senecal.
In fact, the _Flambard_ had just become associated with a business
establishment whose prospectus contained the following references:
"Vineyard Agency. Office of Publicity. Debt Recovery and Intelligence
Office, etc." But the Bohemian was afraid that his connection with trade
might be prejudicial to his literary reputation, and he had accordingly
taken the mathematician to keep the accounts. Although the situation was
a poor one, Senecal would but for it have died of starvation. Not
wishing to mortify the worthy shopman, Frederick accepted his
invitation.
Dussardier, three days beforehand, had himself waxed the red floor of
his garret, beaten the armchair, and knocked off the dust from the
chimney-piece, on which might be seen under a globe an alabaster
timepiece between a stalactite and a cocoanut. As his two chandeliers
and his chamber candlestick were not sufficient, he had borrowed two
more candlesticks from the doorkeeper; and these five lights shone on
the top of the chest of drawers, which was covered with three napkins in
order that it might be fit to have placed on it in such a way as to look
attractive some macaroons, biscuits, a fancy cake, and a dozen bottles
of beer. At the opposite side, close to the wall, which was hung with
yellow paper, there was a little mahogany bookcase containing the
_Fables of Lachambeaudie_, the _Mysteries of Paris_, and Norvins'
_Napoleon_--and, in the middle of the alcove, the face of Beranger was
smiling in a rosewood frame.
The guests (in addition to Deslauriers and Senecal) were an apothecary
who had just been admitted, but who had not enough capital to start in
business for himself, a young man of his own house, a town-traveller in
wines, an architect, and a gentleman employed in an insurance office.
Regimbart had not been able to come. Regret was expressed at his
absence.
They welcomed Frederick with a great display of sympathy, as they all
knew through Dussardier what he had said at M. Dambreuse's house.
Senecal contented himself with putting out his hand in a dignified
manner.
He remained standing near the chimney-piece. The others seated, with
their pipes in their mouths, listened to him, while he held forth on
universal suffrage, from which he predicted as a result the triumph of
Democracy and the practical application of the principles of the Gospel.
However, the hour was at hand. The banquets of the party of reform were
becoming more numerous in the provinces. Piedmont, Naples, Tuscany----
"'Tis true," said Deslauriers, interrupting him abruptly. "This cannot
last longer!"
And he began to draw a picture of the situation. We had sacrificed
Holland to obtain from England the recognition of Louis Philippe; and
this precious English alliance was lost, owing to the Spanish marriages.
In Switzerland, M. Guizot, in tow with the Austrian, maintained the
treaties of 1815. Prussia, with her Zollverein, was preparing
embarrassments for us. The Eastern question was still pending.
"The fact that the Grand Duke Constantine sends presents to M. d'Aumale
is no reason for placing confidence in Russia. As for home affairs,
never have so many blunders, such stupidity, been witnessed. The
Government no longer even keeps up its majority. Everywhere, indeed,
according to the well-known expression, it is naught! naught! naught!
And in the teeth of such public scandals," continued the advocate, with
his arms akimbo, "they declare themselves satisfied!"
The allusion to a notorious vote called forth applause. Dussardier
uncorked a bottle of beer; the froth splashed on the curtains. He did
not mind it. He filled the pipes, cut the cake, offered each of them a
slice of it, and several times went downstairs to see whether the punch
was coming up; and ere long they lashed themselves up into a state of
excitement, as they all felt equally exasperated against Power. Their
rage was of a violent character for no other reason save that they hated
injustice, and they mixed up with legitimate grievances the most idiotic
complaints.
The apothecary groaned over the pitiable condition of our fleet. The
insurance agent could not tolerate Marshal Soult's two sentinels.
Deslauriers denounced the Jesuits, who had just installed themselves
publicly at Lille. Senecal execrated M. Cousin much more for
eclecticism, by teaching that certitude can be deduced from reason,
developed selfishness and destroyed solidarity. The traveller in wines,
knowing very little about these matters, remarked in a very loud tone
that he had forgotten many infamies:
"The royal carriage on the Northern line must have cost eighty thousand
francs. Who'll pay the amount?"
"Aye, who'll pay the amount?" repeated the clerk, as angrily as if this
amount had been drawn out of his own pocket.
Then followed recriminations against the lynxes of the Bourse and the
corruption of officials. According to Senecal they ought to go higher
up, and lay the blame, first of all, on the princes who had revived the
morals of the Regency period.
"Have you not lately seen the Duc de Montpensier's friends coming back
from Vincennes, no doubt in a state of intoxication, and disturbing with
their songs the workmen of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine?"
"There was even a cry of 'Down with the thieves!'" said the apothecary.
"I was there, and I joined in the cry!"
"So much the better! The people are at last waking up since the
Teste-Cubieres case."[D]
"For my part, that case caused me some pain," said Dussardier, "because
it imputed dishonour to an old soldier!"
"Do you know," Senecal went on, "what they have discovered at the
Duchesse de Praslin's house----?"
But here the door was sent flying open with a kick. Hussonnet entered.
[D] This refers to a charge of corruption made in 1843 against a general
who was a member of the Ministry.--TRANSLATOR.
"Hail, messeigneurs," said he, as he seated himself on the bed.
No allusion was made to his article, which he was sorry, however, for
having written, as the Marechale had sharply reprimanded him on account
of it.
He had just seen at the Theatre de Dumas the _Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge_, and declared that it seemed to him a stupid play.
Such a criticism surprised the democrats, as this drama, by its
tendency, or rather by its scenery, flattered their passions. They
protested. Senecal, in order to bring this discussion to a close, asked
whether the play served the cause of Democracy.
"Yes, perhaps; but it is written in a style----"
"Well, then, 'tis a good play. What is style? 'Tis the idea!"
And, without allowing Frederick to say a word:
"Now, I was pointing out that in the Praslin case----"
Hussonnet interrupted him:
"Ha! here's another worn-out trick! I'm disgusted at it!"
