Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (36 page)

She wished to embrace him.

“That’s enough! Go away! Make yourself scarce!”

He pushed her away; she let out a great sob.

“Ah! you tire me!”

“Only because I love you!”

“I don’t ask to be loved, but for people to do what I want!”

This harsh remark stopped Clémence’s tears. She planted herself in front of the window, and remained there motionless, with her forehead against the pane.

Her attitude and her silence had an irritating effect on Deslauriers.

“When you have finished, you will order your carriage, will you not?”

She turned round with a start.

“You are sending me away?”

“Exactly.”

She fixed on him her large blue eyes, no doubt as a last appeal, then drew the two ends of her tartan shave across each other, lingered for a minute or two, and went away.

“You ought to call her back,” said Frédéric.

“Come, now!”

And, as he wished to go out, Deslauriers went into the kitchen, which also served as his dressing-room. On the stone floor, beside a pair of boots, were to be seen the remains of a meagre breakfast, and a mattress with a blanket was rolled up on the floor in a corner.

“This will show you,” he said, “that I receive few marquises. ‘Tis easy to get enough of them, ay, faith! and some others, too! Those who cost nothing take up your time—’tis money under another form. Now, I’m not rich! And then they are all so silly, so silly! Can you converse with a woman yourself?”

As they parted, at the corner of the Pont Neuf, Deslauriers said: “It’s agreed, then; you’ll bring the thing to me to-morrow as soon as you have it!”

“Agreed!” said Frédéric.

When he awoke next morning, he received through the post a cheque from the bank for fifteen thousand francs.

This scrap of paper represented to him fifteen big bags of money; and he said to himself that, with such a sum he could, first of all, keep his carriage for three years instead of selling it, as he would soon be forced to do, or buy for himself two beautiful suits of armour, which he had seen on the Quai Voltaire, then many other things, pictures, books and what a quantity of bouquets of flowers, presents for Madame Arnoux! anything, in short, would have been preferable to risking losing everything in that journal! Deslauriers seemed to him presumptuous, his insensitivity the night before having cooled Frédéric’s affection for him; and the young man was wallowing in these feelings of regret, when he was quite surprised by the sudden appearance of Arnoux, who sat down heavily on the side of the bed, like a man overwhelmed with trouble.

“What is the matter now?”

“I am ruined!”

He had to deposit that very day at the office of Maitre Beaumont, notary, in the Rue Saint-Anne, eighteen thousand francs lent him by one Vanneroy.

“ ’Tis an unspeakable disaster. I have, however, given him a mortgage, which ought to keep him quiet. But he threatens me with a writ if it is not paid this afternoon promptly.”

“And what next?”

“Oh! the next step is simple enough; he will take possession of my real estate. Once the thing is publicly announced, it means ruin to me—that’s all! Ah! if I could find anyone to advance me this cursed sum, he might take Vanneroy’s place, and I should be saved! You don’t happen to have it yourself?”

The cheque had remained on the night-table near a book. Frédéric took up a volume, and placed it on the cheque, while he replied:

“Good heavens, my dear friend, no!”

But it was painful to him to say “no” to Arnoux.

“What, don’t you know anyone who would—?”

“Nobody! and to think that in eight days I should be getting in money! There is probably fifty thousand francs due to me at the end of the month!”

“Couldn’t you ask some of the people that owe you money to make you an advance?”

“Ah! well, so I did!”

“But have you any bills or promissory notes?”

“Not one!”

“What is to be done?” said Frédéric.

“That’s what I’m asking myself,” said Arnoux.

“ ’Tisn’t for myself, my God! but for my children and my poor wife!”

Then, letting each phrase fall from his lips in a broken fashion:

“In fact—I could rough it—I could pack off all I have—and go and seek my fortune—I don’t know where!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Frédéric.

Arnoux replied with an air of calmness:

“How do you think I could live in Paris now?”

There was a long silence. Frédéric broke it by saying:

“When could you pay back this money?”

Not that he had it; quite the contrary! But there was nothing to prevent him from seeing some friends, and making an application to them.

And he rang for his servant to get himself dressed.

