Lost Illusions

M. de Chatelet—­he began life as plain Sixte Chatelet, but since 1806 had the wit to adopt the particle—­M. du Chatelet was one of the agreeable young men who escaped conscription after conscription by keeping very close to the Imperial sun.  He had begun his career as private secretary to an Imperial Highness, a post for which he possessed every qualification.  Personable and of a good figure, a clever billiard-player, a passable amateur actor, he danced well, and excelled in most physical exercises; he could, moreover, sing a ballad and applaud a witticism.  Supple, envious, never at a loss, there was nothing that he did not know—­nothing that he really knew.  He knew nothing, for instance, of music, but he could sit down to the piano and accompany, after a fashion, a woman who consented after much pressing to sing a ballad learned by heart in a month of hard practice.  Incapable though he was of any feeling for poetry, he would boldly ask permission to retire for ten minutes to compose an impromptu, and return with a quatrain, flat as a pancake, wherein rhyme did duty for reason.  M. du Chatelet had besides a very pretty talent for filling in the ground of the Princess’ worsted work after the flowers had been begun; he held her skeins of silk with infinite grace, entertained her with dubious nothings more or less transparently veiled.  He was ignorant of painting, but he could copy a landscape, sketch a head in profile, or design a costume and color it.  He had, in short, all the little talents that a man could turn to such useful account in times when women exercised more influence in public life than most people imagine.  Diplomacy he claimed to be his strong point; it usually is with those who have no knowledge, and are profound by reason of their emptiness; and, indeed, this kind of skill possesses one signal advantage, for it can only be displayed in the conduct of the affairs of the great, and when discretion is the quality required, a man who knows nothing can safely say nothing, and take refuge in a mysterious shake of the head; in fact; the cleverest practitioner is he who can swim with the current and keep his head well above the stream of events which he appears to control, a man’s fitness for this business varying inversely as his specific gravity.  But in this particular art or craft, as in all others, you shall find a thousand mediocrities for one man of genius; and in spite of Chatelet’s services, ordinary and extraordinary, Her Imperial Highness could not procure a seat in the Privy Council for her private secretary; not that he would not have made a delightful Master of Requests, like many another, but the Princess was of the opinion that her secretary was better placed with her than anywhere else in the world.  He was made a Baron, however, and went to Cassel as envoy-extraordinary, no empty form of words, for he cut a very extraordinary figure there—­Napoleon used him as a diplomatic courier in the thick of a European crisis.  Just as he had been promised the post of minister to Jerome in Westphalia, the Empire fell to pieces; and balked of his ambassade de famille as he called it, he went off in despair to Egypt with General de Montriveau.  A strange chapter of accidents separated him from his traveling companion, and for two long years Sixte du Chatelet led a wandering life among the Arab tribes of the desert, who sold and resold their captive—­his talents being not of the slightest use to the nomad tribes.  At length, about the time that Montriveau reached Tangier, Chatelet found himself in the territory of the Imam of Muscat, had the luck to find an English vessel just about to set sail, and so came back to Paris a year sooner than his sometime companion.  Once in Paris, his recent misfortunes, and certain connections of long standing, together with services rendered to great persons now in power, recommended him to the President of the Council, who put him in M. de Barante’s department until such time as a controllership should fall vacant.  So the part that M. du Chatelet once had played in the history of the Imperial Princess, his reputation for success with women, the strange story of his travels and sufferings, all awakened the interest of the ladies of Angouleme.

M. le Baron Sixte du Chatelet informed himself as to the manners and customs of the upper town, and took his cue accordingly.  He appeared on the scene as a jaded man of the world, broken in health, and weary in spirit.  He would raise his hand to his forehead at all seasons, as if pain never gave him a moment’s respite, a habit that recalled his travels and made him interesting.  He was on visiting terms with the authorities—­the general in command, the prefect, the receiver-general, and the bishop but in every house he was frigid, polite, and slightly supercilious, like a man out of his proper place awaiting the favors of power.  His social talents he left to conjecture, nor did they lose anything in reputation on that account; then when people began to talk about him and wish to know him, and curiosity was still lively; when he had reconnoitred the men and found them nought, and studied the women with the eyes of experience in the cathedral for several Sundays, he saw that Mme. de.  Bargeton was the person with whom it would be best to be on intimate terms.  Music, he thought, should open the doors of a house where strangers were never received.  Surreptitiously he procured one of Miroir’s Masses, learned it upon the piano; and one fine Sunday when all Angouleme went to the cathedral, he played the organ, sent those who knew no better into ecstasies over the performance, and stimulated the interest felt in him by allowing his name to slip out through the attendants.  As he came out after mass, Mme. de Bargeton complimented him, regretting that she had no opportunity of playing duets with such a musician; and naturally, during an interview of her own seeking, he received the passport, which he could not have obtained if he had asked for it.

