Lost Illusions

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘Don’t you want to?’ she added, astonished at her lover’s silence. Dazed by the rapid glimpse of Paris which these seductive words had evoked, Lucien thought that never until then had he exercised more than half his mind and that only now was the other half of his brain coming to life with this enlargement of his prospects: he saw himself while living in Angoulême as a frog under a stone at the bottom of a swamp. He had a vision of Paris in all its splendour: Paris, an Eldorado to the imagination of every provincial; clad in gold, wearing a diadem of precious stones, holding its arms out to talent. He would receive a fraternal accolade from illustrious men. There genius was welcomed. There would be found no envious little gentry to humiliate writers with their cutting sarcasms and no parade of stupid indifference to poetry. There the works of poets gushed forth, were paid for and offered to the world. After reading the first few pages of The Archer of Charles the Ninth the publishers would open their coffers and ask him: ‘How much do you want?’ In addition he reckoned that, as a result of the journey during which circumstances would make them man and wife, Madame de Bargeton would belong entirely to him. They would live together.

  He replied with a tear to the question ‘Don’t you want to?’, seized Louise round the waist, pressed her to his heart and enflamed her neck with the ardour of his kisses. Then suddenly he stopped short as one to whom memory returns and exclaimed:

  ‘Good heavens! My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow!’

  This exclamation was the expiring breath of his childhood purity and nobility. The powerful ties which bind young people’s hearts to their family, to their earliest friend, to all their primitive feelings, were about to be dealt a severing blow.

  ‘What of that?’ cried the haughty Nègrepelisse. ‘What connection is there between your sister’s marriage and the furtherance of our love? Are you so keen on leading the choir at this middle-class, working-class wedding that you cannot sacrifice its noble joys to me?… A fine sacrifice!’ she added contemptuously. ‘This morning I sent my husband off to fight a duel on your behalf! Go away, Monsieur, leave me! I have been mistaken in you.’

  She fell back in a swoon on to her sofa. Lucien rushed to her side and begged her forgiveness, anathematizing his family, David and his sister.

  ‘I had such faith in you,’ she said. ‘Monsieur de Cante-Croix had a mother whom he idolized, but in order to obtain a letter from me in which I told him: I am pleased with you! he died in the firing-line. And you, when it is a matter of travelling with me, you can’t even give up a wedding-breakfast!’

  Lucien felt like suicide, and his despair was so sincere, so profound, that Louise forgave him; but she made it plain to him that he would have to atone for his fault.

  ‘Go along then,’ she said in the end. ‘Be discreet, and wait at midnight tomorrow a hundred yards beyond Mansie.’

  Lucien felt as if he were walking on air. He returned to David’s house with all his hopes at his heels – like Orestes pursued by the Furies – for he foresaw a thousand difficulties which were summed up in one terrible word: money. He was in such fear of David’s perspicacity that he shut himself up in his elegant study to recover from the mental turmoil his changed situation was causing him. So then, he would have to leave this apartment which had been set up at such great expense; so many sacrifices would be rendered useless. But he reckoned that his mother would be able to live in it, and in this way David would save on the costs of the structure he had planned to build at the end of the courtyard. His departure would straighten out the family finances, and he discovered a thousand compelling reasons for departing: there is nothing so jesuitical as desire. He hurried at once to L’Houmeau to see his sister, tell her of his new prospects and discuss matters with her. As he passed by Postel’s shop the thought came to him that, if other means were lacking, he could borrow enough money from his father’s successor to last him a year.

  ‘If I live with Louise,’ he told himself, ‘three francs a day will be as good as a fortune, and that only amounts to a thousand francs for a year. Well, in six months’ time I shall be rich!’

  Eve and her mother gave ear to Lucien’s confidences under promise of deep secrecy. Both of them wept as they listened to the ambitious young man; and when he asked the reason for their sorrow, they informed him that all they possessed had been spent on table and household linen, Eve’s trousseau and a multitude of purchases that David had not thought of making – and they had been happy to do it, for the printer was crediting Eve with a dowry of ten thousand francs. Lucien then imparted to them his idea of raising a loan, and Madame Chardon undertook to go and ask Monsieur Postel to lend them a thousand francs for a year.

