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The Lesser Bourgeoisie by Balzac, Honoré de - CHAPTER III

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The Lesser Bourgeoisie

CHAPTER III

COLLEVILLE

Thuil­li­er had en­tered the min­istry of fi­nance as su­per­nu­mer­ary at the same time as Colleville, who has been men­tioned al­ready as his in­ti­mate friend. In op­po­si­tion to the well-​reg­ulat­ed, gloomy house­hold of Thuil­li­er, so­cial na­ture had pro­vid­ed that of Colleville; and if it is im­pos­si­ble not to re­mark that this for­tu­itous con­trast was scarce­ly moral, we must add that, be­fore de­cid­ing that point, it would be well to wait for the end of this dra­ma, un­for­tu­nate­ly too true, for which the present his­to­ri­an is not re­spon­si­ble.

Colleville was the on­ly son of a tal­ent­ed mu­si­cian, for­mer­ly first vi­olin at the Opera un­der Fran­coeur and Rebel, who re­lat­ed, at least six times a month dur­ing his life­time, anec­dotes con­cern­ing the rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the “Vil­lage Seer”; and mim­icked Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, tak­ing him off to per­fec­tion. Colleville and Thuil­li­er were in­sep­ara­ble friends; they had no se­crets from each oth­er, and their friend­ship, be­gun at fif­teen years of age, had nev­er known a cloud up to the year 1839. The for­mer was one of those em­ploy­ees who are called, in the gov­ern­ment of­fices, plu­ral­ists. These clerks are re­mark­able for their in­dus­try. Colleville, a good mu­si­cian, owed to the name and in­flu­ence of his fa­ther a sit­ua­tion as first clar­ionet at the Opera-​Comique, and so long as he was a bach­elor, Colleville, who was rather rich­er than Thuil­li­er, shared his means with his friend. But, un­like Thuil­li­er, Colleville mar­ried for love a Made­moi­selle Flavie, the nat­ural daugh­ter of a cel­ebrat­ed danseuse at the Opera; her re­put­ed fa­ther be­ing a cer­tain du Bour­guier, one of the rich­est con­trac­tors of the day. In style and ori­gin, Flavie was ap­par­ent­ly des­tined for a melan­choly ca­reer, when Colleville, of­ten sent to her moth­er's apart­ments, fell in love with her and mar­ried her. Prince Galathionne, who at that time was “pro­tect­ing” the danseuse, then ap­proach­ing the end of her bril­liant ca­reer, gave Flavie a “dot” of twen­ty thou­sand francs, to which her moth­er added a mag­nif­icent trousseau. Oth­er friends and opera-​com­rades sent jew­els and sil­ver-​ware, so that the Colleville house­hold was far rich­er in su­per­fluities than in cap­ital. Flavie, brought up in op­ulence, be­gan her mar­ried life in a charm­ing apart­ment, fur­nished by her moth­er's up­hol­ster­er, where the young wife, who was full of taste for art and for artists, and pos­sessed a cer­tain el­egance, ruled, a queen.

Madame Colleville was pret­ty and pi­quant, clever, gay, and grace­ful; to ex­press her in one sen­tence,--a charm­ing crea­ture. Her moth­er, the danseuse, now forty-​three years old, re­tired from the stage and went to live in the coun­try,--thus de­priv­ing her daugh­ter of the re­sources de­rived from her waste­ful ex­trav­agance. Madame Colleville kept a very agree­able but ex­treme­ly free and easy house­hold. From 1816 to 1826 she had five chil­dren. Colleville, a mu­si­cian in the evening, kept the books of a mer­chant from sev­en to nine in the morn­ing, and by ten o'clock he was at his min­istry. Thus, by blow­ing in­to a bit of wood by night, and writ­ing dou­ble-​en­try ac­counts in the ear­ly morn­ing, he man­aged to eke out his earn­ings to sev­en or eight thou­sand francs a year.

