Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by Gustave Flaubert Page B

to pay him, and dismissed him in a brutal fashion. Then, with an entire change of manner, he bowed to a gentleman of affectedly grave demeanour, with whiskers, a white tie and the cross of the Legion dhonneur over his chest.
    With his elbow resting on the window-latch, he kept talking to him for a long time in honeyed tones. At last he burst out:
    “Ah! well, it does not bother me to use brokers, Count.”
    The nobleman gave way, and Arnoux gave him a reduction of twenty-five louis. As soon as he had gone out:
    “What a plague these big lords are!”
    “A lot of wretches!” muttered Regimbart.
    As it grew later, Arnoux was much more busily occupied. He classified articles, tore open letters, set out accounts in a row; at the sound of hammering in the warehouse he went out to look after the packing; then he went back to his ordinary work; and, while he kept his steel pen running over the paper, he indulged in sharp witticisms. He had an invitation to dine with his lawyer that evening, and was starting next day for Belgium.
    The others chatted about the topics of the day—Cherubini’s portrait, the hemicycle of the Fine Arts, and the next Exhibition. Pellerin railed at the Institute. Scandalous stories and serious discussions got mixed up together. The room with its low ceiling was so much stuffed up that one could scarcely move; and the light of the rose-coloured candles was obscured in the smoke of their cigars, like the sun’s rays in a fog.
    The door near the sofa flew open, and a tall, thin woman entered with abrupt movements, which made all the trinkets of her watch rattle under her black taffeta gown.
    It was the woman of whom Frédéric had caught a glimpse last summer at the Palais-Royal. Some of those present, addressing her by name, shook hands with her. Hussonnet had at last managed to extract from his employer the sum of fifty francs. The clock struck seven. All rose to go.
    Arnoux told Pellerin to remain, and accompanied Mademoiselle Vatnaz into the dressing-room.
    Frédéric could not hear what they said; they spoke in whispers. However, the woman’s voice was raised:
    “I have been waiting ever since the job was done, six months ago.”
    There was a long silence, and then Mademoiselle Vatnaz reappeared. Arnoux had again promised her something.
    “Oh! oh! later, we shall see!”
    “Good-bye! happy man,” said she, as she was going out.
    Arnoux quickly re-entered the dressing-room, rubbed some pomade over his moustache, raised his braces to tighten his trouser-straps; and, while he was washing his hands:
    “I would require two over the door panels at two hundred and fifty apiece, in Boucher’s style. Is that understood?”
    “So be it,” said the artist, his face reddening.
    “Good! and don’t forget my wife!”
    Frédéric accompanied Pellerin to the top of the Faubourg Poissonnière, and asked his permission to come to see him sometimes, a favour which was graciously granted.
    Pellerin read every work on æsthetics, in order to find out the true theory of Beauty, convinced that, when he had discovered it, he would produce masterpieces. He surrounded himself with every imaginable accessory—drawings, plaster-casts, models, engravings; and he kept searching about, and agonizing. He blamed the weather, his nerves, his studio, went out into the street to find inspiration there, quivered with delight at the thought that he had caught it, then abandoned the work in which he was engaged, and dreamed of another which would be more beautiful. Thus, tormented by the desire for glory, and wasting his days in discussions, believing in a thousand absurdities—in systems, in criticisms, in the importance of a regulation or a reform in the domain of Art—he had at fifty as yet turned out nothing save mere sketches. His robust pride prevented him from experiencing any discouragement, but he was always irritated, and in a state of excitement, at the same time artificial and natural, which is characteristic of