Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (46 page)

When she resumed play, her hand was trembling. This emotion was exceedingly flattering to Frédéric, whose pride had been sorely wounded of late. He said to himself: “You, at any rate, will love me!” and, as if he were thus taking his revenge for the humiliations he had endured in the capital, he began to affect the dashing Parisian, recounted all the theatrical gossip, told anecdotes as to the doings of society, which he had borrowed from the columns of the cheap newspapers, and, in short, dazzled his fellow-townspeople.

Next morning, Madame Moreau expatiated on Louise’s fine qualities; then she enumerated the woods and farms of which she would be the owner. Père Roque’s wealth was considerable.

He had acquired it while making investments for M. Dambreuse; for he had lent money to people who were able to furnish good security in the form of mortgages, whereby he was able to demand additional sums or commissions. The capital, thanks to his active supervision, was in no danger of being lost. Besides, Père Roque never had any hesitation in making a foreclosure. Then he bought up the mortgaged property at a low price, and M. Dambreuse, having got back his money, found his affairs in very good order.

But this manipulation of business matters in a way which was not strictly legal compromised him with his agent. He could refuse Père Roque nothing, and it was owing to the latter’s solicitations that M. Dambreuse had received Frédéric so cordially.

The truth was that in the depths of his soul Père Roque cherished a deep-rooted ambition. He wished his daughter to be a countess; and for the purpose of gaining this object, without imperilling the happiness of his child, he knew no other young man than Frédéric through whom he might achieve this.

Through the influence of M. Dambreuse, he could obtain the title of his maternal grandfather, for Madame Moreau was the daughter of a Comte de Fouvens, and was also connected with the oldest families in Champagne, the Lavernades and the D’Etrignys. As for the Moreaus, a Gothic inscription near the mills of Villeneuve-l’ Archevèque referred to one Jacob Moreau, who had rebuilt them in 1596; and the tomb of his own son, Pierre Moreau, first esquire of the king under Louis XIV, was to be seen in the chapel of Saint-Nicholas.

So much family distinction fascinated M. Roque, the son of an old servant. If the coronet of a count did not come, he would console himself with something else; for Frédéric might become a representative when M. Dambreuse had been raised to the peerage, and might then be able to assist him in his commercial pursuits, and to obtain for him supplies and grants. He liked the young man personally. In short, he desired to have Frédéric for a son-in-law, because for a long time past he had been smitten with this notion, which only grew all the stronger day by day. Now he went to religious services, and he had won Madame Moreau over to his views, especially by holding before her the prospect of a title.

So it was that, eight days later, without any formal engagement, Frédéric was regarded as Mademoiselle Roque’s “intended,” and Père Roque, who was not concerned with scruples, often left them alone together.

Deslauriers had carried away from Frédéric’s house the copy of the deed of subrogation, with a power of attorney in proper form, giving him full authority to act; but, when he had reascended his own five flights of stairs and found himself alone in the midst of his dismal room, in his armchair upholstered in sheep-leather, the sight of the stamped documents disgusted him.

He was tired of these things, and of restaurants at thirty-two sous, of travelling on omnibuses, of enduring want and many struggles. He picked up the documents again; there were others with them. They were prospectuses of the coal-mining company, with a list of the mines and the particulars as to their contents, Frédéric having left all these matters in his hands in order to have his opinion about them.

An idea occurred to him—that of presenting himself at M. Dambreuse’s house and applying for the post of secretary. This post, it was perfectly certain, could not be obtained without purchasing a certain number of shares. He recognised the folly of his plan, and said to himself:

“Oh! no, that would be a wrong step.”

Then he racked his brains to think of the best way in which he could set about recovering the fifteen thousand francs. Such a sum was a mere trifle to Frédéric. But, if he had it, what a lever it would be in his hands! And the ex-law-clerk was indignant at the other being so well off.

“He makes pitiful use of it. He is a selfish fellow. Ah! what do I care for his fifteen thousand francs!”

Why had he lent the money? For the sake of Madame Arnoux’s bright eyes. She was his mistress! Deslauriers had no doubt about it. “There was another way in which money was useful!”

And he was assailed by hateful thoughts.

Then he allowed his thoughts to dwell even on Frédéric’s personal appearance. It had always exercised over him an almost feminine charm; and he soon came to admire him for a success which he realised that he was himself incapable of achieving.

“Nevertheless, was not one’s will the main element in every enterprise ? and, since by its means we may triumph over everything—”

“Ah! that would be funny!”

But he felt ashamed of such treachery, and the next moment:

“Bah! Am I afraid?”

Madame Arnoux—from having heard her spoken about so often—had come to be depicted in his imagination as something extraordinary. The persistency of this passion had irritated him like a problem. Her austerity, which seemed a little theatrical, now annoyed him. Besides, the woman of the world—or, rather, his own conception of her—dazzled the lawyer as the symbol and the epitome of a thousand pleasures unknown to him. Poor though he was, he hankered after luxury in its most glittering form.

“After all, even if he should get angry, it would serve him right! He has behaved too badly for me to care! I have no assurance that she is his mistress! He has denied it. So then I am free to act as I please!”

He could no longer abandon the desire of taking this step. He wished to make a test of his own strength, so that one day, all of a sudden, he polished his boots himself, bought white gloves, and set forth on his way, substituting himself for Frédéric, and almost imagining that he was the other by a singular intellectual evolution, in which there was, at the same time, vengeance and sympathy, imitation and audacity.

He announced himself as “Doctor Deslauriers.”

Madame Arnoux was surprised, as she had not sent for any physician.

“Ah! a thousand apologies!—’tis a doctor of law! I have come in Monsieur Moreau’s interest.”

This name appeared to disturb her.