Madame Colleville played the part of a “comme il faut” wom­an; she re­ceived on Wednes­days, gave a con­cert once a month and a din­ner ev­ery fort­night. She nev­er saw Colleville ex­cept at din­ner and at night, when he re­turned about twelve o'clock, at which hour she was fre­quent­ly not at home her­self. She went to the the­atres, where box­es were some­times giv­en to her; and she would send word to Colleville to come and fetch her from such or such a house, where she was sup­ping and danc­ing. At her own house, guests found ex­cel­lent cheer, and her so­ci­ety, though rather mixed, was very amus­ing; she re­ceived and wel­comed ac­tress­es, artists, men of let­ters, and a few rich men. Madame Colleville's el­egance was on a par with that of Tul­lia, the lead­ing pri­ma-​don­na, with whom she was in­ti­mate; but though the Collevilles en­croached on their cap­ital and were of­ten in dif­fi­cul­ty by the end of the month, Flavie was nev­er in debt.

Colleville was very hap­py; he still loved his wife, and he made him­self her best friend. Al­ways re­ceived by her with af­fec­tion­ate smiles and sym­pa­thet­ic plea­sure, he yield­ed read­ily to the ir­re­sistible grace of her man­ners. The ve­he­ment ac­tiv­ity with which he pur­sued his three av­oca­tions was a part of his nat­ural char­ac­ter and tem­per­ament. He was a fine stout man, rud­dy, jovial, ex­trav­agant, and full of ideas. In ten years there was nev­er a quar­rel in his house­hold. Among busi­ness men he was looked up­on, in com­mon with all artists, as a scat­ter-​brained fel­low; and su­per­fi­cial per­sons thought that the con­stant hur­ry of this hard work­er was on­ly the rest­less com­ing and go­ing of a busy­body.

Colleville had the sense to seem stupid; he boast­ed of his fam­ily hap­pi­ness, and gave him­self un­heard-​of trou­ble in mak­ing ana­grams, in or­der at times to seem ab­sorbed in that pas­sion. The gov­ern­ment clerks of his di­vi­sion at the min­istry, the of­fice di­rec­tors, and even the heads of di­vi­sions came to his con­certs; now and then he qui­et­ly be­stowed up­on them opera tick­ets, when he need­ed some ex­tra in­dul­gence on ac­count of his fre­quent ab­sence. Re­hearsals took half the time that he ought to have been at his desk; but the mu­si­cal knowl­edge his fa­ther had be­queathed to him was suf­fi­cient­ly gen­uine and well-​ground­ed to ex­cuse him from all but fi­nal re­hearsals. Thanks to Madame Colleville's in­ti­ma­cies, both the the­atre and the min­istry lent them­selves kind­ly to the needs of this in­dus­tri­ous plu­ral­ist, who, more­over, was bring­ing up, with great care, a youth, warm­ly rec­om­mend­ed to him by his wife, a fu­ture great mu­si­cian, who some­times took his place in the or­ches­tra with a promise of even­tu­al­ly suc­ceed­ing him. In fact, about the year 1827 this young man be­came the first clar­ionet when Colleville re­signed his po­si­tion.