"And others as well as you," returned Deslauriers.
"It has only got five papers taken. Listen while I read this paragraph."
And drawing his note-book out of his pocket, he read:
"'We have, since the establishment of the best of republics, been
subjected to twelve hundred and twenty-nine press prosecutions, from
which the results to the writers have been imprisonment extending over a
period of three thousand one hundred and forty-one years, and the light
sum of seven million one hundred and ten thousand five hundred francs
by way of fine.' That's charming, eh?"
They all sneered bitterly.
Frederick, incensed against the others, broke in:
"_The Democratie Pacifique_ has had proceedings taken against it on
account of its feuilleton, a novel entitled _The Woman's Share_."
"Come! that's good," said Hussonnet. "Suppose they prevented us from
having our share of the women!"
"But what is it that's not prohibited?" exclaimed Deslauriers. "To smoke
in the Luxembourg is prohibited; to sing the Hymn to Pius IX. is
prohibited!"
"And the typographers' banquet has been interdicted," a voice cried,
with a thick articulation.
It was that of an architect, who had sat concealed in the shade of the
alcove, and who had remained silent up to that moment. He added that,
the week before, a man named Rouget had been convicted of offering
insults to the king.
"That gurnet[E] is fried," said Hussonnet.
This joke appeared so improper to Senecal, that he reproached Hussonnet
for defending the Juggler of the Hotel de Ville, the friend of the
traitor Dumouriez.
"I? quite the contrary!"
He considered Louis Philippe commonplace, one of the National Guard
types of men, all that savoured most of the provision-shop and the
cotton night-cap! And laying his hand on his heart, the Bohemian gave
utterance to the rhetorical phrases:
"It is always with a new pleasure.... Polish nationality will not
perish.... Our great works will be pursued.... Give me some money for
my little family...."
[E] _Rouget_ means a gurnet.--TRANSLATOR.
They all laughed hugely, declaring that he was a delightful fellow, full
of wit. Their delight was redoubled at the sight of the bowl of punch
which was brought in by the keeper of a cafe.
The flames of the alcohol and those of the wax-candles soon heated the
apartment, and the light from the garret, passing across the courtyard,
illuminated the side of an opposite roof with the flue of a chimney,
whose black outlines could be traced through the darkness of night. They
talked in very loud tones all at the same time. They had taken off their
coats; they gave blows to the furniture; they touched glasses.
Hussonnet exclaimed:
"Send up some great ladies, in order that this may be more Tour de
Nesles, have more local colouring, and be more Rembrandtesque,
gadzooks!"
And the apothecary, who kept stirring about the punch indefinitely,
began to sing with expanded chest:
"I've two big oxen in my stable,
Two big white oxen----"
Senecal laid his hand on the apothecary's mouth; he did not like
disorderly conduct; and the lodgers pressed their faces against the
window-panes, surprised at the unwonted uproar that was taking place in
Dussardier's room.
The honest fellow was happy, and said that this recalled to his mind
their little parties on the Quai Napoleon in days gone by; however, they
missed many who used to be present at these reunions, "Pellerin, for
instance."
"We can do without him," observed Frederick.
And Deslauriers enquired about Martinon.
"What has become of that interesting gentleman?"
Frederick, immediately giving vent to the ill-will which he bore to
Martinon, attacked his mental capacity, his character, his false
elegance, his entire personality. He was a perfect specimen of an
upstart peasant! The new aristocracy, the mercantile class, was not as
good as the old--the nobility. He maintained this, and the democrats
expressed their approval, as if he were a member of the one class, and
they were in the habit of visiting the other. They were charmed with
him. The apothecary compared him to M. d'Alton Shee, who, though a peer
of France, defended the cause of the people.
The time had come for taking their departure. They all separated with
great handshakings. Dussardier, in a spirit of affectionate solicitude,
saw Frederick and Deslauriers home. As soon as they were in the street,
the advocate assumed a thoughtful air, and, after a moment's silence:
"You have a great grudge, then, against Pellerin?"
Frederick did not hide his rancour.
The painter, in the meantime, had withdrawn the notorious picture from
the show-window. A person should not let himself be put out by trifles.
What was the good of making an enemy for himself?
"He has given way to a burst of ill-temper, excusable in a man who
hasn't a sou. You, of course, can't understand that!"
And, when Deslauriers had gone up to his own apartments, the shopman did
not part with Frederick. He even urged his friend to buy the portrait.
In fact, Pellerin, abandoning the hope of being able to intimidate him,
had got round them so that they might use their influence to obtain the
thing for him.
Deslauriers spoke about it again, and pressed him on the point, urging
that the artist's claims were reasonable.
"I am sure that for a sum of, perhaps, five hundred francs----"
"Oh, give it to him! Wait! here it is!" said Frederick.
The picture was brought the same evening. It appeared to him a still
more atrocious daub than when he had seen it first. The half-tints and
the shades were darkened under the excessive retouchings, and they
seemed obscured when brought into relation with the lights, which,
having remained very brilliant here and there, destroyed the harmony of
the entire picture.
Frederick revenged himself for having had to pay for it by bitterly
disparaging it. Deslauriers believed in Frederick's statement on the
point, and expressed approval of his conduct, for he had always been
ambitious of constituting a phalanx of which he would be the leader.
Certain men take delight in making their friends do things which are
disagreeable to them.
Meanwhile, Frederick did not renew his visits to the Dambreuses. He
lacked the capital for the investment. He would have to enter into
endless explanations on the subject; he hesitated about making up his
mind. Perhaps he was in the right. Nothing was certain now, the
coal-mining speculation any more than other things. He would have to
give up society of that sort. The end of the matter was that
Deslauriers was dissuaded from having anything further to do with the
undertaking.
