Lost Illusions

Lousteau hurried to the Palais Royal to gamble with his remaining nine francs.  The great man unknown to fame, though he had a divine mistress, must needs hie him to a low haunt of vice to wallow in perilous pleasure.  Vignon betook himself to the Rocher de Cancale to drown memory and thought in a couple of bottles of Bordeaux; Lucien parted company with him on the threshold, declining to share that supper.  When he shook hands with the one journalist who had not been hostile to him, it was with a cruel pang in his heart.

“What shall I do?” he asked aloud.

“One must do as one can,” the great critic said.  “Your book is good, but it excited jealousy, and your struggle will be hard and long.  Genius is a cruel disease.  Every writer carries a canker in his heart, a devouring monster, like the tapeworm in the stomach, which destroys all feeling as it arises in him.  Which is the stronger?  The man or the disease?  One has need be a great man, truly, to keep the balance between genius and character.  The talent grows, the heart withers.  Unless a man is a giant, unless he has the thews of a Hercules, he must be content either to lose his gift or to live without a heart.  You are slender and fragile, you will give way,” he added, as he turned into the restaurant.

Lucien returned home, thinking over that terrible verdict.  He beheld the life of literature by the light of the profound truths uttered by Vignon.

“Money! money!” a voice cried in his ears.

Then he drew three bills of a thousand francs each, due respectively in one, two, and three months, imitating the handwriting of his brother-in-law, David Sechard, with admirable skill.  He endorsed the bills, and took them next morning to Metivier, the paper-dealer in the Rue Serpente, who made no difficulty about taking them.  Lucien wrote a few lines to give his brother-in-law notice of this assault upon his cash-box, promising, as usual in such cases, to be ready to meet the bills as they fell due.

When all debts, his own and Coralie’s, were paid, he put the three hundred francs which remained into Berenice’s hands, bidding her to refuse him money if he asked her for it.  He was afraid of a return of the gambler’s frenzy.  Lucien worked away gloomily in a sort of cold, speechless fury, putting forth all his powers into witty articles, written by the light of the lamp at Coralie’s bedside.  Whenever he looked up in search of ideas, his eyes fell on that beloved face, white as porcelain, fair with the beauty that belongs to the dying, and he saw a smile on her pale lips, and her eyes, grown bright with a more consuming pain than physical suffering, always turned on his face.

Lucien sent in his work, but he could not leave the house to worry editors, and his articles did not appear.  When he at last made up his mind to go to the office, he met with a cool reception from Theodore Gaillard, who had advanced him money, and turned his literary diamonds to good account afterwards.

“Take care, my dear fellow, you are falling off,” he said.  “You must not let yourself down, your work wants inspiration!”

“That little Lucien has written himself out with his romance and his first articles,” cried Felicien Vernou, Merlin, and the whole chorus of his enemies, whenever his name came up at Dauriat’s or the Vaudeville.  “The work he is sending us is pitiable.”

“To have written oneself out” (in the slang of journalism), is a verdict very hard to live down.  It passed everywhere from mouth to mouth, ruining Lucien, all unsuspicious as he was.  And, indeed, his burdens were too heavy for his strength.  In the midst of a heavy strain of work, he was sued for the bills which he had drawn in David Sechard’s name.  He had recourse to Camusot’s experience, and Coralie’s sometime adorer was generous enough to assist the man she loved.  The intolerable situation lasted for two whole months; the days being diversified by stamped papers handed over to Desroches, a friend of Bixiou, Blondet, and des Lupeaulx.

Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie’s condition was hopeless—­she had only a few days to live.  Those days were spent in tears by Berenice and Lucien; they could not hide their grief from the dying girl, and she was broken-hearted for Lucien’s sake.

Some strange change was working in Coralie.  She would have Lucien bring a priest; she must be reconciled to the Church and die in peace.  Coralie died as a Christian; her repentance was sincere.  Her agony and death took all energy and heart out of Lucien.  He sank into a low chair at the foot of the bed, and never took his eyes off her till Death brought the end of her suffering.  It was five o’clock in the morning.  Some singing-bird lighting upon a flower-pot on the window-sill, twittered a few notes.  Berenice, kneeling by the bedside, was covering a hand fast growing cold with kisses and tears.  On the chimney-piece there lay eleven sous.