So the adroit Baron was admitted to the circle of the queen of Angouleme, and paid her marked attention.  The elderly beau—­he was forty-five years old—­saw that all her youth lay dormant and ready to revive, saw treasures to be turned to account, and possibly a rich widow to wed, to say nothing of expectations; it would be a marriage into the family of Negrepelisse, and for him this meant a family connection with the Marquise d’Espard, and a political career in Paris.  Here was a fair tree to cultivate in spite of the ill-omened, unsightly mistletoe that grew thick upon it; he would hang his fortunes upon it, and prune it, and wait till he could gather its golden fruit.

High-born Angouleme shrieked against the introduction of a Giaour into the sanctuary, for Mme. de Bargeton’s salon was a kind of holy of holies in a society that kept itself unspotted from the world.  The only outsider intimate there was the bishop; the prefect was admitted twice or thrice in a year, the receiver-general was never received at all; Mme. de Bargeton would go to concerts and “at homes” at his house, but she never accepted invitations to dinner.  And now, she who had declined to open her doors to the receiver-general, welcomed a mere controller of excise!  Here was a novel order of precedence for snubbed authority; such a thing it had never entered their minds to conceive.

Those who by dint of mental effort can understand a kind of pettiness which, for that matter, can be found on any and every social level, will realize the awe with which the bourgeoisie of Angouleme regarded the Hotel de Bargeton.  The inhabitant of L’Houmeau beheld the grandeur of that miniature Louvre, the glory of the Angoumoisin Hotel de Rambouillet, shining at a solar distance; and yet, within it there was gathered together all the direst intellectual poverty, all the decayed gentility from twenty leagues round about.

Political opinion expanded itself in wordy commonplaces vociferated with emphasis; the Quotidienne was comparatively Laodicean in its loyalty, and Louis XVIII. a Jacobin.  The women, for the most part, were awkward, silly, insipid, and ill dressed; there was always something amiss that spoiled the whole; nothing in them was complete, toilette or talk, flesh or spirit.  But for his designs on Mme. de Bargeton, Chatelet could not have endured the society.  And yet the manners and spirit of the noble in his ruined manor-house, the knowledge of the traditions of good breeding,—­these things covered a multitude of deficiencies.  Nobility of feeling was far more real here than in the lofty world of Paris.  You might compare these country Royalists, if the metaphor may be allowed, to old-fashioned silver plate, antiquated and tarnished, but weighty; their attachment to the House of Bourbon as the House of Bourbon did them honor.  The very fixity of their political opinions was a sort of faithfulness.  The distance that they set between themselves and the bourgeoisie, their very exclusiveness, gave them a certain elevation, and enhanced their value.  Each noble represented a certain price for the townsmen, as Bambara Negroes, we are told, attach a money value to cowrie shells.

Some of the women, flattered by M. du Chatelet, discerned in him the superior qualities lacking in the men of their own sect, and the insurrection of self-love was pacified.  These ladies all hoped to succeed to the Imperial Highness.  Purists were of the opinion that you might see the intruder in Mme. de Bargeton’s house, but not elsewhere.  Du Chatelet was fain to put up with a good deal of insolence, but he held his ground by cultivating the clergy.  He encouraged the queen of Angouleme in foibles bred of the soil; he brought her all the newest books; he read aloud the poetry that appeared.  Together they went into ecstasies over these poets; she in all sincerity, he with suppressed yawns; but he bore with the Romantics with a patience hardly to be expected of a man of the Imperial school, who scarcely could make out what the young writers meant.  Not so Mme. de Bargeton; she waxed enthusiastic over the renaissance, due to the return of the Bourbon Lilies; she loved M. de Chateaubriand for calling Victor Hugo “a sublime child.”  It depressed her that she could only know genius from afar, she sighed for Paris, where great men live.  For these reasons M. du Chatelet thought he had done a wonderfully clever thing when he told the lady that at that moment in Angouleme there was “another sublime child,” a young poet, a rising star whose glory surpassed the whole Parisian galaxy, though he knew it not.  A great man of the future had been born in L’Houmeau!  The headmaster of the school had shown the Baron some admirable verses.  The poor and humble lad was a second Chatterton, with none of the political baseness and ferocious hatred of the great ones of earth that led his English prototype to turn pamphleteer and revile his benefactors.  Mme. de Bargeton in her little circle of five or six persons, who were supposed to share her tastes for art and letters, because this one scraped a fiddle, and that splashed sheets of white paper, more or less, with sepia, and the other was president of a local agricultural society, or was gifted with a bass voice that rendered Se fiato in corpo like a war whoop —­Mme. de Bargeton amid these grotesque figures was like a famished actor set down to a stage dinner of pasteboard.  No words, therefore, can describe her joy at these tidings.  She must see this poet, this angel!  She raved about him, went into raptures, talked of him for whole hours together.  Before two days were out the sometime diplomatic courier had negotiated (through the headmaster) for Lucien’s appearance in the Hotel de Bargeton.

