The words fell like an avalanche of snow on a burning crater. Lisbeth sat down. She gazed with despondent eyes on the youth before her, on his aristocratic beauty — the artist’s brow, the splendid hair, everything that appealed to her suppressed feminine instincts, and tiny tears moistened her eyes for an instant and immediately dried up. She looked like one of those meagre statues which the sculptors of the Middle Ages carved on monuments.
“I cannot curse you,” said she, suddenly rising. “You — you are but a boy. God preserve you!”
She went downstairs and shut herself into her own room.
“She is in love with me, poor creature!” said Wenceslas to himself. “And how fervently eloquent! She is crazy.”
This last effort on the part of an arid and narrow nature to keep hold on an embodiment of beauty and poetry was, in truth, so violent that it can only be compared to the frenzied vehemence of a shipwrecked creature making the last struggle to reach shore.
On the next day but one, at half-past four in the morning, when Count Steinbock was sunk in the deepest sleep, he heard a knock at the door of his attic; he rose to open it, and saw two men in shabby clothing, and a third, whose dress proclaimed him a bailiff down on his luck.
“You are Monsieur Wenceslas, Count Steinbock?” said this man.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“My name is Grasset, sir, successor to Louchard, sheriff’s officer — — ”
“What then?”
“You are under arrest, sir. You must come with us to prison — to Clichy. — Please to get dressed. — We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below.”
“You are safely nabbed, you see,” said one of the bailiffs; “and we look to you to be liberal.”
Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he.
At ten o’clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in.
“My dear boy,” said she, “never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money — be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it.”
“Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!” cried he, “for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow.”
Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia.
To carry out this plan, at about three o’clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance.
“Have you come to dinner?” asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment.
“Well, yes.”
“That’s well,” replied Hortense. “I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting.”
Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room.
“And about my lover?” said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. “You never ask about him now?”
“To be sure, what is he doing?” said Hortense. “He has become famous. You ought to be very happy,” she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. “Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock.”
“A great deal too much,” replied she in her clear tones. “Monsieur is departing. — If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him — — ”
“Nonsense!” said the Baroness.
“When did you hear that?” asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp.
“Well,” said the villainous Lisbeth, “a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties — his wife — wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia! — ”
Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief.
“Lisbeth! you have killed my child!” cried the Baroness. “You were born to be our curse!”
“Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?” replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice.
“I was wrong,” said Adeline, supporting the girl. “Ring.”
At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid’s absence.
“Hortense!” cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother’s eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered.
“So this was your secret?” said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins’ confusion.
“But how did you steal away my lover?” said she, leading Hortense into the garden.
Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count’s visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser.
Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness.
“You bad boy!” said she, before Hortense and her mother, “if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you.” And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead.
Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth’s arms and melted into tears.
“I owe my happiness to you,” said she, “and I will never forget it.”
“Cousin Betty,” said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, “the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me,” she added, leading her away.
So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense.
“We wish you to give up working,” said the Baroness. “If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?”
“Four thousand five hundred francs.”
“Poor Betty!” said her cousin.
She raised
her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years.
Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood.
“We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum,” said Adeline, “and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year.”
Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family.
So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him.
“You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame,” said the Baron sternly. “You are not married yet,” he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale.
“He has heard of my imprisonment,” said the luckless artist to himself.
“Come, children,” said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house.
“Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?” he asked.
“More, monsieur,” said the sculptor.
“Her mother was a peasant’s daughter, and had not a farthing of her own.”
“Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even — — ”
“So I should think!” said the Baron, smiling. “Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d’Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And — she has a marriage portion.
“It is true,” said the impassioned artist. “I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer’s daughter, I would marry her — — ”
“That is just what I wanted to know,” replied the Baron. “Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte. — He really loves you, you see!”
“Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest,” said the happy girl.
“My dear Steinbock,” said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, “I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter’s fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt — — ”
“Yes, Monsieur le Baron.”
“You go too fast,” said Hulot. “Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife’s name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace. — My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds.
“Monsieur, you overpower me!” said Steinbock, quite bewildered.
“As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs — — ”
“Say no more, monsieur,” said Wenceslas. “I ask only for my beloved Hortense — — ”
“Will you listen to me, effervescent youth! — As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them — ”
“Monsieur?”
“You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it.”
“I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!” cried the artist-nobleman.
“That is what I admire!” cried the Baron. “High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come,” he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, “you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife’s fete-day.”
“It is all right,” said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. “Your suitor and your father are embracing each other.”
On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter: —
“MY DEAR WENCESLAS, — I went to fetch you at ten o’clock this
morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see
you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a
certain little domain — chief town, Clichy Castle.
“So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you
could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand
francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did
not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there
— a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has
heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money,
and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against
genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at
noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know
you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends
— but look them up to-morrow.
“Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do
them each a group — and they are right. At least, so thinks the man
who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your
faithful ally,
“STIDMANN.
“P. S. — I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till
to-morrow, so he said, ‘Very good — to-morrow.’”
Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us — Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide.
It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense’s wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals
and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve — or, in short, any of the Devil’s pupils.
On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum.
This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot — who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun — that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage.
“Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by,” said he.
The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian’s honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs’ worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence — Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes.
“Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why,” said Fischer.
“Here, young man,” he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door.
When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon’s right hand, and said, as he led him into the house:
“You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills? — It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you! — ”
“Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer,” said the important man. “You are hearty?” he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 692