CHAPTER VI. MARSHAL THE DUC DE VOLMAR
CHAUDESAIGUES sent for the campaigns of the Duc de Volmar. Three library attendants bowed beneath the burden. The tables were lost to sight under the opened atlases.
“Here, gentlemen, are the campaigns of Styria, the Palatinate, Karamania, the Caucasus, and the Vistula. The marches and positions of the armies are exactly indicated on the maps by lozenges and pretty little flags; the order of battle is perfectly shown. This order is generally determined after a battle, and it is the genius of great captains to erect into a system, to their own glory, the whims of hazard. But the Duc de Volmar has always foreseen everything.
“Cast your eyes on this plan, on a scale of one ten-thousandth, of the famous battle of Baskir, won by Volmar against the Turks. He there displayed the most amazing tactical genius. The action commenced at 5 a m.; at 4 p m. Volmar’s troops, overwhelmed by fatigue, their ammunition exhausted, were falling back in disorder. The intrepid
Marshal, alone at the bridgehead of the Aluta, with a pistol in either hand, was blowing out the brains of the runaways. He was planning his retreat when he learned that the enemy, in full flight, was throwing itself desperately into the Danube. Immediately he faced about, flung himself in pursuit of them, and achieved their destruction. That victory earned him a pension of five hundred thousand francs, and opened for him the doors of the Institute.
“Gentlemen, do you think you can find a man happier than the victor of Elbruz and Baskir? With unvarying good fortune he has fought fourteen campaigns, won sixty pitched battles, and three times saved his grateful country from total ruin. Loaded with glory and honours, he is prolonging beyond the ordinary term of life, in wealth and peace, an august old age.”
“It is true; he is fortunate,” said Quatrefeuilles. “What do you think about it, Saint-Sylvain?”
“Let us ask for an interview,” said the private secretary.
Admitted to the Palace, they crossed the hall where stood the Marshal’s equestrian statue.
On the pedestal were inscribed these proud words: “I bequeath my two daughters, Elbruz and Baskir, to the gratitude of my country, and the admiration of the world.”
The state staircase raised its double curve of marble steps between walls decorated with trophies and flags. Its wide landing led to a door whose two leaves were adorned with trophies of arms and smoking grenades, surmounted by the three golden crowns bestowed by King, Parliament, and Nation on the Duc de Volmar, saviour of his country.
Saint-Sylvain and Quatrefeuilles halted, frozen by a sense of awe, before the closed door; at the thought of the hero from whom it divided them emotion nailed them to the threshold, and they dared not venture to face so much glory.
Saint-Sylvain recalled the medal struck in commemoration of the battle of Elbruz, which showed on the obverse the Marshal placing a crown on the brows of a winged victory, with the following magnificent inscription:— “Victoria Caesarem et Napoleonem coronavit; major autem Volmarus coronat Victoriam.”
And he murmured:
“This man is a hundred cubits high.” Quatrefeuilles pressed both hands to his heart, which was beating as though it would burst.
Hardly had they collected their thoughts when they heard sharp cries, which seemed to issue from the far end of the apartments, and to be gradually approaching. They were the screams of a woman, mingled with the sound of blows, and followed by feeble moans. The doors suddenly flew open, and a very little old man, kicked forward by a powerful serving wench, collapsed on the stairs like a marionette, rolled down the staircase head first, and fell, bruised, broken, and dislocated into the hall, before the solemn footmen. It was the Duc de Volmar. They picked him up. The maid servant with dishevelled hair and uncovered bosom, shouted from above:
“Leave him alone! He’s only fit to be touched with a broom.” Brandishing a bottle, she continued: “He wanted to take away my brandy! By what right? Get out, you old ruin! It wasn’t me that was wanting you, that’s very certain, you old carrion!”
Quatrefeuilles and Saint-Sylvain fled hastily from the Palace. When they reached the parade-ground Saint-Sylvain made the remark that the hero’s latest throw of the dice had not been a lucky one.