Poor helots of the provinces, for whom the distances between class and class are so far greater than for the Parisian (for whom, indeed, these distances visibly lessen day by day); souls so grievously oppressed by the social barriers behind which all sorts and conditions of men sit crying Raca! with mutual anathemas—­you, and you alone, will fully comprehend the ferment in Lucien’s heart and brain, when his awe-inspiring headmaster told him that the great gates of the Hotel de Bargeton would shortly open and turn upon their hinges at his fame!  Lucien and David, walking together of an evening in the Promenade de Beaulieu, had looked up at the house with the old-fashioned gables, and wondered whether their names would ever so much as reach ears inexorably deaf to knowledge that came from a lowly origin; and now he (Lucien) was to be made welcome there!

No one except his sister was in the secret.  Eve, like the thrifty housekeeper and divine magician that she was, conjured up a few louis d’or from her savings to buy thin shoes for Lucien of the best shoemaker in Angouleme, and an entirely new suit of clothes from the most renowned tailor.  She made a frill for his best shirt, and washed and pleated it with her own hands.  And how pleased she was to see him so dressed!  How proud she felt of her brother, and what quantities of advice she gave him!  Her intuition foresaw countless foolish fears.  Lucien had a habit of resting his elbows on the table when he was in deep thought; he would even go so far as to draw a table nearer to lean upon it; Eve told him that he must not forget himself in those aristocratic precincts.

She went with him as far as St. Peter’s Gate, and when they were almost opposite the cathedral she stopped, and watched him pass down the Rue de Beaulieu to the Promenade, where M. du Chatelet was waiting for him.  And after he was out of sight, she still stood there, poor girl! in a great tremor of emotion, as though some great thing had happened to them.  Lucien in Mme. de Bargeton’s house!—­for Eve it meant the dawn of success.  The innocent creature did not suspect that where ambition begins, ingenuous feeling ends.

Externals in the Rue du Minage gave Lucien no sense of surprise.  This palace, that loomed so large in his imagination, was a house built of the soft stone of the country, mellowed by time.  It looked dismal enough from the street, and inside it was extremely plain; there was the usual provincial courtyard—­chilly, prim, and neat; and the house itself was sober, almost convent-like, but in good repair.

Lucien went up the old staircase with the balustrade of chestnut wood (the stone steps ceased after the second floor), crossed a shabby antechamber, and came into the presence in a little wainscoted drawing-room, beyond a dimly-lit salon.  The carved woodwork, in the taste of the eighteenth century, had been painted gray.  There were monochrome paintings on the frieze panels, and the walls were adorned with crimson damask with a meagre border.  The old-fashioned furniture shrank piteously from sight under covers of a red-and-white check pattern.  On the sofa, covered with thin mattressed cushions, sat Mme. de Bargeton; the poet beheld her by the light of two wax candles on a sconce with a screen fitted to it, that stood before her on a round table with a green cloth.

The queen did not attempt to rise, but she twisted very gracefully on her seat, smiling on the poet, who was not a little fluttered by the serpentine quiverings; her manner was distinguished, he thought.  For Mme. de Bargeton, she was impressed with Lucien’s extreme beauty, with his diffidence, with everything about him; for her the poet already was poetry incarnate.  Lucien scrutinized his hostess with discreet side glances; she disappointed none of his expectations of a great lady.

Mme. de Bargeton, following a new fashion, wore a coif of slashed black velvet, a head-dress that recalls memories of mediaeval legend to a young imagination, to amplify, as it were, the dignity of womanhood.  Her red-gold hair, escaping from under her cap, hung loose; bright golden color in the light, red in the rounded shadow of the curls that only partially hid her neck.  Beneath a massive white brow, clean cut and strongly outlined, shone a pair of bright gray eyes encircled by a margin of mother-of-pearl, two blue veins on each side of the nose bringing out the whiteness of that delicate setting.  The Bourbon curve of the nose added to the ardent expression of an oval face; it was as if the royal temper of the House of Conde shone conspicuous in this feature.  The careless cross-folds of the bodice left a white throat bare, and half revealed the outlines of a still youthful figure and shapely, well placed contours beneath.

With fingers tapering and well-kept, though somewhat too thin, Mme. de Bargeton amiably pointed to a seat by her side, M. du Chatelet ensconced himself in an easy-chair, and Lucien then became aware that there was no one else in the room.

