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 LIBRARY OF 
 
 H. B. HILL. 
 
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 No 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 AN DIEQO 
 
 WHEN PERUSED.
 
 . .
 
 THE 
 
 CAT AND BATTLEDORE, 
 
 Caks, 
 
 BY 
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 
 TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY 
 
 PHILIP KENT, B.A., 
 
 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE; BARRISTER OS THE INNER TEMPLE. 
 
 CHICA GO: 
 
 BELFORDS, CLARKE & CO. 
 1879.
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 
 
 (LA MAISON Du CHAT Qui PELOTE.) 
 
 DEDICATED TO MADEMOISELLE MARIE DE MONTHEAU. 
 
 IN the middle of the Rue St. Denis almost at the corner of the 
 Rue du Petit Lion, there formerly stood one of those precious 
 houses which render it easy for the historian, with the aid of 
 analogy, to reproduce old Paris. The menacing walls of the 
 rickety old building seemed to have been spattered with hiero- 
 glyphics, for hieroglyphics is the only word that the watchful 
 idler could apply to the X's and V's traced upon the facade by 
 the horizontal or diagonal pieces of wood whose course was 
 marked in the whitewash by small parallel chinks. It was 
 obvious that the passage of the lightest vehicle would cause 
 every one of these beams to tremble in its socket. The vener- 
 able building was surmounted by a triangular roof of a kind of 
 which very soon not a single example will be left in Paris. 
 This roof, stained by the inclemency of a Parisian atmosphere, 
 overhung the street to a distance of three feet, as much for the 
 purpose of protecting the doorstep from rain-water, as for afford- 
 ing cover to the wall of an attic with its sill-less window. This 
 last storey was built of planks nailed one upon the other, like 
 scales ; in order, doubtless, not to over-weight the frail erec- 
 tion. 
 
 On a rainy morning in the month of March, a young man 
 carefully wrapped in his mantle, was stationed under the pent- 
 house of a shop opposite to the old dwelling, which he was scrut- 
 inizing with all the enthusiasm of an archaeologist. In truth 
 this relic of the bourgeoisie of the sixteenth century, supplied 
 the observer with more than one problem for solution. Each 
 storey had its peculiarity ; in the first there were four long
 
 6 BALZAC. 
 
 narrow windows, closely packed, and having their lower por- 
 tions filled with wooden squaies with the object of producing 
 that treacherous light, by whose aid a skilful shopkeeper lends 
 to his articles the particular shade desired by his customers. 
 The young man seemed to entertain a profound contempt for 
 this very necessary part of the house; his eyes did not rest 
 there, even for a moment. The windows of the second storey 
 whose blinds were raised so as to display through their 
 large panes of Bohemian glass, the small curtains of red 
 muslin did not excite in him any deeper interest. His atten- 
 tion was particularly directed to the third storey, to some hum- 
 ble windows whose roughly finished wooden frames would have 
 deserved a place in the School of Arts and Manufactures, as a 
 sample of the earliest French joining. These windows were 
 glazed with little panes, so green that, but for his excellent 
 sight, the young man could not have seen the calico curtains 
 with their blue squares which concealed from the eyes of the 
 profane the mysteries of the apartment. At times our watcher, 
 wearied by his fruitless observation, or by the silence in which 
 the house and the whole neighborhood were buried, bent his 
 gaze upon the lower parts of the house. An involuntary smile 
 then formed itself upon his lips, as the shop, with its amalga- 
 mation of ridiculous objects once more met his gaze. A for- 
 midable piece of wood laid horizontally upon four pillars, 
 which seemed to be bowed by the weight of the decrepid 
 dwelling, had been retouched with as many coats of different 
 colors as the cheek of any old duchess with layers of rouge. 
 In the centre of this large beam, which was delicately carved, 
 was to be seen an old picture representing THE CAT. 
 
 It was this picture that excited the amusement of the 
 young man. But we must admit that the cleverest of modern 
 painters could not invent so comical a caricature. The ani- 
 mal held in one of its front paws a racket, as big as itself, and 
 was raising itself upon its hind paws, to take aim at an enor- 
 mous ball thrown back to it by a gentleman in an embroidered
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 7 
 
 coal. Designs, color, accessories and all were treated in such 
 a manner as to give rise to the idea that the artist's intention 
 was to make game of shopkeeper and passer-by. Time, by 
 changing the appearance of this primitive picture, had ren- 
 dered it still more grotesque by introducing a certain vague- 
 ness which might distu :b the conscientious idler. Thus the 
 spotted tail of the cat was so cut out that it might be taken 
 for a looker-on ; so big, so lofty, and so thick were the tails of 
 our ancestors' cats. To the right of this picture, on an azure 
 field, which only in part concealed the rottenness of the wood, 
 the passer-by beheld the word Guz't/aume, and to the left 
 Successeure du Sieur Chevrel. Sun and rain had destroyed the 
 greater part of the gilt, which had been parsimoniously applied 
 to the letters of this inscription, in which the u's stood for tfs, 
 and the v's for u's according to the laws of our ancient ortho- 
 graphy. Here, with a view to taking down the pride of those 
 who believe that the world grows cleverer from day to day, and 
 that the charlatanism of modern times is unrivalled, it is fitting 
 to point out, that these signs, whose etymology seems strange 
 to many a Parisian shopkeeper, are the inanimate representa- 
 tions of living presentations, by aid of which our cunning 
 ancestors had succeeded in attracting customers to their 
 houses. Thus the Spinning Sow, the Green Monkey, &c., 
 were caged animals whose skill surprised the passer-by, while 
 their education demonstrated the patience of the tradesman of 
 the fifteenth century. Such curiosities enriched their fortunate 
 owners more speedily than the Providences, the Good Faiths, 
 the God's graces, and the decapitations of St. John the Baptist, 
 which are still to be seen in the Rue St. Denis. 
 
 However, >ur young man was assuredly not standing there 
 to admire the cat, which a moment's careful notice would grave 
 in the memory. He also had his singularities. His mantle, 
 folded like the drapery of an ancient statue, did not hide his 
 well-made shoes, which were the more noticeable amid the mud 
 of Paris, in that he wore white silk stockings, whose stains bore
 
 8 BALZAC. 
 
 witness to his impatience. It was evident that he had just 
 left some ball or wedding, for he held a pair of white gloves in 
 his hand, and the disordered curls of his black hair lay scattered 
 on his shoulders, and displayed the Caracalla cut rendered 
 fashionable by the school of the painter David, as well as by 
 that passion for Greek and Roman fashions which marked the 
 early years of this century. In spite of the noise made by cer- 
 tain market-gardeners, who set their horses at a gallop in order 
 to reach the central market betimes, the busy street was 
 wrapped in that silence whose magic is known only to those 
 who have wandered through the deserted city at those hours, 
 when its clatter, for a moment stilled, begins again to break 
 forth, and is heard in the distance, like the great murmur of 
 the sea. This strange young man must have been as much an 
 object of curiosity to the shop folks of the Chat qui-pelote, as 
 the Chat-qui-pelote was to him. A cravat of dazzling white- 
 ness rendered his anxious face paler than in reality it was. The 
 fire, now sombre, now sparkling, cast by his dark eyes, harmon- 
 ized with the strange contours of his face, and with his large 
 and many-folded mouth that narrowed when he smiled. His 
 forehead now wrinkled by some acute disappointment, was 
 stamped with some fatality. Is not the forehead the most pro- 
 phetic part of the face ? When the forehead of the stranger 
 expressed passion, the furrows which it formed inspired a kind 
 of terror by their vigorous developement ; yet when restored to 
 that repose which was so readily disturbed, this forehead dif- 
 fused around it a luminous grace which lent a certain charm to 
 a face in which joy and sorrow, love, anger, and disdain shone 
 forth so contagiously that the coldest could not escape being 
 impressed by it. 
 
 The stranger was in such a fretful mood at the moment 
 when the attic window was hastily opened, that he did not per- 
 ceive three gladsome faces pink and white but commonplace 
 as the figure-heads of Commerce to be found on certain monu- 
 ments. These three faces, to which the dormer window formed
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 9 
 
 a sort of frame, recalled the chubby faces of the cherubs 
 scattered among the clouds that surround the Pere eternel. 
 The apprentices inhaled the exhalations of the street in a man- 
 ner which proved how heated and mephitic was the atmosphere 
 of their attic. After having pointed out the curious sentinel, 
 the apprentice who seemed the most jovial of the three, dis- 
 appeared and came back holding in his hand an instrument, 
 whose unbending metal has recently been replaced by supple 
 leather ; then every face assumed a mischievous expression as 
 they watched the loiterer whom they sprinkled with a fine white 
 spray, whose odor clearly showed that the three chins had just 
 been shaved. Standing on tiptoe and ensconsed in the back 
 part of their attic, in order to enjoy the vexation of their vic- 
 tim, thethree assistants ceased to laugh, when they observed 
 the careless contempt with which the young man shook his 
 mantle, and the profound disdain depicted on the countenance 
 which he raised to the empty window. At that moment a 
 white and delicate hand raised the lower part of one of the rude 
 windows of the third storey, by means of one of those slides the 
 tourniquet of which frequently drops without a warning the 
 heavy window which it should secure. Then was the passer 
 rewarded for his lengthy watch. A young girl's face, as fresh 
 as one of those white cups that emboss the bosom of the lake 
 with flowers, appeared, crowned with a ruche of crumpled mus- 
 lin that gave the head -an air of admirable innocence. The 
 neck and shoulders, though covered with some brown material, 
 could yet be seen, thanks to some slight interstices produced 
 by the slumberer's movements. There was no expression of 
 constraint either in the ingenuous face or in the calm eyes im- 
 mortalized by anticipation in the sublime productions of 
 Raphael. There were to be seen the selfsame grace, the 
 selfsame tranquility which have become proverbial. Charming 
 was the contrast between the youthful cheek on which sleep 
 had produced the appearance of overflowing life, and the 
 antique massive window with its rough outlines and black sill.
 
 10 BALZAC. 
 
 Like those flowers of the daytime which the morning finds with 
 the still unfolded tunic which the chilly night has closed, the 
 only half-awakened girl cast her blue eyes upon the neighbor- 
 ing roofs and on the sky; but, in obedience to a kind of habit' 
 they sank to the sombre regions of the street, and there at once 
 encountered those of her .adorer. Doubtless her vanity was 
 wounded at being seen in such unfashionable garb. So she 
 suddenly drew back, the well-worn tourniquet yielded, the win- 
 dow came down with that rapidity which has gained for this 
 primitive invention of our ancestors an odious name, and the 
 vision disappeared. To that young man the brightest of the 
 morning stars seemed to. have been suddenly hidden by a 
 cloud. 
 
 While these little events were in progress the heavy inside 
 shutters which reinforced the fragile casement of the shop of 
 the Chat-qui-pelote have been removed as if by magic. The 
 old knockered door was folded back upon the interior wall of 
 the house by a servant, seemingly contemporary with the sign, 
 who with trembling hand fastened to the door the scrap of 
 square cloth on which was embroidered in yellow silk the name 
 Guillaume, Successeur de Chevrel. More than one passer-by 
 would have been puzzled to discover the nature of the business 
 carried on by M. Guillaume. It was barely possible to distin 
 guish through the thick iron bars which protected the exterior 
 of the shop, the brown calico-covered parcels numerous as a 
 shoal of herrings. Spite of the apparent simplicity of this 
 Gothic front, M. Guillaume was of all Parisian linen-drapers 
 the one whose warehouses were ever the best supplied, whose 
 connections were most widely spread, while his commercial 
 integrity was beyond suspicion. If any of his compeers entered 
 into a government contract without having the requisite quan- 
 tity of cloth, he was always ready to deliver it to them, how" 
 ever great might be the number of pieces tendered for. The 
 wily merchant knew a thousand ways of securing for himself 
 the greatest share of profit without being driven like them to
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 11 
 
 cringe or offer rich bribes to powerful patrons. If his com- 
 peers could pay him only in sound but somewhat long-dated 
 bills, he referred them to his notary as an accommodating 
 person, and thus made a double profit, thanks to this expedient, 
 which gave rise among the shopkeepers of the Rue St. Denis 
 to the proverbial saying "God preserve you from the notary of 
 M. Guillaume, " meaning a heavy discount. 
 
 The old shopkeeper was to be found, as if by miracle, at the 
 door of his shop at the moment when the servant withdrew; 
 he gazed upon the Rue St. Denis, the neighboring shops and 
 the sky, like a man who disembarking at Havre sees France 
 once more after a long voyage. 
 
 Having satisfied himself that all was as it had been when 
 he went to bed, he at length perceived the sentinel stranger, 
 who in his turn contemplated the patriarch of drapery much as 
 Humboldt must have examined the first electric gymnote that 
 he saw in America. M. Guillaume wore ample breeches of 
 black velvet, stockings, and square-toed shoes with silver 
 buckles. His slightly stooping figure was clothed with a square- 
 lapped, square-tailed, square-collared coat of greenish cloth, 
 whose large white metal buttons were somewhat tarnished by 
 wear. His grey hairs were so scrupulously smoothed and 
 combed, and flattened down upon his yellow skull, as to make 
 it look like a field in furrows. His small green eyes, which 
 looked as if they had been pierced with a gimlet, gleamed 
 beneath two arches, on which a faint red mark supplied the 
 place of brows. Care had traced upon his forehead straight 
 furrows, numerous as the creases in his coat. His pale face 
 spoke of patience, commercial prudence, and that species of 
 cunning cupidity which business requires. At the period of 
 which I am speaking those old families, wherein the manners 
 and fashion of dress distinctive of their calling, were preserved as 
 precious traditions, were more frequently to be met with thannow- 
 a-days. There they were, in the midst of modern civilization, like 
 relics of an antediluvian age, discovered in a quarry by some Cuvier.
 
 12 BALZAC. 
 
 The head of the Guillaume family, was just one of these notable 
 guardians of old customs. You would catch him regretting the 
 provost of the shopkeepers, and whenever he spoke of a decision 
 of the tribunal of commerce, he always called it the sentence 
 of the consuls. The earliest riser, doubtless in accordance 
 with those ancient customs, of his household, he was awaiting 
 with firm foot the advent of his clerks, ready to scold them in 
 case of their being late. Those young disciples of Mercury 
 knew of nothing so much to be dreaded as the silent activity 
 with which their chief examined their faces and their move- 
 ments on Monday morning, with an eye to the discovery of 
 proofs and traces of their escapades. But at the present 
 moment the old draper was not paying any attention whatever 
 to his young apprentices; he was busy in discovering the motive 
 of the anxiety which the young man in the mantle and silk stock- 
 ings displayed by gazing first at the sign and then into the 
 depths of the shop. 
 
 It was now much lighter, and the desk with its iron grill and 
 curtains of old green silk, the desk which held the ponderous 
 books, mute oracles of the house, was now visible. The too 
 inquiring stranger seemed to covet that little spot, and thence 
 to take a plan of a lateral dining-room lighted by a window in 
 the ceiling and affording the family during meal-time a ready 
 view of the slightest incidents which might take place at the 
 door of the shop. So great a passion for his abode seemed 
 suspicious to a shopkeeper who had undergone the Maximum 
 of 1793. It therefore very naturally occurred to M: Guillaume 
 that that sinister countenance boded an attack upon the strong 
 box of the Chat-qui-pelote. After having discreetly enjoyed 
 the mute duel which took place between his employer 
 and the stranger, the eldest of the clerks, seeing the young 
 man cast a furtive glance at the windows of the third storey, 
 ventured to place himself on the floor of the shop beside M. 
 Guillaume. Then taking two steps into the street, the clerk 
 looked up, and fancied he saw Mademoiselle Augustine Guil.
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 13 
 
 laume hastily withdraw from the window. Not relishing the 
 perspicacity of his chief clerk, the draper cast a side-glance at 
 him, but all at once the mutual fears which the stranger's 
 presence aroused in tke mind of the shopkeeper and the 
 enamored clerk were soothed. The stranger hailed a cab 
 which was driving to some neighboring stand, and quickly took 
 his seat with an air of deceptive indifference. His departure 
 was not without its calming effects upon the minds of the other 
 clerks, who were far from easy, when on coming downstairs 
 they found the victim of their practical joke still on the spot. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what do you mean by sticking there 
 with your arms folded?" said M. Guillaume to his three 
 neophytes. " Why formerly, by Jove, when I was clerk to M. 
 Chevrel I should have examined two pieces of cloth by this 
 time." 
 
 " The sun must have risen earlier then," said the second 
 clerk, on whom this duty devolved. The old shopkeepei 
 could not forbear from smiling. 
 
 Although two of these three young men who had been con- 
 fided to his care by their fathers, who were wealthy manu- 
 facturers at Louvieis and Sedan, had nothing to do but to ask 
 and have four thousand pounds as soon as they should be old 
 enough to start upon their own account, Guillaume deemed it 
 his duty to keep them under the ferule of an antique depotism 
 quite unknown in our day, in the gay shops of modern times, 
 whose clerks want to be rich at thirty. Guillaume made his 
 clerks work like slaves. Between the three of them they 
 sufficed for all the demands of a business which would have 
 tried the metal of ten of those assistants whose luxurious tastes 
 swell the columns of the budgets of to-day. 
 
 No noise disturbed the peace of the staid old house, in which 
 the hinges seemed to be always oiled, and every piece of furni- 
 ture, even the most trifling, showed that admirable neatness 
 which bespeaks the severest order and economy. Often and 
 often had the wag amused himself by inscribing on the gruyere
 
 14) BALZAC. 
 
 which was left to the mercy of the clerks at luncheon, and which 
 they made a joke of saving, the date of its original admission. 
 This pleasentry and others of a similar character sometimes 
 raised a smile upon the features of M. Guillaume's youngest 
 daughter, the pretty maiden who had just disappeared from the 
 gaze of the enchanted stranger. Although each of the appren- 
 tices, even the eldest, paid a handsome sum for board, not one 
 of them would have been bold enough to remain at his patron's 
 table when dessert made its appearance. When Madame 
 Guillaume talked of dressing the salad, these poor young fellows 
 shuddered as they thought of the parsimony displayed by her 
 prudent hands in dispensing the oil. It would never have 
 entered their heads to stay out all night without having given 
 long beforehand a plausible excuse for such an irregularity. 
 Every Sunday two of the clerks took it in turn to accompany 
 the Guillaume family to mass at St. Leu and to vespers. 
 Mademoiselle Virginie and Meadmoiselle Augustine, chastely 
 attired in print, took each the arm of one of the clerks, and 
 walked before under the penetrating eyes of their mother, who 
 brought up the rear of this family procession, accompanied by 
 her husband drilled into the duty of carrying two large prayer 
 books bound in black morocco. The second clerk had no salary- 
 As for the one whom twelve years of perseverance and discre- 
 tion had instructed in the secrets of the establishment, he 
 received 32/. a year as compensation for his labor. On certain 
 family high days and holidays he received certain presents 
 (whose value consisted in the fact that they came through 
 Madame Guillaume's dry and wrinkled hand); thread purses 
 stuffed with cotton to exhibit the open work designs, braces, or 
 a pair of silk stockings of the thickest kind. At times, though 
 rarely, this first minister was allowed to share the diversions of 
 the family, either excursions to the country, or when, after 
 months of expectation, it was decided to exercise the right of 
 commanding some long-forgotten piece, which taking a box 
 confers. As for the other clerks, the barrier of respect which
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 15 
 
 formerly separated a master-draper from his apprentices was so 
 firmly erected between them and the old shopkeeper, that it 
 would have been easier for them to steal a piece of cloth, than 
 to disturb that august etiquette. This reserve may appear 
 ridiculous to-day ; but for all that, these old-fashioned houses 
 were schools of morality and integrity. The masters adopted 
 their apprentices. A young man's linen was looked after, 
 mended, sometimes renewed, by the mistress of the house. 
 Did one of the apprentices fall ill ? He became the object of 
 a thoroughly maternal care. Was the illness dangerous ? The 
 master scattered his money about in fees to the most celebrated 
 doctors ; for he did not undertake to look after the morals and 
 education only of the young folks. If one of them of honor- 
 able character, encountered some misfortune, these old trades- 
 people knew how to appreciate the intelligence which he had 
 displayed, nor did they hesitate to entrust the happiness of their 
 daughters to one to whom they had long entrusted their fortune* 
 Guillaume was one of these men of the olden times, and if he 
 was not free from their absurdities, he possessed all their good 
 qualities. Accordingly Joseph Lebas, his chief clerk, a portion- 
 less orphan, was in his ideal scheme, the future husband of 
 Virginie, his eldest daughter. But Joseph did not share the 
 symmetrical notions of his patron, who would not, for an 
 empire, have married his second daughter before the first. 
 The unhappy clerk felt that his heart -was entirely wrapped up 
 in Mademoiselle Augustine, the younger daughter. In order to 
 justify this passion, which had secretly acquired strength, we 
 must penetrate a little deeper into the springs of the absolute 
 government that ruled the establishment of the old draper. 
 
 Guillaume had two daughters. The eldest, Mademoiselle 
 Virginie, was the exact portrait of her mother. Madam 
 Guillaume, the daughter of M. Chevrel, used to sit so upright 
 upon the bench behind her counter, that she had more than 
 once heard some wags bet that she was empaled there. Her 
 Ions: thin face showed siarns of boundless sanctimoniousness.
 
 1C BALZAC. 
 
 Ungraceful in person, unengaging in manner, Madame Guil- 
 laume habitually adorned her head, which had weathered sixty 
 winters, with a cap of inflexible design and trimmed with 
 weepers like that of a widow. She was known to the whole neigh- 
 borhood as " the messenger nun." Her language was concise, 
 and her gestures recalled the jerky movements of a telegraph. 
 Her eye, clear as that of a cat, seemed to seek revenge from 
 every one for its owner's ugliness. Madamoiselle Virginie, 
 who, like her younger sister, had been brought up under the 
 domestic rule of her mother, was now twenty-eight. Her 
 youth softened the ungraceful caste of countenance which her 
 resemblance to her mother sometimes lent to her features ; 
 but the maternal strictness had endowed her with two great 
 qualities which might serve as a set-off against all defects ; she 
 was gentle and patient. Her sister, Mademoiselle Augustine, 
 was barely eighteen ; she bore no likeness either to father or 
 mother. She was one of those girls who, from the absence of 
 all physical bonds between them and their parents, support the 
 old maids' sayings that children are the gift of God. Augustine 
 was small, or better to describe her, little ; and so full of sim- 
 plicity and grace that a man of the world could find no fault 
 in her except that her gestures, and sometimes her attitudes, 
 were somewhat common, and that she was not perfectly free 
 from constraint. Her still and silent features were suffused 
 with that transient melancholy which seizes all young girls who 
 lack strength to oppose a mother's will. The plainness of their 
 dress always prevented the two sisters from satisfying the innate 
 coquetry of woman, except by displaying a luxury of neatness 
 which became them admirably and introduced an admirable 
 harmony between them and the shining counters and the 
 shelves, cleansed by the old servant from every particle of dust, 
 and the antique simplicity of all their surroundings. 
 
 Forced by their mode of life to seek the elements of happi- 
 ness in unremitting toil, Augustine and Virginie had never 
 given cause for aught but satisfaction to their mother, who
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 17 
 
 congratulated hrself in secret on the perfection of her daugh- 
 ters' characters. It is easy to imagine the results of the 
 education which they had received. Brought up to business, 
 accustomed to hear nought but discussions and calculations 
 sombrely commercial ; grammar, book-keeping, Jewish history, 
 and Rajou's history of France, their only studies ; their only 
 reading, books approved by their mother ; the ideas of the 
 sisters were somewhat narrow. They had a perfect knowledge 
 of housekeeping, were familiar with the prices of goods, 
 understood the difficulty of making a fortune, were economi- 
 cal, and held in high esteem the qualities which go to make 
 a man of business. Notwithstanding their father's wealth, 
 they could darn a stocking as well as make a wreath ; their 
 mother often talked about teaching them cookery, in order 
 that they might know how to order a dinner and scold a cook 
 secundum artem. Ignorant of the pleasures of the world, and 
 observing how placidly the exemplary lives of their parents 
 glided on, they very seldom cast a glance beyond the precincts 
 of the old paternal house, which was their mother's universe. 
 The whole future of their terrestrial pleasures consisted in 
 the social gatherings to which their family fete-days ga?e rise. 
 When the large drawing-room on the second-floor was about 
 to receive Madame Roguin, a Mademoiselle Chevrel fifteen 
 years younger than her cousin and who wore diamonds, young 
 Rabourdin, under-secretary in the Financial Department, 
 Monsieur Ce'sar Birotteau a rich perfumer and his wife, who 
 went by the name of Madame Ce'sar, Monsieur Camusot, the 
 wealthiest silk merchant in the Rue des Bourdonnais, his 
 father-in-law Monsieur Cardot, two or three old bankers, and 
 some ladies of spotless virtue; the preparations necessitated 
 by the manner in which the plate, the Saxony porcelain, the 
 candles and the crystals were packed up, introduced some 
 diversion into the monotonous existence of these three women. 
 They trotted about and became as excited as a parcel of nuns 
 when they are about to receive their bishop. And then, when 
 B
 
 18 BALZAC. 
 
 in the evening they were all three worn out with dusting, 
 rubbing, and unpacking, Madame Guillaume would say to the 
 girls as they helped her to undress, " We have done nothing 
 to-day, my children." It would sometimes happen upon these 
 solemn occasions that "the messenger nun" would allow 
 (lancing, and confine the boston whist and backgammon par-' 
 ties to her bedroom. Such a concession was regarded as a 
 most unlooked-for piece of happiness, and caused a joy not 
 less than that of going to the two or three grand carnival 
 balls to which M. Guillaume duly conducted his daughters. 
 And then once a year the honest draper gave an entertainment 
 for which he spared no expense. The persons invited, how- 
 ever wealthy and fashionable they might be, took care to be 
 present ; for the most important houses in the neighborhood 
 had recourse to the large fortune, vast credit, and matured 
 experience of M. Guillaume. But the two girls of the worthy 
 tradesman did not derive so much advantage as might be 
 supposed from the instruction which the world offers to the 
 young. The meanness of the dresses which they wore at 
 these festivals (which by the way were carried to the profit 
 and loss account of the house) made them feel ashamed. 
 They had no particular turn for dancing, and their mother's 
 watchful eye precluded them from holding with their partners 
 any conversation beyond yes and no. Then the law of the 
 old sign of the Chat-qui-pelote compelled them to go home at 
 eleven o'clock, the very moment when the ball and festive 
 meetings begin to grow animated. Thus their diversions, 
 seemingly in conformity with the fortune of their father, often 
 became insipid through circumstances connected with the 
 habits and principles of the establishment. 
 
 As to the routine of their daily existence, a single observa- 
 tion will describe it. Madame Guillaume required her daugh- 
 ters to be dressed very early in the morning, to put in an 
 appearance at the same hour every day, and subjected their 
 employments to a monastic regularity. Chance, however,
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 19 
 
 had given to Augustine a mind sufficiently elevated to feel 
 the emptiness of such an existence. Her blue eyes would at 
 times be raised as if to interrogate the depths of the dark 
 staircase, and the damp warerooms ; after having sounded that 
 cloistral silence, she seemed as it were to listen to the confused 
 revelations of that passionate existence which places senti- 
 ments on a higher level than things. At such moments her 
 face would flush, her listless hand would drop the muslin on 
 the polished oaken counter, and soon her mother's voice, which 
 retained its native harshness even in its mildest tones, would 
 be heard exclaiming, 
 
 "Augustine, what are you thinking about, my treasure?" 
 It may be that " Hippolyte Comte de Douglas" and " Le 
 Comte de Commingues," two novels recently discovered by 
 Augustine in the chest of drawers of a cook recently dismissed 
 bv Madame Guillaume had contributed to the development of 
 the young girl, who had positively devoured them during the 
 long nights of the preceding winter. 
 
 These manifestations of vague desire, the sweet voice, the 
 jasmine skin and blue eyes of Augustine had then kindled in 
 the heart of poor Lebas a passion as violent as it was respect- 
 ful. Through a very intelligible caprice Augustine did not 
 feel the slightest penchant for the orphan ; perhaps because 
 she was unconscious that he loved her. On the other hand, 
 the long legs, chestnut hair, large hands, and vigorous frame 
 of the chief clerk had found a secret admirer in Mademoiselle 
 Virginie, who, spite of her portion of ^6,000, was not sought 
 by any one. Nothing could be more natural than these two 
 cross-purpose passions born amid the silence of that obscure 
 counter, just as the violets bloom in the deep woods. The 
 mute and constant observation which through a violent desire 
 for diversion amid that unceasing toil and that religious calm, 
 chained the eyes of these young people upon one another, was 
 certain sooner or later to excite love. To have a face con-
 
 20 BALZAC. 
 
 stantly before our eyes leads us to trace in it the feelings of 
 the heart, and ends by obliterating its defects. 
 
 " At the rate at which this man is travelling," said M. Guil- 
 laume to himself as he read the first decree whereby Napoleon 
 anticipated the classes of conscripts, " our daughters will soon 
 be going on their knees to a sweetheart." 
 
 And from that day forward, grieved to the heart to see his 
 daughter fading, the eld shopkeeper remembered that he had 
 married Mademoiselle Chevrel when their relative position was 
 very much like that of Joseph Lebas and Virginie. It would 
 be a capital stroke of business to get his daughter married, and 
 at the same time discharge a sacred debt by bestowing on an 
 orphan the benefits which he himself had formerly received at 
 the hands of his predecessors, under similar circumstances. 
 
 Joseph Lebas however was thirty-three years of age, and was 
 turning over in his mind the difficulties which a disparity of 
 fifteen years would place between Augustine and him. He was, 
 moreover, too clear sighted not to guess the intention of M. 
 Guillaume, and he was sufficiently well acquainted with his 
 inexorable principles to know that the younger sister would 
 never be allowed to marry until the elder was settled. Thus, 
 then, the poor clerk whose heart was as noble as his legs were 
 long, and his chest deep, suffered in silence. 
 
 Such was the condition of affairs in this small republic, which, 
 while situated in the middle of the Rue St. Denis, bore a close 
 resemblance to a chapel of ease of La Trappe. 
 
 But in order to give an exact account of the external situation 
 of affairs as well as of the internal feelings, we must go back to 
 some months before the opening scene of the story. 
 
 It was nightfall when a young man passing before the dimly- 
 lighted shop of the Chat-qui-pelote, stood still for a moment to 
 contemplate a picture which would have arrested the attention 
 of any painter in the world. The shop, as yet unilluminated, 
 formed a black foreground, behind which was to be seen the 
 shopkeeper's dining-room, over which an astral lamp was fling-
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 21 
 
 ing that yellow light which gives so much grace to pictures 
 belonging to the Dutch school. The white table-linen, the 
 plate and the cut glasses formed brilliant accessories to the 
 scene, which was still further enhanced by the keen contrast of 
 light and shade. The face of the father of the family, that of 
 his wife, the countenances of the clerks, and the pure outlines 
 of the features of ,Augustine, close to whom stood a strapping 
 red-faced servant-girl, all these together formed a group so 
 striking ; the heads were so original, and each character was so 
 frankly expressed on the features ; while the peaceful, quiet ; 
 modest life of the family was so clearly to be gathered from the 
 scene ; that an artist accustomed to paint from nature might 
 well experience a desperate desire to reproduce the chance- 
 begotten picture. 
 
 The passenger whose gaze was thus arrested was a young 
 painter who seven years before had gained the grand prize for 
 painting. 
 
 He had just returned from Rome. His soul that had been 
 fed on poetry, his eyes that had been satiated with Raphael and 
 Michael Angelo, thirsted for genuine nature after his long 
 sojourn in that land of pomp, over every part of which Art has 
 thrown her majesty. False or not, such was his personal feel- 
 ing on the subject. His heart that had been long abandoned 
 to the torrent of Italy's impetuous passion, thirsted for one of 
 those modest and retiring maidens which at Rome he had, un- 
 fortunately, found only upon canvas. 
 
 From the enthusiasm to which the natural group he gazed 
 on gave rise in his excited breast, he passed by a natural tran- 
 sition to a profound admiration for the principal figure. 
 Augustine seemed pensive and was not eating ; owing to the 
 situation of the lamp, whose light fell full upon her face, her 
 whole bust seemed to move in a circle of flame, which brought 
 out more fully the contours of her head and lighted it up in a 
 manner almost supernatural. Involuntarily the artist compared 
 her to an angel bethinking herself of the heaven from which
 
 22 BALZAC. 
 
 she had been banished. A sensation almost unknown before 
 a limpid boiling passion deluged his bosom. 
 
 After remaining for a moment almost crushed beneath the 
 weight of his ideas, he tore himself away from the scene of his 
 enjoyment and went home but not to eat and not to sleep. 
 The next day he shut himself in his .studio and there remained 
 until he had deposited on canvas the main scene whose me- 
 mory had well-nigh turned him into a fanatic. His happiness 
 was imperfect so long as he was without a faithful portrait of 
 his idol. Several times did he pass before the Chat-qui-pelote ; 
 once or twice he even had the hardihood to enter the shop in 
 disguise in order to obtain a nearer view of the enchanting 
 creature whom Madame Guillaume covered with her wing. 
 During eight months, slave of his love and of his brushes, he 
 remained invisible to his most intimate friends; the world, 
 poetry, the drama, music and all his cherished habits, were 
 forgotten. 
 
 One morning, Girodet broke through all the impediments to 
 admission which artists know and can ellude, burst in on him 
 and roused him with the question, " What are you going to 
 exhibit ?" 
 
 The artist seized his friend's hand, dragged him to the studio 
 and uncovered a little easel picture and a portrait. 
 
 Girodet, after a slow but eager contemplation of the two 
 masterpieces, threw his arms round his comrade's neck, and 
 silently embraced him. His feelings could not be expressed, 
 save, as he experienced them, from heart to heart, 
 i "You are in love?" said Girodet. 
 
 They both knew that the finest portraits of Titian, Raphael^ 
 and Leonardo da Vinci were the offspring of excited feelings, 
 which, under varying conditions, are the source of every kind 
 of masterpiece. The young artist replied to the interrogation 
 only by a movement of the head. 
 
 " Happy mortal, to be in love here after returning from 
 Italy 1 I would not advise you," added the great painter, " to
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 23 
 
 exhibit such works as these ; for, look you, these two pictures 
 will not be understood. These true colors, this prodigious 
 labor cannot as yet be appreciated ; the public are not accus- 
 tomed to so much depth. The pictures which we paint, my 
 good friend, are fire-screens and door-screens. Yes, let us 
 rather write verses and translate the ancients, we shall reap 
 more glory from that than from our miserable pictures." 
 
 In spite of this charitable advice the pictures were exhibited. 
 The picture representing the interior created a revolution in 
 painting. It gave rise to those pictures of " genre " which, to 
 judge from the prodigious number of them imported into all our 
 exhibitions, must, one would imagine, be produced by a 
 purely mechanical process. As for the portrait, very few artists 
 can have forgotten that living canvas to which the public, which 
 is occasionally just, as a body, assigned the crown that Girodet 
 himself had awarded. The two pictures were surrounded by 
 an immense crowd. There was a death struggle to get to them, 
 as the women say. Enterprising purchasers and aristocratic 
 magnates covered the pictures with double Napoleons, but the 
 artist resolutely refused to sell them or to make copies of 
 them. He was offered an enormous sum for permission to 
 engrave them, but the men of business were as unsuccessful as 
 the amateurs had been. 
 
 Now, although this adventure engaged the attention of the 
 world, it was not of a kind to penetrate to tLe little Thebais of 
 the Rue St. Denis. Yet it so happened that the notary's wife, 
 during a visit to Madame Guillaume, mentioned the exhibition 
 in the presence of Augustine, of whom she was very fond, and 
 explained to her its object. The chatter of Madame Roguin 
 naturally inspired Augustine with the desire to see the pictures, 
 and the boldness to ask her cousin in secret to take her to the 
 Louvre. The cousin succeeded in the negotiation which she 
 set on foot in order to obtain Madame Guillaume's consent 
 to withdraw her young cousin from her melancholy toils fo r 
 about two hours, and so the young girl made her way through
 
 24 BALZAC. 
 
 the crowd and reached the prize picture. She trembled like a 
 birch leaf when she recognized her own likeness. She was 
 frightened, and looked round in order to find her way back to 
 Madame Roguin, from whom she was seperated by a crowd of 
 people. At that moment her frightened eyes encountered 
 the excited face of the young painter. She at once recalled 
 the features of a pedestrian whom in her curiosity she had often 
 remarked, taking him for a new eighbor. 
 
 " You see what love has inspired me to do," whispered the 
 artist to the timid creature, who was quite frightened at his 
 words. 
 
 She summoned up a supernatural courage to pierce the 
 crowd and rejoin her cousin, who was still busy trying to pen- 
 etrate the mass of people, who kept her at a distance from the 
 picture. 
 
 "You would be stifled if you got there," said Augustine. 
 " Let us go." 
 
 But there are certain moments at the Exhibition when two 
 women are not always at liberty to direct their steps in the 
 galleries as they would. Madamoiselle Guillaume and her 
 cousin were pushed to some little distance from the second 
 picture by virtue of the irregular pressure of the crowd. As 
 chance would have it, they found an easy access to the picture 
 which fashion, for once in unison with the world of artists, had 
 distinguished. The exclamation of surprise which escaped 
 from the wife of the notary was lost among the hum and buzz- 
 ing of the crowd ; but Augustine shed involuntary tears at 
 sight of the marvelous scene. Then, actuated by an almost 
 inexplicable sentiment, she placed her finger on her lips as she 
 caught sight of the ecstatic face of the young artist within two 
 feet of her. The stranger responded by a movement of the 
 head and indicated that Madame Roguin was de trop, in order 
 to show Augustine that she was understood. This pantomime 
 was like a furnace to the young girl, who looked upon herself 
 as a criminal at the idea that a compact had just been entered
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 25 
 
 into between her and the artist. The stifling heat, the con- 
 stant sight of the most brilliant costumes, and the stupefaction 
 which Augustine experienced at the truth of the colours, the 
 crowd of faces on canvas or alive, and the profusion of gilt 
 frames, excited in the girl a species of intoxication which re- 
 doubled her apprehensions. She would perhaps have fainted, 
 but that in spite of this chaos of sensations she felt in the 
 depths of her heart a rising joy that gave fresh life to her whole 
 frame. At the same time she believed that she was under the 
 empire of that demon, of whose fearful snares she had heard 
 from the thundering lips of the preacher. That moment was 
 to her a moment of madness. She found herself escorted to 
 the carriage of her aunt by the young painter, buoyant with 
 happiness and love. An excitement altogether unknown, an 
 intoxication which in some sort made her the prey of her 
 natural feelings, led her to listen to the eloquent language of 
 her heart, and several times she cast upon the young painter a 
 glance in which was written all the emotion which she felt ; 
 never had the carnation of her cheek formed a more striking 
 contrast with the whiteness of her skin. The artist then beheld 
 her beauty in all its bloom, her modesty in all its glory. 
 Augustine experienced a mingled sensation of joy and terror 
 when she recognized that her presence was the source of the 
 happiness of him whose name was on every lip and whose 
 talent conferred immortality upon a transient image. She 
 was beloved ; there could be no doubt of that. When the 
 artist was no longer in her presence, the simple words, " You 
 see what love has inspired me to do," still found an echo in 
 her heart, and its yet deeper palpitations seemed to her quite 
 painful ; so great were the unknown powers stirred within her 
 by her now more ardent blood. She feigned a violent head- 
 ache in order that she might avoid answering the questions of 
 her cousin about the pictures ; but when they got back to the 
 house, Madame Roguin could not keep herself from speaking 
 to Madame Guillaume of the celebrity which the Chat-qui-pelote
 
 26 BALZAC. 
 
 had acquired, and Augustine trembled in every limb when she 
 heard her mother announce her intention to go to the Exhibition 
 to see her own house. The young girl renewed her complaints 
 and was allowed to go to bed. " Yes, that is just what one 
 gets by going to see these sights headaches," said M. Guil- 
 laume ; " It is so very amusing to see on a piece of canvas what 
 you can see every day in our street. Don't talk to me about 
 your artists, they are just like your authors starvation birds. 
 Why the devil do they want to take my house and vilipend it 
 in their pictures ? " 
 
 " It may lead to our selling a few more ells of cloth," said 
 Joseph Lebas. But spite of this observation, art and thought 
 were, once again found guilty at the tribunal of commerce. It 
 may well be supposed that such conversation as this did not 
 greatly raise the hopes of Augustine, who, during the night 
 resigned herself to her first love meditation. The events of 
 the day were like a dream, which it pleased her to reproduce 
 in thought. She underwent her apprenticeship to those fears, 
 those hopes, and that remorse, to all those undulations of 
 feeling, by which a heart so simple and so timid as hers must 
 needs be swayed. What a void she now discovered in that 
 dark dwelling ! what a treasure she discovered in her heart ! 
 To be the wife of a man of talent, to share his glory ; what 
 ravages must such a thought create in the heart of a child 
 nurtured in the bosom of such a family ! What hopes did 
 the idea awaken in a young woman who, educated as yet on 
 vulgar principles, had nevertheless wished for a life of elegance. 
 A ray of light had lighted up the prison, and all at once 
 Augustine loved. In her case so many feelings were gratified 
 at once that she succumbed without a single calculation. At 
 the age of eighteen love throws its prism between the eyes of 
 a young girl and the world. Without an inkling of the stern 
 realities which result from the union of a loving woman with a 
 man of imagination, she believed herself called upon to confer 
 happiness on her artist, without perceiving any disparity be-
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 27 
 
 tween herself ftnd him. To her the present was the whole 
 future. 
 
 When, on the morrow, Augustine's father and mother re- 
 turned from the Exhibition, their faces showed that they had 
 sustained some disappointment. In the first place, the two 
 pictures had been removed, and in the second, Madame Guil- 
 laume had lost her Cashmere shawl. When Augustine heard 
 of the disappearance of the paintings, following her visit to 
 *the exhibition, she saw in it, that delicacy of sentiment which 
 women always appreciate, even instinctively. 
 
 The morning on which, on his returning from a ball, Theo- 
 dore de Sommervieux, for that was the name which renown 
 had carried to Augustine's ear, was sprinkled by the clerks of 
 the Chat-qui-pelote, as he waited for the appearance of his 
 simple mistress, who certainly was unconscious of his presence, 
 was the fourth occasion only, on which the two lovers had seen 
 each other, since the scene which had taken place at the 
 Exhibition. The obstacles which the regime of the Guillaume 
 establishment opposed to the fiery temper of the artist, gave 
 to his passion for Augustine a violence that may readily be 
 imagined. How was it possible to accost a young girl seated 
 at a counter between two such women as Virginie and Madame 
 Guilluame? How could he correspond with her when her 
 mother never left her ? With that skill in creating imaginary 
 troubles which every lover displays, Theodore made one of 
 the clerks his rival, and made the others his accomplices. 
 Could he deceive so many Arguses, he saw himself discovered 
 by the severe eyes of the old shopkeeper and Madame Guil- 
 laume. Everywhere were barriers, everywhere despair. The 
 very vehemence of the young painter's passion prevented him 
 from hitting upon those ingenious expedients, which with 
 prisoners as with lovers, seem to be the last effort of reason 
 stirred by the savage thirst for liberty, or by the fire of love. 
 
 Theodore patrolled the neighborhood with the restlessness 
 of a madman, as if motion might suggest devices. After
 
 28 BALZAC. 
 
 having thoroughly tortured his brain, it occurred to him to 
 bribe the blowsy servant. Thus it happened that sundry 
 letters were exchanged at distant intervals during the fortnight 
 which followed the unlucky morning on which M. Guillaume 
 and Theodore had examined each other with such minute 
 attention. 
 
 At the period at which our story has now arrived, the two 
 young people had agreed to see each other at a certain hour 
 every weekday, and on Sunday at St. Leu during mass and 
 vespers. Augustine had sent her beloved Theodore a list of the 
 relations and friends of the family; andto these the young 
 painter tried to get introduced in order to engage, if possible, 
 in the interest of his love, one of these hearts to which money 
 and business were the be-all and the end-all, and a genuine 
 passion, a most monstrous, and a most unheard-of speculation. 
 For the rest, the habits of the inmates of the Chat-qui-pelote 
 had undergone no change. If Augustine was preoccupied, if 
 in violation of all obedience to the law of the domestic charter, 
 she went up to her bedroom to establish, by means of a pot of 
 flowers, signals with her lover ; if she sighed, if indeed she 
 thought, no one, not even her mother, noticed it. This cir- 
 cumstance may cause some surprise to those who have seized 
 the pervading spirit of this house, where any idea tainted with 
 poetry must necessarily be in opposition to its inmates and its 
 furniture ; where no one could indulge in a gesture or a look 
 that were not seen and analyzed. And yet nothing could be 
 more natural ; for the tranquil vessel which sailed the stormy 
 sea of the Exchange of Paris under the flag of the Chat-qui- 
 pelote, was at this time the prey of one of those gales which 
 from the periodicity of their return we may style equinoctial. 
 For the last five days the five men who constituted the crew, 
 Madame Guillaume and Mademoiselle Virginie, had been 
 engaged in that engrossing toil, which is called stock-taking. 
 Every package was turned over, and the measure of every 
 piece was taken, in order to ascertain the exact value of the
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 29 
 
 remnant. The ticket affixed to each parcel was carefully 
 examined, in order to fix the date when the cloth was purchased. 
 The exact price was determined. Ever on foot, with his ell- 
 wand in his hand, M. Guillaume resembled a captain giving 
 orders as to the conduct of the vessel. His shrill voice echo- 
 ing through a loophole in interrogation of the deeps that lay 
 beneath the hatchways of the lower shop, gave forth those ( 
 barbarous commercial phrases which can only be expressed by 
 enigmatic signs. "How much of H.N.Z. ?" "All gone." 
 " What left of Q.X. ?" " Two ells." What price ? " " Five 
 five three " " Put all J. J., all M.P., and the residue of V.D.O. 
 in three A. ;" and a thousand other phrases equally intelligible, 
 rumbled over the counters, like the lines of some modern 
 poem recited by the votaries of the Romantic School in order 
 to keep alive their enthusiasm for one of their poets. In the 
 evening Guillaume shut himself up with his chief clerk and 
 his wife, paid accounts, carried them over, wrote to delinquents, 
 and jotted up invoices. All three of them took part in the 
 immense labor whose result contained in a simple sheet of 
 foolscap proved to the house of Guillaume that it was worth 
 so much in cash, so much in goods, so much in drafts and 
 bills ; that it did not owe a farthing ; that it was a creditor lo 
 the amoun of from four to eight thousand pounds ; that its 
 capital had increased, and that its farms were to be increased, 
 houses repaired, or rents doubled. Whence this obvious con- 
 sequence tha it was absolutely necessary to begin with 
 redoubled ardour the task of piling crown on crown. Never 
 did it occur to those brave ants to ask themselves the question 
 Cut bono? 
 
 Under cover of this annual commotion the happy Augustine 
 escaped the scrutiny of her Arguses. At length one Saturday 
 evening the stock-taking came to an end. The sum total of 
 the credits showed a sufficient number of cyphers to induce M. 
 Guillaume under the circumstances to suspend the severe 
 restriction which reigned throughout the year as to dessert.
 
 30 BALZAC. 
 
 The wily draper rubbed his hands and allowed his clerks to 
 remain at table. Scarcely had each member of the crew finish- 
 ed his little glass of home-made liqueur when the roll of carriage- 
 wheels was heard. The family was going to see Cinderella at 
 the Variete's, while the two junior clerks received each a double 
 crown piece, with permission to go where they liked, provided 
 always that they were home by twelve o'clock. 
 
 In spite of this debauch, the old draper was busy at six o'clock 
 next morning, shaving himself, incasing himself in his maroon- 
 colored coat, from whose splendor he always derived the 
 same amount of satisfaction, and fastening the golden buckles 
 of his velvet breeches. At seven o'clock, while all was still 
 silent throughout the house, he directed his steps to the little 
 cabinet attached to his first floor shop. This cabinet wac, 
 lighted by a window protected by strong iron bars, and looking 
 on a little square court whose walls were so black that it looked 
 like a well. The old tradesman opened with his own hand 
 the iron-plated shutters which he knew so well, and raised one 
 half of the glazed framework of the window. The chilly air of 
 the court rushed in and cooled the heated atmosphere of the 
 cabinet, which was redolent of that odor which is peculiar to 
 offices. Upright he stood, with his hand resting on the greasy 
 arm of a cane chair covered with morocco whose original color 
 had disappeared. He seemed to hesitate about sitting down. 
 As he looked at the bureau with its double desk, near which 
 his wife's seat was placed in a little arch let into the wall, op- 
 'posite to his own seat, his features softened. He looked at the 
 numbered boxes, the bands, the utensils, the branding irons, 
 and the cash box objects of immemorial origin, ,nd seemed 
 to feel the shadowy presence of the deceased Chevrel. Ic 
 pushed forward the very stool on which he used himself to sit 
 in the presence of his departed patron. This tool, Covered 
 with black leather, and whose horsehair stuffing had long since 
 been exposed though without actually escaping, he placed 
 with trembling hand upon the very spot where his predecessor
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. SI 
 
 had placed it. Then with an agitation du'cult .o describe, he 
 pulled the bell-rope which communicated with the bedhead of 
 Joseph Lebas. When this decisive blow had been struck, the 
 old man whose reminiscences were undoubtedly too overpower- 
 ing, took up two or three bills of exchange which had been 
 presented to him, and gazed at them, though without really 
 seeing them, when Joseph Lebas suddenly appeared. 
 
 " Sit down there," said Guillaume, pointing to the stool. 
 
 As this was the first time that the old master-draper had ever 
 made his clerk sit down in his presence, Joseph Lebas trembled. 
 
 " What do you think of these drafts ?" asked Guillaume. 
 
 " They won't be paid." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Oh, I heard that Etienne and Co. were paying in gold he 
 da, before yesterday " 
 
 "Ah, ah!" cried the draper; "people must be very sick 
 when they show their bile. Let us change the subject Joseph, 
 the stock-taking is finished." 
 
 " Yes, sir, and the dividend is one of the best you ever nad.' 
 
 " Don't use those newfangled words, say ' the product,* 
 Joseph. Do you know, my lad, that it is in some measure to 
 you that we owe these results ? which being so, I doivt wish to 
 pay you by salary any longer. Madame Guillaume has sug- 
 gested to me the idea of offering you a share there, Joseph ! 
 Guillaume and Lebas won't sound badly as the name of? firm, 
 will they -' We might add ' and company' to round the signa- 
 ture." 
 
 Tears stood in Joseph's eyes, but he made an effort to con- 
 ceal them. " Ah, M. Guillaume ! what have I done to deserve 
 such goodness ? I do only my duty. It was no slight matter 
 fo you to take an interest in a poor orph " 
 
 He began to brush the braid of his left sleeve with the right, 
 and dared not look at the old man, who smiled at the thought 
 that the modest youth, like himself in former days, required to 
 be encouraged to render the explanation complete.
 
 32 BALZAC. 
 
 " But at the same time," resumed the father of Virginie, 
 " you have no great title to this favor, Joseph, x ou are not 
 so frank with me as I am with you." (At these words the clerk 
 briskly raised his head.) "You know tne secrets of the strong 
 box. During the last two years I have told you nearly all my 
 affairs. In short, I have concealed nothing from you. But as 
 for you you have a certain predilection, and nave not said a 
 single word to me about it." (Joseph Lebas blushed.) " Ah, 
 ah !" cried Guillaume; " did you think you could deceive an 
 old fox like me me, who, to your knowledge, smelt the Lecocq 
 failure?" 
 
 " What, sir," answered Joseph Lebas, examining nls patron 
 as carefully as his patron examined him, " you know whom I 
 love?" 
 
 "I know all, you good-for-nothing fellow !" said the worthy 
 and crafty tradesman, tweaking the end of Lebas' ear, " and I 
 forgive you. I did just what you have done." 
 
 " And you will give her to me?" 
 
 " Yes, with a portion of ^6000, and will leave you as much 
 more, and we will embark upon fresh enterprises under a new 
 firm. We will brew some more business yet, lad," cried the 
 old shopkeeper, rising and flinging his arms about. " Look 
 you, son-in-law, there is nothing like business. Those who 
 want to know what pleasure one can find in it, are idiots. To 
 be on the track of what is going on, to know how to take the 
 lead on 'Change, to wait anxiously as if one were at the gaming- 
 table, to see whether 6tienne and Company turn bankrupt or 
 not ; to see a regiment of the imperial guard dressed in our 
 cloth pass by, to trip up (in all honesty, be it understood) one's 
 neighbor; to produce cheaper than others; to follow up a 
 scheme from its first rough sketch as it begins, grows, falters, 
 and succeeds ; to know, just like a minister of. police, all the 
 secret springs of commercial houses, in order not to take 
 the wrong road, to keep one's feet when others go to wreck and 
 ruin ; to have correspondents in every manufacturing to^n :
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDOKE. 33 
 
 isn't this a continual game, Joseph ? That is what I call life. 
 I shall die amid this bustle as old Chevrel did but still taking 
 things easily." 
 
 In the heat of the longest impromptu he had ever indulged 
 in, Father Guillaume had scarcely looked at his clerk, who was 
 shedding scalding tears, " Why, Joseph, my good lad, what is 
 the matter?" 
 
 " Oh, I love her so dearly, M. Guillaume, that my heart fails 
 me. I believe " 
 
 " Well, my lad," said the tradesman, who was touched, 
 " you are more lucky than you imagine, by Jove ; for she loves 
 you ! I know it !" and he winked his small green eyes as he 
 looked at his clerk. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Augustine, Mademoiselle Augustine !" cried 
 Joseph Lebas, in his enthusiasm. 
 
 He was about to rush out of the cabinet, when he felt himself 
 stopped by an arm of iron, and his astounded patron hastily 
 placed him before him again. 
 
 " What has Augustine to do with this business ? " asked 
 Guillaume, in a voice which instantly froze the unfortunate 
 Lebas. 
 
 " Is it not she . . . whom ... I am in love with ? " 
 asked the stuttering clerk. 
 
 Guillaume, disconcerted at his own want of perspicacity, 
 resumed his seat and placed his piriform head on his two hands, 
 to reflect upon the strange position in which he found himself. 
 Joseph Lebas, desperate and ashamed, remained upon his legs. 
 
 " Joseph," resumed the draper with frigid dignity, " I was 
 talking to you about Virginie. Love cannot be commanded, I 
 well know. I know your discretion, we will forget all that. I 
 will never allow Augustine to marry before Virginie ; your 
 interest in the business will be ten per cent." 
 
 The clerk, inspired by love, with almost boundless courage 
 and eloquence, clasped his hands, spoke up, and for a quarter 
 of an hour discoursed* with so much warmth and good feeling, 
 c
 
 34 BALZAC. 
 
 that the situation changed. If this had been a matter of busi- 
 ness, the old trader would have had certain fixed rules to .guide 
 him to a decision. But thrown as he was a thousand leagues 
 out of the domain of commerce, and afloal without compass 
 upon a sea of sentiment, he drifte.i irresolutely before an event 
 so original, as he termed it. Carried away by his fatherly 
 affection he spoke a little at random. 
 
 " What the devil, Joseph, you need not be told that I had 
 my two children at an interval of ten years. Mademoiselle 
 Chevrel was not handsome, but she has no reason to complain 
 of my conduct to her. Do as I did before you ; give over 
 crying, and don't be stupid. What would you have ? the 
 matter will perhaps be settled, there is always some way out 
 of a scrape. We men are not always like gingerbread to our 
 wives, do you take me ? Madame Guillaume is a little over, 
 religious, and come my boy, give your arm to Augustine this 
 morning as you go to mass." 
 
 Such were the exclamations which Guillaume randomly 
 ejaculated. The conclusion with which they wound up threw 
 the enamoured youth into ecstasies. When he quitted the 
 smoky little cabinet, after having squeezed the hand of his 
 future father-in-law, and proclaimed with a little look of intelli 
 gence that all would turn out for the best, he was already plann. 
 ing a marriage between Mademoiselle Virginie and one of his 
 friends. 
 
 " What will Madame Guillaume think of it ? " Such was 
 the idea that prodigiously tormented the worthy tradesman 
 when he found himself alone. 
 
 At breakfast Madame Guillaume and Virginie, whom the 
 draper had provisionally left in the dark as to his disappoint- 
 ment, looked very knowingly at Joseph Lebas, who displayed 
 grave embarrassment. The modesty of the clerk made a 
 favorable impression upon his mother-in-law. The matron 
 regained so much of her youthful gaiety that she smiled at M. 
 Guillaume, nnd indulged in some ot those little pleasantries
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 35 
 
 whichf are so well established in these innocent households. 
 She expressed a doubt about the relative heights of Virginie 
 and Joseph, in order to get them to stand up together. This 
 preliminary trifling produced some clouds upon the brow of 
 the head of the family, and he even affected such a passion for 
 decorum as to tell Augustine to take the chief clerk's arm as 
 they went to St. Leu. Madame Guillaume, astonished at so 
 much delicacy on the part of a man, honoured her husband 
 with an approving nod. So the procession, so marshalled as to 
 -afford no ground for the mischevous interpretation of the 
 neighbours, left the house. 
 
 " Don't you think, Mademoiselle Augustine," said the 
 trembling clerk, " that the wife of a tradesman whose credit is 
 staunch, of such a man as M. Guillaume for example, might 
 allow herself a little more amusement than Madame Guillaume 
 takes, might wear diamonds, keep a carriage ? For my own 
 part, if I married, I should like to take all the trouble on my 
 own shoulders and see my wife enjoy herself. I should not 
 put her in my counting-house. For, you see, in the cloth-trade, 
 woman are not wanted as they were in former times. M. 
 Guillaume was quite right to act as he did, and besides, it was 
 his wife's desire. But it seems to me, that if a woman keeps 
 lier eye upon the book-keeping, the correspondence, the 
 details of the business, the orders, and her own household 
 affairs, that is all that could be expected. After seven o'clock, 
 Avhen the shop was closed, I, for my part, should amuse my- 
 self, go to the theatre, and see a little society. But you are 
 not listening to me." 
 
 " Oh yes, I am, Mr. Joseph. What do you think of painting ? 
 is not that a good calling ? " 
 
 "Yes, I know a house-painter in a large way of business M. 
 Lourdois, who has plenty of money." 
 
 Thus chattering the family reached the church of St. Leu. 
 
 There Madame Guillaume resumed her authority, and for 
 the first time made Augustine sit beside her, while Virginie took
 
 36 BALZAC. 
 
 the fourth seat beside Lebas. During the sermon all went well 
 between Augustine and Theodore, who, standing behind a pillar, 
 prayed to his Madonna with the utmost fervour. But at the 
 raising of the host, Madame Guillaume perceived, rather late 
 in the da}', that her daughter Augustine was holding her prayer- 
 book upside down. She was about to scold her vigorously, 
 when lowering her veil, she took her eyes off her book, and began 
 to gaze in the direction affected by her daughter's eyes. 
 
 Aided by her spectacles she caught sight of the young artist, 
 whose mundane elegance seemed to denote him some cavalry 
 captain on furlough, rather than a tradesman of the district. 
 It is difficult to imagine the state of agitation into which Madame 
 Guillaume was thrown by discovering this clandestine love in 
 Augustine's heart. She who flattered herself that she had 
 brought her daughters up with the utmost propriety ! Her 
 prudery and ignorance, led her to magnify the danger. She 
 believed her daughter corrupted to the very core. 
 
 " Hold your book properly, miss," she exclaimed in a low 
 tone, though she was trembling with anger. She quickly 
 snatched the accusing prayer-book from her daughter's hand 
 and restored the letters to their natural direction. 
 
 " Don't make the mistake of raising your eyes from your 
 prayers," she added, " otherwise yon will have me to deal with. 
 After mass your father and I will have something to say to you."" 
 
 These words were like a thunderbolt to poor Augustine. She 
 felt herself fainting, but between the pain she felt and the fear 
 of creating a scandal in the church, she found courage to con- 
 ceal her anguish. However, it was ensy to discern her excite- 
 ment by the trembling of her prayer-book, and the tears which 
 she shed on each leaf she turned. 
 
 From the indignant look cast at him by Madame Guillaume, 
 the artist saw the perils that assailed his amour, and lft the 
 church with rage in his heart, and fired with the determination 
 to dare everything. 
 
 " Go to your room, miss," said Madame Guillaume to her
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDOR & 87 
 
 daughter on their return to the house ; " we will send for you ; 
 and take special care that you don't leave it." 
 
 The conference between husband and wife was so secret 
 that not a jot of it transpired at first. Virginie, however, who 
 had encouraged her sister by a thousand gentle suggestions, 
 carried her complaisance so far as to steal to the door of her 
 mother's bedroom, where the discussion was going on, in order 
 to pick up some phrases. The first journey which she made 
 from the third to the second storey, she heard her father ex- 
 claim, 
 
 " Do you want to kill your child, then, madame ? " 
 
 " My poor darling," said Virginie to her weeping sister, 
 " papa is taking your part." 
 
 " And what do they mean to do to Theodore ? " asked the 
 simple creature. 
 
 The inquisitive Virginie then went down again. This time 
 she stayed longer, and learned that Lebas was in love with 
 Augustine. It was decreed that during this memorable day a 
 house generally so calm should be a little hell. Monsieur 
 Guillaume threw Lebas into despair by informing him of 
 Augustine's love for a stranger. Lebas, who had instructed 
 his friend to solicit the hand of Mademoiselle Virginie, thus 
 SAW all his castles in the air overthrown. Mademoiselle Vir- 
 ginie, overwhelmed at the news that Joseph Lebas had in a 
 manner refused her, was seized with a headache. The dis- 
 sension sown between the husband and wife by the explana- 
 tion which had taken place between Monsieur and Madame 
 Guillaume the first occasion during their married life that had 
 found them of different opinions showed itself >n a fashion 
 truly terrible. 
 
 At length r.t four o'clock in the afternoon Augustine, pale, 
 trembling, and red eyed, stood before her father and mother. 
 Fortified by the address of her father, who had promised to 
 listen to her in silence, she gathered a certain courage as she 
 pronounced in presence of her parents the name of hei
 
 38 BA'LXAC. 
 
 Theodore Je Sommervieux, and cunningly emphasized its aris- 
 tocratic particle. Yielding to the novel charm of speaking of 
 her sentiments, she gained sufficient confidence to declare 
 with an innocent firmness that she loved M. de Sommervieux, 
 that she had written to him, ana she added with tears in her 
 eyes, "to sacrifice me to another would be to render me in:- 
 arable." 
 
 " But, Augustine, you don't know what an artist is then/ 
 cried her mother in dismay, 
 
 " Madame Guillaume," said inc old fathei, silencing his 
 good lady, 
 
 "Augustine." lie continued, - artists arc, as n general rule, 
 starvation birds. They are too extravagant to be other than 
 ne'er-do-wells. The late M. Toseph Verr.et, the late M. 
 Lekain, and the late M. Noverre, were customers of mine. 
 Oh, if you only knew what trick that M. Noverre, the Cheva 
 Her de St. Georges, and especially M. Phillidoi, played poor 
 dead daddy Chevrel. They are a droll set of fellows and no 
 mistake They have a)l of them a wav of talking and man- 
 ners oh, as for your Monsieur de Sumer Somm " 
 
 " De Sommerveux, father. '' 
 
 "Well De Sommervieux chen he can never have made 
 himself so agreeable to you s M le Chevalier de St. 
 Georges was to me the day when I obtained ; judgment of 
 the consuls against him. \n. tney were people of quality in 
 those days." 
 
 '- A.h, but father, Monsieur Theodore is of noble blood, and 
 he told me in one of his letters that he was rich, and that his 
 father was called the Chevalier de St. Georges before the revo 
 lution. ;> 
 
 At tJiese words M Guillaume looked at his formidable Det- 
 ter-half, who like j. woman baulked of het vill, beat the floor 
 with her foot and maintained a frigid 'Hence. She even- 
 averted her indigna^ gaze from Augustine, *\nd seemed to> 
 jeave all the responsibility of so grave - matter to M, Guil-
 
 THE OAT AND BATTLEDORE. <j 
 
 laume, since her warning was unheeded. Nevertheless, in 
 spite of her seeming indifference, when she saw her husband 
 making up his mind so easily on a matter out of the ordinary 
 routine of business, she exclaimed, 
 
 " Well, I must say that as regards your daughters, your weak- 
 ness is but " 
 
 The noise of a carriage stopping at the door of the house, 
 suddenly interrupted the lecture which the old. shopkeeper was 
 already dreading. In an instant Madame Roguin stood in the 
 middle of the room, and looking at the three actors of this 
 domestic scene, said with a patronizing air, 
 
 " I know all that has happened, cousin." Madame Roguin 
 had one fault ; she believed that the wife of a Parisian notary 
 could play the part of a petite-maittesse. 
 
