Chapter VII: Part II: IX (4)

“It’s very lucky that they weren’t worth as much as that!” replied Poterne coolly; “for, out of the twenty-five hundred francs I got for them, you left me only five hundred to pay the dealer on account, and you’ve never given me the rest since.”

“Because I had a sort of presentiment of your knavery! The idea of selling trash, gilded copper, to my young friend! it is infamous!”

“Bah! look you, it seems to me that you’ve been living comfortably at your young friend’s expense for eighteen months past.”

“Hold your tongue, Poterne, hold your tongue. I am tempted to break every bone in your body, and you deserve it. See what a fine thing you have done in not being content with the honest profits you might have made on such things as you sold Chérubin; now you can never go to his house again. I had thrown open an excellent house to you, and you have closed it by your thirst for gold--and as a result you have injured me considerably. I have derived some profit from your little transactions--and that was no more than fair; as it was I who made you acquainted with this rich youngster.”

“Some profit! In other words, you took the whole!” muttered Poterne, with a horrible grimace.

“Once more, hold your tongue, or I cannot restrain myself!--Now, how shall I maintain my position, my life of luxury? I can borrow of Chérubin occasionally, to be sure, but that resource will soon fail me: the most obliging people get tired of lending, especially when they are never paid. I have tried to instil into my young friend a taste for cards, telling him that it was the passion of fashionable people; but I could not do it, cards are a bore to him; and then that devil of a Monfréville has strongly advised him not to touch them. So that there is but one way left for me to feather my own nest by making myself useful to Chérubin, and that is--love. When a wealthy young man is in love, he usually does all sorts of foolish things for the woman he loves. If there are obstacles, he spends money lavishly to overcome them,--and we should have had no difficulty in placing obstacles in his path whenever we chose. Well! by some fatality which I cannot understand, Chérubin, who exclaims in admiration at sight of a pretty face, who seemed to be dead in love with my four little ballet dancers, who cannot look at a grisette without a thrill, who, in short, acts as if he were tremendously in love with all women, hasn’t yet engaged in any intrigue or taken a mistress. I have proposed twenty times to take him to Malvina, or Rosina, or Fœdora; he will agree at first, then refuse, saying: ‘Later; we’ll see about it; I don’t dare!’ And my sarcasms, my jests, fail to overcome his timidity.--That is where I stand now, monsieur; I was justified, you see, in saying that your knavery has placed me in an unpleasant position.”

Poterne, who had listened very attentively to Daréna, reflected for some moments on what he had heard, and replied at last:

“If the young man has no love-affairs on hand, it is probably because he has not yet met a woman who has really attracted him. Those dancers of yours who seemed to be throwing themselves at his head--that’s not the way to captivate a wholly inexperienced heart, which wants illusions, ardent passion. Never fear, I’ll find what he needs, and before long I will involve him in a most romantic and complicated intrigue.”

“Remember that you cannot show your face before Chérubin, who is quite capable of kicking you downstairs. He is in a terrible rage with you, I warn you.”

“Oh! don’t be alarmed; if I appear before him, I will take good care that he doesn’t recognize me.”

“Poterne, if you succeed in arousing a passionate love in our young man’s heart, I will give you back my esteem.”

“Oh, yes! I shall succeed! But first, you must give me time to find a pretty girl, and then to learn whether--I say, Bruno! Bruno! where are you going, you little rascal?”

During the foregoing conversation between Daréna and Poterne, the small boy, who had understood that he was not to play the part of a monkey, as he had been led to expect, had resumed his ordinary garb; but, when he had finished his toilet, Monsieur Bruno, presuming that no one was paying any heed to him, rolled the monkey’s skin around the mask, put it under his arm, and left the room.

“My skin! my monkey’s skin, Bruno!” cried Monsieur Poterne, running out to the landing. “Ah! you little vagabond! don’t you mean to give it back to me?”

But Monsieur Bruno, who had become very skilful in gymnastic exercises, thanks to the lessons he had taken in playing the monkey, ran down the stairs so rapidly that he was at the foot before Poterne had covered three stairs. The latter ran after the little thief none the less; and while Daréna returned to his room, laughing at the episode, Monsieur Poterne ran through the street after the bootblack, crying:

“My skin! my skin! stop that little scamp--he’s stolen my skin!”

XVII

ADVICE OF A FRIEND

On returning home, Chérubin sent for Jasmin and said to him:

“If Monsieur Poterne should ever dare to appear here again, I order you to have him thrown out of doors; you may even go so far as to order the concierge to thrash him; but you must not undertake it yourself, for you are too old and he would return the compliment.”

Jasmin uttered a joyful exclamation, and said:

“What! really, monsieur? And without taking the monkey?”

“Oh! I forbid you above all things to take anything whatever from him.”

And Chérubin told his old servant what had happened.

