VII

"That is what comes of sight-seeing," exclaimed Monsieur Guillaume--"a

headache. And is it so very amusing to see in a picture what you can

see any day in your own street? Don't talk to me of your artists! Like

writers, they are a starveling crew. Why the devil need they choose my

house to flout it in their pictures?"

"It may help to sell a few ells more of cloth," said Joseph Lebas.

This remark did not protect art and thought from being condemned once

again before the judgment-seat of trade. As may be supposed, these

speeches did not infuse much hope into Augustine, who, during the

night, gave herself up to the first meditations of love. The events of

the day were like a dream, which it was a joy to recall to her mind.

She was initiated into the fears, the hopes, the remorse, all the ebb

and flow of feeling which could not fail to toss a heart so simple and

timid as hers. What a void she perceived in this gloomy house! What a

treasure she found in her soul! To be the wife of a genius, to share

his glory! What ravages must such a vision make in the heart of a girl

brought up among such a family! What hopes must it raise in a young

creature who, in the midst of sordid elements, had pined for a life of

elegance! A sunbeam had fallen into the prison. Augustine was suddenly

in love. So many of her feelings were soothed that she succumbed

without reflection. At eighteen does not love hold a prism between the

world and the eyes of a young girl? She was incapable of suspecting

the hard facts which result from the union of a loving woman with a

man of imagination, and she believed herself called to make him happy,

not seeing any disparity between herself and him. To her the future

would be as the present. When, next day, her father and mother

returned from the Salon, their dejected faces proclaimed some

disappointment. In the first place, the painter had removed the two

pictures; and then Madame Guillaume had lost her cashmere shawl. But

the news that the pictures had disappeared from the walls since her

visit revealed to Augustine a delicacy of sentiment which a woman can

always appreciate, even by instinct.

On the morning when, on his way home from a ball, Theodore de

Sommervieux--for this was the name which fame had stamped on

Augustine's heart--had been squirted on by the apprentices while

awaiting the appearance of his artless little friend, who certainly

did not know that he was there, the lovers had seen each other for the

fourth time only since their meeting at the Salon. The difficulties

which the rule of the house placed in the way of the painter's ardent

nature gave added violence to his passion for Augustine.

How could he get near to a young girl seated in a counting-house

between two such women as Mademoiselle Virginie and Madame Guillaume?

How could he correspond with her when her mother never left her side?

Ingenious, as lovers are, to imagine woes, Theodore saw a rival in one

of the assistants, to whose interests he supposed the others to be

devoted. If he should evade these sons of Argus, he would yet be

wrecked under the stern eye of the old draper or of Madame Guillaume.

The very vehemence of his passion hindered the young painter from

hitting on the ingenious expedients which, in prisoners and in lovers,

seem to be the last effort of intelligence spurred by a wild craving

for liberty, or by the fire of love. Theodore wandered about the

neighborhood with the restlessness of a madman, as though movement

might inspire him with some device. After racking his imagination, it

occurred to him to bribe the blowsy waiting-maid with gold. Thus a few

notes were exchanged at long intervals during the fortnight following

the ill-starred morning when Monsieur Guillaume and Theodore had so

scrutinized one another. At the present moment the young couple had

agreed to see each other at a certain hour of the day, and on Sunday,

at Saint-Leu, during Mass and vespers. Augustine had sent her dear

Theodore a list of the relations and friends of the family, to whom

the young painter tried to get access, in the hope of interesting, if

it were possible, in his love affairs, one of these souls absorbed in

money and trade, to whom a genuine passion must appear a quite

monstrous speculation, a thing unheard-of. Nothing meanwhile, was

altered at the sign of the Cat and Racket. If Augustine was absent-

minded, if, against all obedience to the domestic code, she stole up

to her room to make signals by means of a jar of flowers, if she

sighed, if she were lost in thought, no one observed it, not even her

mother. This will cause some surprise to those who have entered into

the spirit of the household, where an idea tainted with poetry would

be in startling contrast to persons and things, where no one could

venture on a gesture or a look which would not be seen and analyzed.

Nothing, however, could be more natural: the quiet barque that

navigated the stormy waters of the Paris Exchange, under the flag of

the Cat and Racket, was just now in the toils of one of these tempests

which, returning periodically, might be termed equinoctial. For the

last fortnight the five men forming the crew, with Madame Guillaume

and Mademoiselle Virginie, had been devoting themselves to the hard

labor, known as stock-taking.

Every bale was turned over, and the length verified to ascertain the

exact value of the remnant. The ticket attached to each parcel was

carefully examined to see at what time the piece had been bought. The

retail price was fixed. Monsieur Guillaume, always on his feet, his

pen behind his ear, was like a captain commanding the working of the

ship. His sharp tones, spoken through a trap-door, to inquire into the

depths of the hold in the cellar-store, gave utterance to the

barbarous formulas of trade-jargon, which find expression only in

cipher. "How much H. N. Z.?"--"All sold."--"What is left of Q. X.?"--

Two ells."--"At what price?"--"Fifty-five three."--"Set down A. at

three, with all of J. J., all of M. P., and what is left of V. D. O."

--A hundred other injunctions equally intelligible were spouted over

the counters like verses of modern poetry, quoted by romantic spirits,

to excite each other's enthusiasm for one of their poets. In the

evening Guillaume, shut up with his assistant and his wife, balanced

his accounts, carried on the balance, wrote to debtors in arrears, and

made out bills. All three were busy over this enormous labor, of which

the result could be stated on a sheet of foolscap, proving to the head

of the house that there was so much to the good in hard cash, so much

in goods, so much in bills and notes; that he did not owe a sou; that

a hundred or two hundred thousand francs were owing to him; that the

capital had been increased; that the farmlands, the houses, or the

investments were extended, or repaired, or doubled. Whence it became

necessary to begin again with increased ardor, to accumulate more

crown-pieces, without its ever entering the brain of these laborious

ants to ask--"To what end?"