Hector Merlin watched Lucien as he spoke, saw that his words went to the neophyte’s heart like a stab, and Hector Merlin was glad. Play followed, Lucien lost all his money, and Coralie brought him away; and he forgot for a while, in the delights of love, the fierce excitement of the gambler, which was to gain so strong a hold upon him.
When he left Coralie in the morning and returned to the Latin Quarter, he took out his purse and found the money he had lost. At first he felt miserable over the discovery, and thought of going back at once to return a gift which humiliated him; but — he had already come as far as the Rue de la Harpe; he would not return now that he had almost reached the Hotel de Cluny. He pondered over Coralie’s forethought as he went, till he saw in it a proof of the maternal love which is blended with passion in women of her stamp. For Coralie and her like, passion includes every human affection. Lucien went from thought to thought, and argued himself into accepting the gift. “I love her,” he said; “we shall live together as husband and wife; I will never forsake her!”
What mortal, short of a Diogenes, could fail to understand Lucien’s feelings as he climbed the dirty, fetid staircase to his lodging, turned the key that grated in the lock, and entered and looked round at the unswept brick floor, at the cheerless grate, at the ugly poverty and bareness of the room.
A package of manuscript was lying on the table. It was his novel; a note from Daniel d’Arthez lay beside it: —
“Our friends are almost satisfied with your work, dear poet,”
d’Arthez wrote. “You will be able to present it with more
confidence now, they say, to friends and enemies. We saw your
charming article on the Panorama-Dramatique; you are sure to
excite as much jealousy in the profession as regret among your
friends here. DANIEL.”
“Regrets! What does he mean?” exclaimed Lucien. The polite tone of the note astonished him. Was he to be henceforth a stranger to the brotherhood? He had learned to set a higher value on the good opinion and the friendship of the circle in the Rue des Quatre-Vents since he had tasted of the delicious fruits offered to him by the Eve of the theatrical underworld. For some moments he stood in deep thought; he saw his present in the garret, and foresaw his future in Coralie’s rooms. Honorable resolution struggled with temptation and swayed him now this way, now that. He sat down and began to look through his manuscript, to see in what condition his friends had returned it to him. What was his amazement, as he read chapter after chapter, to find his poverty transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen, and the devotion of the unknown great men, his friends of the brotherhood. Dialogue, closely packed, nervous, pregnant, terse, and full of the spirit of the age, replaced his conversations, which seemed poor and pointless prattle in comparison. His characters, a little uncertain in the drawing, now stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief; physiological observations, due no doubt to Horace Bianchon, supplied links of interpretations between human character and the curious phenomena of human life — subtle touches which made his men and women live. His wordy passages of description were condensed and vivid. The misshapen, ill-clad child of his brain had returned to him as a lovely maiden, with white robes and rosy-hued girdle and scarf — an entrancing creation. Night fell and took him by surprise, reading through rising tears, stricken to earth by such greatness of soul, feeling the worth of such a lesson, admiring the alterations, which taught him more of literature and art than all his four years’ apprenticeship of study and reading and comparison. A master’s correction of a line made upon the study always teaches more than all the theories and criticisms in the world.
“What friends are these! What hearts! How fortunate I am!” he cried, grasping his manuscript tightly.
With the quick impulsiveness of a poetic and mobile temperament, he rushed off to Daniel’s lodging. As he climbed the stairs, and thought of these friends, who refused to leave the path of honor, he felt conscious that he was less worthy of them than before. A voice spoke within him, telling him that if d’Arthez had loved Coralie, he would have had her break with Camusot. And, besides this, he knew that the brotherhood held journalism in utter abhorrence, and that he himself was already, to some small extent, a journalist. All of them, except Meyraux, who had just gone out, were in d’Arthez’s room when he entered it, and saw that all their faces were full of sorrow and despair.
“What is it?” he cried.
“We have just heard news of a dreadful catastrophe; the greatest thinker of the age, our most loved friend, who was like a light among us for two years — — ”
“Louis Lambert!”