“You see, monsieur,” said Jasmin, “that Poterne is an outrageous swindler--I was sure of it. His so-called Indian preserves--I gave ‘em to Mademoiselle Turlurette to taste; they gave her a very bad stomach ache, and she’s been out of order ever since. I’m very much afraid, monsieur, that everything you have bought of that Poterne is like your watch!--And this Monsieur Daréna whose man of business he is--hum!”

“Daréna was even more furious than I with that man; he swore that he’d thrash him. He was deceived too; it isn’t his fault.”

“All the same, my dear master, I very much prefer your other friend, Monsieur de Monfréville. Ah! such a difference! he doesn’t borrow your tailor; he doesn’t induce you to buy things; he doesn’t let his steward loose on you.”

Chérubin smiled at Jasmin’s reflections, but it did not enter his mind that Daréna could be a confederate in his agent’s wrongdoing. His heart was too frank, too trustful, to suspect cunning and perfidy, and he would have been unable to believe in Monsieur Poterne’s shameless rascality had it been less abundantly demonstrated to him.

As for Monsieur Gérondif, who passed a large part of his time in sleep, and another large part at the table, and who had adopted the habit of reading Voltaire or Racine to Mademoiselle Turlurette of an evening, telling her that he had composed the lines that morning, when he learned what Monsieur Poterne had done, he exclaimed:

“That man never read _Deuteronomy_, where it says: _Non furtum facies_; or else he mistranslated it.”

A few days after this adventure, Monfréville, returning from the country, came at once to see Chérubin. When he spied the pack of hounds, the parrots, the turtle, the canes, the gothic vases, and all the alleged rare objects with which his young friend’s house was filled to overflowing, he uttered an exclamation which was not of delight, and said to Chérubin:

“Mon Dieu! what on earth induced you to buy all this stuff?”

“They are all bargains. I was told that they were very fine.”

“Fine! Why, they are all horrible, in wretched taste, and of no value whatever. Your parrots are wretched cockatoos, your dogs are miserable curs that I would not have to guard chickens! Even your canes are common sticks of wood; this rattan is an imitation, it was never what it pretends to be.”

“What did I say?” cried Jasmin; “that Poterne is an infernal pickpocket; he has taken us in with everything, just as he did with the jewels.--Tell monsieur the story of our watch, my dear master.”

Chérubin told Monfréville what had happened to him.

“If it was Monsieur Poterne who sold you all this,” said Monfréville, “I am surprised no longer! But Daréna--do you still see him?”

“Yes,” replied Chérubin; “he was indignant at his agent’s conduct, and he has told me since that he had beaten him and dismissed him from his service.”

Monfréville smiled faintly; then he took Chérubin’s hand and said:

“My friend, you are still very young, and you cannot be expected to understand men; the knowledge of the world which one acquires only by experience and familiarity, unless one is blessed in youth with a most observant mind, that knowledge is rather melancholy than agreeable! For men are rarely what they choose to appear; frankness is not esteemed as a virtue in society; on the contrary, the man would be considered a fool or a boor who should say frankly what he thought, at the risk of wounding the self-esteem of this one or the susceptibility of that one. We consider those people delightful who never have any but agreeable and flattering words in their mouths, and we do not worry as to whether they mean what they say. In the world, every man acts as his interest or his passions impel him, and they who make the most parade of their virtues, their honor, their good faith, are the ones whom we should trust least; for people who are really virtuous and upright deem it perfectly natural to be so, and quite unnecessary to proclaim it. I have not said all this to you earlier, for I regret to deprive you of the illusions which make a large part of the charm of youth, and with which we begin life; but I take too deep an interest in you not to try to put you on your guard against the snares which may be laid for you.”

“What, my dear Monfréville,” said Chérubin sadly, “can’t we trust anybody in the world?”

“I don’t mean to go so far as that. I do not want to make a misanthrope of you--God forbid! But I warn you that you must be particular in the choice of your friends.”

“Monsieur Gérondif has often told me that when a man became learned he became a man to be feared, because a learned man can never be cheated by anybody, as he knows more than other men.”

“I don’t know whether your tutor is very strong on his authors, but he is rather weak in knowledge of the human heart. In the first place, a person may be very learned without a spark of wit--we have proofs of that every day; and in the second place, those who have the most wit are almost always the ones who are most easily cheated; doubtless Providence so ordained as a recompense to fools.”

“So you feel sure that people will try to cheat me?”

“You are young and rich, and you have had very little experience. There are numbers of people who would like to take advantage of that combination. All this that I am saying is very sad--but you will realize later that I am right.”

“Have you been caught often, Monsieur de Monfréville?”

This artless question brought a smile to the lips of him to whom it was addressed; he heaved a sigh, however, as he replied:

“Like other men, my friend. Take my advice and do not form an intimacy with Daréna. I dislike to speak harshly of anyone; but the more I observe the count, the more strongly I feel that his acquaintance is not at all suitable for you.”