 " I know all," she repeated, "and I am come to Noah's aik 
 like the dove with the olive branch. I found that allegory in 
 the ' Ge'nie du Christianisme,' " said she, turning towards 
 Madame Guillaume ; " the comparison ought to please you, 
 cousin. Do you know," she added, smiling at Augustine, 
 " that this Monsieur de Sommervieux is a charming man. 
 This morning he presented me with my portrait painted in a 
 masterly fashion. It is worth at least ^240." 
 
 And so saying she tapped M. Guillaume's arm. The old 
 tradesman pursed up his. mouth in a manner peculiar to himself. 
 
 " I know M. de Sommervieux well," resumed the dove. " For 
 the past fortnight he has attended my Soire'es, of which he is 
 the life. He has confided to me all his love difficulties and 
 engaged me as his advocate. I learned this morning his ad- 
 miration for Augustine, and he must have her. Oh, don't 
 shake your head, cousin but listen. They will make him a 
 baron; he has just been appointed a Chevalier of the Legion 
 of Honor by the Emperor in person, at the Exhibition. 
 Roguin is now his notary, and knows the position of his affairs. 
 Well, M. de Sommervieux derives from good substantial acres 
 nearly ,500 a year. Are you aware that the father-in-law of
 
 40 BALZAC. 
 
 a man like him may become a somebody ; mayor of his arron- 
 dissement, for examp^? Have you not seen M. Dupont 
 made a count and senator of the empire on account of his 
 having presented himself in his capacity of mayor to pay his 
 respect to the Emperor on his entry into Vienna ? Oh, the 
 marriage will take place ; for my part I adore the young fellow. 
 His conduct towards Augustine is such as one meets with 
 only in novels. Come, my darling, you will be happy and 
 everybody will envy you. Why, the Duchess of Carogliano, 
 who comes to my soirees, is fascinated with M. de Sommer- 
 vieux. Some ill-natured people say that she only comes to my 
 parties to meet him, as if a duchess of yesterday were out of 
 place in the house of a Chevrel whose family can boast a hun- 
 dred years of good bourgeoisie" 
 
 "Augustine," continued Madame Roguin after a little pause, 
 " I have seen the portrait. In truth it is beautiful. Do you 
 know that the Emperor wanted to see it? He said laughingly 
 to the Vice-constable, that if there were many such women as 
 that at his court while he had so many kings there, he would 
 be pretty sure to keep Europe in perpetual peace. Isn't that 
 flattering ? " The storms which ushered in that day were des- 
 tined to resemble those of nature in being followed by a calm. 
 Madame Roguin brought into play so many seductions in her 
 harangue, and touched at once so many strings in the dry 
 bosoms of M. and Madame Guillaume, that she ended by find- 
 ing one of which she made good use. ; 
 
 At this strange epoch of French history, bankers and men of 
 business were more than ever infected with the wild craze of 
 intermarrying with the aristocracy, and the generals of the 
 empire turned the inclination to good account. M. Guillaume 
 opposed with unusual strength the ill-starred mania. His 
 cherished axioms were, that a woman, if she desired happiness, 
 ought to marry a man in her own class ; that one was sure to 
 be punished sooner or later for trying to rise above one's 
 sphere; that love stood the wear and tear of family life so
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 41 
 
 badly that both parties, to have a chance of being happy, must 
 possess very substantial qualities ; that it was not well for either 
 of the married couple to be more intelligent than the other, 
 because the first requirement was a mutual understanding ; if 
 the husband talked Greek, while the wife spoke Latin, they 
 ran the risk of dying of starvation. 'He had invented a sort 
 of proverb on the subject. He compared marriages thus con- 
 cluded to those old stuffs which were half silk and half wool ; the 
 silk always destroyed the wool in the long-run. So great, how- 
 ever, is the fund of vanity in the human heart, that the pru- 
 dence of the pilot who steered the Chat-qui-pelote with such 
 address yielded to the aggressive volubility of Madame Roguin. 
 The rigid Madame Guillaume was the first to discover in her 
 daughter's predilection reasons for departing from the 
 principles which have been mentioned, and for permitting the 
 visits of Monsieur de Sommervieux, whom, she internally 
 resolved to subject to a searching scrutiny. 
 
 The old man of business went in quest of Joseph Lebas, 
 and told him the position of affairs. At half-past six the 
 dining-room on which the artist had conferred celebrity, united 
 beneath its roof of glass, Madame and M. Rougin, the young 
 painter and his charming Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who 
 endured his good fortune with resignation, and Virginie, whose 
 headache had disappeared. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume 
 saw in perspective their children married and the destinies of 
 the Chat-qui-pelote entrusted to skilful hands. Their content- 
 ment reached its acme when Theodore, at the dessert-table, 
 presented them with the marvellous picture which they had 
 been unable to see, and which represented the interior of the 
 old shop that had given rise to so much happiness. 
 
 "It's very pretty," cried Guillaume. "Fancy offering 
 .1,200 for that." 
 
 " Ah, it's because my weepers are in it," continued Madame 
 Guillaume."
 
 42 BALZAC. 
 
 " And these unfolded stuffs," said Joseph Lebas ; " one can 
 almost feel them." 
 
 " Drapery always looks well in a picture," replied the painter, 
 " We modern artists would be overjoyed if we could rival the 
 perfection of antique drapery." 
 
 " Oh, if you go in for drapery, I am with you, my young 
 friend. Since you have a respect for trade, we shall hit it off 
 together ; and why should people despise trade ? The world 
 sprang from trade since Adam sold Paradise for an apple. 
 That wasn't a very good stroke of business though." And the 
 old tradesman broke out into loud and unrestrained laughter, 
 excited by the champagne which he circulated freely. The 
 band which covered the eyes of the young artist was so thick, 
 that he thought his parents, that were to be, quite agreeable. 
 He did not disdain to move them by some lively sallies in 
 perfectly good taste, and so made himself a general favorite. 
 In the evening, when the company had left the drawing-room 
 with its substantial furniture (to employ one of Guillaume's 
 expressions), and while Madame Guillaume bustled about from 
 table to mantelpiece and from chandelier to candlestick, hastily 
 blowing out the waxlights, the worthy tradesman, who was 
 always keen-sighted where business or money was in question, 
 drew his daughter Augustine to his side, and taking her upon 
 his knees, thus addressed her, 
 
 " My dear child, you shall marry Sommervieux, since such 
 is your desire. You have a right to risk your capital of happi- 
 ness. But I am not to be caught by your 1,200 gained by 
 spoiling good canvas; money earned so quickly goes as quickly. 
 Didn't I hear the young madcap say this very evening that if 
 money was round, it was made so, that it might roll. If money 
 is round for spendthrifts, it is flat for the econonomical people 
 who amass it. Now, child, this handsome spark of yours 
 talks about letting you have carriages and jewels. He has 
 money ; if he chooses to spend it on you, bctie sit. I have 
 nothing to do with that ; but as to what I give you, I don't
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 43 
 
 want the crowns it has cost me so much trouble to get together, 
 to be spent on carriages and trinkets. The man who spends 
 too much is never rich. With the ^6,000 that make your 
 portion, you can't as yet buy the whole of Paris. You may 
 some day receive a few thousands more ; good. I will make 
 you wait for them as long as possible. Well, I took your in- 
 tended into a. quiet corner, and the man who managed the 
 Lecocq bankruptcy so skilfully did not experience much diffi- 
 culty in getting an artist to consent to a marriage settlement 
 protecting the wife's fortune. I will keep an eye upon the deed! 
 of settlement, to see that the money he proposes to settle on> 
 you is all right ; come, my child, I hope soon to be a grand- 
 father. I am already anxious to busy myself about my grand- 
 children ; swear to me, then, here on the spot, never to sign 
 any document relating to money without my advice, and that 
 in case I go to join old father Chevrel too soon, you will con- 
 sult young Lebas, your brother in-law ; now promise me." 
 
 " Yes, father, I swear it." 
 
 At these words uttered in a gentle voice the old man kissed? 
 his daughter first on one cheek and then on the other. That 
 night all the lovers slept almost as peacefully as M. and 
 Madame Guillaume. 
 
 Some months after this memorable Sunday, the high altar at 
 St. Leu witnessed two very different marriages. Augustine and 
 Theodore presented themselves in all the glittering parade of 
 happiness ; their eyes overflowed with love ; their toilettes were 
 most elegant, while a dashing equipage awaited them. Virginie r 
 accompanied by her family, came in a decent hackney carriage; 
 and leaning on her father's arm and more simply attired, fol- 
 lowed her younger sister like a shadow, necessary to complete 
 the harmony of the picture. M. Guillaume had taken the 
 utmost possible trouble to induce the clergy to marry Virginie 
 before Augustine ; but he had to undergo the mortification of 
 seeing both the superior and inferior clergy address themselves. 
 in the first instance to the more elegant of the two brides. He
 
 44 BALZAC. 
 
 overheard some of the neighbors express marked approval of 
 the good sense of Mademoiselle Virginie, wno was making, as 
 they said, the more solid marriage and remaining faithful to 
 the quarter, while they indulged in certain disparaging com- 
 ments, born of envy, upon Augustine, who was marrying an 
 artist and a nobleman. They added with a sort of horror, that 
 if the Guillaumes gave way to ambition, the drapery trade was 
 doomed. An old fan merchant, having remarked that that 
 .spendthrift would very soon reduce Augustine to a bed of 
 straw, father Guillaume secretly congratulated himself on the 
 prudence which he had displayed in the provisions of the 
 marriage settlement. 
 
 In the evening after a sumptuous ball, followed by one of 
 those abundant suppers which in the present generation are 
 almost forgotten, M. and Madame Guillaume stayed at their 
 house in the Rue Colombier in which the marriage festivities 
 had been held ; M. and Madame Lebas returned in their hired 
 carriage to the old house in the Rue St. Denis, there to direct 
 the course of the good ship Chat-qui-pelote ; while the artist, 
 intoxicated with happiness, took his beloved Augustine in his 
 arms, and when their carriage reached the Rue des Trois 
 Freres, raised her quickly and carried her to a room which all 
 the arts had combined to embellish. The impetuous passion 
 with which Theodore was inspired continued for nearly one 
 whole rapid year, during which not the slightest cloud over- 
 shadowed the azure heaven under which they dwelt. With the 
 two lovers life had no burdens. Theodore surrounded each 
 passing day with incredible flourishes of happiness ; he took 
 pleasure in varying the transports of passion by that soft langour 
 of repose in which two souls are launched so far in ecstasy that 
 they seem to forget their bodily ties. The happy Augustine, 
 incapable of reflection, gave herself up to the rhythmical march 
 of her joy ; she did not feel that she did as much as was re- 
 quircd of her by yielding entirely to the lawful and sanctified 
 love of marriage. In her artlessness and simplicity, moreover,
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 45 
 
 she was entirely ignorant of the coquetry of withholding her 
 favours and of the adroit caprices, whereby the young ladies of 
 high life secure an empire over their husbands. She loved too- 
 well, to indulge in calculations of the future, nor did it ever 
 enter her head that so delightful an existence could ever cease. 
 Happy then in being the source of all her husband's pleasures, 
 she believed that his inextinguishable love would ever be the 
 brightest of all her jewels, just as her devotion and obedience 
 would form an eternal attraction ; and moreover, the happiness 
 that waits on love had rendered her so radiant, that her beauty- 
 inspired her with pride, and assured her of her continued power 
 to reign over a man so susceptible as M. de Sommervieux^ 
 Thus her position as a wife taught her nothing but the mere 
 lessons of love. In the midst of her happiness she remained the 
 ignorant little girl who led an obscure existence in the 
 Rue St. Denis, and she did not think of acquiring the manners 
 the education, and the tone, of the world in which she was 
 called upon to live. Her language being the language of love,, 
 she displayed in the use of it a certain suppleness of intellect 
 and delicacy of expression, but then she was employing the 
 language which all women have in common, when plunged in 
 the passion which seems to be their element. If it came to- 
 pass that Augustine gave vent to any ideas that jarred with 
 those of Theodore, the young artist laughed at them, as one 
 laughs at the first mistakes made by a foreigner, \vhich never- 
 theless grow wearisome if he fails to correct them. In spite of 
 such a fund of love, Sommervieux at the end of this all brief 
 and happy twelvemonth, felt the necessity of recurring to his 
 old labors and modes of life. In addittion to this his wife was 
 enceinte. Thus he saw his friends once more. During the 
 protracted sufferings of the year during which a young wife 
 suckles her first child, he worked, it is true, with ardor 
 but he from time to time returned to seek some dis- 
 traction in society. The house which he most readily visited,, 
 was that of the Duchess de Carigliano, who had at last sue-
 
 46 BALZAC. 
 
 ceeded in securing the celebrated artist as one of her habitues. 
 When Augustine had regained her strength, and her son 
 no longer needed the unremitting care which precludes a 
 mother from entering into the gaieties of social life, Theodore 
 had begun to desire that satisfaction which our self-love derives 
 from appearing in society accompanied by a beautiful woman 
 who is an object at once of envy and admiration. Augustine 
 reaped a fresh harvest of pleasure in parading reception-room 
 .after reception-room, surrounded by the delate conferred by 
 her husband's fame, and in finding herself envied by other 
 women. But this was the last ray shed by her married bliss. 
 She began by wounding her husband's vanity, when, in spite of 
 her fruitless efforts, she exposed her ignorance, the impropriety 
 of her language, and the narrowness of her ideas. At the expira- 
 tion of two years and a half the taming influence of the first 
 transports of passion passed away ; the character of De 
 Sommervieux regained, as the satiety of lengthened possession 
 set in, its original bent; and he returned to that course of life 
 from which he had for a brief period deviated. Poetry, 
 painting, the exquisite delights of the imagination, possess over 
 elevated minds claims which no prescription can defeat. 
 These claims of a powerful mind had not in Theodore's case 
 been defeated during these two .years. They had simply found 
 fresh pasturage. When the fields of love were thoroughly 
 explored, when, like some child, the artist had gathered roses 
 .and cornflowers with such avidity that his hands could hold no 
 more, the scene changed. If he showed his wife the sketches 
 of his most beautiful compositions, he would hear her exclaim 
 just as her father Guillaume would have done, "That's very 
 pretty." 
 
 This lukewarm admiration was not the result of internal 
 convictions, but of faith on word of love. Augustine preferred 
 one look to the most beautiful picture. The only sublime she 
 recognized was that of the heart. In short, Theodore could 
 not resist the proof of this cruel fact ; his wife was not alive
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 47 
 
 to poetry, she did not live in his world j she did not share his 
 whims, his sudden inspirations, his joys and sorrows. Her 
 food was on the solid earth of prosaic reality, while his head 
 was in the skies. Ordinary minds cannot appreciate the con- 
 stantly recurring sufferings of him, who, being united to another 
 by the closest of all ties, is perpetually forced to trample 
 down the most treasured flights of his fancy, and to annihilate 
 the images which a magic power constrains him to create. In 
 his case the torture is the more cruel in that the fundamental 
 law of the feeling which he entertains towards his companion 
 compels them to hide nothing from each other, and to share 
 both the out-pour of the brain and of the heart. Not with 
 impunity can we do violence to the dictates of nature; she is 
 inexorable as fate, which indeed is a species of social nature. 
 
 Sommervieux sought refuge in the silence and the calm of 
 his studio, while he nourished the hope, that the habit of living 
 among artists might form his wife and develope in her those 
 dormant germs of high intelligence which certain gifted spirits 
 hold to be innate in every human being. But Augustine was 
 too sincerely religious not to be alarmed at the tone assumed 
 by artists. At the first dinner given by Theodore she heard a 
 young painter say, with that childish levity which she could 
 not discern, and which robs a joke of all its impiety, " Yes, 
 madame, but your paradise is not more beautiful than the 
 Transfiguration of Raphael, and yet I grew tired of looking at 
 that ; " and thus it happened that Augustine encountered this 
 witty society with a feeling of distrust which no one could fail 
 to perceive. She prevented people from feeling themselves at 
 their ease. Now artists suffering under such constraint are 
 unmerciful ; they resort either to flight or to ridicule. Madame 
 Guillaume, among other absurdities in which she indulged, 
 carried to a ridiculous extent the dignity which seemed to her 
 the fitting appanage of a wife, and Augustine, often as she had 
 laughed at it, could not entirely refrain from slightly imitat- 
 ing her mother's prudery. This exaggerated modesty, which
 
 48 BALZAC. 
 
 virtuous women do not always escape, gave rise to certain epi- 
 grams, in the shape of sketches, the gentle satire of which was 
 too much in accordance with the dictates of good taste to give 
 serious annoyance to De Sommervieux. Had they been frr 
 more severe, they would have been merely reprisals inflicted on 
 him by his friends. But nothing could be more trivial to a 
 mind so susceptible to foreign impressions as Theodore's, and 
 thus a certain coolness gradually stole over him which coukf 
 not fail to grow. Connubial felicity is, as it were, situated on 
 the level but narrow summit of a hill, close to which lies a 
 steep and slippery decline, and the painter's passion was now 
 descending it. He deemed his wife incapable of appreciating 
 the moral considerations; which, in his own eyes, justified the 
 peculiarity of his conduct towards her, and held himself clear 
 of all blame in concealing from her, ideas which she could not 
 understand, and escapades which he held to be beyond the 
 cognizance of the tribunal of a bourgeois conscience. Augus- 
 tine cloistered herself in calm and silent sorrow. These unex- 
 pressed feelings established between the husband and the wife 
 a veil which was doomed to grow thicker day by day. Augus- 
 tine's husband was not wanting in politeness towards her; but 
 she could not observe without a shudder that he reserved for 
 the world those treasures of wit and grace which he formerly 
 laid at her feet. She very soon began to give the most ominous 
 interpretation to those smart sayings as to the inconstancy of 
 men, in which society indulges. She did not give vent to any 
 reproaches, but the attitude which she assumed amounted to a 
 reproach. 
 
 Three years after marriage this pretty young woman, who 
 drove by so brilliant in her brilliant carriage, who was living in 
 an environment of glory and of wealth which made her an 
 object of envy to many thoughtless and undiscriminating per- 
 sons, was a prey to violent grief. Her color faded; she reflected, 
 she compared ; then she read by the light of misfortune the first 
 texts of experience. She resolved bravely to confine herself
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 49 
 
 within the circle of her duties, hoping that her generous con- 
 duct would sooner or later win back her husband's love. But 
 it was not so. When Sommervieux exhausted with labor left 
 his studio, Augustine did not manage to hide her work so 
 speedily, but that the painter could see that his wife was mend- 
 ing all the house-linen and her own, with all the minute atten- 
 tion of a good house-wife. She would produce generously and 
 without a murmur the money necessary to her husband's pro- 
 fusion ; but actuated by a desire to spare the fortune of her 
 dear Theodore, she exhibited a spirit of economy as regarded 
 herself and certain details of the domestic administration. 
 Such conduct is incompatible with the free and easy method 
 of artists, who, when their career terminates in ruin, have so 
 thoroughly enjoyed existence that they never inquire into the 
 cause of that ruin. It is useless to depict every shade of 
 degradation of colour as it invaded and finally involved in pro- 
 found obscurity the brilliant tints of the honeymoon. One 
 evening the melancholy Augustine who, for some time past, 
 had heard her husband speaking in enthusiastic language of 
 the Duchess of Carigliano, received from a female friend cer- 
 tain mischievously charitable hints as to the nature of De 
 Sommervieux's attachment to that renowned coquette of the 
 imperial court. Augustine, who was only twenty-one and in 
 the full bloom of youth and beauty, found herself betrayed for 
 the sake of a woman of thirty : six. Feeling herself miserable in 
 the midst the world and its festivities, which were deserts to 
 her, the poor girl lost all consciousness of the admiration, and 
 the envy which she excited. Her face assumed a new expres- 
 sion. Melancholy shed upon her features the resignation and 
 the pallor of neglected love. The most seductive men did not 
 long delay to pay their court to her ; but she remained solitary 
 and virtuous. Certain contemptuous phrases uttered by her 
 husband filled her with incredible despair. A sinister light 
 revealed to her the defective contact which, resulting from the 
 narrowness of her education, prevented the perfect union of her 
 
 D
 
 50 ^ BALZAC. 
 
 mind with that of Theodore. She loved so well, that she 
 acquitted him and condemned herself. She wept tears of 
 blood ; she discovered all too late that there are unequal mar. 
 riages in mind as well as in rank and manners. When she 
 reflected on the vernal ecstacies of her union, she measured 
 the extent of her vanished happiness and came to the convic- 
 tion that so rich a harvest of love was equivalent to a whole 
 life, and could be purchased only by compensating misery. 
 Nevertheless she loved too sincerely to lose all hope ; and so, 
 at the age ot twenty-one, she began to educate herself and to 
 raise her imagination to a level worthy of that which she 
 admired so much. " If I am not a poet," she said to herself, 
 " I will at least understand poetry." And then putting forth 
 that force of will, that energy which all women possess when 
 they love, Madame de Sommervieux endeavored to change her 
 disposition, manners, and habits. But the only result of her vor- 
 acious reading and courageous application was that she became 
 less ignorant : nimble wit and graceful conversation are gifts of 
 nature, or else the fruit of training begun in the cradle. She 
 could appreciate music and enjoy it, but she could not sing 
 with taste. She could understand literature and the beauties 
 of poetry, but it was too late to fix them in her rebel memory. 
 She listened with pleasure to the chit-chat of the world, but 
 could not contribute to its brilliance. Her religious views and 
 the prejudices of her childhood clung to her and prevented the 
 complete emancipation of her intellect. In short, a foregone 
 conclusion to her disadvantage had stealthily established itself 
 in Theodore's mind, and she could not dislodge it. The 
 artist laughed at those who spoke the praises of his wife to him, 
 and his mockery was not without foundation ; he was so much 
 an object of reverence to the young and interesting creature, 
 that she trembled when she was in his presence and when she 
 was alone with him. Embarrassed by her excessive anxiety to 
 give satisfaction, she felt her wit and learning swallowed up in 
 one overwhelming feeling. The very fidelity of Augustine dis-
 
 51 
 
 pleased the faithless husband, who seemed to invite her to go 
 astray by terming her chastity constitutional frigidity. It was 
 in vain that Augustine put force upon herself to abdicate her 
 reason, to bow to the whims and caprices of her husband, and 
 sacrifice herself to the egotism of his vanity ; she did not gather 
 the fruit of her sacrifices. It might be that they had both 
 allowed the moment favorable to a complete mutual under- 
 standing to glide away. On one particular day the over-sensi- 
 tive heart of the young wife received one of those blows which 
 so completely loosen the bonds of feeling that they seem to be 
 broken. She shut herself up ; but soon the fatal idea suggested 
 itself, to go and seek consolation and counsel in the bosom of 
 her family. 
 
 One morning, then, she directed her steps to the grotesque 
 facade of the homely and silent house in which the days of her 
 childhood had been spent. She sighed as she caught sight 
 once more of the window, from which she had one day kissed 
 her hand to him who was now surrounding her existence with 
 glory and with sorrow. All was unchanged in the cave in 
 which nevertheless the cloth trade was renewing its youth. 
 Augustine's sister occupied her mother's seat at the old counter. 
 The youthful mourner found her brother-in-law with his pen 
 stuck behind his ear and so busy that he hardly listened to her. 
 He was surrounded by the formidable symptoms of a general 
 stock-taking, and begging to be excused, he left her to herself. 
 Her sister received her with a coolness which betrayed a cer- 
 tain grudge ; for in fact Augustine had never been to see her 
 sister except when, elegantly dressed, she would leave her well 
 appointed carriage to pay her a passing visit ; so the wife of the 
 prudent Lebas fancied that money was the real cause of this 
 early call, and she accordingly endeavored to maintain a tone 
 of reserve which more than once made Augustine smile. The 
 wife of the artist perceived that, barring the weepers on the 
 cap, her mother had found in Virginie a successor who pre- 
 served the old-standing reputation of the Chnt-qui-pelote.
 
 52 BALZAC. 
 
 During lunch she noticed certain alterations in the household 
 regulations which did honor to the good sense of Joseph 
 Lebas ; the clerks did not leave the table at dessert ; they 
 enjoyed freedom of speech ; while the abundant fare spoke of 
 affluence without luxury. The elegant young woman noticed 
 the counterfoils of a box at the The'atre Francais, where she 
 remembered to have seen her sister from time to time. Madame 
 Lebas wore upon her shoulders a Cashmere shawl whose mag- 
 nificence bore witness to the generous attention bestowed on 
 her by her husband. In short the worthy couple advanced 
 with the age. A tender melancholy took possession of Augus- 
 tine's mind as she observed during the two-thirds of the day 
 which she spent at her sister's, the even happiness of the well 
 assorted pair. It had no transports but then it had no storms. 
 They had accepted life as a commercial enterprise, the leading 
 principle of which was the due conduct of their business. 
 Virginie had not found in her husband an ardent affection ; so 
 she set to work to create one. Joseph Lebas was led by 
 imperceptible degrees, first to esteem and then to love his wife, 
 and the time which elapsed ere the flower of happiness bloomed 
 was a security for its permanence. Accordingly when the 
 querulous Augustine explained her painful predicament, she 
 had to endure a deluge of commonplaces suggested to her 
 sister by the stock morality of the Rue St. Denis. ' 
 
 " The evil is done, wife," said Joseph Lebas, " our duty is to 
 give our sister sound advice." 
 
 Then the skilful tradesman proceeded to a weighty analysis 
 of the expedients which law and the usages of society afforded 
 Augustine as means of extricating herself from the existing 
 crisis. He ticked off, so to speak, the various considerations, 
 and arranged them according to their weight, in categories ; 
 just as if he were dealing with goods of different qualities. 
 Then he put them in the balance, weighed them, and wound 
 up by demonstrating that it was incumbent on his sister to 
 take decisive action. Now this did not accord with the affec-
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 53 
 
 tion which Augustine still entertained for her husband, and so 
 when she heard Lebas talking of legal measures, that feeling 
 awoke in all its strength. 
 
 She thanked her two friends and returned home, still more 
 doubtful how to act than before she consulted them. Then 
 she ventured to wend her way to the old-fashioned house in the 
 Rue du Colombier, with a view to confiding her misfortunes to 
 her father and mother ; for she now resembled those desperate 
 invalids who will try any prescription, and surrender themselves 
 even to the nostrums of old women. The aged couple received 
 their daughter with an effusive kindness which deeply affected 
 her. Her visit formed a break in the monotony of their exis- 
 tence which was invaluable to them. For four years they had 
 lived like mariners without a destination and without a compass. 
 Seated in the chimney-corner they would chat to one another 
 about the disasters of the maximum, their bygone purchases of 
 cloth, their skilful avoidance of bankruptcies, and especially 
 that celebrated Lecocq failure, which was father Guillaume's 
 battle of Marengo. Then, having exhausted their old law-suits, 
 they would recapitulate the totals of their most productive 
 stock-takings, and narrate once more the old stories of the 
 Quartier St. Denis. When two o'clock came daddy Guillaume 
 would set out, just to catch a glimpse of the progress of affairs 
 at the Chat-qui-pelote. As he made his way back he would 
 stop at all the shops which had formerly been his rivals ; while 
 the young proprietors would endeavour to involve the old 
 tradesman in some risky discount transaction which, according 
 to his inveterate habit he never positively declined. Two stout 
 Normandy horses were dying of mesenteritis in the stable, for 
 Madame Guillaume never used them, except when, as each 
 Sunday came round, they dragged her to high mass at the 
 parish church. Three times a week the worthy couple kept 
 open house. Thanks to the influence of his son-in-law Som- 
 mervieux, father Guillaume had been appointed a member of 
 the consulting committee for the clothing of the troops ; and
 
 54 BALZAC. 
 
 since the elevation of her husband to that important govern- 
 ment appointment, Madame Guillaume had made up her mind 
 to give entertainments, and her rooms were encumbered with 
 so many ornaments in gold and silver, and tasteless but expen- 
 sive furniture, that the least sumptuous apartment looked like 
 a chapel. Economy and prodigality seemed to be at feud with 
 one another in every detail of the establishment. One would 
 have said that M. Guillaume had been thinking of making a 
 profitable investment even in the purchase of a candlestick. 
 
 In the midst of this bazaar, whose fertility proved the leisure 
 of the worthy pair, De Sommervieux's famous picture held the 
 place of honour and afforded great consolation to M. and 
 Madame Guillaume, who twenty times in the course of the day 
 would turn their spectacled gaze to that delineation of the old 
 existence which had been so replete with activity and amuse- 
 ment for them. The aspect of the house and of the apartments, 
 redolent as they were of age and mediocrity, and the spectacle 
 presented by the two inmates who seemed, as it were, cast 
 upon a rock, far from the world and its vitilizing thoughts, 
 struck Augustine with surprise. She now saw the second part 
 of the tableux, the first part of which she had witnessed in the 
 dwelling of Joseph Lebas. Here was an existence busy yet 
 stationary a life guided, like that of the beaver, by a mechani- 
 cal instinct. Under the influence of this reflection she took a 
 sort of pride in her sorrows as she thought that they had their 
 source in eighteen months of happiness which were worth a 
 thousand such lives as that which she saw before her in all its 
 horrible emptiness. However, Augustine concealed the un- 
 charitable thought and displayed for the benefit of her aged 
 parents, the novel charms of her intellect and the seductive 
 tenderness which love had taught her. Thus she disposed 
 them to lend a favourable ear to her matrimonial troubles. Old 
 people have a weakness for confidential communications of the 
 kind. Madame Guillaume wanted to learn the most trivial 
 details of the strange existence which was almost fabulous to
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORK. 55 
 
 her. The travels of Baron de la Houtau, which she was always 
 taking up without ever reading it through, contained nothing 
 more unheard of, about the savages of Canada. 
 
 " What, child, do you mean to tell me that your husband 
 shuts himself in with naked women ? and are you simple 
 enough to believe that he draws them ?" 
 
 And with this ejaculation the grandmother laid her specta- 
 cles on a little work-table, shook her petticoats, and placed 
 her folded hands on her knees, raised above their natural level 
 by a foot-warmer, her favorite foot-stool. 
 
 " But, mother, all artists are obliged to have models." 
 
 " He took good care to say nothing to us about that, -when 
 he proposed. If I had known it, I would not have given a 
 girl of mine to a man who pursues such a calling. Religion 
 prohibits such dreadful practices. It's immoral. What time 
 do you say he conies home ?" 
 
 " Oh, one or two o'clock." 
 
 The old folks looked at one another in deep amazement. 
 
 " Then he gambles," said M. Guillaume. " In my day 
 only gamblers stayed out so late. 
 
 Augustine made a slight grimace in repulse of this accusa- 
 tion. 
 
 " He must cause you to pass fearful nights sitting up for 
 him," resumed Madame Guillaume. " But no, you go to 
 bed, don't you ? And when he has lost money the monster 
 wakes you up." 
 
 " No, mother, on the contrary, he is often in excellent 
 spirits. Very often when it is fine he asks me to get up and 
 go with him to the parks. 
 
 " To the parks at that time in the morning ? You must be 
 very much cramped for space if he hasn't room enough in his 
 bed-room and drawing-rooms, and must needs scamper about, 
 but it must be to make you catch cold that the villain asks 
 you to join in such excursions ; he wants to be rid of you,
 
 56 BALZAC. 
 
 depend upon it. Did you ever hear of a married man in a 
 snug business galloping about like a man-wolf?" 
 
 " But, mother, you don't understand that in order to 
 develope his talents he requires excitement. He is very fond 
 of scenes which " 
 
 | "Scenes I'd show him some scenes, trust me," cried 
 kMadame Guillaume, interrupting her daughter. " How can 
 you at all bear with a man like that? In the first place, I 
 don't like his drinking nothing but water. It isn't wholesome. 
 Then why does he dislike to see women eating? What a 
 queer notion, why he must be mad. What you have told us 
 about him is impossible. A man can't leave his house without 
 saying a word to anybody, and stay away ten days. He tells 
 you he has been at Dieppe to paint the sea. Do people ever 
 paint the sea? Why he crams you with children's stories." 
 
 Augustine opened her mouth to defend her husband, but 
 Madame Guillaume motioned her to hold her tongue with a 
 gesture to which early habit lent authority, and then proceeded 
 in a dry tone of voice, 
 
 " Stop, don't talk to me about the man. He never set his 
 foot inside a church except to look at you and to marry you. 
 Irreligious people are capable of anything. Do you suppose 
 that Guillaume ever took it into his head to hide anything from 
 me, to go three days together without even opening his lips, 
 and then begin to chatter like a one-eyed magpie ?" 
 
 " My dear mother, you are too hard upon superior people. 
 If their ideas resembled those of other people, we should 
 have no talented people at all." 
 
 " Well, then, let men of talent keep to themselves, and live 
 single. What ? things are come to a pretty pass if a man of 
 talent is to make his wife miserable because he is a man of 
 talent. Talent ! talent 1 I don't see much talent in perpetu. 
 ally talking black and white, interrupting people, blowing one's 
 own trumpet, never letting one know what to be at, compell- 
 ing a woman to abstain from enjoying herself until my gentle-
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 57 
 
 man's spirits look up, and to be gloomy because he is gloomy.'' 
 
 " But, mother, the peculiarity of imagination is " 
 
 " What sort of imaginations are they, I should like to 
 know," resumed Madame Guillaume, again interrupting her 
 daughter. " There seem to be some fine ones indeed. What 
 sort of a man is he who suddenly takes it into his head, with- 
 out consulting a doctor, to eat nothing but vegetables ? If 
 he did it from religious motives, well and good ; his abstinence 
 must be of some use to him ; but he has no more religion than 
 a Ruguenot. Did ever one hear of a man caring more, as he 
 does, for horses than for his neighbor, getting his hair curled 
 like a pagan, wrapping statutes in muslin, and closing shutters 
 in the daytime to work by lamplight? No, really if he were not 
 so flagrantly immoral, he ought to be sent to the Petite-Maison. 
 Consult Monsieur Loraux, the vicar of St. Sulpice; take his ad- 
 vice upon the whole matter, and he will tell you that your 
 husband's conduct is not that of a Christain." 
 
 '' Oh, mother, can you believe " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do believe ! You loved him and don't observe 
 these things. But for my part I remember having met him in 
 the Champs-Elyse'es very shortly after his marriage. He was 
 on horseback. Well, at one time he would start off at full 
 gallop, and then the next he would stop and go at a snail's pace ; 
 I said to myself then, ' That man wants judgment.' " 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed M. Guillaume, rubbing his hands, " it was 
 well I had your fortune settled to your separate use when I let 
 you marry such a queer character." 
 
 When Augustine had the imprudence to relate the real 
 grievences which she had against her husband, the two old 
 folks was struck dumb with indignation. The word divorce 
 soon fell from the lips of Madame Guillaume and aroused the 
 retired old tradesman. 
 
 Spurred by the love which he entertained for his daughter as 
 well as by the excitement which a legal process would impart 
 to his endless life, father Guillaume spoke up. He assumed
 
 58 BALZAC. 
 
 the lead and conduct of the divorce suit, began almost to 
 plead it, offered his daughter to pay all the costs, to see the 
 judges, attorneys, and advocates, and to move heaven and 
 earth. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux became alarmed, declined he r 
 father's services, declared that she would not be separated from 
 her husband, even if she was rendered ten times more unhappy ; 
 and said no more about her troubles. After being loaded by 
 her parents with all those little attentions and unspoken con- 
 solations by which the two old people vainly endeavored to 
 soothe the sorrows of her heart, Augustine withdrew, feeling 
 the impossibility of getting ordinary minds to form a just esti- 
 mate of superior beings. She found that a woman must conceal 
 from every one, even from her parents, misfortunes for which 
 it is so difficult to enlist sympathy. The storms and troubles 
 of superior spheres can only be appreciated by the lofty spirits 
 which inhabit them. In every crisis we can be judged only by 
 our peers. 
 
 So poor Augustine found herself once more in the chilling 
 atmosphere of hope, abandoned to her own terrible reflections. 
 
 Study was nothing to her now, since it had failed to win 
 back her husband's heart. Initiated into the secrets of those 
 fiery souls, but not possessing their resources, she was con- 
 demned to share their pains without partaking of their pleasures. 
 She had contracted a distaste for the world, which seemed to 
 her mean and paltry in the presence of the grand catastro- 
 phes of passion. In short, her life was a failure. 
 
 One evening an idea flashed across her mind, and lighted 
 up as with some celestial ray, her sombre sorrows. 
 
 Such an idea could have commended itself only to a heart 
 so pure and virtuous as Augustine's. She made up her mind 
 to go to the Duchess of Carigliano, not to ask her to restore 
 her husband's heart, but to learn the artifices by which he had 
 been torn away from her ; to excite in the haughty woman of 
 the world an interest in the mother of her lover's children ; to
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 59 
 
 work upon her feelings and make her the accomplice of her 
 future happiness, as she was then the instrument of her present 
 misfortunes. 
 
 And so one day it came to pass that the timid Augustine, 
 armed with supernatural courage, took her seat in her carriage at 
 , two o'clock in the afternoon, to make her way to the boudoir of 
 the celebrated coquette, who was never visible at an earlier hour. 
 Madame de Sommervieux was as yet unacquainted with the 
 old fashioned sumptuous houses of the Faubouig St. Germain. 
 As she traversed the majestic vestibules, the spacious staircases, 
 the vast saloons adorned with flowers in the depth of winter, ' 
 and furnished in that good taste which is pecular to woman to 
 whom opulence and habits of aristocratic distinction are 
 familiar from the cradle, she felt a painful tightness at the heart. 
 She was envious of the secrets of that elegance of which she had 
 never had a notion. She breathed an atmosphere of grandeur 
 which revealed the charm which that house exercised upon her 
 husband. When she reached the private apartments of the 
 duchess, the voluptuous arrangement of the furniture, of the 
 drapery and the hangings filled her with jealousy and a feeling 
 of despair. There, even disorder was graceful and luxury itself 
 seemed inbued with a species of contempt for wealth. The 
 perfumes that reigned in the mild atmosphere of the apartments 
 gratified without irrating the sense of smell. The accessories 
 of the chamber harmonized with the view of grassplat and 
 evergreen that met the eye through the transparent windows. 
 The whole aspect of the place was seductive, and yet there was 
 no evidence of artifice throughout. The very spirit of the 
 owner of these apartments could be traced in the drawing-room 
 in which Augustine had to wait. She sought to gain some idea 
 of the disposition ot her rival from the scattered objects that 
 lay before her ; but there was something in the very 
 disorder, there was something in the very symmetry, that 
 was impenetrable to Augustine, something which was un- 
 decypherable to her simplicity ; all that she could perceive was
 
 60 BALZAC. 
 
 that the duchess as a woman was a superior woman. And then 
 there occurred to her this painful thought j " Ah me ! can it be 
 true that a fond and simple heart is not sufficient for an artist; 
 must his strong mind be joined by way of counterpoise, to a 
 female heart as potent as his own ? Had I been educated as 
 this siren was, our weapons would at least have been equal 
 when the contest began." 
 
 " But I am not at home." Such were the few harsh words, 
 which though uttered in a low voice in the adjoining room, 
 Augustine overheard. They set her heart a-beating. 
 
 " But the lady is there," answered the lady's maid. 
 
 " You must have lost your wits. Show her in," replied the 
 duchess in a voice which had now lost its harshness and 
 assumed the soft accent of politeness. Now it was clear that 
 she meant that what she said should be overheard. 
 
 Augustine stepped timidly forward and saw the duchess in- 
 dolently reclining on a brown velvet ottoman at the end of the 
 boudoir. The ottoman was placed in the centre of a sort of 
 semicircle formed by soft folds of muslin which covered some 
 yellow material. Ornaments of gilded bronze artistically 
 arranged gave a heightened tone to this kind of dais, under 
 which the duchess lay like some antique statue. The deep- 
 coloured velvet brought into full play everything that could 
 add to the effect. The subdued light, favorable.to her beauty, 
 seemed to be reflected rather than direct. A few choice flowers 
 raised their scented blossoms from vases of the richest Sevres. 
 Just as this tableau met the eye of the astonished Augustine, 
 she caught, so noiseless had been her approach, a glance cast by 
 the enchantress. This glance seemed to say to a person, whom 
 the artist's wife had not at first observed, " Don't go, you will 
 see a pretty woman and render her visit less tiresome 
 to me." 
 
 At the sight of Augustine the duchess rose and made her sit 
 down beside her. Then with a charming smile she inquired, 
 
 " To what am I indebted for this agreeable visit, madam ? "
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 61 
 
 Why such duplicity ? thought Augustine, who only answered 
 with a bow. 
 
 Her silence was enforced. The young wife saw before her 
 an observer of the scene who was entirely de trap. This person 
 was the youngest, the most elegant, and the best built of all the 
 colonels of the imperial army. His half-dress uniform set off 
 to the utmost advantage the graces of his person. 
 
 His face which beemed with life and youth, and was already 
 full of expression, derived further animation from the small 
 moustaches turned up and drawn out into a point and black 
 as jet ; from the thick imperial, carefully combed whiskers, and 
 the forest of black hair now considerably disarranged. He 
 was playing with a whip and wore an air of ease and freedom 
 which suited the self-satisfied aspect of his features and the 
 neatness of his dress. The ribands attached to his buttenhole 
 were negligently tied and he seemed much vainer of his hand- 
 some figure than of his courage. Augustine looked from the 
 duchess to the colonel with a glance whose petition was 
 thoroughly comprehended. 
 
 " Well, good bye, M. d'Aiglemont, we shall meet again at 
 the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 These words were uttered by the duceess as if they were the 
 result of an understanding arrived at previously to Augustine's 
 arrival; and they were accompanied by a threatening look which 
 the young officer perhaps deserved, on account of his evident 
 admiration for the modest flower of beauty who contrasted so 
 well with the haughty duchess. The young fop bowed silently, 
 turned on his heal, and walked gracefully out of the boudoir. 
 At that moment, Augustine, who was watching her rival as she 
 pursued with her eyes the dashing officer, detected in the 
 glance a trace of that feeling whose fugitive expressions are 
 known to every woman. She thought with the profoundes* 
 sorrow that her visit would be thrown away ; the crafty duchess 
 was to eager for homage to be merciful. 
 
 " Mndame," said Augustine, in a broken voice, "the step
 
 G2 BALZAC. 
 
 which I am now taking in coming to you will seem to you very 
 extraordinary; but the madness of despair ought to excuse 
 everything. I now understand too well why Theodore prefers 
 your house to any other, and why your mind exercises so great 
 an influence over his. Alas, I have only to look into my own 
 breast to discover reasons more than enough. But, madame, 
 I adore my husband. Two years of sorrow have not erased 
 his image from my heart, though he is lost to me. In my 
 madness I have dared to entertain the idea of measuring my- 
 self with you, and I have come to see how I can triumph over 
 you. Oh, madame!" exclaimed the young wife, eagerly seizing 
 the hand which her rival abandoned to ner, " I shall never pray 
 to God for my own happiness with such fervor as I will entreat 
 Him for yours, if you will aid me to regain, I do not say the 
 love, but merely the friendship of Sommervieux. My only 
 hope is in you. Oh, tell me how you won his heart, and made 
 him forgetful of the first days of " 
 
 At these words Augustine was forced to stop, choked with 
 the sobs which she could not restrain : ashamed of her weak- 
 ness she hid her face in her handkerchief, which was soon 
 deluged with her tears. 
 
 " Why what a child you are, my little beauty," said the 
 duchess, for whom the novelty of the scene had a certain 
 charm, and who was touched in spite of herself by the homage 
 paid to her by perhaps the most spotless woman in Paris. So 
 saying she took Augustine's handkerchief, and began to wipe 
 her eyes with it, accompanying the process with sundry 
 monosyllabic murmurs of graceful pity. After a moment's 
 silence the coquette, imprisoning poor Augustine's pretty 
 hands in her own, which were specially remarkable for their 
 beauty and their power, said in a gentle and affectionate 
 tone, 
 
 " My first advise to you is not to cry so ; crying makes 
 people ugly. You must make short work with troubles which 
 cause illness, for love cannot long survive a sick-bed.
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 63 
 
 is that melancholy lends at first a certain engaging charm, but 
 in the long-run it draws the features, and withers the most 
 charming face ; and then our tyrants are so vain that they 
 want their poor slaves to be always gay." 
 
 "Ah, madame, I cannot control my feelings. How is it 
 possible without experiencing a thousand deaths to see a face 
 once radiant with love and joy, gloomy, pale, indifferent? Oh, 
 I cannot command my feelings." 
 
 " So much the worse, my darling, but I believe I already 
 know your whole story. In the first place make sure of this ; 
 if your husband has been faithless to you, /am not his accom- 
 plice. If I made it a point to have him at my receptions, it 
 was, I freely admit, from mere vanity; he was famous and 
 went nowhere. I like you already too well to give you a list 
 of the follies he has been guilty of on my account. I will 
 merely show you one of them, because it will perhaps help us 
 to restore him to you, and to punish him for the audacity of his 
 proceedings as far as I am concerned. If he went on he 
 would compromise me. I know the world too well, my dear, 
 to be willing to place myself at the mercy of a man of very 
 great talent. To allow them to pay their addresses to us is 
 very well, but as to marrying them, that is a mistake. We 
 women may admire men of genius, enjoy them as we do a 
 spectacle, but as for living with them ; oh, never. Why 'tis 
 like seeking amusement by looking at the machinery behind 
 the stage of the opera, instead of sticking to one's box and 
 enjoying the brilliant illusions. But in your case, my poor 
 child, the mischief is done, is it not ? Well, then, we must 
 try to furnish you with weapons against tyranny." 
 
 " Oh, madame, before I came into this room and saw 
 you, I already recognized certain artifices which I did not 
 suspect." 
 
 " Well, come and see me occasionally and you will very soon 
 have the secret of these trifles, which by the way are very im- 
 portant trifles. External objects are for fools, the full half of
 
 64 BALZAC. 
 
 existence ; and in that respect more than one man of talent is 
 a fool in spite of all his art. But I will take on me 
 to say, that you have never let Theodore know what a refusal 
 is." 
 
 " How, madame, can one refuse anything to the man one 
 loves ? " 
 
 " You innocent little creature, I could dote on you for your 
 silliness. Learn this ; the more we love the more should we 
 endeavor to conceal the strength of our passion from the man 
 we love. It is the one who loves most who is trampled on 
 and, what is worse, deserted, sooner or later. He who would 
 reign must " 
 
 " What, madame, must one then dissimulate, calculate, 
 become false, create for one's self an artificial character and 
 maintain it ? Oh, how can one live so ? Can you . . . ? ' 
 
 She hesitated ; the duchess smiled. 
 
 "My dear," resumed the great lady in a serious voice, 
 " conjugal happiness has been at all times a speculation, 
 a matter of business. If you persist in talking passion, 
 when I am talking marriage, we shall very soon fail to 
 understand each other. Listen to me," she continued with a 
 confidential air. " I have been in a position to observe some 
 of the most eminent men of this age. Those who have mar- 
 ried, have, with few exceptions, married commonplace women. 
 Well, those women governed them as the emperor governs us, 
 and were, if not loved, at least respected by their husbands. 
 I am sufficiently fond of secrets, especially of those which con- 
 cern us women, to have taken a pleasure in finding the solution 
 of this enigma. Well, my angel, these good women had the 
 faculty of analyzing the characters of their husbands. Without 
 being alarmed, like you, at the superiority of their husbands, 
 they adroitly noticed in what qualities they were deficient ; 
 and whether it was that the wives possessed those qualities, or 
 only pretended to possess them, they managed to make such a 
 display of them in the eyes of their husbands that in the end
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDORE. 65 
 
 they inspired respect. Lastly, remember that these minds 
 which seem so lofty are all slightly infected with madness, of 
 which we ought to know how to take advantage. By making 
 up our minds to get the upperhand of them, by sticking to 
 that one object and in the midst of all our actions, thoughts, 
 and coquetries, keeping it steadily in view, we subdue these 
 eminently capricious spirits; the very nobility of their ideas 
 furnishes us with the means of influencing them." 
 
 " Oh, heavens," cried the young wife in terror. " This then 
 is life. It's a combat." 
 
 " Yes, a combat in which you must be always threatening 
 an attack," resumed the duchess with a laugh. Our power is 
 altogether factitious. So we must never allow a man to des- 
 pise us ; to recover from such a fall one must resort to odious 
 manoeuvres. Come with me," she added. " I am going to 
 give you the means of binding your husband." 
 
 She rose and laughingly conducted the young and innocent 
 apprentice to the tricks of matrimony, through the mazes of 
 her little palace. They reached a private staircase which led 
 to the reception-rooms. As the duchess was turning the 
 handle of the door, she stopped, looked at Augustine with an 
 inimitable air of subtilty and grace, and said, " Look here, the 
 Duke de Carigliano worships me ; well, he dare not come in 
 by this door without my permission. And he is a man who is 
 accustomed to command thousands of soldiers. He can assail 
 a battery, but in my presence he is afraid." 
 
 Augustine sighed. They reached a splendid gallery, and 
 there the duchess led the painter's wife to the portrait which 
 Theodore had painted of Mademoiselle Guillaume. When 
 Augustine caught sight of it she shrieked. 
 
 " I knew well it was no longer in my house," said she, " but 
 here !" 
 
 " My little darling, I merely demanded it in order to learn 
 of what folly a man of genius may be guilty. Sooner or later 
 I ".hoi ild have returned U *6 you, for I did not look forward to
 
 66 BALZAC. 
 
 the pleasure of seeing the original here, before the copy. 
 While we finish our chat, I will have it taken to your carriage. 
 If, armed with this talisman you are not your husband's mis- 
 tress for a hundred years, you are not a woman, and you will 
 deserve your fate." 
 
 Augustine kissed the hand of the duchess, who pressed her 
 to her heart, and embraced her with a tenderness all the more 
 lively because she would be forgotten on the morrow. This 
 scene would perhaps have destroyed for ever the candor and 
 purity of Augustine, to whom the secrets revealed by the 
 duchess might do as much harm as good; for the astute policy 
 of the loftiest social sphere, did not commend itself to Augus- 
 tine, any more than the narrow common sense of Joseph 
 Lebas, or the stupid morality of Madame Guillaume. Strange 
 result of the false positions into which we are thrown by the 
 least blunders committed in life ! Augustine was like some 
 Alpine shepherd overtaken by an avalanche ; if he hesitates or 
 listens to the cries of his companions, he generally perishes. 
 In these grand crises the heart is broken or is bronzed. Mad- 
 ame de Sommervieux went home in a fit of agitation which it 
 would be difficult to describe. Her conversation with the 
 Duchess of Carigliano awakened in her breast a thousand 
 conflicting ideas. Like the sheep in the fable, full of boldness 
 when the wolf is away, she harangued herself and traced out 
 for herself admirable plans of conduct : she invented a 
 thousand schemes of coquetry, she even addressed her husband, 
 discovering, in his absence, all the resources of that genuine 
 eloquence which never deserts women ; and then as she 
 thought of the clear and steady gaze of Theodore, she began 
 to tremble, even in his absence. 
 
 When she asked whether her husband was at home her voice 
 failed her. When she heard that he would not come back to 
 dinner she felt an inexplicable sensation of delight. She 
 resembled the criminal who appeals from his death sentence ; 
 a delay, however brief, seems like a whole lifetime. She
 
 THE CAT AND BATTLEDOEE. 67 
 
 placed the portrait in her own room, and waited for her 
 husband in all the agonies of hope. She felt so sure that this 
 attempt of hers would be decisive of her whole future, that 
 she trembled at every noise, even at the ticking of her time- 
 piece, which seemed to add weight to her terrors by measuring 
 them. She tried to while away the time by a thousand devices 
 She took it into her head to dress herself just as she was 
 dressed in the portrait. Then, conscious of the restlessness 
 of her husband's disposition, she caused her room to be 
 lighted up with unaccustomed brilliancy, feeling sure that in- 
 quisitiveness would attract her husband to her chamber on his 
 return. It was striking twelve when at the sound of the 
 postilion's voice, the gate of the hotel flew open, and the 
 artist's carriage rolled over the pavement of the silent court- 
 yard. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this illumination?" asked Theo- 
 dore in a gay tone, as he entered his wife's room. 
 
 Augustine adroitly seized the propitious moment, threw her 
 arm round her husband's neck and pointed to the portrait. 
 The artist stood motionless as a rock and turned his eyes now 
 on Augustine, and now on the accusing toilette. The timid 
 wife, half dead with fear, who was watching the changing, the 
 awe-inspiring brow of her husband, saw its expressive lines 
 mass by degrees like clouds. Then she fancied she could feel 
 the blood freezing in her veins, as with flaring eye and deep 
 and hollow voice he asked, 
 
 " Where did you find that picture ?" 
 
 " The Duchess de Carigliano restored it to me." 
 
 " Did you ask her for it?" 
 
 " I did not even know she had it." 
 
 The sweetness, nay the enchanting melody of the voice of 
 such an angel, would have softened the heart of a cannibal, 
 but not that of an artist suffering from the tortures of wounded 
 vanity. 
 
 '" That is nn net well worthy of her," cried the painter in a
 
 68 BALZAC. 
 
 voice of thunder. " I will revenge myself," he added, striding 
 about the room. " She shall die disgraced for having done 
 this ; I will paint her, yes, I will represent her in the character 
 of Messalina stealing by night from the palace of Claudius." 
 
 "Theodore !" exclaimed a dying voice. 
 
 " I will murder her." 
 
 " My friend." 
 
 " She is in love with that little cavalry colonel, because he is 
 a good horseman." 
 
 " Theodore." 
 
 " Oh, leave me," said the painter to his wife, in a voice 
 which resembled a roar. 
 
 It would be odious to describe the whole of this scene, 
 towards the end of which the intoxication of anger drove the 
 painter to language and gestures which an older woman than 
 Augustine would have attributed to phrenzy. About eight 
 o'clock the next morning, Madame Guillaume, breaking in 
 upon her daughter, found her pale, red-eyed, and with dis- 
 hevelled hair, holding in her hand a handkerchief drenched 
 with tears, and gazing at the fragments of a tattered dress and 
 a large gilt picture-frame that lay scattered on the floor. 
 Augustine, who was almost mad with grief, pointed to the 
 wreck with a gesture of despair. 
 
 " Ah, it may be a very serious loss," cried the old regent of 
 the Chat-qui-pelote. " It was certainly very like you ; but I 
 have heard of a man on the boulevards who paints charming 
 portraits for 150 francs apiece." 
 
 " Oh, mother." 
 
 " My poor darling, you are quite right," answered Madame 
 Guillaume, who misinterpreted the meaning of the look which 
 her daughter cast at her. " Never mind, my child. No one 
 can love so tenderly as a mother. I can understand it all, my 
 darling ; but come and tell me all your troubles, and I will 
 comfort you. Have I not told you already that the man is mad.
 
 THE OAT AND BATTLEDOBB. 69 
 
 7our maid has told me some queer things about him. Why, 
 he must be a regular monster." 
 
 Augustine placed her finger on her pale lips, as if to implore 
 her mother to be silent for an instant. During that terrible 
 night, misfortune had taught her that patient resignation, which 
 seems, in the case of mothers and of women who love, to 
 transcend the limits of human strength, and shows, perhaps, 
 that there are certain chords in the female heart which God 
 has denied to men. 
 
 An inscription on a tombstone in the cemetery of Montmartre 
 shows that Madame de Sommervieux died at the age of twenty- 
 seven. In the simple lines of that epitaph, a friend of the 
 timid creature recognizes the last scene of a tragedy. On the 
 solemn festival of the and of November in each year, that 
 friend, as he passes the recent gravestone, asks himself the 
 question, whether the powerful embrace of genius does not re- 
 quire women of a robuster type than poor Augustine ? 
 
 " It may be," such is his internal reflection, " that these 
 humble and modest flowers of the valley, perish when they are 
 transplanted to a too elevated region, the sphere of gathering 
 ' em^ests and of scorching suns."
 
 THE VENDETTA. 
 
 (LA VENDETTA.) 
 DEDICATED TO PUTTINATI, SCULPTOR, OF MILAN. 
 
 TOWARDS the end of October in the year 1800, a foreignei 
 accompanied by his wife and child arrived in front of the 
 Tuileries, and planted himself for a considerable time near the 
 d&bris of a house, then recently demolished, on the spot now 
 occupied by the unfinished wing which was to connect the 
 palace of Catharine de Medici with the Louvre of the Valois. 
 There he remained with folded arms and bowed head, which 
 he raised from time to time to look at the consular palace, and 
 at his wife, who was seated near him on a stone. Although 
 the female foreigner seemed to be confining her attention to 
 the little girl of nine or ten, whose raven locks were as a play- 
 thing in her hands, she did not miss one of the looks which 
 her companion directed to her. A single sentiment, other than 
 love, united these two beings, and imparted the same uneasi- 
 ness to their movements and their thoughts. Poverty is per- 
 haps the most potent of all bonds. The foreigner had one of 
 those large, massive, hair-abounding heads which are so often 
 to be met with in the paintings of the Caracci. His jet-black 
 locks were interspersed with a large number of white hairs. 
 His features, though noble and lofty, were marred by an air of 
 harshness. In spite of his strength and upright figure, he 
 seemed to be over sixty. The style of his much-worn garments 
 showed that he came from a foreign land. Although the once 
 handsome, but now faded, features of the woman bespoke a 
 profound melancholy, yet when her husband looked at her she 
 forced a smile and assumed an heir of calmness. The young 
 girl remained standing, though it was clear from the appearance
 
 72 BALZAC. 
 
 of her youthful sun-burnt face that she was tired. Her features 
 were of the Italian cast ; she had large black eyes shaded by 
 strongly arched brows, a certain native nobility and genuine 
 grace. Not a few. of those who passed this group were moved 
 at the mere sight of these three persons, who made no effort to 
 conceal a despair which was as profound as its expression was 
 simple. But the source of this transient kindness, which 
 characterizes the Parisian, was soon exhausted ; for so soon as 
 the stranger saw that the attention of some idler was attracted 
 to himself, he looked upon him with so fierce an air that the 
 boldest flaneur quickened his step as if he had trodden on a 
 serpent. After having remained for a long time in a state of 
 indecision, the tall stranger suddenly passed his hand across his 
 forehead, chased from it, so to speak, the thoughts which had 
 gathered it into furrows, and evidently made up his mind to 
 some desperate step. Casting a penetrating glance at his wife 
 and daughter, he drew a long poinard from his bosom, held it 
 out to his companion, and said to her in Italian, " I am going 
 to see whether the Bonapartes remember us." Then he walked 
 with a slow, firm step towards the entrance of the palace, 
 where he was, as was to be expected, stopped by a soldier of 
 the consular guard, with whom he was prevented from having 
 a long discussion ; for, perceiving the old man's persistence, 
 the sentinel pointed his bayonet at him by way of ultimatum. 
 As chance would have it, the soldier upon guard was at that 
 very moment relieved, and the corporal with great civility 
 directed the foreigner to the spot where he would find the 
 commandant of the station. 
 
 " Let Bonaparte know that Bartholome'o de Piombo wishes 
 to speak to him," said the Italian to the captain on duty. It 
 was all very well for the officer to represent to Bartholome'o that 
 the first Consul was not to be seen unless a written request 
 for an audience had been previously laid before him ; the 
 foreigner insisted that the soldier should carry the intimation 
 to Bonaparte. The officer opposed him on the ground of the
 
 THE VENDETTA 73 
 
 positive regulations, and formally declined to obey the order of 
 this singular petitioner. Bartholome'o frowned, darted at the 
 commandant a terrible look, and seemed to hold him responsi- 
 ble for the evils which might result from- this refusal. Then, 
 without another word, he folded his arms firmly across his 
 chest and proceeded to take up his position under the portico, 
 which serves for a communication between the court and the 
 gardens of the Tuileries. Persons who have a strong desire 
 for anything are almost always well backed by chance. At the 
 moment when Bartholome'o de Piombo sat down on one of 
 the railings near the entrance to the Tuileries, a carriage drove 
 up, and set down Lucien Bonaparte, then minister of the 
 interior. 
 
 " Ah, Lucien, it is very lucky for me that I met you," cried 
 the stranger. 
 
 These words, uttered in a Corsican patois, arrested Lucien 
 at the moment when he was driving under the arch ; he 
 looked at his compatriot and recognized him. At the first 
 word that Bartholome'o whispered to him, he took the Corsican 
 with him. Murat, Lannes, and Rapp were in the first Consul's 
 closet. On the entrance of Lucien, followed by a man of so 
 strange an appearance as Piombo's, the conversation ceased, 
 Lucien took Napoleon's hand and led him into the embra- 
 sure of the window. After having exchanged a few words 
 with his brother, the first Consul made a gesture with his 
 hand, which Murat and Lannes obeyed by going away. 
 Rapp pretended not to have observed it, in order that he 
 might remain; but Bonaparte spoke to his aide-de-camp 
 peremptorily, whereupon he sullenly left the room. The first 
 Consul, who heard the footsteps of Rapp in the next room, 
 went out suddently and found him close to the wall which 
 separated the closet from the anteroom. 
 
 " You are determined not to understand me, then ? " said 
 the first Consul. " I want to be alone with my compatriot."
 
 74 BALZAC. 
 
 " A Corsican," replied the aide-de-camp. " I distrust those 
 people too much not to " 
 
 The first Consul could not refrain from smiling, and gave 
 his faithful officer a slight push on the shoulder. 
 
 " Well what have you come here for, my poor Bartholome'o ? " 
 said the first Consul to Piombo. 
 
 " To ask you for an asylum and for protection, if you are a 
 true Corsican," answered Bartholomeo in a brusque tone. 
 
 " What misfortune has driven you from the country ? you 
 were the richest, the most 
 
 " I have killed all the Portas," said Piombo, in a deep voice 
 and with a frown. ' The first Consul drew back two paces, as 
 if astonished. 
 
 " Are you going to betray me ? " cried Bartholome'o scowling 
 at Bonaparte. " Do you know that there are still four Piombos 
 in Corsica ? " 
 
 Lucien grasped his compatriot's arm and shook it, then said 
 sharply, 
 
 " Are you come hither to threaten the Savior of France ? " 
 
 Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who said no more ; then 
 looking at Poimbo he said, 
 
 " Why did you kill the Portas? " 
 
 " We had struck up a friendship," he answered, " the Bar- 
 bantis had reconciled us. On the morrow of the day on which 
 we drowned our quarrels in a friendly cup, I left them, because 
 I had business at Bastia. They remained at my house and set 
 fire to my vineyard at Longuel ; they killed my son Gre'gorio. 
 But my wife and daughter, who had taken the sacrament that 
 morning, and were under the special protection of the Virgin, 
 escaped. When I returned I could not see my house ; as I 
 searched for it my feet were upon ashes. All at once I 
 stumbled against the body of Gre'gorio which I recognized by 
 the light of the moon. ' Ah, the Portas have struck this blow,' 
 I said to myself. I went forthwith into the m&quis. I there 
 collected certain men to whom I have been of service : do you
 
 THE VEND?:TTA. 75 
 
 understand me, Bonaparte ? and we marched to the vineyard 
 of the Portas. We reached it at five o'clock in the morning, 
 and at seven they were all in the presence of God. Giacomo 
 maintains that Elisa Vanni saved one child, the little Luigi, 
 but I myself had tied him to his bed before I set fire to the 
 house. I left the island with my wife and child without having 
 been able to ascertain whether Luigi Porta still lived." 
 
 Bonaparte looked at Bartholome'o with curiosity but without 
 surprise. 
 
 " How many were there of them ? " asked Lucien. 
 
 "Seven," replied Piombo. "They persecuted you atone 
 time," he added; but as these words caused no expression of 
 hatred on the faces of the two brothers, Bartholome'o exclaimed 
 with a sort of despairing accent, " Ah ! you are no longer 
 Corsicans ; adieu ! I protected you in days gone by," he added 
 in a reproachful tone. " But for me, your mother would not 
 have reached Marseilles," said he addressing Bonaparte, who 
 was lost in thought, with his elbow leaning on the mantlepiece. 
 
 " In conscience, Piombo," replied Napoloen, " I cannot 
 take you under my wing. I am become the chief of a great 
 nation ; I command the republic, and am bound to see that 
 the laws are executed." 
 
 " Ah, ah," cried Bartholome'o. 
 
