Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert

by Gustave Flaubert

  In what way could they repay him for his kindness? Frederick did not bestow a thought on it. He was even beginning to rejoice at finding himself alone with her, when a waiter entered.

  "Madame, somebody is asking for you!"

  "What! again?"

  "However, I must see who it is," said Rosanette.

  He was thirsting for her; he wanted her. This disappearance seemed to him an act of prevarication, almost a piece of rudeness. What, then, did she mean? Was it not enough to have insulted Madame Arnoux? So much for the latter, all the same! Now he hated all women; and he felt the tears choking him, for his love had been misunderstood and his desire eluded.

  The Maréchale returned, and presented Cisy to him.

  "I have invited Monsieur. I have done right, have I not?"

  "How is that! Oh! certainly."

  Frederick, with the smile of a criminal about to be executed, beckoned to the gentleman to take a seat.

  The Maréchale began to run her eye through the bill of fare, stopping at every fantastic name.

  "Suppose we eat a turban of rabbits à la Richeliéu and a pudding à la d'Orléans?"

  "Oh! not Orléans, pray!" exclaimed Cisy, who was a Legitimist, and thought of making a pun.

  "Would you prefer a turbot à la Chambord?" she next asked.

  Frederick was disgusted with this display of politeness.

  The Maréchale made up her mind to order a simple fillet of beef cut up into steaks, some crayfishes, truffles, a pine-apple salad, and vanilla ices.

  "We'll see what next. Go on for the present! Ah! I was forgetting! Bring me a sausage! — not with garlic!"

  And she called the waiter "young man," struck her glass with her knife, and flung up the crumbs of her bread to the ceiling. She wished to drink some Burgundy immediately.

  "It is not taken in the beginning," said Frederick.

  This was sometimes done, according to the Vicomte.

  "Oh! no. Never!"

  "Yes, indeed; I assure you!"

  "Ha! you see!"

  The look with which she accompanied these words meant: "This is a rich man — pay attention to what he says!"

  Meantime, the door was opening every moment; the waiters kept shouting; and on an infernal piano in the adjoining room some one was strumming a waltz. Then the races led to a discussion about horsemanship and the two rival systems. Cisy was upholding Baucher and Frederick the Comte d'Aure when Rosanette shrugged her shoulders:

  "Enough — my God! — he is a better judge of these things than you are — come now!"

  She kept nibbling at a pomegranate, with her elbow resting on the table. The wax-candles of the candelabrum in front of her were flickering in the wind. This white light penetrated her skin with mother-of-pearl tones, gave a pink hue to her lids, and made her eyeballs glitter. The red colour of the fruit blended with the purple of her lips; her thin nostrils heaved; and there was about her entire person an air of insolence, intoxication, and recklessness that exasperated Frederick, and yet filled his heart with wild desires.

  Then, she asked, in a calm voice, who owned that big landau with chestnut-coloured livery.

  Cisy replied that it was "the Comtesse Dambreuse"

  "They're very rich — aren't they?"

  "Oh! very rich! although Madame Dambreuse, who was merely a Mademoiselle Boutron and the daughter of a prefect, had a very modest fortune."

  Her husband, on the other hand, must have inherited several estates — Cisy enumerated them: as he visited the Dambreuses, he knew their family history.

  Frederick, in order to make himself disagreeable to the other, took a pleasure in contradicting him. He maintained that Madame Dambreuse's maiden name was De Boutron, which proved that she was of a noble family.

  "No matter! I'd like to have her equipage!" said the Maréchale, throwing herself back on the armchair.

  And the sleeve of her dress, slipping up a little, showed on her left wrist a bracelet adorned with three opals.

  Frederick noticed it.

  "Look here! why — — "

  All three looked into one another's faces, and reddened.

  The door was cautiously half-opened; the brim of a hat could be seen, and then Hussonnet's profile exhibited itself.

  "Pray excuse me if I disturb the lovers!"

  But he stopped, astonished at seeing Cisy, and that Cisy had taken his own seat.

