The perfumer, as well as the clerks, had detected during dinner the glances which Popinot had cast at Cesarine, and he resolved to clear up his suspicions.

"Well, my little daughter," he said, "this nut will revolutionize our home. From this day forth there will be one person the less under my roof."

Cesarine looked at her father with an eye which seemed to say, "What is that to me?"

"Popinot is going away."

Though Cesar was a poor observer, and had, moreover, prepared his phrase as much to herald the creation of the house of A. Popinot and Company, as to set a trap for his daughter, yet his paternal tenderness made him guess the confused feelings which rose in Cesarine's heart, blossomed in roses on her cheek, suffused her forehead and even her eyes as she lowered them. Cesar thought that words must have pa.s.sed between Cesarine and Popinot. He was mistaken; the two children comprehended each other, like all timid lovers, without a word.

Some moralists hold that love is an involuntary pa.s.sion, the most disinterested, the least calculating, of all the pa.s.sions, except maternal love. This opinion carries with it a vulgar error. Though the majority of men may be ignorant of the causes of love, it is none the less true that all sympathy, moral or physical, is based upon calculations made either by the mind, or by sentiment or brutality. Love is an essentially selfish pa.s.sion. Self means deep calculation. To every mind which looks only at results, it will seem at first sight singular and unlikely that a beautiful girl like Cesarine should love a poor lame fellow with red hair. Yet this phenomenon is completely in harmony with the arithmetic of middle-cla.s.s sentiments. To explain it, would be to give the reason of marriages which are constantly looked upon with surprise,--marriages between tall and beautiful women and puny men, or between ugly little creatures and handsome men. Every man who is cursed with some bodily infirmity, no matter what it is,--club-feet, a halting-gait, a humped-back, excessive ugliness, claret stains upon the cheek, Roguin's species of deformity, and other monstrosities the result of causes beyond the control of the sufferer,--has but two courses open to him: either he must make himself feared, or he must practise the virtues of exquisite loving-kindness; he is not permitted to float in the middle currents of average conduct which are habitual to other men.

If he takes the first course he probably has talent, genius, or strength of will; a man inspires terror only by the power of evil, respect by genius, fear through force of mind. If he chooses the second course, he makes himself adored; he submits to feminine tyranny, and knows better how to love than men of irreproachable bodily condition.

Anselme, brought up by virtuous people, by the Ragons, models of the honorable bourgeoisie, and by his uncle the judge, had been led, through his ingenuous nature and his deep religious sentiments, to redeem the slight deformity of his person by the perfection of his character.

Constance and Cesar, struck by these tendencies, so attractive in youth, had repeatedly sung his praises before Cesarine. Petty as they might be in many ways, husband and wife were n.o.ble by nature, and understood the deep things of the heart. Their praises found an echo in the mind of the young girl, who, despite her innocence, had read in Anselme's pure eyes the violent feeling, which is always flattering whatever be the lover's age, or rank, or personal appearance. Little Popinot had far more reason to adore a woman than a handsome man could ever have. If she were beautiful, he would love her madly to her dying day; his fondness would inspire him with ambition; he would sacrifice his own life that his wife's might be happy; he would make her mistress of their home, and be himself the first to accept her sway. Thus thought Cesarine, involuntarily perhaps, yet not altogether crudely; she gave a bird's-eye glance at the harvest of love in her own home, and reasoned by induction; the happiness of her mother was before her eyes,--she wished for no better fate; her instinct told her that Anselme was another Cesar, improved by his education, as she had been improved by hers. She dreamed of Popinot as mayor of an arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, and liked to picture herself taking up the collections in their parish church as her mother did at Saint-Roch. She had reached the point of no longer perceiving the difference between the left leg and the right leg of her lover, and was even capable of saying, in all sincerity, "Does he limp?" She loved those liquid eyes, and liked to watch the effect her own glance had upon them, as they lighted up for a moment with a chaste flame, and then fell, sadly.

Roguin's head-clerk, Alexandre Crottat, who was gifted with the precocious experience which comes from knowledge acquired in a lawyer's office, had an air and manner that was half cynical, half silly, which revolted Cesarine, already disgusted by the trite and commonplace character of his conversation. The silence of Popinot, on the other hand, revealed his gentle nature; she loved the smile, partly mournful, with which he listened to trivial vulgarities. The silly nonsense which made him smile filled her with repulsion; they were grave or gay in sympathy. This hidden vantage-ground did not hinder Anselme from plunging into his work, and his indefatigable ardor in it pleased Cesarine, for she guessed that when his comrades in the shop said, "Mademoiselle Cesarine will marry Roguin's head-clerk," the poor lame Anselme, with his red hair, did not despair of winning her himself. A high hope is the proof of a great love.

"Where is he going?" asked Cesarine of her father, trying to appear indifferent.