Arnoux thanked him.

“The amount you want is eighteen thousand francs—isn’t it?”

“Oh! I could manage easily with sixteen thousand! For I could make two thousand five hundred out of it, or get three thousand on my silver plate, if Vanneroy would give me till to-morrow; and, I repeat to you, you may inform the lender, give him a solemn undertaking, that in eight days, perhaps even in five or six, the money will be reimbursed. Besides, the mortgage will be security for it. So there is no risk, you understand?”

Frédéric assured him that he thoroughly understood the state of affairs, and added that he was going out immediately.

He stayed at home, cursing Deslauriers, for he wished to keep his word, and at the same time, help Arnoux.

“Suppose I applied to M. Dambreuse? But on what pretext could I ask for money? ’Tis I, on the contrary, that should give him some for the shares I took in his coal-mining company. Ah! let him go hang himself—his shares! I am really not liable for them!”

And Frédéric applauded himself for his own independence, as if he had refused to do some service for M. Dambreuse.

“Ah, well,” said he to himself afterwards, “since I’m going to meet with a loss there—for with fifteen thousand francs I might gain a hundred thousand! such things sometimes happen on the stock market—well, then, since I am breaking my promise to one of them, am I not free? Besides, so what if Deslauriers has to wait? No, no; that’s wrong; I must go there.”

He looked at his watch.

“Ah! there’s no hurry. The bank does not close till five o’clock.”

And, at half-past four, when he had cashed the cheque:

“ ’Tis useless now; I will not find him in. I’ll go this evening.” Thus giving himself the opportunity of changing his mind, for there always remain in the conscience some of those sophisms which we pour into it ourselves. It preserves the after-taste of them, like that of a bad liquor.

He walked along the boulevards, and dined alone at a restaurant. Then he took in one act of a play at the Vaudeville, in order to divert his thoughts. But his bank-notes caused him as much uneasiness as if he had stolen them. He would not have been very sorry if he had lost them.

When he reached home again he found a letter containing these words:

“What news? My wife joins me, dear friend, in the hope, etc.—Yours.”

And then there was a flourish after his signature.

“His wife! She is asking me!”

At the same moment Arnoux appeared, to find out whether he had been able to obtain the sum so sorely needed.

“Yes, here it is,” said Frédéric.

And, twenty-four hours later, he gave this reply to Deslauriers:

“I have no money.”

The advocate came back three days, one after the other, and urged Frédéric to write to the notary. He even offered to take a trip to Le Havre in connection with the matter.

At the end of the week, Frédéric timidly asked the worthy Arnoux for his fifteen thousand francs. Arnoux put it off till the following day, and then till the day after. Frédéric ventured out late at night, fearing that Deslauriers would catch him.

One evening, somebody knocked against him at the corner of the Madeleine. It was he.

And Deslauriers accompanied Frédéric as far as the door of a house in the Faubourg Poissonnière.

“Wait for me!”

He waited. At last, after three quarters of an hour, Frédéric came out, accompanied by Arnoux, and made signs to him to have patience a little longer. The earthenware merchant and his companion went up the Rue de Hauteville arm-in-arm, and then turned down the Rue de Chabrol.

The night was dark, with gusts of tepid wind. Arnoux walked on slowly, talking about the Galleries of Commerce—a succession of covered passages which would have led from the Boulevard Saint-Denis to the Châtelet, a marvellous speculative venture, into which he was very anxious to invest; and he stopped from time to time in order to have a look at the grisettes’ faces in front of the shop-windows, and then, raising, his head again, resumed the conversation.

Frédéric heard Deslauriers’ steps behind him like reproaches, like blows falling on his conscience. But he did not dare ask for his money, out of shame, and also fear that it would be fruitless. Deslauriers was drawing nearer. He made up his mind to ask.

Arnoux, in a very flippant tone, said that, as he had not got in his outstanding debts, he was really unable to pay back the fifteen thousand francs.

“You have no need of the money, I imagine?”

At that moment Deslauriers came up to Frédéric, and, taking him aside:

“Be honest. Have you got the amount? Yes or no?”

