A Start in Life

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A START IN LIFE

BY

HONORE DE BALZAC



Translated by
Katharine Prescott Wormeley




DEDICATION

To Laure.

Let the brilliant mind that gave me the subject of this Scene
have the honor of it.

Her brother,

De Balzac




A START IN LIFE



CHAPTER I

THAT WHICH WAS LACKING TO PIERROTIN'S HAPPINESS

Railroads, in a future not far distant, must force certain industries
to disappear forever, and modify several others, more especially those
relating to the different modes of transportation in use around Paris.
Therefore the persons and things which are the elements of this Scene
will soon give to it the character of an archaeological work. Our
nephews ought to be enchanted to learn the social material of an epoch
which they will call the "olden time." The picturesque "coucous" which
stood on the Place de la Concorde, encumbering the Cours-la-Reine,
--coucous which had flourished for a century, and were still numerous
in 1830, scarcely exist in 1842, unless on the occasion of some
attractive suburban solemnity, like that of the Grandes Eaux of
Versailles. In 1820, the various celebrated places called the
"Environs of Paris" did not all possess a regular stage-coach service.

Nevertheless, the Touchards, father and son, had acquired a monopoly
of travel and transportation to all the populous towns within a
radius of forty-five miles; and their enterprise constituted a fine
establishment in the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. In spite of their
long-standing rights, in spite, too, of their efforts, their capital,
and all the advantages of a powerful centralization, the Touchard
coaches ("messageries") found terrible competition in the coucous for
all points with a circumference of fifteen or twenty miles. The
passion of the Parisian for the country is such that local enterprise
could successfully compete with the Lesser Stage company,--Petites
Messageries, the name given to the Touchard enterprise to distinguish
it from that of the Grandes Messageries of the rue Montmartre. At the
time of which we write, the Touchard success was stimulating
speculators. For every small locality in the neighborhood of Paris
there sprang up schemes of beautiful, rapid, and commodious vehicles,
departing and arriving in Paris at fixed hours, which produced,
naturally, a fierce competition. Beaten on the long distances of
twelve to eighteen miles, the coucou came down to shorter trips, and
so lived on for several years. At last, however, it succumbed to
omnibuses, which demonstrated the possibility of carrying eighteen
persons in a vehicle drawn by two horses. To-day the coucous--if by
chance any of those birds of ponderous flight still linger in the
second-hand carriage-shops--might be made, as to its structure and
arrangement, the subject of learned researches comparable to those of
Cuvier on the animals discovered in the chalk pits of Montmartre.

These petty enterprises, which had struggled since 1822 against the
Touchards, usually found a strong foothold in the good-will and
sympathy of the inhabitants of the districts which they served. The
person undertaking the business as proprietor and conductor was nearly
always an inn-keeper along the route, to whom the beings, things, and
interests with which he had to do were all familiar. He could execute
commissions intelligently; he never asked as much for his little
stages, and therefore obtained more custom than the Touchard coaches.
He managed to elude the necessity of a custom-house permit. If need
were, he was willing to infringe the law as to the number of
passengers he might carry. In short, he possessed the affection of the
masses; and thus it happened that whenever a rival came upon the same
route, if his days for running were not the same as those of the
coucou, travellers would put off their journey to make it with their
long-tried coachman, although his vehicle and his horses might be in a
far from reassuring condition.

One of the lines which the Touchards, father and son, endeavored to
monopolize, and the one most stoutly disputed (as indeed it still is),
is that of Paris to Beaumont-sur-Oise,--a line extremely profitable,
for three rival enterprises worked it in 1822. In vain the Touchards
lowered their price; in vain they constructed better coaches and
started oftener. Competition still continued, so productive is a line
on which are little towns like Saint-Denis and Saint-Brice, and
villages like Pierrefitte, Groslay, Ecouen, Poncelles, Moisselles,
Monsoult, Maffliers, Franconville, Presles, Nointel, Nerville, etc.
The Touchard coaches finally extended their route to Chambly; but
competition followed. To-day the Toulouse, a rival enterprise, goes as
far as Beauvais.

