Amidst this gay assembly, the lovers found their only joy in a long draught of the delicious sensations arising from the words, the voice, the gestures, and the bearing of the loved one. The soul clings desperately to such trifles. At times the eyes of both will converge upon the same spot, embedding there, as it were, a thought of which they thus risk the interchange. They talk, and longing looks follow the peeping foot, the quivering hand, the fingers which toy with some ornament, flicking it, twisting it about, then dropping it, in significant fashion. It is no longer words or thoughts which make themselves heard, it is things; and that in so clear a voice, that often the man who loves will leave to others the task of handing a cup of tea, a sugar-basin, or whatnot, to his ladylove, in dread lest his agitation should be visible to eyes which, apparently seeing nothing, see all. Thronging desires, mad wishes, passionate thoughts, find their way into a glance and die out there. The pressure of a hand, eluding a thousand Argus eyes, is eloquent as written pages, burning as a kiss. Love grows by all that it denies itself; it treads on obstacles to reach the higher. And barriers, more often cursed than cleared, are hacked and cast into the fire to feed its flames. Here it is that women see the measure of their power, when love, that is boundless, coils up and hides itself within a thirsty glance, a nervous thrill, behind the screen of formal civility. How often has not a single word, on the last step of a staircase, paid the price of an evening’s silent agony and empty talk!
Raoul, careless of social forms, gave rein to his anger in brilliant oratory. Everybody present could hear the lion’s roar, and recognized the artist’s nature, intolerant of disappointment. This Orlando-like rage, this cutting and slashing wit, this laying on of epigrams as with a club, enraptured Marie and amused the onlookers, much as the spectacle of a maddened bull, covered with streamers, in a Spanish amphitheatre, might have done.
“Hit out as much as you like, you can’t clear the ring,” Blondet said to him.
This sarcasm restored to Raoul his presence of mind; he ceased making an exhibition of himself and his vexation. The Marchioness came to offer him a cup of tea, and said, loud enough for Marie to hear:
“You are really very amusing; come and see me sometimes at four o’clock.”
Raoul took offence at the word “amusing,” although it had served as passport to the invitation. He began to give ear, as actors do, when they are attending to the house and not to the stage. Blondet took pity on him.
“My dear fellow,” he said, drawing him aside into a corner, “you behave in polite society exactly as you might at Florine’s. Here nobody flies into a passion, nobody lectures; from time to time a smart thing may be said, and you must look most impassive at the very moment when you long to throw someone out of the window; a gentle raillery is allowed, and some show of attention to the lady you adore, but you can’t lie down and kick like a donkey in the middle of the road. Here, my good soul, love proceeds by rule. Either carry off Mme. de Vandenesse or behave like a gentleman. You are too much the lover of one of your own romances.”
Nathan listened with hanging head; he was a wild beast caught in the toils.
“I shall never set foot here again,” said he. “This papier-mâché Marchioness puts too high a price upon her tea. She thinks me amusing, does she? Now I know why St. Just guillotined all these people.”
“You’ll come back tomorrow.”
Blondet was right. Passion is as cowardly as it is cruel. The next day, after fluctuating long between “I’ll go” and “I won’t go,” Raoul left his partners in the middle of an important discussion to hasten to the Faubourg St. Honoré and Mme. d’Espard’s house. The sight of Rastignac’s elegant cabriolet driving up as he was paying his cabman at the door hurt Nathan’s vanity; he too would have such a cabriolet, he resolved, and the correct tiger. The carriage of the Countess was in the court, and Raoul’s heart swelled with joy as he perceived it. Marie’s movements responded to her longings with the regularity of a clock-hand propelled by its spring. She was reclining in an armchair by the fireplace in the small drawing-room. Instead of looking at Nathan as he entered, she gazed at his reflection in the mirror, feeling sure that the mistress of the house would turn to him. Love, baited by society, is forced to have recourse to these little tricks; it endows with life mirrors, muffs, fans, and numberless objects, the purpose of which is not clear at first sight, and is indeed never found out by many of the women who use them.
“The Prime Minister,” said Mme. d’Espard, with a glance at de Marsay, as she drew Nathan into the conversation, “was just declaring, when you came in, that there is an understanding between the Royalists and Republicans. What do you say? You ought to know something about it.”
“Supposing it were so, where would be the harm?” said Raoul. “The object of our animosity is the same; we agree in our hatred, and differ only in what we love.”
“The alliance is at least singular,” said de Marsay, with a glance which embraced Raoul and the Comtesse Félix.
“It will not last,” said Rastignac, who, like all novices, took his politics a little too seriously.
“What do you say, darling?” asked Mme. d’Espard of the Countess.
“I! oh! I know nothing about politics.”
“You will learn, madame,” said de Marsay, “and then you will be doubly our enemy.”
Neither Nathan