Mme. de Bargeton’s words intoxicated the young poet from L’Houmeau.  For Lucien those three hours spent in her presence went by like a dream that we would fain have last forever.  She was not thin, he thought; she was slender; in love with love, and loverless; and delicate in spite of her strength.  Her foibles, exaggerated by her manner, took his fancy; for youth sets out with a love of hyperbole, that infirmity of noble souls.  He did not so much as see that her cheeks were faded, that the patches of color on the cheek-bone were faded and hardened to a brick-red by listless days and a certain amount of ailing health.  His imagination fastened at once on the glowing eyes, on the dainty curls rippling with light, on the dazzling fairness of her skin, and hovered about those bright points as the moth hovers about the candle flame.  For her spirit made such appeal to his that he could no longer see the woman as she was.  Her feminine exaltation had carried him away, the energy of her expressions, a little staled in truth by pretty hard and constant wear, but new to Lucien, fascinated him so much the more easily because he was determined to be pleased.  He had brought none of his own verses to read, but nothing was said of them; he had purposely left them behind because he meant to return; and Mme. de Bargeton did not ask for them, because she meant that he should come back some future day to read them to her.  Was not this a beginning of an understanding?

As for M. Sixte du Chatelet, he was not over well pleased with all this.  He perceived rather too late in the day that he had a rival in this handsome young fellow.  He went with him as far as the first flight of steps below Beaulieu to try the effect of a little diplomacy; and Lucien was not a little astonished when he heard the controller of excise pluming himself on having effected the introduction, and proceeding in this character to give him (Lucien) the benefit of his advice.

“Heaven send that Lucien might meet with better treatment than he had done,” such was the matter of M. du Chatelet’s discourse.  “The Court was less insolent that this pack of dolts in Angouleme.  You were expected to endure deadly insults; the superciliousness you had to put up with was something abominable.  If this kind of folk did not alter their behavior, there would be another Revolution of ’89.  As for himself, if he continued to go to the house, it was because he had found Mme. de Bargeton to his taste; she was the only woman worth troubling about in Angouleme; he had been paying court to her for want of anything better to do, and now he was desperately in love with her.  She would be his before very long, she loved him, everything pointed that way.  The conquest of this haughty queen of the society would be his one revenge on the whole houseful of booby clodpates.”

Chatelet talked of his passion in the tone of a man who would have a rival’s life if he crossed his path.  The elderly butterfly of the Empire came down with his whole weight on the poor poet, and tried to frighten and crush him by his self-importance.  He grew taller as he gave an embellished account of his perilous wanderings; but while he impressed the poet’s imagination, the lover was by no means afraid of him.

In spite of the elderly coxcomb, and regardless of his threats and airs of a bourgeois bravo, Lucien went back again and again to the house—­not too often at first, as became a man of L’Houmeau; but before very long he grew accustomed to the vast condescension, as it had seemed to him at the outset, and came more and more frequently.  The druggist’s son was a completely insignificant being.  If any of the noblesse, men or women, calling upon Nais, found Lucien in the room, they met him with the overwhelming graciousness that well-bred people use towards their inferiors.  Lucien thought them very kind for a time, and later found out the real reason for their specious amiability.  It was not long before he detected a patronizing tone that stirred his gall and confirmed him in his bitter Republicanism, a phase of opinion through which many a would-be patrician passes by way of prelude to his introduction to polite society.

But was there anything that he would not have endured for Nais?—­for so he heard her named by the clan.  Like Spanish grandees and the old Austrian nobility at Vienna, these folk, men and women alike, called each other by their Christian names, a final shade of distinction in the inmost ring of Angoumoisin aristocracy.

Lucien loved Nais as a young man loves the first woman who flatters him, for Nais prophesied great things and boundless fame for Lucien.  She used all her skill to secure her hold upon her poet; not merely did she exalt him beyond measure, but she represented him to himself as a child without fortune whom she meant to start in life; she treated him like a child, to keep him near her; she made him her reader, her secretary, and cared more for him than she would have thought possible after the dreadful calamity that had befallen her.

She was very cruel to herself in those days, telling herself that it would be folly to love a young man of twenty, so far apart from her socially in the first place; and her behavior to him was a bewildering mixture of familiarity and capricious fits of pride arising from her fears and scruples.  She was sometimes a lofty patroness, sometimes she was tender and flattered him.  At first, while he was overawed by her rank, Lucien experienced the extremes of dread, hope, and despair, the torture of a first love, that is beaten deep into the heart with the hammer strokes of alternate bliss and anguish.  For two months Mme. de Bargeton was for him a benefactress who would take a mother’s interest in him; but confidences came next.  Mme. de Bargeton began to address her poet as “dear Lucien,” and then as “dear,” without more ado.  The poet grew bolder, and addressed the great lady as Nais, and there followed a flash of anger that captivates a boy; she reproached him for calling her by a name in everybody’s mouth.  The haughty and high-born Negrepelisse offered the fair angel youth that one of her appellations which was unsoiled by use; for him she would be “Louise.”  Lucien was in the third heaven.