 " But I can shut my eyes," resumed Bonaparte. " The 
 prejudice as to the Vendetta will for a long time obstruct the 
 sovereignty of the laws in Corsica," he added, speaking to him- 
 self. " But it must be destroyed at any price." 
 
 Bonaparte was silent for a moment, and Lucien signalled to 
 Piombo not to speak. The Corsican was already beginning to 
 shake his head in a token of disapprobation. 
 
 " Remain in Paris," resumed the first Consul, addressing 
 Bartholome'o, " we shall know nothing about it. I will procure 
 a purchaser for your estates, so that you may in the first place 
 have something to live upon. Then later on, after the 
 lapse of some little time, we will think of you. But no more
 
 76 BALZAC. 
 
 Vendetta. There arc no Maquis here. If you use the poniard 
 here, you must not hope for pardon. Here the law protects 
 the citizens, and people don't take the law into their own 
 hands." 
 
 " He has become the chief of a singular country," replied 
 Bartholomdo, taking Lucien's hand and squeezing it. " But 
 you acknowledge me in misfortune. Now I am yours in life 
 and to death, and you may dispose at your pleasure of all the 
 Piombos." 
 
 As he said this the forehead of the Corsican grew smooth, 
 and he looked around him with satisfaction. 
 
 " You are not badly lodged here," said he, smiling, as if he 
 would like to live there. " And you are dressed all in red like 
 a cardinal." 
 
 " It depends entirely on yourself to succeed and have a 
 palace at Paris," said Bonaparte, examining his compatriot from 
 head to foot. " It will happen to me more than once to look 
 round me in search of a devoted friend in whom I can 
 confide." 
 
 A sigh of joy escaped from the capacious chest of Piombo, 
 who held out his hand to the first Consul, and said, " There is 
 still something of the Corsican left in you ! " 
 
 Bonaparte smiled and gazed in silence at the man who might 
 be said to bring with him Bonaparte's native air, the air of that 
 isle in which he had formerly been so miraculously saved from 
 the hatred of the English party, of that isle which he was 
 destined never to see again. He made a sign to his brother, 
 who led Bartholomew di Piombo away. Lucien anxiously 
 inquired about the financial situation of the ancient protector 
 of their family. Piombo took the minister of the interior up 
 to a window, pointed out his wife and Ginevra, both seated on 
 a heap of stones, and said, 
 
 "We have come hither from Fontainebleau on foot, and 
 haven't a farthing." 
 
 Lucien gave his purse to his compatriot, and advised him to
 
 THE VENDETTA. 77 
 
 come the next day, in order to consult about the means of 
 providing some support for his family. The value of all the 
 property which Piombo owned in Corsica would scarcely 
 enable him to live decently in Paris. 
 
 Fifteen years elapsed between the arrival of the Piombo 
 family in Paris, and the following adventure ; which, without 
 the recital of the preceding events, would have been less 
 intelligible. 
 
 Servin, one of our most distinguished artists, was the- first to 
 conceive the idea of opening a studio for young girls desirous 
 of taking lessons in painting. He was a man of forty, of pure 
 morals, entirely devoted to his art, and had made a love-match 
 with the daughter of a general who had no fortune. At first, 
 mothers conducted their daughters to the professor in person, 
 but subsequently, when they came to know his high principles 
 and appreciate the pains he took to deserve their confidence, 
 contented themselves with sending them. It had been part of 
 the painter's plan to accept as scholars none but such as be- 
 longed to wealthy or highly respectable families ; so as to avoid 
 any criticism as to the constituent elements of his studio. He 
 even declined to receive young girls who wanted to become 
 artists by profession, to whom it would have been necessary to 
 give certain instruction, without which talent in painting is 
 impossible. Gradually his prudence, the superiority of his 
 method of initiating his pupils into the secrets of the art, the 
 feeling of security arising from the character and morals of the 
 artist, and the fact of his marriage, procured for him an excel- 
 lent reputation in the drawing-rooms of Paris. When a young 
 girl exhibited a desire to learn to paint or draw, and her mother 
 wanted advice upon the subject, " Send her to Servin," was the 
 answer made by every one. Hence Servin obtained in the 
 matter of girl-teaching a specialty, as Herbault had for bonnets, 
 Leroy for fashions, and Chevet for eatables. It was acknow- 
 ledged that a young woman who had taken lessons fiom Servin 
 could pronounce a conclusive opinion on the pictures at the
 
 78 BALZAC. 
 
 museum, paint a portrait in superior style, copy a picture, and 
 paint her picture of genre. Thus this artist supplied all the 
 requirements of the aristocracy. But notwithstanding the con- 
 nexions he had with the best families in Paris he was inde- 
 pendent, he was a patriot, and maintained, no matter to whom 
 he was talking, that gay, witty, sometimes comical tone, and 
 that freedom of judgment which distinguishes painters. 
 
 He had extended his scrupulous precautions even to the 
 arrangement of the place in which his scholars studied. The 
 entrance to the attic which surmounted his dwelling had been 
 walled up. In order to reach that retreat, which had all the 
 sanctity of a harem, it was necessary to use a staircase which 
 had been erected in the interior of the house. The studio, 
 which occupied all the upper part of the house, was of those 
 enormous dimensions which always surprise the curious, who, 
 when they have climbed to a height of sixty feet from the 
 ground, expect to find the artist lodged in a rain-spout. This 
 species of gallery was profusely lighted by great windows fitted 
 with those large green blinds, by means of which artists regulate 
 the light. Caricatures, heads dashed off at a stroke, either in 
 color, or scratched with the point of a knife, crowded the 
 dark grey walls and proved that, allowing for the different man- 
 ner of expressing it, girls, even of the highest class, have as 
 much folly in their composition as men can possibly have. A 
 little stove with its large flues, which described a hideous zig- 
 zag ere they reached the regions of the roof, was an inevitable 
 ornament of this studio. Around the walls ran a wooden shelf, 
 supporting plaster models, which lay scattered in confusion, 
 being for the most part covered with light dust. Here and 
 there, beneath this shelf, was to be seen hanging on a nail, a 
 head of Niobe in her pose of grief, a smiling Venus, a hand 
 thrust brusquely forward like that of a beggar asking for alms, 
 and sundry torches embrowned with smoke and looking like 
 limbs lately torn from their coffin. Paintings, sketches, man- 
 nikins, frames without pictures, and pictures without frames,
 
 THE VENDETTA. 79 
 
 completed the studio-like character of this disorderly apartment 
 a character which consists in an extraordinary mixture oj 
 ornament and nakedness, of poverty and richness, of care and 
 neglect. This immense place, in which everything seems 
 insignificant, even man, is suggestive of the back of a stage ; 
 and is full of old' clothes, gilded armor, fragments of various 
 stuffs and machines ; but there is something about it great as 
 thought ; genius and death are there, the Diana or the Apollo, 
 close to a skull or a skeleton ; beauty and disorder, romance 
 and reality, rich colors in shadow, and, not unfrequently, a 
 complete though mute and motionless drama. What a symbol 
 of an artist's brain ! 
 
 At the moment when this narrative begins, the brilliant July 
 sun was lighting up the studio, and two rays of light shot 
 through its whole length large transparent bands of gold, 
 glittering with grains of dust. A dozen easels raised their 
 pointed tops like ship-masts in a port. Several young girls 
 with their various faces, attitudes, and dresses, gave life to the 
 scene, while the green serges, so arranged as to suit the require- 
 ments of each easel, produced a number of contrasts and 
 startling effects of clear-obscure. This group of girls was the 
 prettiest picture in the studio. A fair young creature, very 
 simply dressed, stood aloof from her companions and worked 
 courageously as if forecasting misfortune. Not one of the girls 
 looked at her or spoke to her ; she was the prettiest, the most 
 modest, and the poorest of them all. 
 
 Two principal groups, separated one from the other by a 
 slight space, showed that there were two societies and two 
 spirits even in this studio, where the differences of rank and 
 fortune ought to have been forgotten. Sitting or standing, 
 these young girls, surrounded by their color-boxes, playing 
 with pencils or preparing them for use, handling their shining 
 palettes, painting, laughing, singing, giving free play to their 
 natural characters, and displaying their natural dispositions, 
 oonstituted a spectacle not to be seen by men. Here a proud,
 
 80 BALZAC, 
 
 haughty, capricious girl, with raven locks and beautiful nands, 
 scattered carelessly her kindling glances ; there, gay and heed- 
 less, with a smile upon her lips, stood a girl with chestnut hair 
 and white delicate hands, the true French maiden, frivolous, 
 unthinking, heedless of aught beyond the enjoyment of the 
 passing day. There, again, was a girl, dreamy, melancholy, 
 with pallid face, and head bent like a drooping flower ; while 
 her neighbor,. on the o'.her hand, was tall, indolent, inclined to 
 oriental habits, and had a long, dark, humid eye. This one 
 spoke seldom, but pondered and cast stolen glances at the head 
 of Antinous. In the midst of the girls, like the jocoso in a 
 Spanish play, stood a girl who was full of wit and epigrammatic 
 phnaies, a girl vho embraced all their movements at a single 
 glance, made them all laugh and was perpetually looking up 
 w'th a face too full of life not to be pretty. This girl was the 
 leader of the first group, which consisted of the daughters of 
 bankers, notaries, and merchants, all rich, yet all subjected to 
 the intangible yet penetrating disdain lavished on them by the 
 other young girls who belonged to the aristocracy. These 
 were governed by the daughter of an officer of the royal house- 
 hold, a little creature equally vain and foolish, who was proud 
 of being the daughter of a man who held an appointment at 
 court. She wished to appear as if she grasped without any 
 effort the observations of her master, and seemed to work as a 
 matter of favor. She used an eye-glass, always came late, 
 elaborately dressed, and entreated her companions to speak 
 low. In this latter group might be seen exquisite figures and 
 faces full of distinction ; but the girls of this group lacked sim- 
 plicity. Their postures were elegant, and their movements 
 graceful, but there was a want of frankness in their faces, and 
 it was easily seen'that they belonged to a world in which polite- 
 ness gains an early hold upon the character and the abuse of 
 social enjoyments kills the sentiments and developes egotism. 
 But amongst the whole assembly were to be found childlike 
 heads, maidens of exquisite purity, faces whose half-opened
 
 THE VENDETTA. 81 
 
 mouths disclosed virgin teeth, while virgin smiles played upon 
 the lips. Under this aspect the studio did not look like a 
 seraglio, but like a group of angels seated on a cloud. 
 
 It was now noon, and Servin had not yet shown himself. 
 For some days past he had spent the greater part of his time 
 at a studio of his, situated elsewhere, in which he was finishing 
 a picture for the Exhibition. All at once Mademoiselle 
 Ame'lie Thirion, the leader of the aristocrats of this little 
 assembly, held a long conversation with her next neighbor. 
 Then there was a dead stience in the patrician group, while 
 the bank section also was silent in surprise, and endeavored to 
 guess the subject of such a conference. But the secret of the 
 young ultras was soon divulged. Amelie rose, and taking up 
 an easel which stood some paces from her, replaced it at a 
 considerable distance from the noble group, near a rough parti- 
 tion which separated the studio from the dark closet containing 
 the broken casts, the paintings rejected by the professor, and a 
 supply of firewood, in winter. This action of Ame'lie's evoked 
 a murmur of astonishment, which did not however deter her 
 from completing the removal by hastily rolling alongside of 
 the easel, the box of colors, stool, &c., including a picture by 
 Prudhon which the tardy pupil was copying. After this coup 
 d'etat, if the party of the right set itself silently to work, that of 
 the left entered into a long debate. 
 
 " What will Mademoiselle Piombo say to that ? " inquired a 
 young girl of Mathilde Roguin, the mischievous oracle of the 
 first group. 
 
 "She is not a girl to talk," replied Mathilde; "but fifty 
 years hence she will remember this insult as if it had been 
 offered to her only the day before, and will find a cruel ven- 
 geance. She is a person with whom I should not like to have 
 a feud." 
 
 "The prosecutions to which those young ladies are subject- 
 ing her is all the more unkind," said another young girl, 
 "because Mademoiselle Ginevra was very sad the day before 
 
 T
 
 82 BALZAC. 
 
 yesterday ; it was said that her father had tendered his resigna- 
 tion. So that this will be an addition to her misfortune ; and 
 she was very good to those young ladies during the hundred 
 days. Did she ever say a single word to them that could 
 wound their feelings ? On the contrary, she never mentioned 
 politics. But our ultras seem to be acting from jealousy, 
 rather than party-spirit." 
 
 " I feel inclined to go and get Mademoiselle Piombo's easel 
 and place it next to mine," said Mqjhilde Roguin. She rose 
 but sat down again as a thought occurred to her, which she 
 expressed in these words. " We cannot tell how a person of 
 Mademoiselle Ginevra's disposition might take our civility; 
 let us await the event." 
 
 " Eccola," said the black eyed girl languidly. 
 
 In fact the sound of the footsteps of a person coming up the 
 staircase was heard in the studio. The words " Here she is," 
 passed from mouth to mouth, and then the profoundest silence 
 reigned throughout the room. 
 
 " In order to explain the importance of the ostracism which 
 Ame'lie Thirion had carried into effect, it is necessary to add 
 that this scene took place towards the end of the month of July, 
 1815. The second return of the Bourbons had just dis- 
 turbed many a friendship which had resisted the commotion 
 produced by the first restoration. At this moment the schism 
 between the different members of nearly every family caused 
 a revival of those lamentable scenes which soil the history of 
 every country during periods of civil or religious war. 
 Children, girls, old men, all felt the monarchical fever which 
 consumed the governing powers, Discord entered every dwell- 
 ing and distrust stained with its sombre hues the most private 
 actions and conversations. Ginevra Piombo loved, nay, idol- 
 ized Napoleon; how could she hate him? The emperor was 
 her father's fellow-countryman and benefactor. The Baron 
 de Piombo was one of those servants of Napoleon who co-oper- 
 ated most efficaciously in bringing about his return from the
 
 LA VENDETTA. 83 
 
 island of Elba. The old Karon de Piombo, who was not only 
 incapable of renouncing his political creed, but even anxious 
 to confess it, remained at Paris in the midst of his foes. 
 Ginevra Piombo, therefore, was the more liable to be included 
 in the number of suspected persons, in that she made no 
 secret of the chagrin which the second restoration caused her 
 family. Perhaps the only tears which she had ever shed were 
 extorted from her by the double news of Napoleon's captivity 
 on the " Bellerophon" and the arrest of Labe'doyere. The 
 young women composing the patrician group belonged to the 
 highest royalist families in Paris. It would be difficult to give 
 an idea of the over excited feelings of the epoch, and of the 
 horror in which the Bonapartists were held. Trifling and in- 
 significant as the action of AmeTIe Thirion may now seem, it 
 was then a very natural mode of expressing hatred. Ginevra 
 Piombo, one of the earliest of Servin's pupils, had occupied 
 the place, of which it was desired to deprive her, since her 
 first introduction to the studio ; the aristocratic group had 
 gradually formed itself around her ; to expel her from a place 
 which in a certain sense belonged to her, was not only to offer 
 her an insult, but to cause her a certain amount of actual 
 trouble ; for all artists have a preference for some particular 
 spot to work in. But political dislike had perhaps little to do 
 with the conduct of this small cdte droit of the studio. 
 Ginevra Piombo, as the cleverest of Servin's pupils, was the 
 object of profound envy. The master professed an equal 
 admiration for the talents and for the character of this favor- 
 ite scholar, who served as the basis of all his comparisons. 
 In short, though no explanation of the superiority which this 
 young person possessed over all who surrounded her was forth- 
 coming, she enjoyed in that little world a prestige similar to 
 that which Bonaparte had with his soldiers. The aristocracy 
 of the studio had for several days past plotted the downfall of 
 this queen ; but no one having as yet ventured to draw away 
 from the Bonapartist, Mademoiselle Thirion had just taken a
 
 84 BALZAC. 
 
 decisive step in order to make her companions the accomplices 
 of her hate. Although Ginevra was sincerely loved by two or 
 three of the royalists, who had nearly all been well schooled 
 at home in the matter of politics, yet, with that tact which is 
 peculiar to women, they deemed that they were bound to 
 remain neutral in the strife. On Ginevra's arrival then, she 
 was greeted with a profound silence. Of all the young girls 
 who had up to that time frequented the studio of Servin, she 
 was the most beautiful, the tallest, and the most finely formed. 
 There was in her carriage a certain grace and nobility which 
 commanded respect. Her face, which bore the imprint ot 
 intelligence, had a radiant look, so full was it of that anima- 
 tion which is peculiar to Corsicans, and not inconsistent with 
 repose. Her long hair and black eyes and eyelashes betokened 
 passion. Although the corners of the mouth were lightly 
 touched, and her lips were somewhat too pronounced, there 
 was stamped upon them that look of benevolence which the 
 consciousness of strength gives to the strong. By a singular 
 caprice of nature the charm of the countenance was, to a 
 certain extent, destroyed by a marble forehead that was almost 
 savage in its pride and eloquent of the morals of Corsica. 
 There was to be seen the only bond which existed between her 
 and her native land. Throughout the rest of her person the 
 simplicity and ease of the belles of Lombardy exerted so 
 much charm that it was impossible in her presence to cause 
 her the least pain. So great was the attraction she exercised, 
 that her father did not allow her to go to the studio without 1 
 an attendant. The only defect of this truly poetical creature 
 was the potency of a beauty so fully developed. She had de 
 clined all offers of marriage from love for her father and 
 mother : she felt she was indispensable to them in their old 
 age. Her taste for painting had taken the place of those 
 passions to which women generally are subject. 
 
 " You are remarkably silent to-day, young ladies," she 
 obseived after having advanced a few steps among her com-
 
 THE VENDETTA. 85 
 
 panions. " Good-day, my little Laura," she added in a sweet 
 caressing tone, as she drew near to a young girl who was paint- 
 ing at a disiance from the others. " That head is very good, 
 the flesh is a little too ruddy, but the whole is admirably 
 drawn." Laura raised her head and looked at Ginevra affec- 
 tionately; and the faces of the two girls glowed with the 
 expression of a mutual regard. A faint smile played upon the 
 lips of the Italian girl. She seemed to be in a reflective mood, 
 'and moved slowly towards her place, glancing listlessly at the 
 drawings and paintings, and bidding good-day to each of the 
 girls of the first-mentioned group, without observing the 
 unwonted curiosity excited by her presence. She looked like 
 a queen surrounded by her court. She took no heed of the 
 deep silence which reigned among the patricians, and passed 
 in front of their camp without uttering a single word. So great 
 was her preoccupation, that she took her seat at her easel, 
 opened her color-box, took up her brushes, put on her brown 
 sleevelets, adjusted her apron, looked at her picture, and 
 examined her palette without thinking, so to speak, of what 
 she was doing. Every head in the plebeian group was turned 
 towards her, while the eyes of the young ladies who formed 
 the Thirion camp were directed, with less frankness, yet with 
 equal fixity, to Ginevra. 
 
 " She does not notice the change at all," said Mademoiselle 
 Roguin. But at that moment Ginevra threw off the meditative 
 air which she had worn while contemplating her picture, and 
 turned her head towards the group of aristocrats. She measured 
 at a single glance the distance between it and herself, but said 
 nothing. " She does not think that any insult was intended," 
 said Mathilde. " She has neither blushed nor turned pale. 
 How annoyed those young ladies will be if she finds her new 
 place more to her liking than the old one." Then addressing 
 Ginevra she exclaimed in a loud voice, " You are quite out of 
 line there, mademoiselle." The Italian girl pretended 
 not to hear. It may be that she really did not hear.
 
 86 UA.LZAC. 
 
 She rose abruptly, walked somewhat slowly by the par- 
 tition which separated the dark closet from the studio, and 
 appeared to be examining the window whence the light came, 
 secmit.g to attach so much importance to it that she mounted 
 upon a c! air in order to raise the green serge which intercepted 
 the hoht, a good deal higher. When upon a chair she was 
 close to a slight chink in the partition, which was the real goal 
 of her efforts ; for the look she cast through the chink can be 
 compared only to that of a miser discovering the treasures of 
 Aladdin. She then speedily descended, went back to her 
 place, read] astcd her picture, pretended to be dissatisfied with 
 the light, drew a table near to the partition, placed a chair 
 upon it, then mounting upon that scaffolding, looked through 
 the chink once more. It was but a single glance she threw 
 into the closet, then lighted by a jour de sou ff ranee which had 
 been opened in it. What she saw in the closet produced so 
 lively an emotion that she trembled. " You will fall, Made- 
 moiselle Ginevra," cried Laura. 
 
 All the young people looked at the adventurous girl, who 
 was reeling. The fear that her companions would come up to 
 her, gave her courage ; she regained her strength and equili- 
 brium, and turning to Laura, and while swaying herself upon 
 the chair, exclaimed in a voice of emotion, " Bah ! it is at least 
 a little more solid than a throne." She then hurriedly removed 
 the serge, got down, pushed the table and chair far away from 
 the partition, returned to her easel, and made some further 
 seeming efforts to obtain a suitable body of light. But she 
 was not thinking about her picture ; her real object was to get 
 close to the dark closet, by the door of which she fixed her 
 place as she desired. Then she set herself to get her palette 
 ready, maintaining all the while the strictest silence. 
 
 hus placed, she soon heard much more distinctly the gentle 
 noise which on the previous evening had aroused her curiosity 
 and led her youthful imagination through the vast field of 
 conjecture. She readily recognized the strong, firm breathing
 
 THE VENDETTA. 87 
 
 of the sleeping man of whom she had caught a glimpse. Her 
 curiosity was more than satisfied, but she found herself weighted 
 with a grave responsibility. Through the chink she had 
 caught sight of the imperial eagle, and the face of an officer of 
 the guard, upon a dimly lighted folding-bed. All was now 
 clear to her; Servin was hiding an outlaw. And now she 
 began to fear that one of her companions would come to look 
 at her picture and hear the respiration of the poor fellow or 
 some too deep-drawn inspiration, such as that which had reached 
 her ear during the last lesson. She came to the resolution to 
 remain near the door, trusting to her skill to defeat the acci- 
 dents of fate. 
 
 " It will be better that I should be here to guard against 
 some sinister occurrence, than leave the poor prisoner at the 
 mercy of some bit of negligence." So she thought ; and the 
 thought explains the indifference displayed by Ginevra when 
 she found her easel removed. She was secretly overjoyed at 
 the incident; since it had afforded her the opportunity of 
 satisfying her curiosity in the most natural manner ; and more- 
 over she was at that moment too preoccupied to seek for the 
 reason of the removal of her seat. 
 
 Nothing is more annoying to young girls, and indeed to any 
 one, than to see a bit of spite, an insult, or a smart sting, fail 
 of its effect by reason of the indifference manifested by its 
 object. It would seem that our hatred of a foe gains depth in 
 proportion to the height to which he rises above us. The 
 conduct of Ginevra was an enigma to all her companions. 
 Her friends and her enemies were equally surprised, for they 
 gave her credit for every good quality except forgiveness of 
 injuries. Although the events of her studio life had afforded 
 few occasions for the display of that defect, the examples of 
 vindictive feeling and of firmness which she had displayed, had 
 not produced any the less effect on the minds of her compan- 
 ions. After many conjectures, Mademoiselle Roguin con- 
 cluded by imputing the silence of the Italian girl to a magna-
 
 88 BALZAC. 
 
 i 
 nimity that was beyond all praise ; and thereupon her retinue 
 
 inspired by her, entered into a scheme for humiliating the 
 aristocrats of the studio. They achieved their object by means 
 of a volley of sarcasms which lowered the pride of the cdte 
 droit. The arrival of Madame Servin put an end to this con- 
 test of vanity. 
 
 Ame'lie Thirion, with that cunning which always accom- 
 panies malice, had observed, analyzed, and reflected on, the 
 prodigious preoccupation, which prevented Ginevra from over- 
 hearing the bitter but polite dispute of which she was the 
 object. Thus the retaliation inflicted by Mademoiselle Roguin 
 and her companions had the fatal effect of inducing the young 
 ultras to inquire into the reason of Ginevra's silence ; so that 
 the beautiful Italian became the centre to which every eye 
 was directed, and was closely watched both by her friends and 
 by her enemies. It is extremely difficult to conceal even the 
 least emotion or the lightest feeling from fifteen young girls 
 full of curiosity and idleness, whose love of mischief and whose 
 intelligence are athirst for secrets to be discovered, and 
 intrigues to be worked out or defeated, while their skill in 
 putting a number of different interpretations upon a particular 
 gesture, glance, or word, infallably directs them to the right 
 one. Accordingly the secret of Ginevra de Piombo was 
 speedily in great danger of being found out. At that moment 
 the presence of Madame Servin produced a break in the repre- 
 sentation of the drama, which was being silently carried on in 
 the depths of those young hearts ; a drama whose sentiments, 
 ideas, and progress were expressed by means of phrases 
 which were almost allegorical, by mischievous glances, by ges- 
 tures, even by silence, which is sometimes more intelligible than 
 language. 
 
 As soon as Madame Servin entered the studio, her eyes 
 sought the door near which Ginevra had taken up her position. 
 Under the existing circumstances that look was not forgotten. 
 If none of the pupils paid any attention to it at first, Made-
 
 THE VENDETTA. 89 
 
 moiselle Thirion afterwards recalled it, and interpreted the 
 mistrust, the fear, and the mystery which almost glared in the 
 eyes of Madame Servin. 
 
 " Mesdemoiselles," said she, " Monsieur Servin cannot be 
 here to-day." 
 
 Then she complimented the young ladies all round, and 
 received from each of them a heap of those feminine caresses 
 which lie as much in the voice and in the looks as in the 
 actions. Governed by an uneasiness which she vainly endea- 
 vored to disguise, she soon came to where Ginevra was sitting. 
 
 The Italian girl and the painter's wife exchanged a friendly 
 nod, but did not speak, while the one painted and the other 
 looked on. The respiration of the soldier could easily be 
 heard, but Madame Servin seemed not to hear it, and so great 
 was her effort to dissimulate, that Ginevra was tempted to sus- 
 pect her of voluntary deafness. The stranger, however, turned 
 in his bed. The Italian looked fixedly at Madame Servin, who 
 thereupon said to her without the slightest change of counten- 
 ance, "Your copy is as beautiful as the original. If I had to 
 choose between them, I should be puzzled." " Monsieur 
 Servin has not taken his wife into his confidence in this 
 matter," thought Ginevra, who replied to the young wife's 
 observation with a smile of incredulity, and then began to 
 warble one of her native conzonettas, in order to drown any 
 noise which the prisoner might make. 
 
 It was so unusual to hear the studious Italian sing, that all 
 the young girls looked at her in astonishment, and the circum- 
 stance was afterwards regarded as a proof of the charitable 
 suppositions of hatred. Madame Servin soon went away, and 
 the sitting came to an end without further incident. Ginevra 
 allowed her companions to go away, while she herself seemed 
 inclined for more work; but she unwittingly betrayed her 
 anxiety to be alone; for as the pupils proceeded with their 
 preparatians for departure, she eyed them with looks of ill- 
 concealed impatience. Mademoiselle Thirion, who had in a
 
 90 BALZAC. 
 
 few short hours become a cruel enemy of the girl who excelled 
 her in everything, was guided by the instinct of hate to the 
 conclusion, that beneath the assumed application of her rival, 
 there lay a mystery. She had several times been struck by the 
 attentive manner in which Ginevra had disposed herself to 
 listen for a noise which no one heard. The last expression 
 which she caught gleaming in the eyes of the Italian, was a 
 ray of light to her. She was the last of all the pupils to go 
 away, and went down to Madame Servin's apartments, talked 
 with her for a moment, then, pretending to have forgotten her 
 bag, she quietly remounted the staircase, and saw Ginevra 
 mounted on a hastily erected scaffolding, and so absorbed in 
 her contemplation of the unknown soldier, as not to have 
 heard the light steps of her companion. It is true that, to 
 use an expression of Sir Walter Scott's, Ame'lie walked as if 
 she had been treading on eggs. Having regained the door of 
 the study, she coughed ; Ginevra trembled, turned her head, 
 saw her enemy, and blushed. She then hastily let down the 
 green serge, in order to disguise her real object ; and having 
 set her paint-box in order, left the studio. She carried with 
 her, graven on her memory, the image of a man's head as 
 graceful as that of the Endymion, the chef-d'oeuvre of Girodet 
 which she had copied some days before. 
 
 " Outlaw so young a man ! Who can it be ? For it is not 
 Marshal Ney." These two phrases are the expression, in their 
 simplest form, of all the ideas which Ginevra turned over in 
 her mind during the two following days. The next day but 
 one, in spite of the haste she made to be the first to reach the 
 studio, she found there Mademoiselle Thirion, who had come 
 in a carriage. Ginevra and her enemy looked at each other for 
 a long time, but their faces were impenetrable masks. Ame'lie 
 had seen the enchanting head of the stranger, but fortunately, 
 and at the same time, unfortunately, the eagles and the uniform 
 were not within the space which the chink enabled her to
 
 THE VENDETTA. 91 
 
 embrace. She was therefore lost in conjecture, when Servin 
 suddenly arrived much earlier than usual. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Ginevra," said he, after having glanced 
 round the studio, " why have you stationed yourself there ? 
 The light is bad, come nearer to these young ladies, and lower 
 your curtain a little." Thereupon he sat down by Laura, whose 
 labors deserved the most complaisant of his corrections. 
 , " Well now," said he, " here is a head extremely well painted. 
 You will be another Ginevra." 
 
 The master went from easel to easel, scolding, flattering, 
 joking, and making himself, as usual, more formidable on 
 account of his witticisms than his reprimands. The Italian girl 
 had not obeyed the direction of the professor, and stuck to 
 her post with the firm determination not to be driven from it. 
 She took a scrap of paper, and began to make a rough sepia 
 drawing of the head of the poor recluse. A work which is 
 the fruit of passionate conception always has a certain peculiar 
 stamp. The faculty of interpreting the production ot nature, 
 or of the imagination in true colors, constitutes genius ; pas- 
 sion often supplies its place. Thus in the situation in which 
 Ginevra was placed, the intuition which she owed to the vivid 
 impression made upon her memory, or perhaps necessity, that 
 mother of great things, endowed her with supernatural talent. 
 The officer's head was reproduced upon the paper, under the 
 influence of an internal tremor which Ginevra ascribed to fear, 
 though a physiologist would have regarded it as the fever ot 
 inspiration. She cast from time to time a furtive glance at 
 her companions, in order that she might be prepared to hide 
 the water-color in case of any indiscretion on their part ; but 
 in spite of her sharp lookout, there was a moment in which it 
 escaped her notice that her remorseless enemy's eye-glass 
 hidden by a portfolio, was directed full upon the mysterious 
 sketch. Mademoselle Thirion, who recognized the face of 
 the outlaw, brusquely raised her head, and Ginevra concealed 
 the scrap of paper.
 
 92 BALZAC. 
 
 "Why hare you remained there in spite of my advice, 
 mademoiselle ?" asked the painter gravely. 
 
 The pupil hastily turned her easel in such a direction, that 
 no one could see her sketch, then showing it to the painter 
 she said with emotion, " Don't you agree with me, that this 
 light is more favorable ? Had I not better stay here ?" 
 
 Servin turned pale. Since nothing escapes the piercing eye 
 of hate, Mademoiselle Thirion made a third party, so to speak, 
 in the emotions which agitated the master and pupil 
 
 " You are right," said Servin ; " but you will soon know 
 more than I do," he added with a forced laugh. There was a 
 pause during which the professor looked at the sketch of the 
 officer's head. 
 
 " This is a chef-d'oeuvre worthy of Salvator Rosa," cried he 
 with the energy of an artist. At this exclamation all the 
 young girls rose, and Mademoiselle Thirion rushed up with 
 all the impetuosity of a tiger throwing itself upon its prey. 
 At this very moment the outlaw, awakened by the noise, 
 moved in his bed; whereupon Ginevra knocked down her 
 stool, uttered a few incoherent phrases, and began to laugh ; 
 but she had folded up the portrait and thrown it into her 
 portfolio before her formidable foe had time to catch sight of 
 it. The easel was now surrounded. Servin pointed out in a 
 loud voice the beauties of the copy on which his favorite 
 pupil was engaged, and everybody was deceived by the strata- 
 gem except Ame'lie. She, placing herself behind her com- 
 panions, tried to open the portfolio in which she had seen the 
 sketch put Ginevra seized the portfolio, and placed it in front 
 of her without a word. The two young girls then scrutinized 
 each other in silence. 
 
 " Come, ladies, to your seats," said Servin. " It you want 
 to know as much about painting as Mademoiselle de Piombo 
 knows, you must not be constantly talking about balls and 
 fashions, and fiddle-faddling as you do."
 
 THE VENDETTA. 93 
 
 When all the young women had got back to their places, 
 Servin sat down beside Ginevra. 
 
 " Was it not better that I, rather than another should have 
 discovered this secret?" said the Italian girl, speaking in a 
 low tone. 
 
 " Yes," replied the painter. " You are a patriot ; but even 
 if you were not, I should still have chosen you for my con- 
 fident." 
 
 The master and pupil understood each other, and Ginevra 
 no longer feared to ask, 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " The intimate friend of Labe'doyere, the man who, next to 
 the unfortunate colonel, has contributed most to the junction 
 of the seventh regiment with the grenadiers of the Island of 
 Elba He was commander of a squadron in the guard, and 
 has just returned from Waterloo." 
 
 " Why did you not burn his uniform, and give him a suit of 
 plain clothes ?" asked Ginevra sharply, 
 
 " They will bring me some this evening." 
 
 " You ought to have closed the studio for a few days." 
 
 " He is going away." 
 
 " He wants to die then ?" said the young girl. " Let him 
 stay with you during the first stage of the commotions. Paris 
 is still the only place in France where you can safely hide a 
 man. Is he a friend of yours ?" she inquired. 
 
 No ; he has no title to my protection other than his mis- 
 fortunes, I will tell you how he was saddled upon me. My 
 father-in-law, who had re-entered the service during this 
 campaign, met this poor young fellow, and rescued him from 
 the claws of those who arrested Labedoyere. He was mad 
 enough to want to defend him !" 
 
 "Is it you who call him mad for that?" asked Ginevra, 
 staring at the painter, who was silent for a moment. 
 
 " My father-in-law is too closely watched to be able to keep 
 any one at his house ; so he brought me this stranger by night,
 
 94? BALZAC. 
 
 last week. I hoped to conceal him from i\ ery one by shutting 
 him up in this corner, which is the only spot in the house 
 where he can be in safety." 
 
 " If I can be of any use to you, employ me," said Ginevra. 
 " I know Mashal Feltre." 
 
 " Well, we shall see," replied the painter. 
 
 This conversation was too prolonged to escape the observa- 
 tion of any of the girls. Servin left Ginevra, and paid a visit 
 to each easel, giving such lengthy lessons that he was still 
 upon the stairs when the clock struck the hour for the pupils' 
 departure. 
 
 "You are forgetting your bag, Mademoiselle Thirion,'' 
 cried the professor, running after the young girl, who de- 
 scended to the trade of a spy, in order to gratify her hate. 
 
 The inquisitive pupil, assumed an air of surprise at her own 
 stupidity, went back to look for her bag, but Servin's caution 
 was to her another proof of the existence of a mystery, whose 
 importance was beyond a doubt. She had already invented 
 all that could possibly be, and might say, with the Abbe Bertot, 
 " Mon siege est fait" She ran noisily down the stairs and 
 slammed the door which opened into Servin's apartments, so 
 as to create the impression that she had gone away ; but she 
 stealthily rsascended the stairs, and ensconced herself behind 
 the door of the studio. When the painter and Ginevra thought 
 they were alone, he tapped in a peculiar manner at the door of 
 the attic. The door immediately turned on its rusty and 
 creaking hinges, and the Italian girl beheld a tall, well-made 
 young man, whose Imperial uniform stirred her heart. The 
 officer's arm was in a sling, and the pallor of his features showed 
 how keen had been his sufferings. When he saw a stranger 
 he trembled. Amelie, who could not see anything, was afraid 
 to remain any longer ; but it was enough that she had heard 
 the creaking of the door, so she stole noiselessly away. 
 
 " Fear nothing," said the painter to the officer ; " this is the
 
 THE VENDETTA. 95 
 
 daughter of the emperor's most faithful friend, the Baron de 
 Piombo." 
 
 The young soldier cast away all doubt as to the patriotism 
 of Ginevra so soon as he had seen her. 
 
 " Are you wounded ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing, mademoiselle ; the wound is closing." 
 
 At that moment the harsh and penetrating voices of the 
 newsmen, proclaiming, " This is the sentence of death pro- 
 nounced " reached the studio. 
 
 All three of them trembled ; the soldier was the first to 
 catch a name which blanched his face. 
 
 " Labddoyere ! " he exclaimed, sinking on to the stool. 
 
 They looked at each other in silence. Beads of sweat oozed 
 from the pale forehead of the young man. Seizing in one 
 hand, with a gesture of despair, the black clusters of his hair, 
 he rested his elbow on -the edge of Ginevra's easel. 
 
 "After all," he exclaimed, drawing himself up briskly, 
 " Labedoyere and I knew what we were doing. We knew the 
 lot which awaited us after the triumph, and after the failure. 
 He dies for the cause, and I am in hiding . . . ." 
 
 He rushed to the door of the studio, but Ginevra, more alert 
 than he, had darted forward, and barred his path. 
 
 " Can you re-establish the emperor ? " said she. " Do you 
 think that you can raise the giant who was unable to stand 
 upright himself?" 
 
 "What would you have me to do with myself ?" said the 
 outlaw, addressing the two friends whom chance had sent him. 
 " I have not a single relation in the world. Lae'doyere was 
 my protector and my friend. I am now alone. To-morrow, 
 perhaps, I shall be outlawed or condemned. I never had any 
 fortune besides my pay ; I employed my last crown in en- 
 deavoring to save Labedoyere from his fate and carry him off. 
 Therefore death is a necessity fdf me ; and when one is deter- 
 mined to die, one must sell one's head to the executioner as 
 dearly as possible. I was thinking just now that the life of
 
 96 BALZA.C. 
 
 one honest man is quite as valuable as the lives of two traitors, 
 and that a well-planted stab with a poniard may confer 
 immortality." 
 
 This fit of despair frightened the painter and also Ginevra, 
 who well understood the young man's frame of mind. 
 
 The Italian girl admired the beautiful head and the exquisite 
 voice, whose sweet tones lost but little of their sweetness even 
 under the influence of fury ; and she forthwith proceeded to 
 pour balm into all the wounds of the unhappy youth. 
 
 " Sir," said she, " as for your pecuniary distress, suffer me to 
 offer you the gold which I have saved. My father is rich, I 
 am his only child; he loves me, and I am quite sure that 
 he will not blame me; don't scruple to accept my offer j 
 our wealth is the emperor's gift ; we do not possess one cen- 
 time which is not the result of his munificence. Is it not a 
 proof of gratitude to him, to render a service to one of his 
 faithful soldiers ? Take, then, this sum, with as little scruple 
 as I feel in tendering it. It is only money," she added in a 
 tone of contempt. " Now, as to friends, you will be sure to 
 find some," as she said this she proudly raised her head, and 
 her eyes gleamed with an unwonted light. " The head which 
 will droop to-morrow under the fire of a dozen muskets saves 
 yours," she pursued. " Wait until this storm be past, and you 
 may go and seek service in some foreign army, if they do not 
 forget you, or in the French service, if they do." 
 
 There is in the consolation that comes from a woman some- 
 thing maternal, foreseeing, and complete; but when words of 
 peace and hope are spoken with that eloquence which proceeds 
 from the heart, and especially when the benefactress is beauti- 
 ful, it is difficult for a young man to resist. The colonel drew 
 in love through every sense ; a faint rose-tint colored his white 
 cheeks, his eyes lost something of the melancholy which 
 obscured them, and he said in peculiar tone of voice, "You 
 are an angel of goodness, but Labddoyere ! Labe'doyere 1 " 
 
 At that cry the three looked at each other in silence, and
 
 THE VENDETTA. 97 
 
 understoon one another. They were no longer friends of only 
 twenty minutes' standing, but of twenty years'. 
 
 " My good fellow," resumed Servin, " can you save him ? " 
 
 " I can avenge him." 
 
 Ginevre trembled. Although the stranger was handsome, it 
 v;as not his appearance which had worked upon the young girl ; 
 the gentle pity which woman find in their hearts for those 
 sorrows which are not ignoble, had stifled in Ginevra every 
 other affection ; but to hear the cry of vengeance, to find in 
 this outlaw an Italian heart, devoted to Napoleon, Corsican 
 generosity, this was too much for her. She therefore contem- 
 plated the officer with respectful emotion, which made a deep 
 impression on his heart. This was the first time that any man 
 had aroused in her so lively a feeling. She took a pleasure, as 
 any other woman would have done, in establishing a harmony 
 between the mind of the stranger and the distinguished beauty 
 of his features and happily proportioned figure, which she 
 admired as an artist. Led by chance curiosity to pity, and 
 from pity to intense interest, she was proceeding from that 
 interest *to feelings so profound, that she deemed it dangerous 
 to remain there any longer. 
 
 "Till to-morrow," she said, leaving behind her with the 
 officer one of the sweetest of her smiles, by way of consolation. 
 
 When he saw that smile which threw, as it were, a new light 
 upon the face of Ginevra, the stranger was, for a moment, 
 oblivious of everything. 
 
 " To-morrow," he repeated sadly, " to-morrow, Labedoy ere " 
 
 Ginevra turned round, placed a finger on her lips, and 
 looked at him as if she would say, 
 
 " Be calm, be prudent." 
 
 Thereupon the young man cried, " O Dio, che non vorrei 
 vivere do;)o averla veduta" (O God, who would not desire to 
 live after having seen her?) 
 
 The peculiar tone in which the words were pronounced made 
 Ginevra tremble.
 
 08 BALZAC. 
 
 " Are you a Corsican ?" she enquired, going back to him, 
 while her heart fluttered with delight. 
 
 " I was born in Corsica, " he replied, " but was taken to 
 Genoa when I was very young ; and as soon as I was old 
 enough for military service, I enlisted." 
 
 The beauty of the stranger, the extraordinary charm in- 
 spired by his devotion to the emperor, his wound, his mis- 
 fortunes, even his peril, all vanished from the mind of Ginevra, 
 or rather all were blended in a single new and exquisite feeling. 
 The outlaw was a child of Corsica; he spoke its cherished 
 tongue ! For a moment the young girl stood motionless, 
 chained to the spot by a magical sensation ; she had under her 
 very eyes a living picture, to which chance and every human 
 feeling combined, contributed their lively colors. At the 
 invitation of Servin the soldier had sat down upon a sofa, and 
 the artist had unfastened the scarf which supported the arm of 
 his guest, and was engaged in baring it in order to dress the 
 wound. Ginevra shuddered when she saw the long deep wound 
 inflicted by a sword blade on the fore-arm of the youth, and uttered 
 a wail. The stranger raised his head to look at her, and smiled 
 There was something touching, something that went to the heart 
 in the care with which Servin removed the lint and touched 
 the wounded flesh ; while the face of the patient, though pale 
 and worn, showed pleasure rather than suffering as he looked at 
 the young girl. An artist must needs admire this opposition of 
 sentiments, and the contrasts pioduced by the white linen and 
 naked arm with the red and blue uniform of the officer. At that 
 moment the studio was somewhat dark, but a parting sunbeam 
 shed its light upon the spot where the outlaw was seated, so 
 that his fine pale face, black hair, and uniform were bathed 
 in light. This simple effect, the superstitious Italian took as 
 a lucky omen. Under this aspect the stranger looked like 
 a heavenly messenger come to her with her native language on 
 his lips, to place her under the charm of the memories of 
 childhood, while her heart gave birth to a feeling as fresh and
 
 THE VENDETTA. 99 
 
 pure as her early days of innocence. For one brief moment 
 she paused to reflect, as if buried deep in infinite thought; then 
 blushing at having allowed her preoccupation to be seen, she 
 exchanged one sweet, short glance with the outlaw, and fled 
 \vith his image still before her. 
 
 The next day was not a lesson day. Ginevra came to the 
 Studio, and the prisoner was able to enjoy the society of his 
 compatriot. Servin, who had a sketch to finish, allowed the 
 recluse to be in the studio, and acted as Mentor to the two 
 young people, who often talked to each other in the Corsican 
 tongue. The poor soldier narrated hia bufferings during the 
 retreat from Moscow, for though then only nineteen, he had 
 been present at the passage of the Beresma, he alone of all 
 his regiment ; for he had lobt his comrades, the only persons 
 \vho would interest themselves in an orphan. He described in 
 fiery language the grand disaster of Waterloo. His voice was 
 music to the Italian girl. Brought up in Corsican fashion, she 
 knew not what it was to lie, and abandoned herself, with perfect 
 freedom, to her feelings ; she avowed them, or rather allowed 
 them to be divined, without resorting to the artifices of the 
 petty calculating coquetry of Parisian young ladies. During 
 this day she frequently paused with her palette in one hand 
 and her brush in the other, not dipping her brush into the 
 colors, but keeping her eyes fixed upon the officer ; thus with 
 slightly parted lips would she listen, ever ready to give the pic- 
 ture that touch which she never gave. She wa.s not surprised 
 to see so tender an expression in the eyes of the young man, 
 for she felt her own grow tender in spite of her wish to keep 
 them severe and calm. Then she went on painting for hours 
 together, without raising her head, because he was there, close 
 by her, watching her paint. When first he came to sit beside 
 her and watch her silently, she said to him in a tone of deep 
 emotion and after a long pause, " It amuses you, then, to see 
 people painting ? " On this day, too, she learned that his 
 came was Luigi. Before thjy separated, it v. :>. * agreed between
 
 100 BALZAC. 
 
 them that if any important political event should happen, Gin- 
 evra should inform him of it by singing in a low voice certain 
 Italian songs. 
 
 On the next day Mademoiselle Thirion informed all her 
 companions, in the strictest confidence, that Ginevra de Piombo 
 had for a lover a young man \vlio came during lesson-time 
 and took up his quarters in the dark closet in the studio. 
 
 " Do you," she said to Mademoiselle Roguin, " you who take 
 her part, examine her closely, and you will see how she passes 
 her time." 
 
 Ginevra, therefore, was subjected to a diabolical scrutiny. 
 Her songs were listened to ; her looks closely watched. At 
 the moment when she fancied she was seen by no one, a 
 dozen pairs of eyes were incessantly brought to bear upon her. 
 
 Thus forewarned, these young girls interpreted in their true 
 sense the expressions which flitted across the bright face of 
 the Italian girl, her warblings, and the attention which she 
 devoted to the indistinct sounds which traversed the partition 
 and were audible only to her. At the end of a week, only one 
 of Servin's fifteen pupils had resisted the temptation to examine 
 Louis through the chink in the partition. This one was Laura, 
 who from an instinctive weakness still defended the beautiful 
 Corsican girl. Mademoiselle Roguin tried to induce Laura to 
 remain upon the staircase at the hour of departure, in order 
 that she might have proof of the intimacy between Ginevra and 
 the handsome young man, by taking them by surprise when 
 they were together. But she refused to stoop to play the spy 
 when she could not even plead curiosity, and so became the 
 object of universal reprobation. Ere long the daughter of the 
 officer of the king's chamber discovered that it was not at all 
 fitting that she should go to the studio of a painter whose 
 opinions were tinged with patriotism or Bonapartism, which at 
 that epoch were one and the same thing. So she returned to 
 Servin's no more. If Ame'lie forgot Ginevra, the evil seed 
 which she had sown produced its fruit ; <br it gradually came
 
 THE VENDETTA. 101 
 
 to pass, that either by chance, or from a love of chattering, or 
 through prudery, all the other young women informed their 
 mothers of the strange things which were going on at the 
 studio. One day Mathilde Roguin absented herself; the next 
 lesson-day some other young lady was away, and at last, some 
 three or four of the pupils who had lingered behind after the 
 others had gone, returned no more. Ginevra- and Laura, her 
 little friend, were for two or three days the only inhabitants of 
 the deserted studio. The Italian did not notice the 
 ailing away, nor even inquire into the cause of the absence 
 of her companions. Since she had invented the means of 
 communicating with Louis, she lived in the studio as in some 
 delightful retreat, alone in the midst of a world, thinking ot 
 nothing except the officer and the dangers by which he was 
 threatened. This young girl, although she was a sincere 
 admirer of those noble characters who adhere to their political 
 faith, urged Louis to submit himself promptly to the royal 
 authority, in order that she might keep him in France and 
 Louis was unwilling to submit, because he wished to remain in 
 his hiding-place. If the passions are born and flourish only 
 under the influence of romantic causes, never had so many 
 circumstances concurred to unite two beings in a single senti- 
 ment. The friendship ot Ginevra for Louis and of Louis for 
 her, thus made more progress in a month, than an ordinary 
 friendship makes in ten years of drawing-room intercourse. Is 
 not adversity the touchstone of character? Thus Ginevra was 
 easily enabled to appreciate Louis and to know him, and they 
 soon felt a mutual esteem, one for the other. .Ginevra, who 
 was older than Louis, derived some pleasure from being courted 
 by a young man so great and so much tried by fate, who united 
 manly experience to all the graces of adolescence. Louis, on 
 his part, felt an inexpressible delight in allowing himself to be 
 apparently protected by a young woman of twenty-five. Was 
 it not a proof of love ? The combination of gentleness and 
 pride, of force and weakness, in Ginevra's character, was
 
 102 BALZACV 
 
 irresistibly attractive, and Louis wcs ronscquently completely 
 subjugated by her. In short, they already loved each other so 
 deeply that they had no need either to deny it or to confess it. 
 
 One day towards evening Ginevra heard the agreed signal. 
 Louis knocked a pin against the wood of the partition without 
 producing much more noise than a spider produces in attach- 
 ing its web. That was how he asked to be let out of his retreat 
 Ginevra glanced over the studio, failed to see little Laura, and 
 therefore replied to the signal. But when Louis opened the 
 door he saw the young pupil, and hastily retreated. Ginevra, 
 much surprised, looked round, saw Laura, and going up to her 
 easel said, " You stay very late, my darling. That head, never- 
 theless, seems to me to be finished. All you have to do is just 
 to add one little touch of light on the top of this tress of hair." 
 
 " It would be very good of you," said Laura with feeling, 
 " if you would correct my copy, so that I might have something 
 of yours to keep." 
 
 '' I am quite willing," said Ginevra, who was sure that this 
 would be the best way to get rid of her. " I thought," she 
 added, while giving a light touch to the picture here and there, 
 " that you lived a long way from the studio ?" 
 
 " Oh, Ginevra, I am going away, and for good," said the 
 young girl sadly 
 
 " You -ire goi"5 to leave Monsieur Servin?" asked the 
 Italian girl, without seeming to be affected by Laura's words, 
 as bhe would have btxu a month before. 
 
 ' You have not observed then, Ginevra, that for some time 
 past there i no one here but you and I ?" 
 
 " That is tru-," replied Ginevra, on whom the idea flashed 
 like a souvenir. " Are these young ladies ill then ? are they 
 going to be married ? or are their fathers all on duty at ths 
 court?" 
 
 " They have all left Monsieur Servin's," replied Laura. 
 
 " And wherefore ?" 
 
 " Because of you, Ginevra."
 
 THE VENDETTA. 103 
 
 "Of me !" repeated the Corsican girl, rising with threaten- 
 ing brow, proud look, and flashing eyes. 
 
 " Oh, don't be angry, my dear Ginevra," cried Laura sadly, 
 " but my mother wishes me also to leave the studio. All these 
 young ladies have been saying that you were carrying on a love 
 intrigue, that Monsieur Servin was countenancing your lover's 
 remaining in the dark closet. I never believed these calumnies, 
 and said nothing about them to my mother. Yesterday even- 
 ing, Madame Roguin met my mother at a ball, and asked her 
 whether she continued to send me here. When my mother 
 said yes, Madame Roguin repeated the lies of these young 
 ladies. My mother scolded me soundly ; she maintained that 
 I must have known all that was going on, that I had, by keep- 
 ing silence, betrayed the confidence which should exist between 
 mother and daughter. Oh, my darling Ginevra, how grieved I 
 am not to be able to be your companion still I who took you 
 for my model !" 
 
 " Oh, we shall meet again in society ; young girls marry," 
 said Ginevra. 
 
 " When they are rich," replied Laura. 
 
 " Come and see me ; my father has money." 
 
 " Ginevra," resumed Laura, who was much affected, " Ma- 
 dame Roguin and my mother are coming here to-morrow to 
 reproach Monsieur Servin ; at least let him know of it before- 
 hand." 
 
 If a thunderbolt had fallen two feet from where Ginevra was 
 standing, she could not have been more astonished than she 
 was by this revelation. 
 
 "What business was it of theirs?" she said naively. 
 
 " Everybody considered it very wrong. Mamma says that 
 .t is contrary to morality. . . ." 
 
 " And you, Laura, what do you think of it ?" 
 
 The young girl looked at Laura and their thoughts blended ; 
 Laura, who could no longer refrain irom tears, threw her arms.
 
 104 BALZAC. 
 
 round her friend's neck and kissed her. At that moment 
 Servin arrived. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Genevra," said he enthusiastically, " I have 
 finished my picture ; it is now being varnished. But what is 
 the matter with you? It would seem that all these young 
 ladies are taking a holiday, or are in the country." 
 Laura dried her tears, bowed to Servin, and retired. 
 
 " The studio has been deserted for several days past," said 
 Ginevra, " and the young ladies will return no more." 
 
 " Bah ! " 
 
 " Oh, it is no laughing matter," said Genevra. " Listen to 
 me, I am the unwilling cause of your loss of reputation." 
 
 The artist began to smile and interrupted his pupil. 
 
 " My reputation ! " said he. " Why, in a few days my 
 picture will be exhibited." 
 
 " The question does not concern your talent, but your mor- 
 ality," said the Italian. " These girls have circulated the story 
 of Louis being shut up here, and have said that you winked at 
 our love." 
 
 " Well there is some truth in that, mademoiselle," replied the 
 professor. "The mothers of these girls are impertinent 
 prudes," he continued. " If they had come to me, all would 
 have been explained. But, do you think that I trouble my 
 head about the matter ? Life is too short." And the painter 
 snapped his fingers above his head. Louis, who had heard a 
 part of this conversation, now joined them. 
 
 " You are about to lose all your pupils," he cried, " and I 
 shall have been the cause of your ruin ? " 
 
 The artist took the hands of Louis and Ginevra, and joined 
 them, " you will marry each other, will you not, my children ?" 
 he asked with a touching benevolence. They both looked 
 down, and their silence was their first confession of love. 
 " Well," cried Servin, " you will be happy, will you not ? Is 
 there anything which can weigh in the balance against the 
 happiness of two creatures such as you are ? "
 
 THE VENDETTA. 105 
 
 " I am rich," said Ginevra, " and you will allow ine to 
 indemnify you." 
 
 " Indemnify ! " cried Servin. " Why, when it is known that 
 I have been the victim of the calumnies of a set of fools, and 
 that I was harboring an outlaw ; why all the liberals in Paris 
 will send me their daughters. I shall then, perhaps, be your 
 debtor." 
 
 Louis grasped the hand of his protector without being able 
 to utter a single word ; but at length he said with much feeling, 
 " I shall be indebted to you, then, for all my happiness." 
 
 " Be happy ; I unite you," said the painter, with comic unc- 
 tion, as he laid his hands upon the heads of the two lovers. 
 
 This bit of fun on the part of the artist put an end to their 
 serious feelings. They looked at each other and began to 
 laugh. The Italian grasped the hand of Louis tightly ; and 
 with a simplicity of action worthy of the manners of her country. 
 " Ah, my dear children," resumed Servin, " you appear to 
 think that everything is as smooth as possible. Well, you are 
 in error." The lovers looked at each other in astonishment. 
 
 " Take heart ; I arn the only person embarrassed by your 
 little frolic. Madame Servin is a little strait-laced, and in 
 truth I don't quite know how we shall square matters with her." 
 
 " Good God, I forgot," cried Ginevra. " To-morrow Madame 
 Roguin and Laura's mother are coming here to " 
 
 " I understand," interposed the painter. 
 
 " But you can set yourself right," resumed the young girl 
 with a haughty movement of the head ; " Monsieur Louis," 
 said she turning towards him and looking at him knowingly, 
 " must by this time have laid aside all antipathy to the king's 
 government. Well," continued she, catching her lover's smile, 
 " to-morrow morning I will send a petition to one of the most 
 influential personages in the war department, a man who can 
 refuse nothing to the daughter of the Baron de Piombo. We 
 will obtain a tacit pardon for Monsieur Louis, the commandant, 
 for they won't recognize your colonelcy. And you," she added,
 
 100 BALZAC. 
 
 turning, to Servin, "can comfront the mothers of my charitable 
 companions by telling them the truth." 
 
 " You are an angel," criedServm. 
 
 While this scene was going on in the studio, Ginevra's father 
 and mother were growing uneasy at her prolonged absence. 
 
 " It is six o'clock, and Ginevra has not yet returned," cried 
 Bartholome'o. 
 
 " She has never stayed out so late," replied Piombo's wife. 
 
 The two old folks looked at each other with no ordinary 
 anxiety depicted on their faces. Too much excited to sit still, 
 Bartholomeo rose and walked twice round the room, showing 
 a good deal of activity for a man of seventy-seven. Thanks to 
 his robust constitution, he was not much changed since the 
 day of his arrival in Paris, and notwithstanding his height, he 
 still bore himself erect. His large protuberant head, which 
 could be easily seen through the thin white hair, gave a high 
 idea of his character and firmness. His face, which was marked 
 with deep furrows, had assumed a very well marked character 
 and retained that pallid look which inspires veneration. The 
 unnatural fire in his eyes, whose brows were not quite white, 
 and which retained their terrible mobility, showed that he was 
 still under the influence of impetuous passions. The whole 
 head had an aspect of severity ; but it was clear that Piombo 
 had the right to be severe His benevolence and gentleness 
 were scarcely known except to his wife and child. 
 
 While exercising his functions, or in the presence of a 
 stranger, he never laid aside the majesty which age gave to 
 his appearance ; and his habit of knitting his thick brows, of 
 contracting the wrinkles of his face, and of infusing into his 
 looks a Napoleonic fixity, rendered his address quite freezing. 
 During the course of his political existence, he was so generally 
 feared that he was held to be very unsociable ; but it is not 
 difficult to explain the origin of this opinion. The life, the 
 morals, and the fidelity of Piombo were a standing reproach 
 to the greater numbers of courtiers. Notwithstanding the
 
 THE VENDETTA. 107 
 
 delicate missions which bnd been entrusted to his discretion, 
 and would have been highly profitable to any one else, he 
 possessed no fortune beyond an income of 30,000 francs from 
 money invested in the public funds. 
 
 Any one who considers the low price of the funds under the 
 empire, and Napoleon's generosity to those of his faithful 
 servants who were not too proud to ask, will see at once that 
 the Baron de Piombo was a man of the strictest integrity. As 
 for his baron's plumage, that he owed to the necessity Napoleon 
 experienced of conferring on Piombo a title when he was sent 
 to a foreign court. Bartholomeo had always possessed a pro- 
 found hatred for the traitors whom Napoleon summoned around- 
 him, hoping to gain them over by dint of victories. It is said 
 that it was Piombo who took three steps to the door of the 
 emperor's cabinet after advising him to get rid of three men in 
 France, on the eve of the day on which Napoleon started for 
 his admirable .campaign of 1814. Since the second return of the 
 Bourbons, Bartholomeo gave up wearing the insignia of the 
 Legion of Honor. Never was there a finer specimen of those 
 old republicans, incoiruptible adherents of the emperor, who 
 survived like animated ruins of the two most energetic govern- 
 ments that the world has known. If the Baron de Piombo 
 were distasteful to certain courtiers, he had such men as Daru, 
 Drouot, and Carnotfor his friends. As for the other politicians 
 he troubled himself as little about them since Waterloo, as he 
 did about the whiffs of smoke from his cigar. 
 
 Bartholomeo de Piombo had bought the old Hotel de 
 Portenduere, with the very moderate sum which the emperor's 
 mother had given for his Corsican property. He made no 
 alterations in it; for being almost always housed at the expense 
 of the government, he only occupied this dwelling since the 
 catastrophe of Fontainebleau. Like all simple-minded people of 
 hiojh probity, the baron and his wife made no provision for 
 external display ; they retained the old furniture of the hotel. 
 The laige, lofty, sombre, and naked rooms of this abode, the
 
 108 BALZAC. 
 
 immense mirrors in their old gilt frames now nearly bl: ck, and 
 the furniture of the time of Louis XIV. were in keeping with 
 the appearance of Piombo and his wife persons worthy of 
 the olden times. Under the empire and during the hundred 
 days, while in the exercise of largely remunerated functions, 
 the old Corsican had kept a large establishment, from a desire 
 to do honor to the post he occupied, rather than from a desire 
 to shine. His existence .and that of his wife were so frugal 
 and so quiet, that their moderate fortune supplied all their 
 wants. To them their daughter, Ginevra, was worth all the 
 riches in the world. So, when in May, 1814, the Baron de 
 Piombo resigned his office, sent away his servants, and closed 
 his stable door, Ginevra, who like her parents, was simple and 
 unpretending, did not feel the least regret. Like all great 
 minds, she sought her luxury in the strength of her feelings, as 
 she sought for happiness in solitude and work. Moreover, these 
 three persons loved each other too well to attach any value to 
 the mere frame-work of existence. Often, and especially since 
 Napoleon's last most fearful fall, Bartholome'o and his wife 
 would pass delightful evenings in listening to Ginevra playing 
 on the piano, or hearing her sing. They found an immense 
 source of pleasure in her company, in her lightest word ; they 
 followed her with their eyes with tender anxiety ; they could 
 hear her footstep in the court, however lightly it might fall. 
 Sometimes the three would, like lovers, be silent for hours 
 together, understanding better than any words could teach 
 them, the unspoken feelings of their hearts. This deep feel- 
 ing, which was the very life of the old people, inspired all 
 their thoughts. They had not three existences, but one exist- 
 ence, which, like the flame of a fire, divided itself into three 
 tongues. If the recollection of Napoleon's benefits, if the 
 politics of the hour, would sometimes prevail over the persist- 
 ent affection of the old people, they could talk on those topics 
 without breaking the community of their ideas. For did not 
 Ginevra share their political passions ? What could be more
 
 THE VENDETTA. 109 
 
 natural than the eagerness with which they took refuge in the 
 heart of their only child. Up till that period the avocations 
 of public life had absorbed the energy of the Baron de 
 Piombo ; but when he had resigned his appointments, he 
 found it necessary to transfer his energy to the last sentiment 
 that remained to him. Then, moreover, there was perhaps, 
 apart from the ties which bind a father and mother to their 
 daughter, a powerful reason for the fanaticism of their recipro- 
 cal passion ; their love was not divided ; Ginevra's whole heart 
 belonged to her father, as her father's did to her. Hence the 
 only imperfection in this triple existence; Ginevra's volitions 
 were intense ; she was vindictive and impetuous as Bartholo- 
 rneo had been in youth. The Corsican took a pleasure in 
 developing these savage feelings in his daughter's heart, just 
 as a lion teaches its whelps to spring upon their prey. But 
 since this apprenticeship to vengeance could not very well go 
 on, except under her father's roof, Ginevra forgave her father 
 nothing, and he was obliged to give way to her. Piombo 
 regarded these childish quarrels as mere trifles ; but none the 
 less did they teach the child the habit of tyrannizing over her 
 parents. In the midst of the tempests which Bartholome'o 
 loved to arouse, a single affectionate word, a single look, would 
 calm their irritated souls, and they were never so nearly kissing, 
 as when they were actually threatening each other. For the 
 last five years, however, Ginevra, who had become wiser than 
 her father, persistently avoided scenes of this description. 
 Her fidelity, her devotion, the love which reigned in all her 
 thoughts, and her admirable good sense, had conquered her 
 irritations, but at the same time one great evil had resulted 
 from them ; Ginevra lived with her mother and father on a 
 footing of equality, which is always fatal. In order to com- 
 plete our account of the changes which had affected these 
 three persons since their arrival in Paris, we must add that 
 Piombo and his wife, who were uneducated, had allowed 
 (Jinevra to study according to her own inclination. Guided
 
 110 BALZAC. 
 
 only by her girlish fancies, she had learned something of every 
 subject, then quitted it, adopting and abandoning each line of 
 thought in turn, until painting bad become her dominant 
 passion. Had her mother been capable of directing her 
 studies, of giving her instruction, and bringing into harmony 
 the gifts of nature, she would have been perfect ; her defects 
 arose from the fatal education which the old Corsican had 
 taken pleasure in giving her. 
 