The usu­al com­ment on Flavie was, “That lit­tle slip of a co­quette, Madame Colleville.” The el­dest of the Colleville chil­dren, born in 1816, was the liv­ing im­age of Colleville him­self. In 1818, Madame Colleville held the cav­al­ry in high es­ti­ma­tion, above even art; and she dis­tin­guished more par­tic­ular­ly a sub-​lieu­tenant in the dra­goons of Saint-​Chamans, the young and rich Charles de Gondre­ville, who af­ter­wards died in the Span­ish cam­paign. By that time Flavie had had a sec­ond son, whom she hence­forth ded­icat­ed to a mil­itary ca­reer. In 1820 she con­sid­ered bank­ing the nurs­ing moth­er of trade, the sup­port­er of Na­tions, and she made the great Keller, that fa­mous banker and or­ator, her idol. She then had an­oth­er son, whom she named Fran­cois, re­solv­ing to make him a mer­chant,--feel­ing sure that Keller's in­flu­ence would nev­er fail him. About the close of the year 1820, Thuil­li­er, the in­ti­mate friend of Mon­sieur and Madame Colleville, felt the need of pour­ing his sor­rows in­to the bo­som of this ex­cel­lent wom­an, and to her he re­lat­ed his con­ju­gal mis­eries. For six years he had longed to have chil­dren, but God did not bless him; al­though that poor Madame Thuil­li­er had made nove­nas, and had even gone, use­less­ly, to No­tra-​Dame de Liesse! He de­pict­ed Ce­leste in var­ious lights, which brought the words “Poor Thuil­li­er!” from Flavie's lips. She her­self was rather sad, hav­ing at the mo­ment no dom­inant opin­ion. She poured her own griefs in­to Thuil­li­er's bo­som. The great Keller, that hero of the Left, was, in re­al­ity, ex­treme­ly pet­ty; she had learned to know the oth­er side of pub­lic fame, the fol­lies of bank­ing, the empti­ness of elo­quence! The or­ator on­ly spoke for show; to her he had be­haved ex­treme­ly ill. Thuil­li­er was in­dig­nant. “None but stupid fel­lows know how to love,” he said; “take me!” That hand­some Thuil­li­er was hence­forth sup­posed to be pay­ing court to Madame Colleville, and was rat­ed as one of her “at­ten­tives,”--a word in vogue dur­ing the Em­pire.

“Ha! you are af­ter my wife,” said Colleville, laugh­ing. “Take care; she'll leave you in the lurch, like all the rest.”

A rather clever speech, by which Colleville saved his mar­ital dig­ni­ty. From 1820 to 1821, Thuil­li­er, in virtue of his ti­tle as friend of the fam­ily, helped Colleville, who had for­mer­ly helped him; so much so, that in eigh­teen months he had lent near­ly ten thou­sand francs to the Colleville es­tab­lish­ment, with no in­ten­tion of ev­er claim­ing them. In the spring of 1821, Madame Colleville gave birth to a charm­ing lit­tle girl, to whom Mon­sieur and Madame Thuil­li­er were god­fa­ther and god­moth­er. The child was bap­tized Ce­leste-​Louise-​Car­oline-​Brigitte; Made­moi­selle Thuil­li­er wish­ing that her name should be giv­en among oth­ers to the lit­tle an­gel. The name of Car­oline was a grace­ful at­ten­tion paid to Colleville. Old moth­er Lem­prun as­sumed the care of putting the ba­by to nurse un­der her own eyes at Au­teuil, where Ce­leste and her sis­ter-​in-​law Brigitte, paid it reg­ular­ly a se­mi-​week­ly vis­it.

As soon as Madame Colleville re­cov­ered she said to Thuil­li­er, frankly, in a very se­ri­ous tone:--

“My dear friend, if we are all to re­main good friends, you must be our friend on­ly. Colleville is at­tached to you; well, that's enough for you in this house­hold.”

“Ex­plain to me,” said the hand­some Thuil­li­er to Tul­lia af­ter this re­mark, “why wom­en are nev­er at­tached to me. I am not the Apol­lo Belvidere, but for all that I'm not a Vul­can; I am pass­ably good-​look­ing, I have sense, I am faith­ful--”

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” replied Tul­lia.

“Yes,” said Thuil­li­er.

“Well, though we can, some­times, love a stupid fel­low, we nev­er love a sil­ly one.”

Those words killed Thuil­li­er; he nev­er got over them; hence­forth he was a prey to melan­choly and ac­cused all wom­en of caprice.

