Eve went to see Madame de Rastignac and begged the favour of an interview with her son, to whom she confided all her fears and of whom she asked the truth about Lucien’s predicament in Paris. She was promptly informed about his liaison with Coralie, the duel with Michel Chrestien resulting from his treachery towards d’Arthez, in short all the details of Lucien’s career – envenomed by the wit of a dandy who managed to give his hatred and envy a colouring of pity by adopting the friendly tones of a fellow-provincial concerned about the future of a local celebrity and professing sincere admiration for the talent of a son of Angoulême, now so cruelly compromised. He spoke of the misdeeds by which Lucien had forfeited the protection of very influential personages and which had led to the cancellation of an ordinance conferring on him the name and escutcheon of Rubempré.
‘Madame, if your brother had taken good advice, he would today be on the road to ennoblement and married to Madame de Bargeton. But what else could be expected?… He deserted and insulted her! She has now become Madame la Comtesse Sixte du Châtelet – to her great regret, for she loved Lucien.’
‘Can that possibly be true?’ Madame Séchard exclaimed.
‘Your brother is a young eagle blinded by the first sunbeams of luxury and fame. When an eagle falls, who can tell into what deep abyss it will plunge? A great man’s fall is always in direct ratio to the heights he had reached.’
Eve returned to her house appalled by this last remark, which pierced her heart like an arrow. All that was most vulnerable in her was wounded to the quick, and at home she maintained the deepest silence, though many a tear dropped on to the cheeks and forehead of the child she was nursing. Nevertheless, one does not easily renounce illusions inspired by family loyalty and cherished since infancy. And so Eve placed no reliance on Eugène de Rastignac: she wanted to hear what a true friend would have to say, and therefore she wrote a moving letter to d’Arthez whose address Lucien had given her at the time when he had been so enthusiastic about the Cénacle. This is the reply she received:
Madame,
You ask me for the truth concerning the life your brother is leading in Paris. You wish to be enlightened about his future. Also, in order to make sure of a candid reply, you repeat to me what Monsieur de Rastignac had told you, asking me if such facts are true. In so far, Madame, as my own relations with Lucien are concerned, what Monsieur de Rastignac told you in confidence calls for rectification.
Your brother was ashamed of what he was doing. He came to show me his review of my book, telling me he could not bring himself to publish it despite the danger which a person very dear to him would incur if he disobeyed the orders given by his party. Alas, Madame, it is a writer’s task to understand human passions since he stakes his reputation on depicting them: and so I realized that when a man has to choose between mistress and friend, it is the friend who must be sacrificed. I made it easier for your brother to carry out his misdeed by myself correcting his murderous article and giving it the stamp of my approval.
You ask me if I still feel any esteem or friendship for Lucien. That is a difficult question to answer. Your brother is on a path which may lead him to perdition. At the moment I am still sorry for him, but soon I shall deliberately forget him, not because of what he has done already but because of what he is likely to do. Your Lucien has poetry in him but is no real poet. He’s a dreamer, not a thinker; he makes a great to-do but is not creative. Forgive me for saying so, but he’s an effeminate little person who loves to show off – and that is what is wrong with most Frenchmen. And so Lucien will always sacrifice his best friend in order to make a parade of wit. He would willingly sign a pact tomorrow with the devil himself if this pact promised him a few years of brilliance and luxury. Has he not already done worse than that by bartering his future against the transitory pleasure of living openly with an actress? At present the youth, beauty and devotion of this woman – for she adores him – blind him to the dangers of a situation which neither reputation, nor success, nor prosperity will induce society to tolerate. So then, whenever a new temptation comes his way, your brother will think only – as he is doing just now – of the pleasures of the moment. Be assured of this: Lucien will never take to crime: he’s too weak-minded. But he would accept a ready-made crime and share the profits without having shared the dangers, and all people, even scoundrels, stand aghast at that. He will despise himself; but he would do the same again when need arose, for he lacks will-power and will always take the bait when pleasure or the satisfaction of the most trifling whims are in question. He’s lazy, like all men of poetic temperament, and thinks he’s clever enough to juggle difficulties away instead of overcoming them. He’ll be courageous and cowardly by turns, and is no more to be applauded for his courage than blamed for his cowardice: Lucien is like a harp whose strings become taut or slack according to the weather conditions. He might well write a fine book in an angry or happy mood and yet be indifferent to the success he has longed for.