From sheer force of hatred he had grown virtuous, and again he preferred
Frederick in a position of mediocrity. In this way he remained his
friend's equal and in more intimate relationship with him.
Mademoiselle Roque's commission had been very badly executed. Her father
wrote to him, supplying him with the most precise directions, and
concluded his letter with this piece of foolery: "At the risk of giving
you _nigger on the brain_!"
Frederick could not do otherwise than call upon the Arnouxs', once more.
He went to the warehouse, where he could see nobody. The firm being in a
tottering condition, the clerks imitated the carelessness of their
master.
He brushed against the shelves laden with earthenware, which filled up
the entire space in the centre of the establishment; then, when he
reached the lower end, facing the counter, he walked with a more noisy
tread in order to make himself heard.
The portieres parted, and Madame Arnoux appeared.
"What! you here! you!"
"Yes," she faltered, with some agitation. "I was looking for----"
He saw her handkerchief near the desk, and guessed that she had come
down to her husband's warehouse to have an account given to her as to
the business, to clear up some matter that caused her anxiety.
"But perhaps there is something you want?" said she.
"A mere nothing, madame."
"These shop-assistants are intolerable! they are always out of the way."
They ought not to be blamed. On the contrary, he congratulated himself
on the circumstance.
She gazed at him in an ironical fashion.
"Well, and this marriage?"
"What marriage?"
"Your own!"
"Mine? I'll never marry as long as I live!"
She made a gesture as if to contradict his words.
"Though, indeed, such things must be, after all? We take refuge in the
commonplace, despairing of ever realising the beautiful existence of
which we have dreamed."
"All your dreams, however, are not so--candid!"
"What do you mean?"
"When you drive to races with women!"
He cursed the Marechale. Then something recurred to his memory.
"But it was you begged of me yourself to see her at one time in the
interest of Arnoux."
She replied with a shake of her head:
"And you take advantage of it to amuse yourself?"
"Good God! let us forget all these foolish things!"
"'Tis right, since you are going to be married."
And she stifled a sigh, while she bit her lips.
Then he exclaimed:
"But I tell you again I am not! Can you believe that I, with my
intellectual requirements, my habits, am going to bury myself in the
provinces in order to play cards, look after masons, and walk about in
wooden shoes? What object, pray, could I have for taking such a step?
You've been told that she was rich, haven't you? Ah! what do I care
about money? Could I, after yearning long for that which is most lovely,
tender, enchanting, a sort of Paradise under a human form, and having
found this sweet ideal at last when this vision hides every other from
my view----"
And taking her head between his two hands, he began to kiss her on the
eyelids, repeating:
"No! no! no! never will I marry! never! never!"
She submitted to these caresses, her mingled amazement and delight
having bereft her of the power of motion.
The door of the storeroom above the staircase fell back, and she
remained with outstretched arms, as if to bid him keep silence. Steps
drew near. Then some one said from behind the door:
"Is Madame there?"
"Come in!"
Madame Arnoux had her elbow on the counter, and was twisting about a pen
between her fingers quietly when the book-keeper threw aside the
portiere.
Frederick started up, as if on the point of leaving.
"Madame, I have the honour to salute you. The set will be ready--will it
not? I may count on this?"
She made no reply. But by thus silently becoming his accomplice in the
deception, she made his face flush with the crimson glow of adultery.
On the following day he paid her another visit. She received him; and,
in order to follow up the advantage he had gained, Frederick
immediately, without any preamble, attempted to offer some justification
for the accidental meeting in the Champ de Mars. It was the merest
chance that led to his being in that woman's company. While admitting
that she was pretty--which really was not the case--how could she for
even a moment absorb his thoughts, seeing that he loved another woman?
"You know it well--I told you it was so!"
Madame Arnoux hung down her head.
"I am sorry you said such a thing."
"Why?"
"The most ordinary proprieties now demand that I should see you no
more!"
He protested that his love was of an innocent character. The past ought
to be a guaranty as to his future conduct. He had of his own accord made
it a point of honour with himself not to disturb her existence, not to
deafen her with his complaints.
"But yesterday my heart overflowed."
"We ought not to let our thoughts dwell on that moment, my friend!"
And yet, where would be the harm in two wretched beings mingling their
griefs?
"For, indeed, you are not happy any more than I am! Oh! I know you. You
have no one who responds to your craving for affection, for devotion. I
will do anything you wish! I will not offend you! I swear to you that I
will not!"
And he let himself fall on his knees, in spite of himself, giving way
beneath the weight of the feelings that oppressed his heart.
"Rise!" she said; "I desire you to do so!"
And she declared in an imperious tone that if he did not comply with her
wish, she would never see him again.
"Ha! I defy you to do it!" returned Frederick. "What is there for me to
do in the world? Other men strive for riches, celebrity, power! But I
have no profession; you are my exclusive occupation, my whole wealth,
the object, the centre of my existence and of my thoughts. I can no more
live without you than without the air of heaven! Do you not feel the
aspiration of my soul ascending towards yours, and that they must
intermingle, and that I am dying on your account?"
Madame Arnoux began to tremble in every limb.
"Oh! leave me, I beg of you?"
The look of utter confusion in her face made him pause. Then he advanced
a step. But she drew back, with her two hands clasped.
"Leave me in the name of Heaven, for mercy's sake!"
And Frederick loved her so much that he went away.
Soon afterwards, he was filled with rage against himself, declared in
his own mind that he was an idiot, and, after the lapse of twenty-four
hours, returned.
Madame was not there. He remained at the head of the stairs, stupefied
with anger and indignation. Arnoux appeared, and informed Frederick that
his wife had, that very morning, gone out to take up her residence at a
little country-house of which he had become tenant at Auteuil, as he had
given up possession of the house at Saint-Cloud.
"This is another of her whims. No matter, as she is settled at last; and
myself, too, for that matter, so much the better. Let us dine together
this evening, will you?"