The sec­re­tary-​gen­er­al of the min­istry, des Lu­peaulx, whose in­flu­ence Madame Colleville thought greater than it was, and of whom she said, lat­er, “That was one of my mis­takes,” be­came for a time the great man of the Colleville sa­lon; but as Flavie found he had no pow­er to pro­mote Colleville in­to the up­per di­vi­sion, she had the good sense to re­sent des Lu­peaulx's at­ten­tions to Madame Rabour­din (whom she called a minx), to whose house she had nev­er been in­vit­ed, and who had twice had the im­per­ti­nence not to come to the Colleville con­certs.

Madame Colleville was deeply af­fect­ed by the death of young Gondre­ville; she felt, she said, the fin­ger of God. In 1824 she turned over a new leaf, talked of econ­omy, stopped her re­cep­tions, bus­ied her­self with her chil­dren, de­ter­mined to be­come a good moth­er of a fam­ily; no fa­vorite friend was seen at her house. She went to church, re­formed her dress, wore gray, and talked Catholi­cism, mys­ti­cism, and so forth. All this pro­duced, in 1825, an­oth­er lit­tle son, whom she named Theodore. Soon af­ter, in 1826, Colleville was ap­point­ed sub-​di­rec­tor of the Cler­geot di­vi­sion, and lat­er, in 1828, col­lec­tor of tax­es in a Paris ar­rondisse­ment. He al­so re­ceived the cross of the Le­gion of hon­or, to en­able him to put his daugh­ter at the roy­al school of Saint-​De­nis. The half-​schol­ar­ship ob­tained by Keller for the el­dest boy, Charles, was trans­ferred to the sec­ond in 1830, when Charles en­tered the school of Saint-​Louis on a full schol­ar­ship. The third son, tak­en un­der the pro­tec­tion of Madame la Dauphine, was pro­vid­ed with a three-​quar­ter schol­ar­ship in the Hen­ri IV. school.

In 1830 Colleville, who had the good for­tune not to lose a child, was obliged, ow­ing to his well-​known at­tach­ment to the fall­en roy­al fam­ily, to send in his res­ig­na­tion; but he was clever enough to make a bar­gain for it,--ob­tain­ing in ex­change a pen­sion of two thou­sand four hun­dred francs, based on his pe­ri­od of ser­vice, and ten thou­sand francs in­dem­ni­ty paid by his suc­ces­sor; he al­so re­ceived the rank of of­fi­cer of the Le­gion of hon­or. Nev­er­the­less, he found him­self in rather a cramped con­di­tion when Made­moi­selle Thuil­li­er, in 1832, ad­vised him to come and live near them; point­ing out to him the pos­si­bil­ity of ob­tain­ing some po­si­tion in the may­or's of­fice, which, in fact, he did ob­tain a few weeks lat­er, at a salary of three thou­sand francs. Thus Thuil­li­er and Colleville were des­tined to end their days to­geth­er. In 1833 Madame Colleville, then thir­ty-​five years old, set­tled her­self in the rue d'En­fer, at the cor­ner of the rue des Deux-​Eglis­es with Ce­leste and lit­tle Theodore, the oth­er boys be­ing at their sev­er­al schools. Colleville was equidis­tant be­tween the may­or's of­fice and the rue Saint-​Do­minique d'En­fer. Thus the house­hold, af­ter a bril­liant, gay, head­long, re­formed, and calmed ex­is­tence, sub­sid­ed fi­nal­ly in­to bour­geois ob­scu­ri­ty with five thou­sand four hun­dred francs a year for its sole de­pen­dence.