During the early days of his stay in Paris he came under the ascendancy of an unscrupulous young man who had such skill and experience in coping with the difficulties of literary life that he was dazzled. This trickster won Lucien over completely and dragged him into a disreputable way of life on which, unfortunately for him, love cast its spell. When admiration is too easily gained it is a sign of inherent weakness: a tight-rope walker and a poet should not be paid in the same currency. We all of us felt hurt because Lucien admired intrigue and literary knavery more than the courage and honourable conduct of those who advised him to accept combat instead of filching success, to leap into the ring instead of taking a job as a trumpeter in the band.
Society, Madame, by a strange turn of whimsy, is full of indulgence towards young men of such a nature: it takes a liking to them and lets itself be captivated by the tinsel of their surface qualities. It demands nothing of them, condones all their faults, accords them the prerogatives due only to mature characters and sees only their advantageous points: in fact it makes spoilt children of them. On the other hand, it shows unbounded severity to people of rounded and forceful character. In so acting society appears to be outrageously unjust, but perhaps its attitude can be justified on a higher plane. It lets the buffoons amuse it without asking them for anything but enjoyment, and then promptly forgets them; whereas, if it is to bend the knee before real greatness, society expects it to be as munificent as the gods. Everything has its special law: the eternal diamond must be without blemish, the momentary creations of fashion have a right to be frivolous, wayward and flimsy. And so perhaps Lucien, despite his mistakes, will meet with marvellous success. It will suffice for him to exploit some happy vein or find himself in good company; but if he meets a Lucifer he will hurtle down into the nethermost hell. He offers a brilliant assemblage of fine qualities, but they are embroidered on too slight a ground: age wears off the floral designs and one day only the fabric remains; and if that is shoddy only rags and tatters are left. So long as Lucien is young he will be popular; but what will his position be when he is thirty? That’s the question which those who really love him must ask themselves.
If I had been alone in thinking thus of Lucien, perhaps I should have tried to avoid causing you so much grief by my sincerity; but apart from the fact that platitudinous evasion of the questions your anxiety has prompted seemed to me to be unworthy of you – your letter is a cry of anguish – and of myself, although you hold me in too great esteem, those of my friends who knew Lucien are unanimous in passing the same judgment. I saw therefore that it was my duty to make the truth clear, however terrible it may be. Anything may be expected of Lucien, the best as well as the worst. This single sentence sums up the tenor of my letter and expresses what we think. If the vicissitudes of life – his life is at present very wretched and at the mercy of chance – should bring this dreamer back to you, use all your influence to keep him in the bosom of his family, for until he has acquired some stability of character Paris will always be a danger to him. He used to
call you and your husband his guardian angels. No doubt he has forgotten you, but he will remember you at the time when, buffeted by the tempest, he will have no other refuge than his family. And so still keep a place for him in your heart, Madame: he will need it.
Accept, Madame, the sincere tribute of a man who well knows your invaluable qualities and has too much respect for your maternal solicitude not to offer you herewith his obeisance in signing himself
Your devoted servant,
D’ARTHEZ.