“Has fallen a victim to catalepsy. There is no hope for him,” said Bianchon.
“He will die, his soul wandering in the skies, his body unconscious on earth,” said Michel Chrestien solemnly.
“He will die as he lived,” said d’Arthez.
“Love fell like a firebrand in the vast empire of his brain and burned him away,” said Leon Giraud.
“Yes,” said Joseph Bridau, “he has reached a height that we cannot so much as see.”
“We are to be pitied, not Louis,” said Fulgence Ridal.
“Perhaps he will recover,” exclaimed Lucien.
“From what Meyraux has been telling us, recovery seems impossible,” answered Bianchon. “Medicine has no power over the change that is working in his brain.”
“Yet there are physical means,” said d’Arthez.
“Yes,” said Bianchon; “we might produce imbecility instead of catalepsy.”
“Is there no way of offering another head to the spirit of evil? I would give mine to save him!” cried Michel Chrestien.
“And what would become of European federation?” asked d’Arthez.
“Ah! true,” replied Michel Chrestien. “Our duty to Humanity comes first; to one man afterwards.”
“I came here with a heart full of gratitude to you all,” said Lucien. “You have changed my alloy into golden coin.”
“Gratitude! For what do you take us?” asked Bianchon.
“We had the pleasure,” added Fulgence.
“Well, so you are a journalist, are you?” asked Leon Giraud. “The fame of your first appearance has reached even the Latin Quarter.”
“I am not a journalist yet,” returned Lucien.
“Aha! So much the better,” said Michel Chrestien.
“I told you so!” said d’Arthez. “Lucien knows the value of a clean conscience. When you can say to yourself as you lay your head on the pillow at night, ‘I have not sat in judgment on another man’s work; I have given pain to no one; I have not used the edge of my wit to deal a stab to some harmless soul; I have sacrificed no one’s success to a jest; I have not even troubled the happiness of imbecility; I have not added to the burdens of genius; I have scorned the easy triumphs of epigram; in short, I have not acted against my convictions,’ is not this a viaticum that gives one daily strength?”
“But one can say all this, surely, and yet work on a newspaper,” said Lucien. “If I had absolutely no other way of earning a living, I should certainly come to this.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” cried Fulgence, his voice rising a note each time; “we are capitulating, are we?”
“He will turn journalist,” Leon Giraud said gravely. “Oh, Lucien, if you would only stay and work with us! We are about to bring out a periodical in which justice and truth shall never be violated; we will spread doctrines that, perhaps, will be of real service to mankind — — ”
“You will not have a single subscriber,” Lucien broke in with Machiavellian wisdom.
“There will be five hundred of them,” asserted Michel Chrestien, “but they will be worth five hundred thousand.”
“You will need a lot of capital,” continued Lucien.
“No, only devotion,” said d’Arthez.
“Anybody might take him for a perfumer’s assistant,” burst out Michel Chrestien, looking at Lucien’s head, and sniffing com
ically. “You were seen driving about in a very smart turnout with a pair of thoroughbreds, and a mistress for a prince, Coralie herself.”
“Well, and is there any harm in it?”
“You would not say that if you thought that there was no harm in it,” said Bianchon.
“I could have wished Lucien a Beatrice,” said d’Arthez, “a noble woman, who would have been a help to him in life — — ”
“But, Daniel,” asked Lucien, “love is love wherever you find it, is it not?”
“Ah!” said the republican member, “on that one point I am an aristocrat. I could not bring myself to love a woman who must rub shoulders with all sorts of people in the green-room; whom an actor kisses on stage; she must lower herself before the public, smile on every one, lift her skirts as she dances, and dress like a man, that all the world may see what none should see save I alone. Or if I loved such a woman, she should leave the stage, and my love should cleanse her from the stain of it.”
“And if she would not leave the stage?”
“I should die of mortification, jealousy, and all sorts of pain. You cannot pluck love out of your heart as you draw a tooth.”
Lucien’s face grew dark and thoughtful.