  Another cover was brought; and, as he was very hungry, he snatched up at random from what remained of the dinner some meat which was in a dish, fruit out of a basket, and drank with one hand while he helped himself with the other, all the time telling them the result of his mission. The two bow-wows had been taken home. Nothing fresh at the house. He had found the cook in the company of a soldier — a fictitious story which he had especially invented for the sake of effect.

  The Maréchale took down her cloak from the window-screw. Frederick made a rush towards the bell, calling out to the waiter, who was some distance away:

  "A carriage!"

  "I have one of my own," said the Vicomte.

  "But, Monsieur!"

  "Nevertheless, Monsieur!"

  And they stared into each other's eyes, both pale and their hands trembling.

  At last, the Maréchale took Cisy's arm, and pointing towards the Bohemian seated at the table:

  "Pray mind him! He's choking himself. I wouldn't care to let his devotion to my pugs be the cause of his death."

  The door closed behind him.

  "Well?" said Hussonnet.

  "Well, what?"

  "I thought — — "

  "What did you think?"

  "Were you not — — ?"

  He completed the sentence with a gesture.

  "Oh! no — never in all my life!"

  Hussonnet did not press the matter further.

  He had an object in inviting himself to dinner. His journal, — which was no longer called L'Art, but Le Flambart, with this epigraph, "Gunners, to your cannons!" — not being at all in a flourishing condition, he had a mind to change it into a weekly review, conducted by himself, without any assistance from Deslauriers. He again referred to the old project and explained his latest plan.

  Frederick, probably not understanding what he was talking about, replied with some vague words. Hussonnet snatched up several cigars from the tables, said "Good-bye, old chap," and disappeared.

  Frederick called for the bill. It had a long list of items; and the waiter, with his napkin under his arm, was expecting to be paid by Frederick, when another, a sallow-faced individual, who resembled Martinon, came and said to him:

  "Beg pardon; they forgot at the bar to add in the charge for the cab."

  "What cab?"

  "The cab the gentleman took a short time ago for the little dogs."

  And the waiter put on a look of gravity, as if he pitied the poor young man. Frederick felt inclined to box the fellow's ears. He gave the waiter the twenty francs' change as a pour-boire.

  "Thanks, Monseigneur," said the man with the napkin, bowing low.

  CHAPTER XI.

  A Dinner and a Duel.

  Frederick passed the whole of the next day in brooding over his anger and humiliation. He reproached himself for not having given a slap in the face to Cisy. As for the Maréchale, he swore not to see her again. Others as good-looking could be easily found; and, as money would be required in order to possess these women, he would speculate on the Bourse with the purchase-money of his farm. He would get rich; he would crush the Maréchale and everyone else with his luxury. When the evening had come, he was surprised at not having thought of Madame Arnoux.

  "So much the better. What's the good of it?"

  Two days after, at eight o'clock, Pellerin came to pay him a visit. He began by expressing his admiration of the furniture and talking in a wheedling tone. Then, abruptly:

  "You were at the races on Sunday?"

  "Yes, alas!"

  Thereupon the painter decried the anatomy of English ho
rses, and praised the horses of Gericourt and the horses of the Parthenon.

  "Rosanette was with you?"

  And he artfully proceeded to speak in flattering terms about her.

  Frederick's freezing manner put him a little out of countenance.

  He did not know how to bring about the question of her portrait. His first idea had been to do a portrait in the style of Titian. But gradually the varied colouring of his model had bewitched him; he had gone on boldly with the work, heaping up paste on paste and light on light. Rosanette, in the beginning, was enchanted. Her appointments with Delmar had interrupted the sittings, and left Pellerin all the time to get bedazzled. Then, as his admiration began to subside, he asked himself whether the picture might not be on a larger scale. He had gone to have another look at the Titians, realised how the great artist had filled in his portraits with such finish, and saw wherein his own shortcomings lay; and then he began to go over the outlines again in the most simple fashion. After that, he sought, by scraping them off, to lose there, to mingle there, all the tones of the head and those of the background; and the face had assumed consistency and the shades vigour — the whole work had a look of greater firmness. At length the Maréchale came back again. She even indulged in some hostile criticisms. The painter naturally persevered in his own course. After getting into a violent passion at her silliness, he said to himself that, after all, perhaps she was right. Then began the era of doubts, twinges of reflection which brought about cramps in the stomach, insomnia, feverishness and disgust with himself. He had the courage to make some retouchings, but without much heart, and with a feeling that his work was bad.