“But he is very amusing, very agreeable, very clever.”

“I know it, and that makes him all the more dangerous. He has already borrowed money from you, has he not?”

“Why, yes--sometimes.”

“He will never pay you.”

“Do you think not?”

“I am sure of it. He will urge you to play.”

“Yes, he has often proposed it.”

“It is the most fatal of passions. He is a gambler and he has ruined himself. When a man has reached that point, he tries too often to ruin others; for an unlucky gambler is sometimes far from delicate in the methods to which he resorts to obtain money, in order to gratify his passion. Daréna has reached that point.”

“As you have so bad an opinion of Daréna, how does it happen that he is a friend of yours? Why did he come to Gagny with you?”

“Your question is perfectly just; but in society one accepts a man’s good qualities and does not concern oneself enough about his bad ones. Daréna bears an honorable name; he is able to behave most becomingly when he chooses; in fact, he has most agreeable and fascinating manners; and nobody asks for anything more in society. But, I tell you again, one should look for something more in a friend.”

“And the women, my dear Monfréville, the women--must I distrust them too? Ah! that would be a great pity, women are so pretty!”

“It’s different with women! As a general rule, men are too fickle to be exacting in the choice of their mistresses, and for that reason such liaisons are not at all dangerous. What does it matter that you are in love with a coquette, with a woman whose reputation is more than shady, with an actress who will make a fool of you? That love will soon be replaced by another, which, in its turn, will be as quickly forgotten! A man’s reputation has nothing to fear from all that; on the contrary, the more love-affairs you have, the more flattered the ladies will be to win your love; that fact says more for their self-esteem than for their hearts.”

“What do you say? to attract the women, one must deceive them?” cried Chérubin, gazing at Monfréville with an incredulous expression. “Do you mean that it is all the same to them whether we forget them and abandon them?”

Monfréville turned pale, his brow darkened, and he kept his eyes on the floor for a long while; not for some moments did he reply:

“There are women who never forgive inconstancy, but they are not ordinarily the ones who love you the best; for true love makes one indulgent. It forgives, provided that you return in all sincerity. I tell you, Chérubin, that the shrewdest man knows nothing about a woman’s heart. There has been much discussion of the subject, and no two persons ever agreed. Tertullian declares that the devil is not so spiteful as woman, and Confucius says that a woman’s soul is the masterwork of creation. Cato maintains that wisdom and virtue are incompatible with the female mind, and Tibullus that woman’s love brings us back to virtue. How are we to form an opinion about it?--But I believe that at this moment I am too much like your tutor, who overwhelms you with his learning. I conclude, my young friend, by informing you that the best way to be happy is to form no attachment. Love all women! Your life will glide along amid pleasures and folly. But if you love only one, you must expect much sorrow in exchange for a little happiness.”

“Love all women, you say! I ask nothing better! I fall in love with all I see--when they are pretty.”

“But I believe that you have not yet formed any liaison? I have not heard that you have any mistress!”

“No--you see--it seems to me that I shall never dare to tell a woman that I love her. A man must be very bold to say that, do you know?”

“Ha! ha! this is the result of a sojourn of sixteen years with your nurse. But you must cast off this timidity, which will be much more injurious than advantageous to you, especially with the fair sex. You are more than eighteen years old--you must make a start, show yourself in society. You must not serve your apprenticeship in love with grisettes or supernumeraries from the theatre. You will find something better than that. In the fashionable society to which I propose to introduce you, a thousand women will contend for your favor, and they will do you credit, at all events. Moreover, it is high time that you should know something besides the theatres, cafés and restaurants of Paris; the salons are where a man gets his training, and I will take you to those where refined manners are the rule. With your name you will be welcomed everywhere. This is the season for receptions; Madame Célival has resumed her assemblies, which are very brilliant affairs; the best people in Paris go there. I will introduce you to her house.”

Chérubin trembled at the idea of going into society; he was afraid of being awkward and clumsy, and of being unable to talk. But Monfréville encouraged him, promised to be his guide and to stay with him, and the young man consented to allow himself to be taken to Madame Célival’s reception.

The day arrived too quickly for Chérubin, who, having never attended any such function, was greatly excited at the mere thought of finding himself in the midst of a large company, exposed to everybody’s glances and remarks.

“What shall I say?”--That was always the result of Chérubin’s reflections; and, pending Monfréville’s arrival, he went to Monsieur Gérondif, to consult him as to what a young man may find to say when he makes his first appearance in society.

Monsieur Gérondif was learning some of La Fontaine’s poetry by heart, intending to recite it to Mademoiselle Turlurette as his own. The tutor was not enamored of the housekeeper; he considered her over-developed for him, and he had views elsewhere; but Mademoiselle Turlurette’s functions included the department of preserves, sweetmeats and liqueurs, and Monsieur Gérondif was very fond of all such dainties.

