CHAPTER X.

THE FLAME WHICH WOULD BE SEEN IF MAN WERE TRANSPARENT.

What! this woman, this extravagant thing, this libidinous dreamer, a virgin until the opportunity occurred, this bit of flesh as yet unfreed, this bold creature under a princess’s coronet; this Diana by pride, as yet untaken by the first comer, just because chance had so willed it; this bastard of a low-lived king who had not the intellect to keep his place; this duchess by a lucky hit, who, being a fine lady, played the goddess, and who, had she been poor, would have been a prostitute; this lady, more or less, this robber of a proscribed man’s goods, this overbearing strumpet, because one day he, Barkilphedro, had not money enough to buy his dinner, and to get a lodging—­she had had the impudence to seat him in her house at the corner of a table, and to put him up in some hole in her intolerable palace.  Where? never mind where.  Perhaps in the barn, perhaps in the cellar; what does it matter?  A little better than her valets, a little worse than her horses.  She had abused his distress—­his, Barkilphedro’s—­in hastening to do him treacherous good; a thing which the rich do in order to humiliate the poor, and to tie them, like curs led by a string.  Besides, what did the service she rendered him cost her?  A service is worth what it costs.  She had spare rooms in her house.  She came to Barkilphedro’s aid!  A great thing, indeed.  Had she eaten a spoonful the less of turtle soup for it? had she deprived herself of anything in the hateful overflowing of her superfluous luxuries?  No.  She had added to it a vanity, a luxury, a good action like a ring on her finger, the relief of a man of wit, the patronization of a clergyman.  She could give herself airs:  say, “I lavish kindness; I fill the mouths of men of letters; I am his benefactress.  How lucky the wretch was to find me out!  What a patroness of the arts I am!” All for having set up a truckle bed in a wretched garret in the roof.  As for the place in the Admiralty, Barkilphedro owed it to Josiana; by Jove, a pretty appointment!  Josiana had made Barkilphedro what he was.  She had created him.  Be it so.  Yes, created nothing—­less than nothing.  For in his absurd situation he felt borne down, tongue-tied, disfigured.  What did he owe Josiana?  The thanks due from a hunchback to the mother who bore him deformed.  Behold your privileged ones, your folks overwhelmed with fortune, your parvenus, your favourites of that horrid stepmother Fortune!  And that man of talent, Barkilphedro, was obliged to stand on staircases, to bow to footmen, to climb to the top of the house at night, to be courteous, assiduous, pleasant, respectful, and to have ever on his muzzle a respectful grimace!  Was not it enough to make him gnash his teeth with rage!  And all the while she was putting pearls round her neck, and making amorous poses to her fool, Lord David Dirry-Moir; the hussy!