Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (38 page)

The monotonous greenery made it look like the cover of an immense billiard-table. The scoriæ of iron lined both sides of the track, like heaps of stones. A little further on, some factory chimneys were smoking close beside each other. In front of him, on a round hillock, stood a little turreted chateau, with the quadrangular belfry of a church. At a lower level, long walls formed irregular lines past the trees; and, further down again, the houses of the village spread out.

They had only a single story, with staircases consisting of three steps made of uncemented blocks. Every now and then the bell in front of a grocery-shop could be heard tinkling. Heavy steps sank into the black mire, and a light shower was falling, which cut the pale sky with a thousand hatchings.

Frédéric made his way along the middle of the street. Then, he saw on his left, at the opening of a pathway, a large wooden arch, whereon was traced, in letters of gold, the word “Faïences.”

It was not for nothing that Jacques Arnoux had selected the vicinity of Creil. By placing his works as close as possible to the other works (which had long enjoyed a high reputation), he had created a certain confusion in the public mind, with a favourable result so far as his own interests were concerned.

The main body of the building rested on the same bank of a river which flows through the meadowlands. The master’s house, surrounded by a garden, could be distinguished by the steps in front of it, adorned with four vases, bristling with cactuses.

Heaps of white clay were drying under sheds. There were others in the open air; and in the midst of the yard stood Sénécal with his everlasting blue overcoat lined with red.

The ex-tutor extended towards Frédéric his cold hand.

“You’ve come to see the master? He’s not here.”

Frédéric, nonplussed, replied in a stupefied fashion:

“I know.” But the next moment, correcting himself:

“ ’Tis about a matter that concerns Madame Arnoux. Can she see me?”

“Ah! I have not seen her for the last three days,” said Sénécal.

And he broke into a long string of complaints. When he accepted the post of manager, he understood that he would have been allowed to reside in Paris, and not be forced to bury himself in the country, far from his friends, deprived of newspapers. No matter! he had overlooked all that. But Arnoux appeared to pay no attention to his merits. He was, moreover, shallow and old fashioned—no one could be more ignorant. Instead of making artistic improvements, it would have been better to introduce firewood instead of coal and gas. The master was going under—Sénécal laid stress on the last words. In short, he disliked his present occupation, and he all but appealed to Frédéric to say a word on his behalf in order that he might get an increase of salary.

“Don’t worry!” said the other.

He met nobody on the staircase. On the first floor, he pushed his way head-first into an empty room. It was the drawing-room. He called out at the top of his voice. There was no reply. No doubt, the cook had gone out, and so had the housemaid. Finally, having reached the second floor, he pushed a door open. Madame Arnoux was alone in this room, in front of a mirrored armoire. The belt of her dressing-gown hung down her hips; one entire half of her hair fell in a dark wave over her right shoulder; and she had raised both arms in order to hold up her chignon with one hand and to put a pin through it with the other. She gave a cry and disappeared.

Then, she came back again properly dressed. Her waist, her eyes, the rustle of her dress, her entire appearance, charmed him. Frédéric felt it hard to keep from covering her with kisses.

“I beg your pardon,” said she, “but I could not—”

He had the boldness to interrupt her with these words:

“Nevertheless—you looked very nice—just now.”

She probably thought this compliment a little coarse, for her cheeks reddened. He was afraid that he might have offended her. She went on:

“What lucky chance has brought you here?”

He did not know what reply to make; and, after a slight chuckle, which gave him time for reflection:

“If I told you, would you believe me?”

“Why not?”

Frédéric informed her that he had had a frightful dream a few nights before.

“I dreamt that you were seriously ill—near dying.”

“Oh! my husband and I are never ill.”

“I have dreamt only of you,” said he.

She gazed at him calmly: “Dreams are not always realised.”

Frédéric stammered, sought to find appropriate words with which to express himself, and then plunged into a long discourse on the affinity of souls. There existed a force which could, through the intervening bounds of space, bring two persons into communication with each other, make known to each the other’s feelings, and enable them to reunite.

She listened to him with bowed head, while she smiled with that beautiful smile of hers. He watched her out of the corner of his eye with delight, and poured out his love all the more freely with the help of clichés.

She offered to show him the factory; and, as she persisted, he made no objection.

In order to divert his attention with something amusing, she showed him the sort of museum that decorated the staircase. The specimens, hung up against the wall or laid on shelves, bore witness to the efforts and the successive fads of Arnoux. After seeking vainly for the red of Chinese copper, he had wished to manufacture majolicas, faenza, Etruscan and Oriental ware, and had, in fact, attempted all the improvements which were realised at a later period.

So it was that one could observe in the series big vases covered with figures of mandarins, bowls of an irridescent bronze, pots adorned with Arabian inscriptions, pitchers in the style of the Renaissance, and large plates on which two personages were outlined as it were in a sort of red chalk. He now made letters for signboards and wine-labels; but his intelligence was not high enough to attain to art, nor commonplace enough to look merely to profit, so that, without satisfying anyone, he had ruined himself.

They were both looking over these things when Mademoiselle Marthe passed.

“So, then, you do not recognise him?” said her mother to her.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, bowing to him, while her clear and sceptical glance—the glance of a virgin—seemed to say in a whisper: “What are you coming here for?” and she rushed up the steps glancing back over her shoulder.

Madame Arnoux led Frédéric into the courtyard, and then explained to him in a grave tone how different clays were ground, cleaned, and sifted.

“The most important thing is the preparation of pastes.”

And she brought him into a hall filled with vats, in which a vertical axis with horizontal arms kept turning. Frédéric felt some regret that he had not flatly declined her offer before.

“These things are merely the drabblers,” said she.

He thought the word grotesque, and, in a measure, unbecoming on her lips.