Lucien went out.  Despair made him beg for money to lay Coralie in her grave.  He had wild thoughts of flinging himself at the Marquise d’Espard’s feet, of entreating the Comte du Chatelet, Mme. de Bargeton, Mlle. des Touches, nay, that terrible dandy of a de Marsay.  All his pride had gone with his strength.  He would have enlisted as a common soldier at that moment for money.  He walked on with a slouching, feverish gait known to all the unhappy, reached Camille Maupin’s house, entered, careless of his disordered dress, and sent in a message.  He entreated Mlle. des Touches to see him for a moment.

“Mademoiselle only went to bed at three o’clock this morning,” said the servant, “and no one would dare to disturb her until she rings.”

“When does she ring?”

“Never before ten o’clock.”

Then Lucien wrote one of those harrowing appeals in which the well-dressed beggar flings all pride and self-respect to the winds.  One evening, not so very long ago, when Lousteau had told him of the abject begging letters which Finot received, Lucien had thought it impossible that any creature would sink so low; and now, carried away by his pen, he had gone further, it may be, than other unlucky wretches upon the same road.  He did not suspect, in his fever and imbecility, that he had just written a masterpiece of pathos.  On his way home along the Boulevards, he met Barbet.

“Barbet!” he begged, holding out his hand.  “Five hundred francs!”

“No.  Two hundred,” returned the other.

“Ah! then you have a heart.”

“Yes; but I am a man of business as well.  I have lost a lot of money through you,” he concluded, after giving the history of the failure of Fendant and Cavalier, “will you put me in the way of making some?”

Lucien quivered.

“You are a poet.  You ought to understand all kinds of poetry,” continued the little publisher.  “I want a few rollicking songs at this moment to put along with some more by different authors, or they will be down upon me over the copyright.  I want to have a good collection to sell on the streets at ten sous.  If you care to let me have ten good drinking-songs by to-morrow morning, or something spicy,—­you know the sort of thing, eh!—­I will pay you two hundred francs.”

When Lucien returned home, he found Coralie stretched out straight and stiff on a pallet-bed; Berenice, with many tears, had wrapped her in a coarse linen sheet, and put lighted candles at the four corners of the bed.  Coralie’s face had taken that strange, delicate beauty of death which so vividly impresses the living with the idea of absolute calm; she looked like some white girl in a decline; it seemed as if those pale, crimson lips must open and murmur the name which had blended with the name of God in the last words that she uttered before she died.

Lucien told Berenice to order a funeral which should not cost more than two hundred francs, including the service at the shabby little church of the Bonne-Nouvelle.  As soon as she had gone out, he sat down to a table, and beside the dead body of his love he composed ten rollicking songs to fit popular airs.  The effort cost him untold anguish, but at last the brain began to work at the bidding of Necessity, as if suffering were not; and already Lucien had learned to put Claude Vignon’s terrible maxims in practice, and to raise a barrier between heart and brain.  What a night the poor boy spent over those drinking songs, writing by the light of the tall wax candles while the priest recited the prayers for the dead!

Morning broke before the last song was finished.  Lucien tried it over to a street-song of the day, to the consternation of Berenice and the priest, who thought that he was mad:—­

    Lads, ’tis tedious waste of time
      To mingle song and reason;
    Folly calls for laughing rhyme,
      Sense is out of season. 
  Let Apollo be forgot
    When Bacchus fills the drinking-cup;
  Any catch is good, I wot,
    If good fellows take it up. 
      Let philosophers protest,
        Let us laugh,
          And quaff,
      And a fig for the rest!

    As Hippocrates has said,
      Every jolly fellow,
    When a century has sped,
      Still is fit and mellow. 
  No more following of a lass
    With the palsy in your legs? 
  —­While your hand can hold a glass,
    You can drain it to the dregs,
      With an undiminished zest. 
        Let us laugh,
          And quaff,
      And a fig for the rest!

    Whence we come we know full well. 
      Whiter are we going? 
    Ne’er a one of us can tell,
      ’Tis a thing past knowing. 
  Faith! what does it signify,
    Take the good that Heaven sends;
  It is certain that we die,
    Certain that we live, my friends. 
      Life is nothing but a jest. 
        Let us laugh,
          And quaff,
      And a fig for the rest!

He was shouting the reckless refrain when d’Arthez and Bianchon arrived, to find him in a paroxysm of despair and exhaustion, utterly unable to make a fair copy of his verses.  A torrent of tears followed; and when, amid his sobs, he had told his story, he saw the tears standing in his friends’ eyes.

“This wipes out many sins,” said d’Arthez.

“Happy are they who suffer for their sins in this world,” the priest said solemnly.

