Lost Illusions

Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien de Rubempre had left Angouleme behind, and were traveling together upon the road to Paris.  Not one of the party who made that journey alluded to it afterwards; but it may be believed that an infatuated youth who had looked forward to the delights of an elopement, must have found the continual presence of Gentil, the man-servant, and Albertine, the maid, not a little irksome on the way.  Lucien, traveling post for the first time in his life, was horrified to see pretty nearly the whole sum on which he meant to live in Paris for a twelvemonth dropped along the road.  Like other men who combine great intellectual powers with the charming simplicity of childhood, he openly expressed his surprise at the new and wonderful things which he saw, and thereby made a mistake.  A man should study a woman very carefully before he allows her to see his thoughts and emotions as they arise in him.  A woman, whose nature is large as her heart is tender, can smile upon childishness, and make allowances; but let her have ever so small a spice of vanity herself, and she cannot forgive childishness, or littleness, or vanity in her lover.  Many a woman is so extravagant a worshiper that she must always see the god in her idol; but there are yet others who love a man for his sake and not for their own, and adore his failings with his greater qualities.

Lucien had not guessed as yet that Mme. de Bargeton’s love was grafted on pride.  He made another mistake when he failed to discern the meaning of certain smiles which flitted over Louise’s lips from time to time; and instead of keeping himself to himself, he indulged in the playfulness of the young rat emerging from his hole for the first time.

The travelers were set down before daybreak at the sign of the Gaillard-Bois in the Rue de l’Echelle, both so tired out with the journey that Louise went straight to bed and slept, first bidding Lucien to engage the room immediately overhead.  Lucien slept on till four o’clock in the afternoon, when he was awakened by Mme. de Bargeton’s servant, and learning the hour, made a hasty toilet and hurried downstairs.

Louise was sitting in the shabby inn sitting-room.  Hotel accommodation is a blot on the civilization of Paris; for with all its pretensions to elegance, the city as yet does not boast a single inn where a well-to-do traveler can find the surroundings to which he is accustomed at home.  To Lucien’s just-awakened, sleep-dimmed eyes, Louise was hardly recognizable in this cheerless, sunless room, with the shabby window-curtains, the comfortless polished floor, the hideous furniture bought second-hand, or much the worse for wear.

Some people no longer look the same when detached from the background of faces, objects, and surroundings which serve as a setting, without which, indeed, they seem to lose something of their intrinsic worth.  Personality demands its appropriate atmosphere to bring out its values, just as the figures in Flemish interiors need the arrangement of light and shade in which they are placed by the painter’s genius if they are to live for us.  This is especially true of provincials.  Mme. de Bargeton, moreover, looked more thoughtful and dignified than was necessary now, when no barriers stood between her and happiness.

Gentil and Albertine waited upon them, and while they were present Lucien could not complain.  The dinner, sent in from a neighboring restaurant, fell far below the provincial average, both in quantity and quality; the essential goodness of country fare was wanting, and in point of quantity the portions were cut with so strict an eye to business that they savored of short commons.  In such small matters Paris does not show its best side to travelers of moderate fortune.  Lucien waited till the meal was over.  Some change had come over Louise, he thought, but he could not explain it.

And a change had, in fact, taken place.  Events had occurred while he slept; for reflection is an event in our inner history, and Mme. de Bargeton had been reflecting.

About two o’clock that afternoon, Sixte du Chatelet made his appearance in the Rue de l’Echelle and asked for Albertine.  The sleeping damsel was roused, and to her he expressed his wish to speak with her mistress.  Mme. de Bargeton had scarcely time to dress before he came back again.  The unaccountable apparition of M. du Chatelet roused the lady’s curiosity, for she had kept her journey a profound secret, as she thought.  At three o’clock the visitor was admitted.

“I have risked a reprimand from headquarters to follow you,” he said, as he greeted her; “I foresaw coming events.  But if I lose my post for it, YOU, at any rate, shall not be lost.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Mme. de Bargeton.

“I can see plainly that you love Lucien,” he continued, with an air of tender resignation.  “You must love indeed if you can act thus recklessly, and disregard the conventions which you know so well.  Dear adored Nais, can you really imagine that Mme. d’Espard’s salon, or any other salon in Paris, will not be closed to you as soon as it is known that you have fled from Angouleme, as it were, with a young man, especially after the duel between M. de Bargeton and M. de Chandour?  The fact that your husband has gone to the Escarbas looks like a separation.  Under such circumstances a gentleman fights first and afterwards leaves his wife at liberty.  By all means, give M. de Rubempre your love and your countenance; do just as you please; but you must not live in the same house.  If anybody here in Paris knew that you had traveled together, the whole world that you have a mind to see would point the finger at you.

