Cousin Bette

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘He’s talked about far too much for his own good,’ Lis-beth answered. ‘It unsettles Monsieur. If it was only a matter of my charms carrying the day against the pleasures of Paris, I know my own power, but they say that the Czar Nicholas is anxious to attach an artist of such talent to his own Court, and is going to pardon him.…’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the Baroness.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Hortense asked, with a sudden pang.

  ‘Well,’ the fiendish Bette went on, ‘a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties, his wife, wrote to tell him so, yesterday. And he wants to go. Ah! he would be very foolish to leave France for Russia.…’

  Hortense looked towards her mother, as her head drooped sideways. The Baroness had just time to catch her daughter as she fell fainting, as white as the lace of her fichu.

  ‘Lisbeth! You have killed my girl!’ exclaimed the Baroness. ‘You were born to bring misfortune upon us.’

  ‘Why, how am I to blame for this, Adeline?’ the peasant-woman demanded, rising to her feet menacingly. But, in her anxiety, the Baroness did not notice her.

  ‘I was wrong,’ answered Adeline, supporting Hortense in her arms. ‘Ring the belli’

  At that moment the door opened. The two women simultaneously turned their heads and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook during the parlour maid’s absence.

  ‘Hortense!’ cried the artist, springing towards the three women. And he kissed his love on her forehead before her mother’s eyes, but so reverently that the Baroness could not be angry. For a fainting fit it was a better restorative than smelling-salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and colour returned to her cheeks. In a few moments she had quite recovered.

  ‘So this is what you have been hiding from me?’ said Cousin Bette, smiling at Wenceslas, and appearing to guess the truth from the confusion of her two cousins. ‘How did you contrive to steal my sweetheart?’ she said to Hortense, leading her into the garden.

  Hortense artlessly told her cousin the story of her love. Her mother and father, she said, convinced that Bette would never marry, had permitted Count Steinbock’s visits. Not like a naive girl, however, but with maturity’s complex motives, she attributed to chance the purchase of the group, and the arrival of the artist, who, according to her, had wanted to know the name of his first patron.

  Steinbock came quickly to join the two cousins, to thank the old maid with the utmost warmth for his swift deliverance from prison. To his thanks Lisbeth jesuitically replied that as the creditor had made only vague promises to her, she had not expected to obtain his release until the following day, and that this money-lender must have been ashamed of his petty persecution, and so had no doubt taken the initiative himself. The old maid, moreover, appeared to be pleased, and congratulated Wenceslas upon his good fortune.

  ‘Wicked boy!’ she said, before Hortense and her mother. ‘If you had confessed, two days ago, that you loved my cousin Hortense and were loved by her in return, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess, while, on the contrary, you are going to be my cousin. From now on you will be part of my family. The link is slender, it-is true; but strong enough to justify my affection for you.’

  And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into her cousin’s arms, and burst into tears.

  ‘I owe my happiness to you,’ she said. ‘I will never forget it.’

  ‘Cousin Bette,’ the Baroness added, kissing Lisbeth in the exhilaration of seeing everything turn out so well, ‘the Baron and I owe you a debt, and we will pay it. Come, let us talk these matters over in the garden.’ And she led the way there.

  So Lisbeth was, to all appearances, the family’s good angel. She had everyone at her feet: Crevel, Hulot, Adeline, and Hortense.

  ‘We don’t want you to work any longer,’ said the Baroness. ‘I suppose that you may earn forty sous a day, not counting Sundays: that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, how much have you put away in savings?’

  ‘Four thousand five hundred francs.’

  ‘Poor Cousin!’ said the Baroness.

  She raised her eyes to heaven, she was so moved to think of all the hardships and privations that that sum of money, gathered together through thirty years, represented. Lisbeth misunderstood the nature of the Baroness’s exclamation, saw in it a successful woman’s contempt, and her hatred acquired a new intensity of bitterness, at the very moment when her cousin was abandoning all her mistrust of the tyrant of her childhood.

