CHAPTER IV.
The Inexpressible She!
One morning, in the month of December, while going to attend a lawlecture, he thought he could observe more than ordinary animation in theRue Saint-Jacques. The students were rushing precipitately out of thecafes, where, through the open windows, they were calling one anotherfrom one house to the other. The shop keepers in the middle of thefootpath were looking about them anxiously; the window-shutters werefastened; and when he reached the Rue Soufflot, he perceived a largeassemblage around the Pantheon.
Young men in groups numbering from five to a dozen walked along, arm inarm, and accosted the larger groups, which had stationed themselves hereand there. At the lower end of the square, near the railings, men inblouses were holding forth, while policemen, with their three-corneredhats drawn over their ears, and their hands behind their backs, werestrolling up and down beside the walls making the flags ring under thetread of their heavy boots. All wore a mysterious, wondering look; theywere evidently expecting something to happen. Each held back a questionwhich was on the edge of his lips.
Frederick found himself close to a fair-haired young man with aprepossessing face and a moustache and a tuft of beard on his chin, likea dandy of Louis XIII.'s time. He asked the stranger what was the causeof the disorder.
"I haven't the least idea," replied the other, "nor have they, for thatmatter! 'Tis their fashion just now! What a good joke!"
And he burst out laughing. The petitions for Reform, which had beensigned at the quarters of the National Guard, together with theproperty-census of Humann and other events besides, had, for the pastsix months, led to inexplicable gatherings of riotous crowds in Paris,and so frequently had they broken out anew, that the newspapers hadceased to refer to them.
"This lacks graceful outline and colour," continued Frederick'sneighbour. "I am convinced, messire, that we have degenerated. In thegood epoch of Louis XI., and even in that of Benjamin Constant, therewas more mutinousness amongst the students. I find them as pacific assheep, as stupid as greenhorns, and only fit to be grocers. Gadzooks!And these are what we call the youth of the schools!"
He held his arms wide apart after the fashion of Frederick Lemaitre in_Robert Macaire_.
"Youth of the schools, I give you my blessing!"
After this, addressing a rag picker, who was moving a heap ofoyster-shells up against the wall of a wine-merchant's house:
"Do you belong to them--the youth of the schools?"
The old man lifted up a hideous countenance in which one could trace, inthe midst of a grey beard, a red nose and two dull eyes, bloodshot fromdrink.
"No, you appear to me rather one of those men with patibulary faces whomwe see, in various groups, liberally scattering gold. Oh, scatter it, mypatriarch, scatter it! Corrupt me with the treasures of Albion! Are youEnglish? I do not reject the presents of Artaxerxes! Let us have alittle chat about the union of customs!"
Frederick felt a hand laid on his shoulder. It was Martinon, lookingexceedingly pale.
"Well!" said he with a big sigh, "another riot!"
He was afraid of being compromised, and uttered complaints. Men inblouses especially made him feel uneasy, suggesting a connection withsecret societies.
"You mean to say there are secret societies," said the young man withthe moustaches. "That is a worn-out dodge of the Government to frightenthe middle-class folk!"
Martinon urged him to speak in a lower tone, for fear of the police.
"You believe still in the police, do you? As a matter of fact, how doyou know, Monsieur, that I am not myself a police spy?"
And he looked at him in such a way, that Martinon, much discomposed,was, at first, unable to see the joke. The people pushed them on, andthey were all three compelled to stand on the little staircase whichled, by one of the passages, to the new amphitheatre.
The crowd soon broke up of its own accord. Many heads could bedistinguished. They bowed towards the distinguished Professor SamuelRondelot, who, wrapped in his big frock-coat, with his silver spectaclesheld up high in the air, and breathing hard from his asthma, wasadvancing at an easy pace, on his way to deliver his lecture. This manwas one of the judicial glories of the nineteenth century, the rival ofthe Zachariaes and the Ruhdorffs. His new dignity of peer of France hadin no way modified his external demeanour. He was known to be poor, andwas treated with profound respect.
Meanwhile, at the lower end of the square, some persons cried out:
"Down with Guizot!"
"Down with Pritchard!"
"Down with the sold ones!"
"Down with Louis Philippe!"
The crowd swayed to and fro, and, pressing against the gate of thecourtyard, which was shut, prevented the professor from going further.He stopped in front of the staircase. He was speedily observed on thelowest of three steps. He spoke; the loud murmurs of the throng drownedhis voice. Although at another time they might love him, they hated himnow, for he was the representative of authority. Every time he tried tomake himself understood, the outcries recommenced. He gesticulated withgreat energy to induce the students to follow him. He was answered byvociferations from all sides. He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully,and plunged into the passage. Martinon profited by his situation todisappear at the same moment.
"What a coward!" said Frederick.
"He was prudent," returned the other.
There was an outburst of applause from the crowd, from whose point ofview this retreat, on the part of the professor, appeared in the lightof a victory. From every window, faces, lighted with curiosity, lookedout. Some of those in the crowd struck up the "Marseillaise;" othersproposed to go to Beranger's house.
"To Laffitte's house!"
"To Chateaubriand's house!"
"To Voltaire's house!" yelled the young man with the fair moustaches.
The policemen tried to pass around, saying in the mildest tones theycould assume:
"Move on, messieurs! Move on! Take yourselves off!"
Somebody exclaimed:
"Down with the slaughterers!"
This was a form of insult usual since the troubles of the month ofSeptember. Everyone echoed it. The guardians of public order were hootedand hissed. They began to grow pale. One of them could endure it nolonger, and, seeing a low-sized young man approaching too close,laughing in his teeth, pushed him back so roughly, that he tumbled overon his back some five paces away, in front of a wine-merchant's shop.All made way; but almost immediately afterwards the policeman rolled onthe ground himself, felled by a blow from a species of Hercules, whosehair hung down like a bundle of tow under an oilskin cap. Having stoppedfor a few minutes at the corner of the Rue Saint-Jacques, he had veryquickly laid down a large case, which he had been carrying, in order tomake a spring at the policeman, and, holding down that functionary,punched his face unmercifully. The other policemen rushed to the rescueof their comrade. The terrible shop-assistant was so powerfully builtthat it took four of them at least to get the better of him. Two of themshook him, while keeping a grip on his collar; two others dragged hisarms; a fifth gave him digs of the knee in the ribs; and all of themcalled him "brigand," "assassin," "rioter." With his breast bare, andhis clothes in rags, he protested that he was innocent; he could not, incold blood, look at a child receiving a beating.
