The Deputy of Arcis

XII

THE SALON OF MADAME D’ESPARD

About two months before the nomination of Simon Giguet, at eleven o’clock one evening, in a mansion of the faubourg Saint-Honore belonging to the Marquise d’Espard, while tea was being served the Chevalier d’Espard, brother-in-law to the marquise, put down his tea-cup, and, looking round the circle, remarked:—­

“Maxime was very melancholy to-night,—­didn’t you think so?”

“Yes,” replied Rastignac, “but his sadness is easily accounted for.  He is forty-eight years old; at that age a man makes no new friends, and now that we have buried de Marsay, Maxime has lost the only man capable of understanding him, of being useful to him, and of using him.”

“He probably has pressing debts.  Couldn’t you put him in the way of paying them?” said the marquise to Rastignac.

At this period Rastignac was, for the second time, in the ministry; he had just been made count almost against his will.  His father-in-law, the Baron de Nucingen, was peer of France, his younger brother a bishop, the Comte de Roche-Hugon, his brother-in-law, was an ambassador, and he himself was thought to be indispensable in all future combinations of the ministry.

“You always forget, my dear marquise,” replied Rastignac, “that our government exchanges its silver for gold only; it pays no heed to men.”

“Is Maxime a man who would blow out his brains?” inquired the banker du Tillet.

“Ha! you wish I were; we should be quits then,” said Comte Maxime de Trailles, whom everybody supposed to have left the house.

The count rose suddenly, like an apparition, from the depths of an arm-chair placed exactly behind that of the Chevalier d’Espard.

Every one present laughed.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” said the young Comtesse de Rastignac, whom the marquise had asked to do the honors in her place.

“Gladly,” replied the count, standing before the fireplace.

This man, the prince of fashionable scoundrels, had managed to maintain himself until now in the high and mighty position of a dandy in Paris, then called Gants Jaunes (lemon-kid-glovers), and since, “lions.”  It is useless to relate the history of his youth, full of questionable adventures, with now and then some horrible drama, in which he had always known how to save appearances.  To this man women were never anything else than a means; he believed no more in their griefs than he did in their joys; he regarded them, like the late de Marsay, as naughty children.  After squandering his own fortune, he had spent that of a famous courtesan, La Belle Hollandaise, the mother of Esther Gobseck.  He had caused the misery of Madame Restaud, sister of Madame Delphine de Nucingen, the mother of the young Comtesse de Rastignac.

The world of Paris offers many unimaginable situations.  The Baronne de Nucingen was at this moment in Madame d’Espard’s salon in presence of the author of all her sister’s misery, in presence of a murderer who killed only the happiness of women.  That, perhaps, was the reason why he was there.  Madame de Nucingen had dined at Madame d’Espard’s with her daughter, married a few months earlier to the Comte de Rastignac, who had begun his political career by occupying the post of under-secretary of state in the famous ministry of the late de Marsay, the only real statesman produced by the Revolution of July.

Comte Maxime de Trailles alone knew how many disasters he had caused; but he had always taken care to shelter himself from blame by scrupulously obeying the laws of the Man-Code.  Though he had squandered in the course of his life more money than the four galleys of France could have stolen in the same time, he had kept clear of justice.  Never had he lacked in honor; his gambling debts were paid scrupulously.  An admirable player, his partners were chiefly the great seigneurs, ministers, and ambassadors.  He dined habitually with all the members of the diplomatic body.  He fought duels, and had killed two or three men in his life; in fact, he had half murdered them, for his coolness and self-possession were unparalleled.  No young man could compare with him in dress, in the distinction of his manners, the elegance of his witty speech, the grace of his easy carriage,—­in short, what was called in those days “the grand air.”  In his capacity of page to the Emperor, trained from the age of twelve in the art of riding, he was held to be the skilfulest of horsemen.  Having always fine horses in his stable, he raised some, and ruled the fashion in equestrianism.  No man could stand a supper of young bloods better than he; he drank more than the best-trained toper, but he came out fresh and cool, and ready to begin again as if orgy were his element.  Maxime, one of those despised men who know how to repress the contempt they inspire by the insolence of their attitude and the fear they cause, never deceived himself as to his actual position.  Hence his real strength.  Strong men are always their own critics.