  ‘We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that,’ Adeline continued, ‘placed in trust, the interest to go to you, the principal to revert to Hortense; so that you will have an income of six hundred francs a year.’

  Lisbeth’s cup was full, or so it seemed. When she returned to the drawing-room, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away happy tears, Hortense told her of all the commissions and favours pouring in on Wenceslas, the darling of the whole family.

  When the Baron came in, therefore, he found his family complete, for the Baroness had formally greeted Count Stein-bock by the name of son and fixed the date of the marriage, subject to her husband’s approval, at a fortnight from that day. As soon as he appeared in the drawing-room, the Councillor of State was taken possession of by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, one anxious to have a word with him in private, the other to throw her arms round him.

  ‘You have gone too far in promising my consent like this, Madame,’ the Baron said severely. ‘This marriage is not made,’ he added, casting a look at Steinbock, whom he saw turn pale.

  The unhappy artist said to himself, ‘He knows of my arrest.’

  ‘Come, children,’ the father said, leading his daughter and proposed son-in-law into the garden; and he took them to sit on one of the moss-grown benches of the summer-house.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as dearly as I loved her mother?’ the Baron asked Wenceslas.

  ‘More dearly, Monsieur,’ said the artist.

  ‘Her mother was the daughter of a peasant, and had no fortune, not a farthing.’

  ‘Give me Mademoiselle Hortense, just as she is, without even a trousseau.…’

  ‘That would be a fine thing I’ said the Baron, smiling. ‘Hortense is the daughter of Baron Hulot d’Ervy, Councillor of State, a Director of the War Office, Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour, brother of Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal and who is shortly to be a Marshal of France. And… she has a dowry…’

  ‘It is true,’ said the lover, ‘that I must appear to be ambitious; but if my dear Hortense were a labourer’s daughter I would marry her.’

  ‘That is what I wanted to hear you say,’ replied the Baron. ‘Run away, Hortense, and let me talk to Monsieur le Comte. You can see that he really loves you.’

  ‘Oh, Father, I knew very well that you were joking,’ answered the happy girl.

  ‘My dear Steinbock,’ said the Baron, with the greatest sweetness and charm, when he was alone with the artist, ‘I made a marriage settlement of two hundred thousand francs on my son, of which the poor boy has not received two farthings: he will never see a penny of it. My daughter’s dowry will be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give me a receipt.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Baron.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the Councillor of State. ‘Will you listen to me, boy? One cannot ask of a son-in-law the self-sacrifice that one expects of a son. My son knew all that I could and would do for his career. He will be a Minister; he will easily find his two hundred thousand francs. As for you, young man, your case is different. You will receive sixty thousand francs invested in five per cent Government stock, in your wife’s name. This sum will be charged with a small annuity to be made to Lisbeth, but she is not likely to live long, she has a weak chest, I know. Don’t mention this to anyone, I’m speaking in confidence; let the poor woman die in peace. My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty
thousand francs, to which her mother will add six thousand francs’ worth of diamonds of her own.’

  ‘Monsieur, you overwhelm me,’ said Steinbock, at a loss for words.

  ‘As for the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs…’

  ‘Don’t say anything further, Monsieur,’ said the artist. ‘All I want is my dear Hortense.’

  ‘Can you restrain your ardour, and let me speak, young man? As for the hundred and twenty thousand francs, I haven’t got the money; but you will receive it.’

  ‘Monsieur!’

  ‘You will receive it from the Government in the form of commissions that I shall obtain for you, I give you my word. You know that you are going to be given a studio at the Marble Depository. Exhibit some good statues, and I will get you elected to the Institut. There’s a certain amount of goodwill in high places towards my brother and me, so I may hope to be successful in obtaining sculpture commissions for you at Versailles worth a quarter of the sum. Then you will get some commissions from the City of Paris, others from the House of Peers. You will have so many, in fact, my dear boy, that you will have to employ assistants. In this way I shall fulfil my obligation to you. Decide whether such a payment of the dowry suits you. Consider whether you are equal to the work.…’

  ‘I feel equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed, without help!’ said the unworldly artist.

