Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) (23 page)

‘Ah!’ he thought. ‘There goes poetry incarnate.’

What was Madame de Bargeton beside this seraph in the splendour of youth, hope and promise, with her soft smile, her dark eyes which were as deep as the heavens and as ardent as the sun! She was laughing and chatting with Madame Firmiani, one of the most charming women in Paris. Certainly a voice was crying within him: ‘Intelligence is the lever which moves the world.’ But another voice insisted that money is the fulcrum of intelligence. He was reluctant to linger among the ruins of his self-esteem at the scene of his discomfiture, so he made his way towards the Palais-Royal after asking his way there, for he did not yet know the topography of his quarter. He went into Véry’s restaurant and, to initiate himself in the pleasures of Paris, ordered such a dinner as might console him in his despondency. A bottle of claret, oysters from Ostend, fish, a partridge, a macaroni dish and fruit were the
nee plus ultra
of his desires. While savouring this little orgy he bethought himself how he might give proof of his wit that evening in the company of the Marquise d’Espard and redeem the shabbiness of his odd accoutrement by the display of his intellectual wealth. He was torn from his dreams by the bill for his meal which relieved him of the fifty francs which he had thought would carry him a long way in Paris. His dinner had cost him as much as a month’s existence in Angoulême. And so he reverently closed the door of this palace behind him with the idea of never setting foot in it again.

‘Eve was right,’ he said to himself as he went through the Stone Gallery on his way home for more money. Trices in Paris are not those of L’Houmeau.’

As he walked along he admired the tailors’ shops thinking of the fine clothes he had seen that morning. ‘No!’ he
exclaimed. ‘I’ll not go to Madame d’Espard’s in such reach-me-downs.’ He ran like a deer to his hotel, rushed upstairs to his room, took three hundred francs and returned to the Palais-Royal to re-equip himself from head to foot. He had noticed shoemakers, linen-drapers, waistcoat-makers and hatters at the Palais-Royal – a dozen shops from which he could pick out the requisites for future elegance. The first tailor he consulted made him try on as many coats as he was ready to sample and persuaded him that they were all in the latest fashion. He emerged with a green coat, white trousers and a fancy waistcoat. The total cost was two hundred francs. He soon found a pair of very elegant and well-fitting boots. After buying all he needed, he summoned a hairdresser to his hotel, to which he had already had his various purchases delivered. At seven in the evening he took a cab to the Opera-House, his hair waved like that of a Saint John in a procession, with a fine waistcoat and cravat, feeling however a little constricted in the close-fitting apparel he was wearing for the first time in his life. Following Madame de Bargeton’s instructions, he asked for the box belonging to the First Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. At the sight of a man whose borrowed elegance made him look like a best man at a wedding, the attendant demanded to see his ticket.

‘I haven’t one.’

‘Then you can’t come in,’ was the curt reply.

‘But I am the guest of Madame d’Espard,’ he said.

‘How are we to know?’ said the usher, unable to refrain from exchanging a smile with his fellow ticket-collector.

At that moment a carriage drew up under the peristyle. A footman, who was unknown to Lucien, pulled down the footboard of a brougham from which two ladies emerged in all their finery. Lucien, unwilling to receive from the ticket-collector an impertinent order to get out of the way, stood aside for the two women.

‘This lady is the Marquise d’Espard, whom you claim to know,’ said the ticket-collector ironically.

Lucien was the more taken aback because Madame de Bargeton did not appear to recognize him in his new
plumage. But when he approached her, she gave him a smile and said: ‘Ah! There you are! Splendid! Come along.’

The box attendants had recovered their gravity. Lucien followed Madame de Bargeton and, as they ascended the vast staircase of the Opera, introduced her Rubempré to her cousin. The First Gentlemen’s box occupies one of the recesses at the back of the auditorium: in it one can see everyone and be seen by everyone. Lucien took a seat behind Madame d’Espard and was happy to be inconspicuous.

‘Monsieur de Rubempré,’ said the Marquise in a flattering tone of voice. ‘This is your first visit to the Opera-House. Have a good look round. Take this seat, right in front. You have our permission.’

Lucien obeyed. The first act of the opera was coming to an end.

‘You have made good use of your time,’ Louise whispered to him in the first flush of surprise at Lucien’s transformation.