Under the Restoration he had made the most of his former condition of page to the Emperor.  He attributed to his pretended Bonapartist opinions the rebuffs he met with from the different ministers when he asked for an office under the Bourbons; for, in spite of his connections, his birth, and his dangerous aptitudes, he never obtained anything.  After the failure of these attempts he entered the secret cabal which led in time to the fall of the Elder branch.

When the Younger branch, preceded by the Parisian populace, had trodden down the Elder branch and was seated on the throne, Maxime reproduced his attachment to Napoleon, for whom he cared as much as for his first love.  He then did great services to the newcomers, who soon found the payment for them onerous; for Maxime too often demanded payment of men who knew how to reckon those services.  At the first refusal, Maxime assumed at once an attitude of hostility, threatening to reveal unpleasant details; for budding dynasties, like infants, have much soiled linen.  De Marsay, during his ministry, repaired the mistake of his predecessors, who had ignored the utility of this man.  He gave him those secret missions which require a conscience made malleable by the hammer of necessity, an adroitness which recoils before no methods, impudence, and, above all, the self-possession, the coolness, the embracing glance which constitute the hired bravi of thought and statesmanship.  Such instruments are both rare and necessary.

As a matter of calculation, de Marsay maintained Comte Maxime de Trailles in the highest society; he described him as a man ripened by passions, taught by experience, who knew men and things, to whom travel and a certain faculty for observation had imparted an understanding of European interests, of foreign cabinets, and of all the ramifications of the great continental families.  De Marsay convinced Maxime of the necessity of doing himself credit; he taught him discretion, less as a virtue than a speculation; he proved to him that the governing powers would never abandon a solid, safe, elegant, and polished instrument.

“In politics,” he said, blaming Maxime for having uttered a threat, “we should never blackmail but once.”

Maxime was a man who could sound the depths of that saying.

De Marsay dead, Comte Maxime de Trailles had fallen back into his former state of existence.  He went to the baths every year and gambled; he returned to Paris for the winter; but, though he received some large sums from the depths of certain niggardly coffers, that sort of half-pay to a daring man kept for use at any moment and possessing many secrets of the art of diplomacy, was insufficient for the dissipations of a life as splendid as that of the king of dandies, the tyrant of several Parisian clubs.  Consequently Comte Maxime was often uneasy about matters financial.  Possessing no property, he had never been able to consolidate his position by being made a deputy; also, having no ostensible functions, it was impossible for him to hold a knife at the throat of any minister to compel his nomination as peer of France.  At the present moment he saw that Time was getting the better of him; for his lavish dissipations were beginning to wear upon his person, as they had already worn out his divers fortunes.  In spite of his splendid exterior, he knew himself, and could not be deceived about that self.  He intended to “make an end”—­to marry.

A man of acute mind, he was under no illusion as to the apparent consideration in which he was held; he well knew it was false.  No women were truly on his side, either in the great world of Paris or among the bourgeoisie.  Much secret malignity, much apparent good-humor, and many services rendered were necessary to maintain him in his present position; for every one desired his fall, and a run of ill-luck might at any time ruin him.  Once sent to Clichy or forced to leave the country by notes no longer renewable, he would sink into the gulf where so many political carcasses may be seen,—­carcasses of men who find no consolation in one another’s company.  Even this very evening he was in dread of a collapse of that threatening arch which debt erects over the head of many a Parisian.  He had allowed his anxieties to appear upon his face; he had refused to play cards at Madame d’Espard’s; he had talked with the women in an absent-minded manner, and finally he had sunk down silent and absorbed in the arm-chair from which he had just risen like Banquo’s ghost.