  ‘But Lucien,’ said Eve – and the thought wrung her heart – ‘will you not then be present at my wedding? Oh! come back for it; I can wait a few days! She will certainly let you come back here in a fortnight’s time, once you have accompanied her to Paris! She will surely allow us a week, since we brought you up for her! Our marriage will turn out badly if you’re not there…’

  ‘But will a thousand francs be enough?’ she suddenly broke off to ask. ‘Your suit is wonderfully smart, but you’ve only one! You’ve only two fine linen shirts and the six others you have are of coarse holland. You have only three cambric cravats; the three others are of cheap jaconet. And your handkerchiefs aren’t very good. Will you find a sister in Paris to launder your linen on the day you are to wear it? You need a lot more. You have only one pair of this year’s nankeen trousers; your last year’s are too tight, and so you will have to buy clothes in Paris, and prices in Paris are higher than in Angoulême. You have only two white waistcoats fit to wear; I have already mended the others. Look, I advise you to take two thousand francs with you.’

  At this instant David came in. Apparently he had overheard this last remark, for he scanned brother and sister in silence.

  ‘Tell me what this is all about,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ exclaimed Eve. ‘He’s going away with her.’

  Madame Chardon entered without noticing David. ‘Postel,’ she said, ‘is willing to lend the thousand francs, but only for six months, and he wants a bill of exchange from you endorsed by your brother-in-law, for he says you have no surety to offer.’

  She turned round, saw her son-in-law, and all four of them stood there in deep silence. The Chardon family was conscious of having abused David’s good nature. They were all ashamed. Tears came to the printer’s eyes.

  ‘So you won’t be coming to our wedding?’ he said. ‘So you won’t be living with us? And I have just squandered all I had. Oh, Lucien, I was bringing Eve her modest little wedding jewellery, not knowing’ (he wiped his eyes and drew the cases from his pocket) ‘that I should have cause for regretting having bought them.’

  He laid the morocco-covered cases down on the table in front of his mother-in-law.

  ‘Why do you bother about me so much?’ asked Eve with an angelic smile which took the edge off her question.

  ‘Dear Mamma,’ said the printer. ‘Go and tell Monsieur Postel I am willing to give my signature, for I can see by your face, Lucien, that your mind is set on going.’

  Lucien gave a weak and regretful nod of assent, and the next moment he added: ‘Don’t think too badly of me, my beloved angels.’ He took hold of Eve and David, kissed them, clasped them to him, and said:

  ‘Wait for results, and you will learn how much I love you. David, what use would our high ideals be, if we were unable to disregard the trivial ceremonies in which the law ties up genuine feeling? Although far away, shall I not be present in spirit? Shall we not be together in our thoughts? Have I not my destiny to work out? Would the publishers come out here to get my Archer of Charles the Ninth and my Marguerites? Should I not still, a little sooner or a little later, have to do what I am doing today? Shall I ever meet with more favourable circumstances? Does not my whole future depend on making my beginnings in Paris in the Marquise d’Espard’s salon?’

  ‘He is r
ight,’ said Eve. ‘Did you not tell me yourself that he ought to go to Paris without delay?’

  David took Eve’s hand, led her into the little cupboard of a room in which she had been sleeping for seven years, and whispered to her:

  ‘He needs two thousand francs, as you were saying, my love. Postel will only lend one thousand.’

  The agonized look which Eve gave her fiancé was expressive of all the torture she was suffering.

  ‘Listen, Eve, my beloved. The beginning of our life together will not be comfortable. It’s a fact, my expenditure has soaked up all I had. I have only two thousand francs left, and half of it is absolutely necessary for the running of the printing-office. If I give your brother a thousand francs, I shall be giving him our daily bread and compromising our tranquillity. If I were alone, I should know what to do. But there are two of us. You must decide.’

  Beside herself, Eve threw herself into her lover’s arms, gave him a tender kiss and, bathed in tears, whispered in his ear: ‘Do what you would do if you were alone. I will go out to work to earn the money.’

  In spite of a kiss as ardent as any ever exchanged between two fiancés, David left Eve completely dejected, and went back to Lucien.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You will get your two thousand francs.’

  ‘Go and see Postel,’ said Madame Chardon. ‘Both of you will have to sign the paper.’