Louise had remained the same. Proximity with a woman of fashion, the Marquise d’Espard, a Parisian Madame de Bargeton, was so prejudicial to her, her Parisian brilliance set in such strong relief the imperfections of her country cousin that Lucien, drawing two-fold enlightenment from the
beau monde
in this pompous assembly and the eminent Marquise, at last saw Anaïs de Nègrepelisse for what she was and as she was seen by the people of Paris: a tall, desiccated woman with freckled skin, faded complexion and strikingly red hair; angular, affected, pretentious, provincial of speech and above all badly dressed! In fact the very pleats of an outmoded Parisian dress can still reveal taste: one can make allowances and visualize it as it once was; but no allowances can be made for a superannuated up-country garment – it invites derision. Both the dress and the woman in it lacked grace and bloom: the mottled velvet went with a mottled complexion. Lucien was ashamed at having loved this cuttle-bone and promised himself to take advantage of Louise’s next access of virtue by dropping her. His excellent eye-sight enabled him to see how many opera-glasses were levelled
at their pre-eminently aristocratic box. The most elegant women were obviously scrutinizing Madame de Bargeton, for they were smiling as they chatted to one another. If Madame d’Espard realized from these feminine gestures and smiles who was the butt of their barbed comments, she took absolutely no notice of them. In the first place, everyone must have recognized her companion as a poor relation from the provinces, and any Parisian family can be similarly afflicted. Moreover, Louise had been discussing clothes with her cousin and expressing some misgivings; the Marquise reassured her, perceiving that Anaïs, once well-dressed, would soon have adopted Parisian manners. If Madame de Bargeton lacked social finesse, she had the native arrogance of a well-born woman and that indefinable something which can be called breeding. The following Monday therefore she would be able to take her revenge. Moreover, once the public had learnt that this women was her cousin, the Marquise knew that it would call a halt to mockery and make further inspection before passing judgement. Lucien could not guess what a change would be made in Louise’s appearance by a graceful stole, an elegant dress, a pretty hair-style and guidance from Madame d’Espard. As they had been going upstairs the Marquise had already told her cousin not to hold her unfolded handkerchief in her hand. Good or bad taste depends on a thousand little niceties of this sort which an intelligent woman readily grasps, but which some women will never understand. Madame de Bargeton, already full of good intentions, had more intelligence than she needed to recognize her shortcomings. Madame d’Espard, feeling sure that her pupil would do her credit, had not disdained to undertake her education. In short, their mutual interests had sealed a pact between them. Madame de Bargeton had promptly dedicated herself to the idol of the day, whose manners, wit and entourage had seduced, dazzled and fascinated her. She had discerned in Madame d’Espard the occult power which a great lady with ambition wields and she had promised herself success if she became the satellite of this star: hence the undisguised admiration she felt for her. The Marquise had been sensible of
this naïve adoration and had become interested in her cousin, whom she found so weak and defenceless; it also suited her to have a pupil and to found a school; she asked nothing better than to acquire Madame de Bargeton as a sort of lady in waiting, a docile attendant who would sing her praises – and that is an even rarer treasure for a woman of Paris than a devoted critic is for the literary confraternity. In the meantime the flutter of curiosity was becoming too obvious for the social neophyte not to notice it, and Madame d’Espard tried politely to put her off the scent with regard to this commotion.

‘If anyone comes to our box,’ she said, ‘we shall perhaps learn why those ladies are so interested in us.’

‘I strongly suspect it’s my old velvet frock and my rustic appearance that amuses these Parisian ladies,’ said Madame de Bargeton with a laugh.

‘No, it isn’t you. There is some reason which I cannot fathom,’ the Marquise added, with a glance at the poet, whom she now scanned for the first time and whom she seemed to find oddly dressed.

‘There is Monsieur du Châtelet,’ said Lucien at that moment, raising a finger to point towards Madame de Sérizy’s box which the elderly dandy, now completely regroomed, had just entered.

At this gesture Madame de Bargeton bit her lips with vexation, for the Marquise could not refrain from a glance at Lucien and an astonished smile which plainly asked ‘Where was this young man brought up?’, and with so much disdain that Louise felt humiliated in her love – the most mortifying sensation for a Frenchwoman and one she does not forgive her lover for inflicting on her. In the social world trivial things are accorded such importance that a débutante could be ruined by a word or a gesture. The chief merit of fine manners and tone in high company is that they supply a harmonious effect in which everything is so well blended that there is no jarring note. Even those who through ignorance or by blurting out their thoughts break the rules of this science, ought to realize that in this matter a single dissonance, as in music, is
a complete negation of the art itself, every canon of which must be meticulously observed if it is to remain an art.

‘Who is that gentleman?’ the Marquise asked, indicating Châtelet. ‘Do you then know Madame de Sérizy already?’

