‘If anyone comes to our box,’ she said, ‘we shall perhaps learn why those ladies are so interested in us.’
‘I strongly suspect it’s my old velvet frock and my rustic appearance that amuses these Parisian ladies,’ said Madame de Bargeton with a laugh.
‘No, it isn’t you. There is some reason which I cannot fathom,’ the Marquise added, with a glance at the poet, whom she now scanned for the first time and whom she seemed to find oddly dressed.
‘There is Monsieur du Châtelet,’ said Lucien at that moment, raising a finger to point towards Madame de Sérizy’s box which the elderly dandy, now completely regroomed, had just entered.
At this gesture Madame de Bargeton bit her lips with vexation, for the Marquise could not refrain from a glance at Lucien and an astonished smile which plainly asked ‘Where was this young man brought up?’, and with so much disdain that Louise felt humiliated in her love – the most mortifying sensation for a Frenchwoman and one she does not forgive her lover for inflicting on her. In the social world trivial things are accorded such importance that a débutante could be ruined by a word or a gesture. The chief merit of fine manners and tone in high company is that they supply a harmonious effect in which everything is so well blended that there is no jarring note. Even those who through ignorance or by blurting out their thoughts break the rules of this science, ought to realize that in this matter a single dissonance, as in music, is a complete negation of the art itself, every canon of which must be meticulously observed if it is to remain an art.
‘Who is that gentleman?’ the Marquise asked, indicating Châtelet. ‘Do you then know Madame de Sérizy already?’
‘Ah! Is she the notorious Madame de Séizy who has had so many adventures and yet is everywhere received?’
‘It’s amazing, my dear,’ replied the Marquise. ‘There is an explanation, but it has not been made! The men most to be reckoned with are friends of hers – but why? No one dares to probe this mystery. – Can that gentleman be the Lion of Angoulême?’
‘Indeed, Monsieur du Châtelet,’ said Anaïs, moved by vanity, now that she was in Paris, to grace her adorer with the title she had herself contested, ‘is a man who has been much talked about. He went with Monsieur de Montriveau on his travels.’
‘Ah!’ observed the Marquise. ‘I never hear that name without thinking of the poor Duchesse de Langeais, who has disappeared from sight like a shooting star.’1
‘There,’ she continued, pointing to another box, ‘are Monsieur de Rastignac and Madame de Nucingen, the wife of a contractor, a banker, a business man, a large-scale broker, a man who imposes himself on Paris society through his wealth – and they say he has no scruples about the means he uses to increase it. He is taking the utmost pains to make people believe he is devoted to the Bourbons and has already tried to get me to receive him. His wife has taken Madame de Langeais’s box, believing that with it she would take over her charm, wit and popularity! As usual, the fable of the jay decking itself with peacock’s feathers!’
‘But how do Monsieur and Madame de Rastignac whose income, as we know in Angoulême, is less than three thousand francs, manage to maintain their son in Paris?’ Lucien asked of Madame de Bargeton in astonishment at the elegance and luxury which this young man’s clothes displayed.
‘It is easy to see that you come from Angoulême,’ the Marquise replied with some irony, while still gazing through her opera-glasses.
Lucien did not understand. His attention was still riveted on the various boxes, and he was able to guess what judgements the occupants were passing on Madame de Bargeton and what curiosity he himself was arousing. Louise for her part was extremely mortified by the little impression her handsome Lucien was making on the Marquise. ‘So he is not so handsome as I thought!’ she said to herself. She had only a further step to take to find him less intelligent as well. The curtain had dropped. Châtelet, who had come to pay a call on the Duchesse de Carigliano in the next box to that of Madame d’Espard, gave a bow to Madame de Bargeton, who replied with a droop of the head. A woman of fashion sees everything, and the Marquise noticed how well-dressed du Châtelet was. At this moment four persons came one by one to the Marquise’s box: four celebrities of Paris.