Comte Maxime de Trailles now found himself the object of all glances, direct and indirect, standing as he did before the fireplace and illumined by the cross-lights of two candelabra.  The few words said about him compelled him, in a way, to bear himself proudly; and he did so, like a man of sense, without arrogance, and yet with the intention of showing himself to be above suspicion.  A painter could scarcely have found a better moment in which to seize the portrait of a man who, in his way, was truly extraordinary.  Does it not require rare faculties to play such a part,—­to enable one through thirty years to seduce women; to constrain one to employ great gifts in an underhand sphere only,—­inciting a people to rebel, tracking the secrets of austere politicians, and triumphing nowhere but in boudoirs and on the back-stairs of cabinets?

Is there not something, difficult to say what, of greatness in being able to rise to the highest calculations of statesmen and then to fall coldly back into the void of a frivolous life?  Where is the man of iron who can withstand the alternating luck of gambling, the rapid missions of diplomacy, the warfare of fashion and society, the dissipations of gallantry,—­the man who makes his memory a library of lies and craft, who envelops such diverse thoughts, such conflicting manoeuvres, in one impenetrable cloak of perfect manners?  If the wind of favor had blown steadily upon those sails forever set, if the luck of circumstances had attended Maxime, he could have been Mazarin, the Marechal de Richelieu, Potemkin, or—­perhaps more truly—­Lauzun, without Pignerol.

The count, though rather tall and constitutionally slender, had of late acquired some protuberance of stomach, but he “restrained it to the majestic,” as Brillat-Savarin once said.  His clothes were always so well made, that he kept about his whole person an air of youth, something active and agile, due no doubt to his habits of exercise, —­fencing, riding, and hunting.  Maxime possessed all the physical graces and elegances of aristocracy, still further increased by his personally superior bearing.  His long, Bourbonine face was framed by whiskers and a beard, carefully kept, elegantly cut, and black as jet.  This color, the same as that of his abundant hair, he now obtained by an Indian cosmetic, very costly and used in Persia, the secret of which he kept to himself.  He deceived the most practised eye as to the white threads which for some time past had invaded his hair.  The remarkable property of this dye, used by Persians for their beards only, is that it does not render the features hard; it can be shaded by indigo to harmonize well with the individual character of the skin.  It was this operation that Madame Mollot may have seen,—­though people in Arcis, by way of a jest, still ask themselves what it was that Madame Mollot saw.

Maxime had a very handsome forehead, blue eyes, a Greek nose, a pleasant mouth, and a well-cut chin; but the circle of his eyes was now marked with numberless lines, so fine that they might have been traced by a razor and not visible at a little distance.  His temples had similar lines.  The face was also slightly wrinkled.  His eyes, like those of gamblers who have sat up innumerable nights, were covered with a glaze, but the glance, though it was thus weakened, was none the less terrible,—­in fact, it terrified; a hidden heat was felt beneath it, a lava of passions not yet extinct.  The mouth, once so fresh and rosy, now had colder tints; it was straight no longer, but inclined to the right,—­a sinuosity that seemed to indicate falsehood.  Vice had twisted the lips, but the teeth were white and handsome.

These blemishes disappeared on a general view of his face and person.  His figure was so attractive that no young man could compete with Maxime when on horseback in the Bois, where he seemed younger and more graceful than the youngest and most graceful among them.  The privilege of eternal youth has been possessed by several men in our day.

The count was all the more dangerous because he seemed to be easy and indolent, never showing the iron determination which he had about all things.  This apparent indifference, which enabled him to abet a popular sedition for the purpose of strengthening the authority of a prince with as much ability as he would have bestowed upon a court intrigue, had a certain grace.  People never distrust calmness and uniformity of manner, especially in France, where we are accustomed to a great deal of movement and stir about the smallest things.

The count, who was dressed in the fashion of 1839, wore a black coat, a cashmere waistcoat of dark blue embroidered with tiny flowers of a lighter blue, black trousers, gray silk stockings, and varnished leather shoes.  His watch, placed in one of his waistcoat pockets, was fastened by an elegant chain to a button-hole.