Two days after receiving this reply, Eve’s milk dried up and she had to hire a wet-nurse. Having made a god of her brother, she now looked on him as a man brought to depravity by the misuse of excellent faculties; in fact she saw that he was wallowing in the mire. A noble creature like herself could admit of no compromise with the probity, scruples and principles so piously observed in family life – and in the heart of the provinces family life still retains its purity and radiance. So David had been right in what he had foreseen. When, in one of those heart-to-heart talks in which a loving couple can say all they feel, Eve told him the sorrowful news which had brought a leaden pallor to her white brow, he found soothing words to say to her. Although tears came to his eyes at the thought of his wife’s lovely breasts running dry through grief and the sight of a mother in despair because she could not fulfil her maternal function, he calmed her fears and revived some hope in her.
‘You see, my darling, it’s your brother’s imagination that has led him astray. It’s only too natural for a poet to expect to be clothed in purple and fine linen. He’s so eager for all the enjoyments of life! He’s like a bird caught in the snare of brilliance and luxury; and he’s so ingenuous about it that, even if society condemns, God will forgive him.’
‘But he’s ruining us!’ the poor woman exclaimed.
‘He’s ruining us today, just as some months ago he came to our rescue by sending us the first-fruits of his pen!’ In making this reply the kind-hearted David realized that despair was taking his wife too far and that her love for Lucien would soon reassert itself. ‘About fifty years ago Sébastien Mercier said in his Tableau de Paris that the products of the brain, literature, poetry, the arts and the sciences, can never provide a living. Being a poet, Lucien has rejected the experience of four centuries. The kind of crops watered, not with rain, but with ink, are only harvested – if ever – ten or twelve years after seeding-time, and Lucien has taken the leaves for the sheaves. At any rate he will have learnt something about life. After being first of all duped by a woman, he was bound to be the dupe of society and false friendship. He has paid dearly for his experience, that’s all. There’s an old saying: “So long as a prodigal son comes back home with two ears and honour intact, all is well!”’
‘Honour!’ cried the unhappy Eve. ‘Alas! In how many virtues has Lucien been found wanting!… Writing against his conscience! Attacking his best friend! Living on an actresss!… Showing himself with her in public! Reducing us to beggary!’
‘Oh! that’s not all…’ David exclaimed. Then he stopped short: he had almost let out the secret of his brother-in-law’s forgery. Unfortunately Eve noticed this hesitation and was left with a vague anxiety. ‘Not all? What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘And where shall we get the three thousand francs we have to pay?’
‘In the first place,’ David continued, ‘we shall soon be renewing Cérizet’s lease for the running of our printing-office. During the last six months the fifteen per cent which the Cointets allow him on the work he does for them have brought him six hundred francs, and he’s made five hundred francs with the town work.’
‘If the Cointets know that,’ said Eve, ‘perhaps they won’t take the lease on again. They’ll be afraid of him. Cérizet’s a dangerous man.’
‘Well, what do I care!’ cried Séchard. ‘In a few days’ time we shall be rich! And, my darling, once Lucien is rich he’ll lead an exemplary life.’
‘Ah! David, my love, my love, what an admission you’ve just made! According to you, when Lucien’s down on his luck there’s no crime he won’t commit! You have the same ideas about him as Monsieur d’Arthez. A man must be strong if he wants to rise in the world, and Lucien is weak… What good would even an angel be if he can’t resist temptation?’
‘Well, men of his kind are at their best only when they’re in their proper environment, their proper sphere and climate. Lucien’s not a fighting man: I’ll do the fighting for him. Come and take a look! I’m too close to results not to tell you all about the way I’m getting them.’ He drew from his pocket several octavo sheets of white paper, flourished them triumphantly and laid them in his wife’s lap.
8. A glance at paper-making
‘A REAM of this paper, royal format, will not cost more than five francs,’ he said, inviting Eve, who showed childlike surprise, to handle the specimens.
‘Tell me, how did you make these samples?’ she asked.
‘With an old hair-sieve I got from Marion.’
‘But you’re not satisfied with them yet?’
