Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (32 page)

“On the faith of a gentleman,” added the Bohemian, “you are a noble fellow, you’ll be placed in the gallery of useful men!”

The lawyer remarked:

“You’ll lose nothing by it, it’s an excellent investment.”

“Faith,” exclaimed Hussonnet, “I’d stake my head on its success!”

And he said so many foolish things, and promised so many fantastic things, in which perhaps he believed, that Frédéric did not know whether he did this in order to laugh at others or at himself.

The same evening he received a letter from his mother. She expressed astonishment at not seeing him yet a minister, while at the same time joking a bit. Then she spoke of her health, and informed him that M. Roque had now become one of her visitors.

“Since he is a widower, I thought there would be no objection to inviting him to the house. Louise is greatly changed for the better.” And in a postscript: “You have told me nothing about your fine acquaintance, M. Dambreuse; if I were you, I would make use of him.”

Why not? His intellectual ambitions had left him, and his fortune (he saw it clearly) was insufficient, for when his debts had been paid, and the sum agreed on remitted to the others, his income would be diminished by four thousand at least! Moreover, he felt the need of giving up this sort of life, and attaching himself to some pursuit. So, next day, when dining at Madame Arnoux’s, he said that his mother was tormenting him in order to make him take up a profession.

“But I was under the impression,” she said, “that M. Dambreuse was going to get you into the Council of State? That would suit you very well.”

So, then, she wished him to take this course. He considered her wish a command.

The banker, as on the first occasion, was seated at his desk, and, with a gesture, intimated that he wait a few minutes; for a gentleman who was standing at the door with his back turned had been discussing some serious topic with him.

The subject of their conversation was the proposed amalgamation of the different coal-mining companies.

On each side of the mirror hung portraits of General Foy
^al
and Louis Philippe. Filing cabinets rose along the paneled walls up to the ceiling, and there were six straw chairs, M. Dambreuse not requiring a more fashionably-furnished room for the transaction of business. It resembled those gloomy kitchens in which great banquets are prepared.

Frédéric noticed particularly two chests of prodigious size which stood in the corners. He asked himself how many millions they might contain. The banker unlocked one of them, and as the iron plate revolved, it disclosed to view nothing inside but blue paper books full of entries.

At last, the person who had been talking to M. Dambreuse passed in front of Frédéric. It was Père Oudry. The two bowed to one another, their faces reddening—a circumstance which surprised M. Dambreuse. However, he exhibited the utmost affability, observing that nothing would be easier than to recommend the young man to the Keeper of the Seals. They would be too happy to have him, he added, concluding his polite attentions by inviting him to an evening party which he would be giving in a few days.

Frédéric was stepping into a carriage on his way to this party when a note from the Maréchale reached him. By the light of the carriage-lamps he read:

“Darling, I have followed your advice: I have just expelled my savage. After to-morrow evening, liberty! Now tell me I am not brave!”

Nothing more. But it was clearly an invitation to him to take the vacant place. He uttered an exclamation, squeezed the note into his pocket, and set forth.

Two municipal guards on horseback were stationed in the street. A row of lamps burned on the two front gates, and some servants were calling out in the courtyard to have the carriages brought up to the end of the steps in front of the house under the marquee.

Then suddenly the noise in the vestibule ceased.

Large trees filled up the space in front of the stair-case. The porcelain globes shed a light which waved like white moire satin on the walls.

Frédéric rushed up the steps in a joyous frame of mind. An usher announced his name. M. Dambreuse extended his hand. Almost at the very same moment, Madame Dambreuse appeared. She wore a mauve dress trimmed with lace. The ringlets of her hair were more abundant than usual, and she was not wearing a single jewel.

She complained of his coming to visit them so rarely, and seized the opportunity to exchange a few words with him.

