Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) (39 page)

‘So you believe Florine will be able to persuade her druggist to make the deal?’ asked Lucien, his brain in a whirl.

‘I certainly think so… Here’s the interval. I’m going to say a word or two to her, and it will be settled tonight. Once I’ve primed her, Florine will have all my wit at her command, as well as her own.’

‘And this honest merchant is sitting there, gaping, admiring Florine without suspecting that he’s going to be stung for thirty thousand francs…!’

‘There you go again, more stupidity!’ exclaimed Lousteau. ‘One would think he was being robbed! Why, my dear man, if the Government buys the newspaper, in six months the druggist stands to get fifty thousand francs in return for his thirty thousand francs. Besides, Matifat won’t worry about the paper, but only about Florine’s interests. Once people know that Matifat and Camusot (for they’ll go in together) are owners of a review, there’ll be benevolent articles for Florine and Coralie in every paper. Florine will become
famous and will perhaps get an engagement worth twelve thousand francs in another theatre. Lastly, Matifat will save on the thousand francs a month that presents and dinners to the journalists would cost him. You don’t understand either people or business matters.’

‘Poor man!’ said Lucien. ‘He’s looking forward to a pleasant night.’

‘What’s more,’ continued Lousteau, ‘he’ll be pestered with innumerable arguments until he’s shown Florine a receipt for the sixth share bought from Finot. As for me, the day after, I shall be an editor earning a thousand francs a month. And that will be the end of all my troubles!’ cried Florine’s lover.

Lousteau went out, leaving Lucien dumbfounded, lost in deep thought as his mind flitted over the world as it is. Now that he had visited the Wooden Galleries and seen how publishers pull their strings and how literary reputations are concocted, the poet perceived the reverse side of the human conscience, the play of wheels within wheels in Parisian life, the machinery behind it all. He had been envying Lousteau for his good luck as he admired Florine’s acting. For a few moments he had already forgotten Matifat. He stayed where he was for an indeterminate time, perhaps five minutes – but it seemed like eternity to him. His mind was aflame with perfervid thoughts and his senses caught fire at the sight of the actresses with their wanton eyes embellished with mascara, their gleaming necks, their provocatively short skirts sensually flounced, their legs displayed in red stockings with green clocks, in fact so hosed and shod as to throw any pit into a flutter. Two sorts of corruption were advancing towards him in parallel motion like twin sheets of water uniting to form a flood. They swirled over the poet as he sat reclining in his corner of the box, his arm resting on the red velvet of the rail, his hand hanging limp, his eyes glued to the curtain, feeling so much more vulnerable to the enchantments this kind of life offered with its alternations of lightning flashes and clouds because it was as dazzling as a firework display after the profound darkness of his own laborious, inglorious, monotonous existence.

This enthusiastic playgoer was a worthy, thickset, stout vendor of silk-stuffs in the rue des Bourdonnais, a judge in the Tribunal of Commerce, the father of four children, married for the second time and blessed with an income of eighty thousand francs, but fifty-six years old, wearing what looked like a thatch of grey hair and having the smug air of a man who is making the most of his remaining years and, after pocketing the thousand and one affronts of a commercial career, has no intention of taking leave of the world before he has enjoyed his full share of this life’s pleasures. His forehead, which was the colour of butter fresh from the churn, and his monkish, florid cheeks did not seem broad enough to contain the beaming jubilation they expressed. Camusot’s wife was not with him, and he intended to applaud Coralie vociferously. The many vanities of this rich bourgeois were summed up in Coralie, whom he patronized with all the lordliness of an eighteenth-century nobleman. At that moment he believed himself to be half responsible for Coralie’s success, and he believed this all the more readily because he had paid for it. To give him countenance, he had his father-in-law beside him, a little old man with powdered hair and libidinous glance but none the less very respectable. Lucien’s gorge rose once more, and he remembered the pure, idealistic love he had felt for Madame de Bargeton for a whole year. Love as poets conceive it immediately spread its white wings: innumerable memories, with their hazy blue contours, enveloped the great man of Angoulême and he sank back into reveries. The curtain rose. Coralie and Florine were on the stage.