The first was Monsieur de Marsay, a man famous for the passions he inspired, conspicuous above all for a kind of girlish beauty: beauty of a languid, effeminate kind, though corrected by the way he looked at people: it was a steady look, calm, untamed and unflinching like a tiger’s. He was liked, but he was feared. Lucien was no less good-looking, but his glance was so mild, his blue eyes so limpid that he could not be deemed likely to possess the strength and power by which so many women are attracted. Nor as yet had the poet anything advantageous about him, whereas Henri de Marsay had liveliness of wit, confidence in his ability to please and a style of dress so suited to his temperament that he crushed all rivalry around him. One can imagine what a poor impression Lucien, starched, stilted, stiff and raw like the clothes he was wearing, made in such company. De Marsay had won the right to utter impertinences by the wit he gave to them and the grace of manner which went with them. The welcome extended to him by the Marquise quickly enlightened Madame de Bargeton as to the prestige this personage enjoyed.
The second arrival was one of the two Vandenesse brothers who had occasioned the Lady Dudley scandal,1 a gentle, intelligent, modest young man whose success in society was due to qualities totally different from those on which de Marsay prided himself: he had been warmly recommended to the Marquise by her cousin Madame de Mortsauf. The third was General Montriveau, who had brought about the downfall of the Duchesse de Langeais. The fourth was Monsieur de Canalis, now one of the most illustrious of contemporary poets, a young man then only on the threshold of glory; prouder of his birth than of his talent, he made a pretence of dancing attendance on Madame d’Espard the better to conceal his passion for the Duchesse de Chaulieu. In spite of his airs and graces, already tainted with affectation, one could discern in him the tremendous ambition which later plunged him into the maelstrom of politics. His almost mincing beauty and his flattering smiles scarcely served to disguise the deep-seated egoism and perpetual calculation of a man who had yet to make his way; but the fact of having singled out Madame de Chaulieu, although she was over forty, was at that time putting him in favour at Court and winning him approval from the Faubourg Saint-Germain and insults from the Liberals, who dubbed him a ‘poet of the sacristy’.
When she set eyes on these outstanding figures, Madame de Bargeton no longer wondered why the Marquise was paying little attention to Lucien. Then, when conversation began, when each of these subtle and delicate minds showed its mettle by shafts of wit which had more meaning and depth than anything Anaïs could have heard in a whole month in Angoulême; and particularly when the great poet gave vibrant expression to views which were positive and pertinent and yet had the gilding of poetry, Louise understood what du Châtelet had told her the evening before: Lucien counted for nothing here. Everyone looked on the unhappy stranger with such cruel indifference, his place there was so much that of a foreigner ignorant of the language, that the Marquise took pity on him.
‘Allow me, Monsieur,’ she said to Canalis, ‘to present Monsieur de Rubempré to you. You occupy too high a position in the literary world not to welcome a beginner. Monsieur de Rubempré is from Angoulême, and will no doubt need your sponsorship in his relations with the people in Paris whose mission it is to bring genius to light. As yet he has no enemies to make his fortune by attacking him. Would it not be a novel and worthwhile enterprise to help him to win through friendship what you owe to hostility?’
The four men of mark turned their gaze on Lucien while the Marquise was speaking. Although he was no more than two paces away from the newcomer, de Marsay lifted his monocle to look him over; his glance went from Lucien to Madame de Bargeton and from Madame de Bargeton to Lucien, and he sized them up with a mocking air which cruelly mortified them both; he was studying them w
ith a smile as if they were a pair of curious animals. This smile was like a dagger-thrust to the provincial celebrity. Félix de Vandenesse gave him a kindly look, Montriveau an appraising glance which went right through him.
‘Madame,’ said Monsieur de Canalis with a bow. ‘I shall obey you, despite personal interest which makes us disinclined to favour our rivals; but you have shown us that such miracles are possible.’
‘Very well. Do me the pleasure of dining with me on Monday with Monsieur de Rubempré. At my house you will be more at ease talking of literary matters. I will try to recruit some of the despots and well-known patrons of literature, the authoress of Ourika and a few young poets with sensible views.’
‘Madame la Marquise,’ said de Marsay, ‘if you sponsor Monsieur for his intelligence, I will sponsor him for his good looks. I will give him such advice as will make him the happiest elegant in Paris. After that, let him be a poet if he will.’
