Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (65 page)

“It isn’t worth while,” said Dussardier.

“Hold your tongue!”

This cowardice on the part of so brave a man pleased Frédéric as a justification of his own conduct. He brought back the bill with him, and never again referred to the scandal at Madame Arnoux’s house. But from that time forth he saw clearly all the defects in the Maréchale’s character.

She possessed incurable bad taste, incomprehensible laziness, the ignorance of a savage, so much so that she regarded Doctor Derogis as a person of great celebrity, and she felt proud of entertaining him and his wife, because they were “married people.”

She lectured with a pedantic air on the affairs of daily life to Mademoiselle Irma, a poor little creature endowed with a little voice, who had as a protector a gentleman “very well off,” an ex-clerk in the Custom-house, who had a rare talent for card tricks. Rosanette used to call him “My big sweetie-pie.” Frédéric could no longer endure the repetition of her stupid words, such as “Nothing doing,” “Get lost,” “One can never tell,” etc.; and her habit of wiping off the dust in the morning from her trinkets with a pair of old white gloves. He was above all disgusted by her treatment of her servant, whose wages were constantly in arrears, and who even lent her money. On the days when they settled their accounts, they used to wrangle like two fish-wives; and then, on becoming reconciled, used to embrace each other. It was a relief to him when Madame Dambreuse’s evening parties began again.

There, at any rate, he found something to amuse him. She was well versed in the intrigues of society, the changes of ambassadors, the personnel of the fashion houses, and, if commonplace remarks escaped her lips, it was done in such a becoming fashion, that one could take it ironically or as pure politeness. It was worthwhile to watch the way in which, in the midst of twenty people chatting around her, she would, without overlooking anyone, elicit the answers she desired and avoid those that were dangerous. Things of a very simple nature, when related by her, seemed like confidences. Her slightest smile gave rise to dreams; in short, her charm, like the exquisite scent which she usually wore, was complex and indefinable.

While he was with her, Frédéric experienced on each occasion the pleasure of a new discovery, and, nevertheless, he always found her equally serene the next time they met, like the reflection of limpid waters.

But why was there such coldness in her manner towards her niece? At times she even darted strange looks at her.

As soon as the question of marriage was raised, she objected to it, when discussing the matter with M. Dambreuse, based on the state of “the dear child’s” health, and had at once taken her off to the baths of Balaruc.
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On her return other excuses were raised by her—that the young man was not in a good position, that this ardent passion did not appear to be a very serious attachment, and that no risk would be run by waiting. Martinon had replied, when the suggestion was made to him, that he would wait. His conduct was sublime. He sang Frédéric’s praises. He did more. He enlightened him on the best way to please Madame Dambreuse, insinuating that he knew the aunt’s feeling through her niece.

As for M. Dambreuse, far from exhibiting jealousy, he treated his young friend with the utmost attention, consulted him about various things, and even showed anxiety about his future, so that one day, when they were talking about Père Roque, he whispered with a sly air:

“You have done well.”

And Cécile, Miss John, the servants and the porter, every one of them in the house was charming to him. He came there every evening, leaving Rosanette. Her approaching maternity rendered her more serious, and even a little melancholy, as if she were tormented by worry. To every question put to her she replied:

“You are mistaken; I am quite well.”

She had, in fact, signed five IOUs, and not having the courage to tell Frédéric after the first had been paid, she had gone back to the home of Arnoux, who had promised her, in writing, a third of his profits in a company providing gaslight in the towns of Languedoc (a marvellous undertaking!), while requesting her not to make use of this note before the meeting of shareholders. The meeting was postponed from week to week.

