Lost Illusions

by Honoré de Balzac

  Madame de Bargeton set the poet down at his hotel and returned home in du Châtelet’s company, which was horribly displeasing to the poor, susceptible young man. ‘What will they be saying about me?’ he wondered as he walked up to his dreary bedroom.

  ‘That poor lad is incredibly boring,’ said du Châtelet with a smile as he closed the carriage door.

  ‘It is so with all those whose heart and brain contain a whole world of ideas. Men who have so much to express in fine, long-premeditated works profess a certain contempt for conversation, a commerce in which intelligence is converted into small change and frittered away.’ So said the proud Nègrepelisse, still courageous enough to defend Lucien, though she did it less for Lucien’s sake than for her own.

  ‘I willingly grant you that,’ replied the Baron. ‘But we live with people and not with books. Listen, dear Naïs, I can see that as yet there is nothing between you and him, and I rejoice at this. If you intend to take up some interest in life which you have missed up to now, I entreat you, let it not be for this supposed genius. What if you were mistaken I What if, in a few days’ time, comparing him to men of real talent, to the genuinely remarkable men you are about to meet, you realized that, like a beautiful shining Nereid, you had borne through the waves and brought ashore, not a poet with his lyre, but a little plagiarist with no manners and little range, stupid and conceited: one who may pass for a man of wit in L’Houmeau but who, once in Paris, turns out to be a very ordinary individual! After all, volumes of verse are published here every week, and the least of them is still worth more than all Monsieur Chardon’s poetry. I beg you to wait and compare. Tomorrow, Friday, there will be Opera’ – as he said this the carriage turned into the rue Neuve-du-Luxembourg – ‘Madame d’Espard has at her disposal the box belonging to the First Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and will no doubt take you there. In order to see you in all your glory, I shall go to Madame de Sérizy’s box. They are performing The Danaids?

  She bade him good-night.

  The next morning Madame de Bargeton did her best to assemble a morning outfit suitable for calling on her cousin, Madame d’Espard. The weather was rather cold, and all she could rummage out from her unfashionable Angoulême finery was an undistinguished green velvet dress with somewhat extravagant trimmings. As for Lucien, he felt he must retrieve his famous blue coat, for he now held his skimpy frock-coat in horror and wanted to be always smartly turned out, thinking that he might meet the Marquise d’Espard or pay her an impromptu visit. He took a cab so that he might bring his parcel straight back. In two hours he spent three or four francs, which gave him much subject for reflection on the cost of living in Paris. After dressing as elegantly as he could he went to the rue Neuve-du-Luxembourg, and there he met Gentil, in company with a footman in magnificent plumes.

  ‘I was going to your hotel, Monsieur; Madame sent me this note to give you,’ said Gentil, who was ignorant of the respectful phraseology current in Paris, accustomed as he was to the free and easy direct speech of the provinces.

  The footman took the poet for a domestic. Lucien opened the note and learned that Madame de Bargeton was spending the day with the Marquise and was going to the Opera that evening; but she told Lucien to be there, for her cousin was allowing her to offer the young poet a seat in her box. The Marquise was delighted to give him this pleasure.

  ‘Louise does love me then! My fears are absurd,’ thought Lucien. ‘She is introducing me to her cousin this very evening.’