‘My dear, he’s no more thinking of you than of the Grand Turk,’ Florine whispered while Coralie was replying to a cue.

Lucien could not help laughing, and he gazed at Coralie. This girl, one of the most charming and delightful actresses in Paris, a rival of Madame Perrin and Mademoiselle Fleuriet whom she resembled and whose fate she was to share, was the type of woman who at will can exercise her powers of fascination upon men. Her face was of the perfect Jewish type: long, oval, of a light ivory tint, with a garnet-red mouth and a chin as delicately turned as the brim of a cup. Eyelids and curving lashes masked the gleam of jet-black pupils, and beneath them one divined a languorous gaze, aglint on occasion with the fire of oriental passion. Olive shadows circled her eyes; she had full and gracefully arched eyebrows. Her dusky forehead, with its divided crown of ebony hair, so glossy that it caught the sheen of the lights, suggested a generosity of thought which might have betokened genius. But like many actresses Coralie was without intelligence, although she could bandy ironic repartee in the wings, and she had no education despite her knowledge of boudoir life: all she had was the wit which the senses confer and the good nature of a woman amorously inclined. In any case, what did the moral side of things matter when men’s eyes were dazzled by her smooth, round arms, her tapering fingers, the golden tint of her shoulders, such breasts as are sung of in the Song of Solomon, her neck with its rippling curves and her adorably shaped legs clad in red silk? This loveliness, truly poetic in its oriental charm, was set off by the conventional Spanish costume worn in the theatres. Coralie was the joy of the audience: all eyes were spanning her waist in its close-fitting basquine, caressing her Andalusian curves and the sensual undulations their movement transmitted to her skirt. The moment came when Lucien, as he saw that this creature was acting for him alone, feeling henceforth no more concerned with Camusot than an urchin in the gallery is concerned with his apple-peel, placed sensual love above pure love, enjoyment above desire, while the demon of lust whispered shocking thoughts in his ear.

‘I know nothing,’ he toldhimself, ‘of the love which wallows in good cheer, wine and material joys. So far I have lived on ideals rather than realities. A man who wants to depict life must know all about it. This will be my first grand supper-party, my first orgy in unusual company: why should I not for once savour the much-vaunted delights into which the nobles of the last century flung themselves by living with wantons? Even if only to lift them on to the plane of true love, must I not experience the joys, ecstasies, transports, refinements and subtleties which the love of courtesans and actresses can offer? Is not this, after all, the poetry of the senses? Two months ago I looked on these women as divinities guarded by dragons one dared not approach. Here is one of greater beauty even than Florine, on whose account I was envying Lousteau. Why not take advantage of her whim, when the greatest lords pour out stores of wealth to buy one night with such women? When foreign ambassadors set foot in this underworld they think neither of yesterday nor tomorrow. What an idiot I should be to be more fastidious than princes, particularly since I’m not yet in love with anyone!’

By now Lucien had forgotten Camusot. After showing Lousteau the deep disgust he felt for this most odious sharing of women, he was falling into the same pit and was immersed in lustful desire, carried away by the sophistry of passion.

‘Coralie has lost her heart to you,’ said Lousteau as he came back. ‘Your beauty, as rare as that of the most famous Greek sculptures, is doing unheard-of damage in the wings. You’re in luck, my boy. Coralie is eighteen, and in a few days’ time her beauty may bring her sixty thousand francs a year. She’s still quite a good girl. Her mother sold her three years ago for sixty thousand francs, and so far she has reaped nothing but disappointment and is searching for happiness. She took to the theatre out of despair, for she loathed de Marsay, the man who bought her originally; and when she came out of the galleys – our prince of dandies soon dropped her – she happened upon the worthy Camusot. She doesn’t lose any sleep over him, but since he’s like a father to her she puts
up with him and lets herself be loved. She has already turned down the most lucrative propositions and sticks to Camusot because he doesn’t pester her. So you are her first love. Oh! one look at you was like a bullet in her heart, and Florine went to reason with her in her dressing-room where she’s in tears because of your indifference. The play will be a failure. Coralie is forgetting her lines, so it’s good-bye to the engagement Camusot was getting for her at the Gymnase.’

