Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (34 page)

She returned coldly:

“Perhaps that wounds your delicacy?”

“Since you are carried away,” said Arnoux, looking for his hat, “and can’t be reasoned with—”

Then, with a big sigh:

“Don’t marry, my poor friend, don’t, take my advice!”

And he went off, finding it absolutely necessary to get some air.

Then there was a deep silence, and it seemed as if everything in the room had become more motionless than before. A luminous circle above the lamp whitened the ceiling, while the corners were shadowy as if covered by black gauze. The ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds that disturbed the stillness.

Madame Arnoux had just seated herself in the armchair at the opposite side of the fireplace. She bit her lip and shivered. She drew her hands up to her face; a sob broke from her, and she began to weep.

He sat down on the little couch, and in the soothing tone in which one addresses a sick person:

“You don’t suspect me of having anything to do with—?”

She made no reply. Then, speaking her thoughts out loud, she said:

“I leave him perfectly free! He did not need to lie!”

“That is quite true,” said Frédéric. No doubt, it was the result of Arnoux’s way of life; he had acted thoughtlessly, but perhaps in matters of greater importance———

“What do you see, then, that can be more important?”

“Oh, nothing!”

Frédéric bent his head with a smile of acquiescence. Nevertheless, he urged, Arnoux possessed certain good qualities; he was fond of his children.

“Yes, and he does all he can to spoil them!”

Frédéric urged that this was due to an excessively easy-going disposition, for indeed he was a good fellow.

She exclaimed:

“But what is the meaning of that—a good fellow?”

And he proceeded to defend Arnoux in the vaguest kind of language he could think of, and, while expressing his sympathy with her, he rejoiced, he was delighted, at the bottom of his heart. Through retaliation or need of affection she would fly to him for refuge. His hope, which had now grown immeasurably, reinforced his love.

Never had she appeared to him so captivating, so perfectly beautiful. From time to time a deep breath made her bosom swell. Her two eyes, gazing fixedly into space, seemed dilated by a vision in the depths of her consciousness, and her lips were slightly parted, as if to let her soul escape through them. Sometimes she pressed her handkerchief over them tightly. He would have liked to be this dainty little piece of linen moistened with her tears. In spite of himself, he cast a look at the bed at the end of the alcove, picturing to himself her head lying on the pillow, and he saw this so clearly in his imagination that he had to restrain himself to keep from taking her in his arms. She closed her eyes, and now she appeared soothed and still. Then he drew closer to her, and, bending over her, he eagerly scanned her face. At that moment, he heard the noise of boots in the lobby outside—it was Arnoux. They heard him shutting the door of his own room. Frédéric made a sign to Madame Arnoux to ascertain from her whether he ought to go there.

She replied “Yes,” in the same voiceless fashion; and this mute exchange of thoughts between them was, as it were, an assent—the preliminary step in adultery.

Arnoux was just taking off his coat to go to bed.

“Well, how is she?”

“Oh! better,” said Frédéric; “this will pass.”

But Arnoux was in an anxious state of mind.

“You don’t know her; she is upset now! Idiot of a clerk! This is what comes of being too good. If I had not given that cursed shawl to Rosanette!”

“Don’t regret having done so. Nobody could be more grateful to you than she is.”

“Do you really think so?”

Frédéric had not a doubt of it. The best proof of it was her dismissal of Père Oudry.

“Ah! poor little thing!”

And in the excess of his emotion, Arnoux wanted to rush off to her.

“It isn’t worth while. I just saw her. She is unwell.”

“All the more reason for my going.”

He quickly put on his coat again, and took up his candlestick. Frédéric cursed his own stupidity, and pointed out to him that for decency’s sake he ought to remain this night with his wife. He could not leave her; it would be very bad of him.

“I tell you candidly you would be doing wrong. There is no hurry over there. You will go tomorrow. Come; do this for my sake.”

Arnoux put down his candlestick, and, embracing him, said:

“What a good fellow you are!”

