Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (41 page)

“Suppose we eat a turban of
rabbits a la Richeliéu
and a pudding
à
la
d’ Orléans?”

“Oh! not Orléans, pray!” exclaimed Cisy, who was a Legitimist, and thought of making a pun.

“Would you prefer a turbot a la Chambord?”
²²
she next asked.

Frédéric was disgusted with this display of politeness.

The Maréchale made up her mind to order a simple steak, some crayfish, truffles, a pineapple salad, and vanilla ices.

“After that we’ll see. Go on for now! Ah! I was forgetting! Bring me a sausage!—without garlic!”

And she called the waiter “young man,” struck her glass with her knife, and flung up the crumbs of her bread to the ceiling. She wished to drink some Burgundy immediately.

“You don’t drink that at the beginning of a meal,” said Frédéric.

This was sometimes done, according to the Vicomte.

“Oh! no. Never!”

“Yes, indeed; I assure you!”

“Ha! you see!”

The look with which she accompanied these words meant: “This is a rich man—pay attention to what he says!”

Meantime, the door was opening constantly; the waiters kept shouting; and on an infernal piano in the adjoining room some one was playing a waltz. Then the races led to a discussion about horsemanship and the two rival systems. Cisy was upholding Baucher and Frédéric the Comte d’Aure when Rosanette shrugged her shoulders:

“Enough—my God!—he is a better judge of these things than you are—come now!”

She kept nibbling on a pomegranate, with her elbow resting on the table. The wax-candles of the candelabra in front of her were flickering in the wind. This white light penetrated her skin with mother-of-pearl tones, gave a pink hue to her lids, and made her eyes glitter. The red colour of the fruit blended with the purple of her lips; her thin nostrils flared; and there was about her entire person an air of insolence, intoxication, and recklessness that exasperated Frédéric, and yet filled his heart with wild desires.

Then, she asked, in a calm voice, who owned that big landau with chestnut-coloured livery.

Cisy replied that it was “the Comtesse Dambreuse.”

“They’re very rich—aren’t they?”

“Oh! very rich! although Madame Dambreuse, who was merely a Mademoiselle Boutron and the daughter of a prefect, had a very modest fortune.”

Her husband, on the other hand, must have inherited several estates—Cisy enumerated them: as he visited the Dambreuses, he knew their family history.

Frédéric, in order to make himself disagreeable to the other, took a pleasure in contradicting him. He maintained that Madame Dambreuse’s maiden name was De Boutron, which proved that she was of a noble family.

“No matter! I’d like to have her carriage!” said the Maréchale, throwing herself back on the armchair.

And the sleeve of her dress, slipping up a little, showed on her left wrist a bracelet adorned with three opals.

Frédéric noticed it.

“Look here! Why—”

All three looked into one another’s faces, and reddened.

The door was cautiously half-opened; the brim of a hat could be seen, and then Hussonnet’s profile appeared.

“Excuse me if I disturb the lovers!”

But he stopped, astonished at seeing Cisy, and that Cisy had taken his own seat.

Another place setting was brought; and, as he was very hungry, he snatched up at random from what remained of the dinner some meat which was in a dish, fruit out of a basket, and drank with one hand while he helped himself with the other, all the time telling them the result of his mission. The two bow-wows had been taken home. Nothing new at the house. He had found the cook in the company of a soldier—a fictitious story which he had especially invented for the sake of effect.

The Maréchale took down her cloak from the peg. Frédéric made a rush towards the bell, calling out to the waiter, who was some distance away:

“A carriage!”

“I have one of my own,” said the Vicomte.

“But, Monsieur!”

“Nevertheless, Monsieur!”

And they stared into each other’s eyes, both pale and their hands trembling.

At last, the Maréchale took Cisy’s arm, and pointing towards the Bohemian seated at the table:

“Pray mind him! He’s choking himself. I wouldn’t want to let his devotion to my pugs be the cause of his death.”

The door closed behind him.

“Well?” said Hussonnet.

“Well, what?”

“I thought—”

“What did you think?”