  When the two friends came back, they found Eve and her mother on their knees in prayer. Although the latter knew what great hopes ought to materialize on Lucien’s return, at that moment they were conscious of all they were losing by his departure: they felt that happiness to come was being too dearly paid for by an absence which was going to break up their life and bring them endless fears for Lucien’s future.

  ‘If ever you forgot this scene,’ whispered David to Lucien, ‘You would be the most despicable of men.’

  No doubt the printer deemed these grave words necessary, for he was no less appalled by Madame de Bargeton’s ascendency over Lucien than by the fatal instability of character which could as easily fling him into evil ways as into good ones. It did not take Eve long to do Lucien’s packing. This Fernando Cortez of literature had little to take away. He wore his best frock-coat, his best waistcoat and one of his fine linen shirts. All his linen, his famous suit, his appurtenances and manuscripts made up so slender a parcel that, to prevent Madame de Bargeton from setting eyes on it, David suggested sending it by stage-coach to a business acquaintance in Paris, a paper merchant, and writing to him to keep it with him until Lucien called for it.

  In spite of the precautions taken by Madame de Bargeton to conceal her departure, Monsieur du Châtelet learnt of it and was curious to know whether she would be travelling alone or in Lucien’s company; he sent his valet to Ruffec, with instructions to inspect all the vehicles changing horses at the post.

  ‘If she takes her poet away with her,’ he thought, ‘she is mine.’

  Lucien set off at dawn the next morning, accompanied by David who had hired a horse and trap, announcing that he was going to talk business with his father – a plausible little fiction in the circumstances. The two friends went to Marsac and spent the day with the old ‘bear’; then, in the evening, they passed beyond Mansie in order to wait for Madame de Bargeton, who arrived towards morning. When he caught sight of the antiquated sixty-year-old barouche which he had so often looked at in the coach-house, Lucien experienced one of the liveliest emotions he had ever had. He flung himself into David’s arms, and the latter exclaimed: ‘Heaven send that this is for your good!’

  The printer climbed back into his shabby trap, and his heart was heavy as he drove away, for he had horrible presentiments of the fate in store for Lucien in Paris.

  Part Two

  A GREAT MAN IN EMBRYO

  1. First-fruits

  NEITHER Lucien, nor Madame de Bargeton, nor Gentil, nor Albertine the lady’s maid ever talked about the incidents of the journey, but one may well believe that the continued presence of the servants made it very disagreeable for a lover who was expecting all the delights of an elopement. Lucien, who was travelling post for the first time in his life, was flabbergasted to see almost the whole sum which was supposed to last him for a year in Paris scattered by the wayside between Angoulême and the capital. Like all men of vigorous talent who have not shed the graces of childhood, he made the mistake of expressing his naïve astonishment at the sight of things which were new to him. A man must make a close study of a woman before letting her see his emotions and thoughts as they come to him one by one. A mistress as tender as she is great-hearted smiles understandingly at ingenuousness; but if there is any vanity in her make-up she will not forgive an admirer who shows himself to be callow, vain or trivial. Many women so exaggerate their cult of love that they always expect to find a god in their idol; whereas a woman who loves a man for himself rather than for her own sake adores the littleness as well as the greatness in him. Lucien had not yet divined that in Madame de Bargeton love was grafted on to pride. He ought to have caught the meaning of certain smiles which escaped her during their journey whenever, instead of containing his feelings, he expressed them with the wonderment of a baby rat taking a first peep outside its hole.

  The travellers alighted before daybreak at the Hôtel du Gaillard-Bois in the rue de l’Echelle. They were both tired out and Louise wanted to go straight to bed. She did so after ordering Lucien to ask for a room above the suite she took for herself.