“Rastignac,” he said, accepting the cup of tea which the pretty Madame de Rastignac offered him, “will you come with me to the Austrian ambassador’s?”

“My dear fellow, I am too recently married not to go home with my wife.”

“That means that later—­” said the young countess, turning round and looking at her husband.

“Later is the end of the world,” replied Maxime.  “But I shall certainly win my cause if I take Madame for a judge.”

With a charming gesture, the count invited the pretty countess to come nearer to him.  After listening a few moments and looking at her mother, she said to Rastignac:—­

“If you want to go to the embassy with Monsieur de Trailles, mamma will take me home.”

A few moments later the Baronne de Nucingen and the Comtesse de Rastignac went away together.  Maxime and Rastignac followed a little later, and when they were both seated in the count’s carriage, the latter said:—­

“What do you want of me, Maxime?  Why do you take me by the throat in this way?  What did you say to my wife?”

“I told her I had something to say to you.  You are a lucky fellow, you are!  You have ended by marrying the only heiress of the Nucingen millions—­after twenty years at hard labor.”

“Maxime!”

“But I! here am I, exposed to the doubts of everybody.  A miserable coward like du Tillet dares to ask if I have the courage to kill myself!  It is high time for me to settle down.  Does the ministry want to get rid of me, or does it not?  You ought to know.  At any rate, you must find out,” continued Maxime, making a gesture with his hand to silence Rastignac.  “Here is my plan:  listen to it.  You ought to serve me, for I have served you, and can serve you again.  The life I live now is intolerable; I want an escape from it.  Help me to a marriage which shall bring me half a million.  Once married, appoint me minister to some wretched little republic in America.  I’ll stay there long enough to make my promotion to the same post in Germany legitimate.  If I am worth anything, they will soon take me out of it; if I am not worth anything, they can dismiss me.  Perhaps I may have a child.  If so, I shall be stern with him; his mother will be rich; I’ll make him a minister, perhaps an ambassador.”

“Here is my answer,” said Rastignac.  “An incessant battle is going on —­greater than common people who are not in it have any idea of —­between power in its swaddling-clothes and power in its childhood.  Power in swaddling-clothes is the Chamber of Deputies which, not being restrained by an hereditary chamber—­”

“Ha! ha!” said Maxime, “you are now a peer of France.”

“I should say the same if I were not,” said the new peer.  “But don’t interrupt me; you are concerned in all this.  The Chamber of Deputies is fated to become the whole government, as de Marsay used to tell us (the only man by whom France could have been saved), for peoples don’t die; they are slaves or free men, and that’s all.  Child-power is the royalty that was crowned in August, 1830.  The present ministry is beaten; it dissolves the Chamber and brings on a general election in order to prevent the coming ministry from calling one; but it does not expect a victory.  If it were victorious in these elections, the dynasty would be in danger; whereas, if the ministry is beaten, the dynastic party can fight to advantage for a long time.  The mistakes of the Chamber will turn to the profit of a will which wants, unfortunately, to be the whole political power.  When a ruler is that whole, as Napoleon was, there comes a moment when he must supplement himself; and having by that time alienated superior men, he, the great single will, can find no assistant.  That assistant ought to be what is called a cabinet; but there is no cabinet in France, there is only a Will with a life lease.  In France it is the government that is blamed, the opposition never; it may lose as many battles as it fights, but, like the allies in 1814, one victory suffices.  With ’three glorious days’ it overturned and destroyed everything.  Therefore, if we are heirs of power, we must cease to govern, and wait.  I belong by my personal opinions to the aristocracy, and by my public opinions to the royalty of July.  The house of Orleans served me to raise the fortunes of my family, and I shall ever remain attached to it.”

“The ‘ever’ of Monsieur de Talleyrand, be it understood,” put in Maxime.