“Were you not—?”

He completed the sentence with a gesture.

“Oh! no—never in all my life!”

Hussonnet did not press the matter further.

He had a reason for inviting himself to dinner. His journal,—which was no longer called
L’Art,
but
Le Flambart,
with the slogan, “Gunners, to your cannons!”—not at all prospering he had a mind to change it into a weekly review, managed by himself, without any assistance from Deslauriers. He again referred to the old project and explained his latest plan.

Frédéric, probably not understanding what he was talking about, replied with some vague words. Hussonnet snatched up several cigars from the tables, said “Good-bye, old chap,” and disappeared.

Frédéric called for the bill. It had a long list of items; and the waiter; with his napkin under his arm, was expecting to be paid by Frédéric, when another, a sallow-faced individual, who resembled Martinon, came and said to him:

“Beg pardon; they forgot at the bar to add in the charge for the cab.”

“What cab?”

“The cab the gentleman took a short time ago with the little dogs.”

And the waiter put on a look of gravity, as if he pitied the poor young man. Frédéric felt inclined to box the fellow’s ears. He gave the waiter the twenty francs’ change as a tip.

“Thank you, my lord,” said the man with the napkin, bowing low.

Frédéric passed the whole of the next day brooding over his anger and humiliation. He reproached himself for not having given Cisy a slap in the face. As for the Maréchale, he swore not to see her again. Others as good-looking could be easily found; and, as money would be required in order to possess these women, he would speculate on the stock market with the money from selling his farm. He would get rich; he would crush the Maréchale and everyone else with his luxury. When the evening came, he was surprised at not having thought of Madame Arnoux.

“So much the better. What’s the good of it?”

Two days after, at eight o’clock, Pellerin came to pay him a visit. He began by admiring the furniture and talking flatteringly to Frédéric. Then, abruptly:

“Were you at the races on Sunday?”

“Yes, alas!”

Thereupon the painter decried the anatomy of English horses, and praised the horses of Gericourt and the horses of the Parthenon.

“Rosanette was with you?”

And he artfully proceeded to speak in flattering terms about her.

Frédéric’s cold manner disconcerted him.

He did not know how to bring about the question of her portrait. His first idea had been to do a portrait in the style of Titian. But gradually the varied colouring of his model had bewitched him; he had gone on boldly with the work, heaping up brushstroke on brushstroke and light on light. Rosanette, in the beginning, was enchanted. Her appointments with Delmar had interrupted the sittings, and left Pellerin all the time to be bedazzled by his art. Then, as his admiration began to subside, he asked himself whether the picture should not be on a larger scale. He had gone to have another look at the Titians, realised the distance that separated his work from that of the great artist, and saw wherein his own shortcomings lay; and then he began to simplify his outlines. After that, he sought, by scraping them off, to lose there, to mingle there, all the tones of the head and those of the background; and the face had assumed consistency and the shadows vigour—the whole work had a look of greater firmness. At length the Maréchale came back again. She even permitted herself some criticisms. The painter naturally persevered. After a violent outburst at her stupidity, he said to himself that, after all, perhaps she was right.

Then began the era of doubts, twinges of reflection which brought about cramps in the stomach, insomnia, feverishness and disgust with himself He had the courage to make some retouchings, but without much heart, and with a feeling that his work was bad.

He merely complained of having been refused a place in the Salon; then he reproached Frédéric for not having come to see the Maréchale’s portrait.

“What do I care about the Maréchale?”

Such an expression of unconcern emboldened the artist.

“Would you believe that this brute has no interest in the thing any longer?”

What he did not mention was that he had asked her for a thousand crowns. Now the Maréchale did not give herself much bother about ascertaining who was going to pay, and, preferring to screw money out of Arnoux for things of a more urgent nature, had not even spoken to him on the subject.

“Well, what about Arnoux?” asked Frédéric.

She had thrown it over on him. The ex-art-dealer wanted to have nothing to do with the portrait.

“He maintains that it belongs to Rosanette.”

“In fact, it is hers.”

