Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (70 page)

She played her part badly, after all; for she grew serious, and even before going to bed always exhibited a certain melancholy. It was like finding cypress trees at the door of a tavern.
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He found out the cause of it; she was dreaming of marriage—she, too! Frédéric was exasperated at this. Besides, he remembered her appearance at Madame Arnoux’s house, and then he held onto a certain spite towards her for having resisted him for so long.

He made enquiries none the less as to who her lovers had been. She denied having had any relations with any of them. A sort of jealous feeling took possession of him. He irritated her by asking questions about presents that had been made to her, and were still being made to her; and in proportion to the annoyance which her personality produced in him more and more, he was still drawn to her by a bestial and violent lust, momentary illusions which ended in hate.

Her words, her voice, her smile, all had an unpleasant effect on him, and especially her glances with that female gaze forever limpid and foolish. Sometimes he felt so tired of her that he could have watched her die without being moved by it. But how could he get into a fight with her? She was so sweet and even-tempered that there was no hope of picking a quarrel.

Deslauriers reappeared, and explained his sojourn at Nogent by saying that he was making arrangements to buy a lawyer’s office. Frédéric was glad to see him again. It was somebody else! and as a third person in the house, he helped to break the monotony.

The lawyer dined with them from time to time, and whenever any little disputes arose, always took Rosanette’s side, so that Frédéric, on one occasion, said to him:

“Eh! go to bed with her if you like!” so much did he long for some chance of getting rid of her.

About the middle of the month of June, she was served with an order from the law courts in which Maitre Athanase Gautherot, bailiff, called upon her to pay four thousand francs due to Mademoiselle Clémence Vatnaz; if not, he would come the next day to seize her belongings.

In fact, of the four bills which she had signed at various times, only one had been paid; the money which she managed to get since then had been spent on other things.

She rushed off at once to see Arnoux. He lived now in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and the porter was unable to tell her the name of the street. She made her way next to the houses of several friends of hers, could not find one of them at home, and came back in a state of utter despair.

She did not wish to tell Frédéric anything about it, fearing that this new incident might damage the chances of a marriage between them.

On the following morning, Maitre Athanase Gautherot presented himself with two assistants, one of them pale and sly-looking and an envious air about him, the other wearing a detachable collar and tight trouser-straps, with a stall of black taffeta on his index-finger—and both revoltingly dirty, with greasy necks, and the sleeves of their coats too short.

Their employer, on the contrary, a very good-looking man, began by apologising for the disagreeable duty he had to perform, while at the same time he threw a look round the room, “full of pretty things, upon my word of honour!” He added, “Apart from the things that can’t be seized.” At a gesture the two bailiff’s men disappeared.

Then he became twice as polite as before. Could anyone believe that a lady so charming would not have a genuine friend! A sale of her goods under an order of the courts would be a real misfortune. One never gets over a thing like that. He tried to frighten her; then, seeing that she was very upset, suddenly assumed a paternal tone. He knew the world. He had dealings with all these ladies—and as he mentioned their names, he examined the frames of the pictures on the walls. They were old paintings from the worthy Arnoux, sketches by Sombary, water-colours by Burieu, and three landscapes by Dittmer. It was evident that Rosanette was ignorant of their value. Maitre Gautherot turned round to her:

“Look here! to show that I am a decent fellow, do one thing: give me those Dittmers there—and I will pay your debt. Do you agree?”

At that moment Frédéric, who had been informed about the matter by Delphine in the hall, and who had just seen the two assistants, barged in with his hat still on his head. Maître Gautherot resumed his dignified air; and, as the door had been left open:

“Come on, gentlemen—write this down! In the second room, let us say—an oak table with its two leaves, two sideboards—”

Frédéric stopped him, asking whether there was not some way of preventing the seizure.

“Oh! certainly! Who paid for the furniture?”

“I did.”

“Well, draw up a claim—you still have time to do it.”

Maitre Gautherot did not take long in writing out his official report, citing Mademoiselle Bron in his report to the court, and having done this he left.