Along this route, which is that toward England, there lies a road
which turns off at a place well-named, in view of its topography, The
Cave, and leads through a most delightful valley in the basin of the
Oise to the little town of Isle-Adam, doubly celebrated as the cradle
of the family, now extinct, of Isle-Adam, and also as the former
residence of the Bourbon-Contis. Isle-Adam is a little town flanked by
two large villages, Nogent and Parmain, both remarkable for splendid
quarries, which have furnished material for many of the finest
buildings in modern Paris and in foreign lands,--for the base and
capital of the columns of the Brussels theatre are of Nogent stone.
Though remarkable for its beautiful sites, for the famous chateaux
which princes, monks, and designers have built, such as Cassan, Stors,
Le Val, Nointel, Persan, etc., this region had escaped competition in
1822, and was reached by two coaches only, working more or less in
harmony.

This exception to the rule of rivalry was founded on reasons that are
easy to understand. From the Cave, the point on the route to England
where a paved road (due to the luxury of the Princes of Conti) turned
off to Isle-Adam, the distance is six miles. No speculating enterprise
would make such a detour, for Isle-Adam was the terminus of the road,
which did not go beyond it. Of late years, another road has been made
between the valley of Montmorency and the valley of the Oise; but in
1822 the only road which led to Isle-Adam was the paved highway of the
Princes of Conti. Pierrotin and his colleague reigned, therefore, from
Paris to Isle-Adam, beloved by every one along the way. Pierrotin's
vehicle, together with that of his comrade, and Pierrotin himself,
were so well known that even the inhabitants on the main road as far
as the Cave were in the habit of using them; for there was always
better chance of a seat to be had than in the Beaumont coaches, which
were almost always full. Pierrotin and his competitor were on the best
of terms. When the former started from Isle-Adam, the latter was
returning from Paris, and vice versa.

It is unnecessary to speak of the rival. Pierrotin possessed the
sympathies of his region; besides, he is the only one of the two who
appears in this veracious narrative. Let it suffice you to know that
the two coach proprietors lived under a good understanding, rivalled
each other loyally, and obtained customers by honorable proceedings.
In Paris they used, for economy's sake, the same yard, hotel, and
stable, the same coach-house, office, and clerk. This detail is alone
sufficient to show that Pierrotin and his competitor were, as the
popular saying is, "good dough." The hotel at which they put up in
Paris, at the corner of the rue d'Enghien, is still there, and is
called the "Lion d'Argent." The proprietor of the establishment, which
from time immemorial had lodged coachmen and coaches, drove himself
for the great company of Daumartin, which was so firmly established
that its neighbors, the Touchards, whose place of business was
directly opposite, never dreamed of starting a rival coach on the
Daumartin line.

Though the departures for Isle-Adam professed to take place at a fixed
hour, Pierrotin and his co-rival practised an indulgence in that
respect which won for them the grateful affection of the country-people,
and also violent remonstrances on the part of strangers accustomed
to the regularity of the great lines of public conveyances. But the
two conductors of these vehicles, which were half diligence, half
coucou, were invariably defended by their regular customers. The
afternoon departure at four o'clock usually lagged on till half-past,
while that of the morning, fixed for eight o'clock, was seldom known
to take place before nine. In this respect, however, the system was
elastic. In summer, that golden period for the coaching business, the
rule of departure, rigorous toward strangers, was often relaxed for
country customers. This method not infrequently enabled Pierrotin to
pocket two fares for one place, if a countryman came early and wanted
a seat already booked and paid for by some "bird of passage" who was,
unluckily for himself, a little late. Such elasticity will certainly
not commend itself to purists in morality; but Pierrotin and his
colleague justified it on the varied grounds of "hard times," of their
losses during the winter months, of the necessity of soon getting
better coaches, and of the duty of keeping exactly to the rules
written on the tariff, copies of which were, however, never shown,
unless some chance traveller was obstinate enough to demand it.