The guests began to arrive. In their different ways of bowing they twisted their bodies to one side or bent in two, or merely lowered their heads a little. Then, a married pair, and a family passed by and all scattered themselves about the drawing-room, which was already filled. Under the chandelier in the centre, an enormous ottoman supported a plant-stand, the flowers of which, bending forward, like plumes, hung over the heads of the ladies seated all around in a ring, while others occupied the easy-chairs, which formed two straight lines symmetrically interrupted by the large velvet curtains of the windows and the lofty bays of the doors with their gilded lintels.

The crowd of men who remained standing on the floor with their hats in their hands seemed, at some distance, like one black mass, into which the ribbons in the button-holes introduced red points here and there, and rendered all the more dull the monotonous whiteness of their cravats. With the exception of the very young men just starting to grow beards, all appeared to be bored. Some dandies, with sullen expressions, were balancing on their heels. There were numbers of men with grey hair or wigs. Here and there glistened a bald pate; and the faces of many of these men, either purple or exceedingly pale, showed the traces of immense fatigues: for they were persons who devoted themselves either to political or commercial pursuits. M. Dambreuse had also invited a number of scholars and magistrates, two or three celebrated doctors, and he protested with an air of humility their praises of his hospitality and wealth.

An immense number of men-servants, with fine gold-braided livery, kept moving about on every side. The large candelabra, like bouquets of flame, threw a glow over the hangings which were reflected in the mirrors; and at the back of the dining-room, which was adorned with a jasmine trellis, the side-board resembled the high altar of a cathedral or an exhibition of jewellery, there were so many dishes, bells, knives and forks, silver and silver-gilt spoons in the midst of crystal ware glittering with iridescence.

The three other reception-rooms overflowed with artistic obiects—landscapes by great masters on the walls, ivory and porcelain at the sides of the tables, and Chinese ornaments on the consoles. Lacquered screens were displayed in front of the windows, clusters of camelias filled the fireplaces, and a light music vibrated in the distance, like the humming of bees.

The quadrilles were not numerous, and the dancers, judged by the indifferent fashion in which they dragged their pumps after them, seemed to be performing a duty.

Frédéric heard some phrases, such as the following:

“Were you at the last charity fête at the Hotel Lambert, Mademoiselle?” “No, Monsieur.” “It will soon be intolerably warm here.” “Oh! yes, indeed; quite suffocating!” “Whose polka, pray, is this?” “Good heavens, Madame, I don’t know!”

And, behind him, three greybeards, who had positioned themselves in a window alcove, were whispering some
risqué
remarks. A sportsman told a hunting story, while a Legitimist carried on an argument with an Orléanist. And, wandering about from one group to another, he reached the card-room, where, in the midst of grave-looking men gathered in a circle, he recognised Martinon, now a member of the Paris Bar.

His big face, with its waxen complexion, filled up the space encircled by his collar-like beard, which was a marvel with its evenly trimmed black hair; and, striking a balance between the elegance which his age called for and the dignity which his profession required, he kept his thumbs stuck under his armpits, according to the custom of dandies, and then put his hands into his waistcoat pockets after the manner of learned men. Though his boots were polished to excess, he kept his temples shaved in order to have the forehead of a thinker.

After he had addressed a few chilly words to Frédéric, he turned once more towards those who were chatting around him. A landowner was saying: “This is a class of men that dreams of turning society upsidedown.”

“They are calling for the organisation of labour,” said another: “Can this be conceived?”

“What could you expect,” said a third, “when we see M. de Genoude giving his assistance to Le
Siècle?”
¹⁵

“And even Conservatives call themselves Progressives. To lead us to what? To the Republic! as if such a thing were possible in France!”

Everyone declared that the Republic was impossible in France.

“No matter!” remarked one gentleman in a loud tone. “People take too much interest in the Revolution. A heap of histories, of different kinds of works, are published concerning it!”

“Without taking into account,” said Martinon, “that there are probably subjects of far more importance which might be studied.”

