Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (28 page)

Frédéric asked her whether she intended to go to La Fortelle this year. Madame Dambreuse was unable to say. He was sure, however, of one thing, that one would be bored to death in Nogent.

Then the visitors thronged in more quickly. There was an incessant rustling of dresses on the carpet. Ladies, seated on the edges of chairs, let out little giggles, said two or three words, and at the end of five minutes left along with their young daughters. It soon became impossible to follow the conversation, and Frédéric withdrew when Madame Dambreuse said to him:

“Every Wednesday, is it not, Monsieur Moreau?” making up for her previous display of indifference by these simple words.

He was pleased. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath when he got out into the open air; and, needing a less artificial environment, Frédéric remembered that he owed the Maréchale a visit.

The door of the entrance-hall was open. Two Havanese lapdogs rushed forward. A voice exclaimed:

“Delphine! Delphine! Is that you, Felix?”

He stood there without advancing a step. The two little dogs kept yelping continually. At length Rosanette appeared, wrapped up in a sort of dressing-gown of white muslin trimmed with lace, and with her stockingless feet in Turkish slippers.

“Ah! excuse me, Monsieur! I thought it was the hairdresser. One minute; I am coming back!”

And he was left alone in the dining-room. The Venetian blinds were closed. Frédéric, as he cast a glance round, was beginning to recall the hubbub of the other night, when he noticed on the table, in the middle of the room, a man’s hat, an old felt hat, squashed, greasy, dirty. To whom did this hat belong? Impudently displaying its torn lining, it seemed to say:

“What do I care?! I am the master!”

The Maréchale suddenly reappeared on the scene. She took up the hat, opened the conservatory, flung it in there, shut the door again (other doors flew open and closed again), and, having brought Frédéric through the kitchen, she brought him into her dressing-room.

It could at once be seen that this was the most frequented room in the house, and, so to speak, its true centre. The walls, the armchairs, and a big divan were adorned with a chintz pattern on which was traced a great deal of foliage. On a white marble table stood two large washhand-basins of fine blue earthenware. Crystal shelves, were laden with bottles, brushes, combs, cosmetic sticks, and powder-boxes. The fire was reflected in a full length mirror. A shower curtain was hanging outside the bath, and odours of almond-paste and balsam filled the air.

“Please excuse the disorder. I’m dining in the city this evening.”

And as she turned on her heel, she almost crushed one of the little dogs. Frédéric declared that they were charming. She lifted up the pair of them, and raising their black snouts up to her face:

“Come on! give us a smile—kiss the nice man!”

A man dressed in a dirty overcoat with a fur collar entered abruptly.

“Felix, my worthy fellow,” said she, “you’ll have that business of yours disposed of next Sunday without fail.”

The man proceeded to coif her hair. Frédéric told her he had heard news of her friends, Madame de Rochegune, Madame de Saint-Florentin, and Madame Lombard, every woman being nobility, as if it were at the mansion of the Dambreuses. Then he talked about the theatres. An extraordinary performance was to be given that evening at the Ambigu.

“Shall you go?”

“Faith, no! I’m staying at home.”

Delphine appeared. Her mistress gave her a scolding for having gone out without permission.

The other vowed that she was just “returning from the market.”

“Well, bring me your list. I assume you have no objection?”

And, reading the entries in a low tone, Rosanette made remarks on every item. The different sums were not added up correctly.

“Hand me over four sous!”

Delphine handed the amount over to her, and, when she had sent the maid away:

“Ah! Holy Virgin! could I be more unfortunate than I am with these creatures?”

Frédéric was shocked by this complaint. It reminded him too vividly of the others, and established between the two houses a kind of irritating similarity.

When Delphine came back again, she drew close to the Maréchale’s side in order to whisper something in her ear.

“Ah, no! I won’t!”

Delphine presented herself once more.

“Madame, she insists.”

“Ah, what a plague! Throw her out!”

At the same moment, an old lady, dressed in black, pushed open the door. Frédéric heard nothing, saw nothing. Rosanette rushed into the room to meet her.