"My name is Dussardier. I'm employed at Messieurs Valincart Brothers'lace and fancy warehouse, in the Rue de Clery. Where's my case? I wantmy case!"
He kept repeating:
"Dussardier, Rue de Clery. My case!"
However, he became quiet, and, with a stoical air, allowed himself to beled towards the guard-house in the Rue Descartes. A flood of people camerushing after him. Frederick and the young man with the moustacheswalked immediately behind, full of admiration for the shopman, andindignant at the violence of power.
As they advanced, the crowd became less thick.
The policemen from time to time turned round, with threatening looks;and the rowdies, no longer having anything to do,
and the spectators nothaving anything to look at, all drifted away by degrees. The passers-by,who met the procession, as they came along, stared at Dussardier, and inloud tones, gave vent to abusive remarks about him. One old woman, ather own door, bawled out that he had stolen a loaf of bread from her.This unjust accusation increased the wrath of the two friends. Atlength, they reached the guard-house. Only about twenty persons werenow left in the attenuated crowd, and the sight of the soldiers wasenough to disperse them.
Frederick and his companion boldly asked to have the man who had justbeen imprisoned delivered up. The sentinel threatened, if theypersisted, to ram them into jail too. They said they required to see thecommander of the guard-house, and stated their names, and the fact thatthey were law-students, declaring that the prisoner was one also.
They were ushered into a room perfectly bare, in which, amid anatmosphere of smoke, four benches might be seen lining theroughly-plastered walls. At the lower end there was an open wicket. Thenappeared the sturdy face of Dussardier, who, with his hair all tousled,his honest little eyes, and his broad snout, suggested to one's mind ina confused sort of way the physiognomy of a good dog.
"Don't you recognise us?" said Hussonnet.
This was the name of the young man with the moustaches.
"Why----" stammered Dussardier.
"Don't play the fool any further," returned the other. "We know that youare, just like ourselves, a law-student."
In spite of their winks, Dussardier failed to understand. He appeared tobe collecting his thoughts; then, suddenly:
"Has my case been found?"
Frederick raised his eyes, feeling much discouraged.
Hussonnet, however, said promptly:
"Ha! your case, in which you keep your notes of lectures? Yes, yes, makeyour mind easy about it!"
They made further pantomimic signs with redoubled energy, tillDussardier at last realised that they had come to help him; and he heldhis tongue, fearing that he might compromise them. Besides, heexperienced a kind of shamefacedness at seeing himself raised to thesocial rank of student, and to an equality with those young men who hadsuch white hands.
"Do you wish to send any message to anyone?" asked Frederick.
"No, thanks, to nobody."
"But your family?"
He lowered his head without replying; the poor fellow was a bastard. Thetwo friends stood quite astonished at his silence.
"Have you anything to smoke?" was Frederick's next question.
He felt about, then drew forth from the depths of one of his pockets theremains of a pipe--a beautiful pipe, made of white talc with a shank ofblackwood, a silver cover, and an amber mouthpiece.
For the last three years he had been engaged in completing thismasterpiece. He had been careful to keep the bowl of it constantlythrust into a kind of sheath of chamois, to smoke it as slowly aspossible, without ever letting it lie on any cold stone substance, andto hang it up every evening over the head of his bed. And now he shookout the fragments of it into his hand, the nails of which were coveredwith blood, and with his chin sunk on his chest, his pupils fixed anddilated, he contemplated this wreck of the thing that had yielded himsuch delight with a glance of unutterable sadness.
"Suppose we give him some cigars, eh?" said Hussonnet in a whisper,making a gesture as if he were reaching them out.
Frederick had already laid down a cigar-holder, filled, on the edge ofthe wicket.
"Pray take this. Good-bye! Cheer up!"
Dussardier flung himself on the two hands that were held out towardshim. He pressed them frantically, his voice choked with sobs.
"What? For me!--for me!"
The two friends tore themselves away from the effusive display ofgratitude which he made, and went off to lunch together at the CafeTabourey, in front of the Luxembourg.
While cutting up the beefsteak, Hussonnet informed his companion that hedid work for the fashion journals, and manufactured catchwords for_L'Art Industriel_.
"At Jacques Arnoux's establishment?" said Frederick.
"Do you know him?"
"Yes!--no!--that is to say, I have seen him--I have met him."
He carelessly asked Hussonnet if he sometimes saw Arnoux's wife.
"From time to time," the Bohemian replied.
Frederick did not venture to follow up his enquiries. This manhenceforth would fill up a large space in his life. He paid thelunch-bill without any protest on the other's part.
There was a bond of mutual sympathy between them; they gave one anothertheir respective addresses, and Hussonnet cordially invited Frederick toaccompany him to the Rue de Fleurus.
They had reached the middle of the garden, when Arnoux's clerk, holdinghis breath, twisted his features into a hideous grimace, and began tocrow like a cock. Thereupon all the cocks in the vicinity respondedwith prolonged "cock-a-doodle-doos."
"It is a signal," explained Hussonnet.
They stopped close to the Theatre Bobino, in front of a house to whichthey had to find their way through an alley. In the skylight of agarret, between the nasturtiums and the sweet peas, a young woman showedherself, bare-headed, in her stays, her two arms resting on the edge ofthe roof-gutter.
"Good-morrow, my angel! good-morrow, ducky!" said Hussonnet, sending herkisses.
He made the barrier fly open with a kick, and disappeared.
Frederick waited for him all the week. He did not venture to call atHussonnet's residence, lest it might look as if he were in a hurry toget a lunch in return for the one he had paid for. But he sought theclerk all over the Latin Quarter. He came across him one evening, andbrought him to his apartment on the Quai Napoleon.