  ‘That’s the spirit I love!’ exclaimed the Baron. ‘Glorious youth, confident of itself, and ready to fight the world! I would have routed armies for a wife, myself! Well,’ he went on, shaking the young sculptor’s hand, ‘you have my consent The civil contract next Sunday, and the following Saturday to the altar with you – it’s my wife’s birthday!’

  ‘All is well,’ said the Baroness to her daughter, who was glued to the window. ‘Your future husband and your father are embracing each other.’

  When Wenceslas returned home that evening, the mystery of his release was explained. He found, left with the porter, a large sealed package, containing the file of documents relating to his debt, together with the official discharge, recorded at the bottom of the writ, and the following letter:

  My dear Wenceslas,

  I came to see you this morning, at ten o’clock, in order to arrange your introduction to a Royal Highness who wishes to meet you. Here I learned that the English had carried you off to one of their little islands, whose capital is Clichy’s Castle.

  I at once went to see Léon de Lora, and told him as a joke that you were unable to leave your present territory for want of four thousand francs, and that your future would be compromised if you failed to present yourself to your royal patron. Bridau, a man of genius who has known poverty himself and is aware of your story, luckily happened to be there. Between them, my boy, they raised the money, and I shall pay off the barbarian who committed the crime of contempt of genius in locking you up. As I have to be at the Tuileries at twelve, I shall not be able to wait to see you breathing free air. I know you to be an honourable man. I have answered for you to my two friends; but go to see them tomorrow.

  Léon and Bridau will not want money from you. They will both ask you for a group, and they will be well-advised to do so. That is the opinion of one who would like to be able to call himself your rival, but is just your sincere friend,

  STIDMANN

  P.S. I told the Prince that you would not be returning from your travels until tomorrow, and he said, ‘Very well, tomorrow!’

  Count Wenceslas went to sleep in the purple sheets that Popular Acclaim spreads for us, without one crumpled rose-leaf. That limping goddess walks even more hesitantly towards men of genius than Justice or Fortune, because by Jupiter’s decree she wears no bandage on her eyes. She is easily taken in by charlatans; and their eye-catching display, bright costumes, and blaring trumpets induce her to waste on them the time and money that should be spent on seeking out men of merit, in their obscurity.

  At this point it must be explained how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had managed to raise the money for Hortense’s dowry, and meet the frightening expenses of the delightful flat in which Madame Marneffe was to be installed. The talent shown in his financial manipulations was of the kind that always guides spendthrifts and passion-driven men among the quagmires, where so many perils await them. The devil looks after his own, and to his powers are due those tours de force sometimes achieved by ambitious men, sensualists, and all the other subjects of his kingdom.

  *

  On the previous morning, the old man Johann Fischer, unable to pay back the sum of thirty thousand francs which had been raised in his name for his nephew, found himself faced with the prospect of filing his petition in bankruptcy if the Baron did not repay the money.

  This worthy white-haired old man, seventy years of age, reposed such blind confidence in Hulot, who for this Bona-partist was a ray of Napoleon’s sun, that he was tranquilly passing the time with the bank messenger in the back room of the little ground-floor premises, rented for eight hundred francs a year, from which he carried on his various enterprises in connexion with the supply of grain and forage.

  ‘Marguerite has gone to get the money, not far away,’ he told him.

  The other man, in grey and silver-braided livery, was so well aware of the old Alsatian’s probity that he was ready to leave the bills for thirty thousand francs with him; but the old man made him stay, pointing out that it had not yet struck eight o’clock.

  A cab stopped outside. The old man hurried into the street and held out his hand with sublime confidence to the Baron, who gave him thirty thousand-franc notes.

