Oscar’s face, somewhat thinned by study, had acquired, through habits of business, a serious expression. He had reached his full growth, his beard was thriving; adolescence had given place to virility. The mother could not refrain from admiring her son and kissing him, as she said: —
“Amuse yourself, my dear boy, but remember the advice of our good Monsieur Godeschal. Ah! by the bye, I was nearly forgetting! Here’s a present our friend Moreau sends you. See! what a pretty pocket-book.”
“And I want it, too; for the master gave me five hundred francs to get that cursed judgment of Vandernesse versus Vandernesse, and I don’t want to leave that sum of money in my room.”
“But, surely, you are not going to carry it with you!” exclaimed his mother, in alarm. “Suppose you should lose a sum like that! Hadn’t you better give it to Monsieur Godeschal for safe keeping?”
“Godeschal!” cried Oscar, who thought his mother’s suggestion excellent.
But Godeschal, who, like all clerks, has his time to himself on Sundays, from ten to two o’clock, had already departed.
When his mother left him, Oscar went to lounge upon the boulevards until it was time to go to Georges Marest’s breakfast. Why not display those beautiful clothes which he wore with a pride and joy which all young fellows who have been pinched for means in their youth will remember. A pretty waistcoat with a blue ground and a palm-leaf pattern, a pair of black cashmere trousers pleated, a black coat very well fitting, and a cane with a gilt top, the cost of which he had saved himself, caused a natural joy to the poor lad, who thought of his manner of dress on the day of that journey to Presles, as the effect that Georges had then produced upon him came back to his mind.
Oscar had before him the perspective of a day of happiness; he was to see the gay world at last! Let us admit that a clerk deprived of enjoyments, though longing for dissipation, was likely to let his unchained senses drive the wise counsels of his mother and Godeschal completely out of his mind. To the shame of youth let it be added that good advice is never lacking to it. In the matter of Georges, Oscar himself had a feeling of aversion for him; he felt humiliated before a witness of that scene in the salon at Presles when Moreau had flung him at the count’s feet. The moral senses have their laws, which are implacable, and we are always punished for disregarding them. There is one in particular, which the animals themselves obey without discussion, and invariably; it is that which tells us to avoid those who have once injured us, with or without intention, voluntarily or involuntarily. The creature from whom we receive either damage or annoyance will always be displeasing to us. Whatever may be his rank or the degree of affection in which he stands to us, it is best to break away from him; for our evil genius has sent him to us. Though the Christian sentiment is opposed to it, obedience to this terrible law is essentially social and conservative. The daughter of James II., who seated herself upon her father’s throne, must have caused him many a wound before that usurpation. Judas had certainly given some murderous blow to Jesus before he betrayed him. We have within us an inward power of sight, an eye of the soul which foresees catastrophes; and the repugnance that comes over us against the fateful being is the result of that foresight. Though religion orders us to conquer it, distrust remains, and its voice is forever heard. Would Oscar, at twenty years of age, have the wisdom to listen to it?
Alas! when, at half-past two o’clock, Oscar entered the salon of the Rocher de Cancale, — where were three invited persons besides the clerks, to wit: an old captain of dragoons, named Giroudeau; Finot, a journalist who might procure an engagement for Florentine at the Opera, and du Bruel, an author, the friend of Tullia, one of Mariette’s rivals, — the second clerk felt his secret hostility vanish at the first handshaking, the first dashes of conversation as they sat around a table luxuriously served. Georges, moreover, made himself charming to Oscar.
“You’ve taken to private diplomacy,” he said; “for what difference is there between a lawyer and an ambassador? only that between a nation and an individual. Ambassadors are the attorneys of Peoples. If I can ever be useful to you, let me know.”
“Well,” said Oscar, “I’ll admit to you now that you once did me a very great harm.”
“Pooh!” said Georges, after listening to the explanation for which he asked; “it was Monsieur de Serizy who behaved badly. His wife! I wouldn’t have her at any price; neither would I like to be in the count’s red skin, minister of State and peer of France as he is. He has a small mind, and I don’t care a fig for him now.”