They had a long chat, and unbosomed themselves to each other. Hussonnetyearned after the glory and the gains of the theatre. He collaborated inthe writing of vaudevilles which were not accepted, "had heaps ofplans," could turn a couplet; he sang out for Frederick a few of theverses he had composed. Then, noticing on one of the shelves a volume ofHugo and another of Lamartine, he broke out into sarcastic criticisms ofthe romantic school. These poets had neither good sense nor correctness,and, above all, were not French! He plumed himself on his knowledge ofthe language, and analysed the most beautiful phrases with that snarlingseverity, that academic taste which persons of playful dispositionexhibit when they are discussing serious art.
Frederick was wounded in his predilections, and he felt a desire to cutthe discussion short. Why not take the risk at once of uttering the wordon which his happiness depended? He asked this literary youth whether itwould be possible to get an introduction into the Arnoux's house throughhis agency.
The thing was declared to be quite easy, and they fixed upon thefollowing day.
Hussonnet failed to keep the appointment, and on three subsequentoccasions he did not turn up. One Saturday, about four o'clock, he madehis appearance. But, taking advantage of the cab into which they hadgot, he drew up in front of the Theatre Francais to get a box-ticket,got down at a tailor's shop, then at a dressmaker's, and wrote notes inthe door-keeper's lodge. At last they came to the Boulevard Montmartre.Frederick passed through the shop, and went up the staircase. Arnouxrecognised him through the glass-partition in front of his desk, andwhile continuing to write he stretched out his hand and laid it onFrederick's shoulder.
Five or six persons, standing up, filled the narrow apartment, which waslighted by a single window looking out on the yard, a sofa of browndamask wool occupying the interior of an alcove between twodoor-curtains of similar material. Upon the chimney-piece, covered withold papers, there was a bronze Venus. Two candelabra, garnished withrose-coloured wax-tapers, supported it, one at each side. At the rightnear a cardboard chest of drawers, a man, seated in an armchair, wasreading the newspaper, with his hat on. The walls were hidden from viewbeneath the array of prints and pictures, precious engravings orsketches by contemporary masters, adorned with dedications testifyingthe most sincere affection for Jacques Arnoux.
"You're getting on well all this t
ime?" said he, turning round toFrederick.
And, without waiting for an answer, he asked Hussonnet in a low tone:
"What is your friend's name?" Then, raising his voice:
"Take a cigar out of the box on the cardboard stand."
The office of _L'Art Industriel_, situated in a central position inParis, was a convenient place of resort, a neutral ground whereinrivalries elbowed each other familiarly. On this day might be seen thereAntenor Braive, who painted portraits of kings; Jules Burrieu, who byhis sketches was beginning to popularise the wars in Algeria; thecaricaturist Sombary, the sculptor Vourdat, and others. And not a singleone of them corresponded with the student's preconceived ideas. Theirmanners were simple, their talk free and easy. The mystic Lovarias toldan obscene story; and the inventor of Oriental landscape, the famousDittmer, wore a knitted shirt under his waistcoat, and went home in theomnibus.
The first topic that came on the carpet was the case of a girl namedApollonie, formerly a model, whom Burrieu alleged that he had seen onthe boulevard in a carriage. Hussonnet explained this metamorphosisthrough the succession of persons who had loved her.
"How well this sly dog knows the girls of Paris!" said Arnoux.
"After you, if there are any of them left, sire," replied the Bohemian,with a military salute, in imitation of the grenadier offering his flaskto Napoleon.
Then they talked about some pictures in which Apollonie had sat for thefemale figures. They criticised their absent brethren, expressingastonishment at the sums paid for their works; and they were allcomplaining of not having been sufficiently remunerated themselves, whenthe conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a man of middlestature, who had his coat fastened by a single button, and whose eyesglittered with a rather wild expression.
"What a lot of shopkeepers you are!" said he. "God bless my soul! whatdoes that signify? The old masters did not trouble their heads about themillion--Correggio, Murillo----"
"Add Pellerin," said Sombary.
But, without taking the slightest notice of the epigram, he went ontalking with such vehemence, that Arnoux was forced to repeat twice tohim:
"My wife wants you on Thursday. Don't forget!"
This remark recalled Madame Arnoux to Frederick's thoughts. No doubt,one might be able to reach her through the little room near the sofa.Arnoux had just opened the portiere leading into it to get apocket-handkerchief, and Frederic had seen a wash-stand at the far endof the apartment.
But at this point a kind of muttering sound came from the corner of thechimney-piece; it was caused by the personage who sat in the armchairreading the newspaper. He was a man of five feet nine inches in height,with rather heavy eyelashes, a head of grey hair, and an imposingappearance; and his name was Regimbart.
"What's the matter now, citizen?" said Arnoux.
"Another fresh piece of rascality on the part of Government!"
The thing that he was referring to was the dismissal of a schoolmaster.
Pellerin again took up his parallel between Michael Angelo andShakespeare. Dittmer was taking himself off when Arnoux pulled him backin order to put two bank notes into his hand. Thereupon Hussonnet said,considering this an opportune time:
"Couldn't you give me an advance, my dear master----?"
But Arnoux had resumed his seat, and was administering a severereprimand to an old man of mean aspect, who wore a pair of bluespectacles.
"Ha! a nice fellow you are, Pere Isaac! Here are three works cried down,destroyed! Everybody is laughing at me! People know what they are now!What do you want me to do with them? I'll have to send them off toCalifornia--or to the devil! Hold your tongue!"
The specialty of this old worthy consisted in attaching the signaturesof the great masters at the bottom of these pictures. Arnoux refused topay him, and dismissed him in a brutal fashion. Then, with an entirechange of manner, he bowed to a gentleman of affectedly grave demeanour,who wore whiskers and displayed a white tie round his neck and the crossof the Legion of Honour over his breast.
With his elbow resting on the window-fastening, he kept talking to himfor a long time in honeyed tones. At last he burst out:
"Ah! well, I am not bothered with brokers, Count."
The nobleman gave way, and Arnoux paid him down twenty-five louis. Assoon as he had gone out:
"What a plague these big lords are!"
"A lot of wretches!" muttered Regimbart.