Frederick pleaded as an excuse some urgent business; then he hurried
away of his own accord to Auteuil.
Madame Arnoux allowed an exclamation of joy to escape her lips. Then all
his bitterness vanished.
He did not say one word about his love. In order to inspire her with
confidence in him, he even exaggerated his reserve; and on his asking
whether he might call again, she replied: "Why, of course!" putting out
her hand, which she withdrew the next moment.
From that time forth, Frederick increased his visits. He promised extra
fares to the cabman who drove him. But often he grew impatient at the
slow pace of the horse, and, alighting on the ground, he would make a
dash after an omnibus, and climb to the top of it out of breath. Then
with what disdain he surveyed the faces of those around him, who were
not going to see her!
He could distinguish her house at a distance, with an enormous
honeysuckle covering, on one side, the planks of the roof. It was a kind
of Swiss chalet, painted red, with a balcony outside. In the garden
there were three old chestnut-trees, and on a rising ground in the
centre might be seen a parasol made of thatch, held up by the trunk of a
tree. Under the slatework lining the walls, a big vine-tree, badly
fastened, hung from one place to another after the fashion of a rotten
cable. The gate-bell, which it was rather hard to pull, was slow in
ringing, and a long time always elapsed before it was answered. On each
occasion he experienced a pang of suspense, a fear born of irresolution.
Then his ears would be greeted with the pattering of the servant-maid's
slippers over the gravel, or else Madame Arnoux herself would make her
appearance. One day he came up behind her just as she was stooping down
in the act of gathering violets.
Her daughter's capricious disposition had made it necessary to send the
girl to a convent. Her little son was at school every afternoon. Arnoux
was now in the habit of taking prolonged luncheons at the Palais-Royal
with Regimbart and their friend Compain. They gave themselves no bother
about anything that occurred, no matter how disagreeable it might be.
It was clearly understood between Frederick and her that they should not
belong to each other. By this convention they were preserved from
danger, and they found it easier to pour out their hearts to each other.
She told him all about her early life at Chartres, which she spent with
her mother, her devotion when she had reached her twelfth year, then her
passion for music, when she used to sing till nightfall in her little
room, from which the ramparts could be seen.
He related to her how melancholy broodings had haunted him at college,
and how a woman's face shone brightly in the cloudland of his
imagination, so that, when he first laid eyes upon her, he felt that her
features were quite familiar to him.
These conversations, as a rule, covered only the years during which they
had been acquainted with each other. He recalled to her recollection
insignificant details--the colour of her dress at a certain period, a
woman whom they had met on a certain day, what she had said on another
occasion; and she replied, quite astonished:
"Yes, I remember!"
Their tastes, their judgments, were the same. Often one of them, when
listening to the other, exclaimed:
"That's the way with me."
And the other replied:
"And with me, too!"
Then there were endless complaints about Providence:
"Why was it not the will of Heaven? If we had only met----!"
"Ah! if I had been younger!" she sighed.
"No, but if I had been a little older."
And they pictured to themselves a life entirely given up to love,
sufficiently rich to fill up the vastest solitudes, surpassing all other
joys, defying all forms of wretchedness, in which the hours would glide
away in a continual outpouring of their own emotions, and which would be
as bright and glorious as the palpitating splendour of the stars.
They were nearly always standing at the top of the stairs exposed to the
free air of heaven. The tops of trees yellowed by the autumn raised
their crests in front of them at unequal heights up to the edge of the
pale sky; or else they walked on to the end of the avenue into a
summer-house whose only furniture was a couch of grey canvas. Black
specks stained the glass; the walls exhaled a mouldy smell; and they
remained there chatting freely about all sorts of topics--anything that
happened to arise--in a spirit of hilarity. Sometimes the rays of the
sun, passing through the Venetian blind, extended from the ceiling down
to the flagstones like the strings of a lyre. Particles of dust whirled
amid these luminous bars. She amused herself by dividing them with her
hand. Frederick gently caught hold of her; and he gazed on the twinings
of her veins, the grain of her skin, and the form of her fingers. Each
of those fingers of hers was for him more than a thing--almost a
person.
She gave him her gloves, and, the week after, her handkerchief. She
called him "Frederick;" he called her "Marie," adoring this name, which,
as he said, was expressly made to be uttered with a sigh of ecstasy, and
which seemed to contain clouds of incense and scattered heaps of roses.
They soon came to an understanding as to the days on which he would call
to see her; and, leaving the house as if by mere chance, she walked
along the road to meet him.
She made no effort whatever to excite his love, lost in that
listlessness which is characteristic of intense happiness. During the
whole season she wore a brown silk dressing-gown with velvet borders of
the same colour, a large garment, which united the indolence of her
attitudes and her grave physiognomy. Besides, she had just reached the
autumnal period of womanhood, in which reflection is combined with
tenderness, in which the beginning of maturity colours the face with a
more intense flame, when strength of feeling mingles with experience of
life, and when, having completely expanded, the entire being overflows
with a richness in harmony with its beauty. Never had she possessed more
sweetness, more leniency. Secure in the thought that she would not err,
she abandoned herself to a sentiment which seemed to her won by her
sorrows. And, moreover, it was so innocent and fresh! What an abyss lay
between the coarseness of Arnoux and the adoration of Frederick!
He trembled at the thought that by an imprudent word he might lose all
that he had gained, saying to himself that an opportunity might be found
again, but that a foolish step could never be repaired. He wished that
she should give herself rather than that he should take her. The
assurance of being loved by her delighted him like a foretaste of
possession, and then the charm of her person troubled his heart more
than his senses. It was an indefinable feeling of bliss, a sort of
intoxication that made him lose sight of the possibility of having his
happiness completed. Apart from her, he was consumed with longing.
Ere long the conversations were interrupted by long spells of silence.