Pierrotin, a man about forty years of age, was already the father of a
family. Released from the cavalry on the great disbandment of 1815,
the worthy fellow had succeeded his father, who for many years had
driven a coucou of capricious flight between Paris and Isle-Adam.
Having married the daughter of a small inn-keeper, he enlarged his
business, made it a regular service, and became noted for his
intelligence and a certain military precision. Active and decided in
his ways, Pierrotin (the name seems to have been a sobriquet)
contrived to give, by the vivacity of his countenance, an expression
of sly shrewdness to his ruddy and weather-stained visage which
suggested wit. He was not without that facility of speech which is
acquired chiefly through "seeing life" and other countries. His voice,
by dint of talking to his horses and shouting "Gare!" was rough; but
he managed to tone it down with the bourgeois. His clothing, like that
of all coachmen of the second class, consisted of stout boots, heavy
with nails, made at Isle-Adam, trousers of bottle-green velveteen,
waistcoat of the same, over which he wore, while exercising his
functions, a blue blouse, ornamented on the collar, shoulder-straps
and cuffs, with many-colored embroidery. A cap with a visor covered
his head. His military career had left in Pierrotin's manners and
customs a great respect for all social superiority, and a habit of
obedience to persons of the upper classes; and though he never
willingly mingled with the lesser bourgeoisie, he always respected
women in whatever station of life they belonged. Nevertheless, by dint
of "trundling the world,"--one of his own expressions,--he had come to
look upon those he conveyed as so many walking parcels, who required
less care than the inanimate ones,--the essential object of a coaching
business.

Warned by the general movement which, since the Peace, was
revolutionizing his calling, Pierrotin would not allow himself to be
outdone by the progress of new lights. Since the beginning of the
summer season he had talked much of a certain large coach, ordered
from Farry, Breilmann, and Company, the best makers of diligences,--a
purchase necessitated by an increasing influx of travellers.
Pierrotin's present establishment consisted of two vehicles. One,
which served in winter, and the only one he reported to the
tax-gatherer, was the coucou which he inherited from his father. The
rounded flanks of this vehicle allowed him to put six travellers on
two seats, of metallic hardness in spite of the yellow Utrecht velvet
with which they were covered. These seats were separated by a wooden
bar inserted in the sides of the carriage at the height of the
travellers' shoulders, which could be placed or removed at will. This
bar, specially covered with velvet (Pierrotin called it "a back"), was
the despair of the passengers, from the great difficulty they found in
placing and removing it. If the "back" was difficult and even painful
to handle, that was nothing to the suffering caused to the omoplates
when the bar was in place. But when it was left to lie loose across
the coach, it made both ingress and egress extremely perilous,
especially to women.

Though each seat of this vehicle, with rounded sides like those of a
pregnant woman, could rightfully carry only three passengers, it was
not uncommon to see eight persons on the two seats jammed together
like herrings in a barrel. Pierrotin declared that the travellers were
far more comfortable in a solid, immovable mass; whereas when only
three were on a seat they banged each other perpetually, and ran much
risk of injuring their hats against the roof by the violent jolting of
the roads. In front of the vehicle was a wooden bench where Pierrotin
sat, on which three travellers could perch; when there, they went, as
everybody knows, by the name of "rabbits." On certain trips Pierrotin
placed four rabbits on the bench, and sat himself at the side, on a
sort of box placed below the body of the coach as a foot-rest for the
rabbits, which was always full of straw, or of packages that feared no
damage. The body of this particular coucou was painted yellow,
embellished along the top with a band of barber's blue, on which could
be read, on the sides, in silvery white letters, "Isle-Adam, Paris,"
and across the back, "Line to Isle-Adam."

Our descendants will be mightily mistaken if they fancy that thirteen
persons including Pierrotin were all that this vehicle could carry. On
great occasions it could take three more in a square compartment
covered with an awning, where the trunks, cases, and packages were
piled; but the prudent Pierrotin only allowed his regular customers to
sit there, and even they were not allowed to get in until at some
distance beyond the "barriere." The occupants of the "hen-roost" (the
name given by conductors to this section of their vehicles) were made
to get down outside of every village or town where there was a post of
gendarmerie; the overloading forbidden by law, "for the safety of
passengers," being too obvious to allow the gendarme on duty--always a
friend to Pierrotin--to avoid the necessity of reporting this flagrant
violation of the ordinances. Thus on certain Saturday nights and
Monday mornings, Pierrotin's coucou "trundled" fifteen travellers; but
on such occasions, in order to drag it along, he gave his stout old
horse, called Rougeot, a mate in the person of a little beast no
bigger than a pony, about whose merits he had much to say. This little
horse was a mare named Bichette; she ate little, she was spirited, she
was indefatigable, she was worth her weight in gold.

"My wife wouldn't give her for that fat lazybones of a Rougeot!" cried
Pierrotin, when some traveller would joke him about his epitome of a
horse.

