Lucien spoke the last word at bedtime: “You do not know my influence. The prefect’s wife stands in fear of a journalist; and besides, Louise de Nègrepelisse lives on in the Comtesse du Châtelet, and a woman with her influence can rescue David. I am going to tell her about my brother’s invention, and it would be a mere nothing to her to obtain a subsidy of ten thousand francs from the Government for him.”
At eleven o’clock that night the whole household was awakened by the town band, reinforced by the military band from the barracks. The Place du Mûrier was full of people. The young men of Angoulême were giving Lucien Chardon de Rubempré a serenade. Lucien went to his sister’s window and made a speech after the last performance.
“I thank my fellow-townsmen for the honor that they do me,” he said in the midst of a great silence; “I will strive to be worthy of it; they will pardon me if I say no more; I am so much moved by this incident that I cannot speak.”
“Hurrah for the writer of The Archer of Charles IX! … Hurrah for the poet of the Marguerites! … Long live Lucien de Rubempré!”
After these three salvos, taken up by some few voices, three crowns and a quantity of bouquets were adroitly flung into the room through the open window. Ten minutes later the Place du Mûrier was empty, and silence prevailed in the streets.
“I would rather have ten thousand francs,” said old Séchard, fingering the bouquets and garlands with a satirical expression. “You gave them daisies, and they give you posies in return; you deal in flowers.”
“So that is your opinion of the honors shown me by my fellow-townsmen, is it?” asked Lucien. All his melancholy had left him, his face was radiant with good humor. “If you knew mankind, Papa Séchard, you would see that no moment in one’s life comes twice. Such a triumph as this can only be due to genuine enthusiasm! … My dear mother, my good sister, this wipes out many mortifications.”
Lucien kissed them; for when joy overflows like a torrent flood, we are fain to pour it out into a friend’s heart. “When an author is intoxicated with success, he will hug his porter if there is nobody else on hand,” according to Bixiou.
“Why, darling, why are you crying?” he said, looking into Eve’s face. “Ah! I know, you are crying for joy!”
“Oh me!” said Eve, when she and her mother were left alone in the bedroom, “there is a pretty woman of the worst kind in a poet, I think.”
“You are right,” said her mother, shaking her head as she spoke. “Lucien has forgotten everything already; not merely his own troubles, but ours as well.”
Mother and daughter separated, and neither dared to utter all her thoughts.
In a country eaten up with the kind of social insubordination disguised by the word Equality, a triumph of any kind whatsoever is a sort of miracle which requires, like some other miracles for that matter, the cooperation of skilled labor. Out of ten ovations offered to ten living men, selected for this distinction by a grateful country, you may be quite sure that nine are given from considerations connected as remotely as possible with the conspicuous merits of the renowned recipient. What was Voltaire’s apotheosis at the Théâtre-Français but the triumph of eighteenth century philosophy? A triumph in France means that everybody else feels that he is adorning his own temples with the crown that he sets on the idol’s head.
The women’s presentiments proved correct. The distinguished provincial’s reception was antipathetic to Angoumoisin immobility; it was too evidently got up by some interested persons or by enthusiastic stage mechanics, a suspicious combination. Eve, moreover, like most of her sex, was distrustful by instinct, even when reason failed to justify her suspicions to herself. “Who can be so fond of Lucien that he could rouse the town for him?” she wondered as she fell asleep. “The Marguerites are not published yet; how can they compliment him on a future success?”
The ovation was, in fact, the work of Petit-Claud.
Petit-Claud had dined with Mme. de Senonches, for the first time, on the evening of the day that brought the curé of Marsac to Angoulême with the news of Lucien’s return. That same evening he made formal application for the hand of Mlle. de la Haye. It was a family dinner, one of the solemn occasions marked not so much by the number of the guests as by the splendor of their toilettes. Consciousness of the performance weighs upon the family party, and every countenance looks significant. Françoise was on exhibition. Mme. de Senonches had sported her most elaborate costume for the occasion; M. du Hautoy wore a black coat; M. de Senonches had returned from his visit to the Pimentels on the receipt of a note from his wife, informing him that Mme. du Châtelet was to appear at their house for the first time since her arrival, and that a suitor in form for Françoise would appear on the scenes. Boniface Cointet also was there, in his best maroon coat of clerical cut, with a diamond pin worth six thousand francs displayed in his shirt frill—the revenge of the rich merchant upon a poverty-stricken aristocracy.
Petit-Claud himself, scoured and combed, had carefully removed his gray hairs, but he could not rid himself of his wizened air. The puny little man of law, tightly buttoned into his clothes, reminded you of a torpid viper; for if hope had brought a spark of life into his magpie eyes, his face was icily rigid, and so well did he assume an air of gravity, that an ambitious public prosecutor