Sometimes a species of sexual shame made them blush in each other's
presence. All the precautions they took to hide their love only unveiled
it; the stronger it grew, the more constrained they became in manner.
The effect of this dissimulation was to intensify their sensibility.
They experienced a sensation of delight at the odour of moist leaves;
they could not endure the east wind; they got irritated without any
apparent cause, and had melancholy forebodings. The sound of a footstep,
the creaking of the wainscoting, filled them with as much terror as if
they had been guilty. They felt as if they were being pushed towards the
edge of a chasm. They were surrounded by a tempestuous atmosphere; and
when complaints escaped Frederick's lips, she made accusations against
herself.
"Yes, I am doing wrong. I am acting as if I were a coquette! Don't come
any more!"
Then he would repeat the same oaths, to which on each occasion she
listened with renewed pleasure.
His return to Paris, and the fuss occasioned by New Year's Day,
interrupted their meetings to some extent. When he returned, he had an
air of greater self-confidence. Every moment she went out to give
orders, and in spite of his entreaties she received every visitor that
called during the evening.
After this, they engaged in conversations about Leotade, M. Guizot, the
Pope, the insurrection at Palermo, and the banquet of the Twelfth
Arrondissement, which had caused some disquietude. Frederick eased his
mind by railing against Power, for he longed, like Deslauriers, to turn
the whole world upside down, so soured had he now become. Madame Arnoux,
on her side, had become sad.
Her husband, indulging in displays of wild folly, was flirting with one
of the girls in his pottery works, the one who was known as "the girl
from Bordeaux." Madame Arnoux was herself informed about it by
Frederick. He wanted to make use of it as an argument, "inasmuch as she
was the victim of deception."
"Oh! I'm not much concerned about it," she said.
This admission on her part seemed to him to strengthen the intimacy
between them. Would Arnoux be seized with mistrust with regard to them?
"No! not now!"
She told him that, one evening, he had left them talking together, and
had afterwards come back again and listened behind the door, and as they
both were chatting at the time of matters that were of no consequence,
he had lived since then in a state of complete security.
"With good reason, too--is that not so?" said Frederick bitterly.
"Yes, no doubt!"
It would have been better for him not to have given so risky an answer.
One day she was not at home at the hour when he usually called. To him
there seemed to be a sort of treason in this.
He was next displeased at seeing the flowers which he used to bring her
always placed in a glass of water.
"Where, then, would you like me to put them?"
"Oh! not there! However, they are not so cold there as they would be
near your heart!"
Not long afterwards he reproached her for having been at the Italian
opera the night before without having given him a previous intimation of
her intention to go there. Others had seen, admired, fallen in love with
her, perhaps; Frederick was fastening on those suspicions of his merely
in order to pick a quarrel with her, to torment her; for he was
beginning to hate her, and the very least he might expect was that she
should share in his sufferings!
One afternoon, towards the middle of February, he surprised her in a
state of great mental excitement. Eugene had been complaining about his
sore throat. The doctor had told her, however, that it was a trifling
ailment--a bad cold, an attack of influenza. Frederick was astonished at
the child's stupefied look. Nevertheless, he reassured the mother, and
brought forward the cases of several children of the same age who had
been attacked with similar ailments, and had been speedily cured.
"Really?"
"Why, yes, assuredly!"
"Oh! how good you are!"
And she caught his hand. He clasped hers tightly in his.
"Oh! let it go!"
"What does it signify, when it is to one who sympathises with you that
you offer it? You place every confidence in me when I speak of these
things, but you distrust me when I talk to you about my love!"
"I don't doubt you on that point, my poor friend!"
"Why this distrust, as if I were a wretch capable of abusing----"
"Oh! no!----"
"If I had only a proof!----"
"What proof?"
"The proof that a person might give to the first comer--what you have
granted to myself!"
And he recalled to her recollection how, on one occasion, they had gone
out together, on a winter's twilight, when there was a fog. This seemed
now a long time ago. What, then, was to prevent her from showing herself
on his arm before the whole world without any fear on her part, and
without any mental reservation on his, not having anyone around them who
could importune them?
"Be it so!" she said, with a promptness of decision that at first
astonished Frederick.
But he replied, in a lively fashion:
"Would you like me to wait at the corner of the Rue Tronchet and the Rue
de la Ferme?"
"Good heavens, my friend!" faltered Madame Arnoux.
Without giving her time to reflect, he added:
"Next Tuesday, I suppose?"
"Tuesday?"
"Yes, between two and three o'clock."
"I will be there!"
And she turned aside her face with a movement of shame. Frederick
placed his lips on the nape of her neck.
"Oh! this is not right," she said. "You will make me repent."
He turned away, dreading the fickleness which is customary with women.
Then, on the threshold, he murmured softly, as if it were a thing that
was thoroughly understood:
"On Tuesday!"
She lowered her beautiful eyes in a cautious and resigned fashion.
Frederick had a plan arranged in his mind.
He hoped that, owing to the rain or the sun, he might get her to stop
under some doorway, and that, once there, she would go into some house.
The difficulty was to find one that would suit.
He made a search, and about the middle of the Rue Tronchet he read, at a
distance on a signboard, "Furnished apartments."
The waiter, divining his object, showed him immediately above the
ground-floor a room and a closet with two exits. Frederick took it for a
month, and paid in advance. Then he went into three shops to buy the
rarest perfumery. He got a piece of imitation guipure, which was to
replace the horrible red cotton foot-coverlets; he selected a pair of
blue satin slippers, only the fear of appearing coarse checked the
amount of his purchases. He came back with them; and with more devotion
than those who are erecting processional altars, he altered the position
of the furniture, arranged the curtains himself, put heather in the
fireplace, and covered the chest of drawers with violets. He would have
liked to pave the entire apartment with gold. "To-morrow is the time,"
said he to himself. "Yes, to-morrow! I am not dreaming!" and he felt his
heart throbbing violently under the delirious excitement begotten by his
anticipations. Then, when everything was ready, he carried off the key
in his pocket, as if the happiness which slept there might have flown
away along with it.