One evening when Lucien came in, he found Mme. de Bargeton looking at a portrait, which she promptly put away.  He wished to see it, and to quiet the despair of a first fit of jealousy Louise showed him Cante-Croix’s picture, and told with tears the piteous story of a love so stainless, so cruelly cut short.  Was she experimenting with herself?  Was she trying a first unfaithfulness to the memory of the dead?  Or had she taken it into her head to raise up a rival to Lucien in the portrait?  Lucien was too much of a boy to analyze his lady-love; he gave way to unfeigned despair when she opened the campaign by entrenching herself behind the more or less skilfully devised scruples which women raise to have them battered down.  When a woman begins to talk about her duty, regard for appearances or religion, the objections she raises are so many redoubts which she loves to have carried by storm.  But on the guileless Lucien these coquetries were thrown away; he would have advanced of his own accord.

“I shall not die for you, I will live for you,” he cried audaciously one evening; he meant to have no more of M. de Cante-Croix, and gave Louise a glance which told plainly that a crisis was at hand.

Startled at the progress of this new love in herself and her poet, Louise demanded some verses promised for the first page of her album, looking for a pretext for a quarrel in his tardiness.  But what became of her when she read the following stanzas, which, naturally, she considered finer than the finest work of Canalis, the poet of the aristocracy?—­

  The magic brush, light flying flights of song—­
  To these, but not to these alone, belong
    My pages fair;
  Often to me, my mistress’ pencil steals
  To tell the secret gladness that she feels,
    The hidden care.

  And when her fingers, slowlier at the last,
  Of a rich Future, now become the Past,
    Seek count of me,
  Oh Love, when swift, thick-coming memories rise,
    I pray of Thee. 
  May they bring visions fair as cloudless skies
  Of happy voyage o’er a summer sea!

“Was it really I who inspired those lines?” she asked.

The doubt suggested by coquetry to a woman who amused herself by playing with fire brought tears to Lucien’s eyes; but her first kiss upon his forehead calmed the storm.  Decidedly Lucien was a great man, and she meant to form him; she thought of teaching him Italian and German and perfecting his manners.  That would be pretext sufficient for having him constantly with her under the very eyes of her tiresome courtiers.  What an interest in her life!  She took up music again for her poet’s sake, and revealed the world of sound to him, playing grand fragments of Beethoven till she sent him into ecstasy; and, happy in his delight, turned to the half-swooning poet.

“Is not such happiness as this enough?” she asked hypocritically; and poor Lucien was stupid enough to answer, “Yes.”

In the previous week things had reached such a point, that Louise had judged it expedient to ask Lucien to dine with M. de Bargeton as a third.  But in spite of this precaution, the whole town knew the state of affairs; and so extraordinary did it appear, that no one would believe the truth.  The outcry was terrific.  Some were of the opinion that society was on the eve of cataclysm.  “See what comes of Liberal doctrines!” cried others.

Then it was that the jealous du Chatelet discovered that Madame Charlotte, the monthly nurse, was no other than Mme. Chardon, “the mother of the Chateaubriand of L’Houmeau,” as he put it.  The remark passed muster as a joke.  Mme. de Chandour was the first to hurry to Mme. de Bargeton.

“Nais, dear,” she said, “do you know what everybody is talking about in Angouleme?  This little rhymster’s mother is the Madame Charlotte who nursed my sister-in-law through her confinement two months ago.”

“What is there extraordinary in that, my dear?” asked Mme. de Bargeton with her most regal air.  “She is a druggist’s widow, is she not?  A poor fate for a Rubempre.  Suppose that you and I had not a penny in the world, what should either of us do for a living?  How would you support your children?”

Mme. de Bargeton’s presence of mind put an end to the jeremiads of the noblesse.  Great natures are prone to make a virtue of misfortune; and there is something irresistibly attractive about well-doing when persisted in through evil report; innocence has the piquancy of the forbidden.

Mme. de Bargeton’s rooms were crowded that evening with friends who came to remonstrate with her.  She brought her most caustic wit into play.  She said that as noble families could not produce a Moliere, a Racine, a Rousseau, a Voltaire, a Massillon, a Beaumarchais, or a Diderot, people must make up their minds to it, and accept the fact that great men had upholsterers and clockmakers and cutlers for their fathers.  She said that genius was always noble.  She railed at boorish squires for understanding their real interests so imperfectly.  In short, she talked a good deal of nonsense, which would have let the light into heads less dense, but left her audience agape at her eccentricity.  And in these ways she conjured away the storm with her heavy artillery.

When Lucien, obedient to her request, appeared for the first time in the faded great drawing-room, where the whist-tables were set out, she welcomed him graciously, and brought him forward, like a queen who means to be obeyed.  She addressed the controller of excise as “M.  Chatelet,” and left that gentleman thunderstruck by the discovery that she knew about the illegal superfetation of the particle.  Lucien was forced upon her circle, and was received as a poisonous element, which every person in it vowed to expel with the antidote of insolence.