“And, Nais, do not make these sacrifices for a young man whom you have as yet compared with no one else; he, on his side, has been put to no proof; he may forsake you for some Parisienne, better able, as he may fancy, to further his ambitions.  I mean no harm to the man you love, but you will permit me to put your own interests before his, and to beg you to study him, to be fully aware of the serious nature of this step that you are taking.  And, then, if you find all doors closed against you, and that none of the women call upon you, make sure at least that you will feel no regret for all that you have renounced for him.  Be very certain first that he for whom you will have given up so much will always be worthy of your sacrifices and appreciate them.

“Just now,” continued Chatelet, “Mme. d’Espard is the more prudish and particular because she herself is separated from her husband, nobody knows why.  The Navarreins, the Lenoncourts, the Blamont-Chauvrys, and the rest of the relations have all rallied round her; the most strait-laced women are seen at her house, and receive her with respect, and the Marquis d’Espard has been put in the wrong.  The first call that you pay will make it clear to you that I am right; indeed, knowing Paris as I do, I can tell you beforehand that you will no sooner enter the Marquise’s salon than you will be in despair lest she should find out that you are staying at the Gaillard-Bois with an apothecary’s son, though he may wish to be called M. de Rubempre.

“You will have rivals here, women far more astute and shrewd than Amelie; they will not fail to discover who you are, where you are, where you come from, and all that you are doing.  You have counted upon your incognito, I see, but you are one of those women for whom an incognito is out of the question.  You will meet Angouleme at every turn.  There are the deputies from the Charente coming up for the opening of the session; there is the Commandant in Paris on leave.  Why, the first man or woman from Angouleme who happens to see you would cut your career short in a strange fashion.  You would simply be Lucien’s mistress.

“If you need me at any time, I am staying with the Receiver-General in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, two steps away from Mme. d’Espard’s.  I am sufficiently acquainted with the Marechale de Carigliano, Mme. de Serizy, and the President of the Council to introduce you to those houses; but you will meet so many people at Mme. d’Espard’s, that you are not likely to require me.  So far from wishing to gain admittance to this set or that, every one will be longing to make your acquaintance.”

Chatelet talked on; Mme. de Bargeton made no interruption.  She was struck with his perspicacity.  The queen of Angouleme had, in fact, counted upon preserving her incognito.

“You are right, my dear friend,” she said at length; “but what am I to do?”

“Allow me to find suitable furnished lodgings for you,” suggested Chatelet; “that way of living is less expensive than an inn.  You will have a home of your own; and, if you will take my advice, you will sleep in your new rooms this very night.”

“But how did you know my address?” queried she.

“Your traveling carriage is easily recognized; and, besides, I was following you.  At Sevres your postilion told mine that he had brought you here.  Will you permit me to act as your harbinger?  I will write as soon as I have found lodgings.”

“Very well, do so,” said she.  And in those seemingly insignificant words, all was said.  The Baron du Chatelet had spoken the language of worldly wisdom to a woman of the world.  He had made his appearance before her in faultless dress, a neat cab was waiting for him at the door; and Mme. de Bargeton, standing by the window thinking over the position, chanced to see the elderly dandy drive away.

A few moments later Lucien appeared, half awake and hastily dressed.  He was handsome, it is true; but his clothes, his last year’s nankeen trousers, and his shabby tight jacket were ridiculous.  Put Antinous or the Apollo Belvedere himself into a water-carrier’s blouse, and how shall you recognize the godlike creature of the Greek or Roman chisel?  The eyes note and compare before the heart has time to revise the swift involuntary judgment; and the contrast between Lucien and Chatelet was so abrupt that it could not fail to strike Louise.

Towards six o’clock that evening, when dinner was over, Mme. de Bargeton beckoned Lucien to sit beside her on the shabby sofa, covered with a flowered chintz—­a yellow pattern on a red ground.

“Lucien mine,” she said, “don’t you think that if we have both of us done a foolish thing, suicidal for both our interests, it would only be common sense to set matters right?  We ought not to live together in Paris, dear boy, and we must not allow anyone to suspect that we traveled together.  Your career depends so much upon my position that I ought to do nothing to spoil it.  So, to-night, I am going to remove into lodgings near by.  But you will stay on here, we can see each other every day, and nobody can say a word against us.”