As it grew later, Arnoux was much more busily occupied. He classifiedarticles, tore open letters, set out accounts in a row; at the sound ofhammering in the warehouse he went out to look after the packing; thenhe went back to his ordinary work; and, while he kept his steel penrunning over the paper, he indulged in sharp witticisms. He had aninvitation to dine with his lawyer that evening, and was starting nextday for Belgium.
The others chatted about the topics of the day--Cherubini's portrait,the hemicycle of the Fine Arts, and the next Exhibition. Pellerin railedat the Institute. Scandalous stories and serious discussions got mixedup together. The apartment with its low ceiling was so much stuffed upthat one could scarcely move; and the light of the rose-colouredwax-tapers was obscured in the smoke of their cigars, like the sun'srays in a fog.
The door near the sofa flew open, and a tall, thin woman entered withabrupt movements, which made all the trinkets of her watch rattle underher black taffeta gown.
It was the woman of whom Frederick had caught a glimpse last summer atthe Palais-Royal. Some of those present, addressing her by name, shookhands with her. Hussonnet had at last managed to extract from hisemployer the sum of fifty francs. The clock struck seven.
All rose to go.
Arnoux told Pellerin to remain, and accompanied Mademoiselle Vatnaz intothe dressing-room.
Frederick could not hear what they said; they spoke in whispers.However, the woman's voice was raised:
"I have been waiting ever since the job was done, six months ago."
There was a long silence, and then Mademoiselle Vatnaz reappeared.Arnoux had again promised her something.
"Oh! oh! later, we shall see!"
"Good-bye! happy man," said she, as she was going out.
Arnoux quickly re-entered the dressing-room, rubbed some cosmetic overhis moustaches, raised his braces, stretched his straps; and, while hewas washing his hands:
"I would require two over the door at two hundred and fifty apiece, inBoucher's style. Is that understood?"
"Be it so," said the artist, his face reddening.
"Good! and don't forget my wife!"
Frederick accompanied Pellerin to the top of the Faubourg Poissonniere,and asked his permission to come to see him sometimes, a favour whichwas graciously accorded.
Pellerin read every work on aesthetics, in order to find out the truetheory of the Beautiful, convinced that, when he had discovered it, hewould produce masterpieces. He surrounded himself with every imaginableauxiliary--drawings, plaster-casts, models, engravings; and he keptsearching about, eating his heart out. He blamed the weather, hisnerves, his studio, went out into the street to find inspiration there,quivered with delight at the thought that he had caught it, thenabandoned the work in which he was engaged, and dreamed of another whichshould be finer. Thus, tormented by the desire for glory, and wastinghis days in discussions, believing in a thousand fooleries--in systems,in criticisms, in the importance of a regulation or a reform in thedomain of Art--he had at fifty as yet turned out nothing save meresketches. His robust pride prevented him from experiencing anydiscouragement, but he was always irritated, and in that state ofexaltation, at the same time factitious and natural, which ischaracteristic of comedians.
On entering his studio one's attention was directed towards two largepictures, in which the first tones of colour laid on here and there madeon the white canvas spots of brown, red, and blue. A network of lines inchalk stretched overhead, like stitches of thread repeated twenty times;it was impossible to understand what it meant. Pellerin explained thesubject of these two comp
ositions by pointing out with his thumb theportions that were lacking. The first was intended to represent "TheMadness of Nebuchadnezzar," and the second "The Burning of Rome byNero." Frederick admired them.
He admired academies of women with dishevelled hair, landscapes in whichtrunks of trees, twisted by the storm, abounded, and above all freaks ofthe pen, imitations from memory of Callot, Rembrandt, or Goya, of whichhe did not know the models. Pellerin no longer set any value on theseworks of his youth. He was now all in favour of the grand style; hedogmatised eloquently about Phidias and Winckelmann. The objects aroundhim strengthened the force of his language; one saw a death's head on aprie-dieu, yataghans, a monk's habit. Frederick put it on.
When he arrived early, he surprised the artist in his wretchedfolding-bed, which was hidden from view by a strip of tapestry; forPellerin went to bed late, being an assiduous frequenter of thetheatres. An old woman in tatters attended on him. He dined at acook-shop, and lived without a mistress. His acquirements, picked up inthe most irregular fashion, rendered his paradoxes amusing. His hatredof the vulgar and the "bourgeois" overflowed in sarcasms, marked by asuperb lyricism, and he had such religious reverence for the mastersthat it raised him almost to their level.
But why had he never spoken about Madame Arnoux? As for her son, at onetime he called Pellerin a decent fellow, at other times a charlatan.Frederick was waiting for some disclosures on his part.
One day, while turning over one of the portfolios in the studio, hethought he could trace in the portrait of a female Bohemian someresemblance to Mademoiselle Vatnaz; and, as he felt interested in thislady, he desired to know what was her exact social position.
She had been, as far as Pellerin could ascertain, originally aschoolmistress in the provinces. She now gave lessons in Paris, andtried to write for the small journals.
According to Frederick, one would imagine from her manners with Arnouxthat she was his mistress.
"Pshaw! he has others!"
Then, turning away his face, which reddened with shame as he realisedthe baseness of the suggestion, the young man added, with a swaggeringair:
"Very likely his wife pays him back for it?"
"Not at all; she is virtuous."
Frederick again experienced a feeling of compunction, and the result wasthat his attendance at the office of the art journal became more markedthan before.
The big letters which formed the name of Arnoux on the marble plateabove the shop seemed to him quite peculiar and pregnant withsignificance, like some sacred writing. The wide footpath, by itsdescent, facilitated his approach; the door almost turned of its ownaccord; and the handle, smooth to the touch, gave him the sensation offriendly and, as it were, intelligent fingers clasping his.Unconsciously, he became quite as punctual as Regimbart.
Every day Regimbart seated himself in the chimney corner, in hisarmchair, got hold of the _National_, and kept possession of it,expressing his thoughts by exclamations or by shrugs of theshoulders. From time to time he would wipe his forehead with hispocket-handkerchief, rolled up in a ball, which he usually stuck inbetween two buttons of his green frock-coat. He had trousers withwrinkles, bluchers, and a long cravat; and his hat, with its turned-upbrim, made him easily recognised, at a distance, in a crowd.