The difference between this vehicle and the other consisted chiefly in
the fact that the other was on four wheels. This coach, of comical
construction, called the "four-wheel-coach," held seventeen
travellers, though it was bound not to carry more than fourteen. It
rumbled so noisily that the inhabitants of Isle-Adam frequently said,
"Here comes Pierrotin!" when he was scarcely out of the forest which
crowns the slope of the valley. It was divided into two lobes, so to
speak: one, called the "interior," contained six passengers on two
seats; the other, a sort of cabriolet constructed in front, was called
the "coupe." This coupe was closed in with very inconvenient and
fantastic glass sashes, a description of which would take too much
space to allow of its being given here. The four-wheeled coach was
surmounted by a hooded "imperial," into which Pierrotin managed to
poke six passengers; this space was inclosed by leather curtains.
Pierrotin himself sat on an almost invisible seat perched just below
the sashes of the coupe.

The master of the establishment paid the tax which was levied upon all
public conveyances on his coucou only, which was rated to carry six
persons; and he took out a special permit each time that he drove the
four-wheeler. This may seem extraordinary in these days, but when the
tax on vehicles was first imposed, it was done very timidly, and such
deceptions were easily practised by the coach proprietors, always
pleased to "faire la queue" (cheat of their dues) the government
officials, to use the argot of their vocabulary. Gradually the greedy
Treasury became severe; it forced all public conveyances not to roll
unless they carried two certificates,--one showing that they had been
weighed, the other that their taxes were duly paid. All things have
their salad days, even the Treasury; and in 1822 those days still
lasted. Often in summer, the "four-wheel-coach," and the coucou
journeyed together, carrying between them thirty-two passengers,
though Pierrotin was only paying a tax on six. On these specially
lucky days the convoy started from the faubourg Saint-Denis at
half-past four o'clock in the afternoon, and arrived gallantly at
Isle-Adam by ten at night. Proud of this service, which necessitated
the hire of an extra horse, Pierrotin was wont to say:--

"We went at a fine pace!"

But in order to do the twenty-seven miles in five hours with his
caravan, he was forced to omit certain stoppages along the road,--at
Saint-Brice, Moisselles, and La Cave.

The hotel du Lion d'Argent occupies a piece of land which is very deep
for its width. Though its frontage has only three or four windows on
the faubourg Saint-Denis, the building extends back through a long
court-yard, at the end of which are the stables, forming a large house
standing close against the division wall of the adjoining property.
The entrance is through a sort of passage-way beneath the floor of the
second story, in which two or three coaches had room to stand. In 1822
the offices of all the lines of coaches which started from the Lion
d'Argent were kept by the wife of the inn-keeper, who had as many
books as there were lines. She received the fares, booked the
passengers, and stowed away, good-naturedly, in her vast kitchen the
various packages and parcels to be transported. Travellers were
satisfied with this easy-going, patriarchal system. If they arrived
too soon, they seated themselves beneath the hood of the huge kitchen
chimney, or stood within the passage-way, or crossed to the Cafe de
l'Echiquier, which forms the corner of the street so named.

In the early days of the autumn of 1822, on a Saturday morning,
Pierrotin was standing, with his hands thrust into his pockets through
the apertures of his blouse, beneath the porte-cochere of the Lion
d'Argent, whence he could see, diagonally, the kitchen of the inn, and
through the long court-yard to the stables, which were defined in
black at the end of it. Daumartin's diligence had just started,
plunging heavily after those of the Touchards. It was past eight
o'clock. Under the enormous porch or passage, above which could be
read on a long sign, "Hotel du Lion d'Argent," stood the stablemen and
porters of the coaching-lines watching the lively start of the
vehicles which deceives so many travellers, making them believe that
the horses will be kept to that vigorous gait.

"Shall I harness up, master?" asked Pierrotin's hostler, when there
was nothing more to be seen along the road.

"It is a quarter-past eight, and I don't see any travellers," replied
Pierrotin. "Where have they poked themselves? Yes, harness up all the
same. And there are no parcels either! Twenty good Gods! a fine day
like this, and I've only four booked! A pretty state of things for a
Saturday! It is always the same when you want money! A dog's life, and
a dog's business!"

"If you had more, where would you put them? There's nothing left but
the cabriolet," said the hostler, intending to soothe Pierrotin.

"You forget the new coach!" cried Pierrotin.

"Have you really got it?" asked the man, laughing, and showing a set
of teeth as white and broad as almonds.