And Louise explained conventions to Lucien, who opened wide eyes.  He had still to learn that when a woman thinks better of her folly, she thinks better of her love; but one thing he understood—­he saw that he was no longer the Lucien of Angouleme.  Louise talked of herself, of her interests, her reputation, and of the world; and, to veil her egoism, she tried to make him believe that this was all on his account.  He had no claim upon Louise thus suddenly transformed into Mme. de Bargeton, and, more serious still, he had no power over her.  He could not keep back the tears that filled his eyes.

“If I am your glory,” cried the poet, “you are yet more to me—­you are my one hope, my whole future rests with you.  I thought that if you meant to make my successes yours, you would surely make my adversity yours also, and here we are going to part already.”

“You are judging my conduct,” said she; “you do not love me.”

Lucien looked at her with such a dolorous expression, that in spite of herself, she said: 

“Darling, I will stay if you like.  We shall both be ruined, we shall have no one to come to our aid.  But when we are both equally wretched, and every one shuts their door upon us both, when failure (for we must look all possibilities in the face), when failure drives us back to the Escarbas, then remember, love, that I foresaw the end, and that at the first I proposed that we should make your way by conforming to established rules.”

“Louise,” he cried, with his arms around her, “you are wise; you frighten me!  Remember that I am a child, that I have given myself up entirely to your dear will.  I myself should have preferred to overcome obstacles and win my way among men by the power that is in me; but if I can reach the goal sooner through your aid, I shall be very glad to owe all my success to you.  Forgive me!  You mean so much to me that I cannot help fearing all kinds of things; and, for me, parting means that desertion is at hand, and desertion is death.”

“But, my dear boy, the world’s demands are soon satisfied,” returned she.  “You must sleep here; that is all.  All day long you will be with me, and no one can say a word.”

A few kisses set Lucien’s mind completely at rest.  An hour later Gentil brought in a note from Chatelet.  He told Mme. de Bargeton that he had found lodgings for her in the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg.  Mme. de Bargeton informed herself of the exact place, and found that it was not very far from the Rue de l’Echelle.  “We shall be neighbors,” she told Lucien.

Two hours afterwards Louise stepped into the hired carriage sent by Chatelet for the removal to the new rooms.  The apartments were of the class that upholsterers furnish and let to wealthy deputies and persons of consideration on a short visit to Paris—­showy and uncomfortable.  It was eleven o’clock when Lucien returned to his inn, having seen nothing as yet of Paris except the part of the Rue Saint-Honore which lies between the Rue Neuve-de-Luxembourg and the Rue de l’Echelle.  He lay down in his miserable little room, and could not help comparing it in his own mind with Louise’s sumptuous apartments.

Just as he came away the Baron du Chatelet came in, gorgeously arrayed in evening dress, fresh from the Minister for Foreign Affairs, to inquire whether Mme. de Bargeton was satisfied with all that he had done on her behalf.  Nais was uneasy.  The splendor was alarming to her mind.  Provincial life had reacted upon her; she was painfully conscientious over her accounts, and economical to a degree that is looked upon as miserly in Paris.  She had brought with her twenty thousand francs in the shape of a draft on the Receiver-General, considering that the sum would more than cover the expenses of four years in Paris; she was afraid already lest she should not have enough, and should run into debt; and now Chatelet told her that her rooms would only cost six hundred francs per month.

“A mere trifle,” added he, seeing that Nais was startled.  “For five hundred francs a month you can have a carriage from a livery stable; fifty louis in all.  You need only think of your dress.  A woman moving in good society could not well do less; and if you mean to obtain a Receiver-General’s appointment for M. de Bargeton, or a post in the Household, you ought not to look poverty-stricken.  Here, in Paris, they only give to the rich.  It is most fortunate that you brought Gentil to go out with you, and Albertine for your own woman, for servants are enough to ruin you here.  But with your introductions you will seldom be home to a meal.”

Mme. de Bargeton and the Baron de Chatelet chatted about Paris.  Chatelet gave her all the news of the day, the myriad nothings that you are bound to know, under penalty of being a nobody.  Before very long the Baron also gave advice as to shopping, recommending Herbault for toques and Juliette for hats and bonnets; he added the address of a fashionable dressmaker to supersede Victorine.  In short, he made the lady see the necessity of rubbing off Angouleme.  Then he took his leave after a final flash of happy inspiration.

“I expect I shall have a box at one of the theatres to-morrow,” he remarked carelessly; “I will call for you and M. de Rubempre, for you must allow me to do the honors of Paris.”

