The President interrupted him: “Well! well! Monsieur, we have nothing to do with your political opinions—you will have them represented in your behalf by-and-by!”
Deslauriers did not wish to have his opinions represented; but this unfortunate Title XX of the Third Book of the Civil Code had become a sort of mountain over which he stumbled. He was elaborating a great work on “Prescription considered as the Basis of the Civil Law and of the Law of Nature amongst Peoples”; and he got lost in Dunod, Rogerius, Balbus, Merlin, Vazeille, Savigny, Traplong, and other weighty authorities on the subject. In order to have more leisure for the purpose of devoting himself to this task, he had resigned his post of head-clerk. He lived by giving private tuitions and preparing theses; and at the meetings of newly-fledged barristers to rehearse legal arguments he frightened by his display of virulence those who held conservative views, all the young doctrinaires who acknowledged M. Guizot as their master—so that in a certain set he had gained a sort of celebrity, mingled, in a slight degree, with lack of confidence in him as an individual.
He came to keep the appointment in a big paletot, lined with red flannel, like the one Sénécal used to wear in former days.
Human respect on account of the passersby prevented them from straining one another long in an embrace of friendship; and they made their way to Véfour’s arm-in-arm, laughing pleasantly, though with teardrops lingering in the depths of their eyes. Then, as soon as they were free from observation, Deslauriers exclaimed:
“Ah! damn it! we’ll have a jolly time of it now!”
Frederick was not quite pleased to find Deslauriers all at once associating himself in this way with his own newly-acquired inheritance. His friend exhibited too much pleasure on account of them both, and not enough on his account alone.
After this, Deslauriers gave details about the reverse he had met with, and gradually told Frederick all about his occupations and his daily existence, speaking of himself in a stoical fashion, and of others in tones of intense bitterness. He found fault with everything; there was not a man in office who was not an idiot or a rascal. He flew into a passion against the waiter for having a glass badly rinsed, and, when Frederick uttered a reproach with a view to mitigating his wrath: “As if I were going to annoy myself with such numbskulls, who, you must know, can earn as much as six and even eight thousand francs a year, who are electors, perhaps eligible as candidates. Ah! no, no!”
Then, with a sprightly air, “But I’ve forgotten that I’m talking to a capitalist, to a Mondor,6 for you are a Mondor now!”
And, coming back to the question of the inheritance, he gave expression to this view—that collateral successorship (a thing unjust in itself, though in the present case he was glad it was possible) would be abolished one of these days at the approaching revolution.
“Do you believe in that?” said Frederick.
“Be sure of it!” he replied. “This sort of thing cannot last. There is too much suffering. When I see into the wretchedness of men like Sénécal—”
“Always Sénécal!” thought Frederick.
“But, at all events, tell me the news? Are you still in love with Madame Arnoux? Is it all over—eh?”
Frederick, not knowing what answer to give him, closed his eyes and hung down his head.
With regard to Arnoux, Deslauriers told him that the journal was now the property of Hussonnet, who had transformed it. It was called “L’Art, a literary institution—a company with shares of one hundred francs each; capital of the firm, forty thousand francs,” each shareholder having the right to put into it his own contributions; for “the company has for its object to publish the works of beginners, to spare talent, perchance genius, the sad crises which drench,” etc.
“You see the dodge!” There was, however, something to be effected by the change—the tone of the journal could be raised; then, without any delay, while retaining the same writers, and promising a continuation of the feuilleton, to supply the subscribers with a political organ: the amount to be advanced would not be very great.
“What do you think of it? Come! would you like to have a hand in it?”
Frederick did not reject the proposal; but he pointed out that it was necessary for him to attend to the regulation of his affairs.
“After that, if you require anything—”
“Thanks, my boy!” said Deslauriers.
Then, they smoked puros, leaning with their elbows on the shelf covered with velvet beside the window. The sun was shining; the air was balmy. Flocks of birds, fluttering about, swooped down into the garden. The statues of bronze and marble, washed by the rain, were glistening. Nursery-maids wearing aprons, were seated on chairs, chatting together; and the laughter of children could be heard mingling with the continuous plash that came from the sheaf-jets of the fountain.
Frederick was troubled by Deslauriers’ irritability; but under the influence of the wine which circulated through his veins, half-asleep, in a state of torpor, with the sun shining full on his face, he was no longer conscious of anything save a profound sense of comfort, a kind of voluptuous feeling that stupefied him, as a plant is saturated with heat and moisture. Deslauriers, with half-closed eyelids, was staring vacantly into the distance. His breast swelled, and he broke out in the following strain:
“Ah! those were better days when Camille Desmoulins, standing below there on a table, drove the people on to the Bastille. Men really lived in those times; they could assert themselves, and prove their strength! Simple