 After the old man's heavy footstep had for some time made 
 the floor creak beneath him, he rang the bell and a servant 
 appeared. 
 
 "Go and meet Mademoiselle Ginevra," said the baron. 
 
 "I always regretted we had no carriage for her," said the 
 baroness. 
 
 "She did not want to have one," said Piombo, looking at 
 his wife, who, faithful to the role of obedience which she had 
 played for forty years, looked down. 
 
 The baroness, who was now seventy, was tall, withered, pale 
 and wrinkled, and bore a close resemblance to those old women 
 whom Schnetz introduces into the Italian scenes of his pictures 
 of genre. She was so accustomed to hold her tongue, that 
 one might have taken her for another Mrs. Shandy; but from 
 time to time a word, a look, a gesture, announced that she had 
 retained her youthful vigor and freshness. Her dress which 
 was perfectly unstudied was often deficient in good taste. 
 Generally like some Valideh Sultan, she remained passive, 
 buried in a large armchair, waiting for or watching her Ginevra, 
 her pride and life. Her daughter's beauty, dress, and grace 
 seemed to have become her own. All was well with her so 
 long as Ginevra was happy. Her hair had turned white, and a 
 few scattered locks showed themselves above her brow and 
 wrinkled forehead, or strayed adown her hollow cheeks, 
 
 " Ginevra has been rather late every day for about the 
 fortnight," said the baroness. 
 
 " Jcaa won't go quick enough,'' said the impatient old
 
 THE VENDETTA. Ill 
 
 buttoning up his blue coat, snatching up his hat, which he fixed 
 firmly on his head, then taking his cane and making off. 
 
 " You wont have far to go," said his wife. For in fact the 
 great door had opened and closed, and the old mother heard 
 Ginevra's footsteps in the court. Bartholomeo suddenly re- 
 appeared, carrying his daughter in triumph, while she was 
 struggling in his arms. " Here she is, the Ginevra, the Gine- 
 vrettina, the Ginevrina, the Genevrola, the Ginevretta, the 
 Ginevra bella." 
 
 " Father, you hurt me." 
 
 Ginevra was immediately set down with a kind of respect. 
 She shook her head gracefully, in order to allay her mother's 
 fears, and show her that her cry was a mere ruse. Thereupon 
 the mother's pale wan face regained its natural hue, and 
 assumed an air of gaiety. Piombo rubbed his hands most 
 vigorously ; a sure sign that he was pleased. He had con- 
 tracted this habit at the court by seeing Napoleon, when he 
 flew into a rage with any of his generals or ministers who had 
 served him ill, or had been guilty of some fault. When once 
 the muscles of his face related, the least wrinkle in it bespoke 
 benevolence. 
 
 At this moment the two old people presented an exact 
 analogy to drooping plants restored to life by a little water 
 after a long drought. 
 
 " To table, to table," exclaimed the baron, presenting his 
 large hand to Ginevra, whom he called Signora Piombellina, 
 another symptom of gaiety, which his daughter acknowledged 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Piombo, when dinner was over, " do you 
 know that your mother says that during the last month you 
 have stayed much later than usual at the studio. It would 
 seem that painting takes precedence of us." 
 
 " Oh, father " 
 
 " No doubt Ginevra is preparing some surprise for us," said 
 the mother."
 
 112 BALZAC. 
 
 "What, going to bring me one of your pictures?" said the 
 Corsican, clapping his hands. 
 
 " Yes, I am very busy at the studio," she replied. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Ginevra, you look pale ?" 
 said her mother. 
 
 " No !" cried the girl with a gesture of determination. "No, 
 it shall not be said that Ginevra Piombo has told a lie, even 
 once in her life !" 
 
 When Piombo and his wife heard this singular exclamation, 
 they looked at their daughter with an air of astonishment. 
 
 " I am in love with a young man," she added in a voice of 
 emotion. Then, without venturing to look at her parents, she 
 dropped her large eyelids as if to veil the lightning of her eyes. 
 
 "Is he a prince?" asked the father ironically, in a tone 
 which made the mother and daughter tremble. 
 
 " No, father," she modestly replied ; " it is a young man 
 without fortune." 
 
 " He must be very handsome then." 
 
 " He is unfortunate." 
 
 "What is he?" 
 
 " He was a comrade of Labe'doyere, was outlawed and with- 
 out a refuge. Servin concealed him, and . . ." 
 
 " Servin is an honest lad, and has acted well," cried Piombo. 
 " But you, my daughter, are acting badly in loving another 
 man more than your own father. . . ." 
 
 "I cannot help loving," said Gmevra gently. 
 
 " I was hoping," resumed her father, " that my Ginevra 
 would be constant to me until my death ; that my care and 
 that of her mother would be the only care she would receive ; 
 that our affection would have encountered no rival affection in 
 her heart, and that . . ." 
 
 " Did I ever reproach you on account of your fanaticism for 
 Napoleon ?" said Ginevra. " Have you loved no one but me? 
 Have you not been away for months together, as an ambassa-
 
 THE VENDETTA. 113 
 
 dor? Have I not borne your absence bravely ? Life has cer- 
 tain necessities which we must learn to submit to." 
 
 " Ginevra." 
 
 " No, you do not love me for my own sake, your reproaches 
 show an insupportable egotism." 
 
 " You dare to accuse your father's love !" cried Piombo 
 with flaming eyes. 
 
 " No, father, I will never accuse you." said Ginevra, with 
 more gentleness than her trembling mother looked for. " You 
 are right in your egotism, just as I am right in my love. 
 Heaven be my witness, that never has daughter better fulfilled 
 her duties towards her parents. I have never seen aught but 
 happiness and love where others often have seen nothing but 
 duties. For fifteen years I have never been from under your 
 protecting wing, and it has been a very sweet pleasure to me to 
 make your days pass happily. But am I ungrateful in yielding 
 to the charm of loving, in desiring to have a husband to pio- 
 tect me when you are gone ?" 
 
 " Ah, you are reckoning with your father, Ginevra," pursued 
 the old man in a sinister voice. 
 
 Then there ensued a frightful pause, during which no one 
 dared to speak. At length Bartholomeo broke the silence by 
 crying in a heartrending voice, 
 
 " Oh, stay with us, stay with your old father. I could not 
 bear to see you loving a man. You won't have to wait for your 
 liberty long, Ginevra." 
 
 " But consider, father, that we shall not be parted, that 
 there will be two to love you instead of one, and that you will 
 know who the man is, in whose care you leave me, when you 
 go. You will be doubly cherished, cherished by me and by 
 him ; by him who is one with me, and by me who am alto 
 gether one with him." 
 
 " Oh, Ginevra, Ginevra," cried the Corsican wringing his 
 hands ; " why did you not marry at the time when Napoleon 
 H
 
 114 BALZAO. 
 
 had accustomed me to the idea, and introduced to you dukes 
 and counts ? " 
 
 " They loved me according to order," said the girl. " Be- 
 sides, I didn't want to leave you, and they would have taken 
 me away with them." 
 
 " You do not want to leave us alone," said Piombo, " but to 
 marry is to leave us alone. I know you, my daughter, you will 
 love us no more. Elisa," added he, looking at his wife, who. 
 sat motionless and almost stunned, "we have no longer a 
 daughter, she wants to marry ! " 
 
 The old man sat down after having raised his hands in the 
 air as if to invoke the Almighty ; then overwhelmed with sorrow 
 he remained with his head bent down. 
 
 Ginevra saw the agitation of her father, and the moder- 
 ation of his anger broke her heart. She expected a crisis, 
 fury ; she had not armed her heart against her father's gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 " Father," said she in a touching voice. " No, your Ginevra 
 will never forsake you. But love her also a little for herself. 
 Oh, if you only knew how he loves me ! ah, he would not 
 cause me any pain." 
 
 " Comparisons already ! " cried Piombo, in a terrible tone, 
 "no, I cannot endure this idea," he continued. " If he loved 
 you as you deserve to be loved, he would kill me ; and if he 
 he loved you not, I would stab him." 
 
 The hands of Piombo were trembling, his lips were 
 trembling, his whole body trembled, and his eyes darted 
 lightnings. Ginevra only could sustain his glance, for 
 then her own eyes kindled and the daughter was worthy of 
 the father. 
 
 " Oh, to love you. Who is the man who is worthy of such 
 a life ? " he resumed. " To love you as a father loves, is to 
 be already in Paradise. Who, then, is worthy to be your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " He is," said Ginevra, " he of whom I feel I am unworthy."
 
 THE VENDETTA. 115 
 
 " He ? " repeated Piombo mechanically. " Who is he ? " 
 
 "lie whom I love." 
 
 " Can he know you well enough yet to adore you ? " 
 
 " But father," said Ginevra, beginning to feel impatient, 
 " even if he did not love me, yet from the moment I love 
 him" 
 
 " You do love him then," cried Piombo. Ginevra gently 
 bowed her head. " You love him then more than you love 
 us?" 
 
 " The two feelings cannot be compared," she replied. 
 
 " The one is stronger than the other," said Piombo. 
 
 "I think so," said Ginevra. 
 
 " You shall not marry him," cried the Corsican in a voice 
 which shook the windows of the room. 
 
 " I shall marry him," said Ginevra quietly. 
 
 " My God ! my God ! " cried the mother ; " how will this 
 quarrel end? Santa Virgina ! interpose between them." 
 
 The baron, who was striding about the room, sat down ; an 
 icy severity over-shadowed his face ; he looked fixedly at his 
 daughter, and then said to her in a voice that was sweet and 
 gentle, 
 
 " Well, Ginevra, no, you will not marry him. Oh, do not 
 say that you will ; this evening, let me believe the contrary. 
 Do you want to see your father on his knees and his white hairs 
 bowing down before you, I will kneel down." 
 
 "Ginevra Piombo has not been accustomed to promise 
 and not to keep her word," she replied, "I am your 
 daughter." 
 
 " She is right," said the baroness, " we were sent into the 
 world to marry." 
 
 " So you encourage her in her disobedience," said the baron 
 to his wife, who, struck by his expression, became still as a 
 statue. 
 
 " To refuse to obey an unjust order is not disobedience," 
 said Ginevra.
 
 116 BALZAC. 
 
 " It cannot be unjust, since it emanates from the mouth of 
 your father, my daughter ! Why do you judge me ? Is not 
 the repugnance which I feel a counsel from on high? I am, 
 perhaps, preserving you from some misfortune." 
 
 " The misfortune would be if he did not love me." 
 
 "Always him" 
 
 "Yes, always; he is my life, my wealth, my thought. Even 
 if I obeyed you, he would be ever in my thoughts. To forbid 
 me to marry him is equivalent to my hating you." 
 
 " You love us no longer." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Ginevra shaking her head. 
 
 " Well then, forget him, remain faithful to us. After we 
 you understand." 
 
 " Father, do you wish to make me long for your death?" 
 cried Ginevra. 
 
 " I shall live longer than you ! children who do not honour 
 their father and mother die soon," cried the father, driven to 
 the last stage of exasperation. 
 
 " The more reason why I should marry quickly and be 
 happy," said she. 
 
 Her coolness, the strength of her reasoning, completed 
 Piombo's trouble. The blood rushed violntly to his head ; his 
 face grew purple. 
 
 Ginevra shuddered ; she flew, swift as a bird, on to her 
 father's knees, put her arms round his neck, stroked his hair, 
 and quite overcome exclaimed, , 
 
 " Oh yes, let me die first. I could not survive you, my 
 father, dear father." 
 
 "Oh Ginevra, my mad Ginevra!" replied Piombo, all his 
 anger disappearing under this caress, as ice melts in the rays 
 of the sun. 
 
 "It was time for you to finish," said the baroness with 
 emotion. 
 
 " Poor mother ! " 
 
 " Ah, Ginevretta, my Ginevra bella 1 " and the father played
 
 THE VENDETTA. 117 
 
 with his daughter as if she were a child of six years old. He 
 took a pleasure in undoing the wavy tresses of her hair, in 
 dancing her upon his knee. 
 
 There was a touch of madness in the expression of his 
 affection. 
 
 His daughter soon began to scold while she embraced him, 
 and jokingly tried to get him to consent that Louis should be 
 introduced to her home ; but jokingly also, the father refused. 
 Then Ginevra sulked, returned, and sulked again. At the end 
 of the evening she felt glad that she had familiarized her 
 father's heart both with her love for Louis and with the idea of 
 a not distant marriage. The next day she said no more about 
 her love, went later to the studio, and returned from it early, 
 was more affectionate in her manner to her father than she 
 had ever been, and showed herself full of gratitude, as if to 
 thank him for the consent which, by his silence, he seemed to 
 give to her marriage. In the evening she treated them to a 
 good deal of music, and often did she exclaim, " It requires 
 a man's voice for this nocturne." 
 
 She was an Italian girl ; that is saying everything. One day 
 after an interval of eight days her mother beckoned to her ; she 
 went up to her mother, who said to her in a low whisper, t{ I 
 have persuaded your father to receive him." 
 
 " Oh, mother, you make me very happy ! " 
 
 That day then Ginevra had the pleasure of returning to her 
 father's dwelling, hanging on the arm of Louis. This was the 
 second time that the poor officer had come out of his lurking- 
 place. The urgent solicitations which Ginevra addressed to 
 the Due de Feltre, then minister of war, had been crowned 
 with complete success. Louis had just been restored to the 
 list of officers unattached. That was a very great step 
 towards a brighter future. Since he had been informed by his 
 young friend of all the difficulties which awaited him at the hands 
 of the baron, the young commandant felt a fear, which he did 
 not dare to confess, of not pleasing him. This man, who had
 
 118 BALZAC. 
 
 borne adversity with so much fortitude, who was so brave upon 
 the battle field, trembled at the thought of entering the draw- 
 ing-room of the Piombos. Ginevra could feel him trembling 
 and his emotion, whose basis was their mutual happiness, was 
 to her a further proof of love. 
 
 " How pale you are," she said to him when they reached the 
 door of the hotel. 
 
 " Oh, Ginevra, if it were only life that was at stake ! " 
 
 Although Bartholome'o had been informed by his wife of the 
 official presentation of Ginevra's lover, he did not rise to meet 
 him, but remained in the armchair in which he was wont to 
 sit. The severity of his brow was quite glacial. 
 
 " Father," said Ginevra, " I bring you a person whom you 
 will, no doubt, be pleased to see. This is Monsieur Louis, a 
 soldier who stood within four paces distance of the emperor, at 
 the battle of Mont Saint-Jean." 
 
 The Baron de Piombo rose, looked furtively at Louis, 
 and said to him in a sardonic voice, " You wear no decoration, 
 sir?" 
 
 " I don't wear the riband of the Legion of Honor now ; " 
 Louis uttered these words timidly, and remained standing in a 
 posture of humility. 
 
 Ginevra, wounded by her father's want of politeness, brought 
 forward a chair. The officer's answer satisfied the old servant 
 of Napoleon. Madame Piombo, perceiving that her husband's 
 eyebrows were resuming their natural position, said, with a view 
 to sustaining the conversation, 
 
 " The gentleman's resemblance to Nina Porta is astonish- 
 ing. Don't you think that he has quite the features of a 
 Porta ? " 
 
 " Nothing more natural," replied the young man, on whom 
 the flaming eyes of Piombo were now fixed. " Nina was my 
 sister." 
 
 " Are you Luigi Porta ? " asked the old man. 
 
 " Yes."
 
 THE VENDETTA. 110 
 
 Bartholome'o de Piombo rose, staggered, was forced to take 
 hold of a chair to support himself, and looked at his wife. 
 Elisa Piombo went up to him ; then the two old people quitted 
 the room arm in arm, leaving their daughter with a sort of 
 horror. Luigi Porta looked at Ginevra in astonishment ; she 
 grew as white as a marble statue, and stood with her eyes fixed 
 upon the door through which her father and mother had dis- 
 appeared. This silence and this retreat were so solemn that 
 the feeling of fear, perhaps for the first time entered the 
 soldier's heart. Ginevra clasped her hands tightly together 
 and exclaimed in a voice so broken by emotion as to be 
 scarcely audible, except to the ear of a lover, " What misery in 
 a single word ! " 
 
 " In the name of our love, what have I said ? " asked Luigi 
 Porta. 
 
 " My father," she replied, " has never spoken of our deplor- 
 able history, and I was too young when we left Corsica, to 
 know anything of the story." 
 
 " Are we in vendetta ? " asked Luigi, trembling. 
 
 " Yes ; on questioning my mother I learned that the Portas 
 had killed my brothers and burnt our house. My father then 
 massacred all your family. How did you escape, you whom, 
 as he supposed at least, he bound to the posts of a bed, before 
 setting fire to the house ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied Luigi. " When six years old I was 
 taken to Genoa, to the house of an old man named Colonna. 
 I did not hear a single detail about my family. I only knew 
 that I was an orphan and without fortune. This Colonna 
 acted the part of a father to me, and I bore his name until the 
 day when I entered the service. As I required documents to 
 show who I was, old Colonna said, that I, powerless as I was, 
 and scarcely better than a child, had enemies. He persuaded 
 me to take the name of Luigi only, in order that I might 
 .escape them." 
 
 " Fly, fly, Luigi l" cried Ginevra, " but no, I must go with
 
 120 BALZAC. 
 
 you. So long as you are in my father's house you have nothing 
 to fear. As soon as you quite it, you must beware ; you will 
 be exposed to danger after danger. My father has two Cor- 
 sicans in his service, and if he does not try to take your li(e, 
 they will." 
 
 "And will this hatred exist between you and me, Ginevra?" 
 
 The young girl smiled sadly, and bowed her head. She 
 then quickly and proudly raised it, saying, 
 
 "Oh, Luigi, pure and sincere indeed must be our feelings 
 to give me strength to walk in the path which I am about to 
 enter. But the question is a question of life-long happiness, 
 is it not ? " 
 
 Luigi made no verbal answer, but smiled and pressed 
 Ginevra's hand. The young girl understood that it was only 
 genuine love which could abstain at such a moment from vul- 
 gar protestations. The calm and conscientious manner in 
 which Luigi expressed his feelings, in some sort announced 
 their force and their durability. The destiny of the lovers was 
 then sealed. Ginevra foresaw that there were fierce conflicts 
 to be sustained, but the idea of giving up Louis, an idea which 
 had perhaps floated through Ginevra's mind, completely van- 
 ished. His and his for ever, she suddenly and energetically 
 drew him out of the hotel, and did not leave him until he had 
 reached the house in which she had procured for him a 
 modest lodging. 
 
 When she got back to her father's house, that kind of serenity 
 which is born of a strong determination had stolen over her. 
 There was not in her manner any diange that betokened un- 
 easiness. There was no boldness, there was even much sweet- 
 ness of expression, in the look which she gave her father and 
 mother, whom she found on the point of sitting down to 
 dinner. She saw her mother had been weeping; the redness 
 of her aged eyelids shook Ginevra's resolution for a moment, 
 but she cor.cealed her emotion. Piombo seemed to be under 
 the dominion of a sorrow too deep and concentrated to be
 
 THE VENDETTA. 121 
 
 expressed in common language. The servants brought in 
 dinner, but no one touched it. A loathing for food is one of 
 the symptoms of these grand crises of the heart. They ail three 
 rose to leave the table without one word having been exchanged 
 between them. When Ginevra was seated between her father 
 and mother in the vast, sombre and solemn drawing-room, 
 Piombo would have spoken but his voice failed him. He 
 tried to walk, but found himself unable, so he sat down and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 " Pietro," said he to the servant, " Light a fire, I am cold." 
 
 Ginevra trembled and looked at her father with anxiety. 
 The struggle that was on the eve of taking place must be 
 terrible, and her face was quite upset. She knew the extent of 
 the danger which threatened her, but she did not tremble; 
 while the furative looks which Bartholomeo cast upon his 
 daughter seemed to announce that he was at that moment 
 afraid of that character whose violence was his own 
 handiwork. Between them no middle course was possible. 
 Thus the certitude of the change which might take place in 
 the feelings of father and daughter kindled an expression of 
 terror on the face of the baroness. 
 
 " Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family," said Piombo 
 at length, without venturing to look at his daughter. 
 
 " That is true," said she. 
 
 " You will have to choose between him and us. Our Ven- 
 detta is a part of'ourselves. The person who does not espouse 
 my revenge, is not a memberof my family." 
 
 " My choice is made," replied Ginevra in a calm voice. 
 
 Bartholomeo was deceived by his daughter's tranquillity. 
 
 " Oh, my dear daughter," cried the old man, whose eyelids 
 were wet with tears, the first the only tears he shed in the 
 course of his life. 
 
 " I will be his wife, " said Ginevra abruptly. 
 
 Bartholomeo felt stunned ; but recovering self-possesion he 
 replied,
 
 122 BALZAC. 
 
 " This marriage shall not take place so long as I am alive. 
 I will never consent to it." 
 
 Ginevra was silent. 
 
 " But do you consider" said the baron, " that Luigi is the 
 son of the man who killed your brothers ? " 
 
 " He was orrly six years old when the crime was comtnited, 
 and must be innocent of it," she replied. 
 
 " A Porta ! " cried Bartholome'o. 
 
 " But " said the girl sharply, " have I ever shared this ha- 
 tred ? Did you educate me in the belief that a Porta was a 
 monster ? Could I suppose that one of them was left ? Is it 
 not natural that your Vendetta should succumb to my feel- 
 ings ? " 
 
 " A Porta ! " said Piombo. " If his father had formerly 
 found you in your bed, you would not be alive now. He 
 would have put you to death a hundred times." 
 
 " That may be " she replied ; " but his son has given me 
 more than life. To look upon Luigi is a happiness, deprived 
 of which I cannot live. Through Luigi I have corne to know 
 the world of feeling. I have perhaps seen faces more beauti- 
 ful even than his, but none which has had such a charm for 
 me. I have perhaps heard voices but no, no, never have I 
 heard voices more melodious : Luigi loves me, he shall be my 
 husband." 
 
 " Never," said Piombo, " I would rather see you in your 
 coffin, Ginevra." 
 
 Tho old Corsican rose and began striding about the apart- 
 ment. Then scanned by pauses which showed his intense 
 agitation, the following words fell from his lips : 
 
 " You think, perhaps, that you will bend my will undeceive 
 yourself I will not have a Porta for my son-in-law. That is 
 my final determination. Don't let the subject be mentioned 
 to me again I am Bartholome'o de Piombo : do you hear, 
 Ginevra ? "
 
 THE VENDETTA. 123 
 
 " Do you attach any mysterious meaning to those words ?'' 
 asked Ginevra coldly. 
 
 " They mean that I have a dagger, and that I have no fear 
 of human laws. We Corsicans go before God to justify our- 
 selves." 
 
 " Well," said the girl, rising, " I am Ginevra de Piombo, 
 and I declare that in six months I shall be the wife of Luigi 
 Porta. You are a tyrant, father," she added, after a fearful 
 pause. 
 
 Bartholome'o clenched his fists and struck the marble mantel- 
 piece. " A.h, we are in Paris," he murmured. 
 
 Then he was silent, and crossing his arms and drooping his 
 head upon his breast, he uttered not another word during the 
 whole evening. Ginevra having given vent to her determina- 
 tion, assumed an air of imperturbable self-possession. She 
 sat down to the piano, and sang, and played some exquisite 
 pieces with a grace and feeling which showed perfect freedom 
 of spirit; so gaining a triumph over her father, whose brow 
 showed no signs of calming. The old man deeply felt this 
 tacit insult, and reaped at that moment one of the bitter fruits 
 of the education which he had given to his daughter. Respect 
 is a barrier which affords equal protection to parents and to 
 children. It saves the former from sorrow, and the latter from 
 remorse. 
 
 On the next day Ginevra, when about to leave the house, at 
 the hour at which she usually started for the studio, found 
 the door of the hotel fastened against her. But, however, she 
 very soon found a way of informing Luigi Porta of her father's 
 severity. A lady's-maid, who could not read writing, conveyed 
 to the young officer a letter from Ginevra. During five days 
 the two lovers carried on a correspondence, thanks to those 
 schemes which young people of twenty can always invent. 
 Thus, father and daughter rarely spoke to each other. There 
 lay at the bottom of either heart an element of hatred ; they 
 suffered, but they suffered proudly, and in silence. When
 
 124 BALZAC. 
 
 they found how strong were the bonds* of affection which 
 united them, they tried to break them, but without success. 
 No tender reflection now lighted up the stern features of 
 Bartholome'o when he looked at his daughter. When the girl 
 looked at her father, there was a touch of fierceness in her 
 face, and reproach sat upon her innocent forehead. She in- 
 dulged indeed in a train of happy thoughts, but at times 
 remorse would steal the brightness from her eye. It was not 
 difficult to guess that she could never tranquilly enjoy a felicity 
 which would cause her parents unhappincss. But alike in the 
 case of Bartholome'o and in that of his daughter, all the irre- 
 solution caused by the native goodness of their dispositions 
 was doomed to give way before their pride, before the rancor 
 peculiar to Corsicans. They both nursed their anger and shut 
 their eyes to the future. Perhaps also they both flattered 
 themselves that the one would give way to the other. 
 
 On Ginevra's birthday her mother bethought her to take 
 advantage of the memories associated with the day to bring 
 about a reconciliation between the father and daughter, whose 
 grave disunion filled her with despair. They were all three in 
 Bartholomew's own room. Ginevra guessed her mother's in- 
 tention from the hesitation visible in her features, and smiled 
 sadly. Just at that moment a servant announced the arrival of 
 two notaries, who were ushered in, accompanied by several 
 witnesses. Bartholome'o looked fixedly at the two men, whose 
 cold and formal faces were calculated to wound feelings so 
 passionate as those of the three principal actors in the scene. 
 The old man looked uneasily at his daughter, v.hose face wore 
 a smile of triumph, which made him suspect that some catas- 
 trophe was about to take place. But he assumed, after the 
 manner of the savage, a delusive passiveness, and looked at 
 the two notaries with calm curiosity. At the silent invitation 
 of the old man, the strangers sat down. 
 
 " I assume that I have the honor of addressing the Baron 
 de Piombo?" said the elder of the two notaries.
 
 THE VEXDETTA. 125 
 
 Bartho!ome'o bowed. The notary slightly moved his head, 
 and looked at the young lady; his expression being that of a 
 sheriff's officer arresting a debtor. He then pulled out his 
 snuff-box, and taking from it a pinch of snuff administered it 
 to his nose in little doses, while he conned the opening 
 phrases of his address. Its delivery was accompanied by con- 
 tinual pauses, an oratorical device which we shall imperfectly 
 represent by a dash. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I am Monsieur Roguin, notary to this 
 young lady your daughter ; and we are here my colleague 
 and I with a view to carrying out the intent of the law, and 
 to put an end to the differences which it would appear 
 have arisen between you and the young lady, your daughter 
 on the subject of her marriage with Monsieur Luigi 
 Porta." 
 
 It is probable that this period, which was most pedantically 
 delivered, seemed to Maitre Roguin too fine to be immediately 
 understood ; so he stopped and looked at Bartholome'o with 
 an expression peculiar to men of business, an expression which 
 is a mean between servility and familiarity. From their habit 
 of feigning an interest in the persons whom they address, the 
 features of notaries contract a grimace, which they put on and 
 off, as thgy do their pallium of office. This mask of bene- 
 volence, which is obviously purely mechanical, so irritated 
 Bartholome'o that he had to summon up all his self-control to 
 resist the temptation of throwing Roguin out of the window. 
 An angry expression stole over his furrowed face, and induced 
 the notary to say to himself, " I am producing an effect." 
 
 " But," resumed he in hurried accents, " but, Monsieur le 
 Baron, in cases of this description, it is our duty to be essen- 
 tially mediatory at the outset, I beg you will be good enough 
 to listen to me. It is evident that Mademoiselle Ginevra 
 Piombo attains on this very day the age at which it is suf- 
 ficient, merely to go through the prescribed formal demands, 
 before proceeding forthwith to the celebration of her marriage
 
 126 BALZAC. 
 
 in spite of the absence of her parents' consent : now it is 
 customary among families which enjoy a certain amount of 
 social consideration which belong to society, in fact which 
 possess a certain dignity which deem it important, in short, 
 not to let the public into the secret of their dissensions and 
 which, moreover, do not desire to injure themselves by stamp- 
 ing with disapprobation, the future of a young couple (for 
 that is to injure oneself) it is customary, I say among these 
 honorable families not to permit such formal records to sub- 
 sist records which remain which are monuments of a divi- 
 sion which in the long-run comes to an end. From the 
 moment sir, when a young woman has recourse to these 
 formal demands she gives proof of an intention too decided 
 for her father, and her mother (he added, turning towards 
 the baroness) to hope to see her follow their advice. Paternal 
 opposition being therefore of no effect from this fact in the 
 first place and being also invalidated by the law, it is clear 
 that a prudent man, after having addressed a final remonstrance 
 to his child, accords her liberty to ... ." 
 
 Monsieur Roguin stopped short when he perceived that he 
 might go on speaking for two hours in that strain, without 
 getting any answer ; and he experienced, moreover, a peculiar 
 sensation from the look of the man whom he was endeavoring 
 to persuade. An extraordinary revolution had taken place in 
 the countenance of Bartholome'o. The contraction of all the 
 muscles of the face gave him an appearance of cruelty alto- 
 gether undefinable, and he looked at the notary with the look 
 of a tiger. The baroness remained mute and passive. Ginevra 
 waited calm and resolute; she knew that the voice of the 
 notary was more powerful than her own, and thereupon she 
 seemed determined to keep silent. At the moment when 
 Roguin ceased to speak, the scene became so terrible that the 
 unknown witnesses trembled ; never, perhaps, had they ex- 
 perienced a similar silence. The notaries looked at each other
 
 TEE VENDETTA. 127 
 
 as if in search of counsel one from the other, then rose and 
 went to the window together. 
 
 " Did you ever meet clients framed in this fashion?" asked 
 Roguin of his comrade. 
 
 "There is nothing to be done with them," replied the 
 younger notary. " If I were in your place, I would confine 
 myself to reading the documents. The old man does not seem 
 to me to be an amusing character; he is passionate, and you 
 will gain nothing by attempting to debate with him." 
 
 Monsieur Roguin then read a stamped document containing 
 a written statement which had been prepared in advance, and 
 coldly asked Bartholome'o what his answer to it was. 
 
 " There are then, in France, laws which take away a father's 
 authority ?" asked the Corsican. 
 
 " Sir," said Roguin in his honied accents. 
 
 " Which tear a daughter away from her father?" 
 
 " Sir," said the notary. 
 
 " Which rob an old man of his last consolation?" 
 
 " Sir, your daughter does not belong to you, except . . . ." 
 
 "Which kill him?" 
 
 " Sir, permit me." 
 
 There is nothing more frightful than the self-possession and 
 the precise arguments of a notary, when intruded into the pas- 
 sionate scenes in which he is called upon to interpose. The 
 faces which Piombo saw before him seemed to him to have 
 come straight from hell ; his cool and concentrated anger 
 knew no bounds, from the moment when the calm and almost 
 musical voice of his little opponent uttered that fatal permit. 
 
 He sprang forward, and seizing a long poinard suspended 
 on a nail above the chimney-piece, rushed towards his daugh- 
 ter. The younger of the two notaries and one of the witnesses 
 threw themselves between him and Ginevra ; but Bartholome'o 
 roughly overthrew the two mediators, while his inflamed fea- 
 tures and flashing eyes seemed more terrible than the glittering 
 dagger, When Ginevra found herself face to face with her
 
 128 BALZAC. 
 
 father, she looked at him fixedly with an air of triumph, slowly 
 approached him, and went upon her knees. 
 
 " No ! no ! I cannot," said he, casting the weapon so forci- 
 bly from him that it buried itself deeply in the floor. 
 
 " Well then, be merciful, be merciful," said the girl. "You 
 hesitate to kill me, and yet you refuse to let me live. Oh, 
 father, never did I love you so well as now. Give me then 
 Luigi. Upon my knees I ask your consent. A daughter may 
 humble herself before her father. Give me Luigi, or I die." 
 
 The violent emotion which choked her, prevented her from 
 proceeding; she lost her voice, her convulsive struggles clearly 
 showed that she was between life and death. Bartholome'o 
 repulsed his daughter harshly. 
 
 " Away," he cried, " Luigi Porta's wife cannot be a Piombo. 
 I have no daughter now. I lack strength to curse you, but I 
 cast you off; you have n father now. My Ginevra Piombo is 
 buried there," he cried in deep tones, while he pressed his 
 hands tightly to his heart. " Away with you, then, miserable 
 being," he added, after a moment's pause. "Away, and never 
 appear before me again." Then he took Ginevra's arm, and 
 led her quietly out of the house. 
 
 " Luigi," cried Ginevra, as she entered the humble lodging 
 of the officer, " my Luigi, we have no fortune but our love." 
 
 " Then we are richer than all the kings on earth, "said Luigi. 
 
 " My father and mother have abandoned me," said she with 
 profound melancholy. 
 
 " I will love you for them." 
 
 " We shall be very happy then ?" cried she, with a gaiety that 
 had something fearful in it. 
 
 " Yes, and for ever," replied he, straining her to his heart. 
 
 On the morrow of the day on which Ginevra left her father's 
 house, she went to Madame Servin, and begged that lady to 
 afford her shelter and protection, until the interval required by 
 the law before her marriage with Luigi could take place, had 
 elapsed. Then began her apprenticeship to those sorrows
 
 THE VENDETTA. 129 
 
 which the world scatters in the path of those who violate its 
 usages. Madame Servin, in her grave annoyance at the injury 
 inflicted on her husband through Ginevra's adventure, received 
 the fugitive very coldly, and told her in language of circum- 
 spect politeness that she must not count upon her support. 
 
 Too proud to insist, but astonished at a selfishness that was 
 new to her, the young Corsican girl took some apartments in a 
 furnished lodging-house near to the house in which Luigi was 
 staying. The son of the Portas passed every day at the feet 
 of his intended bride ; his youthful love and high-toned lan- 
 guage dissipated the clouds which a father's disapproval had 
 piled upon the brow of his banished daughter. So beautiful a 
 picture of the future did Luigi draw, that Ginevra learned 
 at length to smile, though she could not forget the rigor of her 
 parents. 
 
 One morning the servant of the house brought Ginevra 
 several trunks containing various stuffs, linen, and a heap of 
 things necessary to a young woman beginning house-keeping. 
 She recognized in this consignment the thoughtful kindness of 
 a mother; for on turning over these presents she found a 
 purse in which the baroness had put the sum belonging to her 
 daughter, and also her own savings. Accompanying the money 
 there was a letter in which the mother conjured her daughter 
 to abandon the fatal scheme of marriage if there was yet time. 
 She had been obliged (so ran the letter) to adopt most 
 unheard-of precautions in order to convey that slight assistance 
 to Ginevra. She entreated her daughter not to accuse her of 
 harshness, if in future she left her to her fate ; she feared she 
 could aid her no further, gave her a mother's blessing, and 
 expressed a hope that Ginevra might find happinesss in that 
 fatal marriage, if she persisted in it, and assured her that she 
 thought of nothing but her dear daughter. Here several words 
 of the letter had been effaced by tears. 
 
 " O my mother ! " exclaimed Ginevra, quite softened. She 
 felt a desire to throw herself at her mother's knees, to see hex 
 i
 
 130 BALZAC. 
 
 and breathe the beneficent atmosphere of her father's house. 
 She was just rushing out when Luigi entered, and at sight of 
 him her filial affection gave way, her tears tried, and she did 
 not feel strong enough to forsake this lad, who was so unfor- 
 tunate and so loving. To be the only hope of a noble being, 
 to love him, and to leave him such a sacrifice is an act of 
 treason of which young hearts are quite incapable. Gin- 
 evra had the generosity to bury her sorrow in the depths of 
 her soul. 
 
 At length the wedding day arrived ; Ginevra found herself 
 alone. Luigi had taken advantage of the time she spent 
 in dressing herself, to go and find the necessary witnesses 
 to the signature of the marriage contract. These witnesses 
 were two worthy people. One of them, a former quarter-master 
 of the hussars, had, while in the army, contracted such obliga- 
 tions to Luigi as can never be erased from the mind of an 
 honest man. He was now a coach-master, and possessed 
 several hackney carriages. The second witness, a master 
 builder, was the owner of the house in which the newly-married 
 couple were to reside. Each of the witnesses got a friend to 
 accompany him, and then the four men went with Luigi to fetch 
 the bride. Being little accustomed to the conventionalities of 
 social life, and deeming the service, which they were about to 
 render Luigi, a very simple one, these worthy folks had 
 dressed themselves decently, but not in holiday attire ; so that 
 they did not present the gay appearance of a wedding-party. 
 Ginevra dressed herself very simply, that her attire might be in 
 conformity with her fortune ; nevertheless, there was something 
 so noble and so imposing in her beauty, that at sight of her 
 the compliments which the witnesses felt it their bounden duty 
 to address to her, died upon their lips; they saluted her 
 respectfully, and she bowed in return; they confined them- 
 selves to looking at her in silent admiration ; joy can have free 
 play only among persons who feel that they are equals. 
 
 Thus, as chance would have it, all the surroundings of the
 
 THE VENDETTA. 131 
 
 betrothed were sad and sombre ; there was nothing to reflect 
 their happiness. The church and the mayor's house were not 
 far from the hotel. 
 
 The two Corsicans, followed by the four witnesses required 
 by law, determined to set out on foot; so that this grand 
 scene in the drama of social life was deprived of all pomp and 
 circumstance. The wedding party found in the court of the 
 mairie a crowd of carriages, showing that there was a large 
 gathering of visitors within. They went upstairs, and reached 
 a very large hall, in which the couples who were to be made 
 happy on that day were very impatiently awaiting the arrival 
 of the mayor of the district. Ginevra sat down near to Luigi 
 at the end of a long bench, while their witnesses remained 
 standing for lack of seats. Two brides ostentatiously arrayed 
 in white, covered with ribands, lace, and pearls, and crowned 
 with wreaths of orange flowers, whose satin buds glistened 
 beneath the veils, were there, surrounded by their joyous 
 relatives, and accompanied by their mothers, whom they looked 
 at with a glance of contentment mingled with fear. 
 
 Every eye reflected their happiness, and every face seemed 
 to shower blessings upon them. Fathers, witnesses, brothers, 
 and sisters went and came like a swarm of bees, rejoicing in a 
 transient sunbeam. Every one seemed to understand the value 
 of that fugitive moment of existence, in which the heart finds 
 itself between two sets of hopes the aspirations of the past, 
 and the promises of the future. At this sight, Ginevra felt her 
 heart swell and pressed the arm of Luigi, who darted one 
 glance at her. A tear stole to the eye of the young Corsican, 
 for then he understood more fully than ever all that his 
 Ginevra was sacrificing for him. That precious tear drove from 
 the young girl's memory the isolation in which she found her- 
 self. Love poured its precious rays upon the two lovers, who 
 under its influence saw nothing but each other in all that 
 tumult ; there, in that crowd, they were, as they would be in
 
 132 BALZAC. 
 
 life, alone. Their witnesses, indifferent to the ceremony, 
 quietly discussed their own affairs. 
 
 " Oats are very dear," said the quarter-master to the mason. 
 
 " They are not yet so dear as plaster, proportionately," re- 
 plied the builder, and they took a turn in the hall. 
 
 "What a lot of time is wasted here !" said the mason, re- 
 placing in his pocket a huge silver watch. | 
 
 Luigi and Ginevra were sitting so close together that they 
 seemed only one and the same person. Surely a poet would 
 have admired these two heads, brought together by the same 
 sentiment, and flushed with the same color ; melancholy and 
 mute in the presence of two noisy wedding-parties, of four 
 boisterous families, decked with sparkling diamonds and with 
 flowers, and gay with transient gaiety. All the joy which these 
 bustling and gorgeous groups displayed in their dress and 
 bearing, Luigi and Ginevra kept buried in the depths of their 
 hearts. On the one hand was the coarse tumult of pleasure ; 
 on the other the delicate silence of joyful hearts : earth and 
 heaven. But the tremulous Ginevra could not entirely lay 
 aside the weakness of the woman. With the superstition of an 
 Italian she saw a presage in this contrast, and thus a feeling of 
 terror, as unconquerable as her love, lurked in the bottom of 
 her heart. All at once an official, dressed in the city livery, 
 threw open a folding door ; silence was called, and his voice 
 rang out almost like a shriek as he summoned Monsieur 
 Luigi da Porta and Mademoiselle Ginevra de Piombo. It 
 was an embarrassing moment for the two lovers. The celebrity 
 of the name Piombo attracted attention ; the spectators looked 
 about them expecting to see a sumptuous wedding-party. 
 Ginevra rose, took Luigi's arm, and, followed by the witnesses, 
 moved forward with a firm step, while her haughty air over- 
 awed the crowd. A murmur of surprise which gradually 
 swelled, agei.eral clatter of tongues, rose to remind Ginevra that 
 the world would hold her to account for the absence of her
 
 THE VENDETTA. 183 
 
 parents. It seemed that she was pursued by her father's 
 malediction. 
 
 "Wait for the icspective families," said the mayor to the 
 clerk, who was hastily reading the documents. 
 
 " The father and mother protest," replied the secretary 
 phlegmatically. 
 
 " What, on both sides ?" pursued the mayor. 
 
 " The husband is an orphan." 
 
 " Where are the witnesses ?" 
 
 " Here," said the secretary, pointing to the four men, who, 
 mute and motionless and with folded arms, resembled four 
 statues. 
 
 " But if there is a protest ?" said the mayor. 
 
 " The forms of respect have been complied with according 
 to law," replied the clerk rising to hand over to the mayor the 
 documents annexed to the marriage contract. 
 
 There was something dishonoring in this bureaucratic col' 
 loquy, which, in a very few words, summed up a complete 
 history. The mutual hate of the Portas and Piombos, terrific 
 passions were thus inscribed upon the pages of a public 
 registrar as the annals of a nation are engraved upon a tomb- 
 stone in a few lines, often indeed in a single word : Robes- 
 pierre, Napoleon. Ginevra shuddered. As the dove in its 
 flight across the waters found no rest but the ark for the sole 
 of her foot, so Ginevra could find no refuge for her eyes save 
 the eyes of Luigi ; for all around her was cold and sad. The 
 mayor's look was stern and reproachful, while his clerk examin- 
 ed the two lovers with malevolent curiosity. Nothing could 
 less resemble a fete. Like every other circumstance of life 
 when stripped of its accessories, the situation was simple in 
 itself, but vast and complicated to the eye of thought. After 
 sundry .interrogations to which the pair replied, after some 
 words had been muttered by the mayor, and the signatures 
 placed upon the registrar, Luigi and Ginevra were united. 
 Then the young Corsicans, whose union presented all the
 
 134 BALZAC. 
 
 romance which genius has consecrated in Romeo and Juliet, 
 passed between two hedges of gay relatives who had no con- 
 nexion with them, and were almost angry at the delay occa- 
 sioned by that melancholy marriage. When the young girl 
 found herself in the court of the mairie, under the open sky, a 
 sigh escaped from her bosom. 
 
 " Oh, will a whole life of love and tender care suffice to 
 repay the courage and affection of my Ginevra?" said 
 Luigi. 
 
 These words, accompanied by tears of happiness, banished 
 all remembrance of suffering from Ginevra's mind, for she had 
 suffered by appearing in the face of the world to claim that 
 happiness which her family refused to sanction. 
 
 "Why should people interfere with you and me?" she 
 asked, with a simplicity of feeling which enchanted Luigi. 
 
 Pleasure lightened the hearts of the husband and wife. 
 They saw neither earth nor sky, nor houses, but flew as with 
 wings towards the church. At length they reached a small and 
 obscure chapel, and before a simple altar an old priest cele- 
 brated their union. There, as at the mairie, they were surrounded 
 by two weddings, which persecuted them with their display. The 
 church, crammed with friends and relations, echoed with the 
 noise produced by the carriages, the vergers, the beadles, and 
 the priests. Altars blazed in full ecclesiastic pomp, fresh- 
 looking wreaths of orange flowers adorned the statues of the 
 Virgin. Everywhere were flowers, incense, sparkling lights, 
 and velvet cushions trimmed with gold. God himself seemed 
 to be a party to this pleasure of a day. At that stage of the 
 ceremony, when that symbol of eternal union, that yoke of 
 white satin which is so soft, so brilliant, and so light for some, 
 so leaden to the greater number, should have been held above 
 the heads of Luigi and Ginevra, the priests looked round in 
 vain for the youths who generally perform the glad office. Two 
 of the witnesses supplied their place. The clergyman deliv- 
 ered a hurried address to the young couple, about the perils of
 
 THE VENDETTA. 135 
 
 life and the duties which they should some day impress on 
 the minds of their children ; and while dwelling on the topic 
 he insinuated a reproach about the absence of Ginevra's 
 parents. Then, having set the lovers in the presence of God, 
 as the mayor had set them -in the presence of the law, he 
 finished the mass and left them. 
 
 " God bless them," said Vergniaud to the mason when they 
 reached the church porch. " Never were two creatures better 
 fitted for one another. The parents of this girl are dotards. 
 I know no braver soldier than Colonel Louis. If every one 
 had behaved as he did, the other would be still upon the 
 throne." 
 
 The soldier's benediction, the only one which they had 
 received that day, shed balm upon Ginevra's heart. 
 
 They separated with a hearty shake of the hand, and Luigi 
 thanked his landlord cordially. 
 
 " Good-bye, my brave comrade," said Luigi to the quarter- 
 master, " I thank you." 
 
 " Entirely at your service, colonel , heart, and body, horses 
 and carriages, all J have is at your service." 
 
 " How he loves you," said Ginevra. 
 
 Luigi lost no time in taking his bride to the house which 
 they were to inhabit. They soon reached their modest apart- 
 ments, and there, when the door was closed behind them, 
 Luigi took his wife in his arms, and exclaimed, " My Ginevra, 
 for now you are mine ; here is the real festivity ; here all will 
 wear smiles for us." 
 
 Together they went through the three rooms which com- 
 posed their home. The anteroom was dining-room and 
 drawing-room in one. On the right was a bed-room, and on 
 the left a large study, which Luigi had arranged lor the use ot 
 his dear wife. It contained easels, colour-boxes, casts, models, 
 mannikins, in short all the implements of an artist. 
 
 " That is where I shall work then," said Ginevra, with an 
 expression of childlike simplicity. She gazed for a long time at
 
 136 BALZAC. 
 
 the hangings and the furniture, turning from time to time to 
 Luigi to thank him ; for there was a kind of magnificence in 
 this little retreat. There was a book case containing Gin- 
 evra's favorite books, and at the bottom of the room there was 
 a piano. 
 
 Ginevra sat down upon a sofa, drew Luigi to her, and 
 squeezing his hand, said in a caressing tone, " You have good 
 taste." 
 
 " Your words make me very happy,'" said he. 
 " But let us look at everything," said Ginevra, from whom 
 Luigi had concealed the ornamental preparations he had intro- 
 duced into their retreat. 
 
 Then they went into the nuptial chamber, fresh and white 
 like a virgin 
 
 " Don't let us stay here," said Luigi, laughing. 
 " Oh, but I must see everything ! " and the imperious Ginevra 
 looked at every article of furniture with the inquisitive attention of 
 an antiquary examining a medal. She felt the silks and scruti- 
 nized everything with the artless contentment of a young bride 
 spreading out the riches of her trousseau. 
 
 " We are ruining ourselves at starting," she said, half gladly, 
 half sorrowfully. 
 
 " That is true ; all the arrears of my pay are here," replied 
 Luigi ; " I sold them to a good fellow named Gigonnet." 
 
 " Why ? " inquired Ginevra, in a reproachful tone, which be- 
 trayed a secret satisfaction. " Do you think I would be less 
 happy in an attic ? But all this is very pretty and it is ours," 
 she resumed. 
 
 Luigi gazed at her so enthusiastically that she looked down 
 and said to him, 
 
 " Let us go and see the rest." 
 
 In the attics above these three rooms there was a study for 
 Luigi, a kitchen, a servant's room. Genevra was quite satisfied 
 with her little domain, though the only view it commanded 
 was the large blank wall of an neighboring house, and the
 
 TUB VENDETTA. 137 
 
 court which lighted it was sombre. The hearts of the two 
 lovers were so glad, hope made the future so bright for them 
 that they could see none but enchanting images in their myste- 
 rious asylum. They were buried in that vast house, and lost in 
 the wilderness of Paris, like two pearls in their bed of shell in 
 the bosom cf the deep, deep ocean. To others such a dwell- 
 ing would have been a prison, to them it was a paradise. 
 
 The first days of their union were given up to love. It was 
 more than they could do to set themselves to work at once : 
 they could not resist the enchantment of their passion. 
 
 Luigi would lie for hours together at the feet of his bride, 
 adoring the color of her hair, the .shape of her forehead, the 
 exquisite casing of the eyes, the purity and whiteness of the 
 arches beneath which they gently rolled, sweetly expressing the 
 happiness of contented love. 
 
 Ginevra would play with the hair of her Luigi, and never tire 
 of contemplating " la belta folgorante," to use her own expres- 
 sion, of the young man, and the elegance of his features. She 
 was enchanted with the nobleness of his manners ; he with the 
 grace of hers. Like children, they toyed with trifles ; those 
 trifles always carried them back to their love ; and they only 
 abandoned their gambols to fall back into the reverie ot the 
 far niente. An air sung by Ginevra brought before them again 
 the delightful gradations of their love. Then uniting their 
 steps, as they had united their hearts, they wandered through 
 the fields and still found their love in all things in the flowers, 
 in the sky, and in the burning colors of the setting sun. They 
 read it even in the capricious clouds which encountered in mid 
 air. One day was never like another ; as time flowed on their 
 love increased in strength because it was true love. They 
 had tested each other in a few days, and had instinctively re 
 cognized that their hearts belonged to that class whose inex- 
 haustible wealth seems to give promise of new joys in the future. 
 Theirs was love in all its simplicity, with its interminable chit- 
 chat, its half-finished phrases, its long silences, its fierce out-
 
 138 BALZA.C. 
 
 bursts, its oriental rest, Luigi and Ginevra had learned love 
 in all its vast variety ; for love is vast and various like the ocean, 
 which viewed superficially or in haste, is accused of monotony 
 by vulgar minds ; while certain privileged beings might spend 
 a whole lifetime in admiring it, and ceaselessly discover in it 
 changing phenomena to enchant them. 
 
 The day, however arrived when prudence intruded, to drag 
 the young couple from their Eden. They found that they 
 must work in order to live. Ginevra, who possessed a peculiar 
 talent for imitating old pictures, set to work to produce copies, 
 and acquired a connection among the picture dealers. Luigi 
 on his part was active in trying to obtain employment ; but it 
 was very difficult for a young officer, whose only acquirements 
 were a thorough knowledge of military manoeuvres, to find any- 
 thing to do in Paris. 
 
 At last, one day, when weary of his fruitless exertions, and des- 
 perate at heart at finding that the burden of their existence 
 fell entirely upon Ginevra, he bethought him to try and turn 
 his penmanship, which was very good, to some account. With 
 that perseverance of which his wife had set him an example, he 
 went to the attorneys, the notaries, and the advocates of Paris 
 to ask them for work. The frankness of his bearing, and the 
 position in which he was placed, told greatly in his favor, and 
 he obtained so many commissions, that he was obliged to get 
 some young men to help him. Gradually he set up a whole- 
 sale copying business, the profits of which, together with the 
 amount produced by Ginevra's pictures, set the young couple 
 at their ease an ease which made them proud, as being the 
 result of their own industry. That was the brightest period of 
 their life. 
 
 Occupation and the joys of love made the days pass rapidly. 
 In the evening after a good day's work, they came together 
 joyfully in Ginevra's sanctum. Music indemnified them for 
 their toils. The features of the young wife were never clouded 
 with melancholy; never did she allow herself to utter a com-
 
 THE VENDETTA. 139 
 
 plaint. She always managed to appear in the presence of her 
 husband with a smile upon her lips and with beaming eyes. 
 Both of them nurtured a dominant idea which would have 
 enabled them to find pleasure in the rudest toils ; Ginevra 
 would tell herself that she was working for Luigi, and Luigi 
 would tell himself that he was working for Ginevra. It would I 
 indeed occasionally happen that the young wife, during her 
 husband's absence, would think of the perfect happiness which 
 she would have enjoyed, if that life of love had been passed in 
 the presence of her father and mother. At such times she 
 would fall into the deepest dejection, under the potent influ- 
 ence of remorse ; sombre pictures would pass, like shadows, 
 before her imagination ; she would see her old father in his 
 solitude, or her mother weeping in the evening and hiding her 
 tears from the inexorable Piombo ; those two white and 
 serious heads would suddenly rise before her, and it seemed to 
 her that she would never see them more, save by the fantastic 
 light of memory. That idea haunted her like a presentiment. 
 She celebrated the anniversary of their marriage by giving her 
 husband a portrait, which he had often wanted the portrait of 
 i. is Ginevra. Never had the young artist composed anything 
 so remarkable. Setting aside the perfection of the likeness, 
 her striking beauty, the purity of her feelings, and the happi- 
 ness of love were there almost magically depicted. The 
 master-piece was inaugurated. And then they passed another 
 year in the lap of affluence. The story of their lives might be 
 written in three words, " they were happy." No event happened 
 to them of sufficient importance to be noticed. 
 
 In the early part of the winter of the year 1819 the picture- 
 dealers advised Ginevra to produce something else than copies, 
 since competition prevented them from being sold to advan- 
 tage. Madame Porta then saw that she had made a mistake 
 in not practising the painting of pictures of genre, by which she 
 might have made a name. She now took to painting portraits ; 
 but she had to contend against a crowd of artists poorer even
 
 140 BALZAC. 
 
 than herself. However, inasmuch as Luigi and Ginevra had 
 laid by some money, they did not despair of the future. At 
 the end of the winter of that same year Luigi worked inces- 
 santly. He also had to contend against competition; the 
 price paid for engrossing had fallen so much that he could no 
 longer employ any assistants, and found himself obliged to 
 work harder for the same amount of money. His wife had 
 produced several pictures of considerable merit ; but the dealers 
 would hardly buy the paintings even of renowned artists. Gin- 
 evra offered them for the merest trifles, yet could not sell 
 them. 
 
 The situation of the young couple was somewhat appalling ; 
 their hearts, it is true, were bathed in happiness ; love showered 
 its treasures upon them ; but poverty raised its skeleton head 
 in the midst of this harvest of pleasure, and they concealed 
 their anxieties from one another. 
 
 When Ginevra felt ready to burst into tears at the sight of 
 Luigi's sufferings, she heaped caresses on him ; and Luigi also, 
 while black sorrow nestled at his heart, exhibited to Ginevra 
 the tenderest affection. They sought compensation for their 
 sufferings in the exaltation of their sentiments and their words, 
 their joys, and their amusements were tinged with a kind oi 
 phrenzy. They dreaded the future. What feeling is there 
 which can be compared in strength to a passion which must 
 cease to-morrow under the cold hand of death or want ? 
 When they talked about their penury, they felt impelled to 
 deceive each other, and were equally eager to grasp even the 
 slenderest hope. 
 
 One night Ginevra, after feeling about in vain, missed Luigi 
 from her side. A faint light reflected upon the dark wall of 
 the little court led her to the conclusion that her husband had 
 begun to work at night. (In fact, Luigi waited till his wife was 
 asleep, and then went upstairs to his study.) Four o'clock 
 struck ; Ginevra lay down again and pretended to be asleep. 
 Luigi returned sleepy and overcome with fatigue, and Ginevra
 
 THE VENDETTA. 141 
 
 gazed upon the beautiful face and saw that toil and care had 
 already imprinted upon it some wrinkles. 
 
 " It is on my account that he spends his nights writing," she 
 said tearfully. But a thought occurred to her which dried her 
 tears. She resolved to imitate Luigi. That very day she went 
 to a rich dealer in engravings, and owing to a letter of intro- 
 duction given to her by Elie Magus, one of the dealers who 
 bought het pictures, she obtained an order for coloring engrav- 
 ings. In the daytime she painted, and looked to the affairs of 
 the household : then, when night came, she colored engrav- 
 ings. So that these two beings who loved each other so dearly, 
 only entered the nuptial bed in order to quit it. Both pre- 
 tended to be asleep, and so, from sheer devotion, deceived 
 each other. One night Luigi, succumbing to the kind of fever 
 set up by the toil which was beginning to be too much for him, 
 opened the window of his study to breathe the pure morning 
 air and relieve his pain ; when, looking down, he perceived the 
 light thrown upon the wall by Ginevra's lamp. The 
 unhappy man guessed everything, went downstairs, and tread- 
 ing softly, caught his wife in the middle of her studio, coloring 
 engravings. 
 
 " Oh, Ginevra," he cried. 
 
 She started convulsively upon her seat, and blushed. 
 
 " How could I sleep while you were exhausting yourself with 
 fatigue ? " said she. 
 
 " Yes, but I only have the right to work like this." 
 
 " Can I remain idle," replied the young wife, as her eyes 
 filled with tears, " when I know that every morsel of bread I 
 eat costs us perhaps a drop of your blood ? I should die if I 
 did not unite my efforts to yours. Ought not all things to be 
 in common between us, pleasure as well as pain ? " 
 
 "She is cold," cried Luigi in despair, "fasten your shawl 
 more over your breast, my Ginevra; the night is cold and 
 damp." 
 
 They placed themselves befcrs the window, the yor.ng wife
 
 142 BALZAC. 
 
 rested her head upon the bosom of her beloved, who held her 
 by the waist, and thus the two looked up in profound silence 
 at the sky, which was slowly brightening with the coming day. 
 Grey clouds sped lightly by, one after the other, and the east 
 grew lighter and lighter. 
 
 " Look," said Ginevra, " it is a presage ; we shall be happy." 
 
 " Yes, in heaven," replied Luigi, with a bitter smile. 
 " O Ginevra, you who deserved all the treasures of the 
 earth" 
 
 " I have your heart," she said joyously. 
 
 "Ah, I do not complain," resumed Luigi, straining her 
 tightly to his heart, and covering with kisses the delicate face 
 which was beginning to lose the freshness of youth, but whose 
 expression was so sweet and gentle that he could never look at 
 it without feeling consoled. 
 
 " How silent it is," said Ginevra. " My friend, I find a 
 great pleasure in sitting up. The majesty of the night is 
 truly contagious ; it awes and it inspires ; there is an indes- 
 cribable potency in the thought ' everything slumbers, and I am 
 awake.' " 
 
 " O my Ginevra, not to-day for the first time have I discov- 
 ered the delicate grace of your heart. But see, the sun is rising. 
 Come and sleep." 
 
 " I will," she said, " but not alone. I suffered much on 
 the night when I discovered that my Luigi sat up without me.'' 
 
 The courage with which these two young people fought 
 against misfortune was, for a time, not without its reward : but 
 that event which is generally considered the crowning felicity 
 of married life was doomed to be fatal to them. Ginevra had 
 a son, who, to borrow a popular expression, was as " lovely as 
 the day." The maternal feeling doubles the strength of a 
 young woman. Luigi borrowed money in order to provide for 
 the expenses of Ginevra's confinement. Just at first, there" 
 fore, she did not experience all the uneasiness of her situation^ 
 and the husband and wife gave themselves up to the delights
 
 THE VENDETTA. 143 
 
 of rearing a child. It was their last pleasure. At first the two 
 Corsicans, like two swimmers uniting their efforts to swim 
 against a stream, struggled bravely but at times they gave 
 way to an apathy resembling those fits of sleep which are the 
 harbingers of death. They soon found themselves compelled 
 to sell their jewels. Poverty suddenly showed herself, not 
 hideous, but simply clad, and almost easy to be borne. There 
 was nothing fearful in her voice ; she did not bring in her train 
 despair, and rags, and spectres ; but she did banish the recol- 
 lection and destroy the habits of affluence ; she wore the 
 springs of pride. Then came want in all its horrors, want, reck- 
 less of its tatters, want that treads under foot every human 
 feeling. 
 
 Seven or eight months after the birth of little Bartholome'o, 
 it would have been difficult to recognize in the mother who 
 was suckling that sickly child, the original of the admirable 
 portrait which was now the only ornament of the bare room. 
 Without fire during that severe winter, Ginevra saw the grace- 
 ful outlines of her face slowly disappearing ; her cheeks grew 
 white as porcelain, her eyes paled as if the sources of life were 
 drying up within her. Seeing her child thin and discoloured, 
 Ginevra suffered only from its infant misery, while Luigi had 
 not even courage enough to smile at his boy. 
 
 " I have been all over Paris," said he, in a hollow voice. " I 
 know no one, and how can I beg from strangers i> Vergniaud 
 the grazier, my old Egyptian comrade, is implicated in a con- 
 spiracy ; he has been thrown into prison, and besides, he has 
 already lent me all he could spare. As for our landlord, he has 
 not asked for any rent for a year." 
 
 " But we are not in want of anything," replied Ginevra gently, 
 with assumed calmness. 
 
 " Every day that comes round brings some fresh difficulty," 
 pursued Luigi with terror. Luigi took all Ginevra's pictures, 
 the portrait, several pieces of furniture with which the house- 
 hold could still dispense, and sold the whole lot for the merest
 
 144 BALZAC. 
 
 trifle. The sum which he obtained for it prolonged for a brief 
 period the death-struggles of the household. 
 
 In these days of misfortune, Ginevra displayed the sublimity 
 of her character, and the extent of her resignation; she sup- 
 ported the attacks of sorrow with stoicism. Eer energetic 
 mind sustained her against every evil, she worked with an 
 unfailing hand by the side of her dying boy, performed the 
 duties of the household with miraculous activity, and was equal 
 to every emergency. She was happy, even now, when she saw 
 upon Luigi's lips a smile of astonishment at the sight of the 
 neatness which pervaded the one room in which they had 
 taken refuge. 
 
 " My friend, I have kept a bit of bread for you," said 
 Ginevra one night when he came back worn out with fatigue. 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 " I have dined, dear Luigi, I don't want anything." 
 
 And the sweet expression of her face invited him more than 
 her words did, to accept the nourishment of which she was 
 robbing herself. Luigi gave her one of those despairing kisses 
 which in 1793 friends used to give one another as they mounted 
 the scaffold together. At such critical moments the hearts of 
 two beings are entirely laid bare to each other. Accordingly 
 the miserable Luigi understanding at once that his wife was 
 fasting, caught the excitement which was devouring her, shud- 
 dered, and, under the pretence of having some pressing piece 
 of business on hand, went out; for he would rather have 
 taken the most subtle poison than escape death by eating the 
 last morsel of bread to be found at home. He went forth 
 and walked about Paris among the most brilliant carriages, in 
 the midst of that insolent luxury which everywhere stares onp 
 in the face. He passed quickly by the shops of the morcy 
 changers with their piles of glittering gold ; and at ler. 6 th 
 determined to sell himself, to offer himself as a substitute for 
 military service, hoping that that sacrifice would save Ginevra, 
 and that during his absence she might be restored to the
 
 THE VENDETTA. 14-3 
 
 good graces of Bartholome'o. He therefore went to find one 
 of those men who carry on the white slave-trade, and experi- 
 enced a certain kind of pleasure in recognizing in him a 
 foreign officer of the imperial guard. 
 
 " I have eaten nothing for two days," he said, in a slow and 
 feebie voice. " My wife is dying of hunger, and does not utter 
 a single complaint ; she would smile in dying, I believe. I 
 entreat you, comrade," he added with a bitter laugh, "to 
 buy me in advance; I am strong, I am no longer in the service, 
 and I . . . ." 
 
 The officer gave Luigi a sum on account of that which he 
 undertook to procure for him. The wretched man gave vent 
 to a convulsive laugh when he grasped a handful of gold. He 
 ran with all his might towards his house, panting, and at times 
 exclaiming, "O my Ginevra, Ginevra." Night was falling; 
 when he reached home. He entered quite quietly, fearing to 
 cause too much excitement to his wife, whom he had left in a 
 feeble state. The last rays of the setting sun penetrating the 
 window were shedding their dying light upon the face of 
 Ginevra, who was sitting in a chair asleep, holding her child U> 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Awake, my soul," said he, not noticing the posture of the 
 child, who at that moment looked unnaturally bright. 
 
 Hearing that voice, the poor mother opened her eyes, en- 
 countered Luigi's look, and smiled; but Luigi uttered a cry of 
 terror. He hardly recognized his half-mad wife, but with a 
 gesture of savage energy showed her the gold. Ginevra began 
 to laugh mechanically, and all at once cried in a fearful voice, 
 "Louis, the child is cold." She looked at her boy and fainted; 
 the little Bartholome'o was dead. Luigi raised his wife in his 
 arms, and without taking the child, which she was clasping 
 with incomprehensible strength, from her arms, laid her on the 
 bed ; then he went out and called for help. 
 