“When they find out that I am tolerating Camusot, how they will despise me,” he thought.
“Look here,” said the fierce republican, with humorous fierceness, “you can be a great writer, but a little play-actor you shall never be,” and he took up his hat and went out.
“He is hard, is Michel Chrestien,” commented Lucien.
“Hard and salutary, like the dentist’s pincers,” said Bianchon. “Michel foresees your future; perhaps in the street, at this moment, he is thinking of you with tears in his eyes.”
D’Arthez was kind, and talked comfortingly, and tried to cheer Lucien. The poet spent an hour with his friends, then he went, but his conscience treated him hardly, crying to him, “You will be a journalist — a journalist!” as the witch cried to Macbeth that he should be king hereafter!
Out in the street, he looked up at d’Arthez’s windows, and saw a faint light shining in them, and his heart sank. A dim foreboding told him that he had bidden his friends good-bye for the last time.
As he turned out of the Place de la Sorbonne into the Rue de Cluny, he saw a carriage at the door of his lodging. Coralie had driven all the way from the Boulevard du Temple for the sake of a moment with her lover and a “good-night.” Lucien found her sobbing in his garret. She would be as wretchedly poor as her poet, she wept, as she arranged his shirts and gloves and handkerchiefs in the crazy chest of drawers. Her distress was so real and so great, that Lucien, but even now chidden for his connection with an actress, saw Coralie as a saint ready to assume the hair-shirt of poverty. The adorable girl’s excuse for her visit was an announcement that the firm of Camusot, Coralie, and Lucien meant to invite Matifat, Florine, and Lousteau (the second trio) to supper; had Lucien any invitations to issue to people who might be useful to him? Lucien said that he would take counsel of Lousteau.
A few moments were spent together, and Coralie hurried away. She spared Lucien the knowledge that Camusot was waiting for her below.
Next morning, at eight o’clock, Lucien went to Etienne Lousteau’s room, found it empty, and hurried away to Florine. Lousteau and Florine, settled into possession of their new quarters like a married couple, received their friend in the pretty bedroom, and all three breakfasted sumptuously together.
“Why, I should advise you, my boy, to come with me to see Felicien Vernou,” said Lousteau, when they sat at table, and Lucien had mentioned Coralie’s projected supper; “ask him to be of the party, and keep well with him, if you can keep well with such a rascal. Felicien Vernou does a feuilleton for a political paper; he might perhaps introduce you, and you could blossom out into leaders in it at your ease. It is a Liberal paper, like ours; you will be a Liberal, that is the popular party; and besides, if you mean to go over to the Ministerialists, you would do better for yourself if they had reason to be afraid of you. Then there is Hector Merlin and his Mme. du Val-Noble; you meet great people at their house — dukes and dandies and millionaires; didn’t they ask you and Coralie to dine with them?”
“Yes,” replied Lucien; “you are going too, and so is Florine.” Lucien and Etienne were now on familiar terms after Friday’s debauch and the dinner at the Rocher de Cancale.
“Very well, Merlin is on the paper; we shall come across him pretty often; he is the chap to follow close on Finot’s heels. You would do well to pay him attention; ask him and Mme. du Val-Noble to supper. He may be useful to you before long; for rancorous people are always in need of others, and he may do you a good turn if he can reckon on your pen.”
“Your beginning has made enough sensation to smooth your way,” said Florine; “take advantage of it at once, or you will soon be forgotten.”
“The bargain, the great business, is concluded,” Lousteau continued. “That Finot, without a spark of talent in him, is to be editor of Dauriat’s weekly paper, with a salary of six hundred francs per month, and owner of a sixth share, for which he has not paid one penny. And I, my dear fellow, am now editor of our little paper. Everything went off as I expected; Florine managed superbly, she could give points to Tallyrand himself.”
“We have a hold on men through their pleasures,” said Florine, “while a diplomatist only works on their self-love. A diplomatist sees a man made up for the occasion; we know him in his moments of folly, so our power is greater.”