At the sight of the fair, dead face smiling at Eternity, while Coralie’s lover wrote tavern-catches to buy a grave for her, and Barbet paid for the coffin—­of the four candles lighted about the dead body of her who had thrilled a great audience as she stood behind the footlights in her Spanish basquina and scarlet green-clocked stockings; while beyond in the doorway, stood the priest who had reconciled the dying actress with God, now about to return to the church to say a mass for the soul of her who had “loved much,”—­all the grandeur and the sordid aspects of the scene, all that sorrow crushed under by Necessity, froze the blood of the great writer and the great doctor.  They sat down; neither of them could utter a word.

Just at that moment a servant in livery announced Mlle. des Touches.  That beautiful and noble woman understood everything at once.  She stepped quickly across the room to Lucien, and slipped two thousand-franc notes into his hand as she grasped it.

“It is too late,” he said, looking up at her with dull, hopeless eyes.

The three stayed with Lucien, trying to soothe his despair with comforting words; but every spring seemed to be broken.  At noon all the brotherhood, with the exception of Michel Chrestien (who, however, had learned the truth as to Lucien’s treachery), was assembled in the poor little church of the Bonne-Nouvelle; Mlle. de Touches was present, and Berenice and Coralie’s dresser from the theatre, with a couple of supernumeraries and the disconsolate Camusot.  All the men accompanied the actress to her last resting-place in Pere Lachaise.  Camusot, shedding hot tears, had solemnly promised Lucien to buy the grave in perpetuity, and to put a headstone above it with the words: 

CORALIE

AGED NINETEEN YEARS

August, 1822

Lucien stayed there, on the sloping ground that looks out over Paris, until the sun had set.

“Who will love me now?” he thought.  “My truest friends despise me.  Whatever I might have done, she who lies here would have thought me wholly noble and good.  I have no one left to me now but my sister and mother and David.  And what do they think of me at home?”

Poor distinguished provincial!  He went back to the Rue de la Lune; but the sight of the rooms was so acutely painful, that he could not stay in them, and he took a cheap lodging elsewhere in the same street.  Mlle. des Touches’ two thousand francs and the sale of the furniture paid the debts.

Berenice had two hundred francs left, on which they lived for two months.  Lucien was prostrate; he could neither write nor think; he gave way to morbid grief.  Berenice took pity upon him.

“Suppose that you were to go back to your own country, how are you to get there?” she asked one day, by way of reply to an exclamation of Lucien’s.

“On foot.”

“But even so, you must live and sleep on the way.  Even if you walk twelve leagues a day, you will want twenty francs at least.”

“I will get them together,” he said.

He took his clothes and his best linen, keeping nothing but strict necessaries, and went to Samanon, who offered fifty francs for his entire wardrobe.  In vain he begged the money-lender to let him have enough to pay his fare by the coach; Samanon was inexorable.  In a paroxysm of fury, Lucien rushed to Frascati’s, staked the proceeds of the sale, and lost every farthing.  Back once more in the wretched room in the Rue de la Lune, he asked Berenice for Coralie’s shawl.  The good girl looked at him, and knew in a moment what he meant to do.  He had confessed to his loss at the gaming-table; and now he was going to hang himself.

“Are you mad, sir?  Go out for a walk, and come back again at midnight.  I will get the money for you; but keep to the Boulevards, do not go towards the Quais.”

Lucien paced up and down the Boulevards.  He was stupid with grief.  He watched the passers-by and the stream of traffic, and felt that he was alone, and a very small atom in this seething whirlpool of Paris, churned by the strife of innumerable interests.  His thoughts went back to the banks of his Charente; a craving for happiness and home awoke in him; and with the craving, came one of the sudden febrile bursts of energy which half-feminine natures like his mistake for strength.  He would not give up until he had poured out his heart to David Sechard, and taken counsel of the three good angels still left to him on earth.

As he lounged along, he caught sight of Berenice—­Berenice in her Sunday clothes, speaking to a stranger at the corner of the Rue de la Lune and the filthy Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, where she had taken her stand.

“What are you doing?” asked Lucien, dismayed by a sudden suspicion.

“Here are your twenty francs,” said the girl, slipping four five-franc pieces into the poet’s hand.  “They may cost dear yet; but you can go,” and she had fled before Lucien could see the way she went; for, in justice to him, it must be said that the money burned his hand, he wanted to return it, but he was forced to keep it as the final brand set upon him by life in Paris.