“Quatrefeuilles,” he added, “I see that I have been mistaken. I wished to proceed by an exact and rigorous method — I was wrong. Science leads us astray. Let us return to common sense. For satisfactory guidance one must rely on the crudest empiricism. Let us search for happiness without trying to define it.”
Quatrefeuilles launched into lengthy recriminations and abuse of the librarian, whom he regarded as a malicious jester. What annoyed him most was to feel that his faith was destroyed, that the worship which he had paid in his heart to the national hero was debased and soiled. This pained him. His was a generous grief, and doubtless generous griefs contain their own consolation, and, so to speak, their recompense: — they are better and more easily endured and with a readier courage than egotistical and selfish sorrows. It would be unjust to wish that it should be otherwise. So that Quatrefeuilles’ heart was very soon sufficiently at leisure, and his mind sufficiently clear, to perceive that the rain was falling on his silk hat, and damaging its lustre, and he sighed:
“Another hat ruined.”
He had been a soldier, and had formerly served his King as a lieutenant of dragoons. Thus it was that an idea occurred to him. He proceeded to buy, at the library of the General Staff, on the parade-ground, at the corner road leading to the great stables, a map of the kingdom and a plan of the capital.
“One should never start on a campaign without maps,” he said. “But the devil of it is to read them. Here is the city with its suburbs. Where shall we begin? In the north, south, east, or west? It has been remarked that all cities spread westwards. Perhaps this affords us a hint which we should not neglect. It is possible that the dwellers in the western area, sheltered from the keen east wind, enjoy better health, have a more even temper, and are happier. Or rather, let us begin with the charming slopes rising from the bank of the river some thirty miles south of the city. The wealthiest families in the country live there at this time of the year. And whatever anyone may say, it is among the fortunate that we must look for a happy man.”
“Quatrefeuilles,” answered the private secretary, “I am not an enemy of society, neither am I opposed to public happiness. I will speak of the rich as an honest man, and a good citizen. The rich are worthy of love and veneration. While making further additions to their wealth, they support the State, and are benefactors even without intending it, for they feed a multitude of people who are occupied in the preservation and increase of their property. Oh! what a beautiful, worthy, and excellent thing is private wealth! How it should be considered, disburdened, and privileged by the wise legislator, and what an iniquitous, perfidious, disloyal thing it is, how contrary to the most sacred rights and the worthiest of interests, and disastrous and fatal to public finance to injure opulence! It is a social duty to believe in the virtue of the wealthy: it is also pleasant to believe in their happiness. Quatrefeuilles, let us proceed!”
CHAPTER VII. THE CONNECTION BETWEEN WEALTH AND HAPPINESS
BEING resolved to apply first of all to the best and richest, Jacques Felgine-Cobur, who owned mountains of gold, mines of diamonds, and seas of petroleum, they followed for a long time the walls of his park, which enclosed immense meadows, forests, farms, and villages; at every gate of the demesne at which they presented themselves they were sent on to another, Tired of continually going backwards and forwards, and incessantly winding about, they saw, in the road, a road-mender breaking stones in front of a grille with armorial bearings, and asked him if that was the gate through which they would reach the residence of Monsieur Jacques Felgine-Cobur, whom they wished to see.
The man painfully straightened out his bony back, and turned towards them his sunken face, protected by wire goggles.
“I am Monsieur Jacques Felgine-Cobur,” he said.
Not
icing their surprise, he continued:
“I break stones; it is my only amusement.” Then bending down again he struck a pebble with his hammer. It broke with a sharp crack.
As they moved off Saint-Sylvain said:
“He is too rich. His fortune is crushing him; he is unhappy.”
Quatrefeuilles was of opinion they might next call upon Jacques Felgine-Cobur’s rival, Joseph Machero, the iron king, whose brand-new chateau stood abhorrent upon a neighbouring hill, with its crenelated towers, and its walls pierced with machicolations bristling with watch-towers. Saint-Sylvain dissuaded him.
“You have seen his portrait; he looks pitiable; we know from the papers that he is full of piety, lives like a pauper, preaches to little boys, and sings psalms in church. Rather let us go and see the Prince de Lusance. He is a true aristocrat, who knows how to enjoy his money. He shuns the turmoil of business, and does not go to Court. He is a lover of gardens, and has the finest picture-gallery in the kingdom.”
