Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  An old woman came to do his household work; but his respect for women was so great that he would not let her black his boots, and he subscribed to a boot-black for that service. His dress was simple, and invariably the same. He wore a coat and trousers of dark-blue cloth, a waistcoat of some printed cotton fabric, a white cravat, high shoes, and on gala days he put on a coat with brass buttons. His habits of rising, breakfasting, going out, dining, his evening resorts, and his returning hours were all stamped with the strictest punctuality; for regular habits are the secret of long life and sound health. Politics never came to the surface in his intercourse with Cesar, the Ragons, or the Abbe Loraux; for the good people of that circle knew each other too well to care to enter the region of proselytism. Like his nephew and like the Ragons, he put implicit confidence in Roguin. To his mind the notary was a being worthy of veneration, — the living image of probity. In the affair of the lands about the Madeleine, Pillerault had undertaken a private examination, which was the real cause of the boldness with which Cesar had combated his wife’s presentiments.

  The perfumer went up the seventy-eight stairs which led to the little brown door of his uncle’s appartement, thinking as he went that the old man must be very hale to mount them daily without complaining. He found a frock-coat and pair of trousers hanging on the hat-stand outside the door. Madame Vaillant brushed and cleaned them while this genuine philosopher, wrapped in a gray woollen garment, breakfasted in his chimney-corner and read the parliamentary debates in the “Constitutionnel” or the “Journal du Commerce.”

  “Uncle,” said Cesar, “the matter is settled; they are drawing up their deeds; but you have any fears or regrets, there is still time to give it up.”

  “Why should I give it up? The thing is good; though it may be a long time before we realize anything, like all safe investments. My fifty thousand francs are in the bank. I received yesterday the last instalment, five thousand francs, from my business. As for the Ragons, they have put their whole fortune into the affair.”

  “How do they contrive to life?”

  “Never mind how; they do live.”

  “Uncle, I understand!” said Birotteau, deeply moved, pressing the hand of the austere old man.

  “How is the affair arranged?” asked Pillerault, brusquely.

  “I am in for three eighths, you and the Ragons for one eighth. I shall credit you for that on my books until the question of registration is decided.”

  “Good! My boy, you must be getting rich to put three hundred thousand francs into it. It seems to me you are risking a good deal outside of your business. Won’t the business suffer? However, that is your affair. If you get a set-back, why the Funds are at eighty, and I could sell two thousand francs worth of my consolidated stock. But take care, my lad; for if you have to come upon me, it will be your daughter’s fortune that you will take.”

  “Ah! my uncle, how simply you say things! You touch my heart.”

  “General Foy was touching mine in quite another fashion just now. Well, go on; settle the business; lands can’t fly away. We are getting them at half price. Suppose we do have to wait six years, there will always be some returns; there are wood-yards which will bring in a rent. We can’t really lose anything. There is but one chance against us. Roguin might run off with the money.”

  “My wife told me so this very night. She fears — ”

  “That Roguin will carry off our funds?” said Pillerault, laughing. “Pray, why?”

  “She says there is too much in his nose; and like men who can’t have women, he is furious to — ”

  With a smile of incredulity, Pillerault tore a strip from a little book, wrote down an amount, and signed the paper.

  “There,” said he, “there’s a cheque on the Bank of France for a hundred thousand francs for the Ragons and for me. Those poor folks have just sold to your scoundrel of a du Tillet their fifteen shares in the mines at Wortschin to make up the amount. Worthy people in trouble, — it wrings my heart; and such good, noble souls, the very flower of the old bourgeoisie! Their brother, Popinot, the judge, knows nothing about it; they hid it from him so that he may not feel obliged to give up his other works of charity. People who have worked, like me, for forty years!”

  “God grant that the Oil of Comagene may triumph!” cried Birotteau. “I shall be doubly happy. Adieu; come and dine on Sunday with the Ragons, Roguin, and Monsieur Claparon. We shall sign the papers the day after to-morrow, for to-morrow is Friday, you know, and I shouldn’t like — ”

  “You don’t surely give in to such superstitions?”