Ce­leste was by this time twelve years of age, and she promised to be pret­ty. She need­ed mas­ters, and her ed­uca­tion ought to cost not less than two thou­sand francs a year. The moth­er felt the ne­ces­si­ty of keep­ing her un­der the eye of her god­fa­ther and god­moth­er. She there­fore very will­ing­ly adopt­ed the pro­pos­al of Made­moi­selle Thuil­li­er, who, with­out com­mit­ting her­self to any en­gage­ment, al­lowed Madame Colleville to un­der­stand that the for­tunes of her broth­er, his wife, and her­self would go, ul­ti­mate­ly, to the lit­tle Ce­leste. The child had been left at Au­teuil un­til she was sev­en years of age, adored by the good old Madame Lem­prun, who died in 1829, leav­ing twen­ty thou­sand francs, and a house which was sold for the enor­mous sum of twen­ty-​eight thou­sand. The live­ly lit­tle girl had seen very lit­tle of her moth­er, but very much of Made­moi­selle and Madame Thuil­li­er when she first re­turned to the pa­ter­nal man­sion in 1829; but in 1833 she fell un­der the do­min­ion of Flavie, who was then, as we have said, en­deav­or­ing to do her du­ty, which, like oth­er wom­en in­sti­gat­ed by re­morse, she ex­ag­ger­at­ed. With­out be­ing an un­kind moth­er, Flavie was very stern with her daugh­ter. She re­mem­bered her own bring­ing-​up, and swore with­in her­self to make Ce­leste a vir­tu­ous wom­an. She took her to mass, and had her pre­pared for her first com­mu­nion by a rec­tor who has since be­come a bish­op. Ce­leste was all the more read­ily pi­ous, be­cause her god­moth­er, Madame Thuil­li­er, was a saint, and the child adored her; she felt that the poor ne­glect­ed wom­an loved her bet­ter than her own moth­er.

From 1833 to 1840 she re­ceived a bril­liant ed­uca­tion ac­cord­ing to the ideas of the bour­geoisie. The best mu­sic-​mas­ters made her a fair mu­si­cian; she could paint a wa­ter-​col­or prop­er­ly; she danced ex­treme­ly well; and she had stud­ied the French lan­guage, his­to­ry, ge­og­ra­phy, En­glish, Ital­ian,--in short, all that con­sti­tutes the ed­uca­tion of a well-​brought-​up young la­dy. Of medi­um height, rather plump, un­for­tu­nate­ly near-​sight­ed, she was nei­ther plain nor pret­ty; not with­out del­ica­cy or even bril­lian­cy of com­plex­ion, it is true, but to­tal­ly de­void of all dis­tinc­tion of man­ner. She had a great fund of re­served sen­si­bil­ity, and her god­fa­ther and god­moth­er, Made­moi­selle Thuil­li­er and Colleville, were unan­imous on one point,--the great re­source of moth­ers--name­ly, that Ce­leste was ca­pa­ble of at­tach­ment. One of her beau­ties was a mag­nif­icent head of very fine blond hair; but her hands and feet showed her bour­geois ori­gin.

Ce­leste en­deared her­self by pre­cious qual­ities; she was kind, sim­ple, with­out gall of any kind; she loved her fa­ther and moth­er, and would will­ing­ly sac­ri­fice her­self for their sake. Brought up to the deep­est ad­mi­ra­tion for her god­fa­ther by Brigitte (who taught her to say “Aunt Brigitte”), and by Madame Thuil­li­er and her own moth­er, Ce­leste im­bibed the high­est idea of the ex-​beau of the Em­pire. The house in the rue Saint-​Do­minique d'En­fer pro­duced up­on her very much the ef­fect of the Chateau des Tu­ileries on a courtier of the new dy­nasty.

Thuil­li­er had not es­caped the ac­tion of the ad­min­is­tra­tive rolling-​pin which thins the mind as it spreads it out. Ex­haust­ed by irk­some toil, as much as by his life of gal­lantry, the ex-​sub-​di­rec­tor had well-​nigh lost all his fac­ul­ties by the time he came to live in the rue Saint-​Do­minique. But his weary face, on which there still reigned an air of im­pe­ri­al haugh­ti­ness, min­gled with a cer­tain con­tent­ment, the con­ceit of an up­per of­fi­cial, made a deep im­pres­sion up­on Ce­leste. She alone adored that hag­gard face. The girl, more­over, felt her­self to be the hap­pi­ness of the Thuil­li­er house­hold.