All he could see was her back, covered with a violet cape. He glanced into the interior of the carriage, lined with blue fabric, with silk lace and fringe. The lady’s ample robes filled up the space within. He pulled away from this little padded box with its perfume of iris, a scent of feminine elegance. The coachman slackened the reins, the horse brushed abruptly past, and they disappeared.

Frédéric returned on foot, along the boulevards.

He regretted not having been able to get a proper view of Madame Dambreuse.

A little higher than the Rue Montmartre, a jumble of carriages made him turn his head, and on the opposite side, facing him, he read on a marble plate:


‘JACQUES ARNOUX’


How was it that he had not thought about her sooner? It was Deslauriers’ fault; and he approached the shop, but did not enter. He was waiting for her to appear.

The high, transparent plate-glass windows displayed statuettes, drawings, engravings, catalogues and issues of L‘Art Industriel, arranged in a skillful fashion; and subscription fees were listed on the door, which was decorated in the centre with the publisher’s initials. Against the walls could be seen large paintings whose finish had a glossy look, two chests laden with porcelain, bronze, alluring curiosities; a little staircase separated them, closed off at the top by a carpeted landing; and an antique Saxon chandelier, a green carpet on the floor, with an inlaid table, gave to this interior the appearance rather of a drawing-room than of a shop.

Frédéric pretended to be examining the drawings. After hesitating for a long time, he went in.

A clerk opened the door, and in reply to a question, said that Monsieur would not be in the shop before five oclock. But if a message could be conveyed—

“No I’ll come back,” Frédéric answered casually.

The following days were spent in search of housing; and he settled on an apartment in the second story of a furnished townhouse in the Rue Sainte-Hyacinthe.

With fresh blotting-paper under his arm, he set forth to attend the opening lecture of the course. Three hundred young men, bare-headed, filled an amphitheatre, where an old man in a red gown lectured in a monotone voice. Quill pens went scratching over the paper. In this hall he found once more the dusty odour of the school, a reading-desk of similar shape, the same wearisome monotony! For a fortnight he regularly continued his attendance at law lectures. But he left off studying the Civil Code before getting as far as Article 3, and he gave up the Institutes at the Summa Divisio Personarum.9

The pleasures that he had promised himself did not come to him; and when he had exhausted the resources of a circulating library, gone over the collections in the Louvre, and been at the theatre a great many nights in succession, he sank into the lowest depths of idleness. A thousand new things added to his depression. He had to keep track of his linens and put up with the concierge, who reminded him of a male hospital nurse who came in the morning to make up his bed, smelling of alcohol and grunting. He did not like his room, which was decorated with an alabaster clock. The walls were thin; he could hear the students making punch, laughing and singing.

Tired of this solitude, he sought out one of his old schoolfellows named Baptiste Martinon; and he discovered this boyhood friend in a middle-class boarding-house on the Rue Saint-Jacques, cramming legal procedure before a coal fire.

A woman in a print dress sat opposite him darning his socks.

Martinon was what people call a good looking fellow—tall, plump with regular features, and blue eyes. His father, an extensive landowner, had destined him for law; and wishing already to present a serious exterior, he wore his beard trimmed in a fringe.

As there was no rational foundation for Frédéric’s complaints, and as he could not give evidence of any misfortune, Martinon was unable in any way to understand his lamentations about existence. As for him, he went every morning to the school, after that took a walk in the Luxembourg gardens, in the evening swallowed his half-cup of coffee; and with fifteen hundred francs a year, and the love of this working woman, his companion, he felt perfectly happy.

“What happiness!” was Frédéric’s internal comment.

At the school he had formed another acquaintance, a youth from an aristocratic family, who on account of his dainty manners, was like a girl.

M. de Cisy devoted himself to drawing, and loved the Gothic style. They frequently went together to admire the Sainte-Chapelle and Nôtre Dame. But the young patrician’s status and airs covered an intellect of the feeblest order. Everything took him by surprise. He laughed wildly at the most trifling joke, and displayed such utter simplicity that Frédéric at first took him for a jokester, and finally regarded him as an imbecile.

The young man found it impossible, therefore, to be open with anyone; and he was constantly looking for an invitation from the Dambreuses.

On New Year’s Day, he sent them visiting-cards, but received none in return.

He made his way back to the office of LArt Industriel.

A third time he returned to it, and at last saw Arnoux carrying on an argument with five or six people around him. He scarcely responded to the young man’s bow; and Frédéric was wounded by this reception. None the less he still sought the best means of finding his way to her side.

His first idea was to come frequently to the shop on the pretext of getting paintings at low prices. Then he conceived the notion of slipping into the letter-box of the journal a few “very strong” articles, which might lead to friendly relations. Perhaps it would be better to get straight to the point at once, and declare his love? Acting on this impulse, he wrote a 12-page letter, full of lyrical phrases and exclamations but he tore it up, and did nothing, attempted nothing—immoralized by a fear of failure.

Above Arnoux’s shop, there were, on the first floor, three windows which were lighted up every evening. Shadows might be seen moving about behind them, especially one; this was hers; and he went very far out of his way in order to gaze at these windows and to contemplate this shadow.

A negress who crossed his path one day in the Tuileries, holding a little girl by the hand, reminded him of Madame Arnoux’s negress. She was sure to come there, like the others; every time he passed through the Tuileries, his heart began to beat with the anticipation of meeting her.