“How is that? ’Tis she that sent me to you,” was Pellerin’s answer.

If he had believed in the excellence of his work, he would not have dreamed of exploiting it. But a sum—and a big sum—would be an effective reply to the critics, and would strengthen his own position. Finally, to get rid of him, Frédéric courteously enquired about his terms.

The extravagant figure named by Pellerin quite took away his breath, and he replied:

“Oh! no—no!

“You, however, are her lover—’tis you gave me the order!”

“Excuse me, I was only an intermediary.”

“You can’t leave me with this on my hands!”

The artist lost his temper.

“Ha! I didn’t imagine you were so greedy!”

“Nor I that you were so stingy! Good-bye!”

He had just gone out when Sénécal appeared.

Frédéric was moving about restlessly, in a state of great agitation.

“What’s the matter?”

Sénécal told his story.

“On Saturday, at nine o’clock, Madame Arnoux got a letter which summoned her back to Paris. As there happened to be nobody in the place at the time to go to Creil for carriage, she asked me to go there myself. I refused, for this was not part of my duties. She left, and came back on Sunday evening. Yesterday morning, Arnoux came down to the workshop. The girl from Bordeaux made a complaint to him. I don’t know what passed between them; but in front of every one he cancelled the fine I had imposed on her. Some sharp words passed between us. In short, he paid me off, and here I am!”

Then, with a pause between every word:

“Furthermore, I am not sorry. I have done my duty. In any case, it’s all your fault.”

“How?” exclaimed Frédéric, alarmed lest Sénécal might have guessed his secret.

Sénécal had not, however, guessed anything about it, for he replied:

“That is to say, without you I might have done better.”

Frédéric was seized with a kind of remorse.

“In what way can I be of service to you now?”

Sénécal wanted some employment, a situation.

“That is an easy thing for you to manage. You know many people of good position, Monsieur Dambreuse amongst others; at least, so Deslauriers told me.”

This allusion to Deslauriers was by no means agreeable to his friend. He scarcely cared to call on the Dambreuses again after his undesirable meeting with them in the Champ de Mars.

“I am not on sufficiently intimate terms with them to recommend anyone.”

The democrat endured this refusal stoically, and after a minute’s silence:

“All this, I am sure, is due to the girl from Bordeaux, and to your Madame Arnoux.”

This “your” had the effect of wiping out of Frédéric’s heart the slight modicum of regard he entertained for Sénécal. Nevertheless, out of courtesy he reached for the key of his secretary.

Sénécal anticipated him:

“Thanks!”

Then, forgetting his own troubles, he talked about the affairs of the nation, the crosses of the Legion d’honneur wasted at the Royal Fête, the question of a change of ministry, the Drouillard case and the Bénier case—scandals of the day—denounced the middle class, and predicted a revolution.

His eyes were attracted by a Japanese dagger hanging on the wall. He took hold of it; then he flung it on the sofa with an air of disgust.

“Come, then! good-bye! I must go to Nôtre Dame de Lorette.”

“Hold on! Why?”

“The anniversary service for Godefroy Cavaignac is taking place there to-day.
²³
He died at work—that man! But all is not over. Who knows?”

And Sénécal, with a show of fortitude, put out his hand:

“Perhaps we shall never see each other again! good-bye!”

This “good-bye,” repeated several times, his knitted brows as he gazed at the dagger, his resignation, and the solemnity of his manner, above all, plunged Frédéric into a thoughtful mood, but very soon he ceased to think about Sénécal.

During the same week, his notary at Le Havre sent him the sum realised by the sale of his farm—one hundred and seventy-four thousand francs. He divided it into two portions, invested the first half in government securities, and brought the second half to a stock-broker to gamble on the stock market.

He dined at fashionable restaurants, went to the theatres, and was trying to amuse himself as best he could, when Hussonnet addressed a letter to him announcing happily that the Maréchale had gotten rid of Cisy the very day after the races. Frédéric was delighted at this piece of intelligence, without taking the trouble to ascertain what the Bohemian’s motive was in giving him the information.