 " O my God," said he to the landlord, whom he met upon 
 J
 
 146 BALZAC. 
 
 the staircase. " I have gold, and my child is famished to death. 
 My wife is dying help us." 
 
 He returned in a desperate condition to his wife, and left 
 the honest mason and several of the neighbors, to collect all 
 that was needful to succor a misery until then unknown to 
 them, so carefully had the two Corsicans, actuated by a feeling 
 of pride, concealed it. Luigi had thrown his gold upon the 
 floor, and was kneeling at the foot of the bed on which his 
 wife was lying. 
 
 " Father, take care of my child, which bears your name," 
 cried Ginevra in her delirium. 
 
 " O my angel, calm yourself," said Luigi, embracing her. 
 4t There are happy days in store for us." 
 
 That voice, and that embrace somewhat tranquilized her. 
 
 " O my Louis," she resumed, looking at him with close 
 attention, " listen well to what I am going to say. I feel that 
 I am dying ; my death was to be expected ; I suffered too 
 much ; and then a happiness like mine must be paid for. Yes. 
 my Louis, console yourself, I have been so happy that if I 
 were to begin life again I would accept our destiny. Ah ! I am 
 a bad mother, I regret you more than I regret my child. My 
 child !" she added in deeper tone ; her tears fell from her 
 dying eyes, and she suddenly pressed the corpse which she had 
 not been able to revive. 
 
 " Give my hair to my father in remembrance of his Ginevra. 
 Tell him that I never accused him." Her head sank upon her t 
 husband's arm. 
 
 " No, you cannot die," cried Luigi ; " the doctor is coming ; 
 we have bread. Your father will restore you to his favor. 
 Prosperity has dawned for us. Remain with us, angel of 
 beauty." 
 
 But the fond and loving heart was growing cold. Ginevra 
 instinctively turned her eyes towards him whom she adored, 
 although she was now no longer conscious of anything. Con- 
 fused images flitted before her mind, which was just losing all
 
 THE VENDETTA. 147 
 
 recollection of earth. She knew that Luigi was there, for she 
 clasped his icy hand, even more and more tightly still ; it 
 seemed as if she were trying to cling to a precipice over which 
 she felt herself falling. 
 
 " My friend," she said at last, " you are cold : I will warm 
 you." ' 
 
 She would have placed her husband's hand upon her heart, 
 but she died. Two doctors, a priest, and some neighbors 
 came in at that moment, bringing all that was needed to succor 
 the husband and wife, and assuage their despair. These 
 strangers created a good deal of noise at first, but when they 
 had entered, a fearful silence reigned throughout the room. 
 
 While this scene was taking p!ace, Bartholome'o and his wife 
 were seated in their old fashioned arm-chairs, one on either 
 side of the vast fireplace, whose blazing coals warmed the im- 
 mense drawing-room of their hotel. The timepiece marked 
 the hour of midnight For a long time past the old couple 
 had grown wakeful. At that moment they were silent, like 
 two old people fallen into second childhood, who see all, yet 
 notice nothing. The deserted room, so full of memories for 
 them, was dimly lighted by a single lamp whose flame was 
 almost extinct. But for the flickering flame of the hearth, they 
 would have been in complete darkness. One of their friends 
 had just left them, and the chair upon which he had sat during 
 his visit stood between the two Corsicans. Piombo had already 
 more than once looked at that chair and these looks, preg- 
 nant with ideas, followed each other like so many twinges of 
 remorse ; for the empty chair was Ginevra's. Elisa Piombo 
 was watching the expressions which chased each other across 
 the pale features of her husband. Although she was accus- 
 tomed to guess his feelings, from the changing revolutions in 
 his face, these were by turns so menacing and so melancholy, 
 that she could not read that incomprehensible mind. 
 
 Was Bartholomeo giving way under the potent memories 
 aroused by that chrir ? W r as he shocked to see that, for the
 
 148 BALZAC, 
 
 first time since his daughter's departure, it had been used by a 
 stranger? Had the hour of his clemency, that hour so vainly 
 looked for until then, struck at last ? 
 
 Such were the reflections which succeeded each other in the 
 mind of Elisa Piombo. For a moment hej husband's face 
 assumed so terrible an aspect, that she trembled at having 
 employed so simple an expedient to give rise to an opportunity 
 of speaking of Ginevra. At that moment the north-east wind 
 drove the snow-flakes so violently against the shutters, that the 
 two old people could hear the light sound. Ginevra's mother 
 bowed her head, in order to conceal her tears from her hus- 
 band. All at once a sigh issued from the old man's breast, 
 his wife looked at him, and he broke down ; she ventured for 
 the second time during three years to speak to him of his 
 daughter. 
 
 " If Ginevra should be cold," she said gently. Piombo 
 shuddered. "She is hungry perhaps," continued the old 
 woman. The Corsican let fall a tear. " She has a child and 
 cannot suckle it, her milk has dried up," continued the mother 
 rapidly, in the accents of despair. 
 
 " Let her come ! let her come ! " cried Piombo. " Oh, my 
 darling child ! you have conquered me." 
 
 The mother rose as if to go and seek her child. At that 
 moment the door flew noisily open, and a man whose face had 
 nothing human in it stood suddenly before them. 
 
 " Dead ! Our two families were fated to exterminate each 
 other, for that is all that remains of her," said he, laying 
 Ginevra's long black hair upon the table. 
 
 The two old people shudered as if they had felt a thunder- 
 stroke, and lost sight of Luigi. 
 
 " He spares us a gun-shot, for he is dead 1" said Bartholo- 
 mdo slowly, looking on-the ground.
 
 THE PURSE. 
 
 (LA BOURSE) 
 TO SOFKA. 
 
 HAVE you not remarked, mademoiselle, that the painters and 
 sculptors of the middle ages, in placing two faces in adoration 
 by the side of a beautiful saint, have never failed to impress 
 upon them a filial resemblance to her. When you see your 
 name among those which are dear to me, and under the pro- 
 tection of which I place my works, call to mind this touching 
 harmony, and you will find in this dedication, not so much an 
 act of homage, as the expression of the fraternal affection which 
 your humble servant De Balzac, has sworn to you. 
 
 " There is, for those minds which open freely, a delightful 
 hour which succeeds the moment when the night has not yet 
 fallen, though the day is no more. Twilight then sheds its 
 soft hues and strange effects on every object, and encourages 
 a reverie that vaguely mingles with the play of light and shade. 
 T) e silence which almost almost always reigns at this instant 
 renders it more particularly dear to artists, who meditate, place 
 themselves at some distance from the picture at which they can 
 no longer labor, and criticize it ; saturating themselves with its 
 subject, whose hidden meaning then stands revealed to the 
 inner eye of genius. He who has not dwelt in silent thought 
 beside a friend during this hour of poetic dreams, will find it 
 hard to understand its unspeakable delights. Under cover of 
 clear-obscure, the material artifices employed by the artist to 
 produce the appearance of reality entirely disappear. If the 
 work in hand be a picture, the persons depicted in it seem to 
 speak and walk : the shadow becomes shadow and the daylight 
 is daylight, the flesh lives, the eyes move, the blood courses
 
 150 BALZAC. 
 
 through the veins, and the stuffs shine. The imagination aids 
 the naturalness of each detail, and suffers only the beauties of 
 the work to be seen. At this hour illusion reigns despotically; 
 perhaps it rises when the sun sets. (Is not illusion an intel- 
 lectual night, which we people with dreams ?) At this hour 
 illusion unfolds its wings, carries the mind away to an ideal 
 world a world fertile in voluptuous fancies, and in which the 
 artist forgets the world of reality, yesterday, to-morrow, the 
 future, everything, even his privations, good as well as evil. 
 
 At this magic hour, a young painter of great promise, who 
 loved art for its own sake, was mounted on the double ladder 
 which he used in painting a large and lofty picture, which he 
 had almost finished. There, as he blamed and praised his 
 own work with the utmost impartiality, and abandoned himseli 
 to the current of his thoughts, he lost himself in one of those 
 reveries which enchant, enlarge, flatter and console the heart. 
 His reverie must have been a long one. Night came on. 
 Whether it were that he tried to come down from the ladder 
 or made some unguarded movement in the belief that he was 
 standing on the floor (the result prevented him from exactly 
 remembering how the accident occurred), he fell, his head 
 came into contact with a stool, he lost all consciousness, and 
 remained motionless for a period the duration of which was 
 unknown to him. He was aroused by a gentle voice from the 
 kind of swoon in which he had been buried. When he opened 
 his eyes, a glimpse of vivid light made him close them again 
 promptly; but through the mist which enveloped his senses he 
 heard the chit-chat of two women, and could feel two young 
 and timid hands supporting his head. He soon recovered his 
 senses, and could see by the light of one of those old lamps, 
 called double ventilating lamps, a young girl's head, the most 
 exquisite that he had ever beheld one of those heads which are 
 often regarded as a mere painter's whim. This head, however, 
 realized the beau-ideal which every artist imagines, and which 
 is the source of his talent. The face of this young scranger
 
 THE PURSE. 151 
 
 belonged, so to speak, to the fine and delicate type of the 
 school of Prudhon, and possessed also that poetical air which 
 Girodet gave to his fantastic figures. The freshness pf the 
 temples, the regularity of the eye-brows, the purity af the out- 
 lines, the marks of maidenhood so clearly imprinted upon 
 every feature of the face, made the young girl a perfect crea- 
 ture. Her figure was slender and supple ; her limbs delicate. 
 Her dress, which was neat and simple, did not bespeak either 
 riches or poverty. On recovering his self-possession, the 
 painter expressed his admiration by a look of surprise, and 
 muttered some confused acknowledgments. He found that 
 his forehead was being pressed by a handkerchief, and recog- 
 nized, in spite of the smell peculiar to studios, the powerful 
 scent of ether, which had, no doubt, been used to recover him 
 from his swoon. Then at length he noticed an old woman, 
 who resembled the marquise of the antien ligime. She was 
 holding a lamp, and giving directions to the younger stranger. 
 
 " Sir," replied the young girl to one of the enquiries made by 
 the artist, while still under the influence of the disorder which 
 the fall had introduced into his ideas, " my mother and I heard 
 the noise which you made in falling upon the flooi, and fancied 
 we heard a groan. The silence that followed the noise of the 
 fall alarmed us, and we came up in a hurry. Finding the key 
 in the door, we fortunately took the liberty of coming in, and 
 found you lying motionless upon the floor. My mother went 
 to look for something to make a bandage with, and to bring 
 you round. You have hurt your forehead, there ; can you feel 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes now I can," replied the artist. 
 
 " Oh ! it wont be anything serious," pursued the old mother. 
 " Luckily your head fell upon that mannikin." 
 
 ' I feel infinitely better," replied the painter. " All I want 
 now is a vehicle to take me home. The porteress will go and 
 get one for me."' 
 
 He wanted to express his thanks to the two strangers, but a
 
 152 BALZAC. 
 
 every phrase he uttered the elder lady cut him short with the 
 words, 
 
 "Take care, sir, to apply some leeches or to get yoursel 
 bled to-morrow; drink a few cups of vulnerary, and take care 
 of yourself; falls are very dangerous things." 
 
 The young girl looked furtively at the painter and at the 
 pictures in the studio. Her face and her glances showed no 
 thing that was not becoming ; her curiosity looked like abstrac- 
 tion, and her eyes seemed to express that interest which women 
 take, with graceful spontaneity, in all our misfortunes. The 
 two strangers seemed to torget the painter's works in the pre- 
 sence of the suffering painter. When he had set their minds 
 at re^t with regard to his condition, they left the room, looking 
 at him the while with a solicitude that was quite free from 
 being either pronounced or familiar. They did not harass 
 him with questions or seek to inspire him with a desire to 
 become acquainted with them. Their interest was perfectly 
 natural, and in good taste. Their noble and simple bearing 
 at first produced but little impression upon the painter, but 
 afterwards, when he recalled all the circumstances of the acci- 
 dent, he was very much struck by their behavior. 
 
 When they had reached the floor which lay beneath that on 
 which the studio was situated, the old lady quietly said, 
 " Adelaide, you left the door open." 
 
 " In order to hasten to my assistance," said the young 
 painter, with a grateful smile. 
 
 " Why, mother, you yourself ran down immediately," replied 
 the young girl, blushing. 
 
 " Would you like us to go down with you," said the mother 
 to the artist, " the staircase is very dark." 
 
 " No thank you, madame, I am much better now." 
 
 " Keep a good hold on the balustrade." 
 
 The two women remained upon the landing in order to light 
 the young man while they listened to his footsteps. 
 
 In order that the reader may understand all the raciness of
 
 THE PUESE. 153 
 
 this little drama and the surprises which it presented to the 
 painter, we must add that it was only a few days since that he 
 had fixed his studio in the upper story of this house, which 
 was situated in the obscurest, and therefore the muddiest, part 
 of the Rue de Suresnes, almost in front of the Madeleine and 
 only a few steps from his lodgings, which were in the Rue des 
 Champs Elyse'es. The renown which his talent had procured for 
 him, had made him one of the mst highly esteemed artists in 
 France, so that he was now leaving want behind him, and was 
 enjoying, to use his own expression, his last struggles with 
 poverty. Instead of going to work in one of those studios 
 which are to be found near the barriers, and whose moderate 
 rents were proportioned to his former modest earnings, he had 
 gratified his daily recurring desire to avoid a long journey, and 
 the loss of that time which had now become more valuable to 
 him than ever. 
 
 No one in the world would have inspired so much interest 
 as Hippolyte Schinner if he would have consented to make 
 himself known ; but he did not lightly expose the secrets of 
 his existence. He was the idol of a poor mother, who had 
 educated him by the endurance of stern privation. Made- 
 moiselle Schinaer, the daughter of an Alsatian fanner, had 
 never been married. Her tender heart had formerly been 
 cruelly wounded by a wealthy man who did not pretend to any 
 great delicacy in love matters. On the day when, a young girl 
 in all the brightness of her beauty, and all the pride of life, she 
 gained, at the expense ot her heart and all her beautiful illu- 
 sions, that disenchantment which comes to us so slowly, yet 
 all too soon (for we put off as long as possible our belief in 
 misfortune, so that it always seems to have arrived too quickly), 
 on that very day she went through a century of reflection, and 
 took refuge in religion and in resignation. She refused the 
 alms of the man who had deceived her, renounced the world, 
 and made her shame her glory. She gave herself up entirely 
 to maternal love, demanding from it all its delights in exchange
 
 154 BALZAC. 
 
 for those social pleasures to which she was bidding adieu. She 
 supported herself by work, laying up for herself a treasure in 
 her boy. And so at length the day and hour arrived when he 
 repaid her for all the long and lingering sacrifices of her in 
 digence. 
 
 At the last exhibition her son had received the cross of the 
 Legion of Honor. The newspapers which pronounced unani- 
 mously in favor of the unknown genius, were still ringing with 
 sincere praise. The artists themselves hailed Schinncr as a 
 master, and the dealers covered his pictures with gold pieces. 
 At twenty-five, Hippolyte Schinner, who had inherited his 
 mother's woman's heart, had come to understand his position 
 in the world better than he ever did. In his desire to afford 
 his mother those enjoyments which society had withheld from 
 her for so many years, he lived for her ; hoping that, by dint of 
 his fame and fortune, he might some day see her happy, rich, 
 respected, and the centre of a circle of celebrated men. With 
 that view Schinner had chosen his friends from among the most 
 honorable and distinguished men. Fastidious in the selection 
 of his acquaintances, he wished still further to raise a position 
 which his talent had already rendered so high. The toil to 
 which he had been doomed from youth, by forcing him to re- 
 main in solitude that mother of lofty thoughts had preserved 
 in him those beautiful beliefs which gild life's earliest years. 
 His youthful mind was no stranger to any of the thousand 
 delicacies which render a young man a being cut generis, A 
 being whose heart teems with felicities, poetic dreams and 
 virgin hopes, which, however feeble in the eyes of world-worn 
 people, are still profound from their simplicity Nature had 
 endowed him with those gentle and polished manners which 
 go direct to the heart, and win even those who do not under- 
 stand them. He was well formed. His voice, that seemed to 
 come from the heart, inspired the hearts of others with noble 
 feelings, and there was a certain candor in its accents which 
 bespoke genuine modesty. Those who saw him felt themselves
 
 THE PURSE. 155 
 
 drawn towards him by some moral attraction which has fortu- 
 nately escaped the analysis of men of science, who would 
 resolve it into some phenomenon of galvanism, or into the play 
 of some fluid or other, and would formulate our feelings by 
 given proportions of oxygen and of electricity. 
 
 These details will perhaps explain to persons of a bold dis- 
 position, and to men who are overburdened with a sense of 
 propriety, why Hippolyte Schinner did not take advantage of 
 the absence of the porter (who had gone to the end of the Rue 
 de la Madeleine in search of a coach) to cross-examine the 
 porteress about the two strangers who had displayed so much 
 kindness of heart on his behalf. 
 
 But although he, for his part, made answer yes and no simply, 
 to the inquiries, (very natural under the circumstances,) which 
 the woman addressed to him as to his accident, and the kind 
 intervention of the fourth-floor lodgers, he could not prevent 
 her yielding to the porters' instinct ; and accordingly she began 
 to talk to him about the two strangers, in a strain colored by 
 her peculiar politics and the subterraneous opinions of the por- 
 ter's lodge. 
 
 "Ah 1" she said, "it was Mademoiselle Lessigneur and her 
 mother beyond a doubt ; they have lived there for four years. 
 We don't yet know what these two ladies do. In the morning, 
 but only till twelve o'clock, an old charwoman, who is half deaf 
 and as dumb as a wall, comes to do for them. In the even- 
 ing two or three old gentlemen who are decorated like you, sir, 
 ami one of whom has a carriage and servants, and they say he 
 has 60,000 francs a year, come to visit them, and often stay 
 very late. 
 
 " Moreover, they are very nice lodgers, like yourself, sir, 
 and economical, why, they live upon nothing as soon as ever 
 a letter arrives they pay the portage ; it's very funny, sir, the 
 mother has not the same name as her daughter. Ah, when 
 they go to the Tuileries, mademoiselle is very nicely dressed, 
 and she never goes out without being foJh/wed by young
 
 156 BALZAC. 
 
 but she shuts the door in their faces, and she is quite right, 
 the landlord would not allow . . ." 
 
 But here the carriage drove up. Hippolyte did not stay to 
 hear any more, but went home. His mother, to whom he 
 related what had happened, dressed the wound again, and 
 would not let him go to his studio next day. A consultation 
 having been held, various prescriptions were ordered, and 
 Hippolyte remained at home for three days. During this seclu- 
 sion his unemployed imagination brought before him vividly 
 and in fragments the details of the scene which had followed his 
 swoon. The profile of the young girl stood out clearly against 
 the darkness of his mind's eye; he saw again the wan features 
 of the mother, or felt once more the hands of Adelaide. A 
 gesture which, when just seen, had made but little impression 
 on him, but whose exquisite grace was thrown by memory into 
 bold relief, reappeared before his mind. Then a particular 
 posture, or the tones of a melodious voice, embellished by 
 memory's distance, came back quite suddenly, like objects 
 which, when plunged into the depths of the water, return to 
 the surface. 
 
 Thus, on the day on which he was able to resume his labors, 
 he went back to his studio very early. But the visit which he 
 had, incontestably, the right to pay to his neighbors, was the 
 real cause of his eagerness ; he had already forgotten the 
 pictures which he had begun. At the moment when a passion 
 bursts from its swaddling clothes, it finds inexplicable sources 
 of delight, which those who have loved will understand. Thus, 
 certain persons will know why the painter mounted the stair- 
 case leading to the fourth story so slowly, and will be in the 
 secret of the rapid pulsations of his heart at the moment 
 when he caught sight of the brown door of the modest apart- 
 ments inhabited by Mademoiselle Leseigneur. This girl, who 
 did not bear her mother's name, had aroused a thousand 
 sympathetic feelings in the young painter ; he wished to trace 
 between her and himself certain similarities of position, and
 
 THE PURSE. 157 
 
 invested her with the misfortunes of his own origin. While at 
 his work Hippolyte yielded himself up readily to dreams of 
 love, and made a good deal of noise in order to compel the 
 two ladies to think of him, just as he was thinking of Made- 
 moiselle Leseigneur. He remained till late in his studio, dined 
 there, and then towards seven o'clock went down to call upon 
 his neighbors. 
 
 No painter of manners has ventured to introduce us into 
 the really curious interiors of certain Parisian existences, into 
 the secrets of those dwellings which pour forth such new and 
 elegant toilettes and gaily attired women, who, in all outward 
 seeming rich, exhibit throughout their abodes the symptoms of 
 a precarious fortune. 
 
 If my picture be in this respect too freely drawn, if the 
 reader finds my account tedious, let him not find fault with the 
 description, which forms an integral part of the story, so to 
 speak ; since the aspect of the apartments occupied by his two 
 neighbors had a great influence upon the feelings and the 
 hopes of Hippolyte Schinner. 
 
 The house belonged to one of those landlords who have a 
 pre-existing and a profound horror of repairs and decorations; 
 one of those men who look upon their position cf Parisian 
 landlords as a calling. In the long chain of moral species, 
 these people occupy a middle position between the miser and 
 the usurer. Optimists by reflection, they are all devoted to 
 the status quo of Austria. If you talk to them about altering 
 a cupboard or a door, or of opening the most necessary venti- 
 lator, their eyes flash, their bile begins to work, and they rear 
 like frightened horses. Has the wind blown down some of 
 their chimney-pots ? they fall ill and cut off their visit to the 
 Gymnase, or the Porte Saint-Martin, on account of the repairs. 
 Hippolyte. who on account of some decorations which he 
 wanted carried out in his studio, had been present at the 
 gratuitous representation of a comic scene by M. Molineux, 
 was not surprised at the thick black hues, the greasy tints, the
 
 158 BALZAC. 
 
 blotches, and other disagreeable accessories which adorned the 
 woodwork of the apartments. Such stigmata of poverty, 
 moreover, are not altogether wanting in poetic charm to the 
 eye ot an artist. 
 
 Mademoiselle Leseigneur herself came to open the door. 
 When she recognized the young painter, she bowed to him, 
 and at the same moment, with truly Parisian dexterity and 
 that presence of mind which pride confers, she turned to close 
 the door of a glazed partition, through which Hippolyte might 
 have caught a glimpse of some linen hanging on lines stretched 
 over fuel-saving stoves ; of an old folding bed, the charcoal, 
 coal, irons, filter, crockeryware, and all the utensils peculiar to 
 small establishments. Muslin curtains, extremely neat, care- 
 fully concealed this caphatnaum (such is the familiar name for 
 laboratories of this description), which, moreover, was dimly 
 lighted by windows looking into the neighboring court. With 
 the rapid all embracing glance of an artist, Hippolyte saw at 
 once the uses to which this first room, thus cut in two, was 
 devoted ; its furniture and its whole character and condi- 
 tion. The more honored portion, which served at the same 
 time as an ante-room, and a dining-room, was hung with an 
 old rose-colored paper, with a velvet border, which had doubt- 
 less been manufactured by Reveillon. The holes and stains 
 in it had been carefully concealed with wafers. Prints repre- 
 senting the battles of Alexander, by Lebrun, hung in their . 
 worn frames symmetrically upon the walls. In the middle of ! 
 the room was an old-fashioned table of solid mahogany worn 
 at the edges. A small stove, whose straight unjointed flue 
 could scarcely be seen, stood before the hearth, which was 
 blocked up by a chest of drawers. The chairs, in strange 
 contrast with the rest of the room, showed some traces of 
 former splendor ; they were of carved mahogany, but the red 
 morocco of the seats, the gilded nails and bindings, showed 
 scars as numerous as those of the old sergeants of the Impe- 
 rial Guard. The room formed a museum of certain objects
 
 THE PURSE. 159 
 
 that are to be met with only in amphibious establishments of 
 this kind, nameless objects that are neither articles of luxury 
 nor of poverty, but share the character of both. Among other 
 curiosities, Hippolyte observed a magnificently mounted tele- 
 scope hanging over the little greenish glass which adorned the 
 chimney-piece. To match this queer bit of furniture, there 
 stood between the fireplace and the partition, a wretched side- 
 board, painted to look like mahogany, the most difficult of all 
 woods to imitate. But the red and slippery floor, the misera- 
 ble little carpets placed in front of the chairs, the furniture, all 
 exhibited that shining neatness which perpetual rubbing and 
 dusting give to old-fashioned bits of furniture ; conferring on 
 them a false lustre, and giving prominence to their defects, 
 antiquity, and long service. 
 
 An indefinable odor, the result of the exhalations of the 
 capharnaum, mixed with the vapor of the dining-room, and of 
 the staircase, pervaded the apartments, although the window 
 was open, and the air of the street shook the muslin curtains, 
 which were carefully drawn so as to hide the embrasure on 
 which previous lodgers had stamped theii presence by divers 
 incrustations species of domestic fresco. 
 
 Adelaide made haste to open the door of the second room, 
 into which she ushered the artist with a -.-ertain amount of 
 pleasure. Hippolyte, who had formerly seen in his mother's 
 home the same signs of penury, observed them here with that 
 keenness of impression which characterizes the first acquisi- 
 tions of our memory, and entered more readily than any one 
 else could have done into the details of this existence. But 
 the excellent young man, when he recognized the objects which 
 had surrounded him in childhood's days, felt no contempt for 
 this hidden poverty, and no pride in the luxury which he had 
 won for his mother. 
 
 " Well, sir. I hope you hare quite got over the effects of 
 your fall," said the old mother, rising from an old-fashioned
 
 ICO BALZAC. 
 
 easy chair at the corner of the fireplace, and giving him an 
 arm-chair. 
 
 " Yes, madame, and I am come to thank you for the kind 
 care you both bestowed upon me, and especially mademoiselle, 
 who heard me fall." As Hippolyte uttered this phrase, redo- 
 lent of that admirable stupidity which the first agitations 
 arising from true love give rise to, he looked at the young girl 
 Adelaide was lighting the double-ventilating lamp in order, 
 doubtless, that she might put out of sight a candle stuck in a 
 large flat-bottomed copper candlestick and festooned with 
 some salient flutings, the result of an unusual amount of 
 running. She made a slight bow. took the candlestick into 
 the anteroom, and returned to place the lamp upon the mantel- 
 piece. Then she sat down beside her mother, a little in the 
 rear of the artist, in order that she might have a good look at 
 him, while all the time she seemed to be busily studying the 
 del>ut of the lamp, whose light, arrested by the moisture of a 
 .dirty glass, flickered as it struggled with a black and ill- 
 trimmed wick. Catching sight of the large mirror upon the 
 mantel-shelf, Hippolyte speedily fixed his eyes upon it in order 
 to admire Adelaide. The girl's little manoeuvre, therefore, 
 served only to embarrass them both. 
 
 While Hippolyte chatted with Madame Leseigneur, for so 
 he ventured to christen her, he examined the room not point- 
 edly but furtively. The Egyptian faces of the iron firedogs, 
 barely peeped through the cinders which encumbered the grate, 
 in which two brands were trying to effect a junction in front of 
 a sham log made of fire-clay, and buried as carefully as a 
 miser's hoard. The old Aubusson carpet, much darned, faded, 
 and thread-bare as a pensioner's coat, was not large enough lo 
 cover the whole floor, the chill of which made itself sensible to 
 the feet. The walls were decorated with a reddish paper, re- 
 presenting a lampass material with yellow figures. In the 
 middle of the wall opposite to the windows the painter saw a 
 chink and the cracks in the paper produced by the double
 
 THE PURSE. 161 
 
 doors of an alcove which doubtless formed the sleeping quar- 
 ters of Madame Leseigneur, and was insufficiently concealed 
 by a sofa placed in front of it. Fronting the fireplace, and 
 over a mahogany commode whose ornamentation was not 
 wanting either in richness or good taste, there hung the portrait 
 of an officer of high rank. The light was not good enough to 
 enable the painter to see the portrait distinctly, but from what 
 he could see he thought that the execrable daub must be a 
 production of some Chinese artist- The red silk curtains and 
 the red and yellow chair-covers of this room " contrived a 
 double debt to pay," were alike discolored. On the marble 
 top of the commode was placed a valuable malachite tray, 
 with a dozen coffee cups magnificently painted, of Sevres- 
 workmanship beyond a doubt. Upon the mantel-shelf stood 
 the inevitable Empire timepiece representing a warrior driving 
 a four-horsed chariot, with the figures of the twelve hours* 
 arranged upon the spokes of the wheel. The wax candles in 
 the candelabra were yellow with smoke, and at each end of the 
 chimney-piece, there was a porcelain vase crowned with artifi- 
 cial flowers full of dust and adorned with moss. 
 
 Hippolyte observed in the middle of the room a card-table 
 ready for use, and some packs of new cards. To the eye of 
 an observer there was something depressing in the sight of 
 this penury, tricked out like an old woman who wants her face 
 to lie. The spectacle presented was such as to induce any 
 man of sense to propose to himself off-hand this dilemma : 
 " Either these two women are integrity personified, or they 
 lead a life of intrigue and gambling." But on looking at 
 Adelaide a young man so pure as Hippolyte Schinner was 
 bound to credit them with the most perfect innocence and to 
 ascribe the incongruities presented by the room to the most 
 honorable causes. 
 
 " My girl," said the elder lady to the younger, " make up a 
 little more fire, and give me my shawl." 
 
 Adelaide went into the drawing-room, in which no doubt die 
 K
 
 1G2 BALZAC. 
 
 slept, and returned bringing her mother a cashmere shawl 
 which, when new, must have been very valuable, for the de- 
 signs were of Indian workmanship ; but old, faded, and full of 
 darns, it was in keeping with the furniture. Madame Leseig- 
 neur wrapped herself up in it very artistically and with all the 
 skill of an old woman who wanted to be taken at her word. 
 
 The young girl ran lightly to the capharnaum, and reappeared 
 with a handful of small pieces of wood, which she courageously 
 threw upon the sinking fire. It would be very difficult to 
 transcribe the conversation which took place between these 
 three people. Guided by that tact which the experience of 
 early troubles rarely fails to confer, Hippolyte did not venture 
 to indulge in the slightest remark relating to the position of his 
 neighbors ; having under his eyes the symptoms of a penury 
 so thinly veiled. The most ordinary question would have 
 been indiscreet and could only be conceded to old-established 
 friendship. Yet at the same time the artist was deeply 
 absorbed by this poverty in disguise ; it wrung his generous 
 heart ; but knowing that every kind of pity, even the most 
 amiable, may be offensive, he felt ill at ease on account of the 
 discordance between his thoughts and language. The two 
 ladies began by talking about painting, for women well under- 
 stand the embarrassment that underlies a first visit. They 
 perhaps ieel it ; and the character of their intellect supplies 
 them with a thousand resources for putting an end to it. By 
 questioning the young man about the material processes of 
 his art and about his studies, Adelaide and her mother con- 
 trived to embolden him to talk. The indefinable trifles of 
 which their friendly conversation consisted induced Hippolyte 
 quite naturally, to give vent to remarks and reflections which 
 displayed the nature of his moral sentiments and the tone of 
 his mind. Grief had prematurely withered the old lady's 
 face, which had no doubt once been beautiful, though now 
 all that remained to her were the striking features, the outlines 
 in one word the skeleton, of a countenance which displayed,
 
 THE PURSE. 163 
 
 as a whole, great refinement of intellect and much grace in 
 the play of the eye. There in the play of the eye, 
 could be traced the expression peculiar to the ladies of 
 the old French Court, an expression which cannot be 
 defined. Those fine and subtle features might just as well 
 be taken to denote bad sentiments and suggest the existence 
 of female craft and cunning carried to a high pitch of perver- 
 sity, as to indicate the delicacy of a lofty spirit. In fact the 
 face of a woman embarrasses the ordinary observer, because 
 the difference between candor and duplicity, between the 
 genius of intrigue and the genius of right feeling, cannot there 
 be traced. He who is gifted with penetrating vision divines 
 those subtle shades of difference arising from the less or 
 greater curvature of a line, the. less or greater depth of a 
 dimple, the less or greater prominence of a projecting feature. 
 The correct appreciation of such diagnostics is entirely within 
 the province of intuition, which only can discover what all are 
 concerned to hide. The physiognomy of the old lady resem- 
 bled the room which she occupied in this respect that it 
 seemed equally hard to discover whether beneath this penury 
 lurked vice or strict integrity as to find out whether Adelaide's 
 mother was an old coquette accustomed to weigh, to calculate, 
 and barter everything, or a loving woman full of noble and 
 amiable qualities. But at Schinner's time of life the heart's 
 first impulse is to believe in the existence of good, and accord- 
 ingly as he looked at the noble, almost disdainful, forehead of 
 Adelaide, and beheld her eyes that were so full of mind and 
 thought, he inhaled, so to speak, the suave and modest scent 
 of virtue. In the midst of their talk he seized the opportunity 
 of speaking of portraits in general, so as to acquire the right 
 of examining the hideous pastil, all the tints of which had 
 faded, while the greater part of the color had come bodily 
 away. 
 
 "You prize that painting, doubtless, on account of the
 
 104) BALZAC. 
 
 likeness, ladies, for the drawing itself is horrible ?" he said, 
 looking at Adelaide. 
 
 " It was taken at Calcutta, in a great hurry," replied* the 
 mother with emotion. 
 
 She gazed at the ill-favored sketch with that entire self- 
 abandonment to which the memories of by-gone happiness give 
 rise when they awake and bathe the heart as with some bene- 
 ficent dew, to the refreshing influences of which we delight to 
 give way ; but there was also in the expression of the old 
 lady's face, the face of an enduring sorrow. So at least did 
 the artist interpret the attitude and countenance of his neigh- 
 bor. He thereupon went up to her and took a seat beside 
 her. " Madame," he said, " a little time longer and jthe colors 
 of this pastil will have completely disappeared. The portrait 
 will then exist only in your memory ; where you will behold a 
 face that is dear to you, others will not see anything at all. 
 Will you permit me to transfer this likeness to canvas, where it 
 will be more securely fixed than on this paper. Grant me, on 
 the score of our neighborhood, the pleasure of rendering you 
 this service. There are hours during which an artist loves to 
 repose from his compositions by undertaking works of a less 
 elevated character ; it will therefore be a diversion to me 10 
 reproduce this head." 
 
 The old lady trembled as she heard these words, and Ade. 
 laide cast at the p.-iinter one of those ^concentrated glances 
 which seem like an emanation from the soul. Hippolyte 
 wanted to be connected with his two neighbors by some link, 
 and to acquire the right to take a share in their existence. His 
 offer being addressed to the liveliest affections of the heart, 
 was the only one which it was possible for him to make ; it 
 satisfied his artist pride, and was in no way humiliating to the 
 two ladies. Madame Leseigneur accepted his offer without 
 expressing any enthusiasm or regret, but with the feeling of 
 noble hearts who know the strength of the bonds created by
 
 THE PURSE. 1G5 
 
 such obligations, and whose acceptance of them is therefore a 
 magnificent eulogy a proof of esteem. 
 
 " It seems to me," said the artist, " that the uniform is that 
 of a naval officer." 
 
 " Yes," said the old lady, " it is the uniform of the captain 
 of a ship. My husband, Mons. de Rouville, died in Batavial 
 from the result of a wound received during an engagement 
 with an English vessel which fell in with him on the coast of 
 Asia, His vessel was a frigate of fifty-six guns, while the Re- 
 venge was a ship carrying ninety-six. The combat was very 
 unequal, but he defended himself so bravely that the fight 
 lasted till midnight, and he was able to get away. When I 
 returned to France, Bonaparte was not yet paramount, and they 
 refused me a pension. When latterly I applied for it again, 
 the minister harshly told me that if the Baron de Rouville had 
 emigrated I should not have lost him, and that he would be a 
 rear-admiral ; and finally his Excellency wound up by opposing 
 my claim with some law about forfeitures. I only took the 
 step, urged to it by my friends, for poor Adelaide's sake. I 
 always felt a sort of repugnance to making a sorrow which robs 
 a woman of her voice and strength, the ground of an appeal 
 for alms. I don't like this setting of a money value upon 
 blood that has been irreparably spilled." 
 
 " Mother, this is a subject which always makes you ill." 
 When Adelaide had said these words, Madame Leseigneur de 
 Rouville bowed her head and was silent. 
 
 " I thought, sir," said the young lady to Hippolyte, " that 
 an artist's work was as a rule very quiet ? " 
 
 At this question Hippolyte blushed, remembering the noise 
 he had made. Adelaide did not pursue the subject, and saved 
 him the trouble of telling some fib, by suddenly rising as she 
 heard the noise of a carriage stopping at the door. She went 
 into her own room, whence she returned carrying in her hand 
 two large candlesticks furnished with wax candles which had 
 already done duty. These she speedily lighted, and then*
 
 166 BALZAC. 
 
 without waiting for the tinkle of the bell, she opened the door 
 of the anteroom, in which she left the lamp. The sound of a 
 kiss given and returned went straight to the very heart of Hip- 
 polyte ; but the young man's impatience to see who it was that 
 treated Adelaide with such familiarity was not quickly satisfied. 
 The new arrivals had a whispered conversation with Adelaide, 
 which he thought very protracted. At length, Mademoiselle 
 de Rouville reappeared, followed by two men whose dress, 
 faces, and general appearance a whole history in themselves. 
 The first, who was about sixty years of age, wore one 
 of those coats which were invented, I believe, for Louis XVIII., 
 who was then upon the throne , a kind of coat which offered a 
 solution of the most difficult of all vestmental problems, that 
 ought to have immortalized the tailor who discovered it. This 
 genius understood for certain the art of transitions, which was 
 the very spirit and essence of that epoch of political mobility. 
 Is it not a very rare merit to be able to gauge the era in which 
 we live? This coat, which the young men of this age may 
 take for a fable, was neither a civil nor a military coat, and 
 could pass in turn for a military or a civil coat. The flaps of 
 the two hind tails were ornamented with embroidered fleurs- 
 de-lys. The gilt buttons were also stamped with flenrs-de-lys. 
 Upon the shoulders were two empty loops, awaiting their use- 
 less epaulettes. These two traces of martiality stood there like 
 a petition without a countersign. In the case of this old man 
 the button-hole of this coat of royal blue blossomed with several 
 ribands. It was clear that he always kept his three-cornered 
 hat, with its golden string, in his hand ; for the snowy ailes de 
 pigeon of his powdered hair showed not a trace of the pressure 
 of a hat. He did not look more than fifty, and seemed to 
 enjoy robust health. While his physiognomy exhibited the 
 frank and loyal character of the old emigres, it also bespoke the 
 light and easy morals, the gay amours, and the levity of those 
 musketeers who were formerly so renowned in the fasti of 
 gallantry. His gestures, his gait, and his manners all an-
 
 THE PURSE. 1G7 
 
 nounced that he did not want to be cured either of his royal- 
 ism, or of his religion, or of his amours. 
 
 A truly fantastic figure it was which followed this pretentious 
 Voingeur de Louis J.I. (for such was the nickname given by 
 the Bonapartists to these noble relics of the monarchy.) But 
 fairly to paint this second figure it should be made the princi- 
 pal object of the picture in which it is but an accessory. 
 Imagine, then, a dry and wiry figure, dressed like that which 
 has been first described, but being only its reflection, its shadow 
 if you will. While the coat of the former was new, that of the 
 latter was old and shabby. The powder in the hair of the 
 second seemed less white, the gold of his lilies was less bright, 
 his epaulette loops were more drooping and more shrivelled : 
 his intellect was less keen, and his age more advanced than 
 that of the other. In short he realized the saying of Rivarol 
 about Champcenetz : " He is my moonshine." He was but 
 the other's double a poor pale double, for there existed be- 
 tween them all the difference that there is between the first and 
 the last proof of an engraving. This mute old fellow was a 
 mystery to the painter, and a mystery he always remained. The 
 chevalier (for he was a chevalier) did not speak to any one and 
 no one spoke to him. Was he a friend, a poor relation, a man 
 who stuck to the old gallant as a humble companion sticks to 
 an old woman ? 
 
 Was he something between the dog, the parrot, and the 
 friend ? Had he saved the fortune, or merely the life of his 
 benefactor ? Was he the trim of a second Captain Toby ? Not 
 only at the Baronne de Rouville's but elsewhere also he excited 
 curiosity without ever satisfying it. Who, living under the 
 Restoration, could possibly recall the attachment which before 
 the Revolution bound this chevalier to his friend's wife, who 
 had now been in her grave for twenty years ? 
 
 The personage who seemed the more recent of these two 
 relics advanced gallantly towards the Baronne de Rouville, 
 kissed her hand, and sat down by her side. The other bowed
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 and placed himself near to his type at a distance represented 
 by the width of two chairs. Adelaide went and leaned her 
 elbows upon the back of the armchair occupied by the old 
 gentleman, unconsciously imitating the posture which Gue'rin 
 in his celebrated picture has given to the sister of Dido. Al- 
 though the familiarity of the old gentleman was that of a father, 
 the liberties which he took seemed for the moment to displease 
 the young lady. 
 
 " What, are you sulky with me ?" said he. 
 
 Thereupon, he looked at Schinner with one of those oblique 
 glances full of subtilty and insight which may be called diplo- 
 matic glances. Its expression showed the prudent uneasiness, 
 the polished curiosity, of well-bred people who at sight of a 
 stranger seem to put the question, " Is he one of us?" 
 
 " This is our neighbor," said the old lady, pointing to Hip- 
 polyte. "The gentleman is a celebrated painter, whose name 
 you must kno*r in spite of your indifference in matters of art." 
 
 The gentleman observed his old friend's roguish omission of 
 the name, and bowed to the young man. 
 
 "Certainly," he said, "I heard the gentleman's pictures 
 much talked about at the last exhibition. Talent has glorious 
 privileges, sir," he added, looking at the red riband of the 
 artist. " The distinction which we purchase at the cost of our 
 blood and long service, you obtain while still young ; but all 
 kinds of distinction are sisters," he continued, placing his hands 
 upon his cross of St. Louis. 
 
 Hippolyte murmured a few words of thanks and again be- 
 came silent, confining himself to admiring with growing enthu- 
 siasm the beautiful girlish head, which had bewitched him. He 
 was very soon buried in this contemplation, and thought no 
 more about the extreme poverty of the household. To him 
 the face of Adelaide stood out in an atmosphere of light. He 
 gave brief answers to the questions addressed to him, which he 
 iortunately heard, thanks to a singular faculty of the mind, 
 which enables us at times to divide the current of our thoughts.
 
 THE PURSE. 109 
 
 Has it not happened to every one of us to remain plunged in 
 some sad or pleasurable meditation, to listen to its voice within 
 ourselves, and at the same time, attend to a conversation or a 
 reading ? Admirable duality ! how often does it enable us 
 patiently to endure the bore ! 
 
 Hope, fruitful and smiling, filled Hippolyte with a thousand 
 thoughts of happiness, and he no longer cared to take notice { 
 of any of his surroundings. He was a child full of delight, 
 and it seemed to him disgraceful to analyze pleasure. 
 
 After the lapse of a certain time, he perceived that the old 
 lady and her daughter were playing cards with the old 
 gentleman. 
 
 As for the satellite of the latter, he, faithful to his character 
 of shadow, was standing behind his friend watching his game, 
 and relying to the mute inquiries of the card-player by little 
 grimaces of approval, which reflected the questioning move- 
 ments of the other's face. 
 
 " Du Halga, I always lose," said the gentleman. 
 
 " You discard badly," replied the Baronne de Rouville. 
 
 " Why for the last three months I have not been able to 
 win a single game from you," he continued. 
 
 " Have you the aces, Monsieur le Comte ? " asked the 
 old lady. 
 
 " Yes, that is another for me to mark," he said. 
 
 " Shall I be your counsellor? " asked Adelaide. 
 
 " No, no, keep opposite to me. Zounds ! it would be too 
 hard to lose my money, and the sight of your face." 
 
 At last the match came t^ an end. The gentleman took out 
 his purse, and throwing two louis upon the cloth somewhat 
 ill-temperedly, exclaimed, 
 
 " Forty francs, as true as gold. And, what the deuce ! It's 
 eleven o'clock." 
 
 " It's eleven o'clock," repeated the mute looking at the 
 artist. 
 
 The young man hearing this phrase a little more distinctly
 
 170 BALZAC. 
 
 than all the others, came to the conclusion it was time to go. 
 Returning, therefore, to this lower world of vulgar ideas, he 
 stumbled on some commonplaces for the sake of saying some- 
 thing, bowed to the baroness, her daughter, the two strangers, 
 and quitted the apartments under the influence of the maiden 
 joys of genuine love ; nor did he seek to analyze the little 
 events of the evening. 
 
 The next day the young artist felt the keenest possible desire 
 to see Adelaide again. If he had listened to the voice of 
 passion he would have invaded his neighbors at six o'clock in 
 the morning, as soon as he reached his studio. He had, how- 
 ever, still sufficient reason left to wait till the afternoon. But 
 so soon as he thought he could in decency present himself 
 before Madame de Rouville, he went down, and while his 
 heart beat loudly, rang the bell. The door was opened by 
 Mademoiselle Leseigneur, and Hippolyte, blushing like a 
 young girl, timidly asked for the portrait of the Baron de 
 Rouville. 
 
 " Oh, come in," said Adelaide, who no doubt had heard 
 him coming down horn his studio. 
 
 Bashful and out of countenance, so stupid with happiness 
 that he knew not what to say, the artist followed her. To see 
 Adelaide, to hear the rustle of her dress after having spent the 
 livelong morning in wishing to be near her, after having risen 
 from his seat a hundred times saying, " now I am going down," 
 and then not going down ; this to him was life, and life so 
 abounding that such sensations long protracted would have 
 worn his very soul. The heart possesses the singular power of 
 giving an extraordinary value to the merest trifles. What a joy 
 it is for a traveller to gather a blade of grass, an unfamiliar leaf, 
 if he has risked his life in pursuit of them. Thus it is with 
 love's trifles. The old lady was not in the reception-room. 
 When the young girl found herself alone with the painter, she 
 brought forward a chair in order to reach the portrait, but 
 finding that she could not unhook it without placing her foot
 
 THE PURSE. 171 
 
 upon the commode, she turned to Hippolyte, and blushing 
 said to him, " I am not tall enough. "Will you take it down ? " 
 
 It was a feeling of modesty, traceable in the expression of 
 her features and in the tones of her voice, that was the real 
 motive of her request ; and the young man, understanding this, 
 threw her one of those intelligent looks which are love's 
 sweetest language. Seeing that the artist had guessed her 
 feelings, Adelaide dropped her eyes proudly, in a manner the 
 secret of which only maidens possess. Finding not a word to 
 say for himself and feeling almost intimidated, the artist took 
 the picture down, examined it carefully, setting it in a proper 
 light near the window, and went away, simply saying to 
 Mademoiselle Leseigneur, " I will return it to you soon." 
 
 During this brief moment both of them felt one of those 
 keen emotions whose effects upon the mind may be compared 
 to the effects produced by a stone thrown into a lake. The 
 sweetest reflections spring up and succeed one another, inde- 
 finable, numerous, vague, agitating the heart, just as the 
 rippling circles, starting from the spot where the stone was 
 thrown in, long continue to furrow the surface of the water. 
 
 Armed with the portrait, Hippolyte returned to his studio. 
 His easel had already been fitted with a canvas, his palette 
 charged with colors, his brushes cleansed, and the place and 
 light in which he was to work, fixed. So until dinner-time he 
 labored away at the portrait with that ardor which artists devote 
 to their whims. That very evening he returned to the Baroness 
 de Rouville's and remained there from nine o'clock until 
 eleven. Barring the different topics of conversation, this 
 evening bore a close resemblance to the preceding. The two 
 old gentlemen came at the same time, the same match at 
 piquet took place, the same phrases fell from the lips of the 
 players, the sum lost by Adelaide's friend was about as large 
 as that which he had lost the night before. Only Hippolyte, 
 who had gained a little confidence, ventured to chat with the 
 young lady.
 
 172 BALZAC. 
 
 Thus eight days glided away. Meanwhile the feelings ot 
 the artist and Adelaide underwent those slow and exquisite 
 transformations whereby two hearts are brought into complete 
 unison. Thus day by day the look with which Adelaide greeted 
 her friend became more intimate, more confiding, njore gay 
 and frank. Her voice and manners became more affectionate 
 and familiar. They laughed and talked, communicated their 
 thoughts to each other, and spoke about themselves with all 
 the simplicity of two children who have contrived in the space 
 of a single day to know each other as if they had been acquainted 
 for three years. Schinner wanted to learn piquet. Being 
 quite ignorant of the game, he naturally committed blunder 
 after blunder, and, like the old gentleman, lost nearly every 
 match. Without having yet told their love, the two young people 
 knew that they belonged to each other. Hippolyte took a 
 delight in exercising his power over the timid girl. Many were 
 the concessions made by Adelaide, who in her timidity and 
 devotion was the dupe of those mock fits of coldness which 
 the least skilful lover and the most simple-minded young girl 
 will plan and constantly employ, just as spoiled children abuse 
 the power with which a mother's love invests them. Accordingly 
 all familiarity between the old count and Adelaide promptly 
 ceased. The young girl correctly interpreted the melancholy 
 fits of the young painter, the thoughts that underlay his knitted 
 brow and breathed in the brusque accent of the few words he 
 uttered when the old gentleman freely kissed Adelaide on neck 
 or hand. She, on her part, too, soon began to ask her lover 
 for a strict account of his slightest actions ; she was so uneasy, 
 so unhappy, when Hippolyte did not come to see them, and 
 scolded him so soundly when he absented himself, that he was 
 obliged to give up seeing his friends and relinquished general 
 society altogether. Adelaide betrayed the jealously which is 
 innate in woman, on finding that sometimes after leaving 
 Madame de Rouville's at eleven o'clock the artist would pay 
 visits elsewhere and saunter through the gayest drawing-rooms
 
 THE PURSE. 
 
 in Paris. She told him that a life of that kind was injurious to 
 the health ; then, with that intense earnestness which gains so 
 much power from the voice, the gestures and the look of the 
 beloved one, she maintained that "a man who was obliged to 
 squander on several woman at once, his leisure time and the 
 graces of his intellect could not be the object of a very strong 
 affection." 
 
 Thus the artist was led, as much by the despotism of passion 
 as by the instances of a loving girl, to confine his existence to 
 the small apartment where everthing was to his mind. In 
 short, never was love more ardent or more pure. The faith and 
 delicacy, which existed equally between them, nurtured their 
 mutual passion, without the aid of those sacrifices by which 
 many persons seek to prove to each other their affection. 
 There existed between them a constant interchange of feelings 
 so sweet that they did not know which of the two gave or 
 received the most. A spontaneous inclination rendered the 
 union of their hearts always very close. The progress of this 
 genuine affection was so rapid that two months after the acci- 
 dent to which the artist owed the happiness of knowing 
 Adelaide, their lives had become one life. From early morn- 
 ing the young girl hearing some one walking overhead could 
 say to herself, " There he is." When Hippolyte went home 
 to dine at his mother's he never failed to look in and say 
 " How do you do" to his neighbors, and in the evening he 
 would come at the accustomed hour with all a lover's punctu- 
 ality ; so that no woman, not even the most tyrannical and the 
 most ambitious in the matters of love, could have brought 
 the slightest reproach against the young painter. Thus Ade- 
 laide experienced the unmixed and boundless happiness of 
 seeing the complete realization of that ideal which at her time 
 of life it is so natural to dream of. The old gentleman did 
 not come so often, the jealous Hippolyte had supplanted him 
 in the evening at the green table- and in his constant losses. 
 
 Yet in the midst of his happiness he was beset by one im-
 
 174 BALZAC. 
 
 porttmate idea, when he bethought him of the unfortunate 
 circumstances of Madame de Rouville, for he had acquired 
 more than one proof of her distress. Several times already 
 he had said to himself on his way home, "What, twenty francs 
 every evening?" and he did not dare to avow even to himself 
 the odious suspicion. 
 
 It took him two months to paint the likeness, and when it 
 WES finished, varnished, and framed, he considered it one 
 of his best works. Madame de Rouville had said nothing 
 further to him about it. Was this carelessness or pride ? The 
 artist did not care to fathom the motives of her silence. He 
 entered gaily into a little plot with Adelaide, to put the 
 portrait in its place while Madame de Rouville should be away. 
 So one day during her mother's customary walk at the Tuilenes, 
 Adelaide went up alone for the first time to Hippolyte's studio, 
 under pretence of seeing the portrait in the favorable light in 
 which it had been painted. She stood there mute and motion- 
 less, lost in a delightful reverie wherein all the feelings ol a 
 woman blended in one for are they not all summed up in 
 boundless admiration for the man she loves? When the 
 artist, uneasy at her silence, bent down to look at the young 
 girl, she held out her hand to him without being able to utter 
 a single word, but two tears fell from her eyes. Hippolyte 
 seized her hand, and for a moment they looked at each other 
 in silence, both wishing, but fearing, to confess their love. The 
 artist held Adelaide's hand in both of his, and the equal warmth 
 and equal movement told the lovers that their hearts beat with 
 an equal force. Overcome with emotion the young girl drew 
 herself gently away from Hippolyte and said with a look of 
 simplicity, " You will make my mother very happy." 
 
 " Only your mother ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, as for me, I am too happy already." 
 
 The artist bent his head and was silent, alarmed at the vio- 
 lence of the feelings which Adelaide's tone had awakened in 
 his heart. Fully understanding the danger of the situation,
 
 THE PURSE. 175 
 
 % 
 
 they went down and put the portrait in its place. That day 
 Hippolyte dined for the first time with the baroness, who, in the 
 fullness of her heart, and bathed in tears, wanted to embrace 
 him. 
 
 In the evening the old tmigr f e> the ancient comrade of Baron 
 de Rouville, paid his two friends a visit, to inform them that he 
 had just been appointed a vice admiral. His land voyages 
 across Germany and Russia had been reckoned as naval cam- 
 paigns. When he caught sight of the portrait he cordially 
 grasped the hand of the painter, and exclaimed, " Upon my 
 honor, although my old carcase is hardly worth the trouble of 
 perpetuating, I would gladly give 500 pistoles for so close a 
 likeness of myself as this is of my old friend Rouville." 
 
 At this suggestion the baroness looked at her old friend and 
 smiled, while her face showed signs of rising gratitude. Hip- 
 polyte fancied that the old man's intention was to offer him 
 the price of the two portraits in paying for his own ; not only 
 his artist's pride, but his jealousy also, was aroused by this re- 
 flection, and replied, " Sir, if I painted portraits I should not 
 have painted that." 
 
 The admiral bit his lips and sat down at the card-table The 
 artist remained near Adelaide, who suggested six games at 
 piquet which he accepted. While he was playing he noticed 
 in Madame Rouville an eagerness over the game which surpri- 
 sed him. Never had the old baroness exhibited so earnest a 
 desire to to win, nor so keen a pleasure in handling the gentle- 
 man's gold. During the evening Hippolyte's happiness was 
 invaded by suspicions of evil which caused him much uneasi- 
 ness. Did Madame de Rouville live by gambling ? Perhaps 
 she was playing at that moment, with a view to the payment of 
 some debt, or spurred by some pressing need. Her rent might 
 be unpaid, perhaps. The old man seemed sharp enough not 
 to allow himself to be robbed of his money. What, then, was 
 the inducement which drew him, rich as he was, to that abode 
 cf poverty ? Why had he, who had formerly been so free with
 
 176 BALZAC. 
 
 Adelaide, abandoned the footing of familiarity on which he had 
 stood, and which was perhaps his right ? 
 
 These involuntary reflections impelled him to scrutinize the 
 old man and the baroness, whose knowing look and certain side- 
 long glances which she cast at Adelaide and himself disturbed 
 him. " Can they be deceiving me ? " Such was Hippolyte's last, 
 horrible, withering thought, which had precisely enough hold 
 upon him to torture him. He resolved to remain, after the 
 two old men had gone, Jn order to confirm or dissipate his sus- 
 picions. On taking out his purse to pay Adelaide, he was 
 so carried away by his harrowing thoughts, that he put it down 
 upon the table, and fell into a brief reverie. Then, ashamed 
 of being silent, he rose, replied to some commonplace inquiry 
 from Madame Rouville, and went close to her, in order that he 
 might more closely examine her aged features, while he talked. 
 When he left, he was under the influence of a thousand con- 
 flicting ideas. After he had descended a few of the steps he 
 went back for the purse which he had forgotten. 
 
 " I left my purse with you," he said to the young girl. 
 " No," she replied, blushing. 
 
 " I certainly thought it was there," said he, pointing to the 
 card table. 
 
 Ashamed for Adelaide's sake, and that of the baroness, at 
 not seeing it, he looked at them with a stupified look which 
 made them laugh, turned pale, and then, tapping his waistcoat, 
 resumed, " I am mistaken, no doubt I have it." 
 
 In one end of the purse there had been fifteen louis, and in 
 the other some small change. The theft was so flagrant, 
 and was repudiated with such effrontery, that Hippolyte had no 
 further doubts as to the morality of his neighbors. He stood 
 still upon the staircase, then descended it with difficulty ; his 
 legs trembled, he felt giddy, sweated, shivered, and found him- 
 self unable to walk ; so completely was he overcome by the fear- 
 ful emotion caused by the overthrow of all his hopes. From 
 that moment his memory brought back to him a crowd of .ob-
 
 THE PURSE. 177 
 
 servations, trifling in appearance, but corroborative of his 
 frightful suspicions, and decisive of the character and mode of 
 life of these two women, since they established the reality o 
 this last incident. 
 
 Had they, then, awaited the completion of the portrait 
 before stealing the purse ? As the result of a conspiracy the 
 robbery seemed more odious still. The artist remembered 
 to his sorrow, that for the last two or three evenings Adelaide 
 had seemed to examine with all a young girl's inquisitiveness,the 
 network of worn silk, while she was, probably, ascertaining how 
 much the purse contained ; and that she had indulged in some 
 jokes, to all appearance perfectly innocent, but whose real 
 object was, no doubt, to cover her look-out for the moment 
 when the sum should be large enough to be worth stealing. 
 
 " The old admiral," thought Hippolyte, " has perhaps some 
 excellent reasons for not marrying Adelaide, and so the baroness 
 thought she would try to inveigle " 
 
 But at this hypothesis he stopped short without even finish- 
 ing his thought, which was destroyed by one very just reflec- 
 tion : 
 
 " If the baroness wanted me to marry her daughter, they 
 would not have robbed me." Then in order that he might 
 retain his illusions and the love which had become so firmly 
 rooted in his heart, he looked to chance for a favorable inter- 
 pretation. " My purse may have fallen on the floor," he argued 
 with himself; " it may have stuck on my armchair. Perhaps 
 I have it on me, I am so absent-minded." Then he rummaged 
 his pockets with feverish movements ; but the accursed purse 
 was not forthcoming. Then his cruel memory brought back 
 to him, from time to time, the fatal truth. He distinctly saw 
 his purse lying on the cloth ; but though he no longer doubted 
 that the robbery had been commited, he now framed excuses 
 for Adelaide, saying that one ought not to condemn the 
 unfortunate so hastily. There must be some .secrect 
 explanation of this deed, which was, in outward seeming, so 
 
 L
 
 178 BALZAC. 
 
 degrading. He could not bear to think that that proud and 
 noble countenance was a lie. But, now the poverty-stricken 
 apartments appeared before him, shorn of all the poetry of that 
 love which beautifies everything. Faded and squalid they rose 
 before him, and he regarded them as the outward covering of 
 an inner life that was ignoble, idle, vicious. For are not our. 
 feelings written on the things by which we are surrounded ? j[ 
 
 The next morning he rose without having slept. Sorrow of 
 heart, that serious moral malady, had made rapid progress in 
 him. To lose a joy that has formed the subject of our dreams, 
 to renounce a whole future, is anguish more accute than that 
 caused by the destruction of happiness, however great, that 
 has been actually enjoyed ; for is not hope better than re- 
 collection ? The reflections which suddenly arise out of such 
 ruin are like a shoreless sea ; we may for a time swim upon its 
 bosom, but in the end our love must drown and perish. And 
 it is a fearful death ; for the feelings are the brightest portion 
 of our existence. This partial death produces in certain organ- 
 izations, whether they be strong or delicate, fearful havoc, the 
 offspring of disenchantment, of defeated hope and cheated pas- 
 sion. Thus was it with the young artist. Early in the morning 
 he went out to take a walk under the fresh foliage of the gardens 
 of the Tuileries. There, engrossed in thought and oblivious of 
 all the world contained, he stumbled on one of his most inti- 
 mate friends, an old comrade at school and in the studio, with 
 whom he had lived on a footing of more than fraternal affection. 
 
 " Why, Hippolyte, what is the matter with you ? " said his 
 friend, Francois Souched, a young sculptor, who had just gain- 
 ed the grand prize, and was on the wing for Italy. 
 
 " I am most unhappy," said Hippolyte gravely. 
 
 " It can only be a love-affair that can cause you any trouble. 
 As for money, fame, and social esteem you have them all." 
 
 Thereupon the confidences gradually commenced, and the 
 artist confessed his passion. As soon as he began to talk nbout
 
 THE PURSE. 179 
 
 the Rue de Suresnes, and of a young woman who lived upon a 
 fourth storey, Souchet gaily exclaimed, 
 
 " Stop one moment ; you are speaking of a little girl whom 
 I go to the church of the Assumption every morning to see, 
 and to whom I am making advances. Why, my dear fellow, 
 we all know her. Her mother is a baroness. Do you believe 
 in baronesses who live upon fourth storeys? Brrr Why 
 you are a man of the golden age. We see the old mother 
 here, in this walk, every day ; why she has a face and a way 
 of carrying herself that betray everything. What, haven't you 
 discovered what she is, from the way in which she carries her 
 bag?" 
 
 The two friends walked together for a long time, and several 
 young men, who knew Souchet or Schinner, joined them. The 
 sculptor, who attached no great importance to his friend's 
 adventure, related it to the rest. 
 
 "Our friend also," said he, "has seen the little girl." 
 
 Then there followed observations, laughter, harmless jokes, 
 full of the gaiety habitual to artists, which inflicted terrible 
 agonies upon Hippolyte. A certain ingrained modesty ren- 
 dered him ill at ease when he saw his heart's secret thus 
 lightly treated, his passion torn to rags and tatters, and an un- 
 known girl, whose life appeared so modest, subjected to judg- 
 ments, true or false, pronounced with so much indifference. 
 
 " But, my dear friend," said Souchett, " have you seen the 
 baroness's shawl?" 
 
 " Have you followed the little girl when she trots to the 
 Assumption in the morning?" asked Joseph Bridau, a young 
 tyro from the studio of Gros. 
 
 " Yes, the mother possesses, among other virtues, a certain 
 grey dress, which I regard as typical," said Bixiou, the carica- 
 turist. 
 
 " Listen to me, Hippolyte," pursued the sculptor, " come 
 here about four o'clock and analyze the walk of the mother 
 and daughter a little. If, after that, you retain any doubts
 
 180 BALZAC. 
 
 why, we shall never make anything of you ; you will be capa 
 ble of marrying the daughter of your porteress." 
 
 Torn by the most conflicting feelings, the painter quitted his 
 friends. It seemed to him that Adelaide and her mother 
 must be above such accusations, and he felt remorse in the 
 depths of his heart for having had any doubts about the purity 
 of this young girl, who was so beautiful and simple. lie went 
 to his studio, passed the door of the rooms where Adelaide 
 was, and felt in his heart a pang such as no man can fail to 
 understand. He loved Mademoiselle de Rouville so passion- 
 ately, that in spite of the stolen purse he adored her still. His 
 love was that of the Chevalier des Grieux, admiring and 
 purifying his mistress even when she was in the van that was 
 carrying the abandoned women to jail. " Why should not my 
 love make her the purest of women ? Why leave her to vice 
 and evil without extending to her a friendly hand ?" Such a 
 mission pleased him. Love turns everything to its own 
 account. Nothing is so seductive to a young man as to play 
 the part of good genius to a woman. 
 
 There is a vague romance about such an enterprise which 
 suits exalted minds. Is it not the most uniimited devotion in 
 its highest and most graceful form ? Is there not a certain 
 grandeur in the thought that one loves so well as to love even 
 under circumstances which kill the love of others ? Hippolyte 
 sat down in his studio and looked at his picture without doing 
 anything to it. He saw the figures in it only through the 
 tears which stood in his eyes; then with his brush still in his 
 hand, he went up to the picture as if to tone down one of its 
 tints, but did not touch it. Night came and found him still in 
 the same attitude. 
 
