The Lesser Bourgeoisie by Honore de Balzac (freenovel24 TXT) 📖
- Author: Honore de Balzac
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possible to these vulgar minds; he was navigating their waters; he
spoke their language. His painter was Pierre Grassou, and not Joseph
Bridau; his book was "Paul and Virginia." The greatest living poet for
him was Casimire de la Vigne; to his eyes the mission of art was,
above all things, utility. Parmentier, the discoverer of the potato,
was greater to him that thirty Raffaelles; the man in the blue cloak
seemed to him a sister of charity. These were Thuillier's expressions,
and Theodose remembered them all--on occasion.
"That young Felix Phellion," he now remarked, "is precisely the
academical man of our day; the product of knowledge which sends God to
the rear. Heavens, what are we coming to? Religion alone can save
France; nothing but the fear of hell will preserve us from domestic
robbery, which is going on at all hours in the bosom of families, and
eating into the surest fortunes. All of you have a secret warfare in
your homes."
After this shrewd tirade, which made a great impression upon Brigitte,
he retired, followed by Dutocq, after wishing good evening to the
three Thuilliers.
"That young man has great capacity," said Thuillier, sententiously.
"Yes, that he has," replied Brigitte, extinguishing the lamps.
"He has religion," said Madame Thuillier, as she left the room.
"Monsieur," Phellion was saying to Colleville as they came abreast of
the Ecole de Mines, looking about him to see that no one was near, "it
is usually my custom to submit my insight to that of others, but it is
impossible for me not to think that that young lawyer plays the master
at our friend Thuillier's."
"My own opinion," said Colleville, who was walking with Phellion
behind his wife, Madame Phellion, and Celeste, "is that he's a Jesuit;
and I don't like Jesuits; the best of them are no good. To my mind a
Jesuit means knavery, and knavery for knavery's sake; they deceive for
the pleasure of deceiving, and, as the saying is, to keep their hand
That's my opinion, and I don't mince it."
"I understand you, monsieur," said Phellion, who was arm-in-arm with
Colleville.
"No, Monsieur Phellion," remarked Flavie in a shrill voice, "you don't
understand Colleville; but I know what he means, and I think he had
better stop saying it. Such subjects are not to be talked of in the
street, at eleven o'clock at night, and before a young lady."
"You are right, wife," said Colleville.
When they reached the rue des Deux-Eglises, which Phellion was to
take, they all stopped to say good-night, and Felix Phellion, who was
bring up the rear, said to Colleville:--
"Monsieur, your son Francois could enter the Ecole Polytechnique if he
were well-coached; I propose to you to fit him to pass the
examinations this year."
"That's an offer not to be refused! Thank you, my friend," said
Colleville. "We'll see about it."
"Good!" said Phellion to his son, as they walked on.
"Not a bad stroke!" said the mother.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Felix.
"You are very cleverly paying court to Celeste's parents."
"May I never find the solution of my problem if I even thought of it!"
cried the young professor. "I discovered, when talking with the little
Collevilles, that Francois has a strong turn for mathematics, and I
thought I ought to enlighten his father."
"Good, my son!" repeated Phellion. "I wouldn't have you otherwise. My
prayers are granted! I have a son whose honor, probity, and private
and civic virtues are all that I could wish."
Madame Colleville, as soon as Celeste had gone to bed, said to her
husband:--
"Colleville, don't utter those blunt opinions about people without
knowing something about them. When you talk of Jesuits I know you mean
priests; and I wish you would do me the kindness to keep your opinions
on religion to yourself when you are in company with your daughter. We
may sacrifice our own souls, but not the souls of our children. You
don't want Celeste to be a creature without religion? And remember, my
dear, that we are at the mercy of others; we have four children to
provide for; and how do you know that, some day or other, you may not
need the services of this one or that one? Therefore don't make
enemies. You haven't any now, for you are a good-natured fellow; and,
thanks to that quality, which amounts in you to a charm, we have got
along pretty well in life, so far."
"That's enough!" said Colleville, flinging his coat on a chair and
pulling off his cravat. "I'm wrong, and you are right, my beautiful
Flavie."
"And on the next occasion, my dear old sheep," said the sly creature,
tapping her husband's cheek, "you must try to be polite to that young
lawyer; he is a schemer and we had better have him on our side. He is
playing comedy--well! play comedy with him; be his dupe apparently; if
he proves to have talent, if he has a future before him, make a friend
of him. Do you think I want to see you forever in the mayor's office?"
"Come, wife Colleville," said the former clarionet, tapping his knee
to indicate the place he wished his wife to take. "Let us warm our
toes and talk.--When I look at you I am more than ever convinced that
the youth of women is in their figure."
"And in their heart."
"Well, both," assented Colleville; "waist slender, heart solid--"
"No, you old stupid, deep."
"What is good about you is that you have kept your fairness without
growing fat. But the fact is, you have such tiny bones. Flavie, it is
a fact that if I had life to live over again I shouldn't wish for any
other wife than you."
"You know very well I have always preferred you to _others_. How
unlucky that monseigneur is dead! Do you know what I covet for you?"
"No; what?"
"Some office at the Hotel de Ville,--an office worth twelve thousand
francs a year; cashier, or something of that kind; either there, or at
Poissy, in the municipal department; or else as manufacturer of
musical instruments--"
"Any one of them would suit me."