At eight o'clock in the morning he descended the heights of Montmartre,in order to imbibe white wine in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires. Alate breakfast, following several games of billiards, brought him on tothree o'clock. He then directed his steps towards the Passage desPanoramas, where he had a glass of absinthe. After the sitting inArnoux's shop, he entered the Bordelais smoking-divan, where heswallowed some bitters; then, in place of returning home to his wife, hepreferred to dine alone in a little cafe in the Rue Gaillon, where hedesired them to serve up to him "household dishes, natural things."Finally, he made his way to another billiard-room, and remained theretill midnight, in fact, till one o'clock in the morning, up till thelast moment, when, the gas being put out and the window-shuttersfastened, the master of the establishment, worn out, begged of him togo.
And it was not the love of drinking that attracted Citizen Regimbart tothese places, but the inveterate habit of talking politics at suchresorts. With advancing age, he had lost his vivacity, and now exhibitedonly a silent moroseness. One would have said, judging from the gravityof his countenence, that he was turning over in his mind the affairs ofthe whole world. Nothing, however, came from it; and nobody, evenamongst his own friends, knew him to have any occupation, although hegave himself out as being up to his eyes in business.
Arnoux appeared to have a very great esteem for him. One day he said toFrederick:
"He knows a lot, I assure you. He is an able man."
On another occasion Regimbart spread over his desk papers relating tothe kaolin mines in Brittany. Arnoux referred to his own experience onthe subject.
Frederick showed himself more ceremonious towards Regimbart, going sofar as to invite him from time to time to take a glass of absinthe; and,although he considered him a stupid man, he often remained a full hourin his company solely because he was Jacques Arnoux's friend.
After pushing forward some contemporary masters in the early portions oftheir career, the picture-dealer, a man of progressive ideas, had tried,while clinging to his artistic ways, to extend his pecuniary profits.His object was to emancipate the fine arts, to get the sublime at acheap rate. Over every industry associated with Parisian luxury heexercised an influence which proved fortunate with respect to littlethings, but fatal with respect to great things. With his mania forpandering to public opinion, he made clever artists swerve from theirtrue path, corrupted the strong, exhausted the weak, and got distinctionfor those of mediocre talent; he set them up with the assistance of hisconnections and of his magazine. Tyros in painting were ambitious ofseeing their works in his shop-window, and upholsterers broughtspecimens of furniture to his house. Frederick regarded him, at the sametime, as a millionaire, as a _dilettante_, and as a man of action.However, he found many things that filled him with astonishment, for mylord Arnoux was rather sly in his commercial transactions.
He received from the very heart of Germany or of Italy a picturepurchased in Paris for fifteen hundred francs, and, exhibiting aninvoice that brought the price up to four thousand, sold it over againthrough complaisance for three thousand five hundred. One of his usualtricks with painters was to exact as a drink-allowance an abatement inthe purchase-money of their pictures, under the pretence that he wouldbring out an engraving of it. He always, when selling such pictures,made a profit by the abatement; but the engraving never appeared. Tothose who complained that he had taken an advantage of them, he wouldreply by a slap on the stomach. Generous in other ways, he squanderedmoney on cigars for his acquaintances, "thee'd" and "thou'd" persons whowere unknown, displayed enthusiasm about a work or a man; and, afterthat, sticking to his opinion, and, regardless of consequences, sparedno expense in journeys, correspondence, and advertising. He looked uponhimself as very upright, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse tounbosom himself, ingenuously told his friends about certain indelicateacts of which he had been guilty. Once, in order to annoy a member ofhis own trade who inaugurated another art journal with a big banquet, heasked Frederick to write, under his own eyes, a little before the hourfixed for the entertainment, letters to the guests recalling theinvitations.
"This impugns nobody's honour, do you understand?"
And the young man did not dare to refuse the service.
Next day, on entering with Hussonnet M. Arnoux's office, Frederick sawthrough the door (the one opening on the staircase) the hem of a lady'sdress disappearing.
"A thousand pardons!" said Hussonnet. "If I had known that there werewomen----"
"Oh! as for that one, she is my own," replied Arnoux. "She just came into pay me a visit as she was passing."
"You don't say so!" said Frederick.
"Why, yes; she is going back home again."
The charm of the things around hi
m was suddenly withdrawn. That whichhad seemed to him to be diffused vaguely through the place had nowvanished--or, rather, it had never been there. He experienced aninfinite amazement, and, as it were, the painful sensation of havingbeen betrayed.
Arnoux, while rummaging about in his drawer, began to smile. Was helaughing at him? The clerk laid down a bundle of moist papers on thetable.
"Ha! the placards," exclaimed the picture-dealer. "I am not ready todine this evening."
Regimbart took up his hat.
"What, are you leaving me?"
"Seven o'clock," said Regimbart.
Frederick followed him.
At the corner of the Rue Montmartre, he turned round. He glanced towardsthe windows of the first floor, and he laughed internally with self-pityas he recalled to mind with what love he had so often contemplated them.Where, then, did she reside? How was he to meet her now? Once morearound the object of his desire a solitude opened more immense thanever!
"Are you coming to take it?" asked Regimbart.
"To take what?"
"The absinthe."
And, yielding to his importunities, Frederick allowed himself to be ledtowards the Bordelais smoking-divan. Whilst his companion, leaning onhis elbow, was staring at the decanter, he was turning his eyes to theright and to the left. But he caught a glimpse of Pellerin's profile onthe footpath outside; the painter gave a quick tap at the window-pane,and he had scarcely sat down when Regimbart asked him why they no longersaw him at the office of _L'Art Industriel_.
"May I perish before ever I go back there again. The fellow is a brute,a mere tradesman, a wretch, a downright rogue!"
These insulting words harmonised with Frederick's present angry mood.Nevertheless, he was wounded, for it seemed to him that they hit atMadame Arnoux more or less.
"Why, what has he done to you?" said Regimbart.
Pellerin stamped with his foot on the ground, and his only response wasan energetic puff.
