Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (21 page)

“She is tiring you!” said her mother.

He replied:

“No! Oh, no!”

Whirlwinds of dust rose up slowly. They passed through Auteuil. All the houses were closed up; a gas-lamp here and there lighted up the angle of a wall; then once more they were surrounded by darkness. At one time he noticed that she was crying.

Was this remorse or passion? What in the world was it? This grief, of whose exact nature he was ignorant, interested him like a personal matter. There was now a new bond between them, as if, in a sense, they were accomplices; and he said to her in the most caressing voice he could assume:

“Are you ill?”

“Yes, a little,” she returned.

The carriage rolled on, and the honeysuckle and the syringas trailed over the garden fences, sending forth waves of perfume into the night air. Her gown fell around her feet in numerous folds. It seemed to him as if he were in communication with her entire person through the medium of this child’s body which lay stretched between them. He stooped over the little girl, and spreading out her pretty brown tresses, kissed her softly on the forehead.

“You are good!” said Madame Arnoux.

“Why?”

“Because you are fond of children.”

“Not all children!”

He said no more, but he let his left hand hang down her side wide open, fancying that she would follow his example perhaps, and that he would find her palm touching his. Then he felt ashamed and withdrew it. They soon reached the paved road. The carriage went on more quickly; the number of gas-lights vastly increased—it was Paris. In front of the storehouse, Hussonnet jumped down from his seat. Frédéric waited till they were in the courtyard before alighting; then he lay in ambush at the corner of the Rue de Choiseul, and saw Arnoux slowly making his way back to the boulevards.

Next morning he began working as hard as he could.

He pictured himself in an Assize Court, on a winter’s evening, at the defense’s closing arguments, when the jurymen are looking pale, and when the breathless audience is overflowing the partitions of the courtroom; and after speaking for four hours, he was recapitulating his proof, feeling with every phrase, with every word, with every gesture, the blade of the guillotine suspended behind him, rising up; then in the tribune of the Chamber, an orator who bears on his lips the safety of an entire people, drowning his opponents under his rhetoric, crushing them under his repartee, with thunder and music in his voice, ironic, pathetic, fiery, sublime. She would be there somewhere in the midst of the others, hiding beneath her veil her enthusiasm of tears. After that they would meet again, and he would be unaffected by discouragement, slander and insults, if she would only say, “Ah, that was beautiful!” while drawing her hand lightly across his brow.

These images flashed, like beacons, on the horizon of his life. His intellect, thereby excited, became more active and more vigorous. He buried himself in study till the month of August, and was successful at his final examination.

Deslauriers, who had found it so troublesome to coach him once more for the second examination at the close of December, and for the third in February, was astonished at his ardour. Then the great expectations of former days returned. In ten years it was probable that Frédéric would be a representative; in fifteen a minister. Why not? With his inheritance, which would soon come into his hands, he might, at first, start a newspaper; this would be the opening step in his career; after that they would see what the future would bring. As for himself, his ambition was to obtain a chair in the Law School; and he defended his doctoral thesis in such a remarkable fashion that it won for him the professors’ complements.

Three days afterwards, Frédéric received his own degree. Before leaving for his holidays, he conceived the idea of organizing a picnic to bring to a close their Saturday reunions.

He displayed high spirits on the occasion. Madame Arnoux was now with her mother at Chartres. But he would soon come across her again, and would end by being her lover.

Deslauriers, admitted the same day to the debating society, at Orsay, had made a speech which was greatly applauded. Although he was sober, he drank a little more wine than was good for him, and said to Dussardier at dessert:

“You are an honest fellow!—and, when I’m a rich man, I’ll make you my manager.

All were in a state of delight. Cisy was not going to finish his law-course. Martinon intended to remain in the provinces during the period before his admission to the Bar, where he would be nominated assistant prosecutor. Pellerin was devoting himself to the production of a large painting representing “The Genius of the Revolution.” Hussonnet was, in the following week, about to read for the Director of Public Amusements the outline of a play, and had no doubt as to its success:

“As for the framework of the drama, they may leave that to me! As for passion, I have knocked about enough to understand that thoroughly; and as for witticisms, they’re entirely up my alley!”