"Well, then! if that queer barrister has power, and he certainly has
plenty of intrigue, let us manage him. I'll sound him; leave me to do
the thing--and, above all, don't thwart his game at the Thuilliers'."
Theodose had laid a finger on a sore sport in Flavie Colleville's
heart; and this requires an explanation, which may, perhaps, have the
value of a synthetic glance at women's life.
At forty years of age a woman, above all, if she has tasted the
poisoned apple of passion, undergoes a solemn shock; she sees two
deaths before her: that of the body and that of the heart. Dividing
women into two great categories which respond to the common ideas, and
calling them either virtuous or guilty, it is allowable to say that
after that fatal period they both suffer pangs of terrible intensity.
If virtuous, and disappointed in the deepest hopes of their nature
--whether they have had the courage to submit, whether they have
buried their revolt in their hearts or at the foot of the altar--they
never admit to themselves that all is over for them without horror.
That thought has such strange and diabolical depths that in it lies
the reason of some of those apostasies which have, at times, amazed
the world and horrified it. If guilty, women of that age fall into one
of several delirious conditions which often turn, alas! to madness, or
end in suicide, or terminate in some with passion greater than the
situation itself.
The following is the "dilemmatic" meaning of this crisis. Either they
have known happiness, known it in a virtuous life, and are unable to
breathe in any air but that surcharged with incense, or act in any but
a balmy atmosphere of flattery and worship,--if so, how is it possible
to renounce it?--or, by a phenomenon less rare than singular, they
have found only wearying pleasures while seeking for the happiness
that escaped them--sustained in that eager chase by the irritating
satisfactions of vanity, clinging to the game like a gambler to his
double or quits; for to them these last days of beauty are their last
stake against despair.
"You have been loved, but never adored."
That speech of Theodose, accompanied by a look which read, not into
her heart, but into her life, was the key-note to her enigma, and
Flavie felt herself divined.
The lawyer had merely repeated ideas which literature has rendered
trivial; but what matter where the whip comes from, or how it is made,
if it touches the sensitive spot of a horse's hide? The emotion was in
Flavie, not in the speech, just as the noise is not in the avalanche,
though it produces it.
A young officer, two fops, a banker, a clumsy youth, and Colleville,
were poor attempts at happiness. Once in her life Madame Colleville
had dreamed of it, but never attained it. Death had hastened to put an
end to the only passion in which she had found a charm. For the last
two years she had listened to the voice of religion, which told her
that neither the Church, nor its votaries, should talk of love or
happiness, but of duty and resignation; that the only happiness lay in
the satisfaction of fulfilling painful and costly duties, the rewards
for which were not in this world. All the same, however, she was
conscious of another clamoring voice; but, inasmuch as her religion
was only a mask which it suited her to wear, and not a conversion, she
did not lay it aside, thinking it a resource. Believing also that
piety, false or true, was a becoming manner in which to meet her
future, she continued in the Church, as though it were the cross-roads
of a forest, where, seated on a bench, she read the sign-posts, and
waited for some lucky chance; feeling all the while that night was
coming on.
Thus it happened that her interest was keenly excited when Theodose
put her secret condition of mind into words, seeming to promise her
the realization of her castle in the air, already built and overthrown
some six or eight times.
From the beginning of the winter she had noticed that Theodose was
examining and studying her, though cautiously and secretly. More than
once, she had put on her gray moire silk with its black lace, and her
headdress of Mechlin with a few flowers, in order to appear to her
best advantage; and men know very well when a toilet has been made to
please them. The old beau of the Empire, that handsome Thuillier,
overwhelmed her with compliments, assuring her she was queen of the
salon, but la Peyrade said infinitely more to the purpose by a look.
Flavie had expected, Sunday after Sunday, a declaration, saying to
herself at times:--
"He knows I am ruined and haven't a sou. Perhaps he is really pious."
Theodose did nothing rashly; like a wise musician, he had marked the
place in his symphony where he intended to tap his drum. When he saw
Colleville attempting to warn Thuillier against him, he fired his
broadside, cleverly prepared during the three or four months in which
he had been studying Flavie; he now succeeded with her as he had,
earlier in the day, succeeded with Thuillier.
While getting into bed, Theodose said to himself:--
"The wife is on my side; the husband can't endure me; they are now
quarrelling; and I shall get the better of it, for she does what she
likes with that man."
The lawyer was mistaken in one thing: there was no dispute whatever,
and Colleville was sleeping peacefully beside his dear little Flavie,
while she was saying to herself:--
"Certainly Theodose must be a superior man."
Many men, like la Peyrade, derive their superiority from the audacity,
or the difficulty, of an enterprise; the strength they display
increases their muscular power, and they spend it freely. Then when
success is won, or defeat is met, the public is astonished to find how
small, exhausted, and puny those men really are. After casting into
the minds of the two persons on whom Celeste's fate chiefly depended,
an interest and curiosity that were almost feverish, Theodose
pretended to be a very busy man; for five or six days he was out of
the house from morning till night, in order not to meet Flavie until
the time when her interest should increase to the point of
overstepping conventionality, and also in order to force the handsome
Thuillier to come and fetch him.
The following Sunday he felt certain he should find Madame Colleville
at church; he was not mistaken, for they came out, each of them, at
the same moment, and met at the corner of the rue des Deux-Eglises.
Theodose offered his arm, which Flavie accepted, leaving her daughter
to walk in front with her brother Anatole. This youngest
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