The Red and the Black (43 page)

'I think even your servants make fun of him. What a name, the Baron Bâton!
^*
' said M. de Caylus.

' "What's in a name?" he said to us the other day,' went on Mathilde. '"Imagine the Duc de Bouillon
^*
announced for the first time; all the public needs, where I'm concerned, is a little familiarity..."'

Julien left the vicinity of the sofa. With little appreciation as yet
of the delightful subtleties of lighthearted banter, if he was to
laugh at a joke he expected it to have some rational basis. All he saw
in the exchanges of these young people was the tone of universal
denigration, and he was shocked by it. With the straitlaced outlook of
a provincial or an Englishman, he went so far as to detect envy in
it, and he was certainly quite wrong there.

Count Norbert, he thought, whom I've seen writing three rough copies
of a twenty-line letter to his colonel, would be happy indeed if he
had written a page like one of M. Sainclair's in his whole life.

Moving unnoticed because of his insignificance, Julien went over to
several groups in succession; he was following the Baron Bâton at a
distance, and wanted to hear him speak. This man with such great wit
wore a worried look, and Julien only saw him recover a little
composure once he had thought up three or four clever remarks. It
struck Julien that this kind of wit needed breathing space.

The baron was unable to say anything punchy; he needed at least four sentences of six lines in order to sparkle.

'This man holds forth, he doesn't converse,'
someone was saying behind Julien. He turned round and flushed with
pleasure when he heard the Comte Chalvet's name mentioned. He's the
most subtle man of this century.
^*
Julien had often seen his name in the
St Helena Chronicle
and the fragments of history dictated by Napoleon. The Comte Chalvet
expressed himself tersely; his sallies were lightning flashes,
well-aimed, brilliant and profound. If he spoke on some matter, the
discussion was instantly seen to be advanced. He adduced facts, it was
a pleasure to listen to him. What is more, in politics he was a
shameless cynic.

'
I'm
an independent,' he was saying to a gentleman wearing

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three medals, whom he appeared to be making fun of. 'Why do people
expect me to be of the same opinion today as I was six weeks ago? In
that case, my opinion would rule me like a tyrant.'

Four solemn young men standing round him pulled faces; these
gentlemen don't appreciate flippancy. The count saw that he had gone
too far. Luckily he caught sight of honest M. Balland, like Tartuffe
^*
in his honesty. The count began talking to him: the group closed in,
realizing that poor Balland was going to be slaughtered. By dint of
moralizing and morality, in spite of being horribly ugly, and after a
début in society that it is delicate to relate, M. Balland married an
exceedingly rich woman who died; then another exceedingly rich woman,
who is never seen in society. He enjoys an income of sixty thousand
pounds in all humility, and has his own flatterers. The Comte Chalvet
spoke to him of all this and showed no mercy. There was soon a circle
of some thirty people gathered round them. Everyone was smiling, even
the solemn young men, the bright hopes of the century.

Why does he come to M. de La Mole's salon, where he is clearly a
sitting target, Julien wondered. He went over to Father Pirard to ask
him.

M. Balland made his escape.

'Good!' said Norbert, 'that's one of my father's spies gone; there's only the little cripple Napier left.'

Could that be the answer to the riddle? thought Julien. But in that case why does the marquis entertain M. Balland?

The stern Father Pirard was scowling in a corner of the drawing-room as he listened to the footmen announcing guests.

'This must be a thieves' den,' he said like Bazilio,
^*
'I only see suspect individuals arriving.'

For the stern priest was unfamiliar with the workings of high
society. But through his friends the Jansenists, he had very precise
notions about the kind of men who only make their way into salons by
putting their great finesse at the service of all parties, or thanks
to their scandalous fortunes. For a few minutes that evening he
replied out of the abundance of his heart to Julien's pressing
questions; then he stopped short, disturbed at always having to speak
ill of everyone, and

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reproaching himself with it like a sin. A bilious Jansenist who
believed in the duty of Christian charity, his life in society was a
struggle.

'What a face that Abbé Pirard has!' M
^lle
de La Mole was saying as Julien approached the sofa.

Julien felt irritated, and yet she was right. Father Pirard was
undeniably the most upright man in the salon, but his blotchy red face
twitching from the torments of his conscience made him look hideous
at that moment. And now go and believe in physiognomy, thought Julien;
it's at the very moment when Father Pirard's delicacy reproaches him
with some peccadillo that he looks atrocious; whereas the face of that
Napier, who is a spy known to everyone, is stamped with pure, serene
happiness. Father Pirard had nevertheless made great concessions to
the party of his allegiance; he had taken on a servant, he was very
well dressed.

Julien noticed
something strange in the salon: all eyes turned to the door, and there
was a sudden hush. The footman was announcing the notorious Baron de
Tolly, on whom the elections had recently fixed everyone's gaze.
Julien moved forward and saw him very clearly. The baron was president
of one of the electoral colleges:
^*
he had the bright idea of doing a vanishing trick with the little
squares of paper bearing votes for one of the parties. But to
compensate for this, he replaced them as he went along by other little
pieces of paper bearing a name that was to his liking. This decisive
manœuvre
^*
was noticed by some of the voters who hastened to compliment the
Baron de Tolly on it. The fellow was still pale from this great
affair. Uncharitable souls had uttered the term 'hard labour'. M. de
La Mole gave him a cold reception. The poor baron made his escape.

'If he's leaving us so soon, it's to go and see M. Comte,'
^*
said the Comte Chalvet, and everyone laughed.

Surrounded by several great lords who said nothing, and the
schemers--most of them corrupt, but all of them sharpwitted--who were
arriving in succession that evening at M. de La Mole's salon (there
was talk of him for a ministry), little Tanbeau was making his début.
If his perceptions as yet lacked

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subtlety, he made up for it, as we shall see, by the energy of his words.