He took a leap, fell on his two hands, and proceeded to march around the table with his legs in the air. These childish antics did not improve Sénécal’s mood. He had just been dismissed from the boarding-school, in which he had been a teacher, for having given a whipping to an aristocrat’s son. His financial troubles worsened: he laid the blame on the inequalities of society, and cursed the wealthy. He poured out his grievances to the sympathetic Regimbart, who had become every day more and more disillusioned, saddened, and disgusted. The Citizen had now turned his attention towards the issue of the national Budget, and blamed Guizot’s entourage for the loss of millions in Algeria.

As he could not sleep without having paid a visit to the Alexandre tavern, he disappeared at eleven o’clock. The rest departed some time afterwards; and Frédéric, as he was parting with Hussonnet, learned that Madame Arnoux was supposed to have come back the night before.

He accordingly went to the coach-office to change his ticket to the next day; and, at about six o’clock in the evening, presented himself at her house. Her return, the concierge said, had been put off for a week. Frédéric dined alone, and then wandered about the boulevards.

Rosy clouds, scarf-like in shape, stretched beyond the roofs; the shops were beginning to roll up their awnings; water-carts were letting a shower of spray fall over the dusty pavement; and an unexpected coolness was mingled with café smells, as one got a glimpse through their open doors, between some silver plate and gilt ware, of bouquets of flowers, which were reflected in large mirrors. The crowd moved on at a leisurely pace. Groups of men were chatting in the middle of the sidewalk; and women passed along with a weary expression in their eyes and that camelia tint in their complexions which intense heat imparts to feminine flesh. Something immeasurable in its vastness seemed to pour itself out and envelope the houses. Never had Paris looked so beautiful. He saw nothing before him in the future but an interminable series of years full of love.

He stopped in front of the theatre of the Porte Saint-Martin to look at the poster; and, for want of something to occupy him, paid for a seat and went in.

An old-fashioned spectacular was playing. There was a very small audience; and through the skylights of the top gallery the vault of the sky seemed cut up into little blue squares, whilst the stage lamps above the orchestra formed a single line of yellow illuminations. The scene represented a slave-market at Peking, with hand-bells, tomtoms, sweeping robes, sharp-pointed caps, and clownish jokes. Then, as soon as the curtain fell, he wandered into the foyer all alone and gazed out with admiration at a large green landau which stood on the boulevard outside, before the front steps of the theatre, yoked to two white horses, while a coachman with short breeches held the reins.

He had just gotten back to his seat when, in the balcony, a lady and a gentleman entered the first box in front of the stage. The husband had a pale face with a narrow strip of grey beard round it, the rosette of the Legion d’honneur, and that frigid look which is supposed to characterise diplomats.

His wife, who was at least twenty years younger, and who was neither tall nor short, neither ugly nor pretty, wore her fair hair in corkscrew curls in the English fashion, and displayed a flat-bodiced dress and a large black lace fan. To make people of such high society come to the theatre during such a season one would imagine either that it was by chance, or that they had gotten tired of spending the evening in one another’s company. The lady kept nibbling at her fan, while the gentleman yawned. Frédéric could not call to mind where he had seen that face.

In the next interval between the acts, while passing through one of the lobbies, he came face to face with them. As he made a vague greeting, M. Dambreuse, at once recognising him, came up and apologised for having treated him with unpardonable neglect. It was an allusion to the numerous visiting-cards he had sent following the clerk’s advice. However, he confused the periods, supposing that Frédéric was in the second year of his law-course. Then he said he envied the young man for the opportunity of going to the country. He needed a little rest himself, but business kept him in Paris.

Madame Dambreuse, leaning on his arm, nodded her head slightly, and the agreeable sprightliness of her face contrasted with its gloomy expression a short time before.

“One finds charming diversions in it, nevertheless,” she said, after her husband’s last remark. “What a stupid play that was-was it not, Monsieur?” And all three of them remained there chatting about the theatre and new plays.

Frédéric, accustomed to the grimaces of provincial ladies, had not seen in any woman such ease of manner, that simplicity which is the essence of refinement, and in which unsophisticated souls perceive the expression of instantaneous sympathy.

They would expect to see him as soon as he returned. M. Dambreuse told him to give his kind remembrances to Père Roque.