They were announced. The Prince de Lusance received them in his cabinet of antiquities, where was to be seen the finest known Greek copy of the Cnidian Aphrodite, the work of a chisel worthy of Praxiteles, and full of beauty. The goddess appeared still wet from the waves of the sea. A rosewood cabinet, which had belonged to Madame de Pompadour, contained the finest gold and silver coins of Greece and Sicily. The Prince, a fine judge, was himself drawing up a catalogue of his medals. His magnifying glass was still lingering over the glass case containing the engraved stones, jasper, onyx, sardonyx, and chalcedony, containing within the area of a finger-nail figures modelled in a large style, and groups composed with a magnificent breadth of feeling. With a loving hand, he took from his table a little bronze faun that his visitors might admire its contours and its patina. His language was worthy of the masterpiece which he was describing.
“I am awaiting,” he said, “a consignment of antique silver, of cups and bowls, which are said to be more beautiful than those of Hildesheim and Bosco-reale! I am impatient to see them. Monsieur de Caylus knew no greater pleasure than that of opening cases. I am of his opinion.”
Saint-Sylvain smiled.
“Nevertheless, my dear Prince, you are said to be an expert in all the pleasures.”
“You flatter me, Monsieur de Saint-Sylvain. But I believe that the art of pleasure is the first of all arts, and that the rest are valueless except in so far as they minister to it.”
He conducted his guests to the picture gallery, where were mingled the silvery tones of Veronese, the ambers of Titian, the reds of Rubens and Rembrandt, and the greys and roses of Velasquez; where the chorus of palettes formed a glorious harmony. A violin, lay forgotten on a chair before the portrait of a dark lady, with smooth-tressed hair and an olive complexion; her great chestnut eyes were the notable feature of her face. It was some unknown woman whose lines Ingres had caressed with a sure and loving hand.
“I will confess my ruling folly,” said the Prince de Lusance. “Sometimes, when alone, I play before these pictures, and enjoy the illusion of translating into sound the harmony of line and colour. Before this portrait I try to convey the firm caress of the drawing, and, full of discouragement, I abandon my violin.”
A window opened on to the park. The Prince and his guests leant upon the balcony.
“What a beautiful view!” said Quatrefeuilles and Saint-Sylvain.
Terraces, covered with statues, orange trees and flowers, led down by easy, gradual steps to the lawn edged with yoke-elms, and the fountains whence the water leaped up in white spouts from the conch-shells of Tritons and the urns of nymphs. Right and left spread a sea of verdure stretched in peaceful undulations to the distant river, whose silver thread could be followed among the poplars, under hills enveloped in rosy mists.
But lately smiling, the Prince directed a worried look toward a point in the vast and beautiful landscape.
“That chimney!” he murmured in a pained voice, pointing with his finger to a smoking factory chimney, more than half a league from the park.
“That chimney? One can hardly see it,” said Quatrefeuilles.
“I see nothing else,” replied the Prince. “For me, it spoils the whole view, the whole of nature, the whole of my life. The evil is beyond remedy. It belongs to a company which will not abandon its factory at any price. I have tried every means of hiding it, and have failed. It is making me ill.”
And, leaving the window, he threw himself into an arm-chair.
“We should have foreseen it,” said Quatrefeuilles, as they got in their carriage. “He is fastidious and unhappy.”
Before resuming their search they sat for a moment in the little garden of an inn which stood on the summit of the hill, whence they could see the beautiful valley and the clear winding river, with its oval islets. In spite of two desperate failures they still hoped to find a happy millionaire.
There yet remained a dozen in the country; amongst others, Monsieur Bloch, Monsieur Potiquet, Baron Nichol, the greatest manufacturer in the kingdom, and the Marquis de Granthosme, perhaps the richest of all, a member of an illustrious family, and as heavily loaded with honours as with wealth.