When she reappeared her cheeks were flushed, and she sat down in one of the armchairs without saying a word. A tear fell down her face; then, turning towards the young man, softly:

“What is your Christian name?”

“Frédéric.”

“Ha! Federico! It doesn’t annoy you when I address you in that way?”

And she gazed at him in an affectionate sort of way that was almost amorous.

All of a sudden she uttered an exclamation of delight at the sight of Mademoiselle Vatnaz.

The lady-artist had no time to lose before presiding at her table
d‘hôte
at six o’clock sharp; and she was panting for breath, being completely exhausted. She first took out of her pocket a watch on a chain and a piece of paper, then various objects that she had bought.

“You should know that there are in the Rue Joubert splendid suede gloves at thirty-six sous. Your dyer wants eight days more. As for the lace, I told you that they would dye it again. Bugneaux has received the instalment you paid. That’s all, I think. You owe me a hundred and eighty-five francs.”

Rosanette went to a drawer to get ten napoleons. Neither of the pair had any money. Frédéric offered some.

“I’ll pay you back,” said Vatnaz, as she stuffed the fifteen francs into her handbag. “But you are a naughty boy! I don’t love you any longer—you didn’t get me to dance with you even once the other evening! Ah! my dear, I came across a case of stuffed humming-birds which are absolutely divine at a shop in the Quai Voltaire. If I were in your place, I would make myself a present of them. Look here! What do you think of it?”

And she exhibited an old remnant of pink silk which she had purchased at the Temple to make a mediaeval doublet for Delmar.

“He came to-day, didn’t he?”

“No.”

“That’s strange.”

And, after a minute’s silence:

“Where are you going this evening?”

“To Alphonsine’s,” said Rosanette, this being the third version she gave as to the way she was going to pass the evening.

Mademoiselle Vatnaz went on: “And what news about the Old Man of the Mountain?”
^ac

But, with an abrupt wink, the Maréchale bade her hold her tongue; and she accompanied Frédéric out as far as the entrance-hall to ascertain from him whether he would soon see Arnoux.

“Pray ask him to come—not in front of his wife, mind!”

At the top of the stairs an umbrella was placed against the wall near a pair of goloshes.

“Vatnaz’s goloshes,” said Rosanette. “What a foot, eh? My little friend is rather strongly built!”

And, in a melodramatic tone, making the final letter of the word roll:

“Don’t tru-us-st her!”

Frédéric, emboldened by a confidence of this sort, tried to kiss her on the neck.

“Oh, go ahead! It costs nothing!”

He felt rather light-hearted as he left her, having no doubt that ere long the Maréchale would be his mistress. This desire awakened another in him; and, in spite of the resentment he had towards Madame Arnoux, he felt a longing to see her.

Besides, he would have to call at her house in order to deliver Rosanette’s message.

“But now,” thought he (it had just struck six), “Arnoux is probably at home.”

So he put off his visit till the following day.

She was seated in the same position as on the day before, and was sewing a little boy’s shirt.

The child, at her feet, was playing with a wooden toy menagerie. Marthe, a short distance away, was writing.

He began by complimenting her on her children. She replied without any exaggeration of maternal silliness.

The room had a tranquil atmosphere. A glow of sunshine stole in through the window-panes, lighting up the angles of the different pieces of furniture, and, as Madame Arnoux sat close beside the window, a ray of sun, falling on the curls over the nape of her neck, penetrated with liquid gold her amber skin.

Then he said:

“This young lady here has grown very tall during the past three years! Do you remember, Mademoiselle, when you slept on my knees in the carriage?”

Marthe did not remember.

“One evening, returning from Saint-Cloud?”

There was a look of peculiar sadness in Madame Arnoux’s face. Was it to keep him from further reference to the memories they shared?

Her beautiful shining black eyes, moved gently under their somewhat drooping lids, and her pupils revealed in their depths an inexpressible kindness of heart. He was seized with a love stronger than ever, a passion that knew no bounds. The idea of it paralyzed him; however, he shook off this feeling. How was he to make the most of himself? by what means? And, having turned the matter over thoroughly in his mind, Frédéric could think of none that seemed more effective than money.