A letter from his mother was awaiting him when he reached his abode:
"Why such a long absence? Your conduct is beginning to look ridiculous.
I understand your hesitating more or less at first with regard to this
union. However, think well upon it."
And she put the matter before him with the utmost clearness: an income
of forty-five thousand francs. However, "people were talking about it;"
and M. Roque was waiting for a definite answer. As for the young girl,
her position was truly most embarrassing.
"She is deeply attached to you."
Frederick threw aside the letter even before he had finished reading it,
and opened another epistle which came from Deslauriers.
"Dear Old Boy,--The _pear_ is ripe. In accordance with your promise, we
may count on you. We meet to-morrow at daybreak, in the Place du
Pantheon. Drop into the Cafe Soufflot. It is necessary for me to have a
chat with you before the manifestation takes place."
"Oh! I know them, with their manifestations! A thousand thanks! I have a
more agreeable appointment."
And on the following morning, at eleven o'clock, Frederick had left the
house. He wanted to give one last glance at the preparations. Then, who
could tell but that, by some chance or other, she might be at the place
of meeting before him? As he emerged from the Rue Tronchet, he heard a
great clamour behind the Madeleine. He pressed forward, and saw at the
far end of the square, to the left, a number of men in blouses and
well-dressed people.
In fact, a manifesto published in the newspapers had summoned to this
spot all who had subscribed to the banquet of the Reform Party. The
Ministry had, almost without a moment's delay, posted up a proclamation
prohibiting the meeting. The Parliamentary Opposition had, on the
previous evening, disclaimed any connection with it; but the patriots,
who were unaware of this resolution on the part of their leaders, had
come to the meeting-place, followed by a great crowd of spectators. A
deputation from the schools had made its way, a short time before, to
the house of Odillon Barrot. It was now at the residence of the Minister
for Foreign Affairs; and nobody could tell whether the banquet would
take place, whether the Government would carry out its threat, and
whether the National Guards would make their appearance. People were as
much enraged against the deputies as against Power. The crowd was
growing bigger and bigger, when suddenly the strains of the
"Marseillaise" rang through the air.
It was the students' column which had just arrived on the scene. They
marched along at an ordinary walking pace, in double file and in good
order, with angry faces, bare hands, and all exclaiming at intervals:
"Long live Reform! Down with Guizot!"
Frederick's friends were there, sure enough. They would have noticed him
and dragged him along with them. He quickly sought refuge in the Rue de
l'Arcade.
When the students had taken two turns round the Madeleine, they went
down in the direction of the Place de la Concorde. It was full of
people; and, at a distance, the crowd pressed close together, had the
appearance of a field of dark ears of corn swaying to and fro.
At the same moment, some soldiers of the line ranged themselves in
battle-array at the left-hand side of the church.
The groups remained standing there, however. In order to put an end to
this, some police-officers in civilian dress seized the most riotous of
them in a brutal fashion, and carried them off to the guard-house.
Frederick, in spite of his indignation, remained silent; he might have
been arrested along with the others, and he would have missed Madame
Arnoux.
A little while afterwards the helmets of the Municipal Guards appeared.
They kept striking about them with the flat side of their sabres. A
horse fell down. The people made a rush forward to save him, and as soon
as the rider was in the saddle, they all ran away.
Then there was a great silence. The thin rain, which had moistened the
asphalt, was no longer falling. Clouds floated past, gently swept on by
the west wind.
Frederick began running through the Rue Tronchet, looking before him and
behind him.
At length it struck two o'clock.
"Ha! now is the time!" said he to himself. "She is leaving her house;
she is approaching," and a minute after, "she would have had time to be
here."
Up to three he tried to keep quiet. "No, she is not going to be late--a
little patience!"
And for want of something to do he examined the most interesting shops
that he passed--a bookseller's, a saddler's and a mourning warehouse.
Soon he knew the names of the different books, the various kinds of
harness, and every sort of material. The persons who looked after these
establishments, from seeing him continually going backwards and
forwards, were at first surprised, and then alarmed, and they closed up
their shop-fronts.
No doubt she had met with some impediment, and for that reason she must
be enduring pain on account of it. But what delight would be afforded in
a very short time! For she would come--that was certain. "She has given
me her promise!" In the meantime an intolerable feeling of anxiety was
gradually seizing hold of him. Impelled by an absurd idea, he returned
to his hotel, as if he expected to find her there. At the same moment,
she might have reached the street in which their meeting was to take
place. He rushed out. Was there no one? And he resumed his tramp up and
down the footpath.
He stared at the gaps in the pavement, the mouths of the gutters, the
candelabra, and the numbers above the doors. The most trifling objects
became for him companions, or rather, ironical spectators, and the
regular fronts of the houses seemed to him to have a pitiless aspect. He
was suffering from cold feet. He felt as if he were about to succumb to
the dejection which was crushing him. The reverberation of his footsteps
vibrated through his brain.
When he saw by his watch that it was four o'clock, he experienced, as it
were, a sense of vertigo, a feeling of dismay. He tried to repeat some
verses to himself, to enter on a calculation, no matter of what sort, to
invent some kind of story. Impossible! He was beset by the image of
Madame Arnoux; he felt a longing to run in order to meet her. But what
road ought he to take so that they might not pass each other?
He went up to a messenger, put five francs into his hand, and ordered
him to go to the Rue de Paradis to Jacques Arnoux's residence to enquire
"if Madame were at home." Then he took up his post at the corner of the
Rue de la Ferme and of the Rue Tronchet, so as to be able to look down
both of them at the same time. On the boulevard, in the background of
the scene in front of him, confused masses of people were gliding past.
