Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (26 page)

Here were surroundings specially calculated to charm him. In a sudden revolt of his youthful blood he swore that he would enjoy such things; he grew bold; then, coming back to the place opening into the drawing-room, where there was now a larger gathering—everything kept moving about in a kind of luminous haze—he stood to watch the quadrilles, squinting his eyes to see better, and inhaling the soft perfumes of the women, which floated through the atmosphere like an immense kiss.

But, close to him, on the other side of the door, was Pellerin—Pellerin, in full dress, his left arm over his chest and with his hat and a torn white glove in his right hand.

“Hello! ‘Tis a long time since we saw you! Where the devil have you been? Gone to travel in Italy? ’Tis a commonplace country enough—Italy, eh? not so unique as people say it is? No matter! Will you bring me your sketches one of these days?”

And, without giving him time to answer, the artist began talking about himself. He had made considerable progress, having definitely satisfied himself as to the stupidity of line. We ought not to look so much for beauty and unity in a work as for character and diversity of subject.

“For everything exists in nature; therefore, everything is legitimate; everything is plastic. It is only a question of striking the right note, mind you! I have discovered the secret.” And giving him a nudge, he repeated several times, “I have discovered the secret, you see! Just look at that little woman with the headdress of a sphinx who is dancing with a Russian postilion—that’s neat, cut and dried, fixed, all in flats and in stiff tones—indigo under the eyes, a patch of vermilion on the cheek, and sepia on the temples—pif! paf!” And with his thumb he drew, as it were, brush-strokes in the air. “Whilst the big one over there,” he went on, pointing towards a fishwife in a cherry gown with a gold cross hanging from her neck, and a linen cape fastened round the back, “is nothing but curves. The nostrils are spread out just like the borders of her cap; the corners of the mouth are rising up; the chin sinks: all is fleshy, melting, abundant, tranquil, and radiant—a true Rubens! Nevertheless, they are both perfect! Where, then, is the type?” He was warming up to this subject. “What is a beautiful woman? What is beauty? Ah! the beautiful—tell me what that is—”

Frédéric interrupted him to enquire who was the Pierrot with the face of a goat, who was in the very act of blessing all the dancers in the middle of a quadrille.

“Oh! he’s not much!—a widower, the father of three boys. He leaves them without trousers, spends his whole day at the club, and lives with his servant!”

“And who is that dressed like a bailiff talking in the recess of the window to a lady in the style of the Marquise Pompadour?”
^z

“The Marquise is Mademoiselle Vandael, formerly an actress at the Gymnase, the mistress of the Doge, the Comte de Palazot. They have now been together twenty years—nobody can tell why. Hadn’t she fine eyes at one time, this woman! As for the citizen by her side, his name is Captain d‘Herbigny, a man of the old guard with nothing in the world except his Cross of the Legion d’honneur and his pension. He acts as uncle of the grisettes at festival times, arranges duels, and dines in the city.”

“A rascal?” said Frédéric.

“No! An honest man!”

“Ah!”

The artist went on to mention the names of many others, when, perceiving a gentleman who, like Molière’s physician, wore a big black serge gown opening very wide as it descended in order to display all his trinkets:

“The person who presents himself there before you is Dr. Des Rogis, who, full of rage at not having made a name for himself, has written a book of medical pornography, and is a boot-licker in high society, while he is at the same time discreet. The ladies adore him. He and his wife (that scrawny chatelaine in the grey dress) flit about together to every public occasion—and at other places too. In spite of their shabby home, they have
a day
—artistic teas, at which verses are recited. Look out!”

In fact, the doctor came up to them at that moment; and soon the three of them formed, at the entrance to the drawing-room, a group of talkers, which was then augmented by Hussonnet, then by the lover of the female savage, a young poet who displayed, under a court cloak of Francis I’s reign, the most pitiful of anatomies, and finally a sprightly youth disguised as a Turk. But his gold-braided vest had travelled so much on the backs of itinerant dentists, his wide trousers full of creases were of so faded a red, his turban, rolled up like an eel Tartar, was so poor in appearance—in short, his entire costume was so wretched and made-up, that the women did not attempt to hide their disgust. The doctor consoled him by singing the praise of his mistress, the lady in the dress of a ’longshorewoman. This Turk was a banker’s son.