‘Really?… Poor girl!’ said Lucien, altogether flattered in his vanity at these words and feeling his heart swelling with self-satisfaction. ‘My friend, more things are happening to me in one evening than ever did in the first eighteen years of my life.’

And Lucien told him of his love affair with Madame de Bargeton and his hatred for Baron Châtelet.

‘Why now, our paper’s short of an Aunt Sally, we’ll stick our claws in him. This baron’s an Empire beau and he sides with the Government. He’ll suit us down to the ground. I’ve often seen him at the Opera-House. I can see your great lady from here: she’s often in the Marquise d’Espard’s box. The Baron’s courting your ex-mistress, who reminds me of a cuttle-bone. Wait a minute! Finot has just sent me an urgent note telling me that the paper is short of copy: that’s a trick played on him by one of our contributors, a nasty little man, Hector Merlin, because he’s had his blank space cut down. In despair, Finot is knocking up an article against the Opera. Well then, my boy, write a review for this play: listen to it, ponder over it. As for me, I’m going to the editor’s office to think up three columns on your man and your disdainful beauty. She won’t feel much inclined for merrymaking in the morning.’

‘So that’s how and where your paper is made up?’

‘That’s how – always,’ Lousteau replied. ‘I’ve been on it for ten months, and it’s always short of copy at eight o’clock in the evening.’

In typographers’ slang, they call ‘copy’ the manuscript to be set up, doubtless because the writers are supposed only to send a copy of what they have written. Perhaps also it may be
an ironical rendering of the Latin word
copia
(abundance), for copy is never abundant.

‘The great scheme which will never come off,’ Lousteau continued, ‘is to have a few numbers ready in advance. It’s ten o’clock, and not a line is written. In order to give the number a brilliant finish, I’m going to tell Vernou and Nathan to lend us a score of epigrams on the deputies, Chancellor Cruzoé,
¹
the Ministers and, if need be, our own friends. In such straits one is ready to murder one’s father, one is like a corsair who loads his cannon with his prize money in order to stay alive. Make your article witty and you’ll have done a lot to get into Finot’s good books: he shows gratitude as a matter of calculation. His acquaintance is the best and soundest you can make – apart from the pawnbrokers of course.’

‘But what sort of men are you journalists?’ exclaimed Lucien. ‘You mean one has to sit down at a table and pour out wit…?’

‘Yes, it’s absolutely like lighting a lamp: you burn it till there’s no oil left.’

Just as Lousteau was opening the door of the box, the manager and and Du Bruel came in.

‘Monsieur,’ said the author of the play to Lucien. ‘Allow me to tell Coralie on your behalf that you will go off with her after supper, or my play will fail. The poor girl doesn’t know what she’s saying or what she’s doing; she’ll be laughing when she should be crying and
vice versa.
There’s already been some hissing. You might still save the play. In any case the pleasure which awaits you is no misfortune.’

‘Monsieur, it’s not my habit to tolerate rivals,’ Lucien answered.

‘Don’t repeat that remark to Coralie,’ cried the manager with a glance at Du Bruel. ‘Coralie’s the sort of girl to fling Camusot out through the window and would well and truly
ruin herself. The worthy proprietor of the Golden Cocoon allows Coralie two thousand francs a month and pays for all her dresses and
claqueurs
.’

‘Since your promise would in no way bind me,’ said Lucien with the air of an oriental potentate, ‘carry on: save your play.’