"He is to set up for himself in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants; and, my faith! by the grace of G.o.d!" cried Cesar, whose exclamations were not understood by his wife, nor by his daughter.

When Birotteau encountered a moral difficulty he did as the insects do when there is an obstacle in their way,--he turned either to the right or to the left. He therefore changed the conversation, resolving to talk over Cesarine with his wife.

"I told all your fears and fancies about Roguin to your uncle, and he laughed," he said to Constance.

"You should never tell what we say to each other!" cried Constance.

"That poor Roguin may be the best man in the world; he is fifty-eight years old, and perhaps he thinks no longer of--"

She stopped short, seeing that Cesarine was listening attentively, and made a sign to Cesar.

"Then I have done right to agree to the affair," said Birotteau.

"You are the master," she answered.

Cesar took his wife by the hands and kissed her brow; that answer always conveyed her tacit a.s.sent to her husband's projects.

"Now, then," cried the perfumer, to his clerks, when he went back to them, "the shop will be closed at ten o'clock. Gentlemen, lend a hand!

a great feat! We must move, during the night, all the furniture from the first floor to the second floor. We shall have, as they say, to put the little pots in the big pots, for my architect must have his elbows free to-morrow morning--Popinot has gone out without my permission," he cried, looking round and not seeing his cashier. "Ah, true, he does not sleep here any more, I forget that. He is gone," thought Cesar, "either to write down Monsieur Vauquelin's ideas, or else to hire the shop."

"We all know the cause of this household change," said Celestin, speaking in behalf of the two other clerks and Raguet, grouped behind him. "Is it allowable to congratulate monsieur upon an honor which reflects its light upon the whole establishment? Popinot has told us that monsieur--"

"Hey, hey! my children, it is all true. I have been decorated. I am about to a.s.semble my friends, not only to celebrate the emanc.i.p.ation of our territory, but to commemorate my promotion to the order of the Legion of honor. I may, possibly, have shown myself worthy of that signal and royal favor by my services on the Bench of commerce, and by fighting for the royal cause; which I defended--at your age--upon the steps of Saint-Roch on the 13th Vendemiaire, and I give you my word that Napoleon, called emperor, wounded me himself! wounded me in the thigh; and Madame Ragon nursed me. Take courage! recompense comes to every man.

Behold, my sons! misfortunes are never wasted."

"They will never fight in the streets again," said Celestin.

"Let us hope so," said Cesar, who thereupon went off into an harangue to the clerks, which he wound up by inviting them to the ball.

The vision of a ball inspired the three clerks, Raguet, and Virginie the cook with an ardor that gave them the strength of acrobats. They came and went up and down the stairs, carrying everything and breaking nothing. By two o'clock in the morning the removal was effected. Cesar and his wife slept on the second floor. Popinot's bedroom became that of Celestin and the second clerk. On the third floor the furniture was stored provisionally.

In the grasp of that magnetic ardor, produced by an influx of the nervous fluid, which lights a brazier in the midriff of ambitious men and lovers intent on high emprise, Popinot, so gentle and tranquil usually, pawed the earth like a thoroughbred before the race, when he came down into the shop after dinner.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Celestin.

"Oh, what a day! my dear fellow, what a day! I am set up in business, and Monsieur Cesar is decorated."

"You are very lucky if the master helps you," said Celestin.

Popinot did not answer; he disappeared, driven by a furious wind,--the wind of success.

"Lucky!" said one of the clerks, who was sorting gloves by the dozen, to another who was comparing prices on the tickets. "Lucky! the master has found out that Popinot is making eyes at Mademoiselle Cesarine, and, as the old fellow is pretty clever, he gets rid of Anselme; it would be difficult to refuse him point-blank, on account of his relations.

Celestin thinks the trick is luck or generosity!"

VI

Anselme Popinot went down the Rue Saint-Honore and rushed along the Rue des Deux-Ecus to seize upon a young man whom his commercial _second-sight_ pointed out to him as the princ.i.p.al instrument of his future fortune. Popinot the judge had once done a great service to the cleverest of all commercial travellers, to him whose triumphant loquacity and activity were to win him, in coming years, the t.i.tle of The Ill.u.s.trious. Devoted especially to the hat-trade and the _article-Paris_, this prince of travellers was called, at the time of which we write, purely and simply, Gaudissart. At the age of twenty-two he was already famous by the power of his commercial magnetism. In those days he was slim, with a joyous eye, expressive face, unwearied memory, and a glance that guessed the wants of every one; and he deserved to be, what in fact he became, the king of commercial travellers, the _Frenchman par excellence_. A few days earlier Popinot had met Gaudissart, who mentioned that he was on the point of departure; the hope of finding him still in Paris sent the lover flying into the Rue des Deux-Ecus, where he learned that the traveller had engaged his place at the Messageries-Royales. To bid adieu to his beloved capital, Gaudissart had gone to see a new piece at the Vaudeville; Popinot resolved to wait for him. Was it not drawing a cheque on fortune to entrust the launching of the oil of nuts to this incomparable steersman of mercantile inventions, already petted and courted by the richest firms? Popinot had reason to feel sure of Gaudissart. The commercial traveller, so knowing in the art of entangling that most wary of human beings, the little provincial trader, had himself become entangled in the first conspiracy attempted against the Bourbons after the Hundred Days. Gaudissart, to whom the open firmament of heaven was indispensable, found himself shut up in prison, under the weight of an accusation for a capital offence. Popinot the judge, who presided at the trial, released him on the ground that it was nothing worse than his imprudent folly which had mixed him up in the affair. A judge anxious to please the powers in office, or a rabid royalist, would have sent the luckless traveller to the scaffold. Gaudissart, who believed he owed his life to the judge, cherished the grief of being unable to make his savior any other return than that of sterile grat.i.tude. As he could not thank a judge for doing justice, he went to the Ragons and declared himself liege-va.s.sal forever to the house of Popinot.

