Sénécal’s convictions were more disinterested. Every evening, when his work was finished, he returned to his garret and sought in books for something that might justify his dreams. He had annotated the Contrat Social; he had crammed himself with the Revue Indépendante; he was acquainted with Mably, Morelly, Fourier, Saint-Simon, Comte, Cabet, Louis Blanc—the heavy cartload of Socialistic writers—those who claim for humanity the dead level of barracks, those who would like to amuse it in a brothel or to bend it over a counter; and from a medley of all these things he constructed an ideal of virtuous democracy, with the double aspect of a farm in which the landlord was to receive a share of the produce, and a spinning-mill, a sort of American Lacedæmon, in which the individual would only exist for the benefit of society, which was to be more omnipotent, absolute, infallible, and divine than the Grand Lamas and the Nebuchadnezzars. He had no doubt as to the approaching realisation of this ideal; and Sénécal raged against everything that he considered hostile to it with the reasoning of a geometrician and the zeal of an Inquisitor. Titles of nobility, crosses, plumes, liveries above all, and even reputations that were too loud-sounding scandalised him, his studies as well as his sufferings intensifying every day his essential hatred of every kind of distinction and every form of social superiority.
“What do I owe to this gentleman that I should be polite to him? If he wants me, he can come to me.”
Deslauriers, however, forced him to go to Frederick’s reunion.
They found their friend in his bedroom. Spring-roller blinds and double curtains, Venetian mirrors—nothing was wanting there. Frederick, in a velvet vest, was lying back on an easy-chair, smoking cigarettes of Turkish tobacco.
Sénécal wore the gloomy look of a bigot arriving in the midst of a pleasure-party.
Deslauriers gave him a single comprehensive glance; then, with a very low bow:
“Monseigneur, allow me to pay my respects to you!”
Dussardier leaped on his neck. “So you are a rich man now. Ah! upon my soul, so much the better!”
Cisy made his appearance with crape on his hat. Since the death of his grandmother, he was in the enjoyment of a considerable fortune, and was less bent on amusing himself than on being distinguished from others—not being the same as everyone else—in short, on “having the proper stamp.” This was his favourite phrase.
However, it was now midday, and they were all yawning.
Frederick was waiting for someone.
At the mention of Arnoux’s name, Pellerin made a wry face. He looked on him as a renegade since he had abandoned the fine arts.
“Suppose we pass over him—what do you say to that?”
They all approved of this suggestion.
The door was opened by a manservant in long gaiters; and the dining-room could be seen with its lofty oak plinths relieved with gold, and its two sideboards laden with plate.
The bottles of wine were heating on the stove; the blades of new knives were glittering beside oysters. In the milky tint of the enamelled glasses there was a kind of alluring sweetness; and the table disappeared from view under its load of game, fruit, and meats of the rarest quality.
These attentions were lost on Sénécal. He began by asking for household bread (the hardest that could be got), and in connection with this subject, spoke of the murders of Buzançais and the crisis arising from lack of the means of subsistence.
Nothing of this sort could have happened if agriculture had been better protected, if everything had not been given up to competition, to anarchy, and to the deplorable maxim of “Let things alone! let things go their own way!” It was in this way that the feudalism of money was established—the worst form of feudalism. But let them take care! The people in the end will get tired of it, and may make the capitalist pay for their sufferings either by bloody proscriptions or by the plunder of their houses.
Frederick saw, as if by a lightning-flash, a flood of men with bare arms invading Madame Dambreuse’s drawing-room, and smashing the mirrors with blows of pikes.
Sénécal went on to say that the workman, owing to the insufficiency of wages, was more unfortunate than the helot, the negro, and the pariah, especially if he has children.
“Ought he to get rid of them by asphyxia, as some English doctor, whose name I don’t remember—a disciple of Malthus—advises him?”
And, turning towards Cisy: “Are we to be obliged to follow the advice of the infamous Malthus?”
Cisy, who was ignorant of the infamy and even of the existence of Malthus, said by way of reply, that after all, much human misery was relieved, and that the higher classes—
“Ha! the higher classes!” said the Socialist, with a sneer. “In the first place, there are no higher classes. ’Tis the heart alone that makes anyone higher than another. We want no alms, understand! but equality, the fair division of products.”
What he required was that the workman might become a capitalist, just as the soldier might become a colonel. The trade-wardenships, at least, in limiting the number of apprentices, prevented workmen from growing inconveniently numerous, and the sentiment of fraternity was kept up by means of the fêtes and the banners.
Hussonnet, as a poet, regretted the banners; so did Pellerin, too—a predilection which had taken possession of him at the Café Dagneaux, while listening to the Phalansterians talking. He expressed the opinion that Fourier was a great man.
“Come now!” said Deslauriers. “An old fool who sees in the overthrow of governments the effects of Divine vengeance. He is just like my lord Saint-Simon and his church, with his hatred of the French Revolution—a set of buffoons who would fain
