“This is for yourself, monsieur,” said Hortense, giving six gold pieces to the dealer.
“Never breath a word of this visit to any one living,” said the artist to his friend, at the door. “If you should be asked where we sold the group, mention the Duc d’Herouville, the famous collector in the Rue de Varenne.”
The dealer nodded assent.
“And your name?” said Hulot to the artist when he came back.
“Count Steinbock.”
“Have you the papers that prove your identity?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German, but not legalized.”
“Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet high?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied with your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of Marshal Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at Pere-Lachaise. The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard have subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our artist.”
“Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!” exclaimed Steinbock, overpowered by so much happiness at once.
“Be easy,” replied the Baron graciously. “If the two ministers to whom I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are delighted with these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good.”
Hortense hugged her father’s arm so tightly as to hurt him.
“Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to anybody, not even to our old Cousin Betty.”
“Lisbeth?” said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of all this, though unable to guess the means.
“I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the Baroness,” added Wenceslas.
The artist, struck by Madame Hulot’s beauty, was comparing the mother and daughter.
“Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you,” said the Baron, quite charmed by Count Steinbock’s refined and elegant manner. “You will find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and that persevering toil always finds its reward here.”
Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty Algerine purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something still of a gentleman’s pride, responded with a mounting color easy enough to interpret.
“This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought you?” said Adeline.
“Yes, madame — my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of my labor, for I have been a workman.”
“Well, we must hope my daughter’s money will bring you good luck,” said she.
“And take it without scruple,” added the Baron, seeing that Wenceslas held the purse in his hand instead of pocketing it. “The sum will be repaid by some rich man, a prince perhaps, who will offer it with interest to possess so fine a work.”
“Oh, I want it too much myself, papa, to give it up to anybody in the world, even a royal prince!”
“I can make a far prettier thing than that for you, mademoiselle.”
“But it would not be this one,” replied she; and then, as if ashamed of having said too much, she ran out into the garden.
“Then I shall break the mould and the model as soon as I go home,” said Steinbock.
“Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if you are equal to what I expect of you, monsieur.”
The artist on this could but take leave. After bowing to Madame Hulot and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went off to walk in the Tuileries, not bearing — not daring — to return to his attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring his secret from him.
Hortense’s adorer conceived of groups and statues by the hundred; he felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who was also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured by Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.
“Now then,” said the Baroness to her daughter, “what does all this mean?”
“Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth’s lover, who now, I hope, is mine. But shut your eyes, know nothing. Good Heavens! I was to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you everything — — ”
“Good-bye, children!” said the Baron, kissing his wife and daughter; “I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall hear a great deal about our young man.”
“Papa, be cautious!” said Hortense.
“Oh! little girl!” cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured out her poem, of which the morning’s adventure was the last canto, “dear little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on earth!”
Genuine passions have an unerring instinct. Set a greedy man before a dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest even without seeing it. In the same way, if you allow a girl who is well brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a position to meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder. The act of nature in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love, first sight is practically second sight.
The Baroness’ satisfaction, though disguised under maternal dignity, was as great as her daughter’s; for, of the three ways of marrying Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined, was about to be realized. And she regarded this little drama as an answer by Providence to her fervent prayers.
Mademoiselle Fischer’s galley slave, obliged at last to go home, thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an artist rejoicing over his first success.
“Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d’Herouville, who is going to give me some commissions,” cried he, throwing the twelve hundred francs in gold on the table before the old maid.
He had, as may be supposed concealed Hortense’s purse; it lay next to his heart.
“And a very good thing too,” said Lisbeth. “I was working myself to death. You see, child, money comes in slowly in the business you have taken up, for this is the first you have earned, and you have been grinding at it for near on five years now. That money barely repays me for what you have cost me since I took your promissory note; that is all I have got by my savings. But be sure of one thing,” she said, after counting the gold, “this money will all be spent on you. There is enough there to keep us going for a year. In a year you may now be able to pay your debt and have a snug little sum of your own, if you go on in the same way.”
Wenceslas, finding his trick successful, expatiated on the Duc d’Herouville.
“I will fit you out in a black suit, and get you some new linen,” said Lisbeth, “for you must appear presentably before your patrons; and then you must have a larger and better apartment than your horrible garret, and furnish it property. — You look so bright, you are not like the same creature,” she added, gazing at Wenceslas.
“But my work is pronounced a masterpiece.”
“Well, so much the better! Do some more,” said the arid creature, who was nothing but practical, and incapable of understanding the joy of triumph or of beauty in Art. “Trouble your head no further about what you have sold; make something else to sell. You have spent two hundred francs in money, to say nothing of your time and your labor, on that devil of a Samson. Your clock will cost you more than two thousand francs to execute. I tell you what, if you will listen to me, you will finish the two little boys crowning the little girl with cornflowers; that would just suit the Parisians. — I will go round to Monsieur Graff the tailor before going to Monsieur Crevel. — Go up now and leave me to dress.”