T
hen began for Frédéric a miserable existence. He became the parasite of the house. If anyone were indisposed, he called three times a day to know how the patient was, went to the piano-tuner’s, contrived to do a thousand acts of kindness; and he endured with an air of contentment Mademoiselle Marthe’s poutings and the caresses of little Eugène, who was always drawing his dirty hands over the young man’s face. He was present at dinners at which Monsieur and Madame, facing each other, did not exchange a word, unless it happened that Arnoux provoked his wife with the absurd remarks he made. When the meal was over, he would play about the room with his son, conceal himself behind the furniture, or carry the little boy on his back, walking about on all fours, like the Bearnais.
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At last, he would go out, and she would at once plunge into her eternal subject of complaint—Arnoux.

It was not his misconduct that excited her indignation, but her pride appeared to be wounded, and she did not hide her repugnance towards this man, who showed an absence of delicacy, dignity, and honour.

“Or rather, he is mad!” she said.

Frédéric artfully appealed to her to confide in him. Ere long he knew all the details of her life. Her parents were people who lived a humble life in Chartres. One day, Arnoux, while sketching on the bank of the river (at the time he believed himself to be a painter), saw her leaving church, and made her an offer of marriage. On account of his wealth, he was unhesitatingly accepted. Besides, he was desperately in love with her. She added:

“Good heavens! he loves me still, in his own way!”

They spent the few months immediately after their marriage travelling through Italy.

Arnoux, in spite of his enthusiasm at the sight of the scenery and the masterpieces, did nothing but complain about the wine, and, to find some kind of amusement, organised picnics along with some English people. The profits which he had made by reselling some pictures tempted him to go into the art business. Then, he became infatuated with pottery. Now other types of commerce attracted him, which were becoming more and more vulgar, and he adopted coarse and extravagant habits. It was not so much for his vices she had to reproach him as for his entire conduct. No change could be expected in him, and her unhappiness was irreparable.

Frédéric declared that his own life in the same way was a failure.

He was still a young man, however. Why should he despair? And she gave him good advice: “Work! and marry!” He answered her with a bitter smile; for instead of revealing the real cause of his grief, he pretended that it was of a different, more sublime nature, and he assumed the part of an Antony to some extent, the man accursed by fate
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—language not far from his true feelings.

For certain men action becomes more difficult as desire becomes stronger. They are embarrassed by self-doubt, and terrified by the fear of being disliked. Besides, deep feelings of affection are like virtuous women: they are afraid of being discovered, and go through life with downcast eyes.

Though he was now better acquainted with Madame Arnoux (for that very reason perhaps), he was even more faint-hearted than before. Each morning he swore in his own mind that he would make a bold move. He was prevented from doing so by an unconquerable feeling of bashfulness; and he had no example to guide him, inasmuch as she was different from other women. From the force of his dreams, he had placed her outside the ordinary pale of humanity. At her side he felt himself of less importance in the world than the sprigs of silk that escaped from her scissors.

Then he thought up some monstrous and absurd ideas, such as surprising her at night, using drugs and skeleton keys—anything was easier than to face her disdain.

Besides, the children, the two maids, and the relative position of the rooms caused insurmountable obstacles. So then he made up his mind to possess her himself, and to bring her to live with him far away in total isolation. He even asked himself what lake would be blue enough, what seashore would be delightful enough for her, whether it would be in Spain, Switzerland, or the East; and expressly choosing days when she seemed more irritated than usual, he told her that it would be necessary for her to leave the house, to find out some grounds to justify such a step, and that he saw no way out of it but a separation. However, for the sake of the children whom she loved, she would never resort to such an extreme course. So much virtue only increased his respect for her.

He spent each afternoon thinking about the visit he had paid the night before, and longing for the evening to come in order that he might call again. When he did not dine with them, he posted himself about nine o’clock at the corner of the street, and, as soon as Arnoux had slammed the hall-door behind him, Frédéric quickly ascended the two flights of stairs, and innocently asked the servant:

“Is Monsieur in?”

Then he would exhibit surprise at finding that Arnoux had gone out.

