Another knock sounded.
“Here comes the pungent Andoche!” shouted Gaudissart.
A stout, chubby-faced fellow of medium height, from head to foot the evident son of a hat-maker, with round features whose shrewdness was hidden under a restrained and subdued manner, suddenly appeared. His face, which was melancholy, like that of a man weary of poverty, lighted up hilariously when he caught sight of the table, and the bottles swathed in significant napkins. At Gaudissart’s shout, his pale-blue eyes sparkled, his big head, hollowed like that of a Kalmuc Tartar, bobbed from right to left, and he bowed to Popinot with a queer manner, which meant neither servility nor respect, but was rather that of a man who feels he is not in his right place and will make no concessions. He was just beginning to find out that he possessed no literary talent whatever; he meant to stay in the profession, however, by living on the brains of others, and getting astride the shoulders of those more able than himself, making his profit there instead of struggling any longer at his own ill-paid work. At the present moment he had drunk to the dregs the humiliation of applications and appeals which constantly failed, and he was now, like people in the higher walks of finance, about to change his tone and become insolent, advisedly. But he needed a small sum in hand on which to start, and Gaudissart gave him a share in the present affair of ushering into the world the oil of Popinot.
“You are to negotiate on his account with the newspapers. But don’t play double; if you do I’ll fight you to the death. Give him his money’s worth.”
Popinot gazed at “the author” which much uneasiness. People who are purely commercial look upon an author with mingled sentiments of fear, compassion, and curiosity. Though Popinot had been well brought up, the habits of his relations, their ideas, and the obfuscating effect of a shop and a counting-room, had lowered his intelligence by bending it to the use and wont of his calling, — a phenomenon which may often be seen if we observe the transformations which take place in a hundred comrades, when ten years supervene between the time when they leave college or a public school, to all intents and purposes alike, and the period when they meet again after contact with the world. Andoche accepted Popinot’s perturbation as a compliment.
“Now then, before dinner, let’s get to the bottom of the prospectus; then we can drink without an afterthought,” said Gaudissart. “After dinner one reads askew; the tongue digests.”
“Monsieur,” said Popinot, “a prospectus is often a fortune.”
“And for plebeians like myself,” said Andoche, “fortune is nothing more than a prospectus.”
“Ha, very good!” cried Gaudissart, “that rogue of a Finot has the wit of the forty Academicians.”
“Of a hundred Academicians,” said Popinot, bewildered by these ideas.
The impatient Gaudissart seized the manuscript and began to read in a loud voice, with much emphasis, “CEPHALIC OIL.”
“I should prefer Oil Cesarienne,” said Popinot.
“My friend,” said Gaudissart, “you don’t know the provincials; there’s a surgical operation called by that name, and they are such stupids that they’ll think your oil is meant to facilitate childbirth. To drag them back from that to hair is beyond even my powers of persuasion.”
“Without wishing to defend my term,” said the author, “I must ask you to observe that ‘Cephalic Oil’ means oil for the head, and sums up your ideas in one word.”
“Well, let us see,” said Popinot impatiently.
Here follows the prospectus; the same which the trade receives, by the thousand, to the present day (another piece justificative): —
GOLD MEDAL
EXPOSITION OF 1819
CEPHALIC OIL
Patents for Invention and Improvements.
“No cosmetic can make the hair grow, and no chemical preparation
can dye it without peril to the seat of intelligence. Science has
recently made known the fact that hair is a dead substance, and
that no agent can prevent it from falling off or whitening. To
prevent Baldness and Dandruff, it is necessary to protect the bulb
from which the hair issues from all deteriorating atmospheric
influences, and to maintain the temperature of the head at its
right medium. CEPHALIC OIL, based upon principles laid down by the
Academy of Sciences, produces this important result, sought by the
ancients, — the Greeks, the Romans, and all Northern nations, — to
whom the preservation of the hair was peculiarly precious. Certain
scientific researches have demonstrated that nobles, formerly
distinguished for the length of their hair, used no other remedy
than this; their method of preparation, which had been lost in the
lapse of ages, has been intelligently re-discovered by A. Popinot,
the inventor of CEPHALIC OIL.
“To preserve, rather than provoke a useless and injurious
stimulation of the instrument which contains the bulbs, is the
mission of CEPHALIC OIL. In short, this oil, which counteracts the
exfoliation of pellicular atoms, which exhales a soothing perfume,
and arrests, by means of the substances of which it is composed
(among them more especially the oil of nuts), the action of the
outer air upon the scalp, also prevents influenzas, colds in the
head, and other painful cephalic afflictions, by maintaining the
normal temperature of the cranium. Consequently, the bulbs, which
contain the generating fluids, are neither chilled by cold nor
parched by heat. The hair of the head, that magnificent product,
priceless alike to man and woman, will be preserved even to
advanced age, in all the brilliancy and lustre which bestow their
charm upon the heads of infancy, by those who make use of CEPHALIC
OIL.
“DIRECTIONS FOR USE are furnished with each bottle, and serve as a
wrapper.