He had been devoting himself to artistic work of a kind that he did notcare to connect his name with, such as portraits for two crayons, orpasticcios from the great masters for amateurs of limited knowledge;and, as he felt humiliated by these inferior productions, he preferredto hold his tongue on the subject as a general rule. But "Arnoux's dirtyconduct" exasperated him too much. He had to relieve his feelings.
In accordance with an order, which had been given in Frederick's verypresence, he had brought Arnoux two pictures. Thereupon the dealer tookthe liberty of criticising them. He found fault with the composition,the colouring, and the drawing--above all the drawing; he would not, inshort, take them at any price. But, driven to extremities by a billfalling due, Pellerin had to give them to the Jew Isaac; and, afortnight later, Arnoux himself sold them to a Spaniard for two thousandfrancs.
"Not a sou less! What rascality! and, faith, he has done many otherthings just as bad. One of these mornings we'll see him in the dock!"
"How you exaggerate!" said Frederick, in a timid voice.
"Come, now, that's good; I exaggerate!" exclaimed the artist, giving thetable a great blow with his fist.
This violence had the effect of completely restoring the young man'sself-command. No doubt he might have acted more nicely; still, if Arnouxfound these two pictures----
"Bad! say it out! Are you a judge of them? Is this your profession? Now,you know, my youngster, I don't allow this sort of thing on the part ofmere amateurs."
"Ah! well, it's not my business," said Frederick.
"Then, what interest have you in defending him?" returned Pellerin,coldly.
The young man faltered:
"But--since I am his friend----"
"Go, and give him a hug for me. Good evening!"
And the painter rushed away in a rage, and, of course, without payingfor his drink.
Frederick, whilst defending Arnoux, had convinced himself. In the heatof his eloquence, he was filled with tenderness towards this man, sointelligent and kind, whom his friends calumniated, and who had now towork all alone, abandoned by them. He could not resist a strange impulseto go at once and see him again. Ten minutes afterwards he pushed openthe door of the picture-warehouse.
Arnoux was preparing, with the assistance of his clerks, some hugeplacards for an exhibition of pictures.
"Halloa! what brings you back again?"
This question, simple though it was, embarrassed Frederick, and, at aloss for an answer, he asked whether they had happened to find anotebook of his--a little notebook with a blue leather cover.
"The one that you put your letters to women in?" said Arnoux.
Frederick, blushing like a young girl, protested against such anassumption.
"Your verses, then?" returned the picture-dealer.
He handled the pictorial specimens that were to be exhibited,discovering their form, colouring, and frames; and Frederick felt moreand more irritated by his air of abstraction, and particularly by theappearance of his hands--large hands, rather soft, with flat nails. Atlength, M. Arnoux arose, and saying, "That's disposed of!" he chuckedthe young man familiarly under the chin. Frederick was offended at thisliberty, and recoiled a pace or two; then he made a dash for theshop-door, and passed out through it, as he imagined, for the last timein his life. Madame Arnoux herself had been lowered by the vulgarity ofher husband.
During the same week he got a letter from Deslauriers, informing himthat the clerk would be in Paris on the following Thursday. Then heflung himself back violently on this affection as one of a more solidand lofty character. A man of this sort was worth all the women in theworld. He would no longer have any need of Regimbart, of Pellerin, ofHussonnet, of anyone! In order to provide his friend with as comfortablelodgings as possible, he bought an iron bedstead and a second armchair,and stripped off some of his own bed-covering to garnish this oneproperly. On Thursday morning he was dressing himself to go to meetDeslauriers when there was a ring at the door.
Arnoux entered.
"Just one word. Yesterday I got a lovely trout from Geneva. We expectyou by-and-by--at seven o'clock sharp. The address is the Rue deChoiseul 24 _bis_. Don't forget!"
Frederick was obliged to sit down; his knees were tottering under him.He repeated to himself, "At last! at last!" Then he wrote to histailor, to his hatter, and to his bootmaker; and he despatched thesethree notes by three different messengers.
The key turned in the lock, and the door-keeper appeared with a trunk onhis shoulder.
Frederick, on seeing Deslauriers, began to tremble like an adulteressunder the glance of her husband.
"What has happened to you?" said Deslauriers. "Surely you got myletter?"
Frederick had not enough energy left to lie. He opened his arms, andflung himself on his friend's breast.
Then the clerk told his story. His father thought to avoid giving anaccount of the expense of tutelage, fancying that the period limited forrendering such accounts was ten years; but, well up in legal procedure,Deslauriers had managed to get the share coming to him from his motherinto his clutches--seven thousand francs clear--which he had there withhim in an old pocket-book.
"'Tis a reserve fund, in case of misfortune. I must think over the bestway of investing it, and find quarters for myself to-morrow morning.To-day I'm perfectly free, and am entirely at your service, my oldfriend."
"Oh! don't put yourself about," said Frederick. "If you had anything ofimportance to do this evening----"
"Come, now! I would be a selfish wretch----"
This epithet, flung out at random, touched Frederick to the quick, likea reproachful hint.
The door-keeper had placed on the table close to the fire some chops,cold meat, a large lobster, some sweets for dessert, and two bottles ofBordeaux.
Deslauriers was touched by these excellent preparations to welcome hisarrival.
"Upon my word, you are treating me like a king!"
They talked about their past and about the future; and, from time totime, they grasped each other's hands across the tab
le, gazing at eachother tenderly for a moment.
But a messenger came with a new hat. Deslauriers, in a loud tone,remarked that this head-gear was very showy. Next came the tailorhimself to fit on the coat, to which he had given a touch with thesmoothing-iron.
"One would imagine you were going to be married," said Deslauriers.
An hour later, a third individual appeared on the scene, and drew forthfrom a big black bag a pair of shining patent leather boots. WhileFrederick was trying them on, the bootmaker slyly drew attention to theshoes of the young man from the country.
"Does Monsieur require anything?"
"Thanks," replied the clerk, pulling behind his chair his old shoesfastened with strings.
This humiliating incident annoyed Frederick. At length he exclaimed, asif an idea had suddenly taken possession of him:
"Ha! deuce take it! I was forgetting."
"What is it, pray?"
"I have to dine in the city this evening."