Oscar listened with true pleasure to these slurs on the count, for they diminished, in a way, the importance of his fault; and he echoed the spiteful language of the ex-notary, who amused himself by predicting the blows to the nobility of which the bourgeoisie were already dreaming, — blows which were destined to become a reality in 1830.
At half-past three the solid eating of the feast began; the dessert did not appear till eight o’clock, — each course having taken two hours to serve. None but clerks can eat like that! The stomachs of eighteen and twenty are inexplicable to the medical art. The wines were worthy of Borrel, who in those days had superseded the illustrious Balaine, the creator of the first restaurant for delicate and perfectly prepared food in Paris, — that is to say, the whole world.
The report of this Belshazzar’s feast for the architriclino-basochien register was duly drawn up, beginning, “Inter pocula aurea restauranti, qui vulgo dicitur Rupes Cancali.” Every one can imagine the fine page now added to the Golden Book of jurisprudential festivals.
Godeschal disappeared after signing the report, leaving the eleven guests, stimulated by the old captain of the Imperial Guard, to the wines, toasts, and liqueurs of a dessert composed of choice and early fruits, in pyramids that rivalled the obelisk of Thebes. By half-past ten the little sub-clerk was in such a state that Georges packed him into a coach, paid his fare, and gave the address of his mother to the driver. The remaining ten, all as drunk as Pitt and Dundas, talked of going on foot along the boulevards, considering the fine evening, to the house of the Marquise de las Florentinas y Cabirolos, where, about midnight, they might expect to find the most brilliant society of Paris. They felt the need of breathing the pure air into their lungs; but, with the exception of Georges, Giroudeau, du Bruel, and Finot, all four accustomed to Parisian orgies, not one of the party could walk. Consequently, Georges sent to a livery-stable for three open carriages, in which he drove his company for an hour round the exterior boulevards from Monmartre to the Barriere du Trone. They returned by Bercy, the quays, and the boulevards to the rue de Vendome.
The clerks were fluttering still in the skies of fancy to which youth is lifted by intoxication, when their amphitryon introduced them into Florentine’s salon. There sparkled a bevy of stage princesses, who, having been informed, no doubt, of Frederic’s joke, were amusing themselves by imitating the women of good society. They were then engaged in eating ices. The wax-candles flamed in the candelabra. Tullia’s footmen and those of Madame du Val-Noble and Florine, all in full livery, where serving the dainties on silver salvers. The hangings, a marvel of Lyonnaise workmanship, fastened by gold cords, dazzled all eyes. The flowers of the carpet were like a garden. The richest “bibelots” and curiosities danced before the eyes of the new-comers.
At first, and in the state to which Georges had brought them, the clerks, and more particularly Oscar, believed in the Marquise de las Florentinas y Cabirolos. Gold glittered on four card-tables in the bed-chamber. In the salon, the women were playing at vingt-et-un, kept by Nathan, the celebrated author.
After wandering, tipsy and half asleep, through the dark exterior boulevards, the clerks now felt that they had wakened in the palace of Armida. Oscar, presented to the marquise by Georges, was quite stupefied, and did not recognize the danseuse he had seen at the Gaiete, in this lady, aristocratically decolletee and swathed in laces, till she looked like the vignette of a keepsake, who received him with manners and graces the like of whic
h was neither in the memory nor the imagination of a young clerk rigidly brought up. After admiring the splendors of the apartment and the beautiful women there displayed, who had all outdone each other in their dress for this occasion, Oscar was taken by the hand and led by Florentine to a vingt-et-un table.
“Let me present you,” she said, “to the beautiful Marquise d’Anglade, one of my nearest friends.”
And she took Oscar to the pretty Fanny Beaupre, who had just made herself a reputation at the Porte-Saint-Martin, in a melodrama entitled “La Famille d’Anglade.”
“My dear,” said Florentine, “allow me to present to you a charming youth, whom you can take as a partner in the game.”
“Ah! that will be delightful,” replied the actress, smiling, as she looked at Oscar. “I am losing. Shall we go shares, monsieur?”