Frédéric uttered no reproach. He gazed at the traces of mud left on the floor by the bailiff’s shoes, and, speaking to himself:

“We must go and find some money!”

“Ah! my God, how stupid I am!” said the Maréchale.

She ransacked a drawer, took out a letter, and made her way rapidly to the Languedoc Gas Lighting Company, in order to get the transfer of her shares.

She came back an hour later. The interest in the shares had been sold to another. The clerk had said, in answer to her demand, while examining the sheet of paper containing Arnoux’s written promise to her: “This document in no way establishes you as the proprietor of the shares. The company has no cognisance of the matter.” In short, he sent her away unceremoniously, while she choked with rage; and Frédéric would have to go to Arnoux’s house at once to have the matter cleared up.

But Arnoux would perhaps imagine that he had come to recover in an indirect fashion the fifteen thousand francs due on the mortgage which he had lost; and then this claim from a man who had been his mistress’s lover seemed despicable.

Choosing another route, he went to the Dambreuse mansion to get Madame Regimbart’s address, sent a messenger to her residence, and in this way ascertained the name of the café which the Citizen now frequented.

It was the little café on the Place de la Bastille, in which he sat all day in the corner to the right at the back, never moving any more than if he were part of the building.

After having gone successively through the half-cup of coffee, the glass of grog, the “bishop,” the glass of mulled wine, and even the red wine and water, he fell back on beer, and every half hour he let fall this word, “Bock!” having reduced his language to the bare minimum. Frédéric asked him if he saw Arnoux occasionally.

“No!”

“Really?—Why not?”

“An imbecile!”

Politics, perhaps, kept them apart, and so Frédéric thought it wise to enquire about Compain.

“What a brute!” said Regimbart.

“How is that?”

“His calf’s head!”

“Ah! explain to me what the calf’s head is!”

Regimbart’s face wore a contemptuous smile.

“Some nonsense!”

After a long interval of silence, Frédéric went on to ask:

“So, then, has he changed his address?”

“Who?”

“Arnoux!”

“Yes—Rue de Fleurus!”

“What number?”

“Do I associate with the Jesuits?”

“What do you mean, Jesuits!”

The Citizen replied angrily:

“With the money of a patriot whom I introduced to him, this pig has set up as a dealer in rosary beads!”

“It isn’t possible!”

“Go there, and see for yourself!”

It was perfectly true; Arnoux, weakened by an illness, had turned religious; besides, he had always been religious at heart, and (with that mixture of commercialism and ingenuity which was natural to him), in order to gain his salvation and a fortune, he had become a dealer of religious objects.

Frédéric had no difficulty in finding his establishment, on whose signboard appeared these words:
“Emporium of Gothic Art
—Restoration of articles used in ecclesiastical ceremonies—Church ornaments—Polychrome sculpture—Frankincense of the Magi, Kings, &c., &c.”

At the two corners of the shop-window rose two wooden statues, streaked with gold, vermilion, and azure, a Saint John the Baptist with his sheepskin, and a Saint Genevieve with roses in her apron and a distaff under her arm; next, groups in plaster, a good sister teaching a little girl, a mother on her knees beside a little bed, and three schoolboys at the communion table. The prettiest object there was a kind of chalet representing the stable of Bethlehem with the donkey, the ox, and the child Jesus lying on straw—real straw. From the top to the bottom of the shelves were medals by the dozen, rosaries of every sort, holy-water basins in the form of shells, and portraits of ecclesiastical dignitaries, amongst whom shone the smiling faces of Monsignor Affre and the Holy Father.

Arnoux sat asleep at his counter with his head down. He had aged terribly. He even had round his temples red pimples, and the reflection of the gold crosses touched by the rays of the sun shone on them.

Frédéric was filled with sadness at the sight of such a decline. Through devotion to the Maréchale, however, he steeled himself and stepped forward. At the far end of the shop Madame Arnoux appeared; thereupon, he turned on his heel.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said, when he got back to Rosanette.

