“I saw somebody the day before yesterday who was speaking to me about you—Monsieur de Cisy. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes, slightly.”
Suddenly Madame Dambreuse uttered an exclamation:
“Oh! Duchesse, what a pleasure to see you!”
And she advanced towards the door to meet a little old lady in a Carmelite taffeta gown and a cap of guipure with long borders. The daughter of a companion in exile of the Comte d’Artois, and the widow of a marshal of the Empire; who had been created a peer of France in 1830, she adhered to the court of a former generation as well as to the new court, and possessed sufficient influence to procure many things. Those who stood talking stepped aside, and then resumed their conversation.
It had now turned on pauperism, of which, according to these gentlemen, all the descriptions that had been given were grossly exaggerated.
“However,” urged Martinon, “let us confess that there is such a thing as want! But the remedy depends neither on science nor on power. It is purely an individual question. When the lower classes are willing to get rid of their vices, they will free themselves from their necessities. Let the people be more moral, and they will be less poor!”
According to M. Dambreuse, no good could be attained without a superabundance of capital. Therefore, the only practicable method was to entrust, “as the Saint-Simonians, however, proposed (good heavens! there was some merit in their views—let us be just to everybody)—to entrust, I say, the cause of progress to those who can increase the public wealth.” Imperceptibly they began to touch on great industrial undertakings—the railways, the coal-mines. And M. Dambreuse, addressing Frederick, said to him in a low whisper:
“You have not called about that business of ours?”
Frederick pleaded illness; but, feeling that this excuse was too absurd:
“Besides, I need my ready money.”
“Is it to buy a carriage?” asked Madame Dambreuse, who was brushing past him with a cup of tea in her hand, and for a minute she watched his face with her head bent slightly over her shoulder.
She believed that he was Rosanette’s lover—the allusion was obvious. It seemed even to Frederick that all the ladies were staring at him from a distance and whispering to one another.
In order to get a better idea as to what they were thinking about, he once more approached them. On the opposite side of the table, Martinon, seated near Mademoiselle Cécile, was turning over the leaves of an album. It contained lithographs representing Spanish costumes. He read the descriptive titles aloud: “A Lady of Seville,” “A Valencia Gardener,” “An Andalusian Picador”; and once, when he had reached the bottom of the page, he continued all in one breath:
“Jacques Arnoux, publisher. One of your friends, eh?”
“That is true,” said Frederick, hurt by the tone he had assumed.
Madame Dambreuse again interposed:
“In fact, you came here one morning—about a house, I believe—a house belonging to his wife.” (This meant: “She is your mistress.”)
He reddened up to his ears; and M. Dambreuse, who joined them at the same moment, made this additional remark:
“You appear even to be deeply interested in them.”
These last words had the effect of putting Frederick out of countenance. His confusion, which, he could not help feeling, was evident to them, was on the point of confirming their suspicions, when M. Dambreuse drew close to him, and, in a tone of great seriousness, said:
“I suppose you don’t do business together?”
He protested by repeated shakes of the head, without realising the exact meaning of the capitalist, who wished to give him advice.
He felt a desire to leave. The fear of appearing fainthearted restrained him. A servant carried away the teacups. Madame Dambreuse was talking to a diplomatist in a blue coat. Two young girls, drawing their foreheads close together, showed each other their jewellery. The others, seated in a semicircle on armchairs, kept gently moving their white faces crowned with black or fair hair. Nobody, in fact, minded them. Frederick turned on his heels; and, by a succession of long zigzags, he had almost reached the door, when, passing close to a bracket, he remarked, on the top of it, between a china vase and the wainscoting, a journal folded up in two. He drew it out a little, and read these words—The Flambard.
Who had brought it there? Cisy. Manifestly no one else. What did it matter, however? They would believe—already, perhaps, everyone believed—in the article. What was the cause of this rancour? He wrapped himself up in ironical silence. He felt like one lost in a desert. But suddenly he heard Martinon’s voice:
“Talking of Arnoux, I saw in the newspapers, amongst the names of those accused of preparing incendiary bombs, that of one of his employees, Sénécal. Is that our Sénécal?”
“The very same!”
Martinon repeated several times in a very loud tone:
“What? our Sénécal! our Sénécal!”
Then questions were asked him about the conspiracy. It was assumed that his connection with the prosecutor’s office ought to furnish him with some information on the subject.
He declared that he had none. However, he knew very little about this individual, having seen him only two or three times. He positively regarded him as a very ill-conditioned fellow. Frederick exclaimed indignantly:
“Not at all! he is a very honest fellow.”
“All the same, Monsieur,” said a landowner, “no conspirator can be an honest man.”
Most of the men assembled there had served at least four governments; and they would have sold France or the human race in order to preserve their own incomes, to save themselves from any discomfort or embarrassment, or even through sheer baseness, through worship of force. They all maintained that political