“So much the better!” thought the ex-law-clerk.

“Since she has a liking for him, she will like me, too!” buoying up his courage with the accepted idea that it is easier to supplant a lover than a husband.

He referred to the fact that he had the pleasure of meeting her on one occasion at the law-court; he even mentioned the date. This remarkable power of memory astonished Madame Arnoux. He went on in an ingratiating tone:

He began to chat about one thing or another, about her house, about the factory; then, noticing some miniatures at the sides of the mirror:

He praised its cathedral and public buildings, and coming back to the portrait, traced resemblances between it and Madame Arnoux, and cast flatteries at her indirectly. She did not appear to be offended at this. He took confidence, and said that he had known Arnoux a long time.

“He is a fine fellow, but one who compromises himself. Take this mortgage, for example—one can’t imagine such a reckless act—”

“Yes, I know,” said she, shrugging her shoulders.

This involuntary evidence of contempt induced Deslauriers to continue. “That kaolin business of his was near turning out very badly, a thing you may not be aware of, and even his reputation—”

A contraction of the brows made him pause.

Then, falling back on generalities, he expressed his pity for the “poor women whose husbands frittered away their fortunes.”

“But in this case, monsieur, the future belongs to him. As for me, I have nothing!”

No matter, one never knows. A man of experience might be useful. He made offers of devoted service, exalted his own merits; and he looked into her eyes through his shining spectacles.

She was seized with a vague inertia; but suddenly said:

“Let us look into the matter, I beg of you.”

He exhibited the bundle of papers.

“This is Frédéric’s power of attorney. With such a document in the hands of a court officer, who would issue a writ, nothing could be simpler; in twenty-four hours—” (She remained impassive; he changed his tactics.)

“As for me, however, I don’t understand what compels him to demand this sum, for, in fact, he doesn’t need it.”

“How is that? Monsieur Moreau has shown himself to be so kind.”

“Oh! granted!”

And Deslauriers began by praising him, then in a mild fashion disparaged him, implying that he was a forgetful individual, and overly fond of money.

“I thought he was your friend, monsieur?”

“That does not prevent me from seeing his flaws. He shows very little appreciation of—how shall I put it?—sympathy—”

Madame Arnoux was turning the pages of the large manuscript.

She interrupted him in order to get him to explain a certain word.

He bent over her shoulder, and his face came so close to hers that he grazed her cheek. She blushed. This heightened colour inflamed Deslauriers, he hungrily kissed her head.

“What are you doing, Monsieur?” And, standing up against the wall, she compelled him to remain perfectly quiet under the glance of her large blue eyes glowing with anger.

“Listen to me! I love you!”

She broke into a laugh, a shrill, discouraging laugh. Deslauriers felt himself suffocating with anger. He restrained his feelings, and, with the look of a vanquished person imploring mercy:

“Ha! you are wrong! As for me, I’m not like him.”

“Of whom, pray, are you talking?”

“Of Frédéric.”

“Ah! Monsieur Moreau is of little concern to me. I told you that!”

“Oh! forgive me! forgive me!” Then, drawing out his words, in a cutting tone:

“I even imagined that you were sufficiently interested in him personally to learn with pleasure—”

She became quite pale. The ex-law-clerk added:

“He is going to be married.”

“He!”

“In a month at latest, to Mademoiselle Roque, the daughter of M. Dambreuse’s agent. He has even gone down to Nogent for no other purpose but that.”

She placed her hand over her heart, as if at the shock of a great blow; but immediately she rang the bell. Deslauriers did not wait to be ordered to leave. When she turned round he had disappeared.

Madame Arnoux was gasping a little with the strain of her emotions. She drew near the window to get a breath of air.

On the other side of the street, on the sidewalk, a packer in his shirt-sleeves was nailing down a trunk. Hackney-coaches passed. She closed the window-blinds and then sat down again. As the high houses in the vicinity intercepted the sun’s rays, the light of day stole coldly into the apartment. Her children had gone out; there was nothing but stillness around her. It seemed as if she were utterly deserted.

“He is going to be married! Is it possible?”

And she was seized with a fit of nervous trembling.

“Why is this? Does it mean that I love him?”

Then all of a sudden:

“Why, yes; I love him—I love him!”

It seemed to her as if she were sinking into endless depths. The clock struck three. She listened to the vibrations of the sounds as they died away. And she remained on the edge of the armchair, with her eyes fixed and an unchanging smile on her face.

The same afternoon, at the same moment, Frédéric and Mademoiselle Louise were walking in the garden belonging to M. Roque at the end of the island.

Old Catherine was watching them, some distance away. They were walking side by side and Frédéric said:

“You remember when I brought you into the country?” “How good you were to me!” she replied. “You helped me make sand-pies, fill my watering-pot, and rocked me in the swing!”

“All your dolls, who had the names of queens and marquises—what has become of them?”

“Really, I don’t know!”

“And your pug Moricaud?”

“He drowned, poor darling!”

“And the
Don Quixote
in which we coloured the engravings together?”

“I have it still!”

He reminded her of the day of her first communion, and how pretty she had been at vespers, with her white veil and her large candle, whilst the girls were all taking their places in a row around the choir, and the bell was ringing.

These memories, no doubt, had little charm for Mademoiselle Roque. She had not a word to say; and, a minute later:

“Naughty fellow! never to have written to me, even once!”

Frédéric made the excuse of his numerous occupations.

“What, then, are you doing?”

He was embarrassed by the question; then he told her that he was studying politics.

“Ah!”

And without questioning him further:

“That keeps you busy; while as for me—!”

Then she spoke to him about the barrenness of her existence, as there was nobody she could go to see, and nothing to amuse her or distract her thoughts. She wished to go horseback riding.