The Collected Works of Honore de Balzac. The griffin classics
cast a glance of examination on Oscar and his mother, but did not recognize them.
Oscar’s skin was now bronzed by the sun of Africa; his moustache was very thick and his whiskers ample; the hollows in his cheeks and his strongly marked features were in keeping with his military bearing. The rosette of an officer of the Legion of honor, his missing arm, the strict propriety of his dress, would all have diverted Georges recollections of his former victim if he had had any. As for Madame Clapart, whom Georges had scarcely seen, ten years devoted to the exercise of the most severe piety had transformed her. No one would ever have imagined that that gray sister concealed the Aspasia of 1797.
An enormous old man, very simply dressed, though his clothes were good and substantial, in whom Oscar recognized Pere Leger, here came slowly and heavily along. He nodded familiarly to Pierrotin, who appeared by his manner to pay him the respect due in all lands to millionaires.
“Ha! ha! why, here’s Pere Leger! more and more preponderant!” cried Georges.
“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” asked old Leger, curtly.
“What! you don’t recognize Colonel Georges, the friend of Ali pacha? We travelled together once upon a time, in company with the Comte de Serizy.”
One of the habitual follies of those who have fallen in the world is to recognize and desire the recognition of others.
“You are much changed,” said the ex-farmer, now twice a millionaire.
“All things change,” said Georges. “Look at the Lion d’Argent and Pierrotin’s coach; they are not a bit like what they were fourteen years ago.”
“Pierrotin now controls the whole service of the Valley of the Oise,” replied Monsieur Leger, “and sends out five coaches. He is the bourgeois of Beaumont, where he keeps a hotel, at which all the diligences stop, and he has a wife and daughter who are not a bad help to him.”
An old man of seventy here came out of the hotel and joined the group of travellers who were waiting to get into the coach.
“Come along, Papa Reybert,” said Leger, “we are only waiting now for your great man.”
“Here he comes,” said the steward of Presles, pointing to Joseph Bridau.
Neither Georges nor Oscar recognized the illustrious artist, for his face had the worn and haggard lines that were now famous, and his bearing was that which is given by success. The ribbon of the Legion of honor adorned his black coat, and the rest of his dress, which was extremely elegant, seemed to denote an expedition to some rural fete.
At this moment a clerk, with a paper in his hand, came out of the office (which was now in the former kitchen of the Lion d’Argent), and stood before the empty coupe.
“Monsieur and Madame de Canalis, three places,” he said. Then, moving to the door of the interieur, he named, consecutively, “Monsieur Bellejambe, two places; Monsieur de Reybert, three places; Monsieur — your name, if you please?” he said to Georges.
“Georges Marest,” said the fallen man, in a low voice.
The clerk then moved to the rotunde, before which were grouped a number of nurses, country-people, and petty shopkeepers, who were bidding each other adieu. Then, after bundling in the six passengers, he called to four young men who mounted to the imperial; after which he cried: “Start!” Pierrotin got up beside his driver, a young man in a blouse, who called out: “Pull!” to his animals, and the vehicle, drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg Saint-Denis at a slow trot.
But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through the valley of Montmorency.
It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.
“We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere Leger?” he said, pulling out a silver watch.
“Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger,” said the millionaire.
“Why, here’s our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles,” cried Joseph Bridau. “Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or America?”
“Sacrebleu! I’ve made the revolution of July, and that’s enough for me, for it ruined me.”
“Ah! you made the revolution of July!” cried the painter, laughing. “Well, I always said it never made itself.”
“How people meet again!” said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de Reybert. “This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles.”
“We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,” said Joseph Bridau, “and the little young man who was stupid enough to talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace.”
“And the count himself, you lack him,” said old Reybert.
“I’m afraid,” said Joseph Bridau, sadly, “that the last journey the count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present at my marriage.”
“He still drives about the park,” said Reybert.
“Does his wife come to see him?” asked Leger.
“Once a month,” replied Reybert. “She is never happy out of Paris. Last September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom, since the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very rich young Pole, the Comte Laginski.”
“To whom,” asked Madame Clapart, “will Monsieur de Serizy’s property go?”
“To his wife, who will bury him,” replied Georges. “The countess is still fine-looking for a woman of fifty-four years of age. She is very elegant, and, at a little distance, gives one the illusion — ”
“She will always be an illusion to you,” said Leger, who seemed inclined to revenge himself on his former hoaxer.
“I respect her,” said Georges. “But, by the bye, what became of that steward whom the count turned off?”
“Moreau?” said Leger; “why, he’s the deputy from the Oise.”
“Ha! the famous Centre man; Moreau de l’Oise?” cried Georges.
“Yes,” returned Leger, “Moreau de l’Oise. He did more than you for the revolution of July, and he has since then bought the beautiful estate of Pointel, between Presles and Beaumont.”
“Next to the count’s,” said Georges. “I call that very bad taste.”
“Don’t speak so loud,” said Monsieur de Reybert, “for Madame Moreau and her daughter, the Baronne de Canalis, and the Baron himself, the former minister, are in the coupe.”
“What ‘dot’ could he have given his daughter to induce our great orator to marry her?” said Georges.
“Something like two millions,” replied old Leger.
“He always had a taste for millions,” remarked Georges. “He began his pile surreptitiously at Presles — ”
“Say nothing against Monsieur Moreau,” cried Oscar, hastily. “You ought to have learned before now to hold your tongue in public conveyances.”
Joseph Bridau looked at the one-armed officer for several seconds; then he said, smiling: —
“Monsieur is not an ambassador, but his rosette tells us he has made his way nobly; my brother and General Giroudeau have repeatedly named him in their reports.”
“Oscar Husson!” cried Georges. “Faith! if it hadn’t been for your voice I should never have known you.”