“There is more generosity in his character than I thought,” said Mme. de Bargeton to herself when Lucien was included in the invitation.

In the month of June ministers are often puzzled to know what to do with boxes at the theatre; ministerialist deputies and their constituents are busy in their vineyards or harvest fields, and their more exacting acquaintances are in the country or traveling about; so it comes to pass that the best seats are filled at this season with heterogeneous theatre-goers, never seen at any other time of year, and the house is apt to look as if it were tapestried with very shabby material.  Chatelet had thought already that this was his opportunity of giving Nais the amusements which provincials crave most eagerly, and that with very little expense.

The next morning, the very first morning in Paris, Lucien went to the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg and found that Louise had gone out.  She had gone to make some indispensable purchases, to take counsel of the mighty and illustrious authorities in the matter of the feminine toilette, pointed out to her by Chatelet, for she had written to tell the Marquise d’Espard of her arrival.  Mme. de Bargeton possessed the self-confidence born of a long habit of rule, but she was exceedingly afraid of appearing to be provincial.  She had tact enough to know how greatly the relations of women among themselves depend upon first impressions; and though she felt that she was equal to taking her place at once in such a distinguished set as Mme. de d’Espard’s, she felt also that she stood in need of goodwill at her first entrance into society, and was resolved, in the first place, that she would leave nothing undone to secure success.  So she felt boundlessly thankful to Chatelet for pointing out these ways of putting herself in harmony with the fashionable world.

A singular chance so ordered it that the Marquise was delighted to find an opportunity of being useful to a connection of her husband’s family.  The Marquis d’Espard had withdrawn himself without apparent reason from society, and ceased to take any active interest in affairs, political or domestic.  His wife, thus left mistress of her actions, felt the need of the support of public opinion, and was glad to take the Marquis’ place and give her countenance to one of her husband’s relations.  She meant to be ostentatiously gracious, so as to put her husband more evidently in the wrong; and that very day she wrote, “Mme. de Bargeton nee Negrepelisse” a charming billet, one of the prettily worded compositions of which time alone can discover the emptiness.

“She was delighted that circumstances had brought a relative, of whom she had heard, whose acquaintance she had desired to make, into closer connection with her family.  Friendships in Paris were not so solid but that she longed to find one more to love on earth; and if this might not be, there would only be one more illusion to bury with the rest.  She put herself entirely at her cousin’s disposal.  She would have called upon her if indisposition had not kept her to the house, and she felt that she lay already under obligations to the cousin who had thought of her.”

Lucien, meanwhile, taking his first ramble along the Rue de la Paix and through the Boulevards, like all newcomers, was much more interested in the things that he saw than in the people he met.  The general effect of Paris is wholly engrossing at first.  The wealth in the shop windows, the high houses, the streams of traffic, the contrast everywhere between the last extremes of luxury and want struck him more than anything else.  In his astonishment at the crowds of strange faces, the man of imaginative temper felt as if he himself had shrunk, as it were, immensely.  A man of any consequence in his native place, where he cannot go out but he meets with some recognition of his importance at every step, does not readily accustom himself to the sudden and total extinction of his consequence.  You are somebody in your own country, in Paris you are nobody.  The transition between the first state and the last should be made gradually, for the too abrupt fall is something like annihilation.  Paris could not fail to be an appalling wilderness for a young poet, who looked for an echo for all his sentiments, a confidant for all his thoughts, a soul to share his least sensations.

Lucien had not gone in search of his luggage and his best blue coat; and painfully conscious of the shabbiness, to say no worse, of his clothes, he went to Mme. de Bargeton, feeling that she must have returned.  He found the Baron du Chatelet, who carried them both off to dinner at the Rocher de Cancale.  Lucien’s head was dizzy with the whirl of Paris, the Baron was in the carriage, he could say nothing to Louise, but he squeezed her hand, and she gave a warm response to the mute confidence.

After dinner Chatelet took his guests to the Vaudeville.  Lucien, in his heart, was not over well pleased to see Chatelet again, and cursed the chance that had brought the Baron to Paris.  The Baron said that ambition had brought him to town; he had hopes of an appointment as secretary-general to a government department, and meant to take a seat in the Council of State as Master of Requests.  He had come to Paris to ask for fulfilment of the promises that had been given him, for a man of his stamp could not be expected to remain a comptroller all his life; he would rather be nothing at all, and offer himself for election as deputy, or re-enter diplomacy.  Chatelet grew visibly taller; Lucien dimly began to recognize in this elderly beau the superiority of the man of the world who knows Paris; and, most of all, he felt ashamed to owe his evening’s amusement to his rival.  And while the poet looked ill at ease and awkward Her Royal Highness’ ex-secretary was quite in his element.  He smiled at his rival’s hesitations, at his astonishment, at the questions he put, at the little mistakes which the latter ignorantly made, much as an old salt laughs at an apprentice who has not found his sea legs; but Lucien’s pleasure at seeing a play for the first time in Paris outweighed the annoyance of these small humiliations.