When he saw his pupil enter his room, the tutor was thunderstruck; it was the first time that Chérubin had paid him a visit since they had been in Paris. He imagined that he wished to resume his studies, and he said:

“Everything is ready, my noble pupil. I am always expecting you. I have prepared abstracts of history, mythology and geology for you. I am always at work in your service. At this moment, as you are taking lessons in _savate_, I am trying to find the origin of that form of exercise in Plutarch’s lives of illustrious men. I find the _cestus_, boxing and wrestling, but I haven’t yet found _savate_.”

“I thank you, Monsieur Gérondif,” replied Chérubin, “but that is not what I have come about. This evening Monsieur de Monfréville is to take me into society; he declares that it is necessary for me to go there, that I shall acquire refined manners there; he is probably right, and I have promised to let him take me. But what do people say at a fashionable reception? How should one behave? Do you talk with people whom you don’t know?--I thought that you could tell me that, you know so many things; for as yet I haven’t been anywhere except to the theatre and concerts, and to cafés; and I must confess that I am terribly afraid of cutting a foolish figure in company.”

“Foolish!” cried Gérondif; “that is impossible! You forget that you are my pupil; you are not equal to me in Horace and Virgil, but you know some passages--you must repeat them when you are talking with men. With the ladies, it is different; employ those figures of speech, those metaphors, which embellish discourse; compare them to Venus, Diana, Juno, Hebe, and you will certainly win a surprising triumph. But, if you wish me to go with you, I will stand behind you and prompt you.”

Chérubin did not consider it necessary to be attended in company by his tutor; he believed that Monfréville would keep his promise and would not leave him.

Monfréville called for his young friend at the hour appointed. He was dressed in the most perfect taste; his slender and shapely figure was encased in an exquisitely fitting coat, which he wore with much grace. His youthful bearing, his beautiful dark hair and his still charming face made him seem barely thirty years old, although he was near forty.

Chérubin, who was dressed in the latest style, still retained a trace of the awkwardness characteristic of village youths; but as he was well-built and had a most attractive face, the awkwardness of his carriage sometimes resembled the innocent coquetry of a schoolboy.

They entered the carriage, and Monfréville said:

“I am taking you into fashionable society, but, in order to dispel any feeling of shyness, that may injure your prospects, say to yourself first of all that you are of as good family as any of the people you will see there; say to yourself in the second place, that, thanks to your fortune and your rank, you need no support. When a person can say that to himself, my dear Chérubin, he should be perfectly self-possessed in society; indeed, some people are too much so. In default of the advantages which you have, and which everybody cannot have, a philosopher would say: ‘Why should I allow myself to be awed by this man’s title, or by that man’s fortune? Are they not men like myself, after all? Imagine all these vain, proud people in the costume of our first parents in the Garden of Eden; strip them of these decorations, these jewels, these costly clothes, in which their whole merit often consists,--will they be so imposing to me then? No, indeed; it is probable that they will make me laugh, and that is all.’--My dear fellow, a few such reflections are enough to put one entirely at his ease in the most exalted company.”

“You encourage me,” said Chérubin; “I shall talk Latin with the men, and with the ladies I shall talk about Venus, Diana and Phœbe. Monsieur Gérondif advised that.”

“If you want to make people laugh at you, that would be the best of all ways. I suspected that your tutor was a fool, now I am sure of it.”

“Mon Dieu! what shall I say then, if anyone speaks to me?”

“Reply to what they say.”

“But suppose I don’t know what to reply--suppose I can’t think of anything to say?”

“Keep silent then. A person is never stupid in society when he knows how to keep silent; indeed there are people who owe their reputation for wit to their silence.”

“But suppose I see any lovely women, who take my fancy?”

“Tell them so with your eyes; they will understand you perfectly.”

“But if I want to make their acquaintance, to pay court to them?”

“Say whatever comes into your head; but above all things don’t try to be bright, for you would make yourself a terrible bore.”

“But suppose nothing comes into my head?”

“You still have the resource of silence and eloquent glances; there are many people who stop there.”

“But this lady to whose house you are taking me?”

“True, I must tell you something about her. Madame Célival must be about thirty-six, but she is very good-looking; she is an alluring brunette; her eyes are most expressive, she has a lovely figure and graceful outlines; there is something fascinating, something voluptuous in her whole aspect, which seduces all the men. Madame Célival is a coquette, too, and is not supposed to be too cruel to those who sigh for her; but that is whispered only. She is her own mistress, however; she is the widow of a general, yes, a real general, who actually lived and left her a handsome fortune and no children. You may judge that the lovely widow does not lack adorers.--But, attention; here we are.”