Near them a tall, thin man, bent double, and as limp as a bolster, was drinking a cup of milk; his great pale eyes were sunk deep in his cheeks; and his nose hung over his mouth. He appeared to be in the very depths of woe, and stared with distress at Quatrefeuilles’ boots.
After gazing at them for twenty minutes he rose, dismal and resolute, approached the First Equerry, and, apologizing for his importunity, said:
“Sir, allow me to ask a question which to me is of the greatest importance. How much do you pay for your boots?”
“Despite the peculiarity of your request,” answered Quatrefeuilles, “I see no objection to answering it. I paid sixty-five francs for this pair.”
For a long time the stranger alternately examined his own foot and that of his interlocutor, comparing the two boots with minute attention.
Then, pale, and with a voice full of emotion, he said:
“You say you paid sixty-five francs for those boots. Are you perfectly sure?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Sir, I beg you to be careful what you say.”
“Come, come,” muttered Quatrefeuilles, who was beginning to get annoyed, “you are a curious sort of bootmaker, sir!”
“I am not a bootmaker,” replied the stranger, with gentle humility. “I am the Marquis de Granthosme.”
Quatrefeuilles saluted him.
“Sir,” continued the Marquis, “I felt it: alas, I am still being robbed! You pay for your boots sixty-five francs; I pay for mine, precisely like yours, eighty-five francs. It is not the money that I consider; the price is no object to me, but I cannot endure being robbed. I see and breathe nothing around me but fraud, dishonesty, theft, and falsehood. I have a horror of my wealth, which corrupts all who comes near me — servants, stewards, contractors, neighbours, friends, wife and children. It makes me odious and contemptible to them. Mine is a cruel situation. I am never certain that the man before me is not dishonest. I feel ready to die of disgust and shame at being a member of the human species.”
And the Marquis seized his glass of milk, gasping: “Sixty-five francs! Sixty-five francs!”
At this moment groans and lamentations burst forth on the road, and the King’s two emissaries saw an old man, who was whining, followed by two gold-laced lackeys.
They were perturbed by the sight; but the innkeeper was quite indifferent.
“It is nothing,” he told them. “It’s only the rich Baron Nichol! He has gone mad, believes himself ruined, and goes lamenting day and night.”
“Baron Nichol!” cried Saint-Sylvain. “Yet another of those whose shirt you wished to ask for, Quatrefeuilles.”
After this last encounter, they abandoned any further quest of the health-giving shirt among the very rich of the kingdom.
As they were disappointed with their day’s work, and feared to
be ill received at the Palace, they laid the blame on each other for their mistakes.
“What was your idea, Quatrefeuilles, in going among those people with any other object than the observation of abnormalities? There is nothing sane, nothing normal about them, whether their morals, ideas or sensations. They are all monsters.”
“What! Did you not say, Saint-Sylvain, that wealth was a virtue, that it was right to believe in the excellence of the wealthy, and delightful to believe in their happiness? But have a care: there is wealth and wealth. When the nobility is poor and the commonalty rich the State is overturned, and it is the end of everything.”
“Quatrefeuilles, I am sorry to have to say it, but you have no notion of the constitution of modern states. You do not understand the period in which you live. However, that does not matter. Suppose we were now to try gilded mediocrity? What do you think of that? I think we should be wise in attending to-morrow the receptions of the ladies of the city, both middle-class and titled. We shall have an opportunity of observing people of every condition, and, if you agree with me, we will first of all visit middle-class folks in a modest position.”
CHAPTER VIII. THE SALONS OF THE CAPITAL
THEY did so. To begin with, they called on Madame Souppe, whose husband was a manufacturer of food products in the north. They found that both Monsieur and Madame Souppe were miserable because they were not received by Madame Esterlin, whose husband was an ironmaster, and a Member of Parliament.
They went to Madame Esterlin’s, and found her in great distress, and Monsieur Esterlin as well, because they were not received by Madame du Colombier, whose husband was a peer of the realm, and late Minister of Justice. When they came to Madame Colombier’s house they found both the peer and his lady furious because they were not intimate with the Queen.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 383