Madame de Bargeton thanked her cousin with a glance full of gratitude.
‘I didn’t know you were jealous of intelligent people,’ said Montriveau to de Marsay. ‘Happiness is mortal to poets.’
‘Is that why you are thinking of marrying, Monsieur?’ the latter continued, addressing Canalis in order to see if this shaft would get home to Madame d’Espard. Canalis gave a shrug, and Madame d’Espard, who was a friend of Madame de Chaulieu, merely laughed.
Lucien, whose tight-fitting clothes made him feel like a mummy in its case, was ashamed to have no reply to make. At last he said to the Marquise in a moved tone of voice: ‘Your kindness, Madame, is so great that I am bound to be successful.’
At this moment du Châtelet came in, eager to seize the chance of meeting the Marquise through the support of Montriveau, one of the leaders of Paris society. He bowed to Madame de Bargeton and begged Madame d’Espard to pardon him for taking the liberty of invading her box: he had been so long separated from his travelling companion! This was the first time Montriveau and he had met since they had parted from one another in the heart of the desert.
‘Fancy being parted in the desert and meeting next time in the Opera House!’ said Lucien.
‘A truly theatrical recognition!’ said Canalis.
Montriveau introduced the Baron du Châtelet to the Marquise, who received the former Secretary of Her Imperial Highness’s Commands with a welcome so much the more affable because she had already seen his cordial reception in three other boxes, because Madame de Sérizy only admitted people of good standing, and because he had been Montriveau’s companion. This last qualification was of such great value that Madame de Bargeton was able to observe from the tone of voice, the expression and manners of the four gentlemen that they accepted du Châtelet without question as one of themselves. The reason for Châtelet’s oriental affectations at Angoulême suddenly became clear to Naïs. Finally du Châtelet noticed Lucien and gave him one of those curt, cold nods with which one man disparages another and conveys to fashionable people how very low is the place he occupies in society. His salute was accompanied by a sardonic expression which seemed to say: ‘What strange chance brings him here?’ Du Châtelet’s point went home, for de Marsay leaned towards Montriveau and said in a whisper – but one audible enough to the Baron – ‘Ask him who is that curious young man dressed like a tailor’s dummy.’
Du Châtelet spent a minute or two talking softly to his companion as if he were renewing acquaintanceship with him, and no doubt he slashed his rival to pieces. Lucien was surprised at the ready wit and subtlety with which these men worded their remarks to one another; he was stunned by their sallies and epigrams, and above all by their lack of self-consciousness and ease of manner. That morning the sight of material luxury had reduced him to awe: now he was finding it again in the realm of ideas. He was wondering by what gift for impromptu these people hit on the piquant reflections and repartees which only long meditation would have enabled him to invent. And besides, these five men were not only easy in conversation, but also in the way they wore their clothes, which were neither new nor old. There was nothing gaudy about them and yet everything attracted attention. The luxury they displayed today was that of yesterday and would be the same tomorrow. Lucien sensed that his appearance was that of a man who had dressed up for the first time in his life.
‘My dear,’ de Marsay was saying to Vandenesse, ‘little Rastignac is soaring up like a kite! There he is in the Marquise de Listomère’s box. He’s getting on, he’s even eyeing us through his spy-glass! No doubt he knows you, Monsieur?’ the dandy continued, speaking to Lucien but not looking at him.
‘It is difficult,’ Madame de Bargeton replied, ‘to suppose that the name of the great man of whom we are so proud has not reached his ears: his sister recently heard Monsieur de Rubempré reciting some beautiful poetry to us.’