  “Uncle, I shall never believe that the day on which the Son of God was put to death by man can be a fortunate day. Why, we ourselves stop all business on the twenty-first of January.”

  “On Sunday, then,” said Pillerault brusquely.

  “If it were not for his political opinions,” thought Birotteau as he went down stairs, “I don’t believe he would have his equal here below. What are politics to him? He would be just as well off if he never thought of them. His obstinacy in that direction only shows that there can’t be a perfect man.”

  “Three o’clock already!” cried Cesar, as he got back to “The Queen of Roses.”

  “Monsieur, do you mean to take these securities?” asked Celestin, showing him the notes of the umbrella-maker.

  “Yes; at six per cent, without commission. Wife, get my dressing things all ready; I am going to see Monsieur Vauquelin, — you know why. A white cravat, of course.”

  Birotteau gave a few orders to the clerks. Not seeing Popinot, he concluded that his future partner had gone to dress; and he went gaily up to his room, where the Dresden Madonna, magnificently framed according to his orders, awaited him.

  “Hey! that’s pretty,” he said to his daughter.

  “Papa, you must say beautiful, or people will laugh at you.”

  “Upon my word! a daughter who scolds her father! Well, well! To my taste I like Hero and Leander quite as much. The Virgin is a religious subject, suitable for a chapel; but Hero and Leander, ah! I shall buy it, for that flask of oil gave me an idea — ”

  “Papa, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Virginie! a hackney-coach!” cried Cesar, in stentorian tones, as soon as he had trimmed his beard and seen little Popinot appear, who was dragging his foot timidly because Cesarine was there.

  The lover had never yet perceived that his infirmity no longer existed in the eyes of his mistress. Delicious sign of love! — which they on whom chance has inflicted a bodily imperfection can alone obtain.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “the press will be ready to work to-morrow.”

  “Why, what’s the matter, Popinot?” asked Cesar, as he saw Anselme blush.

  “Monsieur, it is the joy of having found a shop, a back-shop, kitchen, chambers above them, and store-rooms, — all for twelve hundred francs a year, in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants.”

  “We must take a lease of eighteen years,” said Birotteau. “But let us start for Monsieur Vauquelin’s. We can talk as we go.”

  Cesar and Popinot got into the hackney-coach before the eyes of the astonished clerks, who did not know what to make of these gorgeous toilets and the abnormal coach, ignorant as they were of the great project revolving in the mind of the master of “The Queen of Roses.”

  “We are going to hear the truth about nuts,” said Cesar, half to himself.

  “Nuts?” said Popinot.

  “There you have my secret,” said the perfumer. “I’ve let loose the word nuts, — all is there. The oil of nuts is the only oil that has any real effect upon hair. No perfumer has ever dreamed of it. I saw an engraving of Hero and Leander, and I said to myself, If the ancients used all that oil on their heads they had some reason for it; for the ancients are the ancients, in spite of all the moderns may say; I stand by Boileau about the ancients. I took my departure from that point and got the oil of nuts, thanks to your relation, little Bianchon the medical student; he told m
e that at school his comrades used nut oil to promote the growth of their whiskers and mustachios. All we need is the approval of Monsieur Vauquelin; enlightened by his science, we shall mislead the public. I was in the markets just now, talking to a seller of nuts, so as to get hold of the raw material, and now I am about to meet one of the greatest scientific men in France, to get at the quintessence of that commodity. Proverbs are no fools; extremes meet. Now see, my boy, commerce is the intermediary between the productions of the vegetable kingdom and science. Angelique Madou gathers, Monsieur Vauquelin extracts, we sell an essence. Nuts are worth five sous a pound, Monsieur Vauquelin will increase their value one hundredfold, and we shall, perhaps, do a service to humanity; for if vanity is the cause of the greatest torments of mankind, a good cosmetic becomes a benefaction.”