Wide straps ran from one end of the ceiling to the other, so as to roll themselves round the drums, and everything kept moving continuously with a provoking mathematical regularity.

They left the spot, and passed close to a ruined hut, which had formerly been used as a repository for gardening implements.

“It is no longer of any use,” said Madame Arnoux.

He replied in a tremulous voice:

“Happiness might be found there!”

The clacking of the fire-pump drowned his words, and they entered the workshop where rough drafts were made.

Some men, seated at a narrow table, placed each in front of himself on a revolving disc a lump of paste. Then each man with his left hand scooped out the insides of his own piece while smoothing its surface with the right; and vases could be seen bursting into shape like blossoming flowers.

Madame Arnoux showed him the moulds for the more difficult pieces.

In another part of the building, the bands, grooves, and the raised lines were being added. On the floor above, they removed the seams, and the little holes that had been left by the preceding operations were stopped up with plaster.

At every opening in the walls, in corners, in the middle of the corridor, everywhere, earthenware vessels had been placed side by side.

Frédéric began to feel bored.

“Perhaps these things are tiresome to you?” said she.

Fearing that he might have to end his visit there and then, he affected, on the contrary, a tone of great enthusiasm. He even expressed regret at not having devoted himself to this branch of industry.

She appeared surprised.

“Certainly! I would have been able to live near you.”

And as he tried to catch her eye, Madame Arnoux, in order to avoid him, took off a table little balls of paste, which had come from unsuccessful repairs, flattened them out into a thin cake, and pressed her hand over them.

“Might I carry these away with me?” said Frédéric.

“Good heavens! What a child you are!”

He was about to reply when in came Sénécal.

The sub-manager, upon crossing the threshold, had noticed a breach of the rules. The workshops should be swept every week. This was Saturday, and, as the workmen had not done what was required, Sénécal announced that they would have to remain an hour longer.

“Too bad for you!”

They stooped over the work assigned to them unmurmuringly, but their rage could be divined by the hoarse sounds of their breathing. They were, moreover, very easy to manage, having all been dismissed from the big factory. The Republican had shown himself a hard taskmaster to them. A mere theorist, he considered only the masses, and exhibited an utter absence of pity for individuals.

Frédéric, annoyed by his presence, asked Madame Arnoux in a low voice whether they could have an opportunity of seeing the kilns. They descended to the ground-floor; and she was just explaining the use of cases, when Sénécal, who had followed close behind, placed himself between them.

He continued the explanation of his own motion, expatiated on the various kinds of combustibles, the process of placing in the kiln, the pyroscopes, the cylindrical furnaces; the instruments for rounding, the glazes, and the metals, making a prodigious display of chemical terms, such as “chloride,” “sulphuret,” “borax,” and “carbonate.” Frédéric did not understand a single one of them, and kept turning round every minute towards Madame Arnoux.

“You are not listening,” said she. “M. Sénécal, however, is very clear. He knows all these things much better than I.”

The mathematician, flattered by this eulogy, proposed to show the way in which colours were laid on. Frédéric gave Madame Arnoux an anxious, questioning look. She remained impassive, not caring to be alone with him, very probably, and yet unwilling to leave him.

He offered her his arm.

“No—many thanks! the staircase is too narrow!”

And, when they had reached the top, Sénécal opened the door of a room full of women.

They were handling brushes, phials, shells, and plates of glass. Along the cornice, close to the wall, extended boards with figures engraved on them; scraps of thin paper floated about, and a melting-stove sent forth fumes that made the temperature oppressive, while there mingled with it the odour of turpentine.

The workwomen had nearly all dirty clothes. It was noticeable, however, that one of them wore a Madras head scarf, and long earrings. Of slight frame, and, at the same time, plump, she had large black eyes and the fleshy lips of a negress. Her ample bosom projected from under her chemise, which was fastened round her waist by the string of her petticoat; and, with one elbow on the board of the work-table and the other arm hanging down, she gazed vaguely at the open country side. Beside her were a bottle of wine and some pork chops.

The regulations prohibited eating in the workshops, a rule intended to secure cleanliness at work and good hygiene among the workers.

Sénécal, through a sense of duty or a desire to exercise despotic authority, shouted out to her as he came near her, while pointing towards a framed notice:

“I say, you, girl from Bordeaux over there! read out for me Article 9!”

“And then what?”

“Then what, mademoiselle? You’ll have to pay a fine of three francs.”

She looked him straight in the face with an air of insolence.

“What do I care? The master will cancel your fine when he comes back! You can go to the devil, you silly man!”

Sénécal, who was walking with his hands behind his back, like a monitor in the study-room, contented himself with smiling.

“Article 13, insubordination, ten francs!”

The girl from Bordeaux resumed her work. Madame Arnoux, through a sense of propriety, said nothing; but her brows contracted. Frédéric murmured:

“You are very severe for a democrat!”

The other replied in a magisterial tone:

“Democracy is not the unbounded license of individualism. It is the equality of all belonging to the same community before the law, the distribution of work, order.”

“You are forgetting humanity!” said Frédéric.

Madame Arnoux took his arm. Sénécal, perhaps offended by this mark of silent approbation, went away.

Frédéric experienced an immense relief. Since morning he had been looking out for the opportunity to declare his love; now it had arrived. Besides, Madame Arnoux’s spontaneous movements seemed to him to contain promises; and he asked her, as if on the pretext of warming their feet, to come up to her room. But, when he was seated close beside her, he began once more to feel embarrassed. He was at a loss for a starting-point. Sénécal, luckily, suggested an idea to his mind.

“Nothing could be more stupid,” said he, “than this punishment!”

Madame Arnoux replied: “There are certain severe measures which are indispensable!”

“What! you who are so good! Oh! I am mistaken, for you sometimes take pleasure in making other people suffer!”