That evening marked an epoch in Lucien’s career; he put away a good many of his ideas as to provincial life in the course of it.  His horizon widened; society assumed different proportions.  There were fair Parisiennes in fresh and elegant toilettes all about him; Mme. de Bargeton’s costume, tolerably ambitious though it was, looked dowdy by comparison; the material, like the fashion and the color, was out of date.  That way of arranging her hair, so bewitching in Angouleme, looked frightfully ugly here among the daintily devised coiffures which he saw in every direction.

“Will she always look like that?” said he to himself, ignorant that the morning had been spent in preparing a transformation.

In the provinces comparison and choice are out of the question; when a face has grown familiar it comes to possess a certain beauty that is taken for granted.  But transport the pretty woman of the provinces to Paris, and no one takes the slightest notice of her; her prettiness is of the comparative degree illustrated by the saying that among the blind the one-eyed are kings.  Lucien’s eyes were now busy comparing Mme. de Bargeton with other women, just as she herself had contrasted him with Chatelet on the previous day.  And Mme. de Bargeton, on her part, permitted herself some strange reflections upon her lover.  The poet cut a poor figure notwithstanding his singular beauty.  The sleeves of his jacket were too short; with his ill-cut country gloves and a waistcoat too scanty for him, he looked prodigiously ridiculous, compared with the young men in the balcony—­“positively pitiable,” thought Mme. de Bargeton.  Chatelet, interested in her without presumption, taking care of her in a manner that revealed a profound passion; Chatelet, elegant, and as much at home as an actor treading the familiar boards of his theatre, in two days had recovered all the ground lost in the past six months.

Ordinary people will not admit that our sentiments towards each other can totally change in a moment, and yet certain it is, that two lovers not seldom fly apart even more quickly than they drew together.  In Mme. de Bargeton and in Lucien a process of disenchantment was at work; Paris was the cause.  Life had widened out before the poet’s eyes, as society came to wear a new aspect for Louise.  Nothing but an accident now was needed to sever finally the bond that united them; nor was that blow, so terrible for Lucien, very long delayed.

Mme. de Bargeton set Lucien down at his inn, and drove home with Chatelet, to the intense vexation of the luckless lover.

“What will they say about me?” he wondered, as he climbed the stairs to his dismal room.

“That poor fellow is uncommonly dull,” said Chatelet, with a smile, when the door was closed.

“That is the way with those who have a world of thoughts in their heart and brain.  Men who have so much in them to give out in great works long dreamed of, profess a certain contempt for conversation, a commerce in which the intellect spends itself in small change,” returned the haughty Negrepelisse.  She still had courage to defend Lucien, but less for Lucien’s sake than for her own.

“I grant it you willingly,” replied the Baron, “but we live with human beings and not with books.  There, dear Nais!  I see how it is, there is nothing between you yet, and I am delighted that it is so.  If you decide to bring an interest of a kind hitherto lacking into your life, let it not be this so-called genius, I implore you.  How if you have made a mistake?  Suppose that in a few days’ time, when you have compared him with men whom you will meet, men of real ability, men who have distinguished themselves in good earnest; suppose that you should discover, dear and fair siren, that it is no lyre-bearer that you have borne into port on your dazzling shoulders, but a little ape, with no manners and no capacity; a presumptuous fool who may be a wit in L’Houmeau, but turns out a very ordinary specimen of a young man in Paris?  And, after all, volumes of verse come out every week here, the worst of them better than all M. Chardon’s poetry put together.  For pity’s sake, wait and compare!  To-morrow, Friday, is Opera night,” he continued as the carriage turned into the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg; “Mme. d’Espard has the box of the First Gentlemen of the Chamber, and will take you, no doubt.  I shall go to Mme. de Serizy’s box to behold you in your glory.  They are giving Les Danaides.”

“Good-bye,” said she.

