Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (42 page)

It so happened that he met Cisy, three days later. That aristocratic young gentleman put on a brave face, and even invited Frédéric to dine on the following Wednesday.

On the morning of that day, Frédéric received a notification from a process-server, in which M. Charles Jean Baptiste Oudry informed him that by the terms of a legal judgment he had become the purchaser of a property situated at Belleville, belonging to M. Jacques Arnoux, and that he was prepared to pay the purchase price of two hundred and twenty-three thousand. But, as this decree also revealed that the amount of the mortgages with which the estate was encumbered exceeded the purchase price, Frédéric’s claim was null and void.

The whole trouble arose from not having renewed the registration of the mortgage within the proper time period. Arnoux had undertaken to attend to this matter himself, and had then forgotten all about it. Frédéric got into a rage with him for this, and when the young man’s anger had passed:

“Well, what of it?”

“If this can save him, so much the better. It won’t kill me! Let us forget about it!”

But, while moving his papers about on the table, he came across Hussonnet’s letter, and noticed the postscript, which had not at first attracted his attention. The Bohemian wanted five thousand francs to start his journal.

“Ah! this fellow is getting on my nerves!”

And he sent a curt answer, unceremoniously refusing the request. After that, he dressed himself to go to the Maison d’Or.

Cisy introduced his guests, beginning with the most respectable of them, a big, white-haired gentleman.

“The Marquis Gilbert des Aulnays, my godfather. Monsieur Anselme de Forchambeaux,” he said next—(a thin, fair-haired young man, already bald); then, pointing towards a mild-mannered man of forty: “Joseph Boffreu, my cousin; and here is my old tutor, Monsieur Vezou”—a cross between a carter and a seminarist, with large whiskers and a long overcoat fastened at the bottom by a single button, so that it fell over his chest like a shawl.

Cisy was expecting some one else—the Baron de Comaing, who “might perhaps come, but it was not certain.” He kept going out every minute, and appeared to be in a restless frame of mind. Finally, at eight o’clock, they proceeded towards a room splendidly lighted and much more spacious than the number of guests required. Cisy had selected it on purpose, out of showiness.

A golden centerpiece laden with flowers and fruit occupied the centre of the table, which was covered with silver dishes, in the old French fashion; small dishes full of salted and spiced meats formed a border all around it. Pitchers of iced rose wine stood at regular intervals. Five glasses of different sizes were arranged before each plate, with objects whose use was mysterious—a thousand clever dinner utensils. For the first course alone there was a sturgeon’s head doused with champagne, a Yorkshire ham with tokay, thrushes au gratin, roast quail, a béchamel vol-au-vent, a stew of red-legged partridges, and at the two ends of all this, stringed potatoes which were mixed with truffles. The room was illuminated by a chandelier and some candelabra, and was hung with red damask.

Four servants in black coats stood behind the armchairs, which were upholstered in morocco leather. At this sight the guests exclaimed in delight—the tutor more emphatically than the rest.

“Upon my word, our host has indulged in a foolishly lavish display of luxury. It is too beautiful!”

“This?” said the Vicomte de Cisy. “Come now!”

And, as they were swallowing the first spoonful:

“Well, my dear old friend Aulnays, have you been to the Palais-Royal to see
Père et Portier?”

“You know well that I have no time to go!” replied the Marquis.

His mornings were taken up with a course in forestry, his evenings were spent at the Agricultural Club, and all his afternoons were occupied by a study of the production of farming implements. As he resided at Saintonge
^au
for three fourths of the year, he took advantage of his visits to the capital to get fresh information; and his large-brimmed hat, which lay on a side-table, was crammed with pamphlets.

But Cisy, observing that M. de Forchambeaux refused to have wine:

“Go on, dammit, drink! You’re not showing much spirit for your last meal as a bachelor!”

At this remark all bowed and congratulated him.

“And the young lady,” said the tutor, “is charming, I’m sure?”

“She is indeed!” exclaimed Cisy. “No matter, he is making a mistake; marriage is such a stupid thing!”

“You talk in a thoughtless fashion, my friend!” returned M. des Aulnays, while tears began to gather in his eyes at the recollection of his own dead wife.

And Forchambeaux repeated several times with a chuckle:

“You’ll find out for yourself, you’ll find out!”