Nais had won a victory, but she had lost her supremacy of empire.  There was a rumor of insurrection.  Amelie, otherwise Mme. de Chandour, harkening to “M.  Chatelet’s” counsels, determined to erect a rival altar by receiving on Wednesdays.  Now Mme. de Bargeton’s salon was open every evening; and those who frequented it were so wedded to their ways, so accustomed to meet about the same tables, to play the familiar game of backgammon, to see the same faces and the same candle sconces night after night; and afterwards to cloak and shawl, and put on overshoes and hats in the old corridor, that they were quite as much attached to the steps of the staircase as to the mistress of the house.

“All resigned themselves to endure the songster” (chardonneret) “of the sacred grove,” said Alexandre de Brebian, which was witticism number two.  Finally, the president of the agricultural society put an end to the sedition by remarking judicially that “before the Revolution the greatest nobles admitted men like Dulcos and Grimm and Crebillon to their society—­men who were nobodies, like this little poet of L’Houmeau; but one thing they never did, they never received tax-collectors, and, after all, Chatelet is only a tax-collector.”

Du Chatelet suffered for Chardon.  Every one turned the cold shoulder upon him; and Chatelet was conscious that he was attacked.  When Mme. de Bargeton called him “M.  Chatelet,” he swore to himself that he would possess her; and now he entered into the views of the mistress of the house, came to the support of the young poet, and declared himself Lucien’s friend.  The great diplomatist, overlooked by the shortsighted Emperor, made much of Lucien, and declared himself his friend!  To launch the poet into society, he gave a dinner, and asked all the authorities to meet him—­the prefect, the receiver-general, the colonel in command of the garrison, the head of the Naval School, the president of the Court, and so forth.  The poet, poor fellow, was feted so magnificently, and so belauded, that anybody but a young man of two-and-twenty would have shrewdly suspected a hoax.  After dinner, Chatelet drew his rival on to recite The Dying Sardanapalus, the masterpiece of the hour; and the headmaster of the school, a man of a phlegmatic temperament, applauded with both hands, and vowed that Jean-Baptiste Rousseau had done nothing finer.  Sixte, Baron du Chatelet, thought in his heart that this slip of a rhymster would wither incontinently in a hothouse of adulation; perhaps he hoped that when the poet’s head was turned with brilliant dreams, he would indulge in some impertinence that would promptly consign him to the obscurity from which he had emerged.  Pending the decease of genius, Chatelet appeared to offer up his hopes as a sacrifice at Mme. de Bargeton’s feet; but with the ingenuity of a rake, he kept his own plan in abeyance, watching the lovers’ movements with keenly critical eyes, and waiting for the opportunity of ruining Lucien.

From this time forward, vague rumors reported the existence of a great man in Angoumois.  Mme. de Bargeton was praised on all sides for the interest which she took in this young eagle.  No sooner was her conduct approved than she tried to win a general sanction.  She announced a soiree, with ices, tea, and cakes, a great innovation in a city where tea, as yet, was sold only by druggists as a remedy for indigestion.  The flower of Angoumoisin aristocracy was summoned to hear Lucien read his great work.  Louise had hidden all the difficulties from her friend, but she let fall a few words touching the social cabal formed against him; she would not have him ignorant of the perils besetting his career as a man of genius, nor of the obstacles insurmountable to weaklings.  She drew a lesson from the recent victory.  Her white hands pointed him to glory that lay beyond a prolonged martyrdom; she spoke of stakes and flaming pyres; she spread the adjectives thickly on her finest tartines, and decorated them with a variety of her most pompous epithets.  It was an infringement of the copyright of the passages of declamation that disfigure Corinne; but Louise grew so much the greater in her own eyes as she talked, that she loved the Benjamin who inspired her eloquence the more for it.  She counseled him to take a bold step and renounce his patronymic for the noble name of Rubempre; he need not mind the little tittle-tattle over a change which the King, for that matter, would authorize.  Mme. de Bargeton undertook to procure this favor; she was related to the Marquise d’Espard, who was a Blamont-Chauvry before her marriage, and a persona grata at Court.  The words “King,” “Marquise d’Espard,” and “the Court” dazzled Lucien like a blaze of fireworks, and the necessity of the baptism was plain to him.

“Dear child,” said Louise, with tender mockery in her tones, “the sooner it is done, the sooner it will be sanctioned.”