He could distinguish, every now and then, the aigrette of a dragoon or a
woman's hat; and he strained his eyes in the effort to recognise the
wearer. A child in rags, exhibiting a jack-in-the-box, asked him, with a
smile, for alms.
The man with the velvet vest reappeared. "The porter had not seen her
going out." What had kept her in? If she were ill he would have been
told about it. Was it a visitor? Nothing was easier than to say that she
was not at home. He struck his forehead.
"Ah! I am stupid! Of course, 'tis this political outbreak that prevented
her from coming!"
He was relieved by this apparently natural explanation. Then, suddenly:
"But her quarter of the city is quiet." And a horrible doubt seized hold
of his mind: "Suppose she was not coming at all, and merely gave me a
promise in order to get rid of me? No, no!" What had prevented her from
coming was, no doubt, some extraordinary mischance, one of those
occurrences that baffled all one's anticipations. In that case she would
have written to him.
And he sent the hotel errand-boy to his residence in the Rue Rumfort to
find out whether there happened to be a letter waiting for him there.
No letter had been brought. This absence of news reassured him.
He drew omens from the number of coins which he took up in his hand out
of his pocket by chance, from the physiognomies of the passers-by, and
from the colour of different horses; and when the augury was
unfavourable, he forced himself to disbelieve in it. In his sudden
outbursts of rage against Madame Arnoux, he abused her in muttering
tones. Then came fits of weakness that nearly made him swoon, followed,
all of a sudden, by fresh rebounds of hopefulness. She would make her
appearance presently! She was there, behind his back! He turned
round--there was nobody there! Once he perceived, about thirty paces
away, a woman of the same height, with a dress of the same kind. He came
up to her--it was not she. It struck five--half-past five--six. The
gas-lamps were lighted, Madame Arnoux had not come.
The night before, she had dreamed that she had been, for some time, on
the footpath in the Rue Tronchet. She was waiting there for something
the nature of which she was not quite clear about, but which,
nevertheless, was of great importance; and, without knowing why, she was
afraid of being seen. But a pestiferous little dog kept barking at her
furiously and biting at the hem of her dress. Every time she shook him
off he returned stubbornly to the attack, always barking more violently
than before. Madame Arnoux woke up. The dog's barking continued. She
strained her ears to listen. It came from her son's room. She rushed to
the spot in her bare feet. It was the child himself who was coughing.
His hands were burning, his face flushed, and his voice singularly
hoarse. Every minute he found it more difficult to breathe freely. She
waited there till daybreak, bent over the coverlet watching him.
At eight o'clock the drum of the National Guard gave warning to M.
Arnoux that his comrades were expecting his arrival. He dressed himself
quickly and went away, promising that he would immediately be passing
the house of their doctor, M. Colot.
At ten o'clock, when M. Colot did not make his appearance, Madame Arnoux
despatched her chambermaid for him. The doctor was away in the country;
and the young man who was taking his place had gone out on some
business.
Eugene kept his head on one side on the bolster with contracted eyebrows
and dilated nostrils. His pale little face had become whiter than the
sheets; and there escaped from his larynx a wheezing caused by his
oppressed breathing, which became gradually shorter, dryer, and more
metallic. His cough resembled the noise made by those barbarous
mechanical inventions by which toy-dogs are enabled to bark.
Madame Arnoux was seized with terror. She rang the bell violently,
calling out for help, and exclaiming:
"A doctor! a doctor!"
Ten minutes later came an elderly gentleman in a white tie, and with
grey whiskers well trimmed. He put several questions as to the habits,
the age, and the constitution of the young patient, and studied the
case with his head thrown back. He next wrote out a prescription.
The calm manner of this old man was intolerable. He smelt of aromatics.
She would have liked to beat him. He said he would come back in the
evening.
The horrible coughing soon began again. Sometimes the child arose
suddenly. Convulsive movements shook the muscles of his breast; and in
his efforts to breathe his stomach shrank in as if he were suffocating
after running too hard. Then he sank down, with his head thrown back and
his mouth wide open. With infinite pains, Madame Arnoux tried to make
him swallow the contents of the phials, hippo wine, and a potion
containing trisulphate of antimony. But he pushed away the spoon,
groaning in a feeble voice. He seemed to be blowing out his words.
From time to time she re-read the prescription. The observations of the
formulary frightened her. Perhaps the apothecary had made some mistake.
Her powerlessness filled her with despair. M. Colot's pupil arrived.
He was a young man of modest demeanour, new to medical work, and he made
no attempt to disguise his opinion about the case. He was at first
undecided as to what he should do, for fear of compromising himself, and
finally he ordered pieces of ice to be applied to the sick child. It
took a long time to get ice. The bladder containing the ice burst. It
was necessary to change the little boy's shirt. This disturbance brought
on an attack of even a more dreadful character than any of the previous
ones.
The child began tearing off the linen round his neck, as if he wanted to
remove the obstacle that was choking him; and he scratched the walls and
seized the curtains of his bedstead, trying to get a point of support to
assist him in breathing.
His face was now of a bluish hue, and his entire body, steeped in a cold
perspiration, appeared to be growing lean. His haggard eyes were fixed
with terror on his mother. He threw his arms round her neck, and hung
there in a desperate fashion; and, repressing her rising sobs, she gave
utterance in a broken voice to loving words:
"Yes, my pet, my angel, my treasure!"
Then came intervals of calm.
She went to look for playthings--a punchinello, a collection of images,
and spread them out on the bed in order to amuse him. She even made an
attempt to sing.
She began to sing a little ballad which she used to sing years before,
when she was nursing him wrapped up in swaddling-clothes in this same
little upholstered chair. But a shiver ran all over his frame, just as
when a wave is agitated by the wind. The balls of his eyes protruded.
She thought he was going to die, and turned away her eyes to avoid
seeing him.