  He slept till four o’clock in the afternoon. Madame de Bargeton had him roused for dinner; when he learned how late it was he threw on his clothes and joined Louise in one of those squalid rooms which are the disgrace of Paris where despite all its pretensions to elegance there is not yet a single hotel in which any wealthy traveller can feel at home. Although Lucien was still bleary-eyed from his sudden awakening, he found his Louise scarcely recognizable in this cold, sunless room with its faded curtains, its depressing, over-scrubbed tiles, its worn, tasteless, antequated or secondhand furniture. Indeed certain persons neither look nor are the same once they are detached from the faces, places and objects which constitute their normal environment. The physiognomy of living people has its own special aura, just as the chiaroscuro in Flemish pictures is needed to give life to the figures which the painter’s genius has set in them. This is especially noticeable in the case of provincials. Moreover Madame de Bargeton seemed to be more on her dignity, more thoughtful than she should have been at the moment when a life of unrestricted happiness was opening before her. Lucien could make no complaint since Gentil and Albertine were serving them. The dinner lacked the abundance and basic wholesomeness characteristic of a provincial table. The dishes, parsimoniously reduced, came from a neighbouring restaurant; they were sparingly garnished and looked like measured rations. Paris is not generous in regard to the little commodities with which people of modest fortune have to be contented.

  Lucien waited for the meal to end before he questioned Louise, who seemed to him to have unaccountably changed. He was not mistaken. A grave event – in the moral sphere reflection is an event – had occurred while he had been sleeping. About two in the afternoon, Sixte du Châtelet had presented himself at the hotel, awakened Albertine, expressed the desire to speak to her mistress and come back again after scarcely giving Madame de Bargeton time to make herself presentable. Anaïs, whose curiosity was aroused by Monsieur du Châtelet’s unexpected appearance when she thought that her movements had been so well concealed, had received him at about three o’clock.

  ‘I followed you at the risk of getting a reprimand from the Administration,’ he said as he greeted her, ‘for I foresaw what is happening to you. But even if I lose my post, at least you shall not lose your good name!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Madame de Bargeton.

  ‘I can well see that you love Lucien,’ he continued with an air of tender resignation. ‘You must indeed be in love to cast reflection aside and forget a
ll the proprieties – you who are so well versed in them! Do you really believe, my dear, adored Naïs, that you will be admitted to Madame d’Espard’s salon, or any other in Paris, once people know that you have practically fled from Angoulême with a young man, especially after the duel between Monsieur de Bargeton and Monsieur de Chandour? The fact that your husband is staying at L’Escarbas looks very like a separation. In cases like this, men of correct behaviour begin by fighting for their wives and leave them to their own devices afterwards. Love Monsieur de Rubempré, protect him, do what you will with him, but don’t live with him! If anyone here knew you made the journey in the same carriage, you would be blacklisted by the very people you want to see. Besides, Naïs, don’t make such sacrifices yet for a young man whom you’ve not yet compared with anyone else, who has been put to no test and may well desert you here for a woman of Paris whom he thinks more necessary to his ambitions than you are. I mean no harm to the man you love, but you must allow me to put your interests before his and to tell you: “Study him! Realize fully the steps you are taking.” If you find doors are closed to you, if women refuse to receive you, at least make sure that these sacrifices will bring no regret and that the man for whom you are making them will always be worthy of them and appreciate them. Madame d’Espard is the more prudish and severe because she is herself living apart from her husband without anyone being able to fathom the reason for their separation. But the Navarreins, the Blamont-Chauvrys, the Lenoncourts and all her relatives have stood by her; the most strait-laced women go to her house and give her a respectful welcome in their own. The conclusion is: Monsieur d’Espard must be in the wrong. At the first visit you pay to her, you will realize how apt is my advice. I can certainly predict this, knowing Paris as I do: when you went to see the Marquise you would be lost if she knew that you were staying at the Hôtel du Gaillard-Bois with an apothecary’s son, Monsieur de Rubempré though he would like to be. Here you will have rivals far more astute and cunning than Amélie: it won’t take them long to find out who you are, where you are, where you have come from and what you are doing. I see you were counting on keeping your incognito, but you are one of those persons for whom this is impossible. Will you not come up against Angoulême wherever you go? – deputies from the Charente who are here for the opening of Parliament, or some general or other who is on leave in Paris. It would be enough if just one inhabitant of Angoulême should catch sight of you for strange conclusions to be drawn about you: you would simply be written off as Lucien’s mistress. If you need me for any purpose, I am staying with the Receiver-General in the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, a few yards away from Madame d’Espard’s house. I know the Maréchale de Carigliano, Madame de Sérizy and the Prime Minister well enough to introduce you to them. But you will meet so many people at Madame d’Espard’s house that you will have no need of me. Far from having to desire admission to one or other of the salons, your presence will be desired in all of them.’