Frédéric, when he reached his lodgings, did not fail to inform Deslauriers of their hospitable invitation.

“Grand!” was the clerk’s reply; “and don’t let your mamma sweet-talk you! Come back without delay!”

On the day after his arrival, as soon as they had finished lunch, Madame Moreau brought her son out into the garden.

She said she was happy to see him in a profession, for they were not as rich as people imagined. The land brought in little; the people who farmed it were slow in paying. She had even been compelled to sell her carriage. Finally, she brought their financial situation out in the open.

During the first difficulties which followed the death of her late husband, M. Roque, a man of great cunning, had made her loans which had been renewed, and left long unpaid, in spite of her desire to clear up her debts. He had suddenly made a demand for immediate payment, and she had gone beyond the strict terms of the agreement by giving him, at a ridiculous price, the farm of Presles. Ten years later, her capital disappeared through the failure of a bank at Melun. Out of a distaste for mortgages, and to keep up appearances, which might be necessary in view of her son’s future, she had, when Père Roque presented himself again, listened to him once more. But now she was free from debt. In short, there was left them an income of about ten thousand francs, of which two thousand three hundred belonged to him—his entire inheritance.

“It isn’t possible!” exclaimed Frédéric.

She nodded her head, as if to declare that it was perfectly possible.

But his uncle would leave him something?

That was by no means certain!

And they took a turn around the garden without exchanging a word. At last she pressed him to her heart, and in a voice choked with rising tears:

“Ah! my poor boy! I have had to give up my dreams!”

He seated himself on a bench in the shadow of the large acacia.

Her advice was that he should become a clerk to M. Prouharam, solicitor, who would assign over his office to him; if he increased its value, he might sell it again and find a good practice.

Frédéric was no longer listening to her. He was gazing blankly across the hedge into the garden opposite.

A little girl of about twelve with red hair happened to be there all alone. She had made earrings for herself with the berries of the sorb-tree. Her bodice, made of grey linen, allowed her shoulders, slightly tanned by the sun, to be seen. Her short white petticoat was spotted with the stains made by sweets; and there was the grace of a young wild animal about her entire person, at the same time, nervous and delicate. Apparently, the presence of a stranger astonished her, for she had stopped abruptly with her watering-pot in her hand darting glances at him with her clear, blue-green eyes.

“That is M. Roque’s daughter,” said Madame Moreau. “He has just married his servant and legitimised the child that he had by her.”

Ruined, stripped of everything, undermined! He remained seated on the bench, as if stunned by a shock. He cursed Fate; he would have liked to beat somebody; and, intensifying his despair, he felt a kind of outrage, a sense of disgrace, weighing down upon him; for Frédéric had been under the impression that the fortune coming to him through his father would mount up one day to an income of fifteen thousand francs, and he had so informed the Arnoux’s in an indirect sort of way. So then he would be looked upon as a braggart, a rogue, a scoundrel, who had introduced himself to them in the expectation of profiting somehow! And as for her—Madame Arnoux—how could he ever see her again now?

That was completely impossible when he had only a yearly income of three thousand francs. He could not always lodge on the fourth floor, have the concierge as a servant, and make his appearance with wretched black gloves turning blue at the ends, a greasy hat, and the same frock-coat for a whole year. No, no! never! And yet without her, his existence was intolerable. Many people were well able to live without any fortune, Deslauriers amongst them; and he thought himself a coward to attach so much importance to matters of trifling consequence. Need would perhaps multiply his talents a hundredfold. He grew excited thinking on the great men who had worked in garrets. A soul like that of Madame Arnoux ought to be touched at such a spectacle, and she would be moved by it to sympathetic tenderness. So, after all, this catastrophe was a piece of good fortune; like those earthquakes which unveil treasures, it had revealed to him the hidden wealth of his nature. But there was only one place in the world where this could be turned to account—Paris; for to his mind, art, science, and love (those three faces of God, as Pellerin would have said) were associated exclusively with the capital. That evening, he informed his mother of his intention to go back there. Madame Moreau was surprised and indignant. She regarded it as a foolish and absurd course. It would be better to follow her advice, namely, to remain near her in an office. Frédéric shrugged his shoulders, “Come now”—looking on this proposal as an insult to himself.