  ‘Go a few doors further on. I’ll explain why later,’ said old Fischer. ‘Here you are, young man,’ said the old man, returning to count out the money to the bank representative and see him to the door.

  When the bank messenger was out of sight, Fischer beckoned to the cab where his eminent nephew, Napoleon’s right hand, was waiting, and said as they went into the house:

  ‘You don’t want it to be known at the Bank of France that you have paid thirty thousand francs on bills endorsed by you. It’s too bad as it is that they have the signature of a man like you on them!’

  ‘Let’s go to the end of your garden, Uncle Fischer,’ said the high official.’ Your health is sound?’ he began, sitting down in a vine arbour and scrutinizing the old man as a dealer in human beings might scrutinize some substitute to be hired for army service.

  ‘Sound enough to place your money on,’ the thin, seasoned, wiry, bright-eyed little man replied gaily.

  ‘Does a hot climate upset you?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘What do you think of Africa?’

  ‘A fine country! The French were there with the Little Corporal.’

  ‘It may be necessary, for the sake of us all, for you to go to Algeria.’

  ‘What about my business?’

  ‘A War Office official who is retiring and has not enough to live on will buy your business.’

  ‘And what’s to be done in Algeria?’

  ‘I want you to raise Army supplies, grain and forage. I have your commission signed. You will be able to purchase your supplies in the country at seventy per cent less than the price you will return on your accounts to us.’

  ‘The supplies will come from what sources?’

  ‘Raids… levies… from the caliphate. Very little is known about Algeria, although we have been there for the past eight years, but there are vast quantities of grain and forage in the country. When this is in Arab hands, we take it from them under a variety of pretexts; then when we have it, the Arabs do everything in their power to get it from us. There’s a great deal of competition for grain; but it’s never known exactly how much has been stolen, one way or the other. There’s no time in the open country to weigh out wheat by the hectolitre as it’s done in the Paris corn market, or hay as they do it in the rue d’Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our own Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell their produce very cheaply for it. The
Army, on the other hand, has its fixed requirements; so purchases made at exorbitant prices are passed, allowing for the difficulty of procuring supplies and the risks of transport. That’s Algeria from the Army Supply point of view. It’s chaos, made bearable by the underground transactions of all infant administrations. As officials, we shall not be able to see clearly what’s going on there for a dozen years yet, but private individuals have good eyes in their heads; so I am sending you out there to make a fortune. I am placing you there, as Napoleon used to place a poor Marshal in charge of a kingdom where a traffic in smuggled goods could be secretly protected. I am ruined, my dear Fischer. I need a hundred thousand francs within a year.’

  ‘I see no harm in getting it from the Arabs,’ the Alsatian replied tranquilly. ‘That was done under the Empire.…’

  ‘The purchaser of your business will be coming to see you this morning, and will give you ten thousand francs,’ Baron Hulot went on. ‘That’s all you need, isn’t it, to get to Africa?’

  The old man nodded.

  ‘As for funds out there, you need not worry,’ continued the Baron. ‘I shall keep the balance of the payment for your business. I need it.’

  ‘It’s all yours. My life too,’ the old man said.

  ‘Oh! fear nothing,’ answered the Baron, crediting his uncle with greater perspicacity than he possessed; ‘as far as our collecting of levies is concerned, your honour will not be questioned. Everything depends on the central authority, and I myself made the appointments, so I am sure of it. This, Uncle Fischer, is a life-or-death secret. I can trust you: I have spoken to you frankly, without mincing matters.’

  ‘That journey is decided upon,’ said the old man. ‘But for how long?’

  ‘Two years! You will make a hundred thousand francs on your own account, and live happily ever after in the Vosges!’

  ‘It shall be just as you wish. My honour is yours,’ the little old man said, serenely.

  ‘That’s the spirit I like in men. However, you must not go until you have seen your great-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess.’