Next day the Baron, perfectly crazy about Madame Marneffe, went to see Cousin Betty, who was considerably amazed on opening the door to see who her visitor was, for he had never called on her before. She at once said to herself, “Can it be that Hortense wants my lover?” — for she had heard the evening before, at Monsieur Crevel’s, that the marriage with the Councillor of the Supreme Court was broken off.
“What, Cousin! you here? This is the first time you have ever been to see me,
and it is certainly not for love of my fine eyes that you have come now.”
“Fine eyes is the truth,” said the Baron; “you have as fine eyes as I have ever seen — — ”
“Come, what are you here for? I really am ashamed to receive you in such a kennel.”
The outer room of the two inhabited by Lisbeth served her as sitting-room, dining-room, kitchen, and workroom. The furniture was such as beseemed a well-to-do artisan — walnut-wood chairs with straw seats, a small walnut-wood dining table, a work table, some colored prints in black wooden frames, short muslin curtains to the windows, the floor well polished and shining with cleanliness, not a speck of dust anywhere, but all cold and dingy, like a picture by Terburg in every particular, even to the gray tone given by a wall paper once blue and now faded to gray. As to the bedroom, no human being had ever penetrated its secrets.
The Baron took it all in at a glance, saw the sign-manual of commonness on every detail, from the cast-iron stove to the household utensils, and his gorge rose as he said to himself, “And this is virtue! — What am I here for?” said he aloud. “You are far too cunning not to guess, and I had better tell you plainly,” cried he, sitting down and looking out across the courtyard through an opening he made in the puckered curtain. “There is a very pretty woman in the house — — ”
“Madame Marneffe! Now I understand!” she exclaimed, seeing it all. “But Josepha?”
“Alas, Cousin, Josepha is no more. I was turned out of doors like a discarded footman.”
“And you would like...?” said Lisbeth, looking at the Baron with the dignity of a prude on her guard a quarter of an hour too soon.
“As Madame Marneffe is very much the lady, and the wife of an employe, you can meet her without compromising yourself,” the Baron went on, “and I should like to see you neighborly. Oh! you need not be alarmed; she will have the greatest consideration for the cousin of her husband’s chief.”
At this moment the rustle of a gown was heard on the stairs and the footstep of a woman wearing the thinnest boots. The sound ceased on the landing. There was a tap at the door, and Madame Marneffe came in.
“Pray excuse me, mademoiselle, for thus intruding upon you, but I failed to find you yesterday when I came to call; we are near neighbors; and if I had known that you were related to Monsieur le Baron, I should long since have craved your kind interest with him. I saw him come in, so I took the liberty of coming across; for my husband, Monsieur le Baron, spoke to me of a report on the office clerks which is to be laid before the minister to-morrow.”
She seemed quite agitated and nervous — but she had only run upstairs.
“You have no need to play the petitioner, fair lady,” replied the Baron. “It is I who should ask the favor of seeing you.”
“Very well, if mademoiselle allows it, pray come!” said Madame Marneffe.
“Yes — go, Cousin, I will join you,” said Lisbeth judiciously.
The Parisienne had so confidently counted on the chief’s visit and intelligence, that not only had she dressed herself for so important an interview — she had dressed her room. Early in the day it had been furnished with flowers purchased on credit. Marneffe had helped his wife to polish the furniture, down to the smallest objects, washing, brushing, and dusting everything. Valerie wished to be found in an atmosphere of sweetness, to attract the chief and to please him enough to have a right to be cruel; to tantalize him as a child would, with all the tricks of fashionable tactics. She had gauged Hulot. Give a Paris woman at bay four-and-twenty hours, and she will overthrow a ministry.
The man of the Empire, accustomed to the ways to the Empire, was no doubt quite ignorant of the ways of modern love-making, of the scruples in vogue and the various styles of conversation invented since 1830, which led to the poor weak woman being regarded as the victim of her lover’s desires — a Sister of Charity salving a wound, an angel sacrificing herself.
This modern art of love uses a vast amount of evangelical phrases in the service of the Devil. Passion is martyrdom. Both parties aspire to the Ideal, to the Infinite; love is to make them so much better. All these fine words are but a pretext for putting increased ardor into the practical side of it, more frenzy into a fall than of old. This hypocrisy, a characteristic of the times, is a gangrene in gallantry. The lovers are both angels, and they behave, if they can, like two devils.
Love had no time for such subtle analysis between two campaigns, and in 1809 its successes were as rapid as those of the Empire. So, under the Restoration, the handsome Baron, a lady’s man once more, had begun by consoling some old friends now fallen from the political firmament, like extinguished stars, and then, as he grew old, was captured by Jenny Cadine and Josepha.
