“How can one suspect a friend?” he said, when now and again Blondet would give utterance to doubts, which were natural to his analytic turn of mind.
“But we have no need to fear our enemies,” said Florine.
Nathan stood up for du Tillet. Du Tillet was the best, most good-natured, and most honorable of men.
This life upon the tightrope, without even a steadying-pole, which might have appalled a mere onlooker who had grasped its meaning, was watched by du Tillet with the stoicism and hard-heartedness of a parvenu. At times a fierce irony broke through the genial cordiality of his manner with Nathan. One day he pressed his hand as he was leaving Florine’s, and watched him get into his cabriolet.
“There goes our dandy off to the Bois in tiptop style,” he said to Lousteau, the very incarnation of envy, “and in six months he may be laid by the heels in Clichy.”
“Not he!” exclaimed Lousteau; “think of Florine.”
“And how do you know, my good fellow, that he’ll keep Florine? I tell you, you’re worth a thousand of him, and I expect six months will see you in the editorial chair.”
In October the bills fell due, and du Tillet graciously renewed them, but this time for two months only, and the amount was increased by the discount and by a new loan. Confident of victory, Raoul drained his till. An overmastering desire to see him was bringing the Countess back to town a month earlier than usual—within a few days in fact—and it would not do to be crippled for lack of funds when the moment had come for entering the field again.
The pen is always bolder than the tongue, and the letters she received had raised the Comtesse de Vandenesse to the highest pitch of excitement. Thoughts clothed in the flowers of rhetoric can express so much without meeting a repulse. She saw in Raoul one of the finest intellects of the day, a delicately-strung and unappreciated heart, which in its unstained purity was worthy of adoration. She watched him put forth a bold hand upon the citadel of power. Ere long that voice, so tuneful in love, would thunder from the tribune. Marie was not entirely absorbed in that life of intersecting circles, which resemble the orbits of the planets, and revolve round the sun of society as their centre. Finding no flavor in the calm pleasures of home, she received the shock of every agitation in this whirling life, brought home to her by the pen of a literary artist and a lover. She showered kisses on letters which had been written in the thick of press combats, or purloined from hours of study. She realized now what they had cost and was well assured of being his only love, with no rivals but glory and ambition. Even in the depths of her solitude she found occupation for all her powers, and could dwell with satisfaction upon the choice of her heart. There was no one like Nathan.
Fortunately, her withdrawal into the country and the barriers thus placed between her and Raoul had silenced ill-natured gossip. During the last days of autumn, therefore, Marie and Raoul were able once more to begin their walks in the Bois de Boulogne, their only meeting-place until the season opened. Raoul had now a little more leisure to enjoy the exquisite delights of his ideal life, and also to practise concealment with Florine; his work at the office had ceased to be so hard since things were well in train there and each member of the staff understood his duty. Involuntarily he made comparisons which, though always favorable to Florine, did the Countess no injury. Exhausted once more by the various shifts to which his passion, alike of the head and of the heart, for a woman of fashion impelled him, Raoul put forth superhuman energy in the effort to appear simultaneously on three different stages—society, the office, and the greenroom. While Florine, always grateful and taking almost a partner’s share in his work and difficulties, appeared and vanished as required, and showered on him a wealth of substantial and unpretentious happiness, which called forth no remorse, the unapproachable Countess, with her hungry eyes, had already forgotten his stupendous labors and the trouble it often cost him to get a passing glimpse of her. Florine, far from trying to impose her will, would let herself be taken up and put down with the good-natured indifference of a cat, which always falls on its feet and walks off, shaking its ears. This easy way of life is admirably fitted to the habits of brain-workers; and it is only in the artist’s nature to take full advantage of it, as Nathan did, whilst not abandoning the pursuit of that fine ideal love, that splendid passion, which delighted at once his poetic instincts, the germ of greatness in him, and his social ambitions. Fully aware how disastrous would be the effect of any indiscretion, he told himself it was impossible that either the Countess or Florine should find out anything. The chasm between them was too great.
With the beginning of winter Raoul once more made his appearance in society, and this time in the heyday of his glory: he was all but a personage. Rastignac, who had fallen with the Government which went to pieces on de Marsay’s death, leant upon Raoul, and in return gave him the support of his good word. Mme. de Vandenesse was curious to know whether her husband had changed his opinion of Raoul. After the lapse of a year she questioned him