“Madame la marquise, I am at your orders,” said Oscar, sitting down beside her.
“Put down the money; I’ll play; you shall being me luck! See, here are my last hundred francs.”
And the “marquise” took out from her purse, the rings of which were adorned with diamonds, five gold pieces. Oscar pulled out his hundred in silver five-franc pieces, much ashamed at having to mingle such ignoble coins with gold. In ten throws the actress lost the two hundred francs.
“Oh! how stupid!” she cried. “I’m banker now. But we’ll play together still, won’t we?”
Fanny Beaupre rose to take her place as banker, and Oscar, finding himself observed by the whole table, dared not retire on the ground that he had no money. Speech failed him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.
“Lend me five hundred francs,” said the actress to the danseuse.
Florentine brought the money, which she obtained from Georges, who had just passed eight times at ecarte.
“Nathan has won twelve hundred francs,” said the actress to Oscar. “Bankers always win; we won’t let them fool us, will we?” she whispered in his ear.
Persons of nerve, imagination, and dash will understand how it was that poor Oscar opened his pocket-book and took out the note of five hundred francs which Desroches had given him. He looked at Nathan, the distinguished author, who now began, with Florine, to play a heavy game against the bank.
“Come, my little man, take ‘em up,” cried Fanny Beaupre, signing to Oscar to rake in the two hundred francs which Nathan and Florine had punted.
The actress did not spare taunts or jests on those who lost. She enlivened the game with jokes which Oscar thought singular; but reflection was stifled by joy; for the first two throws produced a gain of two thousand francs. Oscar then thought of feigning illness and making his escape, leaving his partner behind him; but “honor” kept him there. Three more turns and the gains were lost. Oscar felt a cold sweat running down his back, and he was sobered completely.
The next two throws carried off the thousand francs of their mutual stake. Oscar was consumed with thirst, and drank three glasses of iced punch one after the other. The actress now led him into the bed-chamber, where the rest of the company were playing, talking frivolities with an easy air. But by this time the sense of his wrong-doing overcame him; the figure of Desroches appeared to him like a vision. He turned aside to a dark corner and sat down, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and wept. Florentine noticed the attitude of true grief, which, because it is sincere, is certain to strike the eye of one who acts. She ran to him, took the handkerchief from his hand, and saw his tears; then she led him into a boudoir alone.
“What is it, my child?” she said.
At the tone and accent of that voice Oscar recognized a motherly kindness which is often found in women of her kind, and he answered openly: —
“I have lost five hundred francs which my employer gave me to obtain a document to-morrow morning; there’s nothing for me but to fling myself into the river; I am dishonored.”
“How silly you are!” she said. “Stay where you are; I’ll get you a thousand francs and you can win back what you’ve lost; but don’t risk more than five hundred, so that you may be sure of your master’s money. Georges plays a fine game at ecarte; bet on him.”
Oscar, frightened by his position, accepted the offer of the mistress of the house.
“Ah!” he thought, “it is only women of rank who are capable of such kindness. Beautiful, noble, rich! how lucky Georges is!”
He received the thousand francs from Florentine and returned to bet on his hoaxer. Georges had just passed for the fourth time when Oscar sat down beside him. The other players saw with satisfaction the arrival of a new better; for all, with the instinct of gamblers, took the side of Giroudeau, the old officer of the Empire.
“Messieurs,” said Georges, “you’ll be punished for deserting me; I feel in the vein. Come, Oscar, we’ll make an end of them!”
Georges and his partner lost five games running. After losing the thousand francs Oscar was seized with the fury of play and insisted on taking the cards himself. By the result of a chance not at all uncommon with those who play for the first time, he won. But Georges bewildered him with advice; told him when to throw the cards, and even snatched them from his hand; so that this conflict of wills and intuitions injured his vein. By three o’clock in the morning, after various changes of fortune, and still drinking punch, Oscar came down to his last hundred francs. He rose with a heavy head, completely stupefied, took a few steps forward, and fell upon a sofa in the boudoir, his eyes closing in a leaden sleep.