And in vain he went on to promise that he would write at once to his notary at Le Havre for some money—she flew into a rage. She had never seen a man so weak, so spineless. While she was enduring a thousand sacrifices, other people were enjoying themselves.

Frédéric was thinking about poor Madame Arnoux, and picturing to himself the heart-rending impoverishment of her surroundings. He had seated himself before the writing-desk; and, as Rosanette’s voice still kept up its bitter complaining:

“Ah! in the name of Heaven, hold your tongue!”

“You are not going to defend them, are you?”

“Well, yes!” he exclaimed. “What’s the cause of such constant ill-will towards them?”

“But why is it that you don’t want to make them pay up? ’Tis for fear of hurting your old flame—confess it!”

He felt like hitting her over the head with the clock. Words failed him. He relapsed into silence.

Rosanette, while pacing the room, continued:

“I am going to hurl a law suit at this Arnoux of yours. Oh! I don’t want your assistance. I’ll get legal advice.”

Three days later, Delphine rushed abruptly into the room where her mistress sat.

“Madame! madame! there’s a man here with a pot of glue who frightens me!”

Rosanette made her way down to the kitchen, and saw there a vagabond whose face was pitted with pock marks. Moreover, one of his arms was paralysed, and he was three fourths drunk, and slurring his words.

This was Maitre Gautherot’s bill-sticker. The objections to the seizure having been overruled, the sale followed as a matter of course.

For his trouble in getting up the stairs he demanded, in the first place, a half-glass of brandy; then he wanted another favour, namely, tickets for the theatre, on the assumption that the lady of the house was an actress. After this he spent some minutes winking unintelligibly. Finally, he declared that for forty sous he would tear off the corners of the poster which he had already affixed to the door down-stairs. Rosanette found herself referred to by name in it—a piece of exceptional severity which showed Vatnaz’s spite.

She had at one time exhibited sensitivity, and had even, while suffering from the effects of a heartache, written to Béranger for his advice.
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But under the ravages of life’s storms, her spirit had become soured, for she had been forced, in turn, to give piano lessons, to run a boarding house, to write for the fashion journals, to let rooms, and to traffic in lace in the world of loose women, her relations with whom enabled her to be of service to many people, and amongst others to Arnoux. She had formerly been employed in a commercial establishment.

There it was one of her functions to pay the working girls; and for each of them there were two account books, one of which always remained in her hands. Dussardier, who, through kindness, kept the account of a girl named Hortense Baslin, happened to come one day to the cash-office at the moment when Mademoiselle Vatnaz was presenting this girl’s acccount, 1,682 francs, which the cashier paid her. Now, on the very evening before this, Dussardier had only entered the sum as 1,082 in the girl Baslin’s book. He asked to have the book back on some pretext; then, anxious to cover up this theft, he stated that he had lost it. The working girl innocently repeated this falsehood to Mademoiselle Vatnaz, and the latter, in order to satisfy her mind about the matter, casually asked the shop assistant about it. He simply replied: “I have burned it!” A little while later she left the house, without believing that the book had been really destroyed, and filled with the idea that Dussardier had kept it.

On hearing that he had been wounded, she rushed to his home, in the interest of getting it back. Then, having discovered nothing, in spite of the most thorough search, she was seized with respect, and presently with love, for this youth, so loyal, so gentle, so heroic and so strong! At her age such good fortune in an affair of the heart was a thing that one would not expect. She threw herself into it with the appetite of an ogress; and she gave up literature, Socialism, “the consoling doctrines and the generous Utopias,” the course of lectures which she had projected on the “De-subordination of Woman”—everything, even Delmar himself; finally she offered to unite herself to Dussardier in marriage.

Although she was his mistress, he was not at all in love with her. Besides, he had not forgotten her theft. And then she was too wealthy for him. He refused her offer. Thereupon, with tears in her eyes, she told him about what she had dreamed—it was to have for both of them a confectioner’s shop. She possessed the capital that was required for the purpose, and next week this would be increased to the extent of four thousand francs. By way of explanation, she referred to the proceedings she had taken against the Maréchale.