Lost Illusions

  A slight tremor on Louise de Nègrepelisse’s countenance betrayed her pleasure, which she was trying to repress, on hearing this. In surprise at seeing her thoughts so well divined, she looked hard at Petit-Claud as she flicked her fan open: Françoise de La Haye was coming in, and that gave her time to think out her reply.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she said with a meaningful smile, ‘it won’t be long before you are a public attorney…’ Without committing herself, she was making the position clear.

  ‘Oh, Madame!’ cried Françoise as she came up to thank the Prefect’s wife. ‘And so I shall owe you my life’s happiness!’ Leaning towards her patroness with a girlish gesture, she whispered to her: ‘To be the wife of a provincial solicitor would be like dying in a slow fire!’

  As for Zéphirine, if she had thrown herself at Louise, it was because she had been urged to do so by Francis, who was not without a certain knowledge of the bureaucratic world. ‘During the early days of any accession, whether that of a prefect, a dynasty or even a development company,’ the former consul-general had said to his mistress, ‘one finds people all agog to do one service. But it doesn’t take them long to find out that patronisation has its drawbacks: and then they freeze. Just now Louise will take steps on behalf of Petit-Claud that in three months’ time she wouldn’t take even for your husband.’

  ‘Has Madame la Comtesse thought,’ asked Petit-Claud, ‘of all the obligations our poet’s triumph will impose on her? She will have to receive Lucien during the week or so this adulation lasts.’

  The Prefect’s wife gave a little nod of dismissal to Petit-Claud and stood up in order to go and chat with Madame de Pimentel whose face was showing at the boudoir door. Impressed by the news that Louise’s worthy father had been raised to the peerage, the Marquise had deemed it advisable to pay deference to a woman who had so cleverly increased her prestige by committing what was practically a lapse from virtue.

  ‘Tell me, dear, why you bothered to get your father into the Upper House?’ the Marquise asked in the course of a confidential conversation during which she was virtually dropping curtseys to the superiority of ‘her dear Louise’.

  ‘My dear, this favour was the more readily granted me because my father has no other children and will always vote for the Crown. But if I have any male children I can count on the eldest inheriting his grandfather’s title, escutcheon and peerage.’

  Madame de Pimental, who had hoped to get her husband raised to the peerage, was chagrined to perceive that there was no chance of her making use of a woman whose ambitions were already reaching out to her prospective children.

  ‘I’ve won the Prefect’s wife over,’ Petit-Claud was saying to Cointet as they left, ‘and I promise you your deed of partnership… In one month I shall be assistant deputy attorney, and you will have Séchard where you want him. Now try and find someone to buy my practice – in five months I’ve made it the best one in Angoulême.’

  ‘All you needed was a leg-up,’ said Cointet. He was almost jealous of what he had done for Petit-Claud.

  So now the reason for Lucien’s triumph in the town of his birth is made plain. Following the example set by the ‘King of the French’ who abstained from avenging the injuries done to him as Duke of Orleans, Madame du Châtelet was ready to forget the insults she had received in Paris as Madame de Bargeton. Her object was to patronize Lucien, crush him under the weight of her patronage and get rid of him in a respectable way.

  Petit-Claud had learnt through gossip the whole story of what had happened in Paris, and he easily sensed the undying hatred which women bear to the man who has not been clever enough to love them at the time when they wanted to be loved.

  24. A rare kind of devotion

  THE day after the ovation which vindicated Louise’s past, Petit-Claud, intent on turning Lucien’s head completely and getting him in his power, called at the Séchards’ with six young men of the town, all former friends of Lucien at the College of Angoulême. They formed a deputation sent to the author of Les Marguerites and The Archer of Charles the Ninth by his fellow-scholars, to invite him to a banquet they wished to give to the great man who had emerged from their ranks.

  ‘Why, it’s you, Petit-Claud!’ Lucien exclaimed.

  ‘Your return here,’ said Petit-Claud, ‘has stimulated our self-pride, and we have felt in honour bound to club together and arrange a splendid dinner for you. The headmaster and assistant masters will be there, and by the way things are going, we’re likely to have the civic authorities there too.’

  ‘For what day?’

  ‘Sunday next.’