“At this moment I can’t do anything for you,” continued Rastignac.  “We shall not be in power more than six months longer.  Yes, those six months will be our last dying agony, I know that; but we know what we were when we formed ourselves, a stop-gap ministry and that was all.  But you can distinguish yourself in the electoral battle that is soon to be fought.  If you can bring one vote to the Chamber, a deputy faithful to the dynastic cause, you will find your wishes gratified.  I will speak of your good services, and I will keep my eye on the reports of our confidential agents; I may find you some difficult task in which you can distinguish yourself.  If you succeed, I can insist upon your talents, your devotion, and claim your reward.  Your marriage, my dear fellow, can be made only in some ambitious provincial family of tradespeople or manufacturers.  In Paris you are too well known.  We must therefore look out for a millionaire parvenu, endowed with a daughter, and possessed with a desire to parade himself and his family at the Chateau des Tuileries.”

“Make your father-in-law lend me twenty-five thousand francs to enable me to wait as long as that; he will then have an interest in seeing that I am not paid in holy-water if I succeed; he will further a rich marriage for his own sake.”

“You are wily, Maxime, and you distrust me.  But I like able men, and I will attend to your affair.”

They reached the Austrian embassy.  The Comte de Rastignac saw the minister of the interior in one of the salons and went to talk with him in a corner.  Comte Maxime de Trailles, meantime, was apparently engrossed by the old Comtesse de Listomere, but he was, in reality, following the course of the conversation between the two peers of France; he watched their gestures, interpreted their looks, and ended by catching a favorable glance cast upon him by the minister.

Maxime and Rastignac left the embassy together about one in the morning, and before getting into their respective carriages, Rastignac said to Maxime on the steps of the portico:  “Come and see me just before the elections.  Between now and then I shall know in what locality the chances of the ministry are worst, and what resources two heads like yours and mine can find there.”

“But my twenty-five thousand francs are needed,” replied de Trailles.

“Well, you must hide yourself, that’s all.”

Fifty days later, one morning before dawn, the Comte de Trailles went to the rue de Varennes, mysteriously in a hired cab.  At the gate of the ministry of Public Works, he sent the cab away, looked about him to see that he was not watched, and then waited in a little salon on the first floor until Rastignac should awake.  A few moments later the valet who had taken in his card ushered Maxime into the minister’s bed-chamber, where that statesman was making his morning toilet.

“My dear Maxime,” said the latter, “I can tell you a secret which will be in the newspapers two days hence, and which, meantime, you can turn to your own profit.  That poor Charles Keller, who danced the mazurka so well, as been killed in Africa.  His death leaves a vacancy; he was our candidate in the arrondissement of Arcis.  Here is a copy of two reports, one from the sub-prefect, the other from the commissary of police, informing the ministry that the election of the poor fellow would meet with opposition.  In that of the commissary of police you will find some information about the state of the town which ought to be useful to a man of your shrewdness; it seems that the ambition of the rival candidate comes chiefly from his desire to marry a certain heiress.  To one of your calibre that word is enough.  The Cinq-Cygnes, the Princesse de Cadignan, and Georges de Maufrigneuse are living at Cinq-Cygne, close to Arcis; you can certainly obtain through them all the Legitimist votes, therefore—­”

“Don’t waste your breath,” said Maxime.  “Is the commissary still there?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a letter to him.”

“My dear fellow,” replied Rastignac, giving Maxime quite a bundle of papers, “you will find there two letters written to Gondreville for you.  You have been a page and he has been a senator; you can’t fail therefore to understand each other.  Madame Francois Keller is pious; here is a letter introducing you to her from the Marechale de Carigliano.  The marechale has become dynastic; she recommends you warmly, and may go down herself.  I will only add one word:  Distrust the sub-prefect, whom I think capable of working this candidate, this Simon Giguet, into a support for himself with the president of the council.  If you want letters, powers, credentials, write to me.”

“And those twenty-five thousand francs?” said Maxime.

“Sign this note to the order of du Tillet, and here’s the money.”

“I shall succeed,” said the count, “and you may tell the king that the deputy of Arcis shall belong to him body and soul.  If I fail, I give you leave to abandon me.”

An hour later Maxime de Trailles was in his tilbury on the road to
Arcis.