Next morning Mme. de Bargeton tried to arrange a suitable toilette in which to call on her cousin, Mme. d’Espard.  The weather was rather chilly.  Looking through the dowdy wardrobe from Angouleme, she found nothing better than a certain green velvet gown, trimmed fantastically enough.  Lucien, for his part, felt that he must go at once for his celebrated blue best coat; he felt aghast at the thought of his tight jacket, and determined to be well dressed, lest he should meet the Marquise d’Espard or receive a sudden summons to her house.  He must have his luggage at once, so he took a cab, and in two hours’ time spent three or four francs, matter for much subsequent reflection on the scale of the cost of living in Paris.  Having dressed himself in his best, such as it was, he went to the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg, and on the doorstep encountered Gentil in company with a gorgeously be-feathered chasseur.

“I was just going round to you, sir, madame gave me a line for you,” said Gentil, ignorant of Parisian forms of respect, and accustomed to homely provincial ways.  The chasseur took the poet for a servant.

Lucien tore open the note, and learned that Mme. de Bargeton had gone to spend the day with the Marquise d’Espard.  She was going to the Opera in the evening, but she told Lucien to be there to meet her.  Her cousin permitted her to give him a seat in her box.  The Marquise d’Espard was delighted to procure the young poet that pleasure.

“Then she loves me! my fears were all nonsense!” said Lucien to himself.  “She is going to present me to her cousin this very evening.”

He jumped for joy.  He would spend the day that separated him from the happy evening as joyously as might be.  He dashed out in the direction of the Tuileries, dreaming of walking there until it was time to dine at Very’s.  And now, behold Lucien frisking and skipping, light of foot because light of heart, on his way to the Terrasse des Feuillants to take a look at the people of quality on promenade there.  Pretty women walk arm-in-arm with men of fashion, their adorers, couples greet each other with a glance as they pass; how different it is from the terrace at Beaulieu!  How far finer the birds on this perch than the Angouleme species!  It is as if you beheld all the colors that glow in the plumage of the feathered tribes of India and America, instead of the sober European families.

Those were two wretched hours that Lucien spent in the Garden of the Tuileries.  A violent revulsion swept through him, and he sat in judgment upon himself.

In the first place, not a single one of these gilded youths wore a swallow-tail coat.  The few exceptions, one or two poor wretches, a clerk here and there, an annuitant from the Marais, could be ruled out on the score of age; and hard upon the discovery of a distinction between morning and evening dress, the poet’s quick sensibility and keen eyes saw likewise that his shabby old clothes were not fit to be seen; the defects in his coat branded that garment as ridiculous; the cut was old-fashioned, the color was the wrong shade of blue, the collar outrageously ungainly, the coat tails, by dint of long wear, overlapped each other, the buttons were reddened, and there were fatal white lines along the seams.  Then his waistcoat was too short, and so grotesquely provincial, that he hastily buttoned his coat over it; and, finally, no man of any pretension to fashion wore nankeen trousers.  Well-dressed men wore charming fancy materials or immaculate white, and every one had straps to his trousers, while the shrunken hems of Lucien’s nether garments manifested a violent antipathy for the heels of boots which they wedded with obvious reluctance.  Lucien wore a white cravat with embroidered ends; his sister had seen that M. du Hautoy and M. de Chandour wore such things, and hastened to make similar ones for her brother.  Here, no one appeared to wear white cravats of a morning except a few grave seniors, elderly capitalists, and austere public functionaries, until, in the street on the other side of the railings, Lucien noticed a grocer’s boy walking along the Rue de Rivoli with a basket on his head; him the man of Angouleme detected in the act of sporting a cravat, with both ends adorned by the handiwork of some adored shop-girl.  The sight was a stab to Lucien’s breast; penetrating straight to that organ as yet undefined, the seat of our sensibility, the region whither, since sentiment has had any existence, the sons of men carry their hands in any excess of joy or anguish.  Do not accuse this chronicle of puerility.  The rich, to be sure, never having experienced sufferings of this kind, may think them incredibly petty and small; but the agonies of less fortunate mortals are as well worth our attention as crises and vicissitudes in the lives of the mighty and privileged ones of earth.  Is not the pain equally great for either?  Suffering exalts all things.  And, after all, suppose that we change the terms and for a suit of clothes, more or less fine, put instead a ribbon, or a star, or a title; have not brilliant careers been tormented by reason of such apparent trifles as these?  Add, moreover, that for those people who must seem to have that which they have not, the question of clothes is of enormous importance, and not unfrequently the appearance of possession is the shortest road to possession at a later day.

A cold sweat broke out over Lucien as he bethought himself that to-night he must make his first appearance before the Marquise in this dress—­the Marquise d’Espard, relative of a First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, a woman whose house was frequented by the most illustrious among illustrious men in every field.