 Roused from his reverie by the increasing darkness, he went 
 down stairs, met the old admiral on the staircase, darted one 
 sombre glance at him, and rushed away. It had been his 
 intention to pay his neighbors a visit, but the sight of Ade- 
 
 ide's protector froze his heart and banished his resolution.
 
 THE PURSE. 181 
 
 He asked himself, for the hundredth time, what motive could 
 induce the succersful old rot/e, who had an income of 80,000 
 francs, to visit this fourth floor lodging, where he lost about 
 forty francs every evening. He believed he knew the motive. 
 The next day and the succeeding days, Hippolyte plunged, 
 into work, in the endeavor to combat his passion by the 
 seductive strength of ideas and the fire of conception. Hei 
 half succeeded. Study comforted him, but it could not drown 
 the recollection of so many happy hours passed by the side 
 of Adelaide. One evening, on leaving his studio, he saw the 
 door of the ladies' lodging half open. Some one was standing 
 in the embrasure of the window. The arrangement of the 
 door and staircase was such that the painter could not pass 
 without seeing Adelaide. He bowed to her distantly, and cast 
 at her a glance of complete indifference; but judging of the 
 young girl's sufferings by his own, he felt an internal tremor 
 as he thought of the bitterness which that look and that cold 
 greeting might infuse into a loving heart. To crown the sweet- 
 est festivals that ever made the happiness of two pure hearts, 
 with eight days of neglect and with the deepest and most 
 thorough scorn was not that a hideous denouement ! Perhaps 
 the purse had been recovered; perhaps every evening Adelaide 
 had been looking for her friend's arrival. This very natural 
 and simple thought filled the lover with fresh remorse. He 
 asked himself whether the proofs of attachment which the 
 young girl had afforded him, and their enchanting little talks, 
 instinct with the love which had bewitched him, did not at 
 least demand that he should make some inquiry and give a 
 chance for some justification. Ashamed of having resisted for 
 a whole week the wishes of his heart, and looking on himself 
 as almost a criminal for having combatted them, he went that 
 very evening to Madame Rouville's. At sight of the young 
 girl's pale thin face, all his suspicions and evil thoughts took 
 flight
 
 182 BALZAC. 
 
 " Good God, what is the matter with you ? '' he asked, after 
 having paid his respects to the baroness. 
 
 Adelaide made no reply, but looked at him with a melan- 
 choly, wan, dejected look, which pained him. 
 
 " You have doubtless been very hard at work," said the old 
 lady ; " you are changed. We are the cause of your seclusion. 
 That portrait has thrown you back with some pictures of im- 
 portance to your reputation." 
 
 Hippolyte was glad to find so good an excuse for his want 
 of attention. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I have been very busy, but I have suf- 
 fered" 
 
 At these words Adelaide raised her head and looked at her 
 lover. Her anxious eyes had no reproach in them. 
 
 " You must have supposed, then, that we were very indiffer- 
 ent as to your good or evil fortune," said the old lady. 
 
 " I was wrong," he continued. " But nevertheless, there 
 are troubles which we cannot confide to any one, not even 
 to friends of older standing than I have the honor to possess 
 in you." 
 
 " The sincerity and strength of friendship cannot be gauged 
 by the duration of time. I have seen very old friends bestow 
 not a tear upon each other's misfortunes," said the baroness 
 nodding her head. 
 
 " But what is the matter with you ?" said the young man, 
 addressing himself to Adelaide. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," replied the baroness, " Adelaide has sat up 
 for several nights in order to finish a bit of feminine handi- 
 craft, and would not listen to me when I told her that a day 
 sooner or later was of little consequence . . . ." 
 
 Hippolyte did not listen any further. As he looked at those 
 two calm and noble faces, he blushed at his suspicions, and 
 attributed the loss of his purse to some unknown chance. 
 That evening was delightful to him and perhaps also to her.
 
 THE PURSE. 183 
 
 There are certain secrets which young hearts understand so 
 well! 
 
 Adelaide guessed what was passing in Hippolyte's mind. 
 
 Without wishing to avow his fault, the artist recognized it; 
 he returned to his mistress more loving, more affectionate 
 than before, and thus endeavored to purchase an unspoken 
 pardon. 
 
 Adelaide now experienced joy so perfect and so sweet that 
 it did not seem too dearly bought by all the misfortune which 
 had so cruelly disturbed her mind. But tfiis concord of their 
 hearts, this magic unison, was nevertheless disturbed by a few 
 words from the Baroness de Rouville. 
 
 "Are we going to have our little card-party?" said she, 
 " for my old Kergarouet is relentless." 
 
 This phrase reawakened all the young painter's fears. He 
 colored as he looked at Adelaide's mother, but he saw nothing 
 in her features save an expression of frank good-nature ; there 
 was no arriere-pensee to destroy its charm, no trace of bad 
 faith in its intelligence ; the mischief that played in it was a 
 gentle mischief, there was not a trace of remorse to disturb its 
 calm. 
 
 He proceeded to take his seat at the table. Adelaide re- 
 solved to share his luck, pretending that he did not understand 
 piquet, and required a partner. While the game went on 
 Madame de Rouville and her daughter exchanged signs of 
 intelligence which caused Hippolyte all the more uneasiness in 
 that he was winning ; but at the end of the match a final stroke 
 made the lovers debtors to the baroness. The artist had no 
 sooner removed his hands from the table in order to search in 
 his pocket for some silver, than he saw before him a purse 
 which Adelaide had slipped there unperceived. The poor girl 
 was holding the old purse in her hand, and for the sake of 
 keeping her countenance, was looking in it for some money to 
 pay her mother with. All the blood in Hippolyte's body rushed
 
 184 BALZAC. 
 
 to his heart so swiftly that he almost fainted. The new purse 
 which had been substituted for the old one, and contained his 
 fifteen louis was worked with gold beads. Rings, tassels, and 
 all bore witness to the good taste of Adelaide, who had doubt- 
 lessly exhausted her pocket-money in buying the ornaments 
 which decked her pretty piece of work. It was impossible to 
 express with greater subtlety the feeling that the gift of the 
 portrait could be acknowledged only by some token of regard. 
 When Hippolyte, overwhelmed with joy, turned his eyes towards 
 Adelaide and the baroness, he saw them trembling with delight, 
 and rejoicing in their amiable fraud. He considered himself 
 petty, mean, and stupid ; he could have wished to punish him- 
 self, to tear his heart out. Tears rushed to his eyes ; impelled 
 by some irresistable force, he rose, he took Adelaide in his 
 arms, strained her to his heart, and snatched a kiss from her : 
 then, with all an artist's straightforwardness, he turned to 
 the baroness, and exclaimed, " I claim her from you for my 
 wife." 
 
 Adelaide looked at the painter half :indignantly, and Madame 
 de Rouville, somewhat astonished, was seeking for a reply, 
 when the scene was interrupted by the ringing of the bell. The 
 old vice-admiral appeared, followed by his shadow and Madame 
 Schinner. Having guessed the origin of the grief which her 
 son vainly attempted to conceal from her, Hippolyte's mother 
 had gathered, from some of her friends, certain information 
 about Adelaide. Justly alarmed at the calumnies which, 
 unknown to the Comte de Kergarouet, attached to the young- 
 lady, Madame Schinner learned the count's name from the 
 porteress, and went and told him what she had heard. He, in 
 his wrath, would have liked " to cut the scoundrels' ears off," 
 as he phrased it. Fired by his indignation, the admiral had 
 told Madame Schinner the secret of his voluntary losses at the 
 card-table the pride of the baroness leaving him no other 
 than his ingenious method of helping her. 
 
 When Madame Schinner had paid her respects to the
 
 THE PURSE. 
 
 185 
 
 baroness, the latter, looking at the Comte de Kergarouet, the 
 Chevalier du Halga (the former friend of the late Comlesse de 
 Kargarouet), Htppolyte, and Adelaide, said with that grace 
 which has its source in a good heart, " It seems that we are 
 quite a family party this evening."
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 
 
 (LE BAL DE SCEAUX.) 
 
 To HENRI DE BALZAC. 
 
 His BROTHER, HONORE. 
 
 The Count de Fontaine, the head of one of the most ancient 
 families of Le Poitou, had devoted himself to the cause of the 
 Bourbons with intelligence and courage during the war which 
 the inhabitants of La Vendee carried on against the Republic. 
 After having escaped all the dangers which threatened the 
 royalist leaders during that stormy period of contemporary 
 history, he used jokingly to say, " I am one of those who were 
 killed upon the steps of the throne." 
 
 This witticism was not without some foundation in fact, in 
 the case of a man who had been left for dead on the bloody 
 field of Quatre-Chemins. 
 
 Although the faithful Vendean had been ruined by the con- 
 fiscations which took place, he continually refused the lucrative 
 posts offered to him by the Emperor Napoleon. Staunch in 
 his aristocratic convictions, he had blindly followed the maxims 
 of his creed in the choice of a mate. In spite of the seduc- 
 tions to which he was exposed by a wealthy paivenu of the 
 revolution, who set a high value on an alliance with him, the 
 Count de Fontaine married a De Kergaroiit, a young lady 
 without fortune, but belonging to one of the best families in* 
 Brittany. When overtaken by the revolution, Monsieur de 
 Fontaine had a numerous family. Although it did not accord 
 with the ideas of this generous nobleman to solicit favors, he 
 yielded to his wife's desires, left his estate, (the rents of which * 
 were hardly sufficient to supply the wants of his children) and 
 came to Paris. Grieved at the avidity with which his ancient
 
 188 BALZAC 
 
 comrades hunted after the posts and dignities at the disposal 
 of the constitutional government, he was on the point of return 
 ing to his estate, when he received an official communication 
 from a well-known minister, announcing his nomination to the 
 grade of camp-marshal, in pursuance of the ordinance which 
 gave permission to the officers of the catholic armies to reckon 
 the first twenty years of the reign of Louis XVIII. as years of 
 service. Some days later the Vendean also received, without 
 any solicitation on his part, and officially, the cross of the order 
 of the Legion of Honor and the cross of St. Louis. 
 
 Shaken in his resolution by these successive marks of favor, 
 for which he considered himself indebted to the memory of 
 his sovereign, he no longer confined himself to conducting his 
 family, as he had been wont to do, Sunday after Sunday, to 
 the Salle des Mare'chaux at the Tuileries, to cry Vive le Roi as 
 the princes went to chapel ; he requested the favor of a private 
 audience. This audience, which was very readily obtained, 
 had nothing private about it whatever. The royal reception- 
 room was crammed with old servitors, whose powdered heads, 
 seen from a certain elevation, locked like a carpet of snow. 
 There the nobleman renewed his acquaintance with some of 
 his old companions, who received him somewhat coldly ; but 
 the princes were adorable, to use the enthusiastic expression 
 which escaped him when the most gracious of his masters, who, 
 the count imagined, knew him only by name, came up and 
 shook him by the hand, calling him the purest of the Ven- 
 deans. 
 
 In spite of this ovation, however, it did not occur to any of 
 these august personages to ask him for an account of his losses, 
 or of the money which he had so generously poured into the 
 coffers of the catholic army. He discovered, somewhat late, 
 that he had fought at his own expense. Towards the conclu- 
 sion of the evening, he thought he might venture to make a 
 witty allusion to the condition of his finances, which was very 
 similar to that of many another nobleman. His Majesty began
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 189 
 
 to laugh very heartily, for he took a pleasure in any well-turned 
 phrase, but he nevertheless replied by one of those royal 
 pleasantries whose mildness is more formidable than an angry 
 reprimand. One of the most intimate confidants of the king 
 very soon drew near to the calculating Vendean, and in a well- 
 turned and polished phrase, gave him to understand, that it 
 was premature for him to come to a reckoning with his masters ; 
 that accounts of much older standing were under considera- 
 tion, accounts which would doubtless furnish matter for a 
 history of the revolution. The count beat a prudent retreat 
 from the venerable group, which described a respectful semi- 
 circle in front of the august family ; then, after having, not 
 without some difficulty, disengaged his sword from the attenu- 
 ated shanks among which it was entangled, he crossed the 
 court of the Tuileries on foot and regained the hackney-coach 
 which he had left upon the quay. Endowed with that stubborn 
 spirit which characterizes the old nobility, who still retain a 
 recollection of the League and the Barricades, he complained 
 to himself in the hackney-coach loudly, and in a manner that 
 might have compromised him, about the change that had taken 
 place at court. " Formerly," said he to himself, " every one 
 used to speak freely about his little private affairs to the king ; 
 noblemen did not hesitate to ask him for favors and for money, 
 and now to-day there is a difficulty in obtaining repayment of 
 sums disbursed in the king's service. Zounds ! the cross of 
 St. Louis and the rank of camp-marshal are not worth the 
 three hundred thousand francs which I put down in good hard 
 cash in the royal service. I shall speak to the king to his face 
 in his own apartment." 
 
 The scene that had taken place cooled the zeal of M. de 
 Fontaine all the more, in that his applications for an audience 
 always remained unanswered. He saw, moreover, the upstarts 
 of the empire obtaining some of those posts which under the 
 ancient monarchy had been set apart for the best families. 
 
 " All is lost," said he one morning. " It is clear that the
 
 190 BALZAC. 
 
 king was never anything but a revolutionist. If it were not 
 for the king's brother, who does not throw over old customs, 
 and consoles his faithful servants, I know not into what hands 
 the sceptre of France might pass, if this regime should continue. 
 Their damned constitutional system is the worst of all forms 
 of government, and will never suit France. Louis XVIII. and 
 M. Beugnot spoiled everything at Saint Ouen." 
 
 The count abandoned himself to despair and prepared to 
 return to his estate, with the noble determination to waive all 
 claim to indemnity. Just at that time the events of March 20, 
 1815, showed that a fresh storm was brewing, which threatened 
 to engulf the legitimate sovereign and his defenders. Monsieur 
 de Fontaine acted like those generous people who will not send 
 away a servant while it rains. He mortgaged his property to 
 follow the routed monarchy, without knowing whether this 
 partaking in the emigiation would be more propitious to him 
 than his former self-sacrifice. But since he had noticed that 
 the companions of the sovereign's exile were held in more favor 
 than the brave men who had formerly protested against the 
 establishment of the Republic with arms in their hands, it may 
 be that M. de Fontaine hoped to find his sojourn in a foreign 
 land more profitable than active and dangerous service at 
 home, The calculations of the courtier were not like those 
 idle enterprises which on paper promise superb results, and 
 ruin those who attempt the execution of them. He therefore 
 was, in the witty language of the most brilliant and most skilful 
 of our diplomatists, one of the five hundred faithful servants 
 who shaied the exile of the Court at Ghent, and one of the fifty 
 thousand who returned from it During this short absence o 
 royalty, M. de Fontaine had the good fortune to be employed 
 by Louis XVIII., and found more than one opportunity for 
 affording the king proofs of great political integrity and sincere 
 attachment. One evening when the monarch had nothing 
 better to do, he called to mind the bon-mot which Monsieur de 
 Fontaine had indulged in at the Tuileries. The old Vendean
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 191 
 
 did not permit so favorable an opportunity to remain unim- 
 proved, and told his story with so much wit that the king, 
 whose memory was most tenacious, called it to mind as 
 occasion served. The august man of letters observed the 
 happy turn to certain memoranda, the editing which had been 
 entrusted to the discreet nobleman. This little merit caused 
 Monsieur de Fontaine to be engraved in the king's memory as 
 one of the most loyal servants of the crown. On the second 
 return of the Bourbons, the count was one of the envoys extra- 
 ordinary who were commissioned to travel through the depart- 
 ments, and summarily judge the fomentors of the rebellion; 
 but he exercised his terrible powers with moderation. As soon 
 as this temporary jurisdiction had come to an end, the grand 
 provost took his seat among the Councillors of State, was 
 elected deputy, spoke little, listened a great ^deal, and con- 
 siderably altered his political views. Certain circumstances, 
 of which biography knows nothing, made him so intimate with 
 the king, that on one day, on seeing him come in, the crafty 
 monarch called out to him, " Friend Fontaine, I shall not 
 take it into my head to make you a director-general or a 
 minister. Both you and I, if we were government clerks, 
 should lose our places on account of our opinions." 
 
 " It may be said in favor of representative government, that 
 it saves us the trouble formerly imposed on us of dismissing in 
 person our secretaries of state. Our council is a regular hotel 
 to which public opinion very often sends strange travellers ; but 
 nevertheless we shall always be able to find a place for our 
 faithful servants." This ironical exordium was followed by an 
 ordinance giving to. M. de Fontaine an office attached to the 
 crown demesne extraordinary. In consequence of the intelli- 
 gent attention with which he listened to the sarcasms of his 
 royal friend, his name was found on his Majesty's lips when- 
 ever a commission was to be appointed the members of which 
 were to be well paid. He had the good sense to say nothing 
 about the favor with which the king regarded him, and man-
 
 192 ' BALZAC, 
 
 aged to cultivate it by the piquant manner in which, during the 
 course of one of those familiar chats in which Louis XVIII. 
 took as much delight as in well-turned notes, he related the 
 political anecdotes and, if the expression may be allowed to 
 pass, the cancans, diplomatic or parliamentary, which, at that 
 time, were so rife. It is well known that the details of his 
 govcrnmentability, a word adopted by the august jeerer, afforded 
 him infinite amusement. Thanks to the good sense, the intel- 
 ligence, and the skill of Monsieur de Fontaine, every member 
 of his numerous family, no matter how young, ended as the 
 count jocularly expressed it to his master, by settling himself 
 on the leaves of the budget like a silk-worm. Thus the eldest 
 son, through the king's favor, obtained an eminent position 
 among the permanent judges ; the second, who was a simple 
 captain before the Restoration, obtained a company imme- 
 diately after his return from Ghent. Then, under cover of the 
 excitement of the year 1815, during which regulations were set 
 at nought, he was appointed to the Royal Guard, then again to 
 the Body Guard, and ultimately found himself, after the affair 
 of the Trocadero, a lieutenant-general with a command in the 
 Guard. The youngest son, who was originally appointed sub. 
 prefect, very shortly became Master of the Requests and dir- 
 ector of a municipal administration of the city of Paris, a post 
 in which he was not exposed to the tempests which affected 
 the legislature. These quiet favors, which were as secret as 
 those conferred upon the count himself, were showered down 
 unperceived. Although the father and his three sons had, each 
 of them enough sinecures to produce a revenue almost as con- 
 siderable as that of a director-general, their political emolu- 
 ments excited the envy of no one. In these early days of the 
 constitutional system, few persons had accurate notions about 
 the peaceful regions of the budget, in which skillful favorites 
 managed to find equivalents for the Abbeys which had been 
 swept away. Monsieur de Fontaine, who used formerly to 
 boast that he had not read the Charte, and displayed so much
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 193 
 
 indignation at the greed of the courtiers, hastened to prove to 
 his august master that he understood as well as that master, 
 the spirit and the resources of representative government. 
 However, notwithstanding the stability of the careers in which 
 his three sons had been launched, and the pecuniary advan- 
 tages arising from the simultaneous tenure of four offices, M. 
 de Fontaine's family was too numerous to allow him to re-es- 
 tablish his fortune with promptitude and ease. His three sons 
 were rich in prospects, in favor, and in ability ; but he had 
 three daughters, and he was afraid of wearying the king's 
 bounty. He determined only to mention one of these virgins, 
 eager to kindle the hymeneal torch. The king had too much 
 good taste to leave his work half done ; and the marriage of 
 the eldest daughter with a receiver-general, De Baudry, was 
 brought about by one of those royal phrases which cost nothing 
 . nd are worth millions. One evening when the monarch was 
 a little sulky, he learned, with a smile, of the existence of 
 another Demoiselle de Fontaine. Her he matched with a 
 youi'g magistrate, of middle-class origin, it is true, but rich and 
 very clever. The king also made him a baron. When during 
 the next year the Vendean mentioned the name of Mademoi- 
 selle Emilie de Fontaine, the king replied in his squeaky little 
 voice, 
 
 " Amicus Plato sed magis arnica natio." 
 
 Then some days afterwards he treated his Friend Fontaim 
 to a very mild quatrain, which he called an epigram, wherein 
 he joked M. de Fontaine about his three daughters so skilfully 
 brought forward in the form of a Trinity. If we are to listen 
 to the chronicle, it would seem that the monarch had sought 
 the point of his joke in the unity of the three divine persons. 
 
 " If the king would condescend to convert his epigram into 
 an epithalam ?" said the count, endeavoring to turn the freak 
 to his own advantage. 
 
 " If I can see the rhyme, I don't see the reason of what you 
 
 M
 
 194 BALZAC. 
 
 say," answered the king brusquely ; for he did not relish the 
 joke about his poetry, lenient as it was. 
 
 From that day forward his intercourse with M. de Fontaine 
 was not so agreeable as it had been. Kings like contradiction 
 better than is generally supposed. Like the youngest ohild of 
 almost every family, Emilie de Fontaine was a Benjamin whom 
 everybody spoiled. The king's coldness, therefore, caused the 
 count all the more concern because there never was a marriage 
 more difficult to bring about than that of this petted daughter. 
 In order to understand all these difficulties we must enter the 
 precincts of the splendid mansion in which the commissioner 
 was lodged at the expense of the Civil List. Emilie had 
 passed her childhood on the De Fontaine estate, in the enjoy- 
 ment of that abundance which suffices to render youth happy 
 There her slightest wishes were law to her sister and brothers, 
 to her mother and father. All her relatives doated on her. 
 She reached years of discretion at the very moment when for- 
 tune was showering its favors upon her family, so that the 
 enchantment of her existence continued. The luxury of Paris 
 seemed to her quite as natural as that provincial affluence 
 which had conferred enjoyment on her childhood. Just is 
 her will had never been thwarted during her infancy, when she 
 wanted to follow her joyous inspirations, so she still found 
 others give way to her, when at the age of fourteen she was 
 launched into the whirlpool of society. Having been thus 
 gradually introduced to the pleasures which wealth affords, she 
 found the elegant toilette, the gilded saloon, the well-appointed 
 carriage, as necessary to her as the compliments, more or less 
 sincere, of the flatterer, and the fetes and frivolities of court 
 life. Like most spoiled children, she tyranized over those who 
 loved her, and kept her seductions for the indifferent. Her 
 defects grew with her growth, and the time soon came when 
 her parents were to reap the fruits of her fatal education. At 
 the age of nineteen Emilie de Fontaine had not yet made 
 choice among the many young men whom the policy of M. de
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 11)5 
 
 Fontaine brought to his entertainments. Although she was 
 so young, she was as completely self-composed as a woman can 
 be. Her loveliness was so remarkable, that tor her to appear 
 in a drawing room was to reign there : but, like kings, she had 
 no friends, for she found herself in all places the object of a 
 complaisance before which, perhaps, even a better disposition 
 than hers would have given way. No man, not even an old 
 one, had courage enough to contradict the opinions of a young 
 girl, one look from whom was sufficient to rekindle passion in 
 the coldest heart. Having been educated with a care that had 
 not been bestowed upon her sisters, she could paint fairly, she 
 spoke Italian and English, she played upon the piano admir- 
 ably ; and then her voice, trained by the best masters, had a 
 certain timbre which made her singing irresistibly seductive. 
 She was so quick, and so well read in every branch of litera- 
 ture, that she might well, in the words of Mascarille, induce 
 one to suppose that people of quality know everything when 
 they come into the world. She could readily talk about the 
 Italian and the Flemish school of painting, the middle ages 
 and the renaissance ; rapidly pronounce judgment upon an 
 ancient or a modern book, and bring to light with cruel grace, 
 the shortcomings of a work. The simplest of her phrases was 
 received by the idolatrous crowd like a fetfa of the sultan by 
 the Turks. Thus, while she dazzled superficial people, her 
 natural tact enabled her to discover those who were not super- 
 ficial, and for them she was so full of coquetry, that aided by 
 this seductive charra, she managed to escape their criticism. 
 
 Beneath this alluring varnish lay a reckless heart, a convic- 
 tion (shared by many young girls) that no one occupied a suf- 
 ficiently lofty .sphere, to be able to comprehend her mental 
 superiority, and a pride based as much upon her birth as on 
 her beauty. Pending the absence of that potent passion which 
 sooner or later seizes on the heart of woman, she found scope 
 for lier youthful ardor in an extravagant love for social distinc- 
 tions, and she exhibited the most profound contempt for
 
 196 BALZAC. 
 
 roturiers. Very impertinent in her manner to the new nobility, 
 she devoted all her exertions to ensuring her parents' equality 
 among the most illustrious families of the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 These views had not escaped the observant eye of Monsieur 
 de Fontaine, who had more than once since the marriage of 
 ' his eldest daughter groaned over the sarcasms and witticisms 
 of Fjinilie. Consistent people will doubtless be surprised to 
 see the old Vendean conferring his eldest daughter on a 
 receiver general, who certainly was the owner of sundry old 
 seigniorial domains, but whose name was not preceded by 
 that particle which distinguished so many of the defenders of 
 the monarchy; while the second daughter had been married 
 to a judge too recently baroirified, to make the people forget 
 the fact that his father had sold firewood. This noteworthy 
 alteration in the ideas of a nobleman at the moment when he 
 was attaining his sixtieth year, an epoch at which men rarely 
 change their convictions, was not due merely to his lamentable 
 sojourn in the modem Babylon, where in the long-run all pro- 
 vincials lose their angularities ; the new political conscience of 
 Monsieur de Fontaine was rather the result of the councils 
 and friendship of the king. That royal philosopher had taken 
 a pleasure in converting the Vendean to the ideas demanded 
 by the progress of the nineteenth century, and the renovation 
 of the monarchy. Louis XVIII. wanted to fuse parties, just 
 as Napoleon had fused both men and things. The legitimate 
 monarch, who was perhaps as intelligent as his rival, acted in 
 a different direction. The last of the Bourbons was as anxious 
 to satisfy the people and the imperialists, as the first of the 
 Napoleons was to surround himself with the leaders of the 
 aristocracy, and to endow the church. As the confidant of the 
 monarch's thoughts, the councillor of state had gradually be- 
 come one of the most influential and wisest chiefs of that moder- 
 ate party which, in the name of the national interests, ardently 
 desired the fusion of opinions. He preached the costly princi- 
 ples of constitutional government, and backed with all his might
 
 THE BALL AT 8CEAUX. 197 
 
 the play of that political see-saw, which enabled his master in the 
 midst of political excitement to govern France. Perhaps M. de 
 Fontaine hoped to gain a peerage through one of those gusts of 
 wind which overtook the legislature, and whose strange results 
 used in those days to surprise the oldest politicians. One 01 
 his most stubborn principles was his non-recognition oi any 
 nobility in France, except the peers, the only class whose 
 families had any privileges. 
 
 "A nobility without privileges," he would say, "is a handle 
 without a .ool." Being as far removed from the party of La- 
 fayette, as from that of La Bourdonnaye, he entered with 
 ardor upon that general reconciliation out of which was to 
 arise a new era and a brilliant destiny for France. He sought 
 to convince the families who frequented his reception-rooms, 
 and among whom he visited, that the chances offered by the 
 army and the civil service would thenceforward be but small. He 
 urged mothers to place their sons in independent professions 
 and industrial pursuits, giving them to understand that mili- 
 tary offices and the higher grades in the government departments 
 would ere long be reserved, most constitutionally of course, for 
 the younger sons of peers. 
 
 In his view, the people had obtained their full share of gov- 
 ernment appointments through their elective Assembly, and 
 the judicial and financial posts, which he said would always 
 be, as they had hitherto been, the appanage of the chiefs of 
 the people. 
 
 These new ideas of the head of the De Fontaine family, 
 and the prudent marriages which, in the case of his two elder 
 daughters, had resulted from the change, had met with strong 
 opposition at the domestic hearth. The Countess de Fontaine 
 remained faithful to the old beliefs which a woman who was 
 connected through her mother with the Rohans, could not 
 recant. But though she had for a time resisted the fortune 
 and happiness of her two elder daughters, she yielded to those 
 private considerations which husband and wife confide to each
 
 198 BALZAC. 
 
 other at night when their heads are resting on the same pillow. 
 Monsieur de Fontaine coolly demonstrated to his wife by the 
 most accurate calculations, that their residence in Paris, the 
 necessity of giving- entertainments, the splendor of his estab- 
 lishment a set-off against the hardships which they had so 
 bravely shared in the- depths of La Vende'e together with the 
 expenses incurred on behalf of their sons, exhausted almost 
 the whole of their revenues, and that therefore it behoved 
 them to embrace as n heaven-sent favor the opportunity which 
 offered itself of getting their daughters so advantageously 
 settled. Would they not pooner or later enjoy an income oi" 
 60,000, 80,000 or 100,000 francs? Such advantageous matches 
 were not to be met will; eveiy day for portionless girls. And 
 then, it was high rime for them to think of saving, in ordei to 
 increase the De Fontaine estate, and reconstruct the ancient 
 territorial fortune of the family. The countess yielded, as any 
 mother in her position would (though perhaps with better 
 grace; have yie.ded to arguments so persuasive : but she 
 declared that at least her youngest daughter 6milie should find 
 a husband, calculated to gratify the pride which she had un- 
 fortunately helped to develope in her youthful breast. 
 
 Thus, those events which should have shod joy over this 
 family, introduced into it a slight leaven of discord The 
 receiver-general and the young judge were exposed to a cere- 
 monious frigidity, set up by the countess and her daughter 
 6milie. But their etiquette furnished them yet wider scope 
 for the exercise of their domestic tyranny. The lieutenant- 
 general married Mademoiselle Mongenod, the daughter of a 
 wealthy banker; the president very wisely married a young 
 lady, whose father had amassed, as a salt merchant, a fortune 
 of two or three millions. Lastly, the third brother exhibited 
 his fidelity to his plebian doctrines, by taking to wife Made- 
 moiselle Grostete, the only daughter of the receiver-general of 
 Bourg^-. But the three sisters-in-law and the two brothers-in- 
 law derived so much pleasure and personal advantage from
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 199 
 
 remaining in the lofty circles of political power, and the society 
 of the Faubourg St. Germain, that they all agreed to form a 
 little court around the haughty F^milie. This pact between 
 interest and pride, however, was not so well cemented, but 
 that the young sovereign occasionally provoked a revolution in 
 her miniature state. Scenes, not indeed transgressing the 
 limits of good taste, tended to keep up among all the members 
 of that powerful family an ironical mood, which, without 
 interrupting the tone of friendship assumed in public, did 
 sometimes degenerate at home into feelings decidedly unchari- 
 table. Thus, the wife of the lieutenant-general, now a baroness, 
 considered herself quite as noble as a Kergarouet, and main- 
 tained that a good four thousand a year gave her the right to 
 be as impertinent as her sister-in-law, milie, to whom she 
 would sometimes express an ironical hope that she would make a 
 good match, telling her that the daughter of such and such a 
 peer had just married plain Mr. So and-so. The wife of the 
 Vicomte de Fontaine took pleasure in eclipsing 6milie by the 
 luxurious elegance of her dress, furniture, and carriages. The 
 ironical manner in which the sisters-in-law and the two 
 brothers-in-law sometimes received the pretensions set up by 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, threw her into fits of anger, which 
 the production of a shower of epigrams could scarcely calm. 
 When the chief of the family experienced a certain abatement 
 in the covert and precarious friendship of the monarch, it 
 caused him all the more apprehension because, goaded by the 
 ironical challenges of her sisters-in-law, F^milie had at that 
 crisis fixed her hopes higher than ever. 
 
 While affairs were in this condition, and the little family 
 strife was at its worst, the king, into whose good graces M. de 
 Fontaine thought himself on the point of being restored, was 
 attacked by the illness which was destined to carry him off. 
 The wary politician, who knew so well how to steer his bark 
 amid the tempest, very shortly died. 
 
 Sure of the favor of the succeeding monarch the Count de
 
 200 BALZAC. 
 
 Fontaine exerted himself to the utmost to gather round his 
 youngest daughter the pick of marriageable young men. 
 Those who have tried the solution of that difficult problem - 
 the establishment of a proud and capricious girl, will perhaps 
 understand the trouble which the poor Vendean took. If he 
 could accomplish the task to the satisfaction of his pet daugh- 
 ter, he would then have achieved a fitting termination of the 
 career which he had been pursuing at Paris for the last ten 
 years. 
 
 ^n -respect of the manner in which his family had fastened 
 itself upon the revenues of the various departments of the 
 government it might be compared to the house of Austria, 
 which threatened through its alliances to invade the whole uf 
 Europe. Accordingly, the old Vendean went on courageously 
 presenting aspirant after aspirant, so dear to him was the 
 happiness of his daughter. But nothing could be more 
 comical than the way in which the impertinent girl pronounced 
 sentence upon, and appraised the merits of her admirers. One 
 would have thought that, like one of the princesses whom we read 
 of in the Arabian Nights, she was rich and handsome enough to 
 have the right of selection from among all the princes in the 
 world. To every suitor she raised an absurd objection follov*'- 
 ed by an objection yet more absurd. The legs of one were 
 too lanky; another was knock-kneed; this one was near- 
 sighted; that one was named Durand; a third v/as lame, while 
 nearly all were too fat. Livelier, gayer, more charming than 
 ever, after having rejected two or three applicants, she plunged 
 into the gaieties and balls of the season, scrutinizing with her 
 piercing eyes the celebrities of the day, and delighting in pro- 
 voking the offers which she invariably refused. Nature had 
 bestowed upon her in profusion the gifts essential to the part 
 of Celimene. Tall and exquisitely formed, Emilie de Fontaine 
 could be imposing or playful, as she pleased. Her neck, which 
 was rather long, enabled her to assume delightful attitudes of 
 scorn and of impertinence. She had formed a fertile repertory
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 201 
 
 of those airs de tete and those feminine gestures which give 
 such fatal or such favorable emphasis to a broken phrase or to 
 a smile. Beautiful black eyes, thick and well-arched eye- 
 brows, conferred upon her features an expression which 
 coquetry and the looking-glass taught her to heighten or to 
 moderate by the steadiness or the tenderness of her glance, by 
 the fixing or gentle flexure of the lips, by the coldness or ft 
 the graces of her smile. If 6milie wanted to win the heart of 
 any one, there was a certain melody in her pure voice ; but 
 she could also endow it with a sort of abrupt clearness when 
 she desired to paralyze the tongue of some prudent swain. 
 Her pale face and alabaster forehead resembled the limpid bosom 
 of a lake which now ripples in the breeze and now resumes its 
 glad serenity as the wind subsides. Several young men who had 
 suffered from her disdain, accused her of stage-play, but she 
 revenged herself by inspiring the calumniator with a desire 
 to win her favor and then subjecting him without mercy to all 
 the contempt which her coquetry could suggest. Among all 
 the fashionable girls of the day, none understood be or than 
 she did how to assume a supercilious air when accosted by a 
 man of talent, or how to display that insulting politeness which 
 makes inferiors of our equals, or how to deluge with imperti- 
 nence all who attempted to place themselves on a level with 
 herself. Wherever she appeared she seemed to be receiving 
 homage rather than compliments, and even in the presence of 
 a princess her bearing and her airs would have converted the 
 arm-chair in which she was seated into the throne of an 
 empress. 
 
 Monsieur de Fontaine discovered all too late how wrong was 
 the direction given to the education of his favorite daughter by 
 the affection of the entire family. The homage of the world 
 for which the young woman who receives it has afterwards to 
 pay full dearly had still further developed feniilie's pride and 
 augmented her self-confidence. The general deference had 
 fostered the growth of that egotism which is natural to spoiled
 
 202 BALZAC. 
 
 children who, like kings, make toys of all who approach them. 
 At this moment the grace of youth and the charms of her ac- 
 complishments cast a thick veil over her defects defects which 
 are all the more odious in a woman, because it is only through 
 love and self-sacrifice that she can hope to please. Since no- 
 thing escapes the eye of a good father, M. de Fontaine often 
 endeavored to expound to his daughter the principal pages of 
 the enigmatic book of life. Vain enterprise ! Again and again 
 he had had cause (o mourn over the capricious indocility and 
 the ironical prudence of his daughter ; so that he at last aban- 
 doned the difficult task of correcting a sinister disposition, and 
 confined himself to offering, from time to time, his gentle and 
 benevolent advice. But he had the mortification to see his 
 most affectionate words gliding from his daughter's heart, as if 
 it had been made of marble. The eyes of a father are so long 
 sealed '.hat it required some experience ere M. de Fontaine 
 perceived the condescension which his daughter mingled with 
 her rare caresses. She was like a little child which seems to 
 say to her mother, " Make haste and kiss me, and let me go 
 and play." In short, F^milie condescended to be affectionate to 
 her parents. But at times, in accordance with one of those 
 sudden whims which seem inexplicable in girls, she shut herself 
 up and would allow herself to be seen but rarely. She would 
 complain that she had to share the affections of her parents 
 with everybody ; and grew jealous of everyone, even of her 
 sisters and brothers. Then, after having been at great pains 
 to surround herself with a dessert, th^ flighty girl would blame 
 nature itself for her factitious solitude and self-inflicted sorrows. 
 Armed with her twenty years' experience, she accused fate, be- 
 cause in her ignorance of the fact that the principle of all hap- 
 piness lies in ourselves, she sought it in the externalities of 
 existence. She would have gone to the end of the world to 
 escape such marriages as her sisters had contracted, and yet 
 her heart was beset with frightful envy at seeing them well and 
 happily married. In fact she sometimes created in the mind
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 203 
 
 of her mother (who was equally with M. de Fontaine the victim 
 of her singularities) an impression that there was a grain of 
 madness in her composition. But this aberration was easily 
 explainable. Nothing is more common than this secret pride 
 nurtured in the hearts of young women of the upper classes 
 whom nature has endowed with great beauty. They are. almost 
 all persuaded that their mothers, having reached the age of 
 forty or fifty, can no longer enter into their feelings nor under- 
 stand their whims. They fancy that most mothers, being jeal- 
 ous of their daughters, want to dress them in their own fashion, 
 with the premeditated design of outshining them and robbing 
 them of the admiration which is their due. Hence secret tears 
 and mute rebellion against this fancied maternal despotism. 
 In the midst of these griefs, which though founded on an ima- 
 ginary basis, become real enough, such girls harbor the addi- 
 tional mania of composing a scheme of existence for themselves, 
 and casting a brilliant horoscope. Their magic consists in 
 taking dreams for realities. They secretly resolve in their 
 protracted meditations, to withhold their hands and hearts from 
 the man who does not possess certain advantages. They pro- 
 ducer an imaginary type, to which, come what may, the future 
 husband must conform. After some practical experience of 
 life, when they have indulged those serious reflections which 
 years bring in their train, the bright hues of their ideal image 
 fade away, under the influence of the world, with its prosaic 
 routine. Then, one fine day they wake up, and find themselves 
 m the full stream of existence, and are quite surprised at being 
 happy, without the nuptial poetry of their dreams. In accord- 
 ance with such poetry, Mademoiselle fimilie de Fontaine had, 
 in her fragile wisdom, laid down a programme to which the 
 successful aspirant to her hand must conform. Hence her 
 disdain and hence her sarcasms. 
 
 " He must be," thus she reasoned with herself, " not 
 merely young and of the highest birth, but a peer, or the eldest 
 son of a peer. I could noi endure to see my arms upon a car-
 
 204 BALZAC. 
 
 riage-door, not surrounded by the flowing folds of an azure 
 mantle, and not to share with princes the privilege of driving 
 through the grand avenue of the Champs FJyse'es, during the 
 Long-champs meetings. Moreover, my father maintains, that 
 the day is coming, when a peerage will be the highest dignity in 
 France. I should like my husband to be a soldier, reserving 
 to myself the right to call on him to retire ; and he must be 
 decorated, so that arms will be presented as we pass." 
 
 These uncommon distinctions would go for nothing if this 
 imaginary being were not extremely amiable, handsome, and 
 clever, and above all if he were not slim. Slimness, that cor- 
 poral grace, however transient it may be,, especially under a 
 representative government, was a sine qud, non. Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine had a certain ideal measure which served as a 
 model. The young man who did not at the first glance con- 
 form to the required condition, was not even favored with a 
 second look. 
 
 " Oh ! my God ! how fat that gentleman is ! " was with her 
 the expression of sovereign contempt. 
 
 According to her, people endowed with an honest corpulence, 
 were incapable of feeling ; they must be bad husbands, N and 
 altogether unfit for civilized society. Though plumpness was 
 looked upon as a beauty in eastern climes, it seemed to her a 
 misfortune for women ; in a man it was a crime. 
 
 These paradoxical opinions produced, thanks to the liveli- 
 ness with which they were enunciated, a certain amount of 
 amusement. 
 
 But, nevertheless, the Count de Fontaine felt that the pre- 
 tensions of his daughter, the absurdity of which would very 
 soon attract the attention of certain ladies, who were as clear- 
 sighted as they were malicious, would end by rendering those 
 pretensions fatally ridiculous. He was afraid lest the peculiar 
 notions of his daughter should degenerate in pronounced bad 
 taste. He was afraid that an unpitying world might be already 
 slily laughing at a person who remained so long upon the stage,
 
 THE EALL AT SCEAUX. 205 
 
 without any denouement to the piece which she was acting. 
 Several of the actors, annoyed at having been rejected, seemed 
 to be waiting for any slight disaster, which would enable them 
 to revenge themselves ; while the idle and the unconcerned 
 began to grow weary. Admiration is always exhausting to 
 human nature. The old Vendean knew, as well as any one, 
 that, difficult as is the art of selecting the right moment for 
 appearing on the stage of the world or of the court, for enter- 
 ing a drawing-room or a theatre, it is still more difficult to 
 leave them in the nick of time. And accordingly, during the 
 first winter that followed the accession of Charles X., he, in 
 conjunction with his three sons and his sons-in-law, redoubled 
 his efforts to attract to his receptions the most eligible men to 
 be found in Paris, and among the deputies of the departments. 
 The brilliance of his entertainments, the splendor of his dining- 
 room, and his dinners, redolent of truffles, rivalled those cele- 
 brated banquets whereby the ministers of the period secured 
 the votes of their parliamentary troops. 
 
 The worthy deputy was thereupon singled out, as one 
 of the most potent corruptors of legislative integrity in 
 that illustrious Chamber, which seemed to be dying of indi- 
 gestion. 
 
 It was a strange result of his endeavors to get his daughter 
 married, that he should preserve his popularity at court. Per- 
 haps he found it secretly advantageous to sell his truffles twice. 
 This accusation, which had its origin among certain Liberal 
 carpers, who compensated the dearth of their adherents in the 
 house by the abundance of their speeches, did not stick. The 
 conduct of the Poitou nobleman was, for the most part, so up- 
 right and honorable, that he altogether escaped those epigrams 
 which the malicious journals of the epoch hurled at the 300 
 voters of the centre, the ministers, the cooks, the directors- 
 general, the princes of the fork, and the official defenders, who 
 supported the Villele administration. At the conclusion of this 
 campaign, during which M. de Fontaine had several times
 
 206 BALZAC. 
 
 taken the whole of his troops into action, he thought that his 
 collection of admirers would not on this occasion be a mere 
 optical illusion for his daughter, and that it was high time for 
 her to come to a decision. 
 
 He derived a certain amount of internal satisfaction from the 
 due fulfilment of his duty as a father; and besides, after having 
 brought into play every resource, he hoped that among the 
 many hearts laid at the feet of the capricious limelie there 
 might be found at least one whom she might have favored. 
 
 Feeling that he could not repeat such an effort, and weary 
 of his daughter's conduct, he determined to have a consulta- 
 tion with her one morning towards the end of Lent, when the 
 sitting of the House was not of a nature imperatively to 
 demand his vote. While his valet was artistically designing 
 upon his yellow cranium the delta of powder which, in con- 
 junction with the pendant ailes de pigeon, formed his venerable 
 head gear, 6milie's father, not without a secret tremor, requested 
 his old valet de chambre to go and ask the haughty damsel to 
 pay a visit to the head of the family. 
 
 " Joseph," said the old nobleman, when his head-gear was 
 adjusted, " take away this napkin, draw the curtains, arrange 
 the armchairs, shake the chimney-cloth, and put it on straight, 
 and then dust the room. Now, just open the window, and let 
 us have a little fresh air. 
 
 The count multiplied his orders and made Joseph quite out 
 of breath. Joseph, who guessed his master's motive, restored 
 some neatness to the room, which vus naturally the most 
 neglected in the house, and succeeded in producing a certain 
 amount of order among the heaps of accounts, boxes, books, 
 and other furniture of tins sanctuary, in which the affairs of the 
 royal demesnes were transacted. When Joseph had succeeded 
 in introducing some order into this chaos, and had brought to 
 the front, just as if he had been dressing the window of a 
 fashionable shop, whatever would make the best show, and was 
 calculated to produce, by means of its tints, a sort of bureau-
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 207 
 
 cratic poetry, he stopped in the midst of the maze of papers 
 piled up in certain places, even on the carpet, gave a little nod 
 of self approval, and left the room. 
 
 The unhappy sinecurist by no means shared the satisfaction 
 of his servant. Before taking his seat in his large arm-chair, 
 he looked around him with an air of distrust, examined his 
 dressing-gown with a hostile eye, swept away some particles of 
 snuff, carefully wiped his nose, arranged the shovel and the 
 tongs, stirred the fire, pulled up the heels of his slippers, threw 
 back his little pigtail, which had assumed a horizontal position 
 between the collar of his waistcoat and that of his dressing- 
 gown, and caused it to resume its perpendicular position ; then 
 he gave a touch of the broom to the cinders of a hearth which 
 afforded strong evidence of the inveteracy of his catarrh. In 
 short, the old man did not sit down until he had glanced his 
 eye for the last time over his study, in the hope that there was 
 nothing to give rise to the very comical and impertinent remarks 
 with which his daughter was wont to reply to his sage advice. 
 On this occasion he did not want to compromise his paternal 
 dignity. He gingerly took a pinch of snuff, and cleared his 
 throat two or three times, as if he were about to demand, when 
 he heard the light footstep of his daughter, who came in hum- 
 ming an air from " II Barbiere." 
 
 " Good morning, father. What do you want me for so 
 early ? " 
 
 Having uttered these words as if they were the refrain of the 
 air which she was singing, she kissed the count, not with that 
 familiar fondness which makes the filial sentiment so sweet, but 
 with the careless levity of a mistress who is sure that, do what 
 she will, she will please. 
 
 " My dear child," said M. de Fontaine gravely, " I have 
 sent for you in order to talk with you very seriously about your 
 future. The necessity in which you are now placed of making 
 such choice of a husband as may ensure your permanent hap- 
 piness "
 
 208 BALZAC. 
 
 " My dear father," said Lmilie, interrupting her fathei in her 
 most endearing tones, "it seems to me that the armistice, 
 entered into between you and me in regard to my admirers, has 
 not yet expired." 
 
 " Lmilie, let us, from this day forth, cease to joke about so 
 important a matter. For some time past, my dear child, those 
 who truly love you have united their efforts to secure you ;t 
 proper establishment, and you would be guilty of ingratitude 
 were you to receive v/ith levity the proofs of good-wili which, 
 not only I, but others also, shower upon you " 
 
 On hearing these words the young lady looked with an eye 
 of mischievous investigation at the iurniture of her father's 
 study ; she then selected the particular armchair which seemed 
 to have least frequently afforded a seat to those who came to 
 solicit her father's favors, placed it on the other side of the 
 fireplace, so that she might face her father, assumed an attitude 
 so grave, that it was impossible to avoid seeing therein certain 
 traces of irony, and crossed her arms over the rich trimming of 
 a tippet & la neige, whose numerous frills of tulle were thuR 
 mercilessly crumpled. After having cast a laughing side-glance 
 at her old father's anxious countenance, she spoke. ' I new 
 heard you say, father, that the government delivered its oracles 
 in a dressing-gown. But, no matter/' added she. "the people 
 must not be critical. Let me hear what are your projects of 
 law and official communications." 
 
 " I might not always be in a position to make you any, you 
 young madcap. Listen Lmilie. It is not my intention any 
 longer to run the risk of injuring my reputation, which is a part 
 of my childrens' fortune, by recruiting the regiment of partners 
 whom it is your good pleasure'to put to flight every spring. 
 You have already been the cause of several dangerous misun- 
 derstandings with certain families. I hope that to-day you 
 more fully understand the difficulties of your own position and 
 of ours. You are twenty-two years of age, and you ought to 
 have been married nearly three years ago. Youi brothers and
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 209 
 
 your two sisters have all formed wealthy and happy unions. 
 But, my child, the expenditure which those unions have involved 
 and the style in which we are living on your account, have made 
 such a hole in our income, that it is as much as I can do to 
 give you a portion of a hundred thousand francs. From to-day 
 I want to study the future of your mother, who ought not to be 
 sacrificed to her children. If I should die, Emilie, Madame 
 de Fontaine ought not to be left to the tender mercies of any 
 one. She ought to continue to enjoy the affluence by which I 
 have recompensed, all too late, her devotion in my early mis- 
 fortunes. You see, my child, that the insignificance of youi 
 portion bears no sort of proportion to your ideas of grandeur. 
 Even that portion will be a sacrifice which I have not made for 
 any of my other children ; but they have generously agreed 
 never to taunt you with the advantage which we are about to- 
 confer on a child too well beloved." 
 
 " In their position," said Emile, shaking her head ironically. 
 " My daughter, never try thus to depreciate those who love 
 you. Learn that it is only the poor who are generous. The 
 rich have always excellent reasons for not abandoning twenty 
 thousand francs to a relative. Now, don't sulk, my child, and 
 let us talk rationally. Among the young fellows who are look- 
 ing out for a wife have you not noticed M. de Manerville ?" 
 
 " Oh, he says zeu instead of jeu; he is always looking at his 
 feet because he considers them small ; and he looks at himself 
 in the glass. Besides, he is fair, and I don't like fair men." 
 "Well, then, there is Monsieur de Beaudenord?" 
 " He is not a nobleman ; he is badly built and thickset ; I 
 grant you he is dark. The two gentlemen ought to come to 
 an agreement to unite their resources. The former ought to 
 give his figure and his name to the second, who might keep 
 his own hair, and then perhaps " 
 
 " What have you got to say against M. de Rastignac?" 
 
 " Madame de Nucingen has converted him into a banker.''' 
 
 " And our relation the Viscount de Portenduere ?"
 
 210 BALZAC. 
 
 "A lad who dances badly, and besides has no fortune. 
 And then, father, none of them has a title. I should like to 
 be at least . countess, like my mother." 
 
 "Then you have not seen any one this winter whom . . ." 
 
 " No father." 
 
 "Then what is it that you want ?" 
 
 " The son of a peer." 
 
 " Daughter, you are mad," said M. de Fontaine, rising. 
 
 But all at once he looked upwards and seemed to imbibe a 
 fresh dose of resignation, from some religious reflection. Then, 
 looking at his child with a look of fatherly kindness, which 
 produced some effect upon her, he took her hand, pressed it, 
 and said tenderly, " I call God to witness, you poor deluded 
 creature, I have conscientiously fulfilled my duties towards 
 you ; conscientiously, did I say? lovingly, 6milie. Yes, God 
 knows that I have this winter introduced you to more than 
 one honest man, whose capacity, morals, and disposition were 
 known to me, and all of them seemed good enough for. you. 
 My child, my task is accomplished. From to day you are the 
 arbiter of your own destiny. I am both glad and sorry at 
 the same time, to find myself acquitted of the heaviest of all a 
 father's duties. I do not know whether you will hear much 
 longer a voice which unfortunately has never been severe, but 
 remember that the happiness of married life depends less upon 
 brilliant qualities and wealth, than on mutual esteem. Such 
 happiness is, from its very nature, modest and retiring. Now, 
 my child, my consent is given beforehand to the son-in-law 
 whom you present to me; but if you should be unhappy, 
 remember that you will have no right to blame your father. 
 I will not refuse to act in the matter, and to assist you, pro- 
 vided only that your choice be serious and definitive. I will 
 not compromise a second time the respect which is due to my 
 grey hairs." 
 
 The affection displayed by her father, and the solemn tone 
 of his pathetic harangue, made a keen impression on Made-
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 211 
 
 moiselle de Fontaine, but she concealed the depth of her feel- 
 ings, seated herself on the knees of he count, who had sat 
 down still trembling with emotion, and lavished on him her 
 tenderest caresses, cajoling him so gracefully, that the old 
 man's forehead grew calm again. When milie thought that 
 her father had sufficiently recovered from his painful excite- 
 ment, she said to him in a low tone, 
 
 " I must thank you father for your delicate attention ; you 
 had your room put in order for the reception of your darling 
 daughter. Perhaps you did not know that you would find her 
 so foolish and rebellious. But, father, is it then so difficult to 
 marry a peer of France ? Ah, at all events, you won't refuse 
 me your advice." 
 
 " No, poor child, no, and I will call out to you more 
 than once ' Beware.' Consider, then, that the peerage is too 
 new a spring in our government ability, as the late king used to 
 say, for peers to possess large fortunes. Those who are rich 
 wish to become still more so. The most opulent of all the 
 members of our peerage has not half the income of the poorest 
 member of the English House of Lords. Thus, the peers of 
 France will look out for wealthy heiresses for their sons, no 
 matter where they may spring from. This necessity for mak- 
 ing wealthy marriages will last for more than two centuries. 
 It is just possible that by looking about for the lucky chance 
 which you desire, a search which may cost you the best years 
 of your life, your beauty (for a good many men marry for love 
 in this age) your beauty, I say, may bring about a miracle. 
 When experience is covered by so blooming a face as yours, 
 one may look for miracles. Uo you not, in the first place, 
 posssess the gift of discovering worth by the greater or smaller 
 bulk of the human body f That is no slight accomplishment 
 And therefore, it is needless for me to point out to a person so 
 wise as yourself, all the difficulties of the undertaking. I am cer- 
 tain that you will never credit a stranger with good sense because 
 his face is prepossessing, or with high moral qualities because he
 
 212 BALZAC. 
 
 has a good figure; and, finally, I quite agree with you in thinking 
 that all peers' sons ought to have an air of their own and 
 characteristic manners. Although now-a-days there are no 
 distinctive symbols of rank, these young men will perhaps pos- 
 sess for you a je ne sat's quoi, which will reveal them to your 
 observation. Besides you keep your heart in check just like a 
 good horseman, who is sure to keep his charger from stumbling. 
 My daughter, I wish you good luck." 
 
 " You are laughing at me, father. But I declare to you that 
 I would sooner go and die in Mademoiselle de Conde's con- 
 vent, than not be the wife of a peer of France." 
 
 She escapsd from her father's arms, and proud of being her 
 own mistress, she went away singing the air " Cara non dubai- 
 tre" from the " Matrimonio Segreto." 
 
 It happened that that day was a birthday in the family. At 
 dessert, Madam Planat, Emilie's elder sister, the wife of the 
 receiver-general, talked loud enough to be overheard, of a 
 young American, the owner of an immense fortune, who had 
 fallen desperately in love with Emilie, and had made her a 
 brilliant offer. 
 
 " He is a banker, I believe," said Emilie carelessly. I don't 
 like people connected with finance." 
 
 " But Emilie," said the Baron de Villaine, the husband of 
 Emilie's second sister, you like the magistracy just as little, so 
 that if you reject untitled landowners, from what class will you 
 choose your husband ?" 
 
 " Especially taking into consideration your theory of thin- 
 ness," added the lieutenant-general. 
 
 " I know what will suit me," replied the young girl. 
 
 " My sister requires a good name, a handsome young man, 
 with a career before him, and an income of a hundred thou- 
 sand francs." 
 
 " Monsieur de Marsay, for example," said the Baroness de 
 Fontaine. . 
 
 ."I know, my dear sister," replied E-milie, "that I shall not
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 213 
 
 make one of those foolish matches of which I have seen so 
 many. But to avoid these matrimonial discussions, I declare, 
 that I shall consider those who speak to me of marriage as the 
 enemies of my peace of mind." 
 
 An uncle of Emilie, an old vice-admiral of seventy, whose 
 fortune had just received an accession of 8oo/. a year in con- 
 sequence of the law of indemnity, who was in a position to . 
 speak stern truths to his grand-niece, and was extremely fond 
 of her, now interposed with a view to destroying the bitterness 
 of the conversation. " Don't tease my poor Emilie. Don't 
 you see that she is waiting until the Due de Bordeaux comes 
 of age." 
 
 The old man's joke was received with general laughter, while 
 Emilie retorted, 
 
 " Take care that I don't marry you, you old lunatic ;" but 
 the last words were fortunately drowned amid the noise. 
 
 " My children," said Madame de Fontaine, in order to tone 
 down this impertinence. " Emilie, like all the rest of you, will 
 consult no one but her mother." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Mademoiselle de Fontaine, with great 
 distinctness, " in a matter which only concerns myself, I shall 
 only consult myself." 
 
 Every eye was directed to the head of the family. Every 
 one seems curious to sec what course he would adopt in order 
 to maintain his dignity; for not only was the aged Vendean 
 held in high esteem by the world at large, but, more fortunate 
 in this respect than many fathers, he was appreciated by his 
 family, all the members of which had recognized the solid 
 qualities which had enabled him to make the fortunes of those 
 who were related to him. Accordingly, he was surrounded by 
 that profound respect which English families and certain aris- 
 tocratic houses on the continent entertain for the representative 
 of the genealogical tree. There was a profound silence, and 
 the eyes of the assembled guests travelled from the proud and
 
 214 BALZAC, 
 
 pouting face of the spoiled child, to the stern faces of M. and 
 Madame de Fontaine. 
 
 " I have left my daughter 6milie the mistress of her own 
 lot," was the answer which the Count de Fontaine uttered in 
 his deepest tones. 
 
 Thereupon the relatives aud guests looked at Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine with a look in which curiosity was blended with 
 pity. The language of the count seemed to indicate that 
 paternal kindness had been exhausted in the struggle with a 
 disposition known by the family to be incorrigible. The sons- 
 in-law murmured, and the brothers launched at their better 
 halves, sarcastic smiles. From that moment no one took any 
 further interest in the marriage of the haughty girl. Her old 
 uncle, in his character as an old sailor, was the only person 
 who dared to encounter her broadsides, and endure her whims, 
 and was always ready to return shot for shot. 
 
 When the fine weather had set in and the budget had been 
 voted, the De Fontaine family, a genuine model of the great 
 parliamentary houses on the other side of the Channel, which 
 have a footing in every ministry, and ten votes in the Commons, 
 flew like a nest of birds to the lovely sites of Aulnay, Antony, 
 and Chatenay. The opulent receiver-general had recently 
 purchased in those regions, a country house as a residence for 
 his wife, wl.o remained at Paris only during the session. Al 
 though the beautiful 6milie despised plebians, she did not 
 carry her feeling so far as to disdain the advantages of a fortune 
 amassed by middle-class industry. She, therefore, accompanied 
 her sister to her sumptuous villa, not so much from affection 
 for those members of her family who took refuge in it, as be- 
 cause the rules of good society imperiously demand that every 
 woman who has even the slenderest self respect, should leave 
 Paris during summer. The verdant plains of Sceaux admirably 
 fulfilled the conditions imposed by society, and by the duties 
 of public life. 
 
 Since it is very doubtful whether the fame of the Bal de
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 215 
 
 Sceaux has ever passed beyond the limits of the department of 
 the Seine, we must enter into some details about this heb- 
 domadal festival, which from its importance at the time we are 
 speaking of, threatened to become an institution. The environs 
 of the little town of Sceaux enjoy a reputation arising from 
 their sites, which are considered charming. It may be that 
 they are after all extremely common-place, and owe their 
 celebrity merely to the stupidity of the good citizens of Paris, 
 who, when they emerge from the gulfs of freestone in which 
 they are buried, would be inclined to a*dmire the plains of La 
 Beauce. But since the poetic shades of .Aulnay, the hills of 
 Antony, and the valley of La Bievre are inhabited by certain 
 travelled artists, by foreigners, who are very hard to please, and 
 by a number of pretty women, who are not wanting in good 
 taste, it is probable that the Parisians are right. But Sceaux 
 possesses, for the Parisian, another attraction not less potent. 
 In the middle of a garden commanding delightful views, is to 
 be found an immense rotunda open on every side, but crowned 
 with a dome of great lightness and extent, and supported by 
 pillars. This rustic dais forms the covering of a dancing- 
 saloon. It rarely happens that even the most starched gentle 
 folks of the neighborhood do not once or twice during the sea- 
 son pay a visit to this palace of the rustic Terpsichore either 
 in glittering cavalcades, or in those light and elegant vehicles 
 which sprinkle with dust the philosophic foot passenger. The 
 hope of seeing some. women of the upper ranks, and of being 
 seen by them ; the hope, less frequently betrayed, of meeting 
 some young peasant girls (who are as cunning as judges), 
 draws to the bal de Sceaux, on Sunday, swarms of attorneys' 
 clerks, of the disciples of vEsculapius, and of those young fel- 
 lows whose fair skins and fresh complexions are preserved by 
 the damp atmosphere of the back-shops of Paris. Accordingly 
 a goodly number of bourgeois marriages have been planned to 
 the sounds of the orchestra, which occupies the centre of this
 
 2 1C BALZAC. 
 
 circular saloon. If the roof could only speak, how many love 
 stories it could tell ! 
 
 This interesting medley conferred upon the bal de Sceaux, 
 at that time, a keener interest than the other two or three balls 
 in the environs of Paris excited ; and moreover, its rotunda, 
 the beauty of the site, and the attractions of the garden, gave 
 it an incontestable superiority over its rivals, limilie was the 
 first to exhibit a desire to go and " do the vulgar," at this gay 
 ball of the arrondissement She expected to derive immense 
 enjoyment from findirig herself in the midst of such a gather- 
 ing. Her wish to wander among such a crowd created some 
 astonishment ; but then is not the incognito one of the greatest 
 pleasures of the great? Mademoiselle de Fontaine found 
 amusement in picturing to herself all these citizen figures; she 
 imagined herself leaving in many a bourgeois breast the recol- 
 lection of an enchanting dance or smile, laughed beforehand at 
 the women who prided themselves on their dancing, and prepar- 
 ed her crayons for the scenes with which she expected to 
 enrich the pages of her satirical album. Sunday did not come 
 round quickly enough to suit her impatience. The good com- 
 pany from the Planat villa set out on foot, so as not to betray 
 the rank of the party who were about to honor the ball with 
 their presence. They had dined early, and the most beautiful 
 evening of that month of May favored the aristocratic escapade. 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine was quite surprised to find, under 
 the roof of the rotunda, certain quadrille parties composed of 
 persons who seemed to be of good social position. She saw>. 
 it is true, here and there, some young men, who seemed to 
 have spent a month's savings for the sake of shining for a day 
 and she observed several couples whose frank enjoyment did 
 not at all savor of matrimony ; but instead of reaping a harvest 
 she had to glean. It surprised her to see that pleasure dressed 
 in muslin was very like pleasure dressed in satin, and that the 
 bourgeoisie danced as gracefully as the aristocracy, and in 
 some cases even better. Most of the dfesses were simple and
 
 THE HALL AT SCEAUX. 217 
 
 worn with ease. Those who, in this assemblage, represented 
 the suzerains of the territory, that is to say, the peasants, con- 
 fined themselves to their corners, with wonderful politeness. 
 
 Even Mademoiselle de Fontaine had to devote a certain 
 amount 01 study to the divers elements of which the meeting 
 was composed, before she could discover any subject for ridi-' 
 cule. But she had neither time to devote to her malicious 
 criticism, nor leisure to listen to many of those striking con- 
 versations which che caricaturist hails with so much delight. 
 In this vast field the haughty creature suddenly discovered a 
 flower (the metaphor is seasonable) whose splendor and whose 
 colors acted upon her imagination with all the charm of novelty. 
 It frequently happens to us, that we look at a dress, a wall, a 
 piece of white paper, with so much abstraction, that we do not 
 at once perceive some stain or some shining points which, 
 subsequently, suddenly strike the eye, as if they had appeared 
 only at the moment when we are first conscious of them. I3y 
 a sort of moral phenomenon, very similar to that which I have 
 mentioned, Mademoiselle de Fontaine suddenly recognized, in 
 a certain young man, the type of that exterior perfection of 
 which she had dreamed so long. Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
 had seated herself on one of the rude chairs which defined the 
 necessary boundaries of the saloon, at the end of the group 
 formed by her family, so as to be able to follow the inclination 
 of the moment by getting up and advancing as she pleased; 
 for she acted in regard to the living tableaux, and the groups 
 presented to her notice in the hall, just as she would have done 
 at an exhibition at the museum. She fixed her eye-glasses on 
 a person only two yards distant, and made remarks, just as if 
 she was criticizing or praising a painted head, or a picture 
 of genre. 
 