"At the Dambreuses'? Why did you never say anything to me about them inyour letters?"
"It is not at the Dambreuses', but at the Arnoux's."
"You should have let me know beforehand," said Deslauriers. "I wouldhave come a day later."
"Impossible," returned Frederick, abruptly. "I only got the invitationthis morning, a little while ago."
And to redeem his error and distract his friend's mind from theoccurrence, he proceeded to unfasten the tangled cords round the trunk,and to arrange all his belongings in the chest of drawers, expressed hiswillingness to give him his own bed, and offered to sleep himself in thedressing-room bedstead. Then, as soon as it was four o'clock, he beganthe preparations for his toilet.
"You have plenty of time," said the other.
At last he was dressed and off he went.
"That's the way with the rich," thought Deslauriers.
And he went to dine in the Rue Saint-Jacques, at a little restaurantkept by a man he knew.
Frederick stopped several times while going up the stairs, so violentlydid his heart beat. One of his gloves, which was too tight, burst, and,while he was fastening back the torn part under his shirt-cuff, Arnoux,who was mounting the stairs behind him, took his arm and led him in.
The anteroom, decorated in the Chinese fashion, had a painted lanternhanging from the ceiling, and bamboos in the corners. As he was passinginto the drawing-room, Frederick stumbled against a tiger's skin. Theplace had not yet been lighted up, but two lamps were burning in theboudoir in the far corner.
Mademoiselle Marthe came to announce that her mamma was dressing. Arnouxraised her as high as his mouth in order to kiss her; then, as he wishedto go to the cellar himself to select certain bottles of wine, he leftFrederick with the little girl.
She had grown much larger since the trip in the steamboat. Her dark hairdescended in long ringlets, which curled over her bare arms. Her dress,more puffed out than the petticoat of a _danseuse_, allowed her rosycalves to be seen, and her pretty childlike form had all the fresh odourof a bunch of flowers. She received the young gentleman's complimentswith a coquettish air, fixed on him her large, dreamy eyes, thenslipping on the carpet amid the furniture, disappeared like a cat.
After this he no longer felt ill at ease. The globes of the lamps,covered with a paper lace-work, sent forth a white light, softening thecolour of the walls, hung with mauve satin. Through the fender-bars, asthrough the slits in a big fan, the coal could be seen in the fireplace,and close beside the clock there was a little chest with silver clasps.Here and there things lay about which gave the place a look of home--adoll in the middle of the sofa, a fichu against the back of a chair, andon the work-table a knitted woollen vest, from which two ivory needleswere hanging with their points downwards. It was altogether a peacefulspot, suggesting the idea of propriety and innocent family life.
Arnoux returned, and Madame Arnoux appeared at the other doorway. As shewas enveloped in shadow, the young man could at first distinguish onlyher head. She wore a black velvet gown, and in her hair she had fasteneda long Algerian cap, in a red silk net, which coiling round her comb,fell over her left shoulder.
Arnoux introduced Frederick.
"Oh! I remember Monsieur perfectly well," she responded.
Then the guests arrived, nearly all at the same time--Dittmer, Lovarias,Burrieu, the composer Rosenwald, the poet Theophile Lorris, two artcritics, colleagues of Hussonnet, a paper manufacturer, and in the rearthe illustrious Pierre Paul Meinsius, the last representative of thegrand school of painting, who blithely carried along with his glory hisforty-five years and his big paunch.
When they were passing into the dining-room, Madame Arnoux took his arm.A chair had been left vacant for Pellerin. Arnoux, though he tookadvantage of him, was fond of him. Besides, he was afraid of histerrible tongue, so much so, that, in order to soften him, he had givena portrait of him in _L'Art Industriel_, accompanied by exaggeratedeulogies; and Pellerin, more sensitive about distinction than aboutmoney, made his appearance about eight o'clock quite out of breath.Frederick fancied that they had been a long time reconciled.
He liked the company, the dishes, everything. The dining-room, whichresembled a mediaeval parlour, was hung with stamped leather. A Dutchwhatnot faced a rack for chibouks, and around the table the Bohemianglasses, variously coloured, had, in the midst of the flowers andfruits, the effect of an illumination in a garden.
He had to make his choice between ten sorts of mustard. He partook ofdaspachio, of curry, of ginger, of Corsican blackbirds, and a species ofRoman macaroni called lasagna; he drank extraordinary wines, lip-fraeliand tokay. Arnoux indeed prided himself on entertaining people in goodstyle. With an eye to the procurement of eatables, he paid court tomail-coach drivers, and was in league with the cooks of great houses,who communicated to him the secrets of rare sauces.
But Frederick was particularly amused by the conversation. His taste fortravelling was tickled by Dittmer, who talked about the East; hegratified his curiosity about theatrical matters by listening toRosenwald's chat about the opera; and the atrocious existence of Bohemiaassumed for him a droll aspect when seen through the gaiety ofHussonnet, who related, in a picturesque fashion, how he had spent anentire winter with no food except Dutch cheese. Then, a discussionbetween Lovarias and Burrieu about the Florentine School gave him newideas with regard to masterpieces, widened his horizon, and he founddifficulty in restraining his enthusiasm when Pellerin exclaimed:
"Don't bother me with your hideous reality! What does it mean--reality?Some see things black, others blue--the multitude sees thembrute-fashion. There is nothing less natural than Michael Angelo; thereis nothing more powerful! The anxiety about external truth is a mark ofcontemporary baseness; and art will become, if things go on that way, asort of poor joke as much below religion as it is below poetry, and asmuch below politics as it is below business. You will never reach itsend--yes, its end!--which is to cause within us an impersonalexaltation, with petty works, in spite of all your finished execution.Look, for instance, at Bassolier's pictures: they are pretty,coquettish, spruce, and by no means dull. You might put them into yourpocket, bring them with you when you are travelling. Notaries buy themfor twenty thousand francs, while pictures of the ideal type are soldfor three sous. But, without ideality, there is no grandeur; withoutgrandeur there is no beauty. Olympus is a mountain. The most swaggermonument will always be the Pyramids. Exuberance is better than taste;the desert is better than a street-pavement, and a savage is better thana hairdresser!"