  ‘That would be impossible,’ the poet replied. ‘I can’t manage it until ten days from now… But then I’d willingly accept.’

  ‘Very good, we’re at your command. We’ll have it in ten days’ time.’

  Lucien behaved charmingly to his former comrades, and they showed him almost respectful admiration. He chatted for about half an hour with much wit, for he felt he was placed on a pedestal and wanted to justify the opinion his home-town held of him. He thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat and held forth like a man looking at things from the height on which his fellow-citizens have set him. He was modest and affable, like a genius in undress. He voiced the complaints of an athlete exhausted by his wrestling-bouts in Paris, stressing his disenchantment and congratulating his comrades on having stuck to their native hearth, and so on. They were all under a spell when they left him.

  Then he took Petit-Claud aside and asked him the truth about David’s affairs, blaming him for the sequestration in which his brother-in-law was living. He tried to be clever with Petit-Claud, and Petit-Claud did his best to give his old schoolfellow the impression that he, Petit-Claud, was a paltry little provincial solicitor without any kind of finesse.

  The present constitution of human societies, infinitely more complex in its machinery than that of ancient societies, has resulted in a subdivision of the faculties at man’s command. Outstanding people in former times had to be men of many parts, they were relatively few in number and shone out like beacons amid the nations of antiquity. Later, though faculties became specialized, quality was still comprehensive in its field of action. Thus a ‘past master in guile’ like Louis XI could adapt his cunning to any and every situation. But today quality itself has become subdivided. For instance, each particular profession has its own special brand of cunning. A wily diplomat conducting an affair in the depths of a province may very well find himself duped by a mediocre solicitor or even a peasant. The most cunning journalist may turn out quite a simpleton in commercial matters, and Lucien was, nor could he help being, a puppet in Petit-Claud’s hands. It goes without saying that the mischief-making advocate had himself written the article which forced the city of Angoulême to take its cue from its suburb, L’Houmeau, in celebrating Lucien’s return. Lucien’s fellow-citizens, those who had assembled in the Place du Mûrier, were workmen from the Cointets’ printing-office and paper-mill, in company with the clerks employed by Petit-Claud and Cachan and a few school comrades. Having once more become, in the poet’s eyes, his old school friend, the solicitor was right in thinking that in due time his comrade would blurt out the secret of David’s hiding-place. And if David came to grief through Lucien’s fault, Angoulême would no longer be habitable for the poet. Therefore, in order to get a better hold on him, he posed as Lucien’s inferior.

  ‘How could I have failed to do my best?’ Petit-Claud asked Lucien. ‘The interests of my old classmate’s sister were at stake. But, in the law-courts, there are situations in which one is bound to come off badly. On the first June David asked me to guarantee him peace and quiet for three months. He won’t be in danger until September, and even so I have managed to keep all his goods and chattels out of his creditors’ grasp. For I shall win the Appeal Court suit and obtain judgment to the effect that a wife’s privilege is absolute and that, in this particular case, no fraud is involved. As for you, you have come back in unhappy circu
mstances, but you’re a man of genius…’ Lucien made the gesture of a man who feels that the censer is swinging too near his nostrils. ‘Yes, my dear friend,’ Petit-Claud went on. ‘I’ve read The Archer of Charles the Ninth. It’s not a mere publication, it’s a great piece of writing! The preface could only have been written by one of two men: Chateaubriand or yourself!’

  Lucien accepted this eulogy without revealing that the preface was by d’Arthez. Ninety-nine out of a hundred authors would have done the same.

  ‘And yet you didn’t seem to be known here!’ Petit-Claud continued with a pretence at indignation. ‘Once I took stock of the general indifference, I conceived the idea of stirring all these people up. It was I who wrote the article you have read…’

  ‘What, it was you who…’ cried Lucien.