“I look like an apothecary’s son, a regular shop-drudge,” he raged inwardly, watching the youth of the Faubourg Saint-Germain pass under his eyes; graceful, spruce, fashionably dressed, with a certain uniformity of air, a sameness due to a fineness of contour, and a certain dignity of carriage and expression; though, at the same time, each one differed from the rest in the setting by which he had chosen to bring his personal characteristics into prominence.  Each one made the most of his personal advantages.  Young men in Paris understand the art of presenting themselves quite as well as women.  Lucien had inherited from his mother the invaluable physical distinction of race, but the metal was still in the ore, and not set free by the craftsman’s hand.

His hair was badly cut.  Instead of holding himself upright with an elastic corset, he felt that he was cooped up inside a hideous shirt-collar; he hung his dejected head without resistance on the part of a limp cravat.  What woman could guess that a handsome foot was hidden by the clumsy boots which he had brought from Angouleme?  What young man could envy him his graceful figure, disguised by the shapeless blue sack which hitherto he had mistakenly believed to be a coat?  What bewitching studs he saw on those dazzling white shirt fronts, his own looked dingy by comparison; and how marvelously all these elegant persons were gloved, his own gloves were only fit for a policeman!  Yonder was a youth toying with a cane exquisitely mounted; there, another with dainty gold studs in his wristbands.  Yet another was twisting a charming riding-whip while he talked with a woman; there were specks of mud on the ample folds of his white trousers, he wore clanking spurs and a tight-fitting jacket, evidently he was about to mount one of the two horses held by a hop-o’-my-thumb of a tiger.  A young man who went past drew a watch no thicker than a five-franc piece from his pocket, and looked at it with the air of a person who is either too early or too late for an appointment.

Lucien, seeing these petty trifles, hitherto unimagined, became aware of a whole world of indispensable superfluities, and shuddered to think of the enormous capital needed by a professional pretty fellow!  The more he admired these gay and careless beings, the more conscious he grew of his own outlandishness; he knew that he looked like a man who has no idea of the direction of the streets, who stands close to the Palais Royal and cannot find it, and asks his way to the Louvre of a passer-by, who tells him, “Here you are.”  Lucien saw a great gulf fixed between him and this new world, and asked himself how he might cross over, for he meant to be one of these delicate, slim youths of Paris, these young patricians who bowed before women divinely dressed and divinely fair.  For one kiss from one of these, Lucien was ready to be cut in pieces like Count Philip of Konigsmark.  Louise’s face rose up somewhere in the shadowy background of memory—­compared with these queens, she looked like an old woman.  He saw women whose names will appear in the history of the nineteenth century, women no less famous than the queens of past times for their wit, their beauty, or their lovers; one who passed was the heroine Mlle. des Touches, so well known as Camille Maupin, the great woman of letters, great by her intellect, great no less by her beauty.  He overheard the name pronounced by those who went by.

“Ah!” he thought to himself, “she is Poetry.”

What was Mme. de Bargeton in comparison with this angel in all the glory of youth, and hope, and promise of the future, with that sweet smile of hers, and the great dark eyes with all heaven in them, and the glowing light of the sun?  She was laughing and chatting with Mme. Firmiani, one of the most charming women in Paris.  A voice indeed cried, “Intellect is the lever by which to move the world,” but another voice cried no less loudly that money was the fulcrum.

He would not stay any longer on the scene of his collapse and defeat, and went towards the Palais Royal.  He did not know the topography of his quarter yet, and was obliged to ask his way.  Then he went to Very’s and ordered dinner by way of an initiation into the pleasures of Paris, and a solace for his discouragement.  A bottle of Bordeaux, oysters from Ostend, a dish of fish, a partridge, a dish of macaroni and dessert,—­this was the ne plus ultra of his desire.  He enjoyed this little debauch, studying the while how to give the Marquise d’Espard proof of his wit, and redeem the shabbiness of his grotesque accoutrements by the display of intellectual riches.  The total of the bill drew him down from these dreams, and left him the poorer by fifty of the francs which were to have gone such a long way in Paris.  He could have lived in Angouleme for a month on the price of that dinner.  Wherefore he closed the door of the palace with awe, thinking as he did so that he should never set foot in it again.

“Eve was right,” he said to himself, as he went back under the stone arcading for some more money.  “There is a difference between Paris prices and prices in L’Houmeau.”

He gazed in at the tailors’ windows on the way, and thought of the costumes in the Garden of the Tuileries.