Frederick, as these words fell upon his ear, glanced towards MadameArnoux. They sank into his soul like metals falling into a furnace,added to his passion, and supplied the material of love.
His chair was three seats below hers on the same side. From time totime, she bent forward a little, turning aside her head to address a fewwords to her little daughter; and as she smiled on these occasions, adimple took shape in her cheek, giving to her face an expression of moredainty good-nature.
As soon
as the time came for the gentlemen to take their wine, shedisappeared. The conversation became more free and easy. M. Arnoux shonein it, and Frederick was astonished at the cynicism of men. However,their preoccupation with woman established between them and him, as itwere, an equality, which raised him in his own estimation.
When they had returned to the drawing-room, he took up, to keep himselfin countenance, one of the albums which lay about on the table. Thegreat artists of the day had illustrated them with drawings, had writtenin them snatches of verse or prose, or their signatures simply. In themidst of famous names he found many that he had never heard of before,and original thoughts appeared only underneath a flood of nonsense. Allthese effusions contained a more or less direct expression of homagetowards Madame Arnoux. Frederick would have been afraid to write a linebeside them.
She went into her boudoir to look at the little chest with silver claspswhich he had noticed on the mantel-shelf. It was a present from herhusband, a work of the Renaissance. Arnoux's friends complimented him,and his wife thanked him. His tender emotions were aroused, and beforeall the guests he gave her a kiss.
After this they all chatted in groups here and there. The worthyMeinsius was with Madame Arnoux on an easy chair close beside the fire.She was leaning forward towards his ear; their heads were just touching,and Frederick would have been glad to become deaf, infirm, and ugly if,instead, he had an illustrious name and white hair--in short, if he onlyhappened to possess something which would install him in such intimateassociation with her. He began once more to eat out his heart, furiousat the idea of being so young a man.
But she came into the corner of the drawing-room in which he wassitting, asked him whether he was acquainted with any of the guests,whether he was fond of painting, how long he had been a student inParis. Every word that came out of her mouth seemed to Fredericksomething entirely new, an exclusive appendage of her personality. Hegazed attentively at the fringes of her head-dress, the ends of whichcaressed her bare shoulder, and he was unable to take away his eyes; heplunged his soul into the whiteness of that feminine flesh, and yet hedid not venture to raise his eyelids to glance at her higher, face toface.
Rosenwald interrupted them, begging of Madame Arnoux to sing something.He played a prelude, she waited, her lips opened slightly, and a sound,pure, long-continued, silvery, ascended into the air.
Frederick did not understand a single one of the Italian words. The songbegan with a grave measure, something like church music, then in a moreanimated strain, with a crescendo movement, it broke into repeatedbursts of sound, then suddenly subsided, and the melody came back againin a tender fashion with a wide and easy swing.
She stood beside the keyboard with her arms hanging down and a far-offlook on her face. Sometimes, in order to read the music, she advancedher forehead for a moment and her eyelashes moved to and fro. Hercontralto voice in the low notes took a mournful intonation which had achilling effect on the listener, and then her beautiful head, with thosegreat brows of hers, bent over her shoulder; her bosom swelled; her eyeswere wide apart; her neck, from which roulades made their escape, fellback as if under aerial kisses. She flung out three sharp notes, camedown again, cast forth one higher still, and, after a silence, finishedwith an organ-point.
Rosenwald did not leave the piano. He continued playing, to amusehimself. From time to time a guest stole away. At eleven o'clock, as thelast of them were going off, Arnoux went out along with Pellerin, underthe pretext of seeing him home. He was one of those people who say thatthey are ill when they do not "take a turn" after dinner. Madame Arnouxhad made her way towards the anteroom. Dittmer and Hussonnet bowed toher. She stretched out her hand to them. She did the same to Frederick;and he felt, as it were, something penetrating every particle of hisskin.
He quitted his friends. He wished to be alone. His heart wasoverflowing. Why had she offered him her hand? Was it a thoughtlessact, or an encouragement? "Come now! I am mad!" Besides, what did itmatter, when he could now visit her entirely at his ease, live in thevery atmosphere she breathed?
The streets were deserted. Now and then a heavy wagon would roll past,shaking the pavements. The houses came one after another with their greyfronts, their closed windows; and he thought with disdain of all thosehuman beings who lived behind those walls without having seen her, andnot one of whom dreamed of her existence. He had no consciousness of hissurroundings, of space, of anything, and striking the ground with hisheel, rapping with his walking-stick on the shutters of the shops, hekept walking on continually at random, in a state of excitement, carriedaway by his emotions. Suddenly he felt himself surrounded by a circle ofdamp air, and found that he was on the edge of the quays.
The gas-lamps shone in two straight lines, which ran on endlessly, andlong red flames flickered in the depths of the water. The waves wereslate-coloured, while the sky, which was of clearer hue, seemed to besupported by vast masses of shadow that rose on each side of the river.The darkness was intensified by buildings whose outlines the eye couldnot distinguish. A luminous haze floated above the roofs further on. Allthe noises of the night had melted into a single monotonous hum.
He stopped in the middle of the Pont Neuf, and, taking off his hat andexposing his chest, he drank in the air. And now he felt as if somethingthat was inexhaustible were rising up from the very depths of his being,an afflux of tenderness that enervated him, like the motion of thewaves under his eyes. A church-clock slowly struck one, like a voicecalling out to him.
Then, he was seized with one of those shuddering sensations of the soulin which one seems to be transported into a higher world. He felt, as itwere, endowed with some extraordinary faculty, the aim of which he couldnot determine. He seriously asked himself whether he would be a greatpainter or a great poet; and he decided in favour of painting, for theexigencies of this profession would bring him into contact with MadameArnoux. So, then, he had found his vocation! The object of his existencewas now perfectly clear, and there could be no mistake about the future.
When he had shut his door, he heard some one snoring in the dark closetnear his apartment. It was his friend. He no longer bestowed a thoughton him.
His own face presented itself to his view in the glass. He thoughthimself handsome, and for a minute he remained gazing at himself.
Sentimental Education; Or, The History of a Young Man. Volume 1 Page 4