  He leapt for joy and decided to make the best of the time separating him from that happy evening. He dashed towards the Tuileries Gardens, with the idea of walking about until it was time to go and dine at Véry’s restaurant. So then we see Lucien in high feather, with springy gait, treading on air, emerging on to the Terrasse des Feuillants, striding through it and studying the people walking along it: pretty women with their admirers, elegant couples arm in arm, greeting one another with a glance as they passed by. What a difference between this terrace and Beaulieu! How much finer than those of Angoulême were the birds on this magnificent perch! It was like the riot of colour blazing forth on ornithological species from India or America compared with the drab plumage of European birds. Lucien spent two hours of torment in the Tuileries: he angrily took stock of his own appearance and condemned it. In the first place, not one of these elegant young men was wearing a cut-away coat: if he saw one at all it was worn by some disreputable old man, or some poor down-at-heel, or a rentier from the Marais quarter, or a commissionaire. Having realized the difference between morning and evening wear, this highly sensitive and keen-sighted poet recognized the ugliness of his own apparel, which was fit only for the rag-bag, the out-of-date cut of his coat, its dubious blue, its outrageously ungainly collar and its tails nearly meeting in front through too long usage; the buttons were rusty and there were tell-tale white lines along the creases. Also his waistcoat was too short and so grotesquely provincial in style that he hastily buttoned up his coat in order to hide it. Lastly, only common people were wearing nankeen trousers. Fashionable people were wearing attractively patterned or immaculately white material! Moreover everyone wore gaitered trousers; the bottoms of his fell in ugly crinkles on the heels of his boots. He wore a white cravat with embroidered ends: his sister had seen Monsieur du Hautoy and Monsieur de Chandour wearing similar ones and had hastened to make some of the same kind for him. Only grave personages, a few aged financiers and austere public officials wore white cravats; worse still, the unhappy native of Angoulême saw a grocer’s errand-boy with a basket on his head passing along the other side of the railings on the pavement of the rue de Rivoli, and he was wearing a cravat with its two ends embroidered by some adoring shop-girl. For Lucien this was like a blow in the chest, that ill-defined organ which is the seat of our emotions and to which, ever since man has had feeling, he lifts his hand in moments of great joy or great grief.

  Lucien’s reaction should not be dismissed as a manifestation of puerility. Rich people who have never known suffering of this kind may certainly think it petty and incredible; but the anguish caused by poverty is no less worthy of attention than the crises which turn life upside-down for the mighty and privileged persons on this earth. For that matter, is not an equal amount of pain felt in both cases? Suffering magnifies everything: suppose it were a question, not of a more or less handsome costume, but of a medal, a distinction or a title. Have not such apparent trifles tormented men in brilliant walks of life? The question of costume, moreover, is one of enormous importance for those who wish to appear to have what they do not have, because that is often the best way of getting it later on. Lucien broke out in a cold sweat at the thought that, the same evening, he was to appear in these clothes before the Marquise d’Espard, a kinswoman of a First Gentleman of the Royal Bedchamber, a woman whose salon was frequented by all sorts of exceptionally illustrious people.

  ‘I look just like an apothecary’s son, a mere shop-assistant!’ he told himself, as he watched the passers-by, graceful, smart, elegant young men of the Faubourg Saint-Germain: all of them having a special cachet, all alike in their trimness of line, their dignity of bearing and their self-confident air; yet all different thanks to the setting each had chosen in order to show himself to advantage. The best points in all of them were brought out by a kind of mise en scène at which the young men of Paris are as skilful as the women. Lucien had inherited from his mother invaluable physical traits which, as he was fully aware, lent him some distinction, but this was only the ore from which the gold had to be extracted. His hair was badly cut. Instead of using flexible whalebone to keep his face well poised, he felt muffled up in his ugly shirt collar and his cravat was too lax to give support to his drooping head. Would any woman have guessed what dainty feet were imprisoned in the ungainly boots he had brought from Angoulême? Would any young man have envied him his slender waist, concealed as it was by the blue sacking he had hitherto taken for a coat? He saw around him exquisite studs on gleaming white shirts:
his were russet-brown! All these elegant gentlemen had beautifully cut gloves while his were fit only for a policeman! One of them toyed with a handsome bejewelled cane, another’s shirt had dainty gold cuff-links at the wrists. Another of them, as he chatted with a lady, twirled a charming riding-whip, and the ample folds of his slightly mud-spattered trousers, his clinking spurs and his small, tight-fitting riding-coat showed that he was about to mount one of the two horses held in check by a diminutive groom. And another was drawing from his waistcoat pocket a watch as flat as a five-franc piece and was keeping his eye on the time like a man who was too early or too late for a rendezvous. At the sight of these fascinating trifles which were something new to Lucien, he became aware of a world in which the superfluous is indispensable, and he shuddered at the thought that he needed enormous capital if he was to play his part as a smart bachelor! The more he admired these young people with their happy, care-free air, the more conscious he grew of his uncouth appearance, that of a man who has no idea where he is making for, wonders where the Palais-Royal is when he is standing in front of it and asks a passer-by the way to the Louvre only to be told: ‘You’re looking at it.’ Lucien saw that a great gulf separated him from such people and was wondering how to cross it, for he wanted to be like these slim young dilettantes of Paris. All these patricians were saluting divinely dressed and divinely beautiful women, women for whom, for the reward of a single kiss, he would have allowed himself to be hacked to pieces like the Countess of Königs-marck’s page. In the dark recesses of his memory Louise, compared with these sovereign creatures, had the lineaments of an old woman. He encountered many ladies who will have their place in nineteenth century history, whose wit, beauty and love intrigues will be no less famed than those of by-gone queens. He saw pass by the ineffable Mademoiselle des Touches, so well known under her pseudonym of Camille Maupin, an eminent writer, as outstanding for her beauty as for her distinction of mind; her name was whispered round by men and women strolling along.

