A Distinguished Provincial at Paris. Honore de Balzac

A Distinguished Provincial at Paris - Honore de Balzac


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Terrassee des Feuillants. He had his day of triumph. He looked so handsome and so graceful, he was so well dressed, that women looked at him; two or three were so much struck with his beauty, that they turned their heads to look again. Lucien studied the gait and carriage of the young men on the Terrasse, and took a lesson in fine manners while he meditated on his three hundred and sixty francs.

      That evening, alone in his chamber, an idea occurred to him which threw a light on the problem of his existence at the Gaillard-Bois, where he lived on the plainest fare, thinking to economize in this way. He asked for his account, as if he meant to leave, and discovered that he was indebted to his landlord to the extent of a hundred francs. The next morning was spent in running around the Latin Quarter, recommended for its cheapness by David. For a long while he looked about till, finally, in the Rue de Cluny, close to the Sorbonne, he discovered a place where he could have a furnished room for such a price as he could afford to pay. He settled with his hostess of the Gaillard-Bois, and took up his quarters in the Rue de Cluny that same day. His removal only cost him the cab fare.

      When he had taken possession of his poor room, he made a packet of Mme. de Bargeton’s letters, laid them on the table, and sat down to write to her; but before he wrote he fell to thinking over that fatal week. He did not tell himself that he had been the first to be faithless; that for a sudden fancy he had been ready to leave his Louise without knowing what would become of her in Paris. He saw none of his own shortcomings, but he saw his present position, and blamed Mme. de Bargeton for it. She was to have lighted his way; instead she had ruined him. He grew indignant, he grew proud, he worked himself into a paroxysm of rage, and set himself to compose the following epistle:—

      “What would you think, madame, of a woman who should take a fancy

       to some poor and timid child full of the noble superstitions which

       the grown man calls ‘illusions;’ and using all the charms of

       woman’s coquetry, all her most delicate ingenuity, should feign a

       mother’s love to lead that child astray? Her fondest promises, the

       card-castles which raised his wonder, cost her nothing; she leads

       him on, tightens her hold upon him, sometimes coaxing, sometimes

       scolding him for his want of confidence, till the child leaves his

       home and follows her blindly to the shores of a vast sea. Smiling,

       she lures him into a frail skiff, and sends him forth alone and

       helpless to face the storm. Standing safe on the rock, she laughs

       and wishes him luck. You are that woman; I am that child.

       “The child has a keepsake in his hands, something which might

       betray the wrongs done by your beneficence, your kindness in

       deserting him. You might have to blush if you saw him struggling

       for life, and chanced to recollect that once you clasped him to

       your breast. When you read these words the keepsake will be in

       your own safe keeping; you are free to forget everything.

       “Once you pointed out fair hopes to me in the skies, I awake to

       find reality in the squalid poverty of Paris. While you pass, and

       others bow before you, on your brilliant path in the great world,

       I, I whom you deserted on the threshold, shall be shivering in the

       wretched garret to which you consigned me. Yet some pang may

       perhaps trouble your mind amid festivals and pleasures; you may

       think sometimes of the child whom you thrust into the depths. If

       so, madame, think of him without remorse. Out of the depths of his

       misery the child offers you the one thing left to him—his

       forgiveness in a last look. Yes, madame, thanks to you, I have

       nothing left. Nothing! was not the world created from nothing?

       Genius should follow the Divine example; I begin with God-like

       forgiveness, but as yet I know not whether I possess the God-like

       power. You need only tremble lest I should go astray; for you

       would be answerable for my sins. Alas! I pity you, for you will

       have no part in the future towards which I go, with work as my

       guide.”

      After penning this rhetorical effusion, full of the sombre dignity which an artist of one-and-twenty is rather apt to overdo, Lucien’s thoughts went back to them at home. He saw the pretty rooms which David had furnished for him, at the cost of part of his little store, and a vision rose before him of quiet, simple pleasures in the past. Shadowy figures came about him; he saw his mother and Eve and David, and heard their sobs over his leave-taking, and at that he began to cry himself, for he felt very lonely in Paris, and friendless and forlorn.

      Two or three days later he wrote to his sister:—

      “MY DEAR EVE—When a sister shares the life of a brother who

       devotes himself to art, it is her sad privilege to take more

       sorrow than joy into her life; and I am beginning to fear that I

       shall be a great trouble to you. Have I not abused your goodness

       already? have not all of you sacrificed yourselves to me? It is

       the memory of the past, so full of family happiness, that helps me

       to bear up in my present loneliness. Now that I have tasted the

       first beginnings of poverty and the treachery of the world of

       Paris, how my thoughts have flown to you, swift as an eagle back

       to its eyrie, so that I might be with true affection again. Did

       you see sparks in the candle? Did a coal pop out of the fire? Did

       you hear singing in your ears? And did mother say, ‘Lucien is

       thinking of us,’ and David answer, ‘He is fighting his way in the

       world?’

       “My Eve, I am writing this letter for your eyes only. I cannot

       tell any one else all that has happened to me, good and bad,

       blushing for both, as I write, for good here is as rare as evil

       ought to be. You shall have a great piece of news in a very few

       words. Mme. de Bargeton was ashamed of me, disowned me, would not

       see me, and gave me up nine days after we came to Paris. She saw

       me in the street and looked another way; when, simply to follow

       her into the society to which she meant to introduce me, I had

       spent seventeen hundred and sixty francs out of the two thousand I

       brought from Angouleme, the money so hardly scraped together. ‘How

       did you spend it?’ you will ask. Paris is a strange bottomless

       gulf, my poor sister; you can dine here for less than a franc, yet

       the simplest dinner at a fashionable restaurant costs fifty

       francs; there are waistcoats and trousers to be had for four

       francs and two francs each; but a fashionable tailor never charges

       less than a hundred francs. You pay for everything; you pay a

       halfpenny to cross the kennel in the street when it rains; you

       cannot go the least little way in a cab for less than thirty-two

       sous.

       “I have been staying in one of the best parts


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