Cisy protested. He preferred to enjoy himself—to “live in the free-and-easy style of the Regency days.” He wanted to learn foot-boxing, so as to visit the seedy cafés of the city, like Rodolphe in the
Mysteries ofParis;
²⁴
drew out of his pocket a dirty clay pipe, bullied the servants, and drank to excess; then, in order to create a good impression, he criticized all the dishes. He even sent away the truffles; and the tutor, who was exceedingly fond of them, said through servility:

“These are not as good as your grandmother’s
oeufs à la neige.”

Then he began to chat with the person sitting next to him, the agriculturist, who found many advantages to living in the country, if it were only to be able to bring up his daughters with simple tastes. The tutor approved of his ideas and flattered him, supposing that this gentleman possessed influence over his former pupil, whose financial adviser he wished to become.

Frédéric had come there filled with hostility towards Cisy; but the young aristocrat’s idiocy had disarmed him. However, as the other’s gestures, face, and entire person reminded him of the dinner at the Café Anglais, he got more and more irritated; and he listened to the rude remarks made in a low tone by Joseph, the cousin, a fine fellow without any money, who liked hunting and speculating on the stock exchange. Cisy, for the sake of a laugh, called him a “thief” several times; then suddenly:

“Ah! here comes the Baron!”

At that moment, there entered a fellow of thirty, with somewhat rough-looking features and agile limbs, wearing his hat over one ear and a flower in his button-hole. He was the Vicomte’s ideal. The young aristocrat was delighted at having him there; and stimulated by his presence, he even attempted a pun; for he said, as they passed a heath-cock:

“There’s the best of La Bruyère’s characters!”
²⁵

After that, he asked a lot of questions of M. de Comaing about people unknown to the company; then, as if an idea had suddenly seized him:

“Tell me, pray! have you thought about me?”

The other shrugged his shoulders:

“You are not old enough, my little man. It is impossible!”

Cisy had begged of the Baron to get him admitted into his club. But the other having, no doubt, taken pity on his vanity:

“Ha! I was forgetting! A thousand congratulations on having won your bet, my dear fellow!”

“What bet?”

“The bet you made at the races that you’d spend that very night at that lady’s house.”

Frédéric felt as if he had got a lash with a whip.

He was speedily appeased by the look of utter confusion in Cisy’s face.

In fact, the Maréchale, next morning, was filled with regret when Arnoux, her first lover, her good friend, had presented himself that very day. They both gave the Vicomte the impression that he was in the way, and kicked him out without much ceremony.

He pretended not to have heard what was said.

The Baron went on:

“What has become of her, this fine Rose? Are her legs as pretty as ever?” showing by his manner that he had been on terms of intimacy with her.

Frédéric was annoyed by this discovery.

“There’s nothing to blush at,” said the Baron, pursuing the topic, “ ’tis a good thing!”

Cisy clicked his tongue.

“Whew! not so good!”

“Ah!”

“Good heavens, no! In the first place, I found her to be nothing extraordinary, and then, you can pick up the likes of her as often as you please, for, in fact, she is for sale!”

“Not to everyone!” remarked Frédéric, with some bitterness.

“He imagines that he is different from the others,” was Cisy’s comment. “What a joke!”

And a laugh went round the table.

Frédéric felt as if the palpitations of his heart would suffocate him. He downed two glasses of water one after the other.

But the Baron had preserved a lively recollection of Rosanette.

“Is she still interested in a fellow named Arnoux?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Cisy, “I don’t know that gentleman!”

Nevertheless, he suggested that he believed Arnoux was a sort of swindler.

“Just a moment!” exclaimed Frédéric.

“However, there is no doubt about it! Legal proceedings have been taken against him.”

“That is not true!”

Frédéric began to defend Arnoux, vouched for his honesty, ended by convincing himself of it, and concocted figures and proofs. The Vicomte, full of spite, and tipsy in addition, persisted in his assertions, so that Frédéric said to him gravely:

“Are you trying to offend me, Monsieur?”

And he looked at him, with eyes as red as his cigar.

“Oh! not at all. I grant you that he possesses something very nice—his wife.”

“Do you know her?”