Between two quadrilles, Rosanette advanced towards the mantelpiece, where an obese little old man, in a maroon coat with gold buttons, had seated himself in an armchair. In spite of his withered cheeks, which fell over his white cravat, his hair, still fair, and curling naturally like that of a poodle, gave him an air of frivolity.

She was listening to him with her face bent close to his. Presently, she accommodated him with a little glass of syrup; and nothing could be more dainty than her hands under their laced sleeves, which passed over the facings of her green coat. When the old man had swallowed it, he kissed them.

“Why, that’s M. Oudry, a neighbor of Arnoux!”

“He has lost her!” said Pellerin, laughing.

“Pardon?”

A Longjumeau postilion
^aa
caught her by the waist. A waltz was beginning. Then all the women, seated round the drawing-room on benches, rose up quickly at the same time; and their petticoats, their scarfs, and their head-dresses went whirling round.

They whirled so close to him that Frédéric could see the beads of perspiration on their foreheads; and this circular movement, more and more lively, regular, dizzying, communicated to his mind a sort of intoxication, which made other images surge up within it, while every woman passed with the same dazzling effect, and each with her own unique excitement, according to her style of beauty.

The Polish lady, surrendering herself languidly to the dance, inspired in him a longing to clasp her to his heart while they were both speeding forward on a sleigh along a plain covered with snow. Horizons of tranquil pleasures in a chalet at the side of a lake emerged under the footsteps of the Swiss girl, who waltzed with her torso erect and her eyelids lowered. Then, suddenly, the Bacchante, bending back her head with its dark locks, made him dream of devouring caresses in oleander groves, in the midst of a storm, to the confused accompaniment of drums. The fishwife, who was panting from the rapidity of the music, burst out laughing, and he would have liked, while drinking with her in some tavern in the “Porcherons,” to rumple her cape with both hands, as in the good old days. But the ’longshorewoman, whose light feet barely skimmed the floor, seemed to conceal under the suppleness of her limbs and the seriousness of her face all the refinements of modern love, which combines the exactitude of a science and the mobility of a bird. Rosanette was whirling around with one hand on her hip; her wig, bobbing over her collar, flung iris-powder around her; and, at every turn, she nearly caught Frédéric with the ends of her gold spurs.

During the closing bar of the waltz, Mademoiselle Vatnaz made her appearance. She had an Algerian kerchief on her head, a number of coins dangling on her forehead, black kohl at the edges of her eyes, with a kind of coat made of black cashmere falling over a silver lathe skirt and in her hand she held a tambourine.

Behind her back came a tall fellow in the classical costume of Dante, who happened to be—she no longer concealed it—the ex-singer of the Alhambra, and who, though his name was Auguste Delamare, had first called himself Anténor Delamarre, then Delmas, then Belmar, and at last Delmar, thus modifying and perfecting his name, as his celebrity increased, for he had forsaken the dance-hall concert for the theatre, and had even just made his splashy
debut
at the Ambigu in
Gaspardo le Pêcheur.

Hussonnet, on seeing him, knitted his brows. Since his play had been rejected, he hated actors. It was impossible to conceive the vanity of individuals of this sort, and above all of this fellow. “What a poser! Just look at him!”

After a light bow towards Rosanette, Delmar leaned back against the mantelpiece; and he remained motionless with one hand over his heart, his left foot thrust forward, his eyes raised towards heaven, with his wreath of gilt laurels around his hood, while he strove to put into the expression of his face a considerable amount of poetry in order to fascinate the ladies. They made, at some distance, a great circle around him.

But Vatnaz, having given Rosanette a prolonged embrace, came to beg of Hussonnet to revise, with a view to the improvement of the style, an educational work which she intended to publish, under the title of “The Young Ladies’ Garland,” a collection of literature and moral philosophy.

The man of letters promised to assist her in the preparation of the work. Then she asked him whether he could not in one of the papers to which he had access give her friend a little publicity, and even assign to him, later, some part. Hussonnet had forgotten to take a glass of punch on account of her.