Meanwhile the Maréchale needed money. She would have died sooner than ask Frédéric for any. She did not want to get it from him; it would spoil their love. He contributed a great deal to the household expenses; but a little carriage, which he hired by the month, and other sacrifices, which were indispensable since he had begun to visit the Dambreuses, prevented him from doing more for his mistress. On two or three occasions, when he came back to the house at a different time than usual, he imagined he could see men’s backs disappearing behind the door, and she often went out without wishing to state where she was going. Frédéric did not attempt to enquire into these matters. One of these days he would make up his mind as to his future course of action. He dreamed of another life which would be more amusing and more noble. Such an ideal made him partial to the Dambreuse mansion.

It was an informal branch of the Rue de Poitiers club.
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There he met the great M. A., the illustrious B., the profound C., the eloquent Z., the immense Y., the old mouthpieces of the Left Centre, the paladins of the Right, the stalwart middle-of-the-roaders; the eternal characters of the political comedy. He was astonished at their abominable style of talking, their pettiness, their spite, their dishonesty—all these people, after voting for the Constitution, now striving to destroy it; and they got into a state of great agitation, and launched forth manifestoes, pamphlets, and biographies. Hussonnet’s biography of Fumichon was a masterpiece. Nonancourt devoted himself to the work of propagandism in the country districts; M. de Grémonville worked on the clergy; and Martinon brought together the young men of the wealthy class. Each helped to the best of his ability, including Cisy. With his thoughts now all day long absorbed in serious matters, he made excursions here and there in a cab on party business.

M. Dambreuse was like a barometer, constantly indicating its latest direction. Lamartine could not be alluded to without eliciting from this gentleman the quotation of a famous phrase of the man of the people: “We’ve had enough poetry!” Cavaignac was, from this time forth, nothing better in his eyes than a traitor. The President,
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whom he had admired for a period of three months, was beginning to go down in his estimation (as he did not appear to exhibit the “necessary energy”); and, as he always wanted a savior, his gratitude, since the affair of the Conservatoire, belonged to Changarnier:
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“Thank God for Changarnier ... Let us hope Changarnier ... Oh, there’s nothing to fear as long as Changarnier—”

M. Thiers was praised, above all, for his volume against Socialism, in which he showed that he was quite as much of a thinker as a writer. There was an immense laugh at Pierre Leroux, who had quoted passages from the philosophers to the Chamber. Jokes were made about the phalansterian tail.
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They went to applaud the vaudeville show “The Market of Ideas” and its authors were compared to Aristophanes. Frédéric went to see it like the rest.

Political verbiage and good food had a dulling effect on his morality. Mediocre as these persons appeared to him, he felt proud to know them, and inwardly longed for their respect. A mistress like Madame Dambreuse would give him a position in society.

He set about taking the necessary steps for achieving that goal.

He made it his business to cross her path when she went for a walk, did not fail to go and greet her in her box at the theatre, and, being aware of the hours when she went to church, he would plant himself behind a pillar in a melancholy attitude. There was a continual interchange of little notes between them with regard to curiosities to which they drew each other’s attention, preparations for a concert, or the borrowing of books or reviews. In addition to his visit each night, he sometimes made a call in the late afternoon; and he experienced an intensification of pleasure in successively passing through the large front entrance, through the courtyard, through the entrance hall and through the two reception-rooms. Finally, he reached her boudoir, which was as quiet as a tomb, as warm as an alcove, and in which one brushed up against the upholstered furniture in the midst of objects of every sort placed here and there—lingerie chests, screens, bowls, and trays made of lacquer, or shell, or ivory, or malachite, expensive objects which were frequently replaced. Amongst them were simple things too: three pebbles from the beach at Etretat which were used as paper-weights, and a Frisian cap hung from a Chinese screen. Nevertheless, there was a harmony among all of these objects, and one was even impressed by the grandeur of the entire place, which was, no doubt, due to the loftiness of the ceiling, the richness of the door curtains, and the long silk fringe that floated over the gold legs of the stools.

She nearly always sat on a little sofa, close to the flower-stand in the recess of the window. Frédéric, seating himself on the edge of a large ottoman on castors, addressed compliments to her of the most appropriate kind that he could conceive; and she looked at him, with her head a little to one side, and a smile on her lips.

