fiato in corpo avete
like a huntsman bawling a view-halloo. Amid these odd figures, she felt like a starveling at a stage banquet where every course is made of cardboard. And so her joy on hearing this piece of news was indescribable. She simply had to see this poet, this angelic being! She went into fits of ecstasy and raved about him for hours on end. Two days later the former diplomatic courier had arranged, through the headmaster, to introduce Lucien to Madame de Bargeton.
You alone, poor provincial helots for whom social gaps yawn wider than in Paris, where they are narrowing from day to day, you, whom inexorable barriers exclude from that fine world within which each social group anathematizes and cries
Raca
to the rest, you alone will understand what a turmoil seethed in Lucien Chardon’s head and heart when his headmaster portentously announced that the doors of the Bargeton mansion were about to be opened to him! It was his fame that had made them turn on their hinges! He was to receive a warm welcome in that house whose ancient gables attracted his attention whenever he took his evening walks in Beaulieu with David, telling himself that never perhaps wouldtheir two names reach the ears of people who were deaf to science when it was of too lowly origin. His sister alone was let into the secret. Thanks to her careful housekeeping and her angelic foresight, she was able to draw a few gold coins from her savings-box in order to buy Lucien an elegant pair of shoes from the best shoe-maker in Angoulême and a new suit from the most fashionable tailor. She embellished his best shirt with a frill which she laundered and pleated herself. What joy she felt at seeing him thus accoutred! How proud she was of her brother! How much advice she gave him about all the stupid niceties of social behaviour which she was able to divine! Absorbed in meditation, Lucien had acquired the habit of putting his elbows on the table whenever he sat down, and he even used to pull the table towards him and lean on it. Eve warned him against such off-hand ways in the aristocratic holy-of-holies. She went with him as far as the Porte Saint-Pierre, and when they had arrived almost opposite the Cathedral, her eyes followed him as he walked down the rue de Beaulieu towards the Promenade where Monsieur du Châtelet was waiting for him. Then, poor girl, she stood there in such a state of emotion as if some great event had come about. It seemed to her that Lucien’s admission to Madame de Bargeton’s house heralded the dawn of prosperity. The saintly creature little knew that when ambition comes it puts an end to natural feeling.
When Lucien arrived at the rue du Minage, he found nothing striking in the external appearance of this ‘Louvre’ which his imagination had magnified. It was a house built in the soft stone peculiar to the region; time had given it a golden tint. It looked fairly gloomy from the street, and its inner aspect was very simple: a provincial courtyard, austere and neat; a sober, almost monastic style of architecture, but well preserved. Lucien walked up the old staircase with chestnut banisters; its stone treads changed to wooden ones once the first floor was reached. Crossing a shabby little anteroom and a large drawing-room, dimly lit, he found his sovereign lady in a small salon with wainscots of wood, carved in eighteenth-century style and painted grey. The upper parts of the doorwere painted in camaieu. The panelling was decorated with old red damask, poorly matched. The old-fashioned furniture was apologetically concealed under covers in red and white check. The poet caught sight of Madame de Bargeton seated on a couch with a thinly-padded quilt, in front of a round table covered with green baize, on which an old-fashioned, two-candled sconce with a shade above it cast its light. The queenly lady did not get up, but she very graciously twisted round in her seat, smiling at the poet, who was much impressed by this
like a huntsman bawling a view-halloo. Amid these odd figures, she felt like a starveling at a stage banquet where every course is made of cardboard. And so her joy on hearing this piece of news was indescribable. She simply had to see this poet, this angelic being! She went into fits of ecstasy and raved about him for hours on end. Two days later the former diplomatic courier had arranged, through the headmaster, to introduce Lucien to Madame de Bargeton.
You alone, poor provincial helots for whom social gaps yawn wider than in Paris, where they are narrowing from day to day, you, whom inexorable barriers exclude from that fine world within which each social group anathematizes and cries
Raca
to the rest, you alone will understand what a turmoil seethed in Lucien Chardon’s head and heart when his headmaster portentously announced that the doors of the Bargeton mansion were about to be opened to him! It was his fame that had made them turn on their hinges! He was to receive a warm welcome in that house whose ancient gables attracted his attention whenever he took his evening walks in Beaulieu with David, telling himself that never perhaps wouldtheir two names reach the ears of people who were deaf to science when it was of too lowly origin. His sister alone was let into the secret. Thanks to her careful housekeeping and her angelic foresight, she was able to draw a few gold coins from her savings-box in order to buy Lucien an elegant pair of shoes from the best shoe-maker in Angoulême and a new suit from the most fashionable tailor. She embellished his best shirt with a frill which she laundered and pleated herself. What joy she felt at seeing him thus accoutred! How proud she was of her brother! How much advice she gave him about all the stupid niceties of social behaviour which she was able to divine! Absorbed in meditation, Lucien had acquired the habit of putting his elbows on the table whenever he sat down, and he even used to pull the table towards him and lean on it. Eve warned him against such off-hand ways in the aristocratic holy-of-holies. She went with him as far as the Porte Saint-Pierre, and when they had arrived almost opposite the Cathedral, her eyes followed him as he walked down the rue de Beaulieu towards the Promenade where Monsieur du Châtelet was waiting for him. Then, poor girl, she stood there in such a state of emotion as if some great event had come about. It seemed to her that Lucien’s admission to Madame de Bargeton’s house heralded the dawn of prosperity. The saintly creature little knew that when ambition comes it puts an end to natural feeling.
When Lucien arrived at the rue du Minage, he found nothing striking in the external appearance of this ‘Louvre’ which his imagination had magnified. It was a house built in the soft stone peculiar to the region; time had given it a golden tint. It looked fairly gloomy from the street, and its inner aspect was very simple: a provincial courtyard, austere and neat; a sober, almost monastic style of architecture, but well preserved. Lucien walked up the old staircase with chestnut banisters; its stone treads changed to wooden ones once the first floor was reached. Crossing a shabby little anteroom and a large drawing-room, dimly lit, he found his sovereign lady in a small salon with wainscots of wood, carved in eighteenth-century style and painted grey. The upper parts of the doorwere painted in camaieu. The panelling was decorated with old red damask, poorly matched. The old-fashioned furniture was apologetically concealed under covers in red and white check. The poet caught sight of Madame de Bargeton seated on a couch with a thinly-padded quilt, in front of a round table covered with green baize, on which an old-fashioned, two-candled sconce with a shade above it cast its light. The queenly lady did not get up, but she very graciously twisted round in her seat, smiling at the poet, who was much impressed by this
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