  He complained merely of having been refused a place in the Salon; then he reproached Frederick for not having come to see the Maréchale's portrait.

  "What do I care about the Maréchale?"

  Such an expression of unconcern emboldened the artist.

  "Would you believe that this brute has no interest in the thing any longer?"

  What he did not mention was that he had asked her for a thousand crowns. Now the Maréchale did not give herself much bother about ascertaining who was going to pay, and, preferring to screw money out of Arnoux for things of a more urgent character, had not even spoken to him on the subject.

  "Well, and Arnoux?"

  She had thrown it over on him. The ex-picture-dealer wished to have nothing to do with the portrait.

  "He maintains that it belongs to Rosanette."

  "In fact, it is hers."

  "How is that? 'Tis she that sent me to you," was Pellerin's answer.

  If he had been thinking of the excellence of his work, he would not have dreamed perhaps of making capital out of it. But a sum — and a big sum — would be an effective reply to the critics, and would strengthen his own position. Finally, to get rid of his importunities, Frederick courteously enquired his terms.

  The extravagant figure named by Pellerin quite took away his breath, and he replied:

  "Oh! no — no!"

  "You, however, are her lover — 'tis you gave me the order!"

  "Excuse me, I was only an intermediate agent."

  "But I can't remain with this on my hands!"

  The artist lost his temper.

  "Ha! I didn't imagine you were so covetous!"

  "Nor I that you were so stingy! I wish you good morning!"

  He had just gone out when Sénécal made his appearance.

  Frederick was moving about restlessly, in a state of great agitation.

  "What's the matter?"

  Sénécal told his story.

  "On Saturday, at nine o'clock, Madame Arnoux got a letter which summoned her back to Paris. As there happened to be nobody in the place at the time to go to Creil for a vehicle, she asked me to go there myself. I refused, for this was no part of my duties. She left, and came back on Sunday evening. Yesterday morning, Arnoux came down to the works. The girl from Bordeaux made a complaint to him. I don't know what passed between them; but he took off before everyone the fine I had imposed on her. Some sharp words passed between us. In short, he closed accounts with me, and here I am!"

  Then, with a pause between every word:

  "Furthermore, I am not sorry. I have done my duty. No matter — you were the cause of it."

  "How?" exclaimed Frederick, alarmed lest Sénécal might have guessed his secret.

  Sénécal had not, however, guessed anything about it, for he replied:

  "That is to say, but for you I might have done better."

  Frederick was seized with a kind of remorse.

  "In what way can I be of service to you now?"

  Sénécal wanted some employment, a situation.

  "That is an easy thing for you to manage. You know many people of good position, Monsieur Dambreuse amongst others; at least, so Deslauriers told me."

  This allusion to Deslauriers was by no means agreeable to his friend. He scarcely cared to call on the Dambreuses again after his undesirable meeting with them in the Champ de Mars.

  "I am not on sufficiently intimate terms with them to recommend anyone."

  The democrat endured this refusal stoically, and after a minute's silence:

  "All this, I am sure, is due to the girl from Bordeaux, and to your Madame Arnoux."

  This "your" had the effect of wiping out of Frederick's heart the slight modicum of regard he entertained for Sénécal. Nevertheless, he stretched out his hand towards the key of his escritoire through delicacy.

  Sénécal anticipated him:

  "Thanks!"

  Then, forgetting his own troubles, he talked about the affairs of the nation, the crosses of the Legion of Honour wasted at the Royal Fête, the question of a change of ministry, the Drouillard case and the Bénier case — scandals of the day — declaimed against the middle class, and predicted a revolution.

  His eyes were attracted by a Japanese dagger hanging on the wall. He took hold of it; then he flung it on the sofa with an air of disgust.