It was Arnoux who had brewed the beverage; and, followed by the Comte’s footman carrying an empty tray, he offered it to the ladies with a self-satisfied air.

When he came to pass in front of M. Oudry, Rosanette stopped him.

“Well—and this little business?”

He reddened slightly; finally, addressing the old man:

“Our fair friend tells me that you would have the kindness—”

“Why, neighbour of course! I am quite at your service!”

And M. Dambreuse’s name was spoken. As they were talking to one another in low tones, Frédéric could only hear indistinctly; and he made his way to the other side of the mantelpiece, where Rosanette and Delmar were chatting together.

The entertainer had a vulgar look to him, made, like the scenery of the stage, to be viewed from a distance—coarse hands, big feet, and a heavy jaw; and he disparaged the most distinguished actors, spoke of poets with patronising contempt, made use of the expressions “my organ,” “my physique,” “my powers,” peppering his conversation with words that were scarcely intelligible even to himself, and for which he had quite an affection, such as
“morbidezza,”
“analogue,” and “homogeneity.”

Rosanette listened to him with little nods of approval. One could see her enthusiasm bursting out under the make-up on her cheeks, and a touch of mist passed like a veil over her bright eyes of an indefinable colour. How could such a man as this fascinate her? Frédéric internally worked himself up to even greater contempt for him, in order to banish, perhaps, the sort of envy which he felt with regard to him.

Mademoiselle Vatnaz was now with Arnoux, and, while laughing from time to time very loudly, she cast glances towards Rosanette, of whom M. Oudry did not lose sight.

Then Arnoux and Vatnaz disappeared. The old man began talking in a subdued voice to Rosanette.

“Well, yes, ’tis settled then! Leave me alone!”

And she asked Frédéric to go and give a look into the kitchen to see whether Arnoux happened to be there.

A battalion of glasses half-full covered the floor; and the saucepans, the pots, the turbot-kettle, and the frying-pan were all simmering and sizzling. Arnoux was giving directions to the servants, whom he “spoke to familiarly,” beating the rémoulade, tasting the sauces, and joking with the housemaid.

“All right,” he said; “tell them ’tis ready! I’m going to have it served up.”

The dancing had ceased. The women came and sat down; the men were walking about. In the centre of the drawing-room, one of the curtains was billowing in the wind; and the Sphinx, in spite of the observations of everyone, exposed her sweaty arms to the current of air.

Where could Rosanette be? Frédéric went on further to find her, even into her boudoir and her bedroom. Some, in order to be alone, or to be in pairs, had retreated into the corners. Whisperings intermingled with the shadows. There were little laughs stifled under handkerchiefs, and at the sides of women’s corsages one could catch glimpses of fans quivering with slow, gentle movements, like the beating of a wounded bird’s wings.

As he entered the green-house, he saw under the large leaves of a caladium near the fountain, Delmar lying on his face on the linen-covered sofa. Rosanette, seated beside him, ran her fingers through his hair; and they were gazing into each other’s faces. At the same moment, Arnoux came in at the opposite side—near the aviary. Delmar sprang to his feet; then he went out at a rapid pace, without turning round; and even paused close to the door to gather a hibiscus flower, with which he adorned his button-hole. Rosanette lowered her head; Frédéric, who caught a sight of her profile, saw that she was in tears.

“I say! What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Arnoux.

She shrugged her shoulders without replying.

“Is it on account of him?” he went on.

She threw her arms round his neck, and kissing him on the forehead, slowly:

“You know well that I will always love you, big fellow! Think no more about it! Let us go to supper!”

A copper chandelier with forty candles lit up the dining-room, the walls of which were covered with fine old china plates; and this bright light, rendered still whiter, amid the side-dishes and the fruits, a huge turbot which occupied the centre of the table, with plates all round filled with crayfish soup. With a rustle of garments, the women, having arranged their skirts, their sleeves, and their scarfs, took their seats beside one another; the men, standing up, posted themselves at the corners. Pellerin and M. Oudry were placed near Rosanette, Arnoux was facing her. Palazot and his female companion had just left.