  The religious admiration with which Popinot listened to the father of Cesarine stimulated Birotteau’s eloquence, who allowed himself to expatiate in phrases which certainly were extremely wild for a bourgeois.

  “Be respectful, Anselme,” he said, as they reached the street where Monsieur Vauquelin lived, “we are about to enter the sanctuary of science. Put the Virgin in full sight, but not ostentatiously, in the dining-room, on a chair. Pray heaven, I may not get mixed up in what I have to say!” cried Cesar, naively. “Popinot, this man has a chemical effect upon me; his voice heats my stomach, and even gives me a slight colic. He is my benefactor, and in a few moments he will be yours.”

  These words struck Popinot with a cold chill, and he began to step as if he were walking on eggs, looking nervously at the wall. Monsieur Vauquelin was in his study when Birotteau was announced. The academician knew that the perfumer and deputy-mayor was high in favor, and he admitted him.

  “You do not forget me in the midst of your distinctions,” he said, “there is only a hand’s-breadth, however, between a chemist and a perfumer.”

  “Ah, monsieur! between your genius and the plainness of a man like me there is infinity. I owe to you what you call my distinctions: I shall never forget it in this world, nor in the next.”

  “Oh! in the next they say we shall be all alike, kings and cobblers.”

  “Provided kings and cobblers lead a holy life here below,” said Birotteau.

  “Is that your son?” asked Vauquelin, looking at little Popinot, who was amazed at not seeing anything extraordinary in the sanctum, where he expected to find monstrosities, gigantic engines, flying-machines, and material substances all alive.

  “No, monsieur, but a young man whom I love, and who comes to ask a kindness equal to your genius, — and that is infinite,” said Cesar with shrewd courtesy. “We have come to consult you, a second time, on an important matter, about which I am ignorant as a perfumer can be.”

  “Let me hear what it is.”

  “I know that hair has lately occupied all your vigils, and that you have given yourself up to analyzing it; while you have thought of glory, I have thought of commerce.”

  “Dear Monsieur Birotteau, what is it you want of me, — the analysis of hair?” He took up a little paper. “I am about to read before the Academy of Sciences a monograph on that subject. Hair is composed of a rather large quantity of mucus, a small quantity of white oil, a great deal of greenish oil, iron, a few atoms of oxide of manganese, some phosphate of lime, a tiny quantity of carbonate of lime, a little silica, and a good deal of sulphur. The differing proportions of these component parts cause the differences in the color of the hair. Red hair, for instance, has more greenish oil than any other.”

  Cesar and Popinot opened their eyes to a laughable extent.

  “Nine things!” cried Birotteau. “What! are there metals and oils in hair? Unless I heard it from you, a man I venerate, I could not believe it. How amazing! God is great, Monsieur Vauquelin.”

  “Hair is produced by a follicular organ,” resumed the great chemist, — ”a species of pocket, or sack, open at both extremities. By one end it is fastened to the nerves and the blood vessels; from the other springs the hair itself. According to some of our scientific brotherhood, among them Monsieur Blainville, the hair is really a dead matter expelled from that pouch, or crypt, which is filled with a species of pulp.”

  “Then hair is what you might call threads of sweat!” cried Popinot, to whom Cesar promptly administered a little kick on his heels.

  Vauquelin smiled at Popinot’s idea.

  “He knows something, doesn’t he?” said Cesar, looking at Popinot. “But, monsieur, if the hair is still-born, it is impossible to give it life, and I am lost! my prospectus will be ridiculous. You don’t know how queer the public is; you can’t go and tell it — ”

  “That it has got manure upon its head,” said Popinot, wishing to make Vauquelin laugh again.

  “Cephalic catacombs,” said Vauquelin, continuing the joke.