The next moment she felt strength enough in her to look at him. He was
still living. The hours succeeded each other--dull, mournful,
interminable, hopeless, and she no longer counted the minutes, save by
the progress of this mental anguish. The shakings of his chest threw him
forward as if to shatter his body. Finally, he vomited something
strange, which was like a parchment tube. What was this? She fancied
that he had evacuated one end of his entrails. But he now began to
breathe freely and regularly. This appearance of well-being frightened
her more than anything else that had happened. She was sitting like one
petrified, her arms hanging by her sides, her eyes fixed, when M. Colot
suddenly made his appearance. The child, in his opinion, was saved.
She did not realise what he meant at first, and made him repeat the
words. Was not this one of those consoling phrases which were customary
with medical men? The doctor went away with an air of tranquillity. Then
it seemed as if the cords that pressed round her heart were loosened.
"Saved! Is this possible?"
Suddenly the thought of Frederick presented itself to her mind in a
clear and inexorable fashion. It was a warning sent to her by
Providence. But the Lord in His mercy had not wished to complete her
chastisement. What expiation could she offer hereafter if she were to
persevere in this love-affair? No doubt insults would be flung at her
son's head on her account; and Madame Arnoux saw him a young man,
wounded in a combat, carried off on a litter, dying. At one spring she
threw herself on the little chair, and, letting her soul escape towards
the heights of heaven, she vowed to God that she would sacrifice, as a
holocaust, her first real passion, her only weakness as a woman.
Frederick had returned home. He remained in his armchair, without even
possessing enough of energy to curse her. A sort of slumber fell upon
him, and, in the midst of his nightmare, he could hear the rain falling,
still under the impression that he was there outside on the footpath.
Next morning, yielding to an incapacity to resist the temptation which
clung to him, he again sent a messenger to Madame Arnoux's house.
Whether the true explanation happened to be that the fellow did not
deliver his message, or that she had too many things to say to explain
herself in a word or two, the same answer was brought back. This
insolence was too great! A feeling of angry pride took possession of
him. He swore in his own mind that he would never again cherish even a
desire; and, like a group of leaves carried away by a hurricane, his
love disappeared. He experienced a sense of relief, a feeling of stoical
joy, then a need of violent action; and he walked on at random through
the streets.
Men from the faubourgs were marching past armed with guns and old
swords, some of them wearing red caps, and all singing the
"Marseillaise" or the "Girondins." Here and there a National Guard was
hurrying to join his mayoral department. Drums could be heard rolling in
the distance. A conflict was going on at Porte Saint-Martin. There was
something lively and warlike in the air. Frederick kept walking on
without stopping. The excitement of the great city made him gay.
On the Frascati hill he got a glimpse of the Marechale's windows: a wild
idea occurred to him, a reaction of youthfulness. He crossed the
boulevard.
The yard-gate was just being closed; and Delphine, who was in the act of
writing on it with a piece of charcoal, "Arms given," said to him in an
eager tone:
"Ah! Madame is in a nice state! She dismissed a groom who insulted her
this morning. She thinks there's going to be pillage everywhere. She is
frightened to death! and the more so as Monsieur has gone!"
"What Monsieur?"
"The Prince!"
Frederick entered the boudoir. The Marechale appeared in her petticoat,
and her hair hanging down her back in disorder.
"Ah! thanks! You are going to save me! 'tis the second time! You are one
of those who never count the cost!"
"A thousand pardons!" said Frederick, catching her round the waist with
both hands.
"How now? What are you doing?" stammered the Marechale, at the same
time, surprised and cheered up by his manner.
He replied:
"I am the fashion! I'm reformed!"
She let herself fall back on the divan, and continued laughing under his
kisses.
They spent the afternoon looking out through the window at the people in
the street. Then he brought her to dine at the Trois Freres Provencaux.
The meal was a long and dainty one. They came back on foot for want of a
vehicle.
At the announcement of a change of Ministry, Paris had changed. Everyone
was in a state of delight. People kept promenading about the streets,
and every floor was illuminated with lamps, so that it seemed as if it
were broad daylight. The soldiers made their way back to their barracks,
worn out and looking quite depressed. The people saluted them with
exclamations of "Long live the Line!"
They went on without making any response. Among the National Guard, on
the contrary, the officers, flushed with enthusiasm, brandished their
sabres, vociferating:
"Long live Reform!"
And every time the two lovers heard this word they laughed.
Frederick told droll stories, and was quite gay.
Making their way through the Rue Duphot, they reached the boulevards.
Venetian lanterns hanging from the houses formed wreaths of flame.
Underneath, a confused swarm of people kept in constant motion. In the
midst of those moving shadows could be seen, here and there, the steely
glitter of bayonets. There was a great uproar. The crowd was too
compact, and it was impossible to make one's way back in a straight
line. They were entering the Rue Caumartin, when suddenly there burst
forth behind them a noise like the crackling made by an immense piece of
silk in the act of being torn across. It was the discharge of musketry
on the Boulevard des Capucines.
"Ha! a few of the citizens are getting a crack," said Frederick calmly;
for there are situations in which a man of the least cruel disposition
is so much detached from his fellow-men that he would see the entire
human race perishing without a single throb of the heart.
The Marechale was clinging to his arm with her teeth chattering. She
declared that she would not be able to walk twenty steps further. Then,
by a refinement of hatred, in order the better to offer an outrage in
his own soul to Madame Arnoux, he led Rosanette to the hotel in the Rue
Tronchet, and brought her up to the room which he had got ready for the
other.
The flowers were not withered. The guipure was spread out on the bed. He
drew forth from the cupboard the little slippers. Rosanette considered
this forethought on his part a great proof of his delicacy of sentiment.
About one o'clock she was awakened by distant rolling sounds, and she
saw that he was sobbing with his head buried in the pillow.
"What's the matter with you now, my own darling?"
"'Tis the excess of happiness," said Frederick. "I have been too long
yearning after you!"