While waiting about for Gaudissart, Anselme naturally went to look at the shop in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants, and got the address of the owner, for the purpose of negotiating a lease. As he sauntered through the dusky labyrinth of the great market, thinking how to achieve a rapid success, he suddenly came, in the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, upon a rare chance, and one of good omen, with which he resolved to regale Cesar on the morrow. Soon after, while standing about the door of the Hotel du Commerce, at the end of the Rue des Deux-Ecus, about midnight, he heard, in the far distance of the Rue de Grenelle, a vaudeville chorus sung by Gaudissart, with a cane accompaniment significantly rapped upon the pavement.

"Monsieur," said Anselme, suddenly appearing from the doorway, "two words?"

"Eleven, if you like," said the commercial traveller, brandishing his loaded cane over the aggressor.

"I am Popinot," said poor Anselme.

"Enough!" cried Gaudissart, recognizing him. "What do you need?

Money?--absent, on leave, but we can get it. My arm for a duel?--all is yours, from my head to my heels," and he sang,--

"Behold! behold!

A Frenchman true!"

"Come and talk with me for ten minutes; not in your room,--we might be overheard,--but on the Quai de l'Horloge; there's no one there at this hour," said Popinot. "It is about something important."

"Exciting, hey? Proceed."

In ten minutes Gaudissart, put in possession of Popinot's secret, saw its importance.

"Come forth! perfumers, hair-dressers, petty retailers!"

sang Gaudissart, mimicking Lafon in the role of the Cid. "I shall grab every shopkeeper in France and Navarre.--Oh, an idea! I was about to start; I remain; I shall take commissions from the Parisian perfumers."

"Why?"

"To strangle your rivals, simpleton! If I take their orders I can make their perfidious cosmetics drink oil, simply by talking and working for yours only. A first-rate traveller's trick! Ha! ha! we are the diplomatists of commerce. Famous! As for your prospectus, I'll take charge of that. I've got a friend--early childhood--Andoche Finot, son of the hat-maker in the Rue du Coq, the old buffer who launched me into travelling on hats. Andoche, who has a great deal of wit,--he got it all out of the heads tiled by his father,--he is in literature; he does the minor theatres in the 'Courrier des Spectacles.' His father, an old dog chock-full of reasons for not liking wit, won't believe in it; impossible to make him see that mind can be sold, sells itself in fact: he won't believe in anything but the three-sixes. Old Finot manages young Finot by famine. Andoche, a capable man, no fool,--I don't consort with fools, except commercially,--Andoche makes epigrams for the 'Fidele Berger,' which pays; while the other papers, for which he works like a galley-slave, keep him down on his marrow-bones in the dust. Are not they jealous, those fellows? Just the same in the _article-Paris_! Finot wrote a superb comedy in one act for Mademoiselle Mars, most glorious of the glorious!--ah, there's a woman I love!--Well, in order to get it played he had to take it to the Gaite. Andoche understands prospectuses, he worms himself into the mercantile mind; and he's not proud, he'll concoct it for us gratis. d.a.m.n it! with a bowl of punch and a few cakes we'll get it out of him; for, Popinot, no nonsense! I am to travel on your commission without pay: your compet.i.tors shall pay; I'll diddle it out of them. Let us understand each other clearly. As for me, this triumph is an affair of honor. My reward is to be best man at your wedding! I shall go to Italy, Germany, England! I shall carry with me placards in all languages, paste them everywhere, in villages, on doors of churches, all the best spots I can find in provincial towns! The oil shall sparkle, scintillate, glisten on every head. Ha! your marriage shall not be a sham; we'll make it a pageant, colors flying! You shall have your Cesarine, or my name shall not be ILl.u.s.tRIOUS,--that is what Pere Finot calls me for having got off his gray hats. In selling your oil I keep to my own sphere, the human head; hats and oil are well-known preservatives of the public hair."