  ‘Myself. Angoulême and L’Houmeau were vying with each other, I gathered some young people round me – your old schoolfellows – and arranged for yesterday’s serenade. Then, once our enthusiasm was under way, we launched the idea of a subscription dinner. I said to myself: “Even though David’s in hiding, at least Lucien shall have his tribute!” – I’ve done even better,’ he went on. ‘I’ve seen the Comtesse Châtelet and made her realize she owes it to herself to extricate David. She can and must do it. If David really has invented the process he told me about, it won’t ruin the Government to support him, and what a feather in a prefect’s cap to be able to claim his share in so great a discovery by virtue of the timely protection he granted to the inventor! That’s the way to get talked about as an enlightened administrator!… Your sister’s afraid of the sputtering of our judicial musket-fire! She’s even frightened of the smoke it raises… War in the courts costs as dear as on the battle-field; but David has stuck to his guns, he’s in control of his secret. He can’t and won’t be arrested!’

  ‘I thank you, my dear friend, and I see that I can confide my plan to you. You will help me to bring it off.’

  Petit-Claud looked at Lucien with his gimlet-shaped nose screwed up to resemble a question-mark.

  ‘I want to save Séchard,’ said Lucien with an air of self-importance, ‘I am responsible for his misfortune. I will put everything right. I have more power over Louise than…’

  ‘Who is Louise?’

  ‘The Comtesse Châtelet.’ Petit-Claud made a gesture.

  ‘I have more power over her than she herself realizes,’ Lucien continued. ‘Only, dear friend, if I’m to make it felt in Government circles, I need clothes…’

  Petit-Claud made another gesture as if to offer his purse.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lucien, shaking Petit-Claud’s hand. ‘In ten days from now I shall pay a call on Madame la Préfète and return your call.’

  They parted with comradely handshakes.

  ‘He’s a poet right enough,’ Petit-Claud thought to himself. ‘He’s crazy!’

  ‘Say what you like,’ Lucien was thinking as he returned to his sister’s room. ‘When it comes to friends, there are none like old schoolmates.’

  ‘Well, Lucien,’ said Eve. ‘What has Petit-Claud promised you that you should show him so much friendship? Beware of him!’

  ‘Of him?’ cried Lucien. ‘Listen, Eve,’ he went on, as if in response to a sudden idea. ‘You no longer believe in me, you distrust me, you may well distrust Petit-Claud. But in twelve or fifteen days’ time you’ll change your mind.’ This he added with a fatuous smirk.

  25. The pride of his province?

  LUCIEN went up to his bedroom and wrote a letter to Lousteau:

  My friend,

  Of the two of us I alone, probably, remember the thousand francs I lent you. But I know only too well, alas, the situation you will be in as you open this letter, not to add straight away that I’m not asking for them back in gold or silver. No, I ask them from you in the shape of credit, as one might ask Florine for them in the shape of pleasure. We have the same tailor, so you can have a complete outfit of clothes made for me in the shortest possible time. I’m not exactly in Adam’s birthday suit, but I can’t show myself in public. Here, the honours due by the département to Parisian celebrities were awaiting me, to my great astonishment. I’m to be guest of honour at a banquet, no more and no less than a deputy of the Left might be. Do you understand now why I must have evening clothes? Promise me this payment. Make it your concern. Use your power as a writer of puffs. In short, write a new scene between Don Juan and his creditor: his name was Sunday, and I simply must have some Sunday garments. I’ve nothing but rags: that’s the point to start from!

  It’s September and the weather’s magnificent. Ergo, see to it that I receive by the end of this week some smart outdoor wear: a morning coat, dark bronze-green, three waistcoats, one yellow, the second a fancy one in Scottish tartan, the third completely white. Also three pairs of trousers likely to impress the ladies, one in white English material, the second in nankeen, the third in fine black cashmere; finally a black evening coat and a black satin waistcoat.

  If by now you have picked up some new Florine or other, ask her to choose me two fancy cravats. All that will be easy: I’m counting on you, on your resourcefulness. I’m not worried about the tailor. But, my dear friend, as we have often had cause to regret, the intelligence born of poverty (surely the worst bane in the life of that epitome of mankind, the Parisian), an intelligence so fertile in ways and means as to cause even Satan some surprise, has still not hit on a device for getting a hat on credit. When we have started a fashion in hats costing a thousand francs we shall be able to get them on credit; but until then we must always have enough coins in our pockets to pay cash for them. Oh! What harm the Comédie-Française has done us with its catch-phrase Lafleur, put some money in our pockets! And so I am well aware of the difficulty you’ll have in satisfying this request. To what the tailor provides add a pair of boots, a pair of dancing-shoes, a hat and six pairs of gloves. I know I’m asking the impossible, but isn’t a literary man’s life one long series of impossible achievements? This is all I have to say to you: perform this miracle by writing a great article or a scandalous little one, and I’ll regard your debt as well and duly paid. It’s a debt of honour, my friend, of twelve months’ standing: you’d blush at it if you were capable of blushing.

