Yonder was a youth toying with a cane exquisitely mounted;there,another with dainty gold studs in his wristbands.Yet another was twisting a charming riding-whip while he talked with a woman;there were specks of mud on the ample folds of his white trousers,he wore clanking spurs and a tight-fitting jacket,evidently he was about to mount one of the two horses held by a hop-o'-my-thumb of a tiger.Ayoung man who went past drew a watch no thicker than a five-franc piece from his pocket,and looked at it with the air of a person who is either too early or too late for an appointment.
Lucien,seeing these petty trifles,hitherto unimagined,became aware of a whole world of indispensable superfluities,and shuddered to think of the enormous capital needed by a professional pretty fellow!
The more he admired these gay and careless beings,the more conscious he grew of his own outlandishness;he knew that he looked like a man who has no idea of the direction of the streets,who stands close to the Palais Royal and cannot find it,and asks his way to the Louvre of a passer-by,who tells him,"Here you are."Lucien saw a great gulf fixed between him and this new world,and asked himself how he might cross over,for he meant to be one of these delicate,slim youths of Paris,these young patricians who bowed before women divinely dressed and divinely fair.For one kiss from one of these,Lucien was ready to be cut in pieces like Count Philip of Konigsmark.Louise's face rose up somewhere in the shadowy background of memory--compared with these queens,she looked like an old woman.He saw women whose names will appear in the history of the nineteenth century,women no less famous than the queens of past times for their wit,their beauty,or their lovers;one who passed was the heroine Mlle.des Touches,so well known as Camille Maupin,the great woman of letters,great by her intellect,great no less by her beauty.He overheard the name pronounced by those who went by.
"Ah!"he thought to himself,"she is Poetry."What was Mme.de Bargeton in comparison with this angel in all the glory of youth,and hope,and promise of the future,with that sweet smile of hers,and the great dark eyes with all heaven in them,and the glowing light of the sun?She was laughing and chatting with Mme.
Firmiani,one of the most charming women in Paris.A voice indeed cried,"Intellect is the lever by which to move the world,"but another voice cried no less loudly that money was the fulcrum.
He would not stay any longer on the scene of his collapse and defeat,and went towards the Palais Royal.He did not know the topography of his quarter yet,and was obliged to ask his way.Then he went to Very's and ordered dinner by way of an initiation into the pleasures of Paris,and a solace for his discouragement.A bottle of Bordeaux,oysters from Ostend,a dish of fish,a partridge,a dish of macaroni and dessert,--this was the ne plus ultra of his desire.He enjoyed this little debauch,studying the while how to give the Marquise d'Espard proof of his wit,and redeem the shabbiness of his grotesque accoutrements by the display of intellectual riches.The total of the bill drew him down from these dreams,and left him the poorer by fifty of the francs which were to have gone such a long way in Paris.He could have lived in Angouleme for a month on the price of that dinner.
Wherefore he closed the door of the palace with awe,thinking as he did so that he should never set foot in it again.
"Eve was right,"he said to himself,as he went back under the stone arcading for some more money."There is a difference between Paris prices and prices in L'Houmeau."He gazed in at the tailors'windows on the way,and thought of the costumes in the Garden of the Tuileries.
"No,"he exclaimed,"I will NOT appear before Mme.d'Espard dressed out as I am."He fled to his inn,fleet as a stag,rushed up to his room,took out a hundred crowns,and went down again to the Palais Royal,where his future elegance lay scattered over half a score of shops.The first tailor whose door he entered tried as many coats upon him as he would consent to put on,and persuaded his customer that all were in the very latest fashion.Lucien came out the owner of a green coat,a pair of white trousers,and a "fancy waistcoat,"for which outfit he gave two hundred francs.Ere long he found a very elegant pair of ready-made shoes that fitted his foot;and,finally,when he had made all necessary purchases,he ordered the tradespeople to send them to his address,and inquired for a hairdresser.At seven o'clock that evening he called a cab and drove away to the Opera,curled like a Saint John of a Procession Day,elegantly waistcoated and gloved,but feeling a little awkward in this kind of sheath in which he found himself for the first time.
In obedience to Mme.de Bargeton's instructions,he asked for the box reserved for the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.The man at the box office looked at him,and beholding Lucien in all the grandeur assumed for the occasion,in which he looked like a best man at a wedding,asked Lucien for his order.
"I have no order."
"Then you cannot go in,"said the man at the box office drily.
"But I belong to Mme.d'Espard's party."
"It is not our business to know that,"said the man,who could not help exchanging a barely perceptible smile with his colleague.
A carriage stopped under the peristyle as he spoke.A chasseur,in a livery which Lucien did not recognize,let down the step,and two women in evening dress came out of the brougham.Lucien had no mind to lay himself open to an insolent order to get out of the way from the official.He stepped aside to let the two ladies pass.
"Why,that lady is the Marquise d'Espard,whom you say you know,sir,"said the man ironically.
Lucien was so much the more confounded because Mme.de Bargeton did not seem to recognize him in his new plumage;but when he stepped up to her,she smiled at him and said:
"This has fallen out wonderfully--come!"