The latter frequently came back unexpectedly. Then Frédéric had to accompany him to the little café in the Rue Sainte-Anne, which Regimbart now frequented.

The Citizen began by airing some fresh grievance which he had against the monarchy. Then they would chat, pouring out friendly abuse on one another, for the earthenware manufacturer took Regimbart for a thinker of a higher order, and, annoyed at seeing him waste his talent, teased the Citizen about his laziness. It seemed to Regimbart that Arnoux was a man full of heart and imagination, but decidedly too immoral, and therefore he treated him without indulgence, refusing even to dine at his house on the grounds that “such formality was a bore.”

Sometimes, at the moment of parting, Arnoux would be seized by hunger. He found it necessary to order an omelet or some roasted apples; and, as there was never anything to eat in the place, he sent out for something. They waited. Regimbart did not leave, and ended by consenting in a grumbling fashion to have something himself. He was nevertheless gloomy, for he remained for hours seated before a half-filled glass. As Providence did not arrange things according to his ideas, he was becoming a hypochondriac, no longer cared even to read the newspapers, and at the mere mention of England began to bellow with rage. On one occasion, referring to a waiter who gave him bad service, he exclaimed:

“Have we not had enough insults from foreigners?”

Except during these crises, he remained taciturn, contemplating “a foolproof business scheme that would make the shop take off.”

Whilst he was lost in these reflections, Arnoux in a monotonous voice and with a slight look of intoxication, related incredible anecdotes in which he was always the star, thanks to his savoir-faire; and Frédéric (this was, no doubt, due to some basic similarities) felt drawn towards him. He reproached himself for this weakness, believing that on the contrary he ought to hate this man.

Arnoux, in Frédéric’s presence, complained of his wife’s ill-temper, her obstinacy, her unjust accusations. She had not been like this in former days.

“If I were you,” said Frédéric, “I would make her an allowance and live alone.”

Arnoux made no reply; and the next moment he began to sound her praises. She was good, devoted, intelligent, and virtuous; and, moving on to her personal beauty, he made some revelations on the subject like those careless people who display their treasures in taverns.

The equilibrium of his life was upset by a catastrophe.

He had been appointed to the Board of Directors in a kaolin company. But placing faith in everything that he was told, he had signed inaccurate reports and approved, without verification, the annual inventories fraudulently prepared by the manager. The company had now failed, and Arnoux, being legally responsible, was, along with the others who were liable under the guaranty, condemned to pay damages, which meant a loss to him of thirty thousand francs, not to speak of the costs of the judgment.

Frédéric read the report of the case in a newspaper, and at once hurried off to the Rue de Paradis.

He was ushered into Madame’s room. It was breakfast-time. A round table close to the fire was covered with bowls of
cafe au lait.
Slippers were strewn over the carpet, and clothes over the armchairs. Arnoux was attired in trousers and a knitted vest, with his eyes bloodshot and his hair in disorder. Little Eugène was crying at the pain caused by an attack of mumps, while nibbling at a slice of bread and butter. His sister was eating quietly. Madame Arnoux, a little paler than usual, was waiting on all three of them.

“Well,” said Arnoux, heaving a deep sign, “you know all about it?”

And, as Frédéric gave him a pitying look: “There, you see, I have been the victim of my own trusting nature!”

Then he relapsed into silence, and so great was his despair, that he pushed his breakfast away from him. Madame Arnoux raised her eyes with a shrug of the shoulders. He wiped his hand across his forehead.

“After all, I am not guilty. I have nothing to blame myself for. It’s unfortunate, but we’ll pull through.”

He took a bite of a cake, however, in obedience to his wife’s appeals.

That evening, he wished that she should go and dine with him alone in a private room at the Maison d’Or. Madame Arnoux did not at all understand this impulse, taking offense, in fact, at being treated as if she were a loose woman. Arnoux, on the contrary, meant it as a show of affection. Then, as he was beginning to feel bored, he went to pay the Maréchale a visit in order to amuse himself