"You old good-for-nothing! It starts to-morrow, I tell you; and I want
at least eighteen passengers for it."

"Ha, ha! a fine affair; it'll warm up the road," said the hostler.

"A coach like that which runs to Beaumont, hey? Flaming! painted red
and gold to make Touchard burst with envy! It takes three horses! I
have bought a mate for Rougeot, and Bichette will go finely in
unicorn. Come, harness up!" added Pierrotin, glancing out towards the
street, and stuffing the tobacco into his clay pipe. "I see a lady and
lad over there with packages under their arms; they are coming to the
Lion d'Argent, for they've turned a deaf ear to the coucous. Tiens,
tiens! seems to me I know that lady for an old customer."

"You've often started empty, and arrived full," said his porter, still
by way of consolation.

"But no parcels! Twenty good Gods! What a fate!"

And Pierrotin sat down on one of the huge stone posts which protected
the walls of the building from the wheels of the coaches; but he did
so with an anxious, reflective air that was not habitual with him.

This conversation, apparently insignificant, had stirred up cruel
anxieties which were slumbering in his breast. What could there be to
trouble the heart of Pierrotin in a fine new coach? To shine upon "the
road," to rival the Touchards, to magnify his own line, to carry
passengers who would compliment him on the conveniences due to the
progress of coach-building, instead of having to listen to perpetual
complaints of his "sabots" (tires of enormous width),--such was
Pierrotin's laudable ambition; but, carried away with the desire to
outstrip his comrade on the line, hoping that the latter might some
day retire and leave to him alone the transportation to Isle-Adam, he
had gone too far. The coach was indeed ordered from Barry, Breilmann,
and Company, coach-builders, who had just substituted square English
springs for those called "swan-necks," and other old-fashioned French
contrivances. But these hard and distrustful manufacturers would only
deliver over the diligence in return for coin. Not particularly
pleased to build a vehicle which would be difficult to sell if it
remained upon their hands, these long-headed dealers declined to
undertake it at all until Pierrotin had made a preliminary payment of
two thousand francs. To satisfy this precautionary demand, Pierrotin
had exhausted all his resources and all his credit. His wife, his
father-in-law, and his friends had bled. This superb diligence he had
been to see the evening before at the painter's; all it needed now was
to be set a-rolling, but to make it roll, payment in full must, alas!
be made.

Now, a thousand francs were lacking to Pierrotin, and where to get
them he did not know. He was in debt to the master of the Lion
d'Argent; he was in danger of his losing his two thousand francs
already paid to the coach-builder, not counting five hundred for the
mate to Rougeot, and three hundred for new harnesses, on which he had
a three-months' credit. Driven by the fury of despair and the madness
of vanity, he had just openly declared that the new coach was to start
on the morrow. By offering fifteen hundred francs, instead of the two
thousand five hundred still due, he was in hopes that the softened
carriage-builders would give him his coach. But after a few moments'
meditation, his feelings led him to cry out aloud:--

"No! they're dogs! harpies! Suppose I appeal to Monsieur Moreau, the
steward at Presles? he is such a kind man," thought Pierrotin, struck
with a new idea. "Perhaps he would take my note for six months."

At this moment a footman in livery, carrying a leather portmanteau and
coming from the Touchard establishment, where he had gone too late to
secure places as far as Chambly, came up and said:--

"Are you Pierrotin?"

"Say on," replied Pierrotin.

"If you would wait a quarter of an hour, you could take my master. If
not, I'll carry back the portmanteau and try to find some other
conveyance."

"I'll wait two, three quarters, and throw a little in besides, my
lad," said Pierrotin, eyeing the pretty leather trunk, well buckled,
and bearing a brass plate with a coat of arms.

"Very good; then take this," said the valet, ridding his shoulder of
the trunk, which Pierrotin lifted, weighed, and examined.

"Here," he said to his porter, "wrap it up carefully in soft hay and
put it in the boot. There's no name upon it," he added.

"Monseigneur's arms are there," replied the valet.

"Monseigneur! Come and take a glass," said Pierrotin, nodding toward
the Cafe de l'Echiquier, whither he conducted the valet. "Waiter, two
absinthes!" he said, as he entered. "Who is your master? and where is
he going? I have never seen you before," said Pierrotin to the valet
as they touched glasses.