 Her eye, after having wandered over the vast animated 
 picture, was all at once attracted by the face of which I spoke, 
 which looked as if it had been purposely stuck in a corner of 
 the canvas, in the very best light, as a figure out of all proper-
 
 218 BALZAC. 
 
 tion with the rest. The stranger, who seemed absorbed ana 
 solitary, was leaning lightly against one of the columns which 
 support the roof, his arms were folded, and his head drooped, 
 as if he had been placed there to have his portrait taken. But 
 the attitude, though full of elegance and pride, was perfectly 
 free from affectation. There was not the faintest gesture to 
 indicate that, like Alexander, Lord Byron, and other great men, 
 he was presenting the three-quarter face and slightly bending 
 his head, solely for the purpose of attracting attention. His 
 steady gaze in following the movements of a l&dy who was 
 dancing, bore traces of some deep feeling. His elegant and 
 easy figure recalled the proportions of the Apollo. His beau- 
 tiful black hair curled naturally upon his lofty forehead. At a 
 single glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine perceived the fineness 
 of his linen, the newness of his kid gloves, which had evidently 
 come from the best maker, and his small feet, neatly shod with 
 a boot of Irish leather. He did not wear any of those mean 
 trinkets of which the old fops of the National Guard and the 
 Lovelaces of the counter are so fond, but a black riband, to 
 which his eye-glass was attached, hung over his well-shaped 
 waistcoat. The exacting milie had never seen a man's eyes 
 shaded by lashes so long and strongly curved. Love and 
 melancholy breathed in the face, with its olive-hued and 
 masculine compelxion. The mouth seemed ever ready to 
 smile, and raise the corners of the eloquent lips ; but this 
 tendency, far from suggesting gaiety, seemed rather to betray 
 a graceful sadness. There was too much promise in the head, 
 and distinction in the bearing, to call forth the expression 
 " What a fine man," or " What a good-looking man." You 
 wanted to know him. The most perspicacious observer would 
 at sight of the stranger, have been induced to regard him as a 
 man of talent, attracted to the village fete by some powerful 
 motive. 
 
 Such a mass of reflections did not cost 6milie more than a 
 moment's attention, in the course of which this privileged
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 219 
 
 being, thus subjected to a severe analysis, became the object 
 of a secret admiration. She did not say to herself " He must 
 be a peer of France," but " Oh, if he is only noble, and he 
 cannot fail to be." She did not finish her thought, but rose at 
 once, and, followed by her brother the lieutenant-general, went 
 towards the column, pretending to be watching the gay quad- 
 rilles, though by an optical device familiar to woman, she did 
 not miss a single movement of the young man, whom she was 
 approaching. The stranger politely drew back, -in order to 
 make room for the two new comers, and took up his position 
 against another pillar. F^milie, who was as much annoyed by 
 the stranger's politeness as she would have been by an act of 
 rudeness, began to talk to her brother in a voice much louder 
 than the canons of good taste permitted ; she assumed certain 
 aits de teie, and gesticulated and laughed immoderately, less to 
 amuse her brother than to attract the attention of the imper- 
 turbable Unknown. But all her little artifices failed. Then 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine followed the direction of the young 
 man's eyes, and perceived the cause of his indifference. 
 
 In the midst of the quadrille, immediately in front of her, 
 there was dancing a pale young woman, who resembled those 
 Scottish goddesses introduced by Girodet into his grand com- 
 position, Ossian receiving the warriors of France. F^milie 
 thought that she recognized in the young dancer an illustrious 
 lady, who had lately taken up her abode in a neighboring 
 district. Her companion was a youth of fifteen, whose red 
 hands, nankeen breeches, blue coat, and white shoes, showed 
 that her passion for dancing prevented her from being fastidi- 
 ous in the matter of partners. Her movements showed no 
 trace of her apparent weakness, but a slight flush was already 
 visible in her pale cheeks and her complexion was beginning to 
 grow more lively. Mademoiselle de Fontaine drew near to 
 the quadrille party, in order to examine the strange lady as she 
 returned to her place, while her vis d vis executed the same 
 figure. But the Unknown came up, and bending over the
 
 220 BALZAC. 
 
 pretty dancer, said in a voice at once gentle and commanding, 
 " Clara, my child, don't dance any more," words which were 
 distinctly overheard by the inquisitive rnilie. Clara pouted 
 a little, bowed her head in token of obedience, and then 
 smiled. After the termination of the quadrille, the young 
 man showed all the attention of a lover in covering the young 
 girl's shoulders with a Cashmere shawl, and placing her in a 
 position where she would be sheltered from the wind. Then, 
 soon afterwards, Mademoiselle de Fontaine, seeing them quit 
 their seats, and walk round the enclosure, as people do when 
 about to depart, contrived to follow them, under the pretence 
 of admiring the various views from the garden. Her brother 
 lent himself, with a mischievous good humor, to the vagaries 
 of the somewhat devious march, ^milie then caught sight of 
 the handsome couple, getting into an elegant Tilbury, which 
 had been left under the care of a liveried and mounted ser- 
 vant. Just at the moment when the young man, having taken 
 his seat, was adjusting the reins, 6milie first encountered from 
 him one of those careless glances which one directs at a large 
 crowd, and then she had the slight satisfaction of seeing him 
 look back twice ; an example which the young lady followed. 
 Was it through jealousy ? 
 
 " I presume that you have now seen enough of the garden, 
 and that we can go back to the ball," said her brother. 
 
 " I am quite willing," she replied. " Do you think that she 
 is a young relative of Lady Dudley?" 
 
 " Lady Dudley may have a young relative staying with her; 
 but certainly not a young female relative !" said the Baron de 
 Fontaine. 
 
 The next day Mademoiselle de Fontaine displayed an incli- 
 nation for a 'ride. She gradually accustomed her old uncle 
 and her brothers to accompany her in sundry morning rides, 
 which, she said, were very conducive to her health. She ex- 
 hibited a marked predilection for the vicinity of the village 
 inhabited by Lady Dudley. But in spite of her cavalry
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 221 
 
 manoeuvres, she did not catch sight of the stranger again so 
 speedily as the glad research, to which she abandoned herself, 
 induced her to hope. She returned on several occasions to 
 the Bal de Sceaux without meeting there the young English- 
 man, who had fallen from heaven to tyrannize over and adorn 
 her dreams. 
 
 Although nothing spurs the rising passion of a young girl so 
 much as an obstacle, there came a moment, nevertheless, when 
 6milie de Fontaine, almost despairing of the success of an 
 enterprise, whose eccentricity will give some idea of the 
 hardihood of her character, was on the point of giving up her 
 strange and clandestine pursuit. 
 
 She might, indeed, have wandered for a long time around 
 the village of Chatenay without again seeing her Unknown ; 
 for the youthful Clara, since such was the name which Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine had overheard, was not an English- 
 woman, and the supposed stranger did not inhabit the flowery 
 and perfumed groves of Chatenay. 
 
 One evening Emilie, having gone out for a ride with her 
 uncle, to whom the gout had granted, during the fine weather, 
 a considerable cessation of hostilities, met Lady Dudley. 
 Seated in the open carriage, by the side of the illustrious for- 
 eigner, was Monsieur de Vandenesse. Emilie recognized the 
 handsome pair, and her suspicions were dissolved, as a dream 
 dissolves, in a moment. 
 
 Vexed, as any woman who had been foiled, would be, she 
 turned rein so rapidly that her old uncle had the greatest 
 possible difficulty in following her ; so great was the speed to 
 which she had urged her pony. 
 
 " It would seem that I have grown too old to understand 
 these brains of twenty," said the old sailor to himself, as he 
 put his horse to a gallop, " or perhaps the young folks of to-day 
 are not like what they used to be. But what can be the mat- 
 ter with my niece ? now she is walking her pony as quietly as 
 a gendarme patroling the streets of Paris. One would think
 
 222 BALZAC. 
 
 that she wants to beset that worthy bourgeois, who looks to me 
 like an author dreaming over his verses, for he seems to have 
 an album in his hand. On my word, I am a great dolt. Isn't 
 it the young man we are in search of? " 
 
 As this thought struck him, the old sailor checked his horse's 
 pace, in order to place himself noiselessly at his niece's side. 
 The vice-admiral had been gnilty of too many peccadilloes in 
 in 1771 and the following years, a period in our annals when 
 gallantry was in vogue, not to perceive at a glance that Emilie 
 had by the greatest chance, met the stranger of the Bal de 
 Sceaux. 
 
 In spite of the veil which old age had spread over his grey 
 eyes, the Count de Kergaroiiet could recognize signs of un- 
 usual excitement in his niece, notwithstanding the immo- 
 bility of feature which she endeavored to assume. 
 
 The penetrating eyes of the young lady were fixed in a kind 
 of stupor upon the stranger, who was walking quietly before 
 her. 
 
 " Just so," said the sailor to himself, "she will follow him, 
 like a pirate after a merchantman. And when she has lost 
 sight of him, she will be in a state of despair at not knowing 
 who and what her lover is, and whether he is a marquis or a 
 shopkeeper. Truly, young folks ought always to have an old 
 periwig like me at their elbows." 
 
 He all at once, and without any warning, urged on his horse 
 so as to make his niece's start off also, and then rode so quickly 
 between her and the young pedestrian, that the latter was 
 forced to take refuge on the sloping turf which bordered the 
 road. Checking his horse suddenly, the count cried out, 
 " Couldn't you have got out of the way V 
 11 Excuse me, sir," replied the stranger. " I did not know 
 that it was for me to apologize to you, for your having very 
 nearly knocked me down." 
 
 " Well, let's drop the subject, my friend," replied the sailor, 
 in a voice whose sneering tone was positively insulting.
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 223 
 
 At the same time the count raised his whip as if to lash his 
 horse, and touching the shoulder of his interlocutor said, 
 
 " The liberal bourgeois is a reasoner, and every reasoner 
 should be prudent !" 
 
 The young fellow mounted the slope when he heard this 
 sarcasm ; then crossing his arms, he replied in feeling tones, 
 
 " I cannot think, when I look at your white hair, that you 
 still find amusement in picking quarrels . . . ." 
 
 " White hair," cried the sailor, interrupting him, " you lie in 
 your throat, it is only grey." 
 
 A dispute thus commenced, waxed so warm in a few seconds 
 that the younger adversary forgot the tone of moderation which 
 he had constrained himself to preserve. At the moment when 
 the Count de Kergaroiiet saw his niece approaching them, and 
 exhibiting every symptom of lively apprehension, he gave his 
 name to his antagonist, asking him to say nothing in the pre- 
 sence of the young lady, who was under his escort. The 
 stranger could not repress a smile, and gave his card to the 
 old sailor, telling him at the same time that he was living in a 
 country-house at Chevreuse, which he pointed out and then 
 made off. 
 
 "You very nearly injured that poor pe'quin, niece," said the 
 count, hastening to meet Emilie. " Have you forgotten how 
 to manage your horse ? You leave me stuck there to compro- 
 mise my dignity in an endeavor to cover your follies ; whereas, 
 had you remained, a single glance from you, or one of those 
 pretty speeches which you can make so well when you are not 
 impertinent, would have set everything right, even had you 
 broken his arm." 
 
 " Why, my dear uncle, it was your horse, not mine, that 
 caused the accident. I really believe that you have lost the 
 art of riding, you are no longer so good a horseman as you 
 were last year. But instead of discussing trifles " 
 
 " Trifles, by Jingo ! you call it a trifle for a fellow to be inso- 
 lent to your uncle?"
 
 224 BALZA.C. 
 
 " Ought we not to go and find out whether the young man 
 is hurt ? He is limping, uncle, see there !" 
 
 " No, no ! he is running. Ah, I gave him a rough lecture !" 
 
 " Ah, uncle, that is you all over !" 
 
 " Nay, nay, niece," said the count, stopping milie's horse 
 by laying hold of the bridle. " I don't see the necessity of 
 making advances to some shopkeeper, who ought to deem 
 himself only too fortunate in having been knocked down by a 
 charming young lady, or by the commander of ' La Belle 
 Poule.' " 
 
 " Why do you take him to be a roturier, my dear uncle ? It 
 seems to me that he has very distinguished manners." 
 
 " Oh, everybody has good manners, now-a-days, niece." 
 
 " No, uncle, everybody has not the air and manner which the 
 habit of frequenting good society confers, and I would gladly 
 make a bet with you, that this young fellow is a man of family." 
 
 " You have not had much time to examine him." 
 
 " But this is not the first time I have seen him." 
 
 "No, nor the first time that you have tried to find him !" 
 replied the admiral, laughing. 
 
 E^milie blushed ; her uncle enjoyed leaving her for some 
 time to her embarrassment, and then said to her, 
 
 " 6milie, you know that I love you as much as if you were 
 my own child, just because you are the only one of the family 
 who possesses that legitimate pride which high birth confers. 
 Who the deuce, my dear grandniece, would have thought that 
 good principles would become so rare ? Well, I want to be 
 your confidant. Now, I see, my darling, that this young gen 
 tleman is not quite an object of indifference to you. But, 
 they would have the laugh of us in the family if we set sail 
 under an unworthy flag ; you know what that means ; therefore 
 let me assist you, niece. Let us keep our own counsel, and I 
 promise to produce him in the midst of your assemblies." 
 
 " When, uncle?" 
 
 "To-morrow."
 
 THE BALL AT S6EAUX. 225 
 
 " But, dear uncle, I am not to be fettered in any way ?" 
 'Not at all; and you may bombard him, set fire to him, 
 and turn him adrift like an old carack> if such be your good 
 pleasure. He won't be the first that you have served so, eh ?" 
 
 " You are kind, uncle ! " 
 
 As soon as the count reached home he put on his spectacles,, 
 quietly drew the card from his pocket, and read " Maximilien 
 Longueville, Rue du Sender." 
 
 " Set your mind at rest, my dear niece," said he to Emilie,. 
 "you may harpoon him in all tranquillity of mind; he belongs 
 to one of our historic families, and if he be not a peer of France 
 he will infallibly become one." 
 
 " How do you know all that ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is my secret." 
 
 " You know his name then." 
 
 The count silently inclined his grey head, which bore no 
 faint resemblance to the trunk of some old oak, around which 
 a few leaves, withered by autumnal frosts, are fluttering. At 
 this signal, Emilie began to exert the ever-budding power of 
 her coquetry. Experienced in the art of cajoling the old sail- 
 or, she showered upon him the most childlike caresses and the 
 tenderest words ; she even went so far as to kiss him, in order 
 to extort from him the revelation of so weighty a secret. The old 
 man, who passed his existance in getting his niece to act scenes 
 of this description, and very often rewarded her with the price 
 of a dress, or by giving up his box at the opera for her use, took 
 3. delight on this peculiar occasion in being entreated, and es- 
 pecially kissed. But, as he protracted his enjoyment too long, 
 Emilie grew angry, changed her caresses for sarcasms, and 
 sulked. Then conquered by her curiosity, she returned to the 
 attack. The diplomatic sailor extracted from his niece a sol- 
 emn promise, to be for the future more reserved, more docile 
 ind less headstrong ; to spend less, and above all to tell him 
 sverything. This treaty having been concluded and sealed 
 ith a kits imprinted on Emilie's white forehead, he led he
 
 220 BALZAC. 
 
 to a corner of bhe drawing-room, set her on his knee,, placed 
 his two thumbs upon the card so as to hide it, and then letter by 
 letter, disclosed the name of Longueville, obstinately refusing 
 to let her see anything more. This circumstance intensified 
 the secret feeling of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who, during a 
 large portion of the night, conjured up the brightest pictures of 
 those dreams, on which her aspirations had been fed. At last, 
 thanks to that chance which she had often prayed for, F^milie 
 now saw something very different from a mere chimera at the root 
 of the imaginary riches with which she gilded her matrimonial 
 future. Like all young women who are ignorant of the dan- 
 gers that wait on love and marriage, she grew enthusiastic 
 over the treacherous externals of marriage and of love. Or, in 
 other words, her passion sprang up as all these fancies of early 
 youth do spring sweet, cruel errors which exercise so sinister 
 an influence on such young girls as are inexperienced enough to 
 assume the whole burden of providing for their future happiness. 
 
 The next morning, before Emilie was awake, her uncle had 
 made an excursion to Chevreuse. Finding the young man 
 whom, on the preceding evening, he had so persistently insult- 
 ed, standing in the court of an elegant villa, he accosted him 
 with the affectionate politeness characteristic of the gentlemen 
 of the old French court. 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, who would have ventured to tell me that ' 
 at the age of seventy-three I should involve myself in a duel 
 with the son, or perhaps the grandson of one of my best friends? 
 I am a vice-admiral, sir, and that is equivalent to telling you that 
 I think as little of a duel as I do of smoking a cigar. In my 
 time, two young fellows could never strike up an intimacy with- 
 out having first seen the color of each other's blood. But, 
 zounds, yesterday, in my capacity of an old sailor, I had taken 
 a little too much rum on board and ran foul of you. There is 
 my hand ; I would rather receive a hundred rebuffs from a 
 Longueville, than cause his family the slightest grief." 
 
 Whatever coolness the young man constrained himself to
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 227 
 
 throw into his bearing towards the Count de Kergarouet, he 
 could not long withstand the frank good nature of his manner, 
 and suffered the old man to shake him by the hand. 
 
 " You were just going for a ride," said the count. " Don't 
 let me interfere with you. But, unless your arrangements are 
 made, come with me and dine at the Planat Lodge to-day. My 
 nephew, the Count de Fontaine, is a man whom it is essential 
 to know. Ah, I intend to indemnify you for my rudeness, by 
 introducing you to five of the prettiest women in Paris. Yes, 
 yes, young man, your brow unknits itself now. I am fond of 
 young men, and I like te see them happy. Their happiness 
 recalls to me the joyous hours of my early days, when there 
 were plenty of love affairs as well as duels. We were gay in 
 those times. Now-a-days ycu philosophize and take everything 
 seriously, as if there had been no such thing as a fifteenth or 
 sixteenth century." 
 
 "But, sir, are we not right? The sixteenth century gave 
 only religious liberty to Europe, and the nineteenth will give it 
 political lib " 
 
 " Oh, don't let us talk politics. I am a blockhead of an 
 ultra, look you. But I don't want to prevent young folks from 
 being revolutionists, so long as they leave the king at liberty to 
 disperse their mobs." 
 
 When they had gone a little farther, and the count and his 
 youthful companion were in the middle of the wood, the sailor 
 singled out a young birch-tree, pulled his horse up, and took 
 out one of his pistols : the ball lodged in the centre of the tree, 
 which was fifteen paces distant. 
 
 " You see, my dear fallow, that I do not fear a duel," said 
 he, looking at M. Longueville with comic gravity. 
 
 " Nor I either," replied the latter, who cocking his pistol 
 promptly, and taking aim at the hole made by the count's bull- 
 et, lodged his own close to it. 
 
 " Now that is what I call well a trained youth," said the sailor 
 with a kind of enthusiasm.
 
 223 BALZAC. 
 
 During his ride with the young man, whom he already look- 
 ed on as his nephew, he found a thousand opportunities for in- 
 terrogating him about all those trifles, perfect familiarity with 
 which constituted, ascording to his particular code, an accom- 
 plished gentleman. 
 i " Are you in debt? " he inquired, after many questions. 
 
 " No sir." 
 
 " What, do you mean to say you pay all your tradesmen? " 
 
 " Punctually, sir ; otherwise we should lose all credit and 
 forfeit all respect." 
 
 " But at least you have severaj mistresses? Ah you blush, 
 my friend. Manners have greatly changed. With these ideas o! 
 legal order, Kantism, and liberty, youth has been spoiled. You 
 have no Guimard, no Duthe, no creditors, and are quite ignorant 
 of heraldry. Why, my young friend, you are not educated! Look 
 you he who does not sow his wild oats in spring, sows them in 
 winter. If I am now, at the age of seventy, in receipt of an 
 income of 8o,coo francs, it is because I spent the,capital which 
 would produce it: when I was thirty oh, with my wife in all 
 honor and good faith. Your imperfections, however, shall not 
 deter me from presenting you at Planat Lodge. Bear in mind 
 that you have promised me to come thither, and I shall look 
 forward to seeing you there." 
 
 '" What a funny little old man," said young Longueville to 
 himself. " He is brisk and gay ; but for all his efforts to ap- 
 pear such a jolly good fellow, I shall not place too much conn" 
 dence in him. 
 
 The next day, at about four o'clock, when the company 
 were scattered, some in the drawing-room, and some in the 
 billiard-room, a servant announced to the inmates of Planat 
 Lodge, " Monsieur de Longueville." 
 
 At the name of the favorite of the old Count de Kergaroiict, 
 every one, even the billiard-player who ran the risk of losing a 
 hazard, rushed forward, as much with a view to studying tin* 
 face of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, as to forming an opinion oi
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 229 
 
 the human phoenix who had obtained " honorable mention " 
 at the expense of so many competitors. A dress as elegant as 
 it was simple, manners full of ease, polished habits, " sweet 
 voice that possessed a timbre which reached the heart-strings 
 and caused them to vibrate, all combined to win for Monsieur 
 Longueville the good will of the whole family. He seemed no 
 stranger to the luxury which reigned in the abode of the pom- 
 pous receiver-general. Although he talked like a man of the 
 world, it was obvious to every one that he had received the 
 most brilliant training, and that his acquirements were as solid 
 as they were extensive. In a light discussion about naval 
 architecture, which was started by the old sailor, Longueville 
 hit upon the right words so readily that one of the ladies 
 pointed out that he seemed to have been educated at the Ecole 
 Polytechnique. 
 
 " I consider, madame," replied he, that one may regard it as 
 an honorable distinction to have been there." 
 
 In spite of much pressing, he politely but firmly opposed 
 their wish to keep him to dinner, and put a stop to the obser- 
 vations of the ladies by saying, that he was a Hippocrates of a 
 young sister, whose delicate health required great attention. 
 
 ' You are, no doubt, a doctor ? " inquired one of Emilie's 
 sisters-in-law, ironically. 
 
 " The gentleman has just left the Ecole Polytechnique," 
 replied Mademoiselle de Fontaine graciously. (Her face had 
 assumed its richest tints when she learned that the young girl 
 she had seen at the ball was M. Longueville's sister.) 
 
 " But, my dear, it is possible to be a doctor, and yet to have 
 been at the Ecole Polytechnique ; is is not sir?" 
 
 " There is no obstacle whatever, madame," replied the young 
 man. 
 
 Every eye was directed at Emilie, who, at those words, looked 
 at the engaging stranger with a sort of uneasy curiosity. She 
 breathed more freely when he added, not without a smile, " 
 have not the honor, madame, to be a doctor, and have even
 
 230 BALZAC. 
 
 declined to enter the service of roads and bridges, in order to 
 preserve my independence." 
 
 " And you did well," said the count. " But how could you 
 consider it an honor to be a doctor? " added the noble Breton. 
 " Oh, my young friend, for a man like you " 
 
 " Monsieur le comte, I have an infinite respect for every 
 profession which has a useful end in view." 
 
 " Oh, we are quite agreed ; you respect such professions 
 much in the same way as a young man respects a dowager." 
 
 The visit of M. Longueville was neither too long nor too 
 short. He withdrew at the moment when he perceived that 
 he had created a favorable impression upon every one, and 
 that every one's curiosity was awakened about him. 
 
 " He's a knowing fellow," said the count on returning to the 
 drawing-room after shewing him to the door. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who alone was in the secret ot 
 this visit, had dressed herself with such tasteful care as might 
 have attracted the notice of the young man ; but she had to 
 undergo the slight mortification of observing that he did not 
 devote to her so much attention as she thought she deserved. 
 Her family were very much surprised at her reticence. As a 
 rule, 6miHe displayed on behalf of a new comer her coquetry, 
 her witty chit-chat, and the inexhaustible eloquence of her looks 
 and attitudes. Whether it were that the melodious accents 
 and bewitching manners of the young man had acted as a 
 charm upon her, that she was seriously in love, and that that 
 feeling had worked a change in her, or not, her bearing was 
 now entirely free from affectation. In her simplicity and 
 naturalness she was sure to appear more beautiful than before. 
 Some of her sisters and an old lady who was a friend of the 
 family saw in her conduct a refinement of coquetry. They 
 supposed that, deeming the young man a worthy mate for her, 
 milie intended, perhaps, to unfold her excellences gradually, 
 in order to dazzle him all at once, at the moment when she 
 should have won his heart. Every member of the family was
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 231 
 
 anxious to know what the capricious girl thought of the 
 stranger ; but when, during dinner, they all amused themselves 
 by endowing M. Longueville with some new quality, each pre- 
 tending to be the first to have discovered it, Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine was for some time silent. A gentle sarcasm from her 
 uncle suddenly aroused her from her apathy. She said, in a 
 very epigrammatic fashion, that this celestial perfection must 
 needs cover some grave defect, and that she would take good 
 care not to form at the first glance an opinion of a man so 
 skilful. " Those who thus please everybody please no one," 
 she added, "and the worst of all defects is to be free from 
 all." Like all young women when they love, 6milie nourished 
 the hope that she would be able to hide her feeling in the 
 bottom of her heart, by deceiving the Arguses by whom she 
 was surrounded ; but at the expiration of a fortnight, not a single 
 member of that numerous family was uninitiated in the little 
 domestic secret. At the third visit paid by M. Longueville, 
 6milie was convinced that she was in great measure the source 
 of it. This discovery caused her a pleasure so intoxicating, 
 that she was astonished at it when she reflected on it. It 
 wounded her pride. Accustomed as she was to make herself the 
 centre of the world, she was now compelled to acknowledge the 
 existence of a force which dragged her out of herself ; she tried to 
 rebel, but she could not dismiss from her heart the enchanting 
 image of the young man. Then came many an anxious thought. 
 Two of M. de Longueville's qualities, his unlooked-for modesty 
 and his discretion, were very fatal to the general curiosity. He 
 never talked of himself or his pursuits, or his family. 
 
 The adroit innuendoes with which 6milie interspersed her 
 conversation, and the traps she laid in order to extract from 
 the young man some personal details, he evaded and avoided 
 with all the skill of a diplomatist who wants to conceal his 
 policy. If she talked about pictures, M. Longueville answered 
 her in the language of a connoisseur. If she played, the young 
 man showed without conceit that he was no mean performer
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 on the piano. One evening he charmed the whole company by 
 uniting his voice with Emilie's in one of the fine duets of Cima- 
 rosa ; but when they tried to find out whether he was a profes- 
 sional musician, he joked upon the subject with so good a grace, 
 that he made it impossible for these ladies, who had had so 
 much experience in the art of probing the feelings, to discover to 
 what sphere of society he belonged. No matter what hardi- 
 hood the old uncle displayed in throwing the grappling-irons 
 upon this vessel, Longueville adroitly stole away, so as to pre- 
 serve the charm of mystery ; and it was all the more easy for 
 him to maintain the character of " The handsome stranger " 
 at Planat Lodge, inasmuch as there inquisitiveness never 
 exceeded the limit of politeness. Emilie, who was tortured by 
 this reserve, hoped to be more successful with the sister than 
 with the brother, in regard to confidences of that kind. 
 Backed by her uncle, who understood tactics of this sort, as 
 well as he did the art of seamanship, Emilie endeavored to 
 bring upon the stage the character, as yet silent, of Mademoi- 
 selle Clara Longueville. The company at the lodge soon 
 manifested the strongest desire to become acquainted with so 
 amiable a person, and to contribute to her amusement. A 
 dance was proposed and accepted. The ladies did not entirely 
 despair of getting a young girl of sixteen to talk. 
 
 In spite, however, of such little clouds, created by curiosity 
 and massed by suspicion, a brilliant ray penetrated the heart 
 of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who found great delight in exist- 
 ence by connecting it with a being other than herself. She 
 began to understand social relations. 
 
 Whether it be that happiness improves us, or whether it were 
 that Emilie was too much engaged to torment others, she 
 became less caustic, more indulgent, and more gentle. The 
 alteration in her character delighted her wondering relatives. 
 Perchance, after all, her egotism was being metamorphosed into 
 love. To await the arrival of her retiring and unacknowledged 
 admirer, was a profound delight. Without a single word of
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUK. 230 
 
 passion having been breathed between them, kmilie knew that 
 she was loved ; and great was her pleasure in skilfully inducing 
 the young man to exhibit the treasures of that knowledge 
 which proved its own variety. She remarked that she also was 
 the object of careful observation, and thereupon she tried to 
 overcome all the defects which her training had allowed to 
 grow up in her. Was not this a first homage offered to love, 
 and a cruel reproach addressed by herself to herself? She 
 wished to please and charm ; she loved and was idolized. Her 
 family, knowing that her pride was an ample protection, 
 allowed her sufficient freedom to enable her to taste those little 
 childish joys, which gave so much charm and so much strength 
 to early love. Often did the young man and Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine tread alone, but for each other's company, the alleys 
 of the park in which nature was decked by art, like a woman 
 dressed for a ball. Often did they hold together those aimless 
 and featureless conversations whose emptiest, idlest phrases are 
 precisely those which contain the greatest amount of hidden 
 feeling. Often did they admire, in each other's company, the 
 setting sun, with its rich tints. They gathered daisies only to 
 tear them to pieces, and sang the most passionate duets 
 together, employing the notes of Pergolese or Rossini 
 as faithful interpreters for the expression of their secret 
 thoughts. 
 
 The ball-day came ; Clara Longueville and her brother, 
 whom the footman would persist in decorating with the particle 
 which indicates nobility, were the heroes of the occasion. For 
 the first time in her life, Mademoiselle de Fontaine witnessed 
 the triumph of a young lady with delight. She showered upon 
 Clara in all sincerity those graceful endearments and minute 
 attentions which women do not generally bestow upon one an- 
 other, except for the purpose of exciting the jealousy of men. 
 Emilie had an object in view ; she wanted to elicit secrets 
 unawares. But, as being a girl, Mademoiselle Longueville 
 showed, more deftness and ingenuity than her brother ; for she
 
 234< BALZAC. 
 
 was discreet without even seeming to be so, and managed to 
 exclude the subjects of material interests from the conversa- 
 tion, while at the same time she invested it with so great a 
 a charm, that Mademoiselle de Fontaine conceived a kind of 
 envy of her, and surnamed her the siren. Whereas 6milie had 
 intended to make Clara chatter, it was Clara who subjected her 
 to an interrogatory. She wanted to judge Clara and Clara 
 judged her. She was often vexed with herself for having per- 
 mitted her character to leak out through certain answers mis- 
 chievously extorted from her by Clara, whose air of candor and 
 of modesty dissipated every suspicion of design. 
 
 On one occasion, milie could not hide her annoyance at 
 having allowed herself to be provoked by Clara into a sally 
 against rotouriers. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said that charming creature, "I have heard 
 Maximilien talk about you so much that from love for him, I 
 felt the strongest desire to know you ; but is not a desire to 
 know you a desire to love you ? " 
 
 " My dear Clara, I was afraid I should displease you in talk, 
 ing thus of those who are not of noble birth." 
 
 " Oh ! make your mind easy. At the present day, discus- 
 sions of this sort are perfectly objectless. As fflr me they do 
 not affect me ; I am out of the question." 
 
 However arrogant this reply might be, it caused Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine the profoundest pleasure; for, like all persons who 
 are under the influence of passion, she interpreted it as oracles 
 are interpreted, that is, in the sense which suited her inclina- 
 tions ; and she rejoined the dancers more joyous than ever as 
 she looked at Longueville, whose style and elegance perhaps 
 surpassed those of her ideal type. She experienced an addi- 
 tional satisfaction when she reflected that he was of noble 
 birth ; her dark eyes glittered, and she danced with all the 
 pleasure which a women feels when she is dancing in the pre- 
 sence of the one she loves. Never did the lovers understand 
 each other better than at that moment, and several times did
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 235 
 
 they feel their fingers tingling and trembling as the exigencies 
 of the quadrille brought them into contact. 
 
 Thus did early autumn overtake this handsome couple, sur- 
 rounded by country fetes and country diversions, allowing 
 themselves to float on the stream of the sweetest feeling which 
 life can offer, and heightening it by a thousand trifling details, 
 which may be left to the imagination of the reader ; for in cer- 
 tain points all love affairs are alike. Each studied the other as 
 much as it is possible for two lovers to study one another. 
 
 " Well, never did a flirtation so speedily resolve itself into a 
 marriage of inclination," said the old uncle, who kept his eye 
 upon the young people as closely.as a naturalist examines an 
 insect under the microscope. 
 
 The expression frightened M. and Madame de Fontaine 
 The old Vendean ceased to be so indifferent in the matter <A 
 his daughter's marriage, as he had formerly promised to be. 
 He went to Paris in search of information, and came back 
 without obtaining any. Uneasy at the mystery, and not yet 
 knowing what might be the result of the inquiry which he had 
 begged a man of business in Paris to set on foot as to the 
 Longueville family, he deemed it his duty to warn his daughter 
 to conduct herself prudently. Her father's observation was 
 received with an assumed obedience, that was full of irony. 
 
 '' At least, my dear milie, if you love him, don't confess it 
 to him." 
 
 " Father, it is true that I love him, but I will not tell him so 
 until you give me leave to do so." 
 
 " But, iEmilie, consider that as yet you know nothing of his 
 family or his position in life. 
 
 " If I am ignorant, it is my wish to be so. But, father, you 
 wanted to see me married ; you left me at liberty to make my 
 choice ; it is made irrevocably ; what more is needful ?" 
 
 " You must learn, my dear child, whether the man of your 
 choice is the son of a peer of France," replied the venerable 
 nobleman, ironically.
 
 230 BALZAC. 
 
 milie was silent for a moment, but shortly raised her head, 
 looked at her father, and said to him somewhat anxiously, 
 " Are the LongucviMes then ?" 
 
 " Extinct in the person of the old Due de Rostein-Lim- 
 bourg, who perished on the scaffold in 1793. He was the last 
 scion of the last younger branch." 
 
 " But father, there are some very good families which have 
 sprung from bastards. The history of France swarms with 
 princes who bore the bend sinister on their shield." 
 
 " Your ideas are greatly changed," said the old gentleman, 
 smiling." 
 
 The morrow was the last. day that the De Fontaine family 
 were to pass at Planat Lodge, F^milie, who had been not a 
 little disturbed by her father's intimation, awaited with keen 
 impatience the hour at which young Longueville was wont to 
 arrive, in order to get an explanation from him. She went out 
 after dinner for a solitary walk in the park, directing her steps 
 to the grove of confidences, whither she knew the impetuous 
 young man would go to look for her. As she went she debated 
 in her mind upon the best method of surprising so important 
 a secret without compromising herself no easy matter. Up 
 to the present moment, no open avowal had sanctioned the 
 feeling which bound her to this stranger. She had, like Maxi- 
 milien, savored in secret the sweetness of first love ; but they 
 were both equally proud, and it seemed that both of them 
 were afraid to own their feelings. 
 
 Maximilien Longueville, whom Clara had inspired with some 
 suspicions as to F^milie's disposition, which were not without 
 foundation, had been, by turns, carried away by the violence 
 of a young man's passion, and held back by a desire to know 
 and test the wuman to whom he was about to entrust his 
 happiness. His love had not precluded him from observing 
 that 6milie was under the influence of prejudices which spoiled 
 her youthful nature; but he wanted to learn whether she loved 
 him, before trying to fight against them ; for he was as reluct-
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 237 
 
 ant to risk the fate of his love as that of his existence. He 
 had accordingly maintained a silence which his looks, his 
 attitude, and his slightest action belied. On the other hand, 
 the pride, so natural to a girl, and which was enhanced in the 
 case of Mademoiselle de Fontaine by the stupid vanity excited 
 by her birth and beauty, prevented her from going half-way to 
 meet a declaration, which her growing love sometimes impelled 
 her to court. Thus, the two lovers had instinctively compre- 
 hended their position, without exactly explaining their secret 
 motives to themselves. There are moments in life when the 
 vague has a charm for youthful minds. From the very fact of 
 their having both too long put off speaking, they both seemed 
 to be making a cruel sport of their delay. The one seemed 
 to be trying to discover whether he was loved, from the effort 
 which an avowal would cost his haughty mistress, while the 
 other hoped that every moment would see the rupture of a too 
 respectful silence. 
 
 Seated on a rustic bench, ]milie was reflecting on the 
 events which had occurred during these three months, that 
 had been so full of enchantment. Her father's suspicions 
 were the last apprehensions that could assail her; she even 
 despatched them by two or three of such reflections as might 
 occur to an inexperienced girl, and which seemed to her de- 
 cisive. Above all, she came to the conclusion that it was 
 impossible she could be deceived. She had failed throughout 
 the season to discover in Maximilien a single gesture, or a 
 single word, which indicated a plebeian origin or plebeian 
 occupations. Better still, his mode of discussing a subject 
 bespoke a man who was occupied with the highest interests ot 
 the country. " Moreover," she argued with herself, " a pro- 
 fessional man, a financier, or a merchant, would, not have had 
 leisure to spend the whole season in paying his addresses to 
 me, in the midst of the woods and fields, as lavish of his time 
 as a nobleman who has before him a long lifetime void of 
 occupation." She was yielding herself to the current of a
 
 233 BALZAC. 
 
 meditation much more interesting to her than these prelimi- 
 nary thoughts, when a slight rustling of the foliage informed 
 her that for some little time Maximilien had been looking at 
 her, admiringly without doubt. 
 
 " Do you know that it is very ill-bred to take young ladies 
 by surprise like that?" she asked, smiling. 
 
 " Tspecially when they are engrossed by their secrets." re- 
 plied Maximilien craftily. 
 
 " Why should I not have my secrets ? You certainly have 
 yours." 
 
 "You really were thinking of your secrets then?" said Maxi- 
 milien, with a laugh. 
 
 " No, I was thinking of yours. I know my own." 
 
 " But, perhaps," said the young man slowly, as he seized 
 the arm of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and drew it through 
 his own, " perhaps my secrets are yours, and yours mine." 
 
 After walking a short distance, they found themselves under 
 a clump of trees, which the rays of the setting sun were 
 covering with a cloud of brownish red. Nature's magic in- 
 vested the passing moment with a sort of solemnity. The life 
 and freedom of the young man's movements, and still more 
 the agitation of his overflowing heart, whose quick pulsations 
 spoke to the arm of 6milie, threw her into a state of excite- 
 ment, which was all the more eloquent, because it was called 
 forth only by the simplest and most innocent accidents. The 
 reserve by which the young ladies of the great world are 
 habitually surrounded, gives an incredible strength to their 
 explosions of feeling, which is one of the greatest dangers to 
 which they are exposed, when they meet with a passionate 
 lover. Never had the eyes of Emilie and Maximilien said so 
 many things which the lips dare not utter. A prey to this 
 intoxication, they readily forgot the frail conventions of pride 
 and the frigid considerations of distrust. The only form of 
 expression they could find at first, was. a pressure of the hand, 
 which served as an interpretation of their joyous thoughts.
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAVX. 239 
 
 " I have one question to put to you," said Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine, trembling, and with a voice full of emotion, after 
 the long silence, and after they had taken a few slow steps 
 forward ; but I beg you to consider, that it is in some sort 
 forced upon me, by the very strange position in which I am 
 placed with regard to my family." 
 
 A pause that was terrible to Emilie succeeded these words, 
 whifh she had uttered with something approaching a stammer. 
 During the time occupied by this pause, this proud young 
 woman did not dare to encounter the ardent gaze of the man 
 she loved, for she had a secret consciousness of the base- 
 ness of the ensuing words, as she added, " Are you of noble 
 birth?" 
 
 When these last words had been uttered, she could have 
 wished herself at the bottom of a lake. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Longueville gravely, as his altered 
 countenance assumed an air of severe dignity, "I promise you 
 that I will give a direct answer to that question, when you 
 have replied with sincerity to that which I am about to put to 
 you." He dropped the arm of the young girl, who suddenly 
 felt herself alone in the world, and said to her, " What is your 
 object in questioning me as to my birth ?" Emilie remained 
 cold, mute, and motionless. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," resumed Maximilien, " let us proceed no 
 farther unless we understand each other / love you" he 
 added in a deep and tender voice. " Well, then," he con- 
 tinued, with a glad look when he had heard the exclamation 
 of delight which the young girl could not repress, " why do 
 you ask me whether I am of noble birth ?" 
 
 " Would he talk like that unless he were ? " said an inward 
 voice, which Emilie believed, issued from the depths of her 
 heart. Thereupon she graciously raised her head, seemed to 
 find new life in the young man's look, and held out her arm to 
 nim, as if to form a fresh alliance.
 
 210 BALZAC. 
 
 '' You thought that I attached great importance to dignities?" 
 she asked, with mischievous subtilty. 
 
 " I have no titles to offer to my wife," he replied, with ar. 
 air half gay, half serious. " But if I take her from a high 
 position, and from among those whose father's wealth rm 
 made luxury and the pleasures of opulence habitual to them, I 
 know the duty which my choice imposes on me. Love gives 
 all," he added gaily, " but only to lovers, as to married folks, 
 they need something more than the dome of heaven and the 
 carpets of the meadows. 
 
 " Ke is rich," thought she. " As to titles, perhaps he wants 
 to try me. He has been told that I am wedded to nobility, 
 and that I will not marry any one but a peer of France. My 
 impertinent sisters have played me that trick." 
 
 " I assure you, sir," she said aloud, " that I have had most 
 exaggerated views of life and of the world ; but now " (this 
 was said intentionally, and as she spoke she looked at him in 
 a manner that might well have driven him mad) " now I know 
 where it is that a woman must look for real wealth." 
 
 " I wish to believe that you are speaking from the heart," 
 replied he with gentle gravity. But this winter, my dear 
 milie, in less than two months perhaps, I shall have reason 
 to be proud of the offers that I can make you if you care for 
 the pleasures of affluence. That is the only secret which I 
 shall bury t/iere," said he pointing to his heart, " for upon its 
 success depends my happiness, I dare not say ours." 
 
 " Oh, say so, say so." 
 
 Amid the sweetest talk they returned with slow steps to rejoin 
 the company in the drawing-room. Never had Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine found her lover more agreeable or more witty. 
 His well-shaped form and engaging manners seemed to her 
 more charming than ever, after the conversation, which seemed 
 in some sort to secure her the possession of a heart which any 
 woman might covet. The lovers sang an Italian duet together 
 with so much enthusiasm that the assembled company
 
 THE BALL AT SCEATJX. 241 
 
 applauded them. Their farewell assumed a {conversational 
 aspect, beneath which they concealed their happiness. In 
 short, that day acted as a chain, which bound ^milie more 
 closely still to the fortunes of the stranger. The force and 
 dignity which he had displayed in the scene, during which they 
 had revealed their feelings to each other, had perhaps im- 
 posed upon Mademoiselle de Fontaine that respect for her 
 lover without which there is no such thing as genuine love. 
 
 When she was left alone with her father in the drawing-room, 
 the venerable Vendean went up to her, took her kindly by the 
 hand, and asked her whether she had gathered any information 
 which threw light upon the fortune and family of M. Longue- 
 ville. 
 
 " Yes, dear father," she repiied. " I am happier than I 
 could ever wish to be. In short, Monsieur de Longueville is 
 he only man whom I should wish to wed." 
 
 " That's well, milie," replied the count. " I know what 
 remains for me to do." 
 
 " Is it possible that you know of any impediment ? " asked 
 Emilie, with unfeigned anxiety. 
 
 " My dear child this young man is altogether unknown, but 
 unless he be a dishonest man, he is, the moment that you 
 love him as dear to me as a son." 
 
 "A dishonest man? " continued Emilie. " I am quite easy 
 upon that score. My uncle, who introduced him to us, can 
 answer for him. Tell me, dear uncle, has he been a freebooter, 
 a pirate, or a corsair? " 
 
 " I knew well that it would come to this," cried the old 
 sailor, waking up. 
 
 He looked around the drawing-room, but his neice had dis- 
 appeared like a St. Elmo's fire, to employ his habitual 
 expression. 
 
 " Well, uncle," resumed M. de Fontaine, " how could you 
 conceal from us all that you knew about this youth ? Our 
 P
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 anxiety could not have escaped your notice. Is M. de Long- 
 ueville a man of family? " 
 
 "I don't know him from Adam or Eve," exclaimed the 
 Comte de Kergaroiiet. " Confiding in the tact of that little 
 madcap, I brought her her Saint-Preux, by a manoeuvre which 
 I understand. I know that the lad is an excellent shot with 
 the pistol, is a good sportsman, and plays billiards, chess, and 
 backgammon to perfection, while he fences and rides like the 
 late Chevalier de Saint Georges. He has the devil's own 
 knowledge of all that appertains to our vineyards. He can 
 calculate like Bareme, and is a good hand at drawing, dancing, 
 and singing. Why, what the deuce is the matter with you 
 folks? If that doesn't make a perfect gentleman, show me a 
 bourgeois who can do all that ; find me a man who lives as 
 much like a gentleman as he does. Does he follow any occu- 
 pation ? Does he compromise his dignity by going to an office, 
 by bowing and scraping to the upstarts whom you call 
 directors-general ? He holds his head up he is a man. But, 
 moreover, I have just recovered in my waiscoat pocket, the 
 card which he gave me, when he thought that I wanted tc cut 
 his throat for him, poor simpleton ? (The young men of to-day 
 are not very sharp.) See, here it is." 
 
 "Rue de Sender, number five," said M. de Fontaine, trying 
 to recall, amidst all the information which he had obtained, 
 something which might have reference to the young stranger. 
 " What the deuce does that mean ? Messieurs Palma, Wer- 
 brust, et Compagnie, whose principal trade is wholesale 
 dealings in muslin, calico, and prints, carry on business at that 
 address. Good ; I have it , Longueville the deputy, has an 
 interest in their firm. Yes ; but the only son of Longueville I 
 know of, is thirty-two, and does not in any way resemble our 
 Longueville ; he is going to give that son 50,000 livres a year, 
 in order that he may marry the daughter of a minister; for 
 like every one else he wants to be made a peer. I have never 
 heard him mentioji this Maximilien Then, has he a daughter?
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 24;3 
 
 Who is this C ] ara ? Moreover, more than one adventurer may 
 call himself Longueville. But the house of Palma, Werbrusr, 
 & Co., has been half ruined by some speculation in Mexico, 
 or the Indies. I will clear this matter up." 
 
 " You are soliloquizing, for all the world, as if you were on 
 the stage, and you seem to reckon me a mere cypher," said the 
 old sailor suddenly. " You don't seem to be aware that if he 
 is a gentleman, I have more than one bag under my hatch- 
 ways to make up for the want of his fortune." 
 
 " For that matter, if he be a son of Longueville's, he is in no- 
 want of money," said M. de Fontaine, shaking his head from 
 right to left, " but his father has not yet bought his snob-wash. 
 Before the revolution he was an attorney, and as for the ' de * 
 which since the Restoration he has placed before his name, he 
 has as much right to that as to the one half of his fortune." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! happy are they whose fathers have been 
 hanged," cried the old sailor gaily. 
 
 Three or four days after this memorable day, on one of those 
 beautiful mornings in the month of November, when the 
 Parisians see their bulevards cleansed by the refreshing cold ol 
 a first frost, Mademoiselle de Fontaine, arrayed in a new set 
 of furs, which she wished to render fashionable, had gone out 
 with two of her sisters-in-law, at whom she had formerly aimed 
 the larger portion of her epigrams. The three women had been 
 induced to undertake this drive through Paris, far less by their 
 desire to try a very elegant new carriage, and to wear the 
 dresses which were to give the tone to the winter fashions, than 
 by their desire to look at a tippet which one of their friends 
 had noticed in a grand linen-drapef 's shop at the corner of the 
 Rue de la Paix. When the three ladies had entered the shop, 
 Madame de Fontaine (the baroness), pulled F^milie's sleeve, 
 and pointing to her Maximilien Longueville, who was seated 
 at the counter, and was giving, with truly merchantile grace 
 change for a piece of gold to the forewoman of the establish- 
 ment, with whom he seemed to be holding a consultation.
 
 244 BALZAC. 
 
 " The handsome stranger " held in his hand certain sampTes 
 which left no doubt as to the nature of his honorable calling. 
 Unbeknown to all, Emilie was seized with an icy shudder. 
 Thanks, however, to the savoir-vivre which good society con- 
 fers, she completely concealed the rage which devoured her 
 heart, and said to her siste^ with a richness of accent and in- 
 tonation which might have aroused the envy of the most 
 celebrated actress of the age, 
 
 " I knew it." She then drew near to the counter, Longue- 
 ville raised his head, put the samples into his pocket with 
 inimitable coolness, bowed to Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and, 
 drawing near to her, cast at her a searching glance. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said he to the forewoman, who looked at 
 him with an uneasy air, " I will send and settle the account ; 
 such is the wish of the firm. But stay," said he in a whisper 
 to the young woman, giving her a bank note for a thousand 
 rancs, " take this ; it is a private matter between ourselves." 
 
 " You will pardon me, mademoiselle," said, he turning to 
 Emilie, " you will have the goodness to excuse the tyranny 
 which business exercises over us." 
 
 It seems to me, sir, that it is a matter of supreme indiffer- 
 ence to me," responded Mademoiselle de Fontaine, looking a$ 
 him with a hardihood and an appearance of sarcastic indiffer- 
 ence, which might well create the impression that she had 
 never seen him before. 
 
 " Are you in earnest ?" asked Maximilien, in a broken voice 
 
 Emilie turned her back to him with incredible insolence 
 The few words which had passed between them had escap< 
 her two inquisitive sisters-in-law. When the three ladies ha . 
 secured the tippet and reseated themselves in the carriag ., 
 Emilie, who occupied the front seat, could not help casting 
 one last all embracing look into the depths of the odious sh up, 
 and there saw Maximilien, in the attitude of a man who was 
 superior to the misfortune which had so suddenly overtaken 
 him. Their eyes met and exchanged two implacable
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 245 
 
 Each cf them hoped to inflict a cruel wound upon the heart 
 of the loved one. In an instant they found themselves as far 
 removed from one another as if one of them had been in 
 China, and the other in Greenland. Has not vanity a breath 
 that withers all it meets ? Distracted by the most violent con- 
 flict which can possibly agitate the breast of a young woman,' 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine reaped at that moment the most 
 abundant harvest of sorrow that prejudice and littleness ever 
 sowed in human soul. Her face, that had been so smooth and 
 Jresh, was now streaked with yellow stripes and patches of red, 
 while at times the white of her cheeks would suddenly turn green. 
 Hoping to hide her sufferings from her sisters, she would point 
 out to them some ridiculous passenger, or some absurd dress, 
 and laugh. But the laugh was convulsive. She felt more 
 deeply wounded by the silent compassion of her sisters, than 
 she would have been by the epigrams by which they might 
 have taken their revenge. She exercised all her ingenuity in 
 endeavoring to draw them into a discussion, in which she 
 sought to give vent to her anger, by insane parodies ; seeking 
 to overwhelm tradesmen with biting insults, and epigrams in 
 very bad taste. When she reached home, she was attacked 
 by a fever, which seemed at first to be of a dangerous type; 
 but at the end of a month, she was restored to her prayerful 
 family, through the tender care of her parents and her phy- 
 sician. Every one hoped that this lesson would be severe 
 enough to soften Emilie's disposition ; but she gradually re- 
 sumed her old habits, and once more dashed out into the 
 world. She maintained that there was no disgrace in having 
 been deceived. She would say that if, like her father, she had 
 any influence in the House, she would propose a law provid- 
 ing that merchants, especially calico-merchants, should be 
 branded on the forehead, like the sheep of Le Berri, to the 
 third generation. She wished that only noblemen had the 
 privilege of wearing those old fashioned French costumes, 
 which so well became the courtiers ot Louis Quinze. To heat
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 her, it was perhaps a misfortune for the monarchy that there 
 was no visible distinction between a shopkeeper and a peer of 
 France. A thousand other witticisms, easy to be gusssed, fol- 
 lowed one another in quick succession, when some unforeseen 
 accident set her upon the topic. But those who loved F^milie 
 could discern through her satire a tinge of melancholy It 
 was clear that Maximilien Longueville still reigned in the 
 depths of her inexplicable heart. Sometimes she became gen- 
 tle, as during the fugitive season which witnessed the birth of 
 her passion , and sometimes also she grew insupportable. 
 Every one forgave the inequalities of temper, which had their 
 origin in sufferings that were at the same time secret and wel) 
 known. The Count de Kergaroiiet obtained some slight influ- 
 ence over her, thanks to increased liberality, a species of con- 
 solation which rarely fails to have some effect upon the fair 
 youthful denizens of Paris. The first ball that Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine went to after her recovery was that of the Neapo- 
 litian ambassador. Just as she was taking up her position in 
 the most brilliant quadrille set, she saw within a few paces of 
 her, Longueville, who slightly nodded to her partner. 
 
 " Is that young man one of your friends?" she inquired of 
 her cavalier, with an air of scorn. 
 
 " Only my brother," he replied. 
 
 6milie could not refrain from shuddering. 
 
 " Ah," continued her partner in an enthusiastic tone of voice, 
 " he is indeed the finest fellow in the world . . . ." 
 
 "Do you know what my name is?" interposed F^milie with 
 emphasis. 
 
 " No, mademoiselle. It is, I confess, a crime to have for- 
 gotten a name that is on every lip ; -nay, I ought to say in 
 every heart ; but I have a valid excuse ; I am only just returned 
 from Germany. My ambassador, who is at Paris on leave of 
 absence, sent me here this evening to act as chaperon to his 
 amiable wife, whom you may see yonder in a corner.**
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAU7. 247 
 
 " A regular tragic mask," said 6milie, when she had scruti- 
 nized the ambassadress. 
 
 " That, however, is her ball-room countenance," replied the 
 young man, laughing. " It is my bounden duty to ask her to 
 dance ; and accordingly I wanted some compensation." 
 
 At this compliment Mademoiselle de Fontaine bowed. 
 
 " I was very much surprised," continued the talkative attache', 
 " to find my brother hera. On my arrival from Vienna, I 
 learned that the poor boy was ill in bed, and I fully reckoned 
 on seeing him before coming to the ball : but politics do not 
 always allow us to have such a thing as family affection. The 
 padrona della casa prevented me from going up to see poor 
 Maximilien." 
 
 " Your brother is not engaged in the diplomatic service, as 
 you are?" asked milie. 
 
 " No," ,aid the attache*, sighing, " he sactrficed himself on 
 my account. He and my sister Clara have relinquished their 
 share of my father's fortune, in order that he might create an 
 entail in my favor. My father, like all those who vote for 
 ministers, dreams of a peerage. He has a promise to that 
 effect," he added in an undertone. " Having got together a 
 certain amount of capital, my brother became a partner in 
 some banking establishment, and I know that he has just 
 engaged in some speculation in Brazil, which may make him a 
 millionaire. You see me quite rejoiced at having contributed, 
 through my diplomatic relations, to his success. I am even 
 now impatiently waiting for a despatch from the Brazillian 
 legation, which will be of a description to make him unknit 
 his brow. What do you think of him ?" 
 
 " But your brother's face does not appear to me to be that 
 of a man who is engaged in money-making." 
 
 The young diplomatist cast one searching glance upon the . 
 seemingly untroubled face of his partner. 
 
 "What," he exclaimed with a smile, "young ladies then 
 can read love thoughts also beneath dumb foreheads?"
 
 2-iS BALZAC. 
 
 "Is your brother in love ?" she inquired, with a gesture in- 
 dicative of curiosity. 
 
 "Yes; my sister Clara, of whom he takes a mother's care, 
 wrote to tell me that he had fallen in love with a very pretty 
 person this summer; but since then I have had no news about 
 his love affairs. Would you believe that the poor boy used to 
 get up at five o'clock in the morning, and go and do his busi- 
 ness, in order that he might reach the country-house of his 
 young lady at four in the afternoon ? the consequence being 
 that he ruined a beautiful blood horse, which I had sent him. 
 Forgive my chatter, mademoiselle; I am just come from Ger- 
 many. For the last year I have not heard French correctly 
 spoken. I have been weaned from French and surfeited with 
 German faces to such an extent, that in my patriotic enthusiasm 
 I believe I could talk to the figures on a Parisian candlestick. 
 Then again if I chatter away with a freedom which is very 
 unbecoming in a diplomatist, the fault is yours, mademoiselle. 
 For, was it not you who pointed out my brother? When 
 he is the subject of conversation, I am inexhaustible ; I should 
 like to be able to tell the whole world how good and generous 
 he is. The amount involved was no less than 100,000 francs 
 a year, which is the value of the Longueville estate !" 
 
 If Mademoiselle de Fontaine obtained these important reve- 
 lations, she owed them in part to the skill she displayed in 
 interrogating her confiding partner, from the moment when 
 she found that he was the brother of the lover whom she had 
 spurned. 
 
 " And could you see your brother selling muslin and calico 
 without feeling some annoyance?" asked Emilie, after finishing 
 the third figure of the quadrille. 
 
 " How did you know that?" asked the diplomatist. " Like 
 all the young diplomatists of my acquaintance, I have already, 
 thank God, acquired the art of saying only what I wish to say, 
 even while indulging in a torrent of words." 
 
 " It was you who told me, I assure you."
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 
 
 Monsieur cle Longueville looked at Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine with an astonishment that was full of perspicacity. A 
 suspicion entered his mind. He interrogated the eyes, first of 
 his brother, then of his partner, guessed everything, pressed 
 his hands together, raised his eyes to the ceiling, began to 
 laugh, and said, 
 
 " I am no better than a fool. You are the prettiest woman 
 in the room ; my brother looks at you sideways, dances in 
 spite of his fever, and you pretend not to see him. Make him 
 a happy man" said he as he led her back to her old uncle. 
 " I shall not be jealous of him ; but I shall always tremble a 
 little when I call you my sister." 
 
 The two lovers however were destined to be inexorable 
 towards each other. At about two o'clock in the morning a 
 light supper was served, in an immense gallery, in which the 
 tables were arranged as they are in restaurants, so as to leave 
 persons in the same set at liberty to foregather if they chose. 
 By one of those strokes of chance which are continually hap- 
 pening to lovers, Mademoiselle de Fontaine found herself at a 
 table adjoining that at which the most distinguished members 
 of the party were assembled. Maximilien was one of the group. 
 F^milie, who lent an attentive ear to the talk that was going on 
 among her neighbors, overheard one of those conversations 
 which are so easily established between young women and 
 young men possessing the graces and the bearing of Maximi- 
 lien Longueville. The interlocutress of the young banker was 
 a Neapolitan duchess, whose eyes darted lightnings and whose 
 white skin shone like satin. The intimacy which young 
 Longueville pretended to exist between him and this lady 
 wounded Madamoiselle de Fontaine all the more, inasmuch as 
 she had just bestowed upon her lover twenty times as much 
 regard as she had formerly entertained for him. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, in my country true love shrinks from no 
 sacrifice whatever," said the duchess, smirking. 
 
 " You are more passionate than French women are," said
 
 !i5U BALZAC, 
 
 Maximilian, whose kindling glance fell full upon miJ.ie. : " they 
 are all vanity." 
 
 " Monsieur," said the young girl sharply, '.' is it not an un- 
 worthy action to traduce your country ? Self-abnegation be- 
 longs to all countries alike." 
 
 "Do you think, mademoiselle," pursued the Italian lady 
 with a sardonic smile, " that a Parisian woman is capable of 
 following her lover wherever he may go ?" 
 
 " Oh, let us not misunderstand each other, madame. We 
 would go to the desert, to live there in a tent, but we don't go 
 and sit in a shop." 
 
 She wound up her opinion with a gesture of disdain. 
 
 Thus the influence upon milie of her fatal bringing-up 
 destroyed for the second time her budding happiness, and 
 marred her career. The seeming coldness of Maximilien, and 
 a woman's smile, had extorted from her one of those sarcasms, 
 whose treacherous delights were ever leading her astray. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Longueville to her in a low voice, 
 under cover of the noise made by the ladies in quitting the 
 tables, " no one will form more ardent wishes for your happi- 
 ness than I shall ; allow me to give you that assurance, in 
 bidding you farewell. In a few days I shall start for Italy." 
 
 " With a duchess, doubtless ? " 
 
 " No, mademoiselle ; but with a mortal malady, perhaps." 
 
 " Isn't that a mere fancy?" inquired 6milie, with an uneasy 
 look. 
 
 "Not so," said he. "'There are some wounds which never 
 heal." 
 
 " You will not start," said the imperious young damsel, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Yes I shall," said Maximiiien seriously. 
 
 " You will find me married on your return, I give you warn- 
 ing," said she coquettishly. 
 
 " I hope I may."
 
 5THJS BALL AT SCEAUX. 251 
 
 ' 'i he coxcorab," said iiimiiie, "He revenges himself cruelly 
 enough." 
 
 Fifteen days afterwards Maximilien Longueville and his 
 sister Clara set out for the warm and poetical climes of lovely 
 Italy, leaving Mademoiselle de Fontaine a prey to the most 
 violent regret. The young attache embraced his brother's 
 quarrel and contrived to visit Ismihe's disdain with a striking 
 retribution, by publicly announcing the grounds of the rupture 
 between the two lovers. He repaid with usury to his partner 
 at the ball, the sarcasms which she had formerly hurled at 
 Maximilien, and often drew a smile from more than one minis- 
 ter, as he described the fair enemy of counters, the Amazon 
 who preached a crusade against bankers, the young lady whose 
 love had evaporated at the sight of half a foot of muslin. The 
 Comte de Fontaine was obliged to use his influence in procur- 
 ing for Auguste Longueville a mission to Russia, in order to 
 withdraw his daughter from the ridicule which that young and 
 formidable persecutor poured upon her in such abundance. 
 Shortly afterwards the ministry, being compelled to raise a levy 
 of peers, in order to strengthen the iristocratic vote, which 
 was falling off in the upper chamber, under the influence of the 
 oratory of an illustrious writer, made Monsieur Guiraudin de 
 Longueville a peer of France and a viscount. Monsieur de 
 Fontaine likewise obtained a peerage, a reward due not only to 
 his name, which was missing from the hereditary chamber, but 
 also to his fidelity during the evil days of the monarchy. 
 
 About this time F^milie, who was now of age, indulged, no 
 doubt, in some serious reflections on life, for she evidently 
 changed her tone and manners. Instead of exerting herself to 
 say unpleasant things to her uncle, she showered upon him the 
 most affectionate attentions, brought him his crutch with a per- 
 severance which excited the laughter of the wags ; gave him 
 her arm to lean on, rode in his carriage with him, and accom- 
 panied him whenever he went out. She persuaded him that she 
 even liked the smell of hi? pipe, and read to him his dear
 
 1152 BALZAC. 
 
 Quotidicnne m the iiiiasl. of the puffs of tobacco smoke, which 
 the mischevious sailor designed); blew towards her. She 
 studied piquet in order to be a in itch for the old count, and, 
 to crown all, this most whimsical of young women listened 
 patiently to the periodic recitals of the combat of the " Belle 
 Poule," of the manceuvrings of the " Ville de Paris," of the 
 first expedition of M. de Suffren, and of the battle of Aboukir. 
 Although the old sailor had often said that he knew his lati- 
 tude and longitude too well to allow himself to be captured by 
 a young corvette, the salons of Paris one fine morning heard of 
 the marriage of Mademoiselle de Fontaine and the Comte de 
 Kergaroiiet. The young countess gave splendid entertainments, 
 in order to drown reflection ; but she doubtlessly felt a sense of 
 emptiness at the bottom of the whirl of gaiety. Luxury did 
 but imperfectly conceal the void and unhappiness of her suffer- 
 ing heart ; and her handsome face, in spite of the outbursts of 
 fictitious gaiety, generally betrayed a mute meloncholy. milie 
 seemed, moreover, to be full of attention and regard for her 
 aged husband, who would often say, as he went off to his own 
 private room in the evening, to the sound of a gay orchestra, 
 " I don't seem to be the same man. Must I needs wait till I 
 was seventy-two to embark as pilot on board the Belle-6milie, 
 after twenty years in the galleys of matrimony? " The conduct 
 of the countess was marked by so much austerity, that the most 
 quick-sighted criticism had nothing to lay hold of. The on- 
 lookers came to the conclusion that the count had reserved the 
 right of disposing of his fortune, in order to bind his wife more 
 closely to him, a supposition that was insulting both to the 
 uncle and to the niece. The attitude of the husband and wife 
 was, moreover, so judiciously planned, that the young men, who 
 were most interersted in discovering the secrets of the house 
 hold, could not find out whether the old count treated his wife 
 as a husband or as a father. He was frequently heard to re 
 mark that he had picked up his niece as a woman who had been 
 shipwrecked, and that formerly he had never presumed upon
 
 THE BALL AT SCEAUX. 255 
 
 his hospitality when he happened to save an enemy from the 
 fury of the tempest. Although the countess aspired to reign- 
 in Paris, and endeavored to march abreast with the Duchesses 
 de Maufrigneuse and de Chaulieu, the Marchionesses d'Espard 
 and d'Aiglemont, the Countesses Feraud, de Montcornet, de 
 Restaud, Madame de Camps, and Mademoiselle des Touches, 
 she gave no encouragement to the passion of the young Vis- 
 comte de Portenduere, who made her his idol. 
 