‘It’s not a problem of manufacture: it’s the cost price of the pulp. Unfortunately, darling, I’m only one of the latest to have entered on this difficult path. Back in 1794 Madame Masson tried to produce blank paper from printed paper. She succeeded, but at what a cost! Round about 1800, in England, the Earl of Salisbury, like the Frenchman Seguin in 1801, was trying to use straw for the manufacture of paper. The sheets you are holding were made from our common reed arundo phragmitis. But I intend to use nettles and thistles because, in order to keep down the cost of the raw material, recourse must be had to vegetable substances which grow in marshes and infertile soil and therefore are very cheap. The whole secret lies in finding a way to treat these plants. So far I have not discovered a simple enough process. Never mind! In spite of the difficulty, I’m sure I can confer on paper-making in France the same privilege as our literature already enjoys and establish a French monopoly equivalent to the monopoly which the English have in steel, coal and earthenware. I want to be in paper-manufacture what Jacquard was in the weaving industry.’
Eve rose to her feet, moved with enthusiasm and admiration by David’s simple explanation. She opened her arms, pressed him to her heart and leaned her head on his shoulder.
‘You’re rewarding me as if I’d already discovered the process,’ he said.
Eve’s only response was to raise her lovely face all bathed in tears: for a moment she was unable to utter a word.
‘It’s not the man of genius that I’m hugging,’ she said, ‘but the man bringing consolation. One star has fallen, you show me one that is rising. Over against the grief I feel at the abasement of a brother, you are setting the great-heartedness of a husband. Greatness will certainly come to you, as it came to Graindorge, Rouvet, Van Robens and the Persian who introduced the cultivation of the madder-wort into France; as also to all the men you mentioned, whose names are still unknown because they did good unostentatiously by perfecting an industrial process.’
*
‘What are they up to?…’ Boniface was asking. Tall Cointet was walking with Cérizet in the Place du Mûrier and watching the shadows of husband and wife outlined against the muslin curtains of their living-room. The latter came there regularly at midnight to spy on the slightest activities of his former employer.
‘It’s clear enough,’ replied Cérizet. ‘He’s showing her the paper he’s made this morning.’
‘But what’s he making it of?’ asked the paper-manufacturer.
‘I just can’t guess,’ Cérizet replied. ‘I made a hole in the roof, climbed on to it and saw my gaffer boiling his pulp all night long in a copper cauldron. It was no use my examining the supplies he had heaped up in a corner. All I could see was that his raw material looked like stacks of tow.’
‘Go no further,’ Boniface Cointet said to his spy in sanctimonious tones. ‘It would be dishonest!… When Madame Séchard proposes to renew your lease for the running of the printing-office, tell her
you want to become a master-printer. Offer her half the value of the licence and stock; and if they accept, come and see me. In any case, let things drag out… They have no money.’
‘Not a sou?’ Cérizet asked.
‘Not a sou,’ tall Cointet echoed. – ‘I have them!’ he said to himself.
The firm of Métivier and the Cointet firm combined the function of bankers with their business as commission agents in paper supply, paper-manufacture and printing: be it said that they were careful not to pay any licence for their banking activities. Taxation authorities have not yet found a way to keep such close surveillance on trading concerns as would enable them to force all those who carry on banking surreptitiously to take out a banking licence, which, in Paris for example, costs five hundred francs a year. None the less the Cointet brothers and Métivier between them, although in this capacity they were what are called ‘maroons’ at the Stock Exchange, handled no less than some hundreds of thousands of francs each quarter in the money markets of Paris, Bordeaux and Angoulême. It so happened that on that very evening the Cointet firm had received from Paris the bills for three thousand francs which Lucien had forged. Tall Cointet had immediately made this debt the basis of a formidable machination directed, as we shall see, against the poor, long-suffering inventor.
9. Provincial solicitors
NEXT day at seven in the morning Boniface Cointet was taking a walk along the mill-race which drove his enormous paper-mill and deadened all speech with the roar it made. He was waiting for a young man of twenty-nine who had six weeks’ standing as a solicitor at the Angoulême County Court: his name was Petit-Claud.
Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) Page 59