“METHOD OF USING CEPHALIC OIL. — It is quite useless to oil the
hair; this is not only a vulgar and foolish prejudice, but an
untidy habit, for the reason that all cosmetics leave their trace.
It suffices to wet a little sponge in the oil, and after parting
the hair with the comb, to apply it at the roots in such a manner
that the whole skin of the head may be enabled to imbibe it, after
the scalp has received a preliminary cleansing with brush and
comb.
“The oil is sold in bottles bearing the signature of the inventor,
to prevent counterfeits. Price, THREE FRANCS. A. POPINOT, Rue des
Cinq-Diamants, quartier des Lombards, Paris.
“It is requested that all letters be prepaid.
“N.B. The house of A. Popinot supplies all oils and essences
appertaining to druggists: lavender, oil of almonds, sweet and
bitter, orange oil, cocoa-nut oil, castor oil, and others.”
“My dear friend,” said the illustrious Gaudissart to Finot, “it is admirably written. Thunder and lightning! we are in the upper regions of science. We shirk nothing; we go straight to the point. That’s useful literature; I congratulate you.”
“A noble prospectus!” cried Popinot, enthusiastically.
“A prospectus which slays Macassar at the first word,” continued Gaudissart, rising with a magisterial air to deliver the following speech, which he divided by gestures and pauses in his most parliamentary manner.
“No — hair — can be made — to grow! Hair cannot be dyed without — danger! Ha! ha! success is there. Modern science is in union with the customs of the ancients. We can deal with young and old alike. We can say to the old man, ‘Ha, monsieur! the ancients, the Greeks and Romans, knew a thing or two, and were not so stupid as some would have us believe’; and we can say t
o the young man, ‘My dear boy, here’s another discovery due to progress and the lights of science. We advance; what may we not obtain from steam and telegraphy, and other things! This oil is based on the scientific treatise of Monsieur Vauquelin!’ Suppose we print an extract from Monsieur Vauquelin’s report to the Academy of Sciences, confirming our statement, hein? Famous! Come, Finot, sit down; attack the viands! Soak up the champagne! let us drink to the success of my young friend, here present!”
“I felt,” said the author modestly, “that the epoch of flimsy and frivolous prospectuses had gone by; we are entering upon an era of science; we need an academical tone, — a tone of authority, which imposes upon the public.”
“We’ll boil that oil; my feet itch, and my tongue too. I’ve got commissions from all the rival hair people; none of them give more than thirty per cent discount; we must manage forty on every hundred remitted, and I’ll answer for a hundred thousand bottles in six months. I’ll attack apothecaries, grocers, perfumers! Give ‘em forty per cent, and they’ll bamboozle the public.”
The three young fellows devoured their dinner like lions, and drank like lords to the future success of Cephalic Oil.
“The oil is getting into my head,” said Finot.
Gaudissart poured out a series of jokes and puns upon hats and heads, and hair and hair-oil, etc. In the midst of Homeric laughter a knock resounded, and was heard, in spite of an uproar of toasts and reciprocal congratulations.
“It is my uncle!” cried Popinot. “He has actually come to see me.”
“An uncle!” said Finot, “and we haven’t got a glass!”
“The uncle of my friend Popinot is a judge,” said Gaudissart to Finot, “and he is not to be hoaxed; he saved my life. Ha! when one gets to the pass where I was, under the scaffold — Qou-ick, and good-by to your hair,” — imitating the fatal knife with voice and gesture. “One recollects gratefully the virtuous magistrate who saved the gutter where the champagne flows down. Recollect? — I’d recollect him dead-drunk! You don’t know what it is, Finot, unless you have stood in need of Monsieur Popinot. Huzza! we ought to fire a salute — from six pounders, too!”
The virtuous magistrate was now asking for his nephew at the door. Recognizing his voice, Anselme went down, candlestick in hand, to light him up.
“I wish you good evening, gentlemen,” said the judge.
The illustrious Gaudissart bowed profoundly. Finot examined the magistrate with a tipsy eye, and thought him a bit of a blockhead.
“You have not much luxury here,” said the judge, gravely, looking round the room. “Well, my son, if we wish to be something great, we must begin by being nothing.”
“What profound wisdom!” said Gaudissart to Finot.
“Text for an article,” said the journalist.
“Ah! you here, monsieur?” said the judge, recognizing the commercial traveller; “and what are you doing now?”
“Monsieur, I am contributing to the best of my small ability to the success of your dear nephew. We have just been studying a prospectus for his oil; you see before you the author of that prospectus, which seems to us the finest essay in the literature of wigs.” The judge looked at Finot. “Monsieur,” said Gaudissart, “is Monsieur Andoche Finot, a young man distinguished in literature, who does high-class politics and the little theatres in the government newspapers, — I may say a statesman on the high-road to becoming an author.”
Finot pulled Gaudissart by the coat-tails.
“Well, well, my sons,” said the judge, to whom these words explained the aspect of the table, where there stilled remained the tokens of a very excusable feast. “Anselme,” said the old gentleman to his nephew, “dress yourself, and come with me to Monsieur Birotteau’s, where I have a visit to pay. You shall sign the deed of partnership, which I have carefully examined. As you mean to have the manufactory for your oil on the grounds in the Faubourg du Temple, I think you had better take a formal lease of them. Monsieur Birotteau might have others in partnership with him, and it is better to settle everything legally at once; then there can be no discussion. These walls seem to me very damp, my dear boy; take up the straw matting near your bed.”