“Faith, I do! Sophie Arnoux; everyone knows her.”
^av

“You mean to tell me that?”

Cisy, who had staggered to his feet, hiccoughed:

“ Everyone—knows—her.”

“Hold your tongue. It is not with women of her sort you keep company!”

“I—flatter myself—it is.”

Frédéric flung a plate at his face. It passed like a flash of lightning over the table, knocked down two bottles, demolished a fruit-dish, and breaking into three pieces, by crashing into the centerpiece, hit the Vicomte in the stomach.

All the other guests arose to hold him back. He struggled and shrieked, possessed by a kind of frenzy.

M. des Aulnays kept repeating:

“Come, be calm, my dear boy!”

“Why, this is abominable!” shouted the tutor.

Forchambeaux, livid as a plum, was trembling. Joseph burst out laughing. The attendants sponged up the traces of the wine, and gathered up the remains of the dinner from the floor; and the Baron went and shut the window, for the uproar, in spite of the noise of carriage-wheels, could be heard on the boulevard.

As all present at the moment the plate had been flung had been talking at the same time, it was impossible to discover the cause of the attack—whether it was on account of Arnoux, Madame Arnoux, Rosanette, or somebody else. One thing only they were certain of, that Frédéric had acted with indescribable brutality. On his part, he positively refused to show the slightest regret for what he had done.

M. des Aulnays tried to soften him. Cousin Joseph, the tutor, and Forchambeaux himself joined in the effort. The Baron, all this time, was cheering up Cisy, who, yielding to weak nerves, began to cry.

Frédéric, on the contrary, was getting more and more angry, and they would have remained there till daybreak if the Baron had not said, in order to bring matters to a close:

“The Vicomte, Monsieur, will send his seconds to call on you to-morrow.”

“Your hour?”

“Twelve, if it suits you.”

“Perfectly, Monsieur.”

Frédéric, as soon as he was out in the open air, drew a deep breath. He had been keeping his feelings too long under restraint; he had satisfied them at last. He felt, so to speak, the pride of virility, a superabundance of energy within him which intoxicated him. He required two seconds. The first person he thought of for the purpose was Regimbart, and he immediately directed his steps towards the Rue Saint-Denis. The shop-front was closed, but some light shone through a pane of glass over the door. It opened and he went in, stooping very low as he passed under the porch.

A candle at the side of the bar lighted up the deserted smoking-room. All the stools, with their feet in the air, were piled on the table. The master and mistress, with their waiter, were at supper in a corner near the kitchen; and Regimbart, with his hat on his head, was sharing their meal, and was even in the way of the waiter, who was forced at every mouthful to turn aside a little. Frédéric, having briefly explained the matter to him, asked Regimbart to assist him. The Citizen at first made no reply. He rolled his eyes, looked as if he were deep in reflection, paced around the room, and at last said:

“Yes, by all means!” and a homicidal smile smoothed his brow when he learned that the adversary was a nobleman.

“Make your mind easy; we’ll rout him with flying colours! In the first place, with the sword—”

“But perhaps,” broke in Frédéric, “I have not the right.”

“I tell you ’tis necessary to take the sword,” the Citizen replied roughly. “Do you know how to use one?”

“A little.”

“Oh! a little. This is the way with all of them; and yet they have a mania for committing assaults. What does the fencing-school teach? Listen to me: keep a good distance off, always enclose yourself in circles, and give ground, give ground!; that is permitted. Tire him out. Then boldly make a lunge on him! and, above all, no malice, no strokes of the La Fougère kind. No! a simple one-two, and some disengagements. Look here! do you see? turn your wrist as if opening a lock. Père Vauthier, give me your cane. Ha! that will do.”

He grasped the rod which was used for lighting the gas, rounded his left arm, bent his right, and began to make some thrusts against the partition. He stamped with his foot, got animated, and pretended to be encountering difficulties, while he exclaimed: “Do you see? Do you follow?” and his enormous silhouette projected itself on the wall with his hat apparently touching the ceiling. The owner of the café shouted from time to time: “Bravo! very good!” His wife, though a little unnerved, was likewise filled with admiration; and Théodore, who had been in the army, remained riveted to the spot with amazement, the fact being, however, that he regarded M. Regimbart with a sort of hero-worship.