‘Ah! Is she the notorious Madame de Séizy who has had so many adventures and yet is everywhere received?’

‘It’s amazing, my dear,’ replied the Marquise. ‘There
is
an explanation, but it has not been made! The men most to be reckoned with are friends of hers – but why? No one dares to probe this mystery. – Can that gentleman be the Lion of Angoulême?’

‘Indeed, Monsieur du Châtelet,’ said Anaïs, moved by vanity, now that she was in Paris, to grace her adorer with the title she had herself contested, ‘is a man who has been much talked about. He went with Monsieur de Montriveau on his travels.’

‘Ah!’ observed the Marquise. ‘I never hear that name without thinking of the poor Duchesse de Langeais, who has disappeared from sight like a shooting star.’
¹

‘There,’ she continued, pointing to another box, ‘are Monsieur de Rastignac and Madame de Nucingen, the wife of a contractor, a banker, a business man, a large-scale broker, a man who imposes himself on Paris society through his wealth – and they say he has no scruples about the means he uses to increase it. He is taking the utmost pains to make people believe he is devoted to the Bourbons and has already tried to get me to receive him. His wife has taken Madame de Langeais’s box, believing that with it she would take over her charm, wit and popularity! As usual, the fable of the jay decking itself with peacock’s feathers!’

‘But how do Monsieur and Madame de Rastignac whose income, as we know in Angoulême, is less than three thousand francs, manage to maintain their son in Paris?’ Lucien asked of Madame de Bargeton in astonishment at the elegance and luxury which this young man’s clothes displayed.

‘It is easy to see that you come from Angoulême,’ the
Marquise replied with some irony, while still gazing through her opera-glasses.

Lucien did not understand. His attention was still riveted on the various boxes, and he was able to guess what judgements the occupants were passing on Madame de Bargeton and what curiosity he himself was arousing. Louise for her part was extremely mortified by the little impression her handsome Lucien was making on the Marquise. ‘So he is not so handsome as I thought!’ she said to herself. She had only a further step to take to find him less intelligent as well. The curtain had dropped. Châtelet, who had come to pay a call on the Duchesse de Carigliano in the next box to that of Madame d’Espard, gave a bow to Madame de Bargeton, who replied with a droop of the head. A woman of fashion sees everything, and the Marquise noticed how well-dressed du Châtelet was. At this moment four persons came one by one to the Marquise’s box: four celebrities of Paris.

The first was Monsieur de Marsay, a man famous for the passions he inspired, conspicuous above all for a kind of girlish beauty: beauty of a languid, effeminate kind, though corrected by the way he looked at people: it was a steady look, calm, untamed and unflinching like a tiger’s. He was liked, but he was feared. Lucien was no less good-looking, but his glance was so mild, his blue eyes so limpid that he could not be deemed likely to possess the strength and power by which so many women are attracted. Nor as yet had the poet anything advantageous about him, whereas Henri de Marsay had liveliness of wit, confidence in his ability to please and a style of dress so suited to his temperament that he crushed all rivalry around him. One can imagine what a poor impression Lucien, starched, stilted, stiff and raw like the clothes he was wearing, made in such company. De Marsay had won the right to utter impertinences by the wit he gave to them and the grace of manner which went with them. The welcome extended to him by the Marquise quickly enlightened Madame de Bargeton as to the prestige this personage enjoyed.

The second arrival was one of the two Vandenesse brothers
who had occasioned the Lady Dudley scandal,
¹
a gentle, intelligent, modest young man whose success in society was due to qualities totally different from those on which de Marsay prided himself: he had been warmly recommended to the Marquise by her cousin Madame de Mortsauf. The third was General Montriveau, who had brought about the downfall of the Duchesse de Langeais. The fourth was Monsieur de Canalis, now one of the most illustrious of contemporary poets, a young man then only on the threshold of glory; prouder of his birth than of his talent, he made a pretence of dancing attendance on Madame d’Espard the better to conceal his passion for the Duchesse de Chaulieu. In spite of his airs and graces, already tainted with affectation, one could discern in him the tremendous ambition which later plunged him into the maelstrom of politics. His almost mincing beauty and his flattering smiles scarcely served to disguise the deep-seated egoism and perpetual calculation of a man who had yet to make his way; but the fact of having singled out Madame de Chaulieu, although she was over forty, was at that time putting him in favour at Court and winning him approval from the Faubourg Saint-Germain and insults from the Liberals, who dubbed him a ‘poet of the sacristy’.