The Deputy of Arcis

XII

DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Paris, May, 1839.

On my return this evening from the Estorades, on whom I had paid my parting call, I found your letter, my dear friend, in which you announce your coming arrival.  I shall await you to-morrow during the day, but in the evening I must, without further delay, start for Arcis-sur-Aube, where, in the course of the next week my political matters will come to a head.  What particular hold I may have on that town, which, as it appears, I have the ambition to represent, and on what co-operation and assistance I may rely,—­in a word, who is making my electoral bed,—­all that I know as little about as I did last year when I was told for the first time that I must enter political life.

A few days ago I received a second letter from my father, postmarked Paris this time, and not Stockholm.  Judging by the style of the document, it would not surprise me if the “eminent services” rendered in a Northern court by the mysterious author of my days turned out to be those of a Prussian corporal.  It would be impossible to issue orders in a more imperative tone, or to dwell more minutely on trifling particulars.

The note or memorandum was headed thus:  What my son is to do.

On receipt of these instructions I am to send to its destination the Saint-Ursula; to superintend the packing and boxing of it myself, and to despatch it by the fastest carrier, to Mother Marie-des-Anges, superior of the convent of the Ursulines at Arcis-sur-Aube.

The order went on to say that I was to follow the statue in a few days, so as to arrive at the said Arcis-sur-Aube not later than the 3rd of May.  Even the inn at which I was to put up was dictated.  I would find myself expected at the Hotel de la Poste; so that if I happen to prefer any of the others I must resign that fancy.  I am also enjoined to publish in the newspapers on the day of my departure the fact that I present myself as candidate in the electoral arrondissement of Arcis-sur-Aube; avoiding, however, to make any profession of political faith, which would be both useless and premature.  The document ended with an injunction which, while it humiliated me somewhat, gave me a certain faith in what was happening.  The Mongenod Brothers, and draw for another sum of two hundred and fifty thousand francs, which is to be deposited in my name, “taking the utmost care,” continued my instructions, “when transporting this money from Paris to Arcis-sur-Aube that it be not lost or stolen.”

What do you think of that last clause, dear friend?  That sum is to be deposited; then it is not already there; and suppose it is not there?—­Besides, what am I to do with it in Arcis?  Am I to stand my election on English principles? if so, a profession of political faith would certainly be useless and premature.  As to the advice not to lose or allow to be stolen the money in my possession, do you not think that that is making me rather juvenile?  I feel an inclination to suck my thumb and cry for a rattle.  However, I shall let myself go with the current that is bearing me along, and, notwithstanding the news of your coming arrival, after paying a visit to the Brothers Mongenod, I shall valiantly start, imagining the stupefaction of the good people of Arcis on seeing another candidate pop up in their midst like a Jack-in-the-box.

In Paris I have already fired my gun.  The “National” has announced my candidacy in the warmest terms; and it seems that this evening, in the house of the Minister of the Interior, where Monsieur de l’Estorade was dining, I was discussed at some length.  I ought to add that, according to Monsieur de l’Estorade, the general impression is that I shall certainly fail of election.  The ministry might possibly fear a candidate from the Left centre; but as for the democratic party to which I am supposed to belong, they do not even allow that it exists.  The Left centre candidate has, however, been disposed of by a ministerial envoy of the ablest and most active description, and at this moment, when I set off my small balloon, the election of the Conservative candidate is pretty well assured.

Among the elements of my inevitable defeat, Monsieur de l’Estorade condescended to mention a matter about which, dear friend, I am rather surprised that you have not already lectured me.  It is one of those agreeable calumnies put in circulation in the salon Montcornet by the honored and honorable Monsieur Bixiou.  The scandal concerns a handsome Italian woman whom I brought back from Italy and with whom I am said to be living in a manner not canonical.  Come, tell me, what hindered you from asking me to explain this important matter?  Did you think the charge so shameful that you feared to offend me by alluding to it?  Or have you such confidence in my morality that you felt no need of being strengthened therein?  I did not have time to enter upon the necessary explanations to Monsieur de l’Estorade, neither have I the leisure to write them to you now.  If I speak of the incident it is for the purpose of telling you of an observation I think I have made, into the truth of which I want you to examine after you get here.  It is this:—­

I have an idea that it would not be agreeable to Monsieur de l’Estorade to see me successful in my electoral campaign.  He never gave much approbation to the plan; in fact he tried to dissuade me, but always from the point of view of my own interests.  But to-day, when he finds that the plan has taken shape, and is actually discussed in the ministerial salon, my gentleman turns bitter, and he seems to feel a malignant pleasure in prophesying my defeat and in producing this charming little infamy under which he expects to bury our friendship.