“No,” he exclaimed, “I will not appear before Mme. d’Espard dressed out as I am.”

He fled to his inn, fleet as a stag, rushed up to his room, took out a hundred crowns, and went down again to the Palais Royal, where his future elegance lay scattered over half a score of shops.  The first tailor whose door he entered tried as many coats upon him as he would consent to put on, and persuaded his customer that all were in the very latest fashion.  Lucien came out the owner of a green coat, a pair of white trousers, and a “fancy waistcoat,” for which outfit he gave two hundred francs.  Ere long he found a very elegant pair of ready-made shoes that fitted his foot; and, finally, when he had made all necessary purchases, he ordered the tradespeople to send them to his address, and inquired for a hairdresser.  At seven o’clock that evening he called a cab and drove away to the Opera, curled like a Saint John of a Procession Day, elegantly waistcoated and gloved, but feeling a little awkward in this kind of sheath in which he found himself for the first time.

In obedience to Mme. de Bargeton’s instructions, he asked for the box reserved for the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.  The man at the box office looked at him, and beholding Lucien in all the grandeur assumed for the occasion, in which he looked like a best man at a wedding, asked Lucien for his order.

“I have no order.”

“Then you cannot go in,” said the man at the box office drily.

“But I belong to Mme. d’Espard’s party.”

“It is not our business to know that,” said the man, who could not help exchanging a barely perceptible smile with his colleague.

A carriage stopped under the peristyle as he spoke.  A chasseur, in a livery which Lucien did not recognize, let down the step, and two women in evening dress came out of the brougham.  Lucien had no mind to lay himself open to an insolent order to get out of the way from the official.  He stepped aside to let the two ladies pass.

“Why, that lady is the Marquise d’Espard, whom you say you know, sir,” said the man ironically.

Lucien was so much the more confounded because Mme. de Bargeton did not seem to recognize him in his new plumage; but when he stepped up to her, she smiled at him and said: 

“This has fallen out wonderfully—­come!”

The functionaries at the box office grew serious again as Lucien followed Mme. de Bargeton.  On their way up the great staircase the lady introduced M. de Rubempre to her cousin.  The box belonging to the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber is situated in one of the angles at the back of the house, so that its occupants see and are seen all over the theatre.  Lucien took his seat on a chair behind Mme. de Bargeton, thankful to be in the shadow.

“M. de Rubempre,” said the Marquise with flattering graciousness, “this is your first visit to the Opera, is it not?  You must have a view of the house; take this seat, sit in front of the box; we give you permission.”

Lucien obeyed as the first act came to an end.

“You have made good use of your time,” Louise said in his ear, in her first surprise at the change in his appearance.

Louise was still the same.  The near presence of the Marquise d’Espard, a Parisian Mme. de Bargeton, was so damaging to her; the brilliancy of the Parisienne brought out all the defects in her country cousin so clearly by contrast; that Lucien, looking out over the fashionable audience in the superb building, and then at the great lady, was twice enlightened, and saw poor Anais de Negrepelisse as she really was, as Parisians saw her—­a tall, lean, withered woman, with a pimpled face and faded complexion; angular, stiff, affected in her manner; pompous and provincial in her speech; and, and above all these things, dowdily dressed.  As a matter of fact, the creases in an old dress from Paris still bear witness to good taste, you can tell what the gown was meant for; but an old dress made in the country is inexplicable, it is a thing to provoke laughter.  There was neither charm nor freshness about the dress or its wearer; the velvet, like the complexion had seen wear.  Lucien felt ashamed to have fallen in love with this cuttle-fish bone, and vowed that he would profit by Louise’s next fit of virtue to leave her for good.  Having an excellent view of the house, he could see the opera-glasses pointed at the aristocratic box par excellence.  The best-dressed women must certainly be scrutinizing Mme. de Bargeton, for they smiled and talked among themselves.

If Mme. d’Espard knew the object of their sarcasms from those feminine smiles and gestures, she was perfectly insensible to them.  In the first place, anybody must see that her companion was a poor relation from the country, an affliction with which any Parisian family may be visited.  And, in the second, when her cousin had spoken to her of her dress with manifest misgivings, she had reassured Anais, seeing that, when once properly dressed, her relative would very easily acquire the tone of Parisian society.  If Mme. de Bargeton needed polish, on the other hand she possessed the native haughtiness of good birth, and that indescribable something which may be called “pedigree.”  So, on Monday her turn would come.  And, moreover, the Marquise knew that as soon as people learned that the stranger was her cousin, they would suspend their banter and look twice before they condemned her.