Madame Marneffe had placed her batteries after due study of the Baron’s past life, which her husband had narrated in much detail, after picking up some information in the offices. The comedy of modern sentiment might have the charm of novelty to the Baron; Valerie had made up her mind as to her scheme; and we may say the trial of her power that she made this morning answered her highest expectations. Thanks to her manoeuvres, sentimental, high-flown, and romantic, Valerie, without committing herself to any promises, obtained for her husband the appointment as deputy head of the office and the Cross of the Legion of Honor.
The campaign was not carried out without little dinners at the Rocher de Cancale, parties to the play, and gifts in the form of lace, scarves, gowns, and jewelry. The apartment in the Rue du Doyenne was not satisfactory; the Baron proposed to furnish another magnificently in a charming new house in the Rue Vanneau.
Monsieur Marneffe got a fortnight’s leave, to be taken a month hence for urgent private affairs in the country, and a present in money; he promised himself that he would spend both in a little town in Switzerland, studying the fair sex.
While Monsieur Hulot thus devoted himself to the lady he was “protecting,” he did not forget the young artist. Comte Popinot, Minister of Commerce, was a patron of Art; he paid two thousand francs for a copy of the Samson on condition that the mould should be broken, and that there should be no Samson but his and Mademoiselle Hulot’s. The group was admired by a Prince, to whom the model sketch for the clock was also shown, and who ordered it; but that again was to be unique, and he offered thirty thousand francs for it.
Artists who were consulted, and among them Stidmann, were of opinion that the man who had sketched those two models was capable of achieving a statue. The Marshal Prince de Wissembourg, Minister of War, and President of the Committee for the subscriptions to the monument of Marshal Montcornet, called a meeting, at which it was decided that the execution of the work should be placed in Steinbock’s hands. The Comte de Rastignac, at that time Under-secretary of State, wished to possess a work by the artist, whose glory was waxing amid the acclamations of his rivals. Steinbock sold to him the charming group of two little boys crowning a little girl, and he promised to secure for the sculptor a studio attached to the Government marble-quarries, situated, as all the world knows, at Le Gros-Caillou.
This was a success, such success as is won in Paris, that is to say, stupendous success, that crushes those whose shoulders and loins are not strong enough to bear it — as, be it said, not unfrequently is the case. Count Wenceslas Steinbock was written about in all the newspapers and reviews without his having the least suspicion of it, any more than had Mademoiselle Fischer. Every day, as soon as Lisbeth had gone out to dinner, Wenceslas went to the Baroness’ and spent an hour or two there, excepting on the evenings when Lisbeth dined with the Hulots.
This state of things lasted for several days.
The Baron, assured of Count Steinbock’s titles and position; the Baroness, pleased with his character and habits; Hortense, proud of her permitted love and of her suitor’s fame, none of them hesitated to speak of the marriage; in short, the artist was in the seventh heaven, when an indiscretion on Madame Marneffe’s part spoilt all.
And this was how.
Lisbeth,
whom the Baron wished to see intimate with Madame Marneffe, that she might keep an eye on the couple, had already dined with Valerie; and she, on her part, anxious to have an ear in the Hulot house, made much of the old maid. It occurred to Valerie to invite Mademoiselle Fischer to a house-warming in the new apartments she was about to move into. Lisbeth, glad to have found another house to dine in, and bewitched by Madame Marneffe, had taken a great fancy to Valerie. Of all the persons she had made acquaintance with, no one had taken so much pains to please her. In fact, Madame Marneffe, full of attentions for Mademoiselle Fischer, found herself in the position towards Lisbeth that Lisbeth held towards the Baroness, Monsieur Rivet, Crevel, and the others who invited her to dinner.
The Marneffes had excited Lisbeth’s compassion by allowing her to see the extreme poverty of the house, while varnishing it as usual with the fairest colors; their friends were under obligations to them and ungrateful; they had had much illness; Madame Fortin, her mother, had never known of their distress, and had died believing herself wealthy to the end, thanks to their superhuman efforts — and so forth.
“Poor people!” said she to her Cousin Hulot, “you are right to do what you can for them; they are so brave and so kind! They can hardly live on the thousand crowns he gets as deputy-head of the office, for they have got into debt since Marshal Montcornet’s death. It is barbarity on the part of the Government to suppose that a clerk with a wife and family can live in Paris on two thousand four hundred francs a year.”
And so, within a very short time, a young woman who affected regard for her, who told her everything, and consulted her, who flattered her, and seemed ready to yield to her guidance, had become dearer to the eccentric Cousin Lisbeth than all her relations.
The Baron, on his part, admiring in Madame Marneffe such propriety, education, and breeding as neither Jenny Cadine nor Josepha, nor any friend of theirs had to show, had fallen in love with her in a month, developing a senile passion, a senseless passion, which had an appearance of reason. In fact, he found here neither the banter, nor the orgies, nor the reckless expenditure, nor the depravity, nor the scorn of social decencies, nor the insolent independence which had brought him to grief alike with the actress and the singer. He was spared, too, the rapacity of the courtesan, like unto the thirst of dry sand.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 688