Félix de Vandenesse and de Marsay made their bow to the Marquise and went to the box occupied by Vandenesse’s sister, Madame de Listomère. The second act began, and they all left the Marquise d’Espard, her cousin and Lucien to themselves. Some of them went to explain Madame de Bargeton to the women who were puzzled about her, the others told of the poet’s arrival and made fun of his clothes. Canalis returned to the Duchesse de Chaulieu and remained there. Lucien was glad of the diversion which the performance provided. All Madame de Bargeton’s fears in regard to Lucien were increased by the attention her cousin had vouchsafed to the Baron du Châtelet, since it was of quite different character from her patronizing politeness to Lucien. During the second act, Madame de Listomère’s box remained crowded and appeared to be the scene of animated conversation about Madame de Bargeton and Lucien. Evidently the youthful Rastignac was the entertaining spirit in this box: he it was who took the lead in that typically Parisian derision which, moving to fresh pastures every day, is in a hurry to exhaust the topic in vogue by turning it into something old and stale in one brief moment. Madame d’Espard was anxious. She knew that the victims of slander are not allowed to remain long in ignorance of it, and she waited for the end of the act. As for Lucien and Madame de Bargeton, when people turn their feelings inwards upon themselves, strange things happen in a short time: the laws determining moral revulsions are rapid in their effects. Louise was remembering the sage and politic remarks du Châtelet had made about Lucien on the way home from the Vaudeville Theatre: every sentence had been a prophecy, and Lucien seemed intent on fulfilling every one of them. Losing his illusions about Madame de Bargeton while Madame de Bargeton was losing hers about him, the unhappy youth, whose destiny was a little like that of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, imitated him in this respect: he was fascinated by Madame d’Espard and fell in love with her immediately. Men who are young or who remember the emotions of their youth, will understand that this passion was extremely likely and natural. The pretty little ways, the delicacy of speech, the refined tone of voice and slender proportions of this woman, so wellborn, so highly placed, so envied, in short this queenly person, made the same impression on the poet as Madame de Bargeton had made on him in Angoulême. His volatile character promptly impelled a desire in him for the protection of so lofty a person, and the surest means for this was to win her as a woman – all the rest would follow! He had been successful in Angoulême: why should he not succeed in Paris? Involuntarily, and despite his new found pleasure in the magic of opera, his glance, attracted by this splendid Céimène, was constantly roving in her direction, and the more he looked at her the more he wanted to go on looking! Madame de Bargeton intercepted one of these glances; she watched him and saw that he was more interested in the Marquise than in the performance. She would have gracefully resigned herself to being deserted for the fifty daughters of Danaus; but when one of his glances, more ambitious, more ardent and more significant than the others, showed her what was going on in Lucien’s mind, she became jealous, though less for the future than because of the past. ‘He has never looked at me like that,’ she thought. ‘Good heavens, Châtelet was right!’ It was then that she realized her mis
take in loving him. When a woman comes to repent of a weakness she passes a sponge as it were over her life in order to wipe everything out. Yet, although every one of Lucien’s glances enraged her, she remained calm.
De Marsay returned at the interval, bringing Monsieur de Listomére with him. The staid Marquis and the young fop soon informed the haughty Marquise that the man got up as for a wedding whom she had been so unfortunate as to admit to her box had no more right to be called Monsieur de Rubempré than a Jew has a right to a Christian name. Lucien was the son of an apothecary named Chardon. Monsieur de Rastignac, well-informed about Angoulême matters, had already roused laughter in the two boxes, directed against that species of mummy whom the Marquise called her cousin and her precautions in taking a pharmacist about with her – no doubt in order that he might keep her artificially alive with drugs. Finally de Marsay retailed some of the thousand and one pleasantries in which Parisians are quick to indulge and which are promptly forgotten as soon as uttered; but behind all this was Châtelet, the begetter of this Carthaginian treachery.
‘My dear,’ Madame d’Espard whispered under her fan to Madame de Bargeton, ‘do tell me: is your protégé’s name really Monsieur de Rubempré?’
‘He has taken his mother’s name,’ said the embarrassed Anaïs.
‘But what is his father’s name?’
‘Chardon.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘He was an apothecary.’
‘I was very sure, my dear friend, that a woman sponsored by me could not be a target for mockery among the best people of Paris. I do not care to have my box filled with wags who are delighted to find me hobnobbing with an apothecary’s son. Believe me, the best thing we can do is to leave together this very instant.’
Lost Illusions Page 22