A gentleman occupying a ministerial office laid the blame on the scandals associated with the stage:

“Thus, for instance, this new drama of
La Reine Margot
really goes beyond the proper limits. What need was there for telling us about the Valois?
^am
All this exhibits royalty in an unfavourable light. ’Tis just like your press! There is no use in talking, the September laws are altogether too mild.
^an
For my part, I would like to have court-martials, to gag the journalists! At the slightest display of insolence, drag them before a council of war, and then make an end of the business!”

“Oh, be careful, Monsieur! Be careful!” said a professor. “Don’t attack the precious gains of 1830! Respect our liberties!” It would be better, he contended, to adopt a policy of decentralisation, and to distribute the surplus populations of the towns through the country districts.

“But they are rotten to the core!” exclaimed a Catholic. “Let religion be more firmly established!”

Martinon hastened to observe:

“As a matter of fact, it is a restraining force.”

All the evil lay in this modern longing to rise above one’s class and to possess luxuries.

“However,” urged a manufacturer, “luxury aids commerce. Therefore, I approve of the Duc de Nemours’ action in insisting on having short breeches at his evening parties.”

“M. Thiers
^ao
came to one of them in a pair of trousers. You know his joke on the subject?”

“Yes; charming! But he turned round to the demagogues, and his speech on the division of power was not without its influence in bringing about the insurrection of the twelfth of May.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“Oh, yes!”

The circle had to make a little opening to give a passage to a man-servant carrying a tray, who was trying to make his way into the card-room.

Under the green shades of the candles the tables were covered with two rows of cards and gold coins. Frédéric stopped beside one corner of the table, lost the fifteen napoleons which he had in his pocket, whirled lightly about, and found himself on the threshold of the boudoir in which Madame Dambreuse happened to be at that moment.

It was filled with women sitting close to one another in little groups on seats without backs. Their long skirts, swelling round them, seemed like waves, from which their waists emerged; and their breasts were revealed by their low-cut bodices. Nearly every one of them had a bouquet of violets in her hand. The dull shade of their gloves showed off the whiteness of their arms. Over the shoulders of some of them hung fringe or flowers, and, every now and then, as they shivered, it seemed as if their bodices were about to fall down.

But the respectability in their faces tempered the provocative effect of their dresses. Several of them had a placidity almost like that of animals; and this gathering of half-naked women made him think of the interior of a harem—indeed, a more vulgar comparison came into the young man’s mind.

Every variety of beauty was to be found there—some English ladies, with the profile familiar in “keepsakes”; an Italian, whose black eyes flashed, like a Vesuvius; three sisters, dressed in blue; three Normans, fresh as apple trees in April; a tall red-head, with a set of amethysts. And the bright scintillation of diamonds, which shimmered in sprays worn in their hair, the luminous facets of precious stones laid over their bosoms, and the delightful radiance of pearls framing their faces mingled with the glitter of gold rings, as well as with the lace, powder, the feathers, the vermilion of dainty mouths, and the mother-of-pearl hue of teeth. The ceiling, rounded like a cupola, gave to the boudoir the form of a flower-basket, and a current of perfumed air circulated under the flapping of their fans.

Frédéric, standing behind them, with his monocle in his eye scanned their shoulders, not all of which did he consider faultless. He thought about the Maréchale, and this dispelled the temptations that beset him or consoled him for not yielding to them.

He gazed, however, at Madame Dambreuse, and he considered her charming, in spite of her mouth being rather large and her nostrils too dilated. But she was remarkably graceful in appearance. There was, as it were, a passionate softness in the ringlets of her hair, and her forehead, which was the color of agate, seemed to contain a great deal of ideas, and indicated a masterful intelligence.

She had placed beside her her husband’s niece, a rather unattractive young lady. From time to time she left her seat to receive those who had just come in; and the murmur of feminine voices, made, as it were, a cackling like that of birds.

They were talking about the Tunisian ambassadors and their costumes. One lady had been present at the last reception of the Academy. Another referred to Molière’s
Don Juan,
which had recently been performed at the Theatre Français.