Why so!  I will tell you:  while feeling some gratitude for the service I did him, the worthy man also felt from the height of his social position a superiority over me of which my entrance to the Chamber will now dispossess him; and it is not agreeable to him to renounce that sense of superiority.  After all, what is an artist, even though he may be a man of genius, compared to a peer of France, a personage who puts his hand to the tiller and steers the great political and social system; a man who has access to kings and ministers, and who would have the right if, by impossibility, such audacity should seize upon his mind, of depositing a black ball against the budget.  Well, this privileged being does not like that I, and others like me, should assume the importance and authority of that insolent elective Chamber.

But that is not all.  Hereditary statesmen have a foolish pretension:  that of being initiated by long study into a certain science represented as arduous, which they call the science of public affairs and which they (like physicians with medical science) alone have the right to practise.  They are not willing that an underling, a journalist for instance, or lower than that, an artist, a cutter of images, should presume to slip into their domain and speak out beside them.  A poet, an artist, a writer may be endowed with eminent faculties, they will agree to that; the profession of such men presupposes it; but statesmen they cannot be.  Chateaubriand himself, though better placed than the rest of us to make himself a niche in the Governmental Olympus, was turned out of doors one morning by a concise little note, signed Joseph de Villele, dismissing him, as was proper, to Rene, Atala, and other futilities.

I know that time and that tall posthumous daughter of ours whom we call Posterity will some day do good justice and plead the right thing in the right place.  Towards the end of 2039, the world, if it deigns to last till then, will know what Canalis, Joseph Bridau, Daniel d’Arthez, Stidmann, and Leon de Lora were in 1839; whereas an infinitely small number of persons will know that during the same period Monsieur le Comte de l’Estorade was peer of France, and president of the Cour des comptes; Monsieur le Comte de Rastignac minister of Public Works; and his brother-in-law, Monsieur le Baron Martial de la Roche-Hugon was a diplomat and Councillor of State employed on more or less extraordinary services.

But while awaiting this tardy classification and distant reform, I think it well to let our great governing class know from time to time that unless their names are Richelieu or Colbert they are liable to competition and are forced to accept it.  So, with this aggravating intention I begin to take pleasure in my enterprise; and if I am elected, I shall, unless you assure me that I have mistaken de l’Estorade’s meaning, find occasion to let him and others of his kind know that one can, if so disposed, climb over the walls of their little parks and strut as their equals.

But how is it, my dear friend, that I rattle on about myself and say no word about the sad emotions which must attend your return to France?  How can you bear them?  And instead of endeavoring to lay them aside, I fear you are willingly nursing them and taking a melancholy pleasure in their revival.  Dear friend, I say to you of these great sorrows what I said just now of our governing class—­we should consider them from the point of view of time and space, by the action of which they become after a while imperceptible.

Do me a favor!  On arriving in Paris without having a house prepared to receive you, it would be very friendly—­you would seem like the man of old times—­if you would take up your quarters with me, instead of going to Ville d’Avray, which, indeed, I think dangerous and even bad for you.  Stay with me, and you can thus judge of my handsome housekeeper, and you will see how much she has been calumniated and misunderstood.  You will also be near to the l’Estorades in whom I expect you to find consolations; and besides, this act would be a charming expiation for all the involuntary wrongs you have done me.  At any rate, I have given my orders, and your room is ready for you.

P.S.  You have not yet arrived, dear friend, and I must close this letter, which will be given to you by my housekeeper when you come by my house, for I am certain that your first visit will be to me.

I went this morning to the Mongenods’; the two hundred and fifty thousand francs were there, but with the accompaniment of a most extraordinary circumstance; the money was in the name of the Comte de Sallenauve, otherwise Dorlange, sculptor, 42 rue de l’Ouest.  In spite of an appellation which has never been mine, the money was mine, and was paid to me without the slightest hesitation.  I had enough presence of mind not to seem stupefied by my new name and title before the cashier; but I saw Monsieur Mongenod the elder in private, a man who enjoys the highest reputation at the Bank, and to him I expressed my astonishment, asking for whatever explanations he was able to give me.  He could give none; the money came to him through a Dutch banker, his correspondent at Rotterdam, and he knew nothing beyond that. Ah ca! what does it all mean?  Am I to be a noble?  Has the moment come for my father to acknowledge me?  I start in a state of agitation and of anxiety which you can well understand.  Until I hear from you, I shall address my letters to you here.  If you decide not to stay in my house, let me know your address at once.  Say nothing of what I have now told you to the l’Estorades; let it remain secret between us.