  ‘Ah!’ he thought. ‘There goes poetry incarnate.’

  What was Madame de Bargeton beside this seraph in the splendour of youth, hope and promise, with her soft smile, her dark eyes which were as deep as the heavens and as ardent as the sun! She was laughing and chatting with Madame Firmiani, one of the most charming women in Paris. Certainly a voice was crying within him: ‘Intelligence is the lever which moves the world.’ But another voice insisted that money is the fulcrum of intelligence. He was reluctant to linger among the ruins of his self-esteem at the scene of his discomfiture, so he made his way towards the Palais-Royal after asking his way there, for he did not yet know the topography of his quarter. He went into Véry’s restaurant and, to initiate himself in the pleasures of Paris, ordered such a dinner as might console him in his despondency. A bottle of claret, oysters from Ostend, fish, a partridge, a macaroni dish and fruit were the nee plus ultra of his desires. While savouring this little orgy he bethought himself how he might give proof of his wit that evening in the company of the Marquise d’Espard and redeem the shabbiness of his odd accoutrement by the display of his intellectual wealth. He was torn from his dreams by the bill for his meal which relieved him of the fifty francs which he had thought would carry him a long way in Paris. His dinner had cost him as much as a month’s existence in Angoulême. And so he reverently closed the door of this palace behind him with the idea of never setting foot in it again.

  ‘Eve was right,’ he said to himself as he went through the Stone Gallery on his way home for more money. Trices in Paris are not those of L’Houmeau.’

  As he walked along he admired the tailors’ shops thinking of the fine clothes he had seen that morning. ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll not go to Madame d’Espard’s in such reach-me-downs.’ He ran like a deer to his hotel, rushed upstairs to his room, took three hundred francs and returned to the Palais-Royal to re-equip himself from head to foot. He had noticed shoemakers, linen-drapers, waistcoat-makers and hatters at the Palais-Royal – a dozen shops from which he could pick out the requisites for future elegance. The first tailor he consulted made him try on as many coats as he was ready to sample and persuaded him that they were all in the latest fashion. He emerged with a green coat, white trousers and a fancy waistcoat. The total cost was two hundred francs. He soon found a pair of very elegant and well-fitting boots. After buying all he needed, he summoned a hairdresser to his hotel, to which he had already had his various purchases delivered. At seven in the evening he took a cab to the Opera-House, his hair waved like that of a Saint John in a procession, with a fine waistcoat and cravat, feeling however a little constricted in the close-fitting apparel he was wearing for the first time in his life. Following Madame de Bargeton’s instructions, he asked for the box belonging to the First Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. At the sight of a man whose borrowed elegance made him look like a best man at a wedding, the attendant demanded to see his ticket.

  ‘I haven’t one.’

  ‘Then you can’t come in,’ was the curt reply.

  ‘But I am the guest of Madame d’Espard,’ he said.

  ‘How are we to know?’ said the usher, unable to refrain from exchanging a smile with his fellow ticket-collector.

  At that moment a carriage drew up under the peristyle. A footman, who was unknown to Lucien, pulled down the footboard of a brougham from which two ladies emerged in all their finery. Lucien, unwilling to receive from the ticket-collector an impertinent order to get out of the way, stood aside for the two women.

  ‘This lady is the Marquise d’Espard, whom you claim to know,’ said the ticket-collector ironically.