“Permit me, monsieur,” said Gaudissart, with an ingratiating air, “to explain to you that we have just pasted up the paper ourselves, and that’s the — reason why — the walls — are not — dry.”
“Economy? quite right,” said the judge.
“Look here,” said Gaudissart in Finot’s ear, “my friend Popinot is a virtuous young man; he is going with his uncle; let’s you and I go and finish the evening with our cousins.”
The journalist showed the empty lining of his pockets. Popinot saw the gesture, and slipped his twenty-franc piece into the palm of the author of the prospectus.
The judge had a coach at the end of the street, in which he carried off his nephew to the Birotteaus.
VII
Pillerault, Monsieur and Madame Ragon, and Monsieur Roguin were playing at boston, and Cesarine was embroidering a handkerchief, when the judge and Anselme arrived. Roguin, placed opposite to Madame Ragon, near whom Cesarine was sitting, noticed the pleasure of the young girl when she saw Anselme enter, and he made Crottat a sign to observe that she turned as rosy as a pomegranate.
“This is to be a day of deeds, then?” said the perfumer, when the greetings were over and the judge told him the purpose of the visit.
Cesar, Anselme, and the judge went up to the perfumer’s temporary bedroom on the second floor to discuss the lease and the deed of partnership drawn up by the magistrate. A lease of eighteen years was agreed upon, so that it might run the same length of time as the lease of the shop in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants, — an insignificant circumstance apparently, but one which did Birotteau good service in after days. When Cesar and the judge returned to the entresol, the latter, surprised at the general upset of the household, and the presence of workmen on a Sunday in the house of a man so religious as Birotteau, asked the meaning of it, — a question which Cesar had been eagerly expecting.
“Though you care very little for the world, monsieur,” he said, “you will see no harm in celebrating the deliverance of our territory. That, however, is not all. We are about to assemble a few friends to commemorate my promotion to the order of the Legion of honor.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the judge, who was not decorated.
“Possibly I showed myself worthy of that signal and royal favor by my services on the Bench — oh! of commerce, — and by fighting for the Bourbons on the steps — ”
“True,” said the judge.
“ — of Saint-Roch on the 13th Vendemiaire, where I was wounded by Napoleon. May I not hope that you and Madame Popinot will do us the honor of being present?”
“Willingly,” said the judge. “If my wife is well enough I will bring her.”
“Xandrot,” said Roguin to his clerk, as they left the house, “give up all thoughts of marrying Cesarine; six weeks hence you will thank me for that advice.”
“Why?” asked Crottat.
“My dear fellow, Birotteau is going to spend a hundred thousand francs on his ball, and he is involving his whole fortune, against my advice, in that speculation in lands. Six weeks hence he and his family won’t have bread to eat. Marry Mademoiselle Lourdois, the daughter of the house-painter. She has three hundred thousand francs dot. I threw out that anchor to windward for you. If you will pay me a hundred thousand francs down for my practice, you may have it to-morrow.”
The splendors of the approaching ball were announced by the newspapers to all Europe, and were also made known to the world of commerce by rumors to which the preparations, carried on night and day, had given rise. Some said that Cesar had hired three houses, and that he was gilding his salons; others that the supper would furnish dishes invented for the occasion. On one hand it was reported that no merchants would be invited, the fete being given to the members of the government; on the other hand, Cesar was severely blamed for his ambition, and l
aughed at for his political pretensions: some people even went so far as to deny his wound. The ball gave rise to more than one intrigue in the second arrondissement. The friends of the family were easy in their minds, but the demands of mere acquaintances were enormous. Honors bring sycophants; and there was a goodly number of people whose invitations cost them more than one application. The Birotteaus were fairly frightened at the number of friends whom they did not know they had. These eager attentions alarmed Madame Birotteau, and day by day her face grew sadder as the great solemnity drew near.
In the first place, as she owned to Cesar, she should never learn the right demeanor; next, she was terrified by the innumerable details of such a fete: where should she find the plate, the glass-ware, the refreshments, the china, the servants? Who would superintend it all? She entreated Birotteau to stand at the door of the appartement and let no one enter but invited guests; she had heard strange stories of people who came to bourgeois balls, claiming friends whose names they did not know. When, a week before the fateful day, Braschon, Grindot, Lourdois, and Chaffaroux, the builder, assured Cesar positively that the rooms would be ready for the famous Sunday of December the 17th, an amusing conference took place, in the evening after dinner, between Cesar, his wife, and his daughter, for the purpose of making out the list of guests and addressing the invitations, — which a stationer had sent home that morning, printed on pink paper, in flowing English writing, and in the formula of commonplace and puerile civility.
“Now we mustn’t forget any body,” said Birotteau.
“If we forget any one,” said Constance, “they won’t forget it. Madame Derville, who never called before, sailed down upon me in all her glory yesterday.”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 578