'Why not condemn this man to ten years' imprisonment?' he was saying
as Julien drew near his group. 'The depths of a dungeon is the place
to lock up reptiles; they must be left to die in the dark, otherwise
their poison is stimulated and becomes more dangerous. What's the
point of fining him a thousand crowns? He's poor, I grant you--so much
the better; but his party will pay on his behalf. What was called for
was a fine of five hundred francs and ten years in the dungeons.'

Good grief! whoever is this monster they are talking about, then?
thought Julien, admiring the vehement tones and staccato gestures of his
colleague. The thin, drawn little face of the academician's favourite
nephew was hideous at that moment. Julien soon discovered that the
man in question was the greatest poet of the age.
^*

'You monster!' exclaimed Julien half out loud, and warmhearted tears
welled up in his eyes. Ah, you little beggar! he thought, I'll get
even with you for those words.

Yet
these, thought Julien, are the lost children of the party which has
the marquis as one of its leaders! And as for the illustrious man he's
slandering--just imagine how many medals, how many sinecures he might
have collected if he had sold himself, I'm not saying to the servile
ministry of M. de Nerval,
^*
but to one or other of that succession of reasonably honest ministers we've seen in office!

Father Pirard signalled to Julien from a distance; M. de La Mole had
just said something to him. But when Julien, who at that moment was
listening with lowered gaze to the moanings of a bishop, was free at
last and could make his way over to his friend, he found him
monopolized by the abominable little Tanbeau. This little monster
loathed Father Pirard for being the source of the favour shown to
Julien, and was there to win him over.

When will death deliver us from this man of corruption
?
It was in these terms, biblical in their force, that the little man
of letters was referring at that moment to the respectable Lord
Holland.
^*
It was to his credit that he was thoroughly versed in the biographies of living men, and he had just done a rapid

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review of all the men who could aspire to some influence under the reign of the new king of England.
^*

Father Pirard moved off into an adjoining room; Julien followed him.

'The marquis doesn't like scribblers, I warn you; it's his only
aversion. Make sure you know Latin and Greek--if you can, the history
of the Egyptians, the Persians, etc., and he will honour you and give
you patronage as a scholar. But don't go writing a single page in
French, and above all not on serious matters above your station in
society, or he might call you a scribbler and take against you. How
come you five in a great lord's house and don't know the Duc de
Castries's
^*
saying about d'Alembert and Rousseau: "Express an opinion on
everything, they would, and they haven't so much as a thousand crowns
in income".'

Everything gets found
out, thought Julien, here just as in the seminary! He had written nine
or ten fairly bombastic pages: it was a sort of historical eulogy of
the old army surgeon who, he wrote, had made him into a man. And this
little notebook, said Julien to himself, has always been kept under
lock and key! He went up to his room, burnt his manuscript and
returned to the drawing-room. The brilliant rogues had left, only the
men with medals remained.

Round the
table, which the servants had just brought in ready set out, there
were seven or eight women aged between thirty and thirty-five,
exceedingly well born, exceedingly pious, and exceedingly affected.
The dazzling Maréchale
^*
de Fervaques came in making excuses for the lateness of the hour.
It was past midnight; she went over and took a seat beside the
marquise. Julien was deeply stirred: she had the eyes and the look of M
^me
de Rênal.

M
^lle
de La Mole still had a good gathering around her. She and her friends
were busy making fun of the poor Comte de Thaler. He was the only son
of the notorious Jew famous for the wealth he had amassed by lending
money to kings
^*
to make war on the common people. The Jew had just died, leaving
his son an income of a hundred thousand crowns a month, and a name
that was alas only too well known. This

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unusual position should have called for simplicity of character or a great deal of will-power.

Unfortunately the count was no more than a decent fellow adorned with
all sorts of pretensions induced in him by his flatterers.

M de Caylus maintained that they had implanted in the count a resolve to ask for M
^lle
de La Mole's hand in marriage (she was being courted by the Marquis
de Croisenois, who was to become a duke with an income of a hundred
thousand pounds).

'Ah! don't accuse him of having any resolve,' said Norbert pityingly.

What this poor Comte de Thaler perhaps lacked the most was the
faculty of will. This side of his character would have made him worthy
of being a king. Constantly seeking counsel from everyone, he did not
have the courage to follow any advice through to the end.

His face would have been enough on its own, M
^lle
de La Mole was saying, to fill her with eternal joy. It was a
striking mixture of anxiety and disappointment; but from time to time
you could very clearly discern in it surges of self-importance and
of that decisive tone befitting the richest man in France, especially
when he's rather good-looking and not yet thirtysix. 'He's timorously
insolent,' said M. de Croisenois. The Comte de Caylus, Norbert and two
or three young men with moustaches mocked him to their hearts'
content without his noticing, and at length sent him packing as one
o'clock was striking:

'Have you got your famous Arabs waiting at the door for you in this weather?' Norbert asked him.

'No; these horses are a new and much less costly pair,' replied M. de
Thaler. 'I'm paying five thousand francs for the horse on the left,
and the one on the right is only worth a hundred louis; but do me the
honour of believing that it is only put into harness at night. The
thing is, its trot is absolutely identical to the other one's.'

Norbert's comment made the count think that it was respectable for a man like himself to have a passion for horses, and

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that he shouldn't let his get wet. He set off, and the other gentlemen left a moment later, full of fun at his expense.

So, thought Julien as he heard them laughing on the stairs, I've been
granted a glimpse of the opposite extreme from my situation! I
haven't so much as an income of twenty louis, and I've been standing
side by side with a man who has an income of twenty louis an hour, and
they were poking fun at him... It's a sight to cure you of envy.

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