  Joking apart, my dear Lousteau, I’m in a serious position. Judge of it by this one piece of information: the Cuttle-fish has put on flesh, she’s married to the Heron, and the Heron is Prefect of Angoulême. This appalling couple can do a lot for my brother-in-law whom I’ve landed in an appalling situation: he’s being hounded for debt and is in hiding as a result of a bill of exchange I drew… So it’s up to me to reappear before Madame la Préfète and regain some ascendancy over her. Isn’t it terrible to think that David Séchard’s fortune depends on a handsome pair of boots, some grey open-work silk stockings (don’t forget them either) and a new hat?… I’m going to pretend that I’m ill and in pain and retire to bed like Duvicquet, so that I need not respond to the attentions of my fellow-citizens. These same fellow-citizens, my dear, gave me a very fine serenade. I’m beginning to wonder how many fools it takes to make up the term fellow-citizens now that I have learned that the enthusiasm of this provincial capital was sparked off by a few of my old school-friends.

  If you could insert in your News Items a few lines about my reception, you’d raise my stature here by the thickness of several boot-heels. It would also make the Cuttle-fish feel that I have, if not friends, at least some credit in the Parisian press. Since I’m not giving up any of my hopes, I’ll do the same for you one day. If you wanted a good leading article for some periodical or other, I have time to think one out at leisure. I’ll say nothing more, my dear friend, than this: I’m counting on you, as you also can count on the man who signs himself

  Entirely yours,

  LUCIEN DER.

  P.S. Send everything by stage-coach, labelled ‘to be called for’.

  This letter, in which Lucien once more assumed the tone of superiority reawakened in him b
y his recent success, took his mind back to Paris. He had been steeped for six days in the absolute calm of provincial life; now his thoughts reverted to the brighter side of his afflictions. He felt vague regrets, and for a whole week the Comtesse Châtelet was the sole object of his reflections. In short, he attached so much importance to his reappearance in society that when, late one evening, he went down to collect the parcels he was expecting from Paris, he experienced all the anguish of uncertainty – like a woman who has staked her last hopes on a pretty dress and is in despair over getting it.

  ‘Ah! Lousteau! I forgive you for all your treachery,’ he said below his breath as he noticed by the shape of the parcels that everything for which he had asked had been despatched. He found the following letter in the hat-box:

  My dear boy,

  The tailor behaved very well but, as your penetrating hindsight helped you to foresee, the cravats, hats and silk stockings you ordered cost us serious heart-searchings, for it was no use searching our pockets. As we agreed with Blondet, someone could make a fortune by setting up a shop in which young people could buy things for next to nothing, for in the end the goods we don’t pay for cost us very dear. For that matter, our great Napoleon said, when the lack of a pair of boots halted him in his race to India: ‘The easiest things never get done.’ Anyway, all was going well except for your footwear… I could see you dressed up, but no hat; in a fine waist-coat, but without shoes! I even thought of sending you a pair of mocassins which an American gave Florine as a curiosity. She offered us a lump sum of forty francs to be gambled with for your needs. Nathan, Blondet and I were so lucky, since we were not gambling on our own account, that we won enough money to take the Torpedo,1 Des Lupeaulx’s former ballet-girl, out to supper. Frascati certainly owed us that. Florine undertook the purchases: she has added three fine shirts. Nathan offers you a cane. Blondet, who won three hundred francs, sends you a gold chain. The ballet-girl joined in with a gold watch the size of a forty-franc piece which some imbecile gave her, though it doesn’t go! ‘It’s trumpery stuff,’ she told us, ‘like what he had from me!’ Bixiou, who joined us at the Rocher de Cancale, elected to include a bottle of eau de Portugal in the package we’re sending you from Paris. And, in his deep bass voice and with the middle-class portentousness he takes off so well, our star comedian added: ‘If that can ensure his success, so be it!’