If it was really for the sake of the Black Prince that I had stopped at Poitiers (for my prevision of Notre Dame la Grande and of the little temple of St.
John was of the dimmest),I ought to have stopped at Angouleme for the sake of David and Eve Sechard,of Lucien de Rubempre and of Madame de Bargeton,who when she wore a toilette etudiee sported a Jewish turban ornamented with an Eastern brooch,a scarf of gauze,a necklace of cameos,and a robe of "painted muslin,"whatever that may be;treating herself to these luxuries out of an income of twelve thousand francs.The persons I have mentioned have not that vagueness of identity which is the misfortune of historical characters;they are real,supremely real,thanks to their affiliation to the great Balzac,who had invented an artificial reality which was as much better than the vulgar article as mockturtle soup is than the liquid it emulates.The first time I read "Les Illusions Perdues"I should have refused to believe that I was capable of passing the old capital of Anjou without alighting to visit the Houmeau.But we never know what we are capable of till we are tested,as I reflected when Ifound myself looking back at Angouleme from the window of the train,just after we had emerged from the long tunnel that passes under the town.This tunnel perforates the hill on which,like Poitiers,Angouleme rears itself,and which gives it an elevation still greater than that of Poitiers.You may have a tolerable look at the cathedral without leaving the railwaycarriage;for it stands just above the tunnel,and is exposed,much foreshortened,to the spectator below.There is evidently a charming walk round the plateau of the town,commanding those pretty views of which Balzac gives an account.But the train whirled me away,and these are my only impressions.
The truth is that I had no need,just at that moment,of putting myself into communication with Balzac;for opposite to me in the compartment were a couple of figures almost as vivid as the actors in the "Comedie Humaine."One of these was a very genial and dirty old priest,and the other was a reserved and concentrated young monk,the latter (by which I mean a monk of any kind)being a rare sight today in France.
This young man,indeed,was mitigatedly monastic.
He had a big brown frock and cowl,but he had also a shirt and a pair of shoes;he had,instead of a hempen scourge round his waist,a stout leather thong,and he carried with him a very profane little valise.
He also read,from beginning to end,the "Figaro"which the old priest,who had done the same,presented to him;and he looked altogether as if,had he not been a monk,he would have made a distinguished officer of engineers.When he was not reading the "Figaro"he was conning his breviary or answering,with rapid precision and with a deferential but discouraging dryness,the frequent questions of his companion,who was of quite another type.This worthy had a bored,goodnatured,unbuttoned,expansive look;was talkative,restless,almost disreputably human.
He was surrounded by a great deal of small luggage,and had scattered over the carriage his books,his papers,the fragments of his lunch,and the contents of an extraordinary bag,which he kept beside him a kind of secular reliquary and which appeared to contain the odds and ends of a lifetime,as he took from it successively a pair of slippers,an old padlock (which evidently didn't belong to it),an operaglass,a collection of almanacs,and a large seashell,which he very carefully examined.I think that if he had not been afraid of the young monk,who was so much more serious than he,he would have held the shell to his ear,like a child.Indeed,he was a very childish and delightful old priest,and his companion evidently thought him most frivolous.But I liked him the better of the two.He was not a country cure,but an ecclesiastic of some rank,who had seen a good deal both of the church and of the world;and if I too had not been afraid of his colleague,who read the "Figaro"as seriously as if it had been an encyclical,I should have entered into conversation with him.