“Mariette,” said Fanny Beaupre to Godeschal’s sister, who had come in about two o’clock, “do you dine here to-morrow? Camusot and Pere Cardot are coming, and we’ll have some fun.”
“What!” cried Florentine, “and my old fellow never told me!”
“He said he’d tell you to-morrow morning,” remarked Fanny Beaupre.
“The devil take him and his orgies!” exclaimed Florentine. “He and Camusot are worse than magistrates or stage-managers. But we have very good dinners here, Mariette,” she continued. “Cardot always orders them from Chevet’s; bring your Duc de Maufrigneuse and we’ll make them dance like Tritons.”
Hearing the names of Cardot and Camusot, Oscar made an effort to throw off his sleep; but he could only mutter a few words which were not understood, and then he fell back upon the silken cushions.
“You’ll have to keep him here all night,” said Fanny Beaupre, laughing, to Florentine.
“Oh! poor boy! he is drunk with punch and despair both. It is the second clerk in your brother’s office,” she said to Mariette. “He has lost the money his master gave him for some legal affair. He wanted to drown himself; so I lent him a thousand francs, but those brigands Finot and Giroudeau won them from him. Poor innocent!”
“But we ought to wake him,” said Mariette. “My brother won’t make light of it, nor his master either.”
“Oh, wake him if you can, and carry him off with you!” said Florentine, returning to the salon to receive the adieux of some departing guests.
Presently those who remained began what was called “character dancing,” and by the time it was broad daylight, Florentine, tired out, went to bed, oblivious to Oscar, who was still in the boudoir sound asleep.
CHAPTER X. ANOTHER CATASTROPHE
About eleven the next morning, a terrible sound awoke the unfortunate clerk. Recognizing the voice of his uncle Cardot, he thought it wise to feign sleep, and so turned his face into the yellow velvet cushions on which he had passed the night.
“Really, my little Florentine,” said the old gentleman, “this is neither right nor sensible; you danced last evening in ‘Les Ruines,’ and you have spent the night in an orgy. That’s deliberately going to work to lose your freshness. Besides which, it was ungrateful to inaugurate this beautiful apartment without even letting me know. Who knows what has been going on here?”
“Old monster!” cried Florentine, “haven’t you a key that lets you in at all hours? My ball lasted till five in the morning, and you have the cruelt
y to come and wake me up at eleven!”
“Half-past eleven, Titine,” observed Cardot, humbly. “I came out early to order a dinner fit for an archbishop at Chevet’s. Just see how the carpets are stained! What sort of people did you have here?”
“You needn’t complain, for Fanny Beaupre told me you were coming to dinner with Camusot, and to please you I’ve invited Tullia, du Bruel, Mariette, the Duc de Maufrigneuse, Florine, and Nathan. So you’ll have the four loveliest creatures ever seen behind the foot-lights; we’ll dance you a ‘pas de Zephire.’”
“It is enough to kill you to lead such a life!” cried old Cardot; “and look at the broken glasses! What pillage! The antechamber actually makes me shudder — ”
At this instant the wrathful old gentleman stopped short as if magnetized, like a bird which a snake is charming. He saw the outline of a form in a black coat through the door of the boudoir.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Cabirolle!” he said at last.
“Well, what?” she asked.
The eyes of the danseuse followed those of the little old man; and when she recognized the presence of the clerk she went off into such fits of laughter that not only was the old gentleman nonplussed, but Oscar was compelled to appear; for Florentine took him by the arm, still pealing with laughter at the conscience-stricken faces of the uncle and nephew.
“You here, nephew?”
“Nephew! so he’s your nephew?” cried Florentine, with another burst of laughter. “You never told me about him. Why didn’t Mariette carry you off?” she said to Oscar, who stood there petrified. “What can he do now, poor boy?”
“Whatever he pleases!” said Cardot, sharply, marching to the door as if to go away.
“One moment, papa Cardot. You will be so good as to get your nephew out of a scrape into which I led him; for he played the money of his master and lost it, and I lend him a thousand francs to win it back, and he lost that too.”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 88