“And when the thing was settled, Matifat made the first and last joke of his whole druggist’s career,” put in Lousteau. “He said, ‘This affair is quite in my line; I am supplying drugs to the public.’”
“I suspect that Florine put him up to it,” cried Lucien.
“And by these means, my little dear, your foot is in the stirrup,” continued Lousteau.
“You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” remarked Florine. “What lots of young fellows wait for years, wait till they are sick of waiting, for a chance to get an article into a paper! You will do like Emile Blondet. In six months’ time you will be giving yourself high and mighty airs,” she added, with a mocking smile, in the language of her class.
“Haven’t I been in Paris for three years?” said Lousteau, “and only yesterday Finot began to pay me a fixed monthly salary of three hundred francs, and a hundred francs per sheet for his paper.”
“Well; you are saying nothing!” exclaimed Florine, with her eyes turned on Lucien.
“We shall see,” said Lucien.
“My dear boy, if you had been my brother, I could not have done more for you,” retorted Lousteau, somewhat nettled, “but I won’t answer for Finot. Scores of sharp fellows will besiege Finot for the next two days with offers to work for low pay. I have promised for you, but you can draw back if you like. — You little know how lucky you are,” he added after a pause. “All those in our set combine to attack an enemy in various papers, and lend each other a helping hand all round.”
“Let us go in the first place to Felicien Vernou,” said Lucien. He was eager to conclude an alliance with such formidable birds of prey.
Lousteau sent for a cab, and the pair of friends drove to Vernou’s house on the second floor up an alley in the Rue Mandar. To Lucien’s great astonishment, the harsh, fastidious, and severe critic’s surroundings were vulgar to the last degree. A marbled paper, cheap and shabby, with a meaningless pattern repeated at regular intervals, covered the walls, and a series of aqua tints in gilt frames decorated the apartment, where Vernou sat at table with a woman so plain that she could only be the legitimate mistress of the house, and two very small children perched on high chairs with a bar in front to prevent the infants from tumbling out. Felicien Vernou, in a cotton dressing-gown contrived out of the remains of one of his wife’s dresses, was not over well pleased by this invasion.
“Have you breakfasted, Lousteau?” he asked, placing a chair for Lucien.
“We have just left Florine; we have been breakfasting with her.”
Lucien could not take his eyes off Mme. Vernou. She looked like a stout, homely cook, with a tolerably fair complexion, but commonplace to the last degree. The lady wore a bandana tied over her night-cap, the strings of the latter article of dress being tied so tightly under the chin that her puffy cheeks stood out on either side. A shapeless, beltless garment, fastened by a single button at the throat, enveloped her from head to foot in such a fashion that a comparison to a milestone at once suggested itself. Her health left no room for hope; her cheeks were almost purple; her fingers looked like sausages. In a moment it dawned upon Lucien how it was that Vernou was always so ill at ease in society; here was the living explanation of his misanthropy. Sick of his marriage, unable to bring himself to abandon his wife and family, he had yet sufficient of the artistic temper to suffer continually from their presence; Vernou was an actor by nature bound never to pardon the success of another, condemned to chronic discontent because he was never content with himself. Lucien began to understand the sour look which seemed to add to the bleak expression of envy on Vernou’s face; the acerbity of the epigrams with which his conversation was sown, the journalist’s pungent phrases, keen and elaborately wrought as a stiletto, were at once explained.
“Let us go into my study,” Vernou said, rising from the table; “you have come on business, no doubt.”
“Yes and no,” replied Etienne Lousteau. “It is a supper, old chap.”
“I have brought a message from Coralie,” said Lucien (Mme. Vernou looked up at once at the name), “to ask you to supper to-night at her house to meet the same company as before at Florine’s, and a few more besides — Hector Merlin and Mme. du Val-Noble and some others. There will be play afterwards.”
“But we are engaged to Mme. Mahoudeau this evening, dear,” put in the wife.
“What does that matter?” returned Vernou.
“She will take offence if we don’t go; and you are very glad of her when you have a bill to discount.”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 488