He read her poetry, into which he threw his whole soul in order to move her and inspire her admiration. She would now and then interrupt him with a disparaging remark or a practical observation; and their conversation relapsed incessantly into the eternal question of Love. They discussed the circumstances that produced it, whether women felt it more than men, and in what way they differed on that point. Frédéric tried to express his opinion, and, at the same time, to avoid being coarse or insipid. This became a sort of battle between them, sometimes enjoyable and at other times tedious.

Whilst at her side, he did not experience that ravishment of his entire being which drew him towards Madame Arnoux, nor the feeling of voluptuous delight with which Rosanette had, at first, inspired him. But he felt a passion for her as a thing that was unique and difficult to attain, because she was of aristocratic rank, because she was wealthy, because she was devout—imagining that she had a delicacy of sentiment as rare as the lace she wore, together with amulets against her skin, and modesty even in her depravity.

He made a certain use of his old passion, uttering in his new flame’s ear all those amorous sentiments which Madame Arnoux had caused him to feel in earnest, and pretending that it was Madame Dambreuse herself who inspired them. She received all this like one accustomed to such things, and, without giving him a formal refusal, did not yield in the slightest degree; and he came no nearer to seducing her than Martinon did to getting married. In order to bring matters to an end with her niece’s suitor, she accused him of having money as his motive, and even begged her husband to put the matter to the test. M. Dambreuse then declared to the young man that Cécile, being the orphan child of poor parents, had neither expectations nor a dowry.

Martinon, not believing that this was true, or feeling that he had gone too far to draw back, or through idiotic obstinacy which turns out to be an act of genius, replied that his patrimony, amounting to fifteen thousand francs a year, would be sufficient for them. The banker was touched by this unexpected display of altruism. He promised the young man the post of tax-inspector, undertaking to obtain it for him; and in the month of May, 1850, Martinon married Mademoiselle Cécile. There was no ball to celebrate the event. The young couple started the same evening for Italy. Frédéric came the next day to pay a visit to Madame Dambreuse. She appeared to him paler than usual. She sharply contradicted him about two or three matters of no importance. However, she went on to observe, all men were egoists.

There were, however, some devoted men, though he might happen himself to be the only one.

“Pooh, pooh! you’re just like the rest of them!”

Her eyelids were red; she had been weeping.

Then, forcing a smile:

“Pardon me; I am in the wrong. Sad thoughts have taken possession of my mind.”

He could not understand what she meant to convey by the last words.

“No matter! she is weaker than I imagined,” he thought.

She rang for a glass of water, drank a mouthful of it, sent it away again, and then began to complain of the wretched way in which her servants waited on her. In order to amuse her, he offered to become her servant himself, pretending that he knew how to hand round plates, dust furniture, and announce visitors—in fact, to do the duties of a
valet-de-chambre,
or, rather, of a footman, although the latter was now out of fashion. He would have liked to cling on behind her carriage with a hat adorned with cock’s feathers.

“And how I would follow you with majestic stride, carrying your little dog on my arm!”

“You are funny,” said Madame Dambreuse.

Was it not foolish, he returned, to take everything seriously? There were enough miseries in the world without creating more. Nothing was worth the cost of a single pang. Madame Dambreuse raised her eyelids with a sort of vague approval.

This agreement in their views of life impelled Frédéric to take a bolder course. His former miscalculations now gave him insight. He went on:

“Our grandfathers lived better. Why not follow our impulses?” After all, love was not a thing of such importance in itself

“But what you have just said is immoral!”

She had resumed her seat on the little sofa. He sat down at the side of it, near her feet.

“Don’t you see that I am lying! For in order to please women, one must exhibit the levity of a buffoon or all the wild passion of tragedy! They only laugh at us when we simply tell them that we love them! For my part, I consider the exaggeration which tickles their fancy a profanation of true love, so that it is no longer possible to give expression to it, especially when addressing women who possess more than ordinary intelligence.”