  Lucien was the more taken aback because Madame de Bargeton did not appear to recognize him in his new plumage. But when he approached her, she gave him a smile and said: ‘Ah! There you are! Splendid! Come along.’

  The box attendants had recovered their gravity. Lucien followed Madame de Bargeton and, as they ascended the vast staircase of the Opera, introduced her Rubempré to her cousin. The First Gentlemen’s box occupies one of the recesses at the back of the auditorium: in it one can see everyone and be seen by everyone. Lucien took a seat behind Madame d’Espard and was happy to be inconspicuous.

  ‘Monsieur de Rubempré,’ said the Marquise in a flattering tone of voice. ‘This is your first visit to the Opera-House. Have a good look round. Take this seat, right in front. You have our permission.’

  Lucien obeyed. The first act of the opera was coming to an end.

  ‘You have made good use of your time,’ Louise whispered to him in the first flush of surprise at Lucien’s transformation.

  Louise had remained the same. Proximity with a woman of fashion, the Marquise d’Espard, a Parisian Madame de Bargeton, was so prejudicial to her, her Parisian brilliance set in such strong relief the imperfections of her country cousin that Lucien, drawing two-fold enlightenment from the beau monde in this pompous assembly and the eminent Marquise, at last saw Anaïs de Nègrepelisse for what she was and as she was seen by the people of Paris: a tall, desiccated woman with freckled skin, faded complexion and strikingly red hair; angular, affected, pretentious, provincial of speech and above all badly dressed! In fact the very pleats of an outmoded Parisian dress can still reveal taste: one can make allowances and visualize it as it once was; but no allowances can be made for a superannuated up-country garment – it invites derision. Both the dress and the woman in it lacked grace and bloom: the mottled velvet went with a mottled complexion. Lucien was ashamed at having loved this cuttle-bone and promised himself to take advantage of Louise’s next access of virtue by dropping her. His excellent eye-sight enabled him to see how many opera-glasses were levelled at their pre-eminently aristocratic box. The most elegant women were obviously scrutinizing Madame de Bargeton, for they were smiling as they chatted to one another. If Madame d’Espard realized from these feminine gestures and smiles who was the butt of their barbed comments, she took absolutely no notice of them. In the first place, everyone must have recognized her c
ompanion as a poor relation from the provinces, and any Parisian family can be similarly afflicted. Moreover, Louise had been discussing clothes with her cousin and expressing some misgivings; the Marquise reassured her, perceiving that Anaïs, once well-dressed, would soon have adopted Parisian manners. If Madame de Bargeton lacked social finesse, she had the native arrogance of a well-born woman and that indefinable something which can be called breeding. The following Monday therefore she would be able to take her revenge. Moreover, once the public had learnt that this women was her cousin, the Marquise knew that it would call a halt to mockery and make further inspection before passing judgement. Lucien could not guess what a change would be made in Louise’s appearance by a graceful stole, an elegant dress, a pretty hair-style and guidance from Madame d’Espard. As they had been going upstairs the Marquise had already told her cousin not to hold her unfolded handkerchief in her hand. Good or bad taste depends on a thousand little niceties of this sort which an intelligent woman readily grasps, but which some women will never understand. Madame de Bargeton, already full of good intentions, had more intelligence than she needed to recognize her shortcomings. Madame d’Espard, feeling sure that her pupil would do her credit, had not disdained to undertake her education. In short, their mutual interests had sealed a pact between them. Madame de Bargeton had promptly dedicated herself to the idol of the day, whose manners, wit and entourage had seduced, dazzled and fascinated her. She had discerned in Madame d’Espard the occult power which a great lady with ambition wields and she had promised herself success if she became the satellite of this star: hence the undisguised admiration she felt for her. The Marquise had been sensible of this naïve adoration and had become interested in her cousin, whom she found so weak and defenceless; it also suited her to have a pupil and to found a school; she asked nothing better than to acquire Madame de Bargeton as a sort of lady in waiting, a docile attendant who would sing her praises – and that is an even rarer treasure for a woman of Paris than a devoted critic is for the literary confraternity. In the meantime the flutter of curiosity was becoming too obvious for the social neophyte not to notice it, and Madame d’Espard tried politely to put her off the scent with regard to this commotion.