He began talking about the weather, which was less cold than it had been at Le Havre.

“Were you there?”

“Yes; about a family matter—an inheritance.”

“Ah! I am very glad,” she said, with an air of such genuine pleasure that he felt quite touched, just as if she had done him a great service.

She asked him what he intended to do, as it was necessary for a man to occupy himself with something.

He remembered his lie, and said that he hoped to reach the Conseil d’Etat with the help of M. Dambreuse, the representative.
⁴

“You are acquainted with him, perhaps?”

“Merely by name.”

Then, in a low tone:

“He
brought you to the ball the other night, did he not?”

Frédéric remained silent.

“That was what I wanted to know; thanks!”

After that she put two or three discreet questions to him about his family and the part of the country he was from. It was very kind of him not to have forgotten them after having lived so far away from Paris.

“But could I do so?” he rejoined. “Have you any doubt about it?”

Madame Arnoux arose: “I believe that you entertain towards us a true and solid affection. Until we meet again!”

And she extended her hand towards him in a sincere and masculine fashion.

Was this not an engagement, a promise? Frédéric felt a sense of delight at merely living; he had to restrain himself to keep from singing. He wanted to burst out, to do generous deeds. He looked around him to see if there were anyone near whom he could help. No wretch happened to be passing by; and his generosity of spirit evaporated, for he was not a man to go out of his way to find opportunities for benevolence.

Then he remembered his friends. The first of whom he thought was Hussonnet, the second, Pellerin. The lowly position of Dussardier naturally called for consideration. As for Cisy, he was glad to let that young aristocrat get a slight glimpse as to the extent of his fortune. He wrote accordingly to all four to come to a housewarming the following Sunday at eleven o’clock sharp; and he told Deslauriers to bring Sénécal.

The tutor had been dismissed from his third boarding-school for being opposed to the distribution of prizes—a custom which he looked upon as dangerous to equality. He was now working for an engine-builder, and for the past six months had not been living with Deslauriers. There had been nothing painful about their parting.

Sénécal had been visited by men in smocks—all patriots, all workmen, all honest fellows, but at the same time men whose society seemed distasteful, to the lawyer. Besides, he disliked certain of his friend’s ideas, excellent though they might be as weapons of warfare. He held his tongue on the subject out of ambition, paying deference to him in order to control him, for he looked forward to a shake-up in which he hoped to make a place for himself and have an impact.

Sénécal’s convictions were more disinterested. Every evening, when his work was finished, he returned to his garret and sought in books for something that might justify his dreams. He had annotated the
Contrat Social;
he had crammed himself with the
Revue Independante;
he was acquainted with Mably, Morelly, Fourier, Saint-Simon, Comte, Cabet, Louis Blanc
⁵
—the heavy cartload of Socialistic writers—those who would reduce humanity to the level of barracks, to those who would amuse themselves in a brothel or labor bent over a counter; and from all these things he constructed an ideal of virtuous democracy, with the double identity of a farm and a factory, a sort of American Sparta, in which the individual would only exist for the benefit of society, which was to be more omnipotent, absolute, infallible, and divine than the Dalai Lamas and the Nebuchadnezzars. He had no doubt as to the approaching realisation of this ideal; and Sénécal raged against everything that he considered hostile to it with the reasoning of a geometrician and the zeal of an Inquisitor. Titles of nobility, crosses, plumes, keeping servants above all, and even overly important reputations scandalised him, his studies as well as his sufferings intensifying every day his essential hatred of every kind of distinction and every form of social superiority.

“What do I owe to this gentleman that I should be polite to him? If he wants me, he can come to me.”

Deslauriers, however, forced him to go to Frédéric’s reunion.

They found their friend in his bedroom. Spring-roller blinds and double curtains, Venetian mirrors—nothing was lacking there. Frédéric, in a velvet vest, was lying back on an easy-chair, smoking cigarettes of Turkish tobacco.