She went through social strata and showed the poet that this step would raise him many rungs higher in the ladder.  Seizing the moment, she persuaded Lucien to forswear the chimerical notions of ’89 as to equality; she roused a thirst for social distinction allayed by David’s cool commonsense; she pointed out fashionable society as the goal and the only stage for such a talent as his.  The rabid Liberal became a Monarchist in petto; Lucien set his teeth in the apple of desire of rank, luxury, and fame.  He swore to win a crown to lay at his lady’s feet, even if there should be blood-stains on the bays.  He would conquer at any cost, quibuscumque viis.  To prove his courage, he told her of his present way of life; Louise had known nothing of its hardships, for there is an indefinable pudency inseparable from strong feeling in youth, a delicacy which shrinks from a display of great qualities; and a young man loves to have the real quality of his nature discerned through the incognito.  He described that life, the shackles of poverty borne with pride, his days of work for David, his nights of study.  His young ardor recalled memories of the colonel of six-and-twenty; Mme. de Bargeton’s eyes grew soft; and Lucien, seeing this weakness in his awe-inspiring mistress, seized a hand that she had abandoned to him, and kissed it with the frenzy of a lover and a poet in his youth.  Louise even allowed him to set his eager, quivering lips upon her forehead.

“Oh, child! child! if any one should see us, I should look very ridiculous,” she said, shaking off the ecstatic torpor.

In the course of that evening, Mme. de Bargeton’s wit made havoc of Lucien’s prejudices, as she styled them.  Men of genius, according to her doctrine, had neither brothers nor sisters nor father nor mother; the great tasks laid upon them required that they should sacrifice everything that they might grow to their full stature.  Perhaps their families might suffer at first from the all-absorbing exactions of a giant brain, but at a later day they were repaid a hundredfold for self-denial of every kind during the early struggles of the kingly intellect with adverse fate; they shared the spoils of victory.  Genius was answerable to no man.  Genius alone could judge of the means used to an end which no one else could know.  It was the duty of a man of genius, therefore, to set himself above law; it was his mission to reconstruct law; the man who is master of his age may take all that he needs, run any risks, for all is his.  She quoted instances.  Bernard Palissy, Louis XI., Fox, Napoleon, Christopher Columbus, and Julius Caesar,—­all these world-famous gamblers had begun life hampered with debt, or as poor men; all of them had been misunderstood, taken for madmen, reviled for bad sons, bad brothers, bad fathers; and yet in after life each one had come to be the pride of his family, of his country, of the civilized world.

Her arguments fell upon fertile soil in the worst of Lucien’s nature, and spread corruption in his heart; for him, when his desires were hot, all means were admissible.  But—­failure is high treason against society; and when the fallen conqueror has run amuck through bourgeois virtues, and pulled down the pillars of society, small wonder that society, finding Marius seated among the ruins, should drive him forth in abhorrence.  All unconsciously Lucien stood with the palm of genius on the one hand and a shameful ending in the hulks upon the other; and, on high upon the Sinai of the prophets, beheld no Dead Sea covering the cities of the plain—­the hideous winding-sheet of Gomorrah.

So well did Louise loosen the swaddling-bands of provincial life that confined the heart and brain of her poet that the said poet determined to try an experiment upon her.  He wished to feel certain that this proud conquest was his without laying himself open to the mortification of a rebuff.  The forthcoming soiree gave him his opportunity.  Ambition blended with his love.  He loved, and he meant to rise, a double desire not unnatural in young men with a heart to satisfy and the battle of life to fight.  Society, summoning all her children to one banquet, arouses ambition in the very morning of life.  Youth is robbed of its charm, and generous thoughts are corrupted by mercenary scheming.  The idealist would fain have it otherwise, but intrusive fact too often gives the lie to the fiction which we should like to believe, making it impossible to paint the young man of the nineteenth century other than he is.  Lucien imagined that his scheming was entirely prompted by good feeling, and persuaded himself that it was done solely for his friend David’s sake.

He wrote a long letter to his Louise; he felt bolder, pen in hand, than face to face.  In a dozen sheets, copied out three several times, he told her of his father’s genius and blighted hopes and of his grinding poverty.  He described his beloved sister as an angel, and David as another Cuvier, a great man of the future, and a father, friend, and brother to him in the present.  He should feel himself unworthy of his Louise’s love (his proudest distinction) if he did not ask her to do for David all that she had done for him.  He would give up everything rather than desert David Sechard; David must witness his success.  It was one of those wild letters in which a young man points a pistol at a refusal, letters full of boyish casuistry and the incoherent reasoning of an idealist; a delicious tissue of words embroidered here and there by the naive utterances that women love so well—­unconscious revelations of the writer’s heart.

Lucien left the letter with the housemaid, went to the office, and spent the day in reading proofs, superintending the execution of orders, and looking after the affairs of the printing-house.  He said not a word to David.  While youth bears a child’s heart, it is capable of sublime reticence.  Perhaps, too, Lucien began to dread the Phocion’s axe which David could wield when he chose, perhaps he was afraid to meet those clear-sighted eyes that read the depths of his soul.  But when he read Chenier’s poems with David, his secret rose from his heart to his lips at the sting of a reproach that he felt as the patient feels the probing of a wound.