“Well, then, no,” said Frédéric; “I’ve lost it.”

“Ah! and in what way?”

“Gambling.”

Deslauriers, without saying a single word in reply, made a very low bow, and went away. Arnoux had taken advantage of the opportunity to light a cigar in a tobacconist’s shop. When he came back, he wanted to know from Frédéric “who was that young man?”

“Oh! nobody—a friend.”

Then, three minutes later, in front of Rosanette’s door:

“Come on up,” said Arnoux; “she’ll be glad to see you. What a savage you are these days!”

A gas-lamp, which was directly opposite, threw its light on him; and, with his cigar between his white teeth and his air of contentment, there was something intolerable about him.

“Ah! now that I think of it, my notary has been at your place this morning about that mortgage-registry business. ’Tis my wife reminded me about it.”

“A wife with brains!” returned Frédéric automatically.

“I’d say so!”

And once more Arnoux began to sing his wife’s praises. There was no one like her for spirit, tenderness, and thrift; he added in a low tone, rolling his eyes about: “And a woman with so many charms, too!”

“Good-bye!” said Frédéric.

Arnoux made a step closer to him.

“Hold on! Why are you going?” And, with his hand half-stretched out towards Frédéric, he stared at the young man, quite taken aback by the look of anger in his face.

Frédéric repeated in a dry tone, “Good-bye!”

He hurried down the Rue de Bréda like a stone rolling headlong, raging against Arnoux, swearing in his own mind that he would never see the man again, nor her either, so broken-hearted and desolate did he feel. Instead of the break-up which he had anticipated, here was the other, on the contrary, exhibiting towards her a most perfect attachment from the ends of her hair to the inmost depths of her soul. Frédéric was exasperated by the vulgarity of this man. He had it all! He found Arnoux again at his mistress’s door; and the upset of their disagreement added to his rage at his own powerlessness. Besides, he felt humiliated by the other’s display of integrity in offering him guaranties for his money. He would have liked to strangle him, and over the pangs of disappointment floated in his conscience, like a fog, the sense of his cowardly behavior towards his friend. Rising tears nearly suffocated him.

Deslauriers descended the Rue des Martyrs, swearing aloud with indignation; for his project, like an obelisk that has fallen, now assumed extraordinary proportions. He considered himself robbed, as if he had suffered a great loss. His friendship for Frédéric was dead, and he experienced a feeling of joy at it—it was a sort of compensation to him! A hatred of all rich people took possession of him. He leaned towards Sénécal’s opinions, and resolved to make every effort to propagate them.

All this time, Arnoux was comfortably seated in an easy-chair near the fire, sipping his cup of tea, with the Maréchale on his knee.

Frédéric did not go back there; and, in order to distract his attention from his disastrous passion, he determined, to write a “History of the Renaissance.” He piled up confusedly on his table the humanists, the philosophers, and the poets, and he went to inspect some engravings of Mark Antony, and tried to understand Machiavelli. Gradually, the serenity of intellectual work had a soothing effect upon him. While his mind was steeped in the personality of others, he lost sight of his own—which is the only way, perhaps, of getting rid of suffering.

One day, while he was quietly taking notes, the door opened, and the man-servant announced Madame Arnoux.

It was she, indeed! and alone? Why, no! for she was holding little Eugène by the hand, followed by a nurse in a white apron. She sat down, and after a preliminary cough:

“It is a long time since you came to see us.”

As Frédéric could think of no excuse at the moment, she added:

“It was very tactful of you!”

He asked in return:

“Tactful about what?”

“About what you have done for Arnoux!” said she.

Frédéric made a significant gesture. “What do I care about him, indeed? It was for your sake I did it!”

She sent off the child to play with his nurse in the drawing-room. Two or three words passed between them as to their state of health; then the conversation stalled.

She wore a brown silk gown, which had the colour of Spanish wine, with a coat of black velvet bordered with sable. This fur made him yearn to pass his hand over it; and her tresses, so long and so exquisitely smooth, seemed to draw his lips towards them. But something was bothering her and, turning her eyes towards the door: