Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (39 page)

“I don’t understand riddles, my friend!”

And her stern look, still more than the words she used, checked him. Frédéric was determined to go on. A volume of De Musset happened to be on the chest of drawers; he turned over some pages, then began to talk about love, its highs and its lows.

All this, according to Madame Arnoux, was criminal or fictitious. The young man felt wounded by this rebuff and, in order to combat it, he cited, by way of proof, the suicides which they read about every day in the newspapers, extolled the great literary lovers, Phèdre, Dido, Romeo, Desgrieux. He talked as if he meant to do away with himself.

The fire was no longer burning on the hearth; the rain lashed against the windows. Madame Arnoux, without stirring, remained with her hands resting on the sides of her armchair. The flaps of her cap fell like the head bands of a sphinx. Her pure profile traced out its clear-cut outlines in the midst of the shadows.

He was anxious to cast himself at her feet. There was a creaking sound in the hallway, and he did not venture to carry out his intention.

He was, moreover, restrained by a kind of religious awe. Her dress, mingling with the surrounding shadows, appeared to him boundless, infinite, incapable of being removed; and for this very reason his desire became intensified. But the fear of doing too much, and, again, of not doing enough, robbed him of all judgment.

“If she dislikes me,” he thought, “let her drive me away; if she cares for me, let her encourage me.”

He said, with a sigh:

“So, then, you don’t admit that a man may love—a woman?”

Madame Arnoux replied:

“Assuming that she is at liberty to marry, he may marry her; when she belongs to another, he should keep away from her.”

“So happiness is impossible?”

“No! But it is never to be found in falsehood, mental anxiety, and remorse.”

“What does it matter, if one is compensated by the enjoyment of supreme bliss?”

“The experience is too costly.”

Then he used irony.

“Would not virtue in that case be merely cowardice?”

“Say rather, clear-sightedness. Even for those women who might forget duty or religion, simple good sense is sufficient. A solid foundation for wisdom may be found in self-love.”

“Ah, what bourgeois maxims these are of yours!”

“I don’t boast of being a fine lady.”

At that moment the little boy rushed in.

“Mamma, are you coming to dinner?”

“Yes, in a moment.”

Frédéric arose. At the same instant, Marthe made her appearance.

He could not make up his mind to go, and, with a look of entreaty:

“These women you speak of are very unfeeling, then?”

“No, but deaf when it is necessary to be so.”

And she remained standing on the threshold of her room with her two children beside her. He bowed without saying a word. She mutely returned his salutation.

What he first experienced was an unspeakable astonishment. He felt crushed by this mode of impressing on him the emptiness of his hopes. It seemed to him as if he were lost, like a man who has fallen to the bottom of an abyss and knows that no help will come to him, and that he must die. He walked on, however, but at random, without looking where he was going. He tripped over stones; he lost his way. A clatter of wooden shoes sounded close; it was caused by some of the working-girls who were leaving the foundry. Then he realised where he was.

The railway lamps traced on the horizon a line of fire. He arrived just as the train was about to leave, let himself be pushed into a rail-car, and fell asleep.

An hour later on the boulevards, the gaiety of Paris by night made his journey all at once recede into an already far-distant past. He resolved to be strong, and relieved his heart by vilifying Madame Arnoux with insults.

“She is an idiot, a beast; let us not bestow another thought on her!”

When he got home, he found in his study a letter of eight pages on blue glazed paper, with the initials “R. A.”

It began with friendly reproaches.

“What has become of you, my dear? I am getting quite bored.”

But the handwriting was so abominable, that Frédéric was about to fling away the sheets, when he noticed in the postscript the following words:

“I count on you to come to-morrow and drive me to the races.”

What was the meaning of this invitation? Was it another trick of the Maréchale? But a woman does not make a fool of the same man twice without some reason; and, seized with curiosity, he read the letter over again attentively.

Frédéric was able to distinguish “Misunderstanding—to have taken a wrong path—disillusions—poor children that we are!—like two rivers that join each other!” etc.

He kept the pages for a long time between his fingers. They had the scent of irises; and there was in the form of the characters and the irregular spaces between the lines something suggestive, as it were, of a carelessness in dressing, that excited him.

“Why should I not go?” he said to himself at length. “But if Madame Arnoux were to know about it? Ah! let her know! So much the better! and let her feel jealous over it! In that way I shall be avenged!”

T
he Maréchale was prepared for his visit, and had been waiting for him.

“This is nice of you!” she said, fixing a glance of her fine eyes on his face, with an expression at the same time tender and joyful.

When she had fastened her bonnet-strings, she sat down on the divan, and remained silent.

“Shall we go?” said Frédéric. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Oh, no! not before half-past one!” as if she had imposed this limit to her indecision.

At last, when the hour had struck:

“Ah! well,
andiamo, caro mio!”
And she gave a final touch to her hair, and left directions for Delphine.

“Is Madame coming home to dinner?”

“Why should we, indeed? We shall dine together somewhere—at the Café Anglais, wherever you wish.”

“All right!”

Her little dogs began barking around her.

“We can bring them with us, can’t we?”

Frédéric carried them himself to the vehicle. It was a hired berlin with two horses and a postilion. He had put his man-servant in the back seat. The Maréchale appeared satisfied with his attentions. Then, as soon as she had seated herself, she asked him whether he had been at the Arnouxs’ lately.

“Not for the past month,” said Frédéric.

“As for me, I met him the day before yesterday. He would have even come to-day, but he has all sorts of troubles—another lawsuit—I don’t know what. What a strange man!”

Frédéric added with an air of indifference:

“Now that I think of it, do you still see—what’s his name?—that ex-vocalist—Delmar?”

She replied dryly:

“No; that’s all over.”

So it was clear that there had been a rupture between them. Frédéric derived some hope from this circumstance.

They descended the Quartier Bréda at an easy pace. As it happened to be Sunday, the streets were deserted, and some citizens’ faces could be seen at their windows. The carriage went on more rapidly. The noise of wheels made the passers-by turn round; the leather of the hood, which had slid down, was shining. The man-servant doubled himself up, and the two Havanese, beside one another, seemed like two ermine muffs laid on the cushions. Frédéric gave himself up to the rocking of the carriage. The Maréchale turned her head right and left with a smile on her face.

Her hat of pearly straw was trimmed with black lace. The hood of her bournous floated in the wind, and she sheltered herself from the rays of the sun under a parasol of lilac satin pointed at the top like a pagoda.

“What pretty little fingers!” said Frédéric, softly taking her other hand, her left being adorned with a gold bracelet in the form of a curb-chain.

“I say! that’s pretty! Where did it come from?”

“Oh! I’ve had it a long time,” said the Maréchale.

The young man did not challenge this hypocritical answer in any way. He preferred to profit by the circumstance. And, still keeping hold of the wrist, he pressed his lips on it between the glove and the cuff.

“Stop! People will see us!”

“Pooh! What does it matter?”

After passing by the Place de la Concorde, they drove along the Quai de la Conference and the Quai de Billy, where might be noticed a cedar in a garden. Rosanette believed that Lebanon was in China; she laughed at her own ignorance, and asked Frédéric to give her lessons in geography. Then, leaving the Trocadéro at the right, they crossed the Pont d’Iéna, and finally stopped in the middle of the Champ de Mars, near some other vehicles already drawn up in the Hippodrome.
²⁰

The grassy slopes were covered with common people. Some spectators could be seen on the balcony of the Ecole militaire, and the two pavilions outside the paddock, the two stands contained within its enclosure and a third in front of that of the royal box were filled with a fashionably dressed crowd whose behavior showed their regard for this still novel form of amusement.

The race-going public around the course, more select during this period, had a less vulgar look. It was the era of trouser-straps, velvet collars, and white gloves. The ladies, attired in showy colours, displayed gowns with long waists; and seated on the tiers of the stands, they formed, so to speak, immense groups of flowers, spotted here and there with black by the men’s costumes. But every glance was directed towards the celebrated Algerian Bou-Maza, who sat, impassive, between two staff officers in one of the private stands. That of the Jockey Club contained none but grave-looking gentlemen.

The more enthusiastic part of the throng were seated underneath, close to the track, protected by two lines of posts which supported ropes. In the immense oval formed by the track, cocoanut-sellers were shaking their rattles, others were selling programmes of the races, others were hawking cigars, with loud cries. On every side there was a great murmur. The municipal guards passed to and fro. A bell, hung from a post covered with numbers, began ringing. Five horses appeared, and the spectators in the stands resumed their seats.

Meanwhile, big clouds touched with their winding outlines the tops of the elms opposite. Rosanette was afraid that it was going to rain.

“I have umbrellas,” said Frédéric, “and everything that we need to keep us happy,” he added, lifting up the chest, in which there was a stock of provisions in a basket.

“Bravo! we understand each other!”

“And we’ll understand each other still better, shall we not?”

“That may be,” she said, blushing.

The jockeys, in silk jackets, were trying to align their horses, and were holding them back with both hands. Somebody lowered a red flag. Then all five bent over the bristling manes, and off they went. At first they remained pressed close to each other in a single mass; it quickly stretched out and broke up. The jockey in the yellow jacket was close to falling in the middle of the first lap; for a long time it was uncertain whether Filly or Tibi should take the lead; then Tom Pouce appeared in front. But Clubstick, who had been in the rear since the start, came up with the others and outran them, so that he was the first to reach the winning-post, beating Sir Charles by two lengths. It was a surprise. There was a shout of applause; the planks shook with the stamping of feet.

“What fun!” said the Maréchale. “I love you, darling!”

Frédéric no longer doubted that his happiness was secure. Rosanette’s last words were a confirmation of it.

A hundred feet away, in a four-wheeled cabriolet, a lady could be seen. She stretched her head out of the carriage-door, and then quickly drew it in again. This movement was repeated several times. Frédéric could not distinguish her face. He had a strong suspicion, however, that it was Madame Arnoux. And yet this seemed impossible! Why would she have come there?

He stepped out of his own vehicle on the pretence of strolling round the paddock.

“You are not very gallant!” said Rosanette.

He paid no heed to her, and went on. The four-wheeled cabriolet, turning back, broke into a trot.

Frédéric at the same moment, found himself button-holed by Cisy.

“Hello, my dear boy! how are you? Hussonnet is over there! Are you listening to me?”

Frédéric tried to shake him off in order to catch up to the four-wheeled cabriolet. The Maréchale beckoned to him to come round to her. Cisy saw her, and obstinately persisted in bidding her good-day.

Since the termination of the regular period of mourning for his grandmother, he had realised his ideal, and succeeded in “acquiring a certain cachet.” A Scotch plaid waistcoat, a short coat, large bows over the pumps, and an entrance-card stuck in the ribbon of his hat; nothing, in fact, was wanting in producing what he described himself as his
chic—a chic
characterised by Anglomania and the swagger of the musketeer. He began by finding fault with the Champ de Mars, which he referred to as an “execrable turf,” then spoke of the Chantilly races, and the droll things that had occurred there, swore that he could drink a dozen glasses of champagne while the clock was striking midnight, offered to make a bet with the Maréchale on it, softly caressed her two lapdogs; and, leaning against the carriage-door on one elbow, he kept talking nonsense, with the handle of his walking-stick in his mouth, his legs wide apart, and his back stretched out. Frédéric, standing beside him, was smoking, while endeavouring to make out what had become of the cabriolet.

The bell having rung, Cisy took off, to the great delight of Rosanette, who said he had been boring her to death.

The second race had nothing special about it; neither had the third, except that a man was taken away on a stretcher. The fourth, in which eight horses competed for the City Stakes, was more interesting.