  "Come, then! good-bye! I must go to Nôtre Dame de Lorette."

  "Hold on! Why?"

  "The anniversary service for Godefroy Cavaignac is taking place there to-day. He died at work — that man! But all is not over. Who knows?"

  And Sénécal, with a show of fortitude, put out his hand:

  "Perhaps we shall never see each other again! good-bye!"

  This "good-bye," repeated several times, his knitted brows as he gazed at the dagger, his resignation, and the solemnity of his manner, above all, plunged Frederick into a thoughtful mood, but very soon he ceased to think about Sénécal.

  During the same week, his notary at Havre sent him the sum realised by the sale of his farm — one hundred and seventy-four thousand francs. He divided it into two portions, invested the first half in the Funds, and brought the second half to a stock-broker to take his chance of making money by it on the Bourse.

  He dined at fashionable taverns, went to the theatres, and was trying to amuse himself as best he could, when Hussonnet addressed a letter to him announcing in a gay fashion that the Maréchale had got rid of Cisy the very day after the races. Frederick was delighted at this intelligence, without taking the trouble to ascertain what the Bohemian's motive was in giving him the information.

  It so happened that he met Cisy, three days later. That aristocratic young gentleman kept his counteance, and even invited Frederick to dine on the following Wednesday.

  On the morning of that day, the latter received a notification from a process-server, in which M. Charles Jean Baptiste Oudry apprised him that by the terms of a legal judgment he had become the purchaser of a property situated at Belleville, belonging to M. Jacques Arnoux, and that he was ready to pay the two hundred and twenty-three thousand for which it had been sold. But, as it appeared by the same decree that the amount of the mortgages with which the estate was encumbered exceeded the purchase-money, Frederick's claim would in consequence be completely forfeited.

  The entire mischief arose from not having
renewed the registration of the mortgage within the proper time. Arnoux had undertaken to attend to this matter formally himself, and had then forgotten all about it. Frederick got into a rage with him for this, and when the young man's anger had passed off:

  "Well, afterwards — — what?"

  "If this can save him, so much the better. It won't kill me! Let us think no more about it!"

  But, while moving about his papers on the table, he came across Hussonnet's letter, and noticed the postscript, which had not at first attracted his attention. The Bohemian wanted just five thousand francs to give the journal a start.

  "Ah! this fellow is worrying me to death!"

  And he sent a curt answer, unceremoniously refusing the application. After that, he dressed himself to go to the Maison d'Or.

  Cisy introduced his guests, beginning with the most respectable of them, a big, white-haired gentleman.

  "The Marquis Gilbert des Aulnays, my godfather. Monsieur Anselme de Forchambeaux," he said next — (a thin, fair-haired young man, already bald); then, pointing towards a simple-mannered man of forty: "Joseph Boffreu, my cousin; and here is my old tutor, Monsieur Vezou" — a person who seemed a mixture of a ploughman and a seminarist, with large whiskers and a long frock-coat fastened at the end by a single button, so that it fell over his chest like a shawl.

  Cisy was expecting some one else — the Baron de Comaing, who "might perhaps come, but it was not certain." He left the room every minute, and appeared to be in a restless frame of mind. Finally, at eight o'clock, they proceeded towards an apartment splendidly lighted up and much more spacious than the number of guests required. Cisy had selected it for the special purpose of display.

  A vermilion épergne laden with flowers and fruit occupied the centre of the table, which was covered with silver dishes, after the old French fashion; glass bowls full of salt meats and spices formed a border all around it. Jars of iced red wine stood at regular distances from each other. Five glasses of different sizes were ranged before each plate, with things of which the use could not be divined — a thousand dinner utensils of an ingenious description. For the first course alone, there was a sturgeon's jowl moistened with champagne, a Yorkshire ham with tokay, thrushes with sauce, roast quail, a béchamel vol-au-vent, a stew of red-legged partridges, and at the two ends of all this, fringes of potatoes which were mingled with truffles. The apartment was illuminated by a lustre and some girandoles, and it was hung with red damask curtains.