‘But don’t give the impression of snubbing this charming girl,’ said Du Bruel in supplicating tones.

‘Very well then,’ cried the poet. ‘I see I must write the review of your play and smile on your leading lady. So be it!’

The author vanished after beckoning to Coralie, who from that moment acted with wonderful verve. Bouffé, who was playing the role of an elderly alcalde and for the first time revealing his talent for making up as an old man, came in front amidst a thunder of applause and said: ‘Gentlemen, the play we have had the honour to perform is by Monsieur Raoul Nathan and Monsieur de Cursy.’
¹

‘Well well!’ said Lousteau. ‘Nathan has had a hand in it. I’m no longer surprised he’s here.’

The pit had risen to its feet. ‘Coralie! Coralie’ they all shouted.

From the box containing the two merchants a voice thundered out: ‘And Florine!’

‘Florine and Coralie!’ a few voices repeated in response.

The curtain rose once more and Bouffé reappeared with the two actresses, to each of whom Matifat and Camusot threw a bouquet. Coralie picked up hers and held it out towards Lucien. The two hours he had spent in the theatre had been like a dream to him. His visit to the wings, horrible as they were, had begun the weaving of the spell. In them the innocent poet had caught the first whiff of disorderly and voluptuous life. In these dirty corridors encumbered with stage machinery and reeking with oil-lamps reigns a pestilence which destroys the soul. In them life has no longer anything sacred or real. Serious things are laughed at and impossible things seem true. This acted on Lucien like a narcotic, and Coralie completed the process by plunging him into a sort of joyful intoxication. The chandelier was put out. By then the
auditorium was empty save for the box-openers who were making an inordinate clatter as they removed the small benches and shut up the boxes. From the footlights, which had been snuffed out like a single candle, emanated a noisome odour. The curtain was raised. A lantern was let down from the flies. The firemen and theatre hands started their round. The magic of the scenery, the spectacle of pretty women filling the boxes, the blazing lights, the resplendent enchantment of back-cloths and new costumes gave place to coldness, desolation, darkness, emptiness. Everything looked hideous. Lucien’s surprise was indescribable.

‘Well well, are you coming, my boy?’ said Lousteau from the stage. ‘Jump up here from the box.’

Lucien reached the stage with one bound. He scarcely recognized Florine and Coralie in their undress, muffled up in their cloaks and coarse wraps, wearing hats with black veils, looking in short like butterflies which have reverted to the larval state.

‘Will you do me the honour of giving me your arm?’ Coralie asked in a tremble.

‘Willingly,’ Lucien replied. He did so, and felt her feeling the actress’s heart beating against his like that of a bird.

The actress pressed close to the poet with the soft and ardent voluptuousness of a cat rubbing against her master’s leg.

‘So we are going to have supper together!’ she said to him.

The four of them left the theatre and found two cabs waiting at the stage door opening on to the rue des Fossés-du-Temple. Coralie showed Lucien into the one in which Camusot and his father-in-law, the worthy Cardot, were already seated. Coralie offered the fourth seat to Du Bruel. The stage manager went off with Florine, Matifat and Lousteau.

‘These cabs are frightful!’ said Coralie.

‘Why do you have no carriage?’ asked Du Bruel.

‘Why?’ she cried bad-temperedly. ‘I don’t want to say why in front of Monsieur Cardot who has no doubt trained his son-in-law. Could you believe that, shrivelled and old as he is, Monsieur Cardot gives Florentine no more than five hundred francs a month – just enough to pay for her rent, her
bread-and-butter and her footwear. The old Marquis de Rochegude, who has an income of six hundred thousand francs, has been offering me a coupé for the last two months. But I’m an artiste and not a street-girl.’

‘You shall have your carriage the day after tomorrow, Mademoiselle,’ said Camusot solemnly. ‘But you never asked me for one.’