And now try to understand the thoughts that troubled Lucien’s mind as he went down from Angouleme.  Was the great lady angry with him?  Would she receive David?  Had he, Lucien, in his ambition, flung himself headlong back into the depths of L’Houmeau?  Before he set that kiss on Louise’s forehead, he had had time to measure the distance between a queen and her favorite, so far had he come in five months, and he did not tell himself that David could cross over the same ground in a moment.  Yet he did not know how completely the lower orders were excluded from this upper world; he did not so much as suspect that a second experiment of this kind meant ruin for Mme. de Bargeton.  Once accused and fairly convicted of a liking for canaille, Louise would be driven from the place, her caste would shun her as men shunned a leper in the Middle Ages.  Nais might have broken the moral law, and her whole circle, the clergy and the flower of the aristocracy, would have defended her against the world through thick and then; but a breach of another law, the offence of admitting all sorts of people to her house —­this was sin without remission.  The sins of those in power are always overlooked—­once let them abdicate, and they shall pay the penalty.  And what was it but abdication to receive David?

But if Lucien did not see these aspects of the question, his aristocratic instinct discerned plenty of difficulties of another kind, and he took alarm.  A fine manner is not the invariable outcome of noble feeling; and while no man at court had a nobler air than Racine, Corneille looked very much like a cattle-dealer, and Descartes might have been taken for an honest Dutch merchant; and visitors to La Brede, meeting Montesquieu in a cotton nightcap, carrying a rake over his shoulder, mistook him for a gardener.  A knowledge of the world, when it is not sucked in with mother’s milk and part of the inheritance of descent, is only acquired by education, supplemented by certain gifts of chance—­a graceful figure, distinction of feature, a certain ring in the voice.  All these, so important trifles, David lacked, while Nature had bestowed them upon his friend.  Of gentle blood on the mother’s side, Lucien was a Frank, even down to the high-arched instep.  David had inherited the physique of his father the pressman and the flat foot of the Gael.  Lucien could hear the shower of jokes at David’s expense; he could see Mme. de Bargeton’s repressed smile; and at length, without being exactly ashamed of his brother, he made up his mind to disregard his first impulse and to think twice before yielding to it in future.

So, after the hour of poetry and self-sacrifice, after the reading of verse that opened out before the friends the fields of literature in the light of a newly-risen sun, the hour of worldly wisdom and of scheming struck for Lucien.

Down once more in L’Houmeau he wished that he had not written that letter; he wished he could have it back again; for down the vista of the future he caught a glimpse of the inexorable laws of the world.  He guessed that nothing succeeds like success, and it cost him something to step down from the first rung of the scaling ladder by which he meant to reach and storm the heights above.  Pictures of his quiet and simple life rose before him, pictures fair with the brightest colors of blossoming love.  There was David; what a genius David had—­David who had helped him so generously, and would die for him at need; he thought of his mother, of how great a lady she was in her lowly lot, and how she thought that he was as good as he was clever; then of his sister so gracious in submission to her fate, of his own innocent childhood and conscience as yet unstained, of budding hopes undespoiled by rough winds, and at these thoughts the past broke into flowers once more for his memory.

Then he told himself that it was a far finer thing to hew his own way through serried hostile mobs of aristocrats or philistines by repeated successful strokes, than to reach the goal through a woman’s favor.  Sooner or later his genius should shine out; it had been so with the others, his predecessors; they had tamed society.  Women would love him when that day came!  The example of Napoleon, which, unluckily for this nineteenth century of ours, has filled a great many ordinary persons with aspirations after extraordinary destinies,—­the example of Napoleon occurred to Lucien’s mind.  He flung his schemes to the winds and blamed himself for thinking of them.  For Lucien was so made that he went from evil to good, or from good to evil, with the same facility.

Lucien had none of the scholar’s love for his retreat; for the past month indeed he had felt something like shame at the sight of the shop front, where you could read—­

POSTEL (LATE CHARDON), PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMIST,

in yellow letters on a green ground.  It was an offence to him that his father’s name should be thus posted up in a place where every carriage passed.

Every evening, when he closed the ugly iron gate and went up to Beaulieu to give his arm to Mme. de Bargeton among the dandies of the upper town, he chafed beyond all reason at the disparity between his lodging and his fortune.

“I love Mme. de Bargeton; perhaps in a few days she will be mine, yet here I live in this rat-hole!” he said to himself this evening, as he went down the narrow passage into the little yard behind the shop.  This evening bundles of boiled herbs were spread out along the wall, the apprentice was scouring a caldron, and M. Postel himself, girded about with his laboratory apron, was standing with a retort in his hand, inspecting some chemical product while keeping an eye upon the shop door, or if the eye happened to be engaged, he had at any rate an ear for the bell.