  “My nuts are bought!” cried Birotteau, alive to the commercial loss. “If this is so why do they sell — ”

  “Don’t be frightened,” said Vauquelin, smiling, “I see it is a question of some secret about making the hair grow or keeping it from turning gray. Listen! this is my opinion on the subject, as the result of my studies.”

  Here Popinot pricked up his ears like a frightened hare.

  “The discoloration of this substance, be it living or dead, is, in my judgment, produced by a check to the secretion of the coloring matter; which explains why in certain cold climates the fur of animals loses all color and turns white in winter.”

  “Hein! Popinot.”

  “It is evident,” resumed Vauquelin, “that alterations in the color of the hair come from changes in the circumjacent atmosphere — ”

  “Circumjacent, Popinot! recollect, hold fast to that,” cried Cesar.

  “Yes,” said Vauquelin, “from hot and cold changes, or from internal phenomena which produce the same effect. Probably headaches and other cephalagic affections absorb, dissipate, or displace the generating fluids. However, the interior of the head concerns physicians. As for the exterior, bring on your cosmetics.”

  “Monsieur,” said Birotteau, “you restore me to life! I have thought of selling an oil of nuts, believing that the ancients made use of that oil for their hair; and the ancients are the ancients, as you know: I agree with Boileau. Why did the gladiators oil themselves — ”

  “Olive oil is quite as good as nut oil,” said Vauquelin, who was not listening to Birotteau. “All oil is good to preserve the bulb from receiving injury to the substances working within it, or, as we should say in chemistry, in liquefaction. Perhaps you are right; Dupuytren told me the oil of nuts had a stimulating property. I will look into the differences between the various oils, beech-nut, colza, olive, and hazel, etc.”

  “Then I am not mistaken,” cried Birotteau, triumphantly. “I have coincided with a great man. Macassar is overthrown! Macassar, monsieur, is a cosmetic given — that is, sold, and sold dear — to make the hair grow.”

  “My dear Monsieur Birotteau,” said Vauquelin, “there are not two ounces of Macassar oil in all Europe. Macassar oil has not the slightest action upon the hair; but the Malays buy it up for its weight in gold, thinking that it preserves the hair: they don’t know that whale-oil is just as good. No power, chemical, or divine — ”

  “Divine! oh, don’t say that, Monsieur Vauquelin.”

  “But, my dear monsieur, the first law of God is to be consistent with Himself; without unity, no power — ”

  “Ah! in that light — ”

  “No power, as I say, can make the hair grow on bald heads; just as you can never dye, without serious danger, red or white hair. But in advertising the benefits of oil you commit no mistake, you tell no falsehood, and I think that those who use it will probably preserve their hair.”

  “Do you think that the royal Academy of Sciences would approve of — ”

  “Oh! there is no discovery in all that,” said Vauquelin. “Besides, charlatans have so abused the name of the Academy that it would not help you much. My conscie
nce will not allow me to think the oil of nuts a prodigy.”

  “What would be the best way to extract it; by pressure, or decoction?” asked Birotteau.

  “Pressure between two hot slabs will cause the oil to flow more abundantly; but if obtained by pressure between cold slabs it will be of better quality. It should be applied to the skin itself,” added Vauquelin, kindly, “and not to the hair; otherwise the effect might be lost.”

  “Recollect all that, Popinot,” said Birotteau, with an enthusiasm that sent a glow into his face. “You see before you, monsieur, a young man who will count this day among the finest in his life. He knew you, he venerated you, without ever having seen you. We often talk of you in our home: a name that is in the heart is often on the lips. We pray for you every day, my wife and daughter and I, as we ought to pray for our benefactor.”

  “Too much for so little,” said Vauquelin, rather bored by the voluble gratitude of the perfumer.

  “Ta, ta, ta!” exclaimed Birotteau, “you can’t prevent our loving you, you who will take nothing from us. You are like the sun; you give light, and those whom you illuminate can give you nothing in return.”