 Two years after her marriage, in one of the antique drawing- 
 rooms of the Faubourg St. Germain, where her character was 
 regarded with admiration, and deemed worthy of the olden 
 time/Emilie heard the servant announce, "Monsieur le Vicomte 
 de Longueville." 
 
 In the corner of the drawing-room in which she was seated,, 
 playing piquet with the Bishop of Persepolis, her emotion 
 could not attract the attention of any one, but, on turning her 
 head, she witnessed the arrival of her former admirer, in all the 
 eclat of his youth. The death of his father, and that of his 
 elder brother, who had succumbed to the inclement climate of 
 St. Petersburg, had devolved upon the head of Maximilien the 
 hereditary plumes of the cap of a peer. His fortune was on 
 a par witfrhis attainments and his worth. The very day before, 
 his youthful and impetuous eloquence had enlightened the 
 Assembly. At this moment, he appeared before the sorrowing 
 countess, unmarried and adorned with all those advantages 
 which she had formerly required from her ideal type. Every 
 mother with marriageable daughters was making seductive ad- 
 vances to a young man who was endowed with those good 
 qualities, for which those who admired his graceful bearing gave 
 him credit. But Emilie knew better than any one, that the 
 Vicomte de Longueville possessed that firmness of character, 
 in which prudent women perceive a guarantee for happiness. 
 She cast her eyes upon the admiral, who, according to his own 
 familiar phrase, seemed likely to stick to his ship for a long 
 time, and cursed the errors of her childhood.
 
 254 
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 At that moment the Bishop of Persepolis said to her with 
 his episcopal grace, " Fair lady, you have discarded the king 
 of hearts, and I have won. But do net teg- vour money : I 
 keep it tor ray little schools*
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 
 
 (UNE DOUBLE FAMILLE.; 
 
 TO MADAME LA COMTESSE LOUISE DE TURHEIM, 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF REMEMBRANCE AND 
 
 AFFECTIONATE RESPECT. 
 
 THE Rue du Tourniquet St. Jean, formerly one of the darkest 
 and most tortuous streets in the old quarter which surrounds 
 cne Hotel de Ville, wound itself along by the side of the small 
 gardens of the prefecture of Paris, and terminated in the Rue 
 du Martroi just at the coiner of an old wall which has now 
 been pulled down. It was at this point that the turnstile, 
 from which the street took its name, was situated. The turn- 
 stile was not destroyed till the year 1823, when the city of 
 Paris had a ball-room constructed upon the site of a little 
 garden attached to the Hotel de Ville, on the occasion of the 
 entertainment given in honor of the Due d'Angouleme, on his 
 return from Spain. The widest part of the Rue du Tourni- 
 quet was where it debouched into the Rou de la Tixeranderie, 
 and even at that point it was not five feet wide ; so that in 
 rainy weather black streams soon began to wash the feet of the 
 old houses which lined the street, bearing with them the refuse 
 deposited near the kerbstone by each household. The dust- 
 carts being unable to pass through this gorge, its inhabitants 
 looked to the storms to cleanse their ever -muddy street. And 
 how, indeed, should it have been otherwise than, muddy? 
 When the summer sun was darting its perpendicular rays upon 
 Paris, a sheet of gold, incisive as the blade of a sabre, would 
 for a moment illuminate the darkness of the street, but had no 
 power to dry up the persistent moisture which crept from the 
 ground-floor to the first storey of those black and silent houses.
 
 25C BALZAC. 
 
 The inhabitants lighted their lamps at five o'clock in the after- 
 noon in the month of June. In winter they were kept burn 
 ing all day. Even up to the present time, if any bold pedcs 
 trian wants to go from the Marais to the quays, starting from 
 the end of the Rue du Chaume, and following the Rues de 
 1'Homme-Arme', des Billettes, and des Deux-Portes, which lead 
 to the Rue Tourniquet St. Jean, he will fancy he has been 
 walking under archways. Much as the chronicles have vaunt 
 ed the splendors of old Paris, almost all its streets resembled 
 this damp and sombre maze in which the antiquary may still 
 find some historic peculiarities to admire. Thus, so long as 
 the house which was situated at the corner of the Rue du 
 Tourniquet and the Rue de la Tixeranderie existed, the 
 observer might there behold the traces of two large iron rings 
 fixed into the wall, and being a remnant of those chains which 
 the constable used, in by-gone days, to stretch across the street 
 for the safety of the public. In the construction of this house, 
 which was remarkable for its antiquity, there had been dis- 
 played such precautions as attested the insalubrity of these 
 ancient dwellings ; for to render the ground-floor more whole- 
 some, the vaults of the cellar had been raised some feet above 
 the soil, and one had to mount three steps in order to enter 
 the house. The door-way described a complete arch, the key- 
 stone of which was adorned with a woman's head, and with 
 some time-worn arabesques. In that part of the ground-floor 
 which looked upon, and received its light from, the Rue du 
 Tourniquet, there were three windows, the sills of which were 
 about a man's height from the ground. These windows were 
 protected by thick iron bars, placed wide apart and terminating 
 in a round projection, like that which finishes off the gratings 
 of bakers' shops. If any inquisitive passer-by cast his eyes into 
 the two roc ms of which this apartnu-nt consisted, f* <vas impos- 
 sible for him to see anything in them during the day-time ; for 
 in order to discover in the second room two beds with green 
 serge hangings, placed close together under the wood-work of
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 257 
 
 an old alcove, the July sun was needed. But towards evening 
 about three o'clock, when once the candle was lighted, there 
 might be seen through the window of the first room, an old 
 woman seated on a stool at the corner of a fireplace, and 
 engaged in coaxing a chafing-dish, on which one of those 
 ragouts, such as porteresses are skilful in concocting, was sim- 
 mering. A few cooking utensils and household implements 
 might be seen in the clear-obscure hanging on the wall. About 
 this hour an old table placed upon an X-shaped stand, but with 
 no cloth upon it, was spread with a few pewter covers and the 
 dish which the old woman had cooked. In this room, which 
 was both a kitchen and a drawing-room, there were three miser- 
 able chairs. Above the fireplace was a broken mirror, a tinder- 
 box, three glasses, some matches, and a large white pot very 
 much chipped. Yet there was something pleasing about the 
 whole aspect of the room. Floor, utensils, fireplace, and all 
 partook of the air of order and economy which reigned in that 
 chill and dark abode. The pale and wrinkled face of the old 
 woman was in keeping with the obscurity of the street, and the 
 dinginess of the house. Had you seen her asleep in her chair, 
 you would have said that she was attached to the house, just 
 as a snail is attached to its brown shell. The face of the old 
 dame, which in spite of its assumed good nature, wore a mis- 
 chievous look, was surmounted by a round flat cap made of 
 tulle, beneath which her white hair could easily be seen. Her 
 large grey eyes were as calm as the street itself, and the numer- 
 ous furrows of her countenance might be compared to the 
 crevices in the walls. Whether she had been born in poverty, 
 or had lapsed from former splendor, she seemed to have been 
 long resigned to her dull existence. From sunrise until even- 
 ing, the old woman would sit in the second room, in front of 
 the last window, and facing a young girl ; except when she was 
 engaged in the preparation of a meal, or when with a basket on 
 her arm she sallied forth in search of provisions. With this ex- 
 ception she spent the whole day in the other room before the 
 Q
 
 258 BALZAC. 
 
 last window, seated opposite to the girl. At all hours cf the 
 day those who passed lhat way could see this young workwoman 
 sitting in an old red-velvet arm-chair, her head bending over 
 her embroidery frame, hard at work. Meanwhile her mother, 
 with a green tambour upon her knees, was making tulle ; but 
 her fingers worked the bobbins with painful effort ; her sight 
 had grown weak, for on her sexagenary nose she wore a pair of 
 those old-fashioned spectacles, which keep their place at the 
 end of the nostril by dint of compression At night these two 
 industrious creatures would place between them a lamp, whose 
 l.ght, passing through two globes filled with water, would enable 
 the one to see the finest threads, furnished by the bobbins of 
 her tambour, and the other to follow the most delicate designs 
 traced upon the stuff which she was embroidering. The bend 
 in the iron bars had enabled the girl to place upon the window- 
 sill, a wooden box filled with earth, and containing some sweet 
 peas, some nasturtiums, a poor little honey-suckle, and some 
 convolvuluses, whose fragile stalks crept round the bars. The 
 pallor of the flowers which sprang from these stunted plants 
 harmonized with all the surroundings, and gave a sad and 
 touching aspect to the picture presented by the window, whose 
 embrasure formed a good frame to the faces of the two women. 
 A chance- glimpse of this interior fixed in the mind of the most 
 egotistical passer-by, a complete image of the life led by the 
 needlewomen of Paris ; for needlewomen pure and simple, the 
 embroiderer seemed to be. Few persons reached the turnstile 
 without asking themselves how a young girl living in such a 
 cellar contrived to preserve her fresh complexion. If a student 
 passed through the street on his way to the Quartier Latin, his 
 lively imagination would compare that obscure and vegetable 
 existence to that of the ivy, which drapes the cold wall, or of 
 those peasants who are born to toil and die unknown to the 
 world which they have fed. The man of independent means, 
 after having cast a landlord's eye upon the house, would say to 
 himself, " What will become of these two women if embroidery
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 259 
 
 should go out of fashion ? " Among the persons who were 
 compelled to pass through the street at certain fixed hours, in 
 order to reach their office at the Hotel de Ville or the Palais, 
 there might perhaps be found some charitable soul Perhaps 
 some widower, or some Adonis of forty, by dint of sounding 
 the recesses of that melancholy existence, had begun to found 
 upon the poverty of the mother and daughter, hopes of achieving 
 an inexpensive triumph over the heart of the innocent little 
 needlewoman, whose plump and agile hands, fresh-looking 
 neck, and white skin (for which latter charm she was no doubt 
 indebted to her abode in that sunless street) excited his admir- 
 ation. Perhaps some worthy civil servant, with a salary of 
 1200 francs, daily witnessing the young girl's industry, and 
 respecting the purity of her morals, was waiting for some pro- 
 motion in order to join one obscure existence to another ob- 
 scure existence, one life of incessant toil to another life of 
 incessant toil, and ready to offer at least the support of a manly 
 arm and a love peaceful, but as colorless as the flowers in the 
 window. The dull grey eyes of the mother kindled with vague 
 hopes. In the morning, after the most humble of breakfasts, 
 she would go back to her tambour as an excuse, rather than 
 from necessity, for she would lay her spectacles upon a little 
 work-table of red wood, as old as herself, and from half-past 
 eight till about ten, pass in review the habitual passengers, 
 catching their glances, making remarks upon their gait, dress, 
 and features, and seeming to be offering them her daughter for 
 sale ; ?o eagerly did her tell-tale eyes with oglings worthy of 
 the side-scenes of the theatre seek to establish sympathetic 
 feelings between herself and the pedestrians 
 
 It was easy to see that this review was a spectacle to her ; 
 perhaps her only pleasure. The daughter rarely raised her 
 head. Modesty, or, it might be, the painful consciousness of 
 her penury, seemed to chain her eyes to the embroidery frame; 
 so that she only showed her anxious face to the passen- 
 gers when her mother uttered some exclamation of surprise.
 
 SCO BALZAC. 
 
 The civil-service clerk with a new coat on, or the regular cs- 
 senger appearing with lady on his arm, might then catch 
 sight of the somewhat retrousse nose of the needlewoman, her 
 small rosy mouth and grey eyes, that, in spite of her exhaust- 
 ing toil, sparkled with life. Her laborious vigils told no tales, 
 except in a circle more or less white, traced beneath either eye, 
 upon the fresh skin of her cheeks. The poor child seemed to 
 have been born into the world for love and gaiety. Love had 
 painted above her eyelids two perfect arches, and had given her 
 so thick a forest of chestnut-colored hair, that she might have 
 hidden herself behind it, as under a pavilion impenetrable to 
 a lover's eye. And gaiety had given life to her mobile nostrils, 
 had planted two dimples in her unwasted cheeks, and taught 
 her quickly to forget her trials. Gaiety, that flower of hope, 
 had lent her strength to look without a shudder upon the arid 
 path of life. 
 
 The hair of the young girl was always carefully combed. 
 She, like all the needle-girls of Paris, deemed htr toilette com- 
 plete when she had smoothed her hair, and shaped into two 
 crescents the little tufts which played on either temple, and 
 contrasted with the white skin. So gracefully did the hair 
 spring from her forehead, and so charming an idea of her 
 youth and beauly did the line of bistre t clearly traced upon her 
 neck, impart, that the observer who saw her bending over her 
 work without allowing the noise to induce her to raise her 
 head would accuse her of coquetry. Promises so seductive 
 excited the curiosity of many a young man, who would look 
 round in the hope of seeing that modest countenance but to 
 no purpose. 
 
 " Caroline, we have another habitue now, better than any of 
 the old ones." 
 
 These words, uttered in a low tone by the mother, one 
 morning in the month of August, 1815, had overcome the 
 young needlewoman's indifference. She looked into the street,, 
 but looked in vain. The stranger was already at a distance.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 261 
 
 <l Which way did he go ?" 
 
 " He is sure to pass by again at four o'clock. I shall see him 
 coming, and will touch your foot to give you notice. I am 
 sure that he will go by again, for he has gone through our 
 street for the last three days. But he is unpunctual. The 
 first day he went by at six o'clock, the day before yesterday at 
 four, and yesterday at three. I remember to have seen him 
 formerly, from time to time. He must be some clerk at the 
 Prefecture, who has changed his quarters in the Marais. 
 Well," she added after a glance into the street, " our gentle- 
 man in the maroon coat has taken to a wig ; how it has changed 
 him." 
 
 It would seem that the gentleman in the maroon coat was 
 the last of the regulars the one who closed the daily proces- 
 sion ; since the old mother resumed her spectacles and took 
 up her work again with a sigh 
 
 As she did so, she cast at her daughter so singular a glance, 
 that Lavater himself would have been puzzled to analyze it. 
 It was a combination of admiration, gratitude, a touch of hope 
 for a better future, and pride in having so pretty a daughter. 
 
 In the evening, at about four o'clock, the old woman touched 
 Caroline's foot ; she looked up in time to see the new actor, 
 whose periodical passage was to give fresh life to the scene. 
 This man was tall, slim, and pale ; he was dressed in black, 
 and was about forty years of age. There was something solemn 
 in his gait and bearing. When his hazel and penetrating 
 eye encountered the dull glance of the old woman, it made 
 her tremble ; she credited him with a gift or habit of reading 
 what was passing in people's breasts. His address must be as 
 freezing as the air of the street. Was the somewhat green and 
 earthy hue of that terrible face the result of excessive toil or of 
 delicate health? This was a problem to which the old mother 
 found twenty different solutions. But the next day, Caroline, 
 and only Caroline, discovered on that brow which was so prone 
 to knit the traces of protracted mental suffering. On the
 
 262 BALZAC. 
 
 slightly hollow cheeks of the stranger might be seen the mark 
 of that seal which sorrow sets upon its subjects, as if it would 
 leave them the consolation of being able to recognise each other 
 with a fraternal eye, and unite their strength in resistance. At 
 first, the eye of the young girl brightened, from innocent curiosity 
 simply ; but as the stranger receded in the distance, looking like 
 the last mourner in a funeral procession, her look was one of 
 gentle sympathy Between the great heat of the weather and 
 his own absence of mind, the stranger had not replaced his 
 hat as he passed through the close, unwholesome street, so that 
 Caroline had an opportunity of observing the appearance of 
 sternness which the stranger's hair, rising brush-like from his 
 forehead, gave to the features. The vivid, but not agreeable 
 impression produced on Caroline's mind by the aspect of this 
 man, was different from any that had been created by any 
 other of the habitues Now, for the first time, she felt com- 
 passion for some one, other than her mother and herself. To 
 the queer conjectures which supplied food to the irritating 
 loquacity of her mother, she made no answer ; but kept passing 
 her long needle up and down through the tight-stretched tulle. 
 She was sorry she had seen so little of the stranger, and waited 
 for the next day ere passing a definite sentence upon him. 
 Never before had any of the frequenters of the street caused 
 her such a number of reflections. As a rule the suppositions 
 of the mother, who hoped to find in every passer-by a protec- 
 tor for her daughter, were greeted only with a mournful smile. 
 If such ideas, thus imprudently suggested, aroused no evil 
 thoughts in Caroline's heart, her indifference must be imputed 
 to that incessant and, alas, indispensable toil which was de- 
 vouring the forces of her precious youth, and must infallibly, 
 in the long-run, trouble the clearness of her eyes, and steal 
 from her pure cheeks the delicate color with which they 
 .were still tinged. For about two whole months the black gen- 
 tleman such was his nickname was very capricious in his 
 proceedings. He did not always pass through the Rue du
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 2GO 
 
 Tourniquet ; the old v.-ornan often saw him in the evening, 
 without having seen him in the morning ; he did not return at 
 fixed times like the other civil servants, who were as good as 
 a clock to Madame Crochard. In short, but for that first 
 encounter of glances, from which the old woman had imbibed 
 a kind of dread, the eye of the stranger had never seemed to 
 lake the slightest notice of the picturesque group presented 
 by the two female gnomes. Two large gates and the dark 
 shop of a dealer in old iron were, with the exception of some 
 grated windows which lighted the staircases of some neighbor- 
 ing houses, the only openings into the Rue du Tourniquet, at 
 the period of which we are speaking, so that the slender 
 curiosity of the passer could not be laid to the score of dan- 
 gerous rivalries. Madame Crochard was necessarily tantalized 
 to see her black gentleman always lost in serious thought, keep- 
 ing his eyes fixed upon the ground, or looking straight before 
 him as if he would read the future in the fog of the Rue du 
 Tourniquet. Nevertheless, one morning towards the end of 
 September, the playful head of Caroline Crochard stood out 
 so clearly against the dim back-ground of her room, and looked 
 so fresh amid the tardy flowers, and the withered foliage en- 
 twined about the window bars, while the everyday scene pre 
 sented such contrasts of light and shadow, of red and white, 
 so happily combined with the muslin which the dainty little 
 workwoman was looping up, and with the red and brown tints 
 of the armchairs, that the stranger looked very attentively at the 
 living picture. It must be admitted that the old mother, weary 
 of the indifference of her black gentleman, had adopted the 
 plan of making such a clicking with her bobbins, that the sad and 
 careworn passer was perhaps compelled by the unwonted noise 
 to look at her abode. The stranger only exchanged with 
 Caroline one glance, a glance rapid it is true, but long enough 
 to bring their minds into contact, and to inspire them with 
 the presentiment that they would think of one another. When, 
 at four o'clock in the afternoon, the stranger returned, Caroline
 
 264 BALZAC. 
 
 vlistinguished the sound of his footsteps upon the echoing 
 pavement, and there was a kind of premeditation in the looks 
 which they exchanged. The eyes of the passenger were beam- 
 ing with a benevolent expression, and Caroline blushed, while 
 the face of the old mother assumed a satisfied air. Reckon- 
 ing from that memorable morning, with very few exceptions, 
 not unnoticed by the two women, the black gentleman passed 
 through the Rue du Tourniquet twice a day. From the 
 irregularity of his hour for returning, they came to the con- 
 clusion that he was not so soon released from his duties, nor 
 so strictly punctual as a subaltern clerk. During the first three 
 winter months Caioline and the stranger saw each other thus, 
 during the time he took to traverse the piece of pavement 
 stretching from the door past the three windows of the house. 
 From day to day this rapid interview assumed a character of 
 benevolent intimacy, and ended by becoming almost brotherly. 
 Caroline and the stranger appeared from the first to under- 
 stand each other, and finally, by dint of examining each other's 
 faces, they gained a profound knowledge of them. This pas- 
 sing glance soon became, as it were, a visit which the stranger 
 owed to Caroline. If the black gentleman happened to pass 
 without greeting her with the half-formed smile upon his elo- 
 quent mouth, or the friendly glance of his brown eyes, there 
 was something wanting in her day. She was like those old 
 men to whom the reading of the newspaper has become so 
 great a pleasure, that the morning after a grand festivity, they 
 go away quite disconcerted, asking as much through inadver- 
 tence as impatience, for the sheet which helps them to fill 
 for the moment the void of their existence. But these fugitive 
 interviews possessed, both for Caroline and the stranger, all 
 the interest of a familiar chat between two friends. The young 
 girl was no more able to conceal from the intelligent eye of 
 her silent friend her sadness, uneasiness, or anxiety, than he 
 could hide from Caroline his preoccupation. 
 
 " He had some trouble yesterday," was a thought which
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 265 
 
 often sprang up in the heart of the needlewoman, when she 
 beheld the changed features of the black gentleman. " Oh, he 
 must have been hard at work," was another exclamation, which 
 certain slight alterations, known to Caroline, would call forth. 
 The stranger, on his part, could tell when the young girl had 
 been working on Sunday, in order to finish the dress in the 
 pattern of which he took an interest. When rent day approach- 
 ed he saw the pretty face clouded with anxiety, and could tell 
 when Caroline had sat up late ; but he had especially remarked 
 how the sad thoughts which disfigured the gay and delicate 
 features of the young face disappeared, as their acquaintance 
 ripened. When winter came to wither the stems and leaves 
 of the window-garden, and the casement was closed, the 
 stranger noticed, with a smile of harmless mischief, the extra- 
 ordinary cleanness of the glass, to the height of Caroline's 
 head. In the scanty fire, and certain patches of red which 
 heightened the color of the two women, he saw the indigence 
 of the household ; but if painful compassion could be read in 
 his eyes, Caroline met it with assumed gaiety. The feelings, 
 however, which had budded in their hearts had remained 
 buried there. No. event happened to reveal to either the 
 strength or extent of the other's feelings. They did not 
 know even the sound of each other's voices. The two dumb 
 friends avoided involving themselves in a closer union as if 
 it were a misfortune. Each of them seemed to dread inflict- 
 ing on the other a misery more weighty than that which they 
 took pleasure in sharing. Was it the modesty of friendship 
 which checked them at that point? Was it that selfish apprehen- 
 sion, or that atrocious distrust which separates all the inhabi- 
 tants of a populous city ? Was it that the silent voice of 
 conscience gave them warning of the approaching danger? 
 It would be impossible to explain the sentiment which made 
 them half enemies, half friends, half indifferent and half 
 attached, as much united by instinct, as separated in fact. 
 Perhaps they wanted to preserve their illusion. At times, one
 
 2G6 BALZAC. 
 
 would come to the conclusion that the stranger feared he 
 might hear some coarse language from those fresh lips, which 
 were as pure as a flower, and that Caroline did not deem 
 herself good enough for that mysterious being, whose mien 
 and bearing spoke of wealth and power. As for Madame 
 Crochard, that tender mother, almost discontented with the in- 
 decision of Caroline, looked sullenly at her black gentleman, at 
 whom she had formerly cast smiling glances that were almost 
 servile. Never had she so bitterly complained to her daughter 
 of being compelled to do the cooking at her time of life ; 
 never had her rheumatism and her catarrh extorted from her 
 so many groans ; and lastly, she had not been able to make as 
 many ells of tulle that winter as Caroline had till then counted 
 on. Such being the situation of affairs, and it being now the 
 end of December, the time when bread is always dearest, 
 and when the scarcity of grain, which made the year 1816 so 
 hard for poor people, was beginning to be felt, the stranger 
 noticed upon the face of the young girl, whose very name was 
 unknown to him, the fearful traces of some secret thought, not 
 to be dissipated by his benevolent smile. Soon afterwards he 
 could read in Caroline's eyes the wan effects of nightwork. 
 On one of the last nights of that month, ^he stranger returned 
 towards one o'clock a. m. through the Rue du Tourniquet St. 
 Jean. The night was so silent that long before reaching 
 Caroline's house he could hear the querulous voice of the old 
 mother, the more mournful tones of the young sempstress 
 mingling shrilly with the whistling snowstorm. He tried to 
 creep up slowly, and at the risk of being arrested, ensconced 
 himself beneath the window, to listen to the mother and 
 daughter, while he watched them through the largest of the 
 holes which gashed the curtains of yellowish muslin, and made 
 them look like large cabbage-leaves gnawed into holes by 
 caterpillars. The inquisitive passenger saw a stamped docu- 
 ment upon the table, which stood between the two frames and 
 supported the lamp with its two water-globes. He saw at
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 267 
 
 once that it was a summons. Madame Crochard was crying, 
 and Caroline's voice had a guttural sound, which marred the 
 natural sweetness and gentleness of its tones. 
 
 "Why distress yourself so, mother? Monsieur Molineux 
 will not sell us up, or turn us out before I have finished this 
 dress. Two nights more and I shall take it to Madame 
 Roguin's." 
 
 " And what if she makes you wait as she always does, and 
 will the price of the dress pay the baker as well ? " 
 
 The spectator of this scene was so much in the habit of 
 reading faces that he saw, at least so he fancied, as much 
 affectation in the mother's sorrow, as genuineness in that of 
 the daughter. He suddenly disappeared, but returned a short 
 time afterwards. On looking through the slit in the muslin, he 
 saw that the mother was in bed, while the young girl, with her 
 head bent over her frame, was working with indefatigable 
 assiduity ; on the table close to the summons lay a piece of 
 bread, cut in the form of a triangle, and placed there, no 
 doubt, for the young girl to eat during the night, while remind- 
 ing her of the recompense of her courage. The stranger,, 
 trembling with pity and sorrow, threw his purse through a 
 broken pane to the very feet of the young girl. Then, without 
 staying to enjoy her surprise, he decamped with beating heart 
 and burning cheek. The next day the sad and unsociable 
 stranger assumed a preoccupied air as he passed by ; but he 
 could not evade the gratitude of Caroline, who had thrown the 
 window open, and was amusing herself by digging up with a 
 knife the soil in the snow-covered box a pretext whose in- 
 genious clumsiness showed her benefactor that this time she 
 did not wish to see him through the glass. The sempstress r 
 with her eyes full of tears, bowed to the stranger, as if to say, 
 " I can only pay you with my heart." But the black gentleman 
 looked as if he did not at all understand this expression of 
 genuine gratitude. As he repassed in the evening, Caroline, 
 who was engaged in repasting a sheet of paper over the broken
 
 268 BALZAC. 
 
 pane, displayed the enamel of her gleaming teeth in a smile 
 that was full of promises. Thenceforth the black gentleman 
 sought another thoroughfare, and was seen no mete in the Rue 
 du Tourniquet. One Saturday morning, in the early part of 
 the ensuing May, Caroline espied between the two black rows 
 of houses a small bit of blue sky. and while watering out of a 
 tumbler the root of her honey-suckle, said to her mother, 
 
 " Mamma, we must go for a walk at Montmorency to-mor- 
 row." The joyous phrase had scarcely passed her lips when 
 the black gentleman went by, sadder and more dejected than 
 ever. The modest but kindly glance which Caroline cast at 
 him might well be taken for an invitation. Accordingly when, 
 on the following day, Madame Crochard, dressed in a merino 
 robe of reddish brown, a silk bonnet, and an imitation Cash- 
 mere shawl with large stripes, presented herself at the corner 
 of the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis and the Rue d'Enghien, 
 for the purpose of choosing a coucou, she found her stranger 
 standing there, like a man who is waiting for his wife. A smile of 
 pleasure chased the furrows from the stranger's face when he 
 saw Caroline. Her little feet were cased in pure puce-colored 
 prunello. Her white dress, the sport of a wind that would 
 have been treacherous to an ill-made woman, displayed her 
 attractive figure. Her face, shaded by a rice-straw hat, lined 
 with rose-colored silk, was lighted up, as it were, with a ray 
 from heaven. Her large puce-colored sash set off to great 
 advantage a very slender waist. Her hair parted into two 
 bands of bistre over her snowy forehead, gave her an air of 
 candor which there was nothing in the rest of her features to 
 counteract. Joy seemed to make Caroline's heart as light as 
 the slrdw of her hat; but when she caught sight of the black 
 gentleman, there was kindled in her breast a hope, which at 
 once eclipsed her dress and beauty. It was perhaps this sud- 
 den revelation of the joy occasioned by his presence, that 
 determined him to be the travelling companion of .the little 
 needlewoman ; for at first he seemed undecided. He hired a
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 269 
 
 cabriolet with a decent horse, to go to Saint-Leu-Taverny, and 
 offered Madame Crochard and her daughter a place in it. 
 The mother accepted the offer without waiting for it to be 
 repeated ; but as soon as the cabriolet had reached the road 
 to St. Denis, she took it into her head to have some scruples, 
 and uttered timidly polite fears that the presence of the two- 
 women might cause their companion some inconvenience. 
 
 " Perhaps you wished to go to St. Denis alone, sir," said she 
 with affected good nature. But she soon began to complain 
 about the heat, and especially about her cold, which had not r 
 so she said, allowed her to close her eyes the whole night 
 through. So, suiting the action to the word, she seemed to be 
 fast asleep, almost ere the carriage had reached St. Denis. 
 Some of her snores seemed to the black gentleman to be extre- 
 mely suspicious, and as he looked at the old woman, he 
 frowned with an air of singular distrust. 
 
 " Oh, she is asleep," said Caroline artlessly, " she did not 
 cease coughing the whole night through. She must be very- 
 tired." 
 
 The only response of her companion was a subtle smile 
 which seemed to say to the young girl, " you innocent creature,, 
 you don't know your mother." Nevertheless, when the carriage 
 was bowling along the road in the long avenue of poplars which 
 leads to Eaubonne, the black gentleman in spite of his suspici- 
 ousness, came to the conclusion that Madame Crochard was 
 really asleep. Perhaps, also, he did not care to pursue his- 
 investigations into the genuineness of the slumber, any further. 
 Whether the beauty of the sky, the pure country air, and the 
 intoxicating perfumes of the first shoots of the poplar-tree, and 
 of the flowers of the willow, and the white thorn, had caused 
 his heart to unfold itself as nature was unfolding herself; 
 whether longer self-restraint was becoming irksome to him, or 
 Caroline's sparkling eyes reflected the disquiet of his own, the 
 black gentleman began a conversation with his young companion, 
 that was as vague as the undulating movements of the tree
 
 2 ,*0 BALZAC. 
 
 swaying in the breeze, as rambling as the wandering flight of 
 the butterfly in the blue sky, as illogical as the melodious mur- 
 mur of the fields, though filled like that with a mysterious love. 
 At this season of the year the country trembles like a bride 
 who has just donned her wedding-dress, and bids the coldest 
 heart rejoice. Quitting the dark streets of the Marais for the 
 first time since the last autumn, and plunged into the midst of 
 the harmonious and picturesque vale of Montmorency ; passing 
 through it in the morning with its boundless expanse before 
 the eye ; turning from that to eyes which also speak of infinity 
 by expressing love, who would not melt ? what lips would keep 
 a secret ? The stranger found Caroline gay rather than witty, 
 affectionate rather than well informed ; but, if her laugh was 
 .giddy, her language showed that her feelings were genuine. 
 As the young girl replied to the skilful questionings of her com- 
 panion, with that lavish outpouring of the heart which is 
 characteristic of the lower classes, who disdain the reticence of 
 the denizens of the world, the face of the black gentleman grew 
 animated, and seemed to gain new life. His countenance 
 gradually lost the sadness which had contracted his features , 
 then, tint by tint, assumed an air of youth and beauty, which 
 made Caroline quite proud and happy. The pretty embroi- 
 derer guessed that her protector had been so long weaned 
 from tenderness and love, that he had ceased to believe in 
 womanly devotion. At length an unexpected sally of Caroline's 
 light tongue removed the last veil which had concealed the 
 real youthfulness and native character of the stranger's face. 
 He seemed to bid an eternal farewell to the ideas that had 
 troubled him, and began to display the vivacity which under- 
 lay his solemn face. The chit-chat became by imperceptible 
 degrees, so intimate, that when the carriage stopped at the first 
 houses in the straggling village of Saint-Leu, Caroline had 
 begun to call the stranger " Monsieur Roger." Then for the 
 iir=t time the old lady woke up.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 271 
 
 " Caroline, she must have heard all we have been saying," 
 whispered Roger to the young girl suspiciously. 
 
 Caroline's answer was a charming smile of incredulity which 
 scattered the dark cloud that fear of some scheme on the part 
 of the mother had brought to the brow of the suspicious man. 
 Without expressing any surprise, Madame Crochard approved 
 of everything, and followed her daughter and Monsieur Roger 
 into the park of Saint-Leu, whither the two young people had 
 agreed to go, to see the laughing prairies and perfumed groves, 
 which the taste of Queen Hortense has made so celebrated. 
 
 " My God, how beautiful it is !" said Caroline, as, mounted 
 on the top of the green slope, whence rises the forest of Mont- 
 morency, she saw at her feet the vast valley unfolding its sinu- 
 osities sown with villages, the blue horizon of its hills, its 
 steeples, fields, and prairies, while the whisper of the vale, like 
 the murmur of the sea, stole to her ear and died. The three 
 travellers skirted the banks of an artificial stream, and reached 
 the Swiss valley, whose collage more than once received Queen 
 H >rtense and Napoleon. 
 
 When Caroline had seated herself with religious respect 
 upon the moss-grown bench on which kings and princesses 
 and the emperor had rested, Madame Crochard manifested a 
 desire to gain a nearer view of a suspension bridge joining two 
 rocks, which was to be seen in the distance, and directed her 
 steps towards that rustic curiosity, leaving her child under the 
 care of Monsieur Roger, but telling him that she would keep 
 an eye upon them. 
 
 " And do you mean to tell me, my poor little creature," cried 
 Roger, " that you have never sighed for wealth and the enjoy- 
 ments of luxury? Don't you sometimes wish to wear the 
 handsome dresses which you embroider?" 
 
 " I should not be telling you the truth, Monsieur Roger, if 
 I said that I never think of the happiness which the rich enjoy. 
 Oh, yes, I often think, especially when I am going to sleep, of 
 the pleasure I should find in seeing my poor mother not
 
 272 BALZAC. 
 
 obliged at her time of life to go through all kinds of weather 
 to fetch our little necessaries. I should like to have a char- 
 woman to take her her coffee, well sweetened with white sugar, 
 in the morning before she gets up. She loves novel reading, 
 poor old soul ; well, I would rather see her wearing her eyes 
 out over her favorite reading, than doing nothing but moving 
 her bobbins from morning till night. She would want a little 
 good wine too. In short, I should like to see her h^ppy, she 
 is so good." 
 
 "She has shown you her goodness then?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied the young girl in a low voice. Then, 
 after a brief interval of silence, during which the two young 
 people looked at Madame Crochard, who, having reached the 
 middle of the rustic bridge, was skaking her finger at -them, 
 Caroline continued, 
 
 " Oh, yes, she has proved it to me. What care she took of 
 me when I was little ! She sold her last bits of plate in order 
 to apprentice me to the old maid who taught me embroider- 
 ing. And then, my poor father; what trouble she took to 
 make his last moments pass comfortably!" As this thought 
 crossed her mind the young girl shuddered and covered her 
 face with her two hands. " Ah, bah, let us never think of 
 bygone evils," said she, trying to resume a cheerful look. She 
 colored when she saw Roger was affected by her words ; but 
 did not dare to look at him. 
 
 " What was your father, then ?" he asked. 
 
 " My father was an opera-dancer before the revolution," said 
 she, in the most natural manner possible, " and my mother 
 was a chorus singer. My father, who used to marshall the 
 troops at the theatre, was accidentally present at the taking of 
 the Bastile. He was recognized by some of the assailants, who 
 asked him if he who commanded sham assaults on the stage, 
 could not lead a real attack well. My father who was a brave 
 man, accepted their proposal, headed the insurgents, and was 
 rewarded with the grade of captain in the army of the Sambre
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 273 
 
 et Meuse, where he behaved so well as to gain rapid promotion; 
 he became a colonel ; but he was so severely wounded at 
 Lutzen, that he returned to Paris only to die, after a year's 
 illness. The Bourbons came back, my mother could get no 
 pension, and we sank back into such deep poverty, that we 
 were compelled to work for a living. For some time past the 
 good soul has been ailing, and I have never seen her so little 
 resigned; she complains, and I can understand it; she has 
 tasted the sweets of a happy existence. As for me, who cannot 
 regret pleasures which I have never known, I only ask of Hea- 
 ven one thing." 
 
 "What is that?" asked Roger quickly: (he seemed pen- 
 sive.) 
 
 " That women may always wear embroidered tulle, so that 
 work may never fall short." 
 
 The frankness of these confessions secured fhe young man's 
 interest ; he looked at Madame Crochard with a less hostile 
 eye, as with tardy steps she returned to them. 
 
 "Well, my children, have you had a good chat?" she. in- 
 quired, with a half-indulgent, half-bantering air. " When one 
 thinks, Monsieur Roger, that le petit caporal has sat where you 
 are now sitting," she resumed, after a moment's silence. " Poor 
 man," she added, " my husband loved him, that he did. Ah \ 
 Orochard did well to die, for he could not have endured to 
 know that he is where they have put him." 
 
 Roger put his finger to his lips, and the good woman 
 nodded her head, and said gravely, "Enough, I'll keep a close 
 mouth and a still tongue. But," added she, opening the folds 
 of her dress and displaying a cross with its red riband, fastened 
 round her neck by a bit of black silk, "they won't prevent me 
 from wearing what the other gave to my poor Crochard, and I 
 will certainly have it buried with me. . . ." 
 
 On hearing these words, which would at that time be deemed 
 seditious, Roger interrupted the old mother by rising abruptly, 
 and they returned to the village through the alleys of the park. 
 R
 
 274 BALZAC. 
 
 The young man left them for a few moments, to go and order 
 something to eat at the best eating-house in Taverny ; he then 
 returned for the two women, and took them to the house 
 through the forest paths. The dinner was gay. Roger was 
 no longer the ill omened shadow that used formerly to pass 
 through the Rue du Tourniquet; rather than the black gentle- 
 man, he now resembled a confident youth, ready to swim with 
 the current of existence, like those two heedless and industri- 
 ous women, who might perhaps be wanting bread to-morrow. 
 He seemed to be under the influence of youthful joys, his smile 
 was caressing and childlike. When towards five o'clock 
 sundry glasses of champagne brought the dinner to an end, 
 Roger was the first to suggest that they should join the village 
 ball beneath the chestnut-trees, where he and Caroline danced 
 together. There was a meaning in the pressure of their 
 hands, their beating hearts were inspired by the same hope ; 
 and beneath the blue sky, in the red horizontal rays of the 
 setting sun, their looks shone with such radiance as to dim 
 the light of heaven. What strange power in an idea and a 
 desire ! Nothing seemed impossible to these two beings. In 
 these magic moments, when pleasure casts its glamor even on 
 the future, the heart foretells nothing but delight. That bright 
 day had already created, for these two beings, memories with 
 which nothing in their past existence could compare. Is, 
 then, the spring more grateful than the stream, desire more 
 enchanting than enjoyment, hope more attractive than posses- 
 sion? 
 
 " Ah, then, the day is ended ! " 
 
 This exclamation escaped the stranger's lips, when the dance 
 was over. Caroline, seeing that a slight touch of sadness was 
 stealing back to his face, looked at him with an air of com- 
 passion. 
 
 " Why should you not be as happy in Paris as here?" said 
 she. " Is happiness to be found only at Saint-Leu ? It 
 seems to me that I cannot be unhappy anywhere now !"
 
 DOUBLE FAMILY. 275 
 
 Roger trembled when he heard these words, the offspring of 
 that sweet self abandonment which ever leads women farther 
 than they would go, just as prudery often makes them seem 
 more cruel than they really are. 
 
 For the first time, since that glance which had been in some 
 sort the commencement of their friendship, Caroline and 
 Roger harbored the same thought. If they did not give ex- 
 pression to it, they felt it at the same time, through the 
 medium of a mutual impression, which resembled the warmth 
 of a grateful fire, consoling them for the chill of winter. Then, 
 as if they dreaded their mutual silence, they walked to the 
 place where the carriage was waiting for them. But before 
 they got into it, they took each other's hands like brother and 
 sister, and ran on in front of Madame Crochard, down a dark 
 avenue. When they had lost sight of the white tulle bonnet 
 which, peeping through the foliage, showed them where the 
 old woman was, Roger cried with troubled voice and beating 
 heart, "Caroline?" The young girl, recognizing the passion 
 that breathed in that interrogation, stepped back a pace or two, 
 confused; still she held out her hand, which was ardently 
 kissed, then quickly withdrawn, for rising on tip-toe, Caroline 
 had caught sight of her mother. Madame Crochard pretended 
 that she saw nothing ; as if, in memory of her former calling, 
 she was only called upon to figure there in an aparte. 
 
 The love affair of these two young people was carried no 
 further in the Rue du Tourniquet. If you would find Caro- 
 ine and Roger now, you must transport yourself to the centre 
 of Modern Paris, to those new-built houses which seem to 
 have been constructed expressly for young couples to pass 
 their honeymoon in them. Paint and paper, like the pair, are 
 new ; the decorations like the love, are in their first bloom. 
 Everything is in harmony with young impressions and efferves- 
 cent desire. There stood in the middle of the Rue Taitbout, 
 a house whose freestone was still white, and the columns of its 
 door and vestibule free from stains, while its walls shone with
 
 276 BALZAC. 
 
 that coquettish style of painting which our first relations with 
 England had rendered fashionable. On the second floor of 
 this house the architect had arranged a little dwelling, as if he 
 had guesed what its destination would be. A neat and simple 
 anteroom, lined breast-high with stucco, communicated with a 
 drawing-room and a small dining-room. Beyond the drawing- 
 room was a pretty bedchamber, and adjoining that, a bath- 
 room. The chimney-pieces were furnished throughout with 
 tall mirrors in tasteful frames. The doors were ornamented 
 with refined arabesques, and the cornices were of the purest 
 style. An amateur would have recognized there, better than 
 elsewhere, that knowledge of distinction and ornament which 
 is Characteristic of our modern architects. Caroline had occu- 
 pied these apartments for about a month. They had been 
 furnished by one of those upholsterers who follow the direc- 
 tions of the artist. A succinct description of the most import- 
 ant room will suffice to give an idea of the marvels which this 
 little abode presented to the eyes of Caroline when Roger 
 installed her in it. 
 
 Hangings of grey material enlivened by borders of green 
 silk, adorned the walls of her bedroom. The chairs, covered 1 
 with light kerseymere, were of the slight and graceful form 
 prescribed by the latest caprices of fashion. A commode of 
 some indigenous wood inlaid with brown lines guarded the 
 treasures of the wardrobe. There was a writing-table of simi- 
 lar description for the inditement of billets-doux on perfumed 
 paper. The bed, with its antique drapery, could not fail to- 
 inspire voluptuous ideas, by the softness of its elegantly 
 arranged muslins. Its curtains of grey silk, with their green 
 tassels, were also drawn so as to exclude the light. The bronze 
 timepiece .represented Cupid crowning Psyche ; and lastly a 
 carpet with gothic designs upon a reddish ground brought out 
 in full relief the accessories of this abode of pleasure. In 
 front of a Psyche stood a little toilet-table, and seated before
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 277 
 
 it was the ex-embroiderer, growing impatient over the science 
 of Plaisir, a celebrated hair-dresser. 
 
 " Do you expect to finish my head to-day?" said she. 
 
 " Madame's hair is so long and thick," replied Plaisir. 
 
 Caroline could not help smiling. The flattery of the hair- 
 dresser had no doubt awakened in her heart a recollection of 
 the enthusiastic praise which her friend bestowed upon, the 
 beauty of the tresses which he so strongly admired. 
 
 When the hairdresser had gone, the lady's moid came to 
 hold a council with Caroline as to the toilette which would 
 please Roger best. It was then the beginning of September, 
 1816, and the weather was cold, so that choice was made of a 
 dress of green grenadine, trimmed with chinchilla. As soon 
 as her toilette was complete, Caroline rushed to the drawing- 
 room, and opened a window leading to the elegant balcony 
 which ornamented the front of the house. 
 
 There she stood with folded arms, in a charming posture, 
 not in order to attract the admiration or the passengers, and 
 see them turning their heads to look at her, but that she might 
 command the boulevard at the end of the Rue Taitbout. 
 This prospect, which one might compare to the slit made by 
 actors in the curtain of a theatre, enabled Caroline to catch 
 sight of a multitude of elegant carriages, and a number of 
 people sweeping on with the rapidity of Chinese shadows. 
 
 The whilom sempstress of the Rue de Tourniquet not know- 
 ing whether Roger would come on foot or in a carriage, 
 scrutinized in turn the pedestrians and the tilburies, those light 
 vehicles imported into France by the English. Mingled ex- 
 pressions of mutiny and love chased each other over her 
 youthful features, when, after watching for a quarter of an 
 hour, neither her piercing eye nor her heart warned her of the 
 approach of him whom she was expecting. What contempt, 
 what utter disregard for all the beings who were bustling about 
 like ants beneath her feet, might be read upon that beautiful 
 face. Her grey eyes danced cind sparkled with mischief. Ab-
 
 278 BALZAC. 
 
 sorbed in her passion she avoided homage with as much care 
 a.3 the very proudest take to reap it during their walk in Paris. 
 Little indeed did she reck whether the impression made by 
 her cream-white complexion, or by the little loot jutting out 
 from the balcony, or the tantalizing picture of her lively eyes 
 and daintily retrousse nose, would on the morrow be erased 
 from the memory of the admiring passenger, or not. She saw 
 but one face, she had but one idea, when the spotted head of 
 a certain dark bay horse showed itself beyond the line of 
 houses. 
 
 Caroline trembled, and stocd on tiptoe to try to recognize 
 the white reins and the color of the tilbury. It was he. Roger 
 turns the street corner, catches sight of the balcony and whips 
 his horse, the horse darts forward to the bronze door, that he 
 knows as well as his master knows it. The door of the apart- 
 ment was opened in advance by the lady's maid, who had 
 heard her mistress's joyful exclamation. Roger rushes to the 
 drawing-room, presses Caroline in his arms, and kisses her with 
 that outburst of feeling which always accompanies the meeting 
 of two lovers who meet rarely. He leads her, or rather, though 
 locked in each other's arms, they walk with one accord, to 
 that charming, sequestered, and scented chamber. They sit 
 down upon a sofa before the fire, and gaze at each other for 
 a moment in silence, expressing their happiness by ardent pres 
 sure of each other's hands and communicating their thoughts 
 in one long look. 
 
 " Yes, it is he," she at length exclaimed, " yes, it is you. 
 Do you know that it is three long days a century, since 1 saw 
 you. But what is the matter? has anything annoyed you f >f 
 
 " My poor Caroline !" 
 
 " There now, ' my poor Caroline,' indeed !" 
 
 " No, don't laugh, my angel, we cannot go to Feydeau's this 
 evening." 
 
 Caroline began to pout a little, but soon looked bright 
 again.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 279 
 
 " I am a stupid. How can I think about the theatre when I 
 am looking at you ? Is not seeing you the only spectacle I 
 care for?" said she, passing her fingers through Roger's hair. 
 
 " I am obliged to go to the attorney-general's ; we have a 
 difficult matter on hand. He met me in the great hall, and as 
 I shall have to speak, he asked me to go and dine with him ; 
 but, my darling, you can go to Feydeau's with your mother; I 
 will join you there if the conference is soon over." 
 
 " What, go to the theatre without you /" cried she, with an 
 expression of astonishment; " enjoy a pleasure which you do 
 not share O my Roger, you do not deserve to be kissed," 
 she added, springing to his neck with a movement that was at 
 once unaffected and voluptuous. 
 
 " Caroline, I must go back and dress myself. The Marais 
 is some distance oft", and I have still some business to get 
 through." 
 
 " Take care, sir, what you are saying, there," said Caroline, 
 interrupting him. " My mother told me that when men begin 
 to talk to us about their business, they have ceased to love us." 
 
 " Caroline, have I not come to see you ? Haven't I stolen 
 this hour from my inexorable " 
 
 " Hush," said she, placing a finger on Roger's mouth ; 
 " hush, don't you see that I am only in fun." 
 
 They had now gone back to the drawing-room. There 
 Roger caught sight of a piece of furnitu~e which the cabinet- 
 maker had brought that very morning ; the old rosewood frame, 
 which had fed Caroline and her mother when they were living 
 in the Rue du Tourniquet St. Jean, had been refurbished, and 
 a tulle dress of rich design was already stretched upon it. 
 
 " Well, my dear friend, this evening I will work. While I 
 embroider, I shall believe myself back again, in those old days 
 when you used to pass me without speaking, but not without 
 looking at me ; those days when the recollection of your looks 
 kept me awake at night. O my dear frame, the best piece of 
 furniture in my drawing-room, although it is not a gift from
 
 280 BALZAC 
 
 you : you don't know ;" she said, silting down on the knees of 
 Roger, who unable to restrain his emotions, had sunk into an 
 armchair. " Listen to me now; I intend to give what I make 
 by my embroidery to the poor. You have made me rich 
 How I love that pretty little estate at Bellefeuille, not so much 
 for what it is, as because you gave it me. But tell me, Roger, 
 I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille, can I ? Is 
 it legal, or would it be winked at?" 
 
 Seeing Roger's slight gesture of assent, which ivas inspired 
 by his hatred of the name of Crochard, Caroline gave a light 
 skip and clapped her hands. 
 
 " It seems to me," she cried, " that I shall be much more 
 your own like that. As a rule a girl renounces her own name, 
 and takes that of her husband." A troublesome thought which 
 she at once dismissed, brought the color to her cheeks. She 
 took Roger's hand and led him to the open piano. " Listen," 
 said she, "I know my sonta like an angel, now;" and her 
 fingers had begun to wander over the ivory keys, when she 
 felt herself seized by the waist and borne aloft. 
 
 " Caroline, I ought to be far away from here." 
 
 " You want to go ? Well, then, away with you," said she, 
 pouting ; but she smiled when she looked at the timepiece, and 
 joyously exclaimed, at all events I shall have kept you a quar- 
 ter of an hour beyond your time." 
 
 " Farewell, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille" said he, with the 
 gentle irony of love. 
 
 She snatched a kiss' and accompanied her Roger to the 
 door; when she had lost the sound of his footsteps on the 
 stairs, she ran to the balcony, to watch him getting into his 
 tilbury, and taking the reins into his hands, to catch his last 
 look, hear the crack of his whip and the rattling of the wheels 
 upon the pavement ; to follow with her eyes the gallant horse, 
 its master's hat, the gold lace on the groom's, and still to gaze 
 long after the dark angle of t^e street had hid the vision from 
 her sight.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 281 
 
 Five years after the installation of Caroline de Bellefeuille, 
 in the pretty house in the Rue Taitbout, there took place another 
 of those domestic scenes which draw still more closely the 
 bonds of affection between two beings who love one another. 
 
 " In the middle of the blue drawing room, in front of the 
 window that opened on to the balcony, a little boy, four-and-a- 
 half years old, was making a most infernal noise, as he whipped 
 his rocking-horse, the leg-sustaining curves of which were not 
 moving fast enough to suit his fancy. His pretty little head, 
 covered with light hair, that fell down upon his embroidered 
 collar in a thousand curls, assumed an angelic smile when his 
 mother called on him from the armchair in which she was 
 plunged, 
 
 " Not so much noise, Charles ; you will wake your little 
 sister." 
 
 Thereupon, the inquisitive child dismounted briskly from 
 his horse, stole to his mother on tiptoe as if he dreaded the 
 noise of his feet upon the carpet, placed a finger between his 
 teeth, and, assuming one of those childish attitudes which de- 
 rive their principal charm from being so entirely natural, raised 
 the veil of white muslin which covered the fresh face of a 
 little girl, who was sleeping on her mother's knee. 
 
 " Euge'ne is asleep, then ?" said he, quite astonished. " Why 
 should she be asleep when we are awake?" he added, opening 
 his large black liquid eyes. 
 
 " God only knows why," replied Caroline, smiling. 
 
 The mother and child gazed at the little girl, who had been 
 baptized that very morning. Caroline, who was now twenty- 
 four years old, was in the full bloom of that beauty which un- 
 clouded happiness and continuous enjoyment had developed. 
 In Caroline, the woman was complete. Only too glad to fall 
 in with the wishes of her dear Roger, she had acquired the 
 accomplishments which she lacked. She played the piano 
 tolerably well, and sang agreeably. Sne was ignorant of the 
 usages of society, which would have rejected her, and she
 
 282 BALZAC. 
 
 would not have frequented, even if she would have been 
 welcomed into it ; for the woman who is happy does not care 
 about society. She had not learned those drawing-room 
 manners, nor that drawing-room style of conversation, which is 
 so full of words and void of ideas. But by way of counter- 
 poise, she laboriously acquired that knowledge which is indis- 
 pensable to a mother whose whole ambition is to bring up her 
 children well. Her only pleasures were to be always with her 
 boy, to give him, from the cradle, those perpetual lessons which 
 imbue the hearts of the young with a taste for the true and 
 the beautiful, to preserve him from every evil influence, and to 
 fulfil alike the troublesome functions of the nurse, and the 
 sweet obligations of the mother. 
 
 This discreet and gentle creature had, from the very first, so 
 cheerfully made up her mind to keep strictly within the 
 charmed circle in which all her happiness was bound up, that 
 after six years of the most affectionate intimacy, she still knew 
 her friend only by the name of Roger. The engraving of the 
 picture of Psyche coming with her lamp to look at Cupid in 
 spite of his prohibition, hung in Caroline's bedroom, and 
 reminded her of the conditions of her happiness. Not once 
 during those six years had any misplaced ambition on her part 
 worried the heart of Roger, which was a real treasure of good- 
 ness. She never wanted dresses or diamonds; nor did her 
 vanity induce her to accept the offer of a carriage, which was 
 twenty times repeated. To stand on the balcony and wait for 
 Roger, to go with him to the theatre, or in fine weather to take a 
 walk with him through the environs of Paris, to expect him, to 
 see him, and look forward to seeing him again such was the 
 story of her uneventful, but love -abounding life. 
 
 While she lulled to sleep the little child of a few months old 
 that was lying on her knee she took pleasure in recalling the 
 memories of bygone days. She dwelt more particularly on the 
 month of September, the period at which Roger took her to 
 Bellefeuille to enjoy those fine days, which seem to belong to
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 283 
 
 every season in turn, At that time of year nature is as prodi- 
 gal of flowers as of fruit ; the evenings are warm, the morn- 
 ings mild, and the melancholy of autumn often gives way to 
 the brilliance of summer. During the earlier portion of their 
 union, Caroline had imputed the many proofs of an equable 
 temperament and gentle disposition which Roger had given 
 her, to the rarity of their meetings, and to their mode of life, 
 which precluded them from being, like husband and wife, 
 always together. She now remembered with delight how, 
 tormented with idle fears, she had watched him with fear and 
 trembling during their first visit to the little estate in the 
 Gatinais. Vain espionage of love ! Each of those happy 
 months passed like a dream, amid perpetual happiness. There 
 was always a smile of affection upon the lips of that excellent 
 being, a smile that seemed like the reflection of her own. 
 As these scenes passed too vividly before her, her eyes grew 
 moist with tears, she thought she was not affectionate enough, 
 and fancied she could see in the misfortune of her equivocal 
 position, a sort of tax, levied by destiny, upon her love. And 
 then an invincible curiosity led her to ponder over the acci- 
 dents of existence, which could induce a man so affectionate 
 as Roger, to confine himself to a clandestine and illicit happi- 
 ness. She forged a thousand romances, simply for the purpose 
 of sparing herself the admission of the true reason, long 
 guessed but reluctantly believed by her. 
 
 She rose, with her baby stili sleeping in her arms, and went 
 into the dining-room, to superintend the preparations for 
 dinner. 
 
 It was the 6th of May, 1822, the anniversary of the trip 
 to Saint-Leu which had been decisive of her destiny; so that 
 every year, as that day came round, it was kept as a festival of 
 the heart. Caroline selected the table-linen, and ordered the 
 arrangement of the dessert. After gladly devoting to these 
 details the minute attentions which fascinated Roger, she 
 placed the little girl in her pretty cradle, went to ner post on
 
 284 BALZAC. 
 
 the balcony, and soon descried the cabriolet which her friend, 
 now arrived at full maturity, had adopted, instead of the 
 tilbury of earlier days. After having sustained a first dis- 
 charge of kisses from Caroline and the little rogue who called 
 him papa, Roger went to the cradle, watched, for a time, the 
 slumbers of his daughter, kissed her little forehead, then 
 drawing from his coat pocket a long document variegated with 
 black lines, he said, 
 
 " Caroline, this is Mademoiselle Euge'nie de Bellefeuille's 
 portion." 
 
 The mother gratefully accepted the dotal deed, which was 
 the title to a certain sum in the public funds. 
 
 " Why three thousand francs a year for Euge'nie, while you 
 have given Charles only fifteen hundred ? " 
 
 " Charles, will be a man, my angel," replied Roger. " Fif- 
 teen hundred francs will be enough for him. With that in- 
 -come a man of energy is above want. If your son should be 
 an ordinary man, I don't wish him to have the means of com- 
 mitting follies. If he is ambitious, the narrowness of his 
 means will inspire him with a taste for work. Euge'nie is a 
 woman, and must not be portionless." 
 
 The father now began to play with Charles, whose unre- 
 strained caresses showed the independence and freedom of 
 his bringing-up. There was no timidity on the part of the lad 
 towards his father, to interfere with the charm which rewards 
 the performance of the duties of paternity. The gaiety of the 
 little family was both gentle and genuine. In the evening a 
 magic lantern displayed upon a white cloth its illusions and 
 mysterious pictures, to the great surprise of Charles. More 
 than once the ecstatic joy of the innocent little fellow, drew 
 wild shouts of laughter from Caroline and Roger. When, 
 later in the evening, the little boy was in bed, the little girl 
 awoke demanding nourishment. Seated by the fire in that 
 chamber of peace and pleasure, Roger gave himself up to the 
 enjoyment of watching, by the light of a lamp, the soothing
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 285> 
 
 picture presented by the child, as it hung on Caroline's breast, 
 and by Caroline herself, white and fresh as a new-blown lily, 
 with her hair falling down in a thousand brown curls, and al- 
 most hiding her neck. * All the charms of the young mother 
 stood out clearly in the lamplight, which surrounded her, her 
 dress, and the child, with manifold and picturesque effects* 
 produced by the combination of light and shade. The calm 
 and silent features of the young woman seemed to Roger a 
 hundred times sweeter than they had ever been. Tender was- 
 the look with which he gazed at the curved and coral lips. 
 which had never uttered a disagreeable word. The same 
 thought gleamed in the eyes of Caroline, who watched Roger 
 furtively, either to enjoy the effect she produced on him, or to- 
 forecast the future of the evening. 
 
 Her unknown friend, who understood the coquetry of that 
 subtle look, said with affected sadness, " I must be off now ; I 
 have a stiff bit of work to finish, and am expected at home- 
 Duty before everything; isn't that right, my darling?" 
 
 Caroline scrutinized him sadly, but at the same time softly, 
 then with that resignation which disguises none of the sorrows- 
 of a sacrifice, she said, " Adieu, go away. If you stayed an- 
 other hour, I should not be able to part with you so easily." 
 
 " My angel." answered Roger, smiling, " I have three days'" 
 leave of absence, and am supposed to be now twenty leagues- 
 away from Paris." 
 
 One morning, a few days after this anniversary of the 6th of 
 May, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, fearing she might be too- 
 late, rushed off to a house in the Rue St. Louis, in the Marais, 
 to which she generally paid a visit once a week. A messenger 
 had come to inform her that her mother, Madame Crochatd, 
 was sinking under a complication of sufferings, caused by her 
 catarrh and rheumatism. While the driver of the hackney 
 coach, stimulated by Caroline's urgent request, backed by the 
 promise of an ample gratuity, was lashing his horses to their 
 utmost speed, the timorous old dames whom the Widow
 
 286 BALZAC. 
 
 Crochard had gathered around her by way of society in her 
 last days, introduced a priest into the neat and comfortable 
 second-floor apartments, occupied by the whilom ballet-dancer. 
 Madame Crochard's servant did not kno>v that the pretty girl 
 at whose house her mistress often dined, was that mistress's 
 own daughter ; and she was one of the first to beg that a con- 
 fessor might be called in, hoping that that ecclesiastic might 
 be as serviceable to her as to her mistress. Between two 
 games of boston or while strolling in the Turkish garden, the 
 old women with whom the Widow Crochard gossiped every 
 day, had succeeded in awakening in the frozen bosom of their 
 friend, some scruples about her past life, some ideas about the 
 future, some fears of hell, and certain hopes of pardon founded 
 on a sincere repentance. On this solemn morning, these three 
 old women from the Rue St. Francois, and the Vieille-Rue-du- 
 Temple, had established themselves in the salon in which 
 Madame Crochard entertained them every Tuesday. They 
 took it in turns to leave their armchairs, to go and sit at the 
 head of the sick-bed to keep the poor old woman company, 
 and buoy her up with those vain hopes with which we soothe 
 the dying. However, when the crisis seemed to them to be 
 close at hand, and the doctor, who had been called in on the 
 preceding evening, gave no hopes of the widow, the three 
 dames took counsel together, as to whether it was necessary to 
 summon Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Franoise having given 
 her opinion on the matter, it was determined that a commis- 
 sionaire should go to the Rue Taitbout, and tell the news to 
 the young relative, whose influence seemed to the four women 
 so formidable ; but they hoped that the Auvergnat's summons 
 would not bring the young woman, who had so large a share in 
 Madame Crochard's affection, till all was over. The widow, 
 who clearly had an income of a thousand crowns, would not 
 have been so carefully nursed by that trio of females, but for 
 the fact that none of those good friends, nor Franoise, knew 
 of any expectant relative. The opulence of Mademoiselle de
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 287 
 
 Bellefeuille, whom Madame Crochard, following the customs 
 of the old Opera, strictly abstained from calling by the sweet 
 name of daughter, almost justified the plot of the four women, 
 to share among them the fortune of their dying friend. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, the particular sibyl who was keeping guard 
 over the patient, popped her palsied head into the room in 
 which her anxious coadjutors were sitting, and said, " It is time 
 to send for Monsieur 1'Abbe Fontanon. Two hours hence she 
 will have neither head nor hand to write a single word." 
 
 Thereupon the toothless old servant started off and returned 
 with a man dressed in a black coat. This priest had a vulgar 
 face, and his contracted forehead showed a narrow mind; 
 while his large pendant cheeks and double chin betokened sel- 
 fish prosperity. His powdered hair softened the aspect of his 
 features, until he raised his small brown prominent eyes, which 
 would not have seemed out of place beneath the eye brows of 
 a Tartar. 
 
 " Monsieur 1'Abbe'," said Frangoise, " I thank you for your 
 advice ; but you may be sure that I have taken the utmost care 
 of the dear woman." 
 
 The servant, she of the lagging foot and mourning face, was 
 silent when she saw that the door of the apartments was open, 
 and that the most insinuating of the three dowagers had sta- 
 tioned herself upon the landing, in order to be the first to 
 speak to the confessor. After the clergyman had endured with 
 complaisance a triple broadside of honied and sanctimonious 
 talk from the friends of the widow, he took a seat by Madame 
 Crochard's pillow. Common decency and a certain sense of 
 shame, compelled the three dames and old Fran9oise to remain 
 in the salon, where they assumed for each other's benefit, airs 
 of grief such as only those wrinkled faces could produce in 
 such perfection. 
 
 "Ah, isn't it sad?" cried Frangoise. "This is the fourth 
 mistress, DOW, that I shall have the pain of burying. The first 
 left me an annuity of a hundred francs ; the second fifty crowns,
 
 288 BALZAC. 
 
 and the third a thousand crowns. After thirty years in service, 
 that is all I possess." Thereupon the servant exercised her 
 privilege of coming and going, to ensconce herself in a little 
 closet, uhere she could overhear what the priest said. 
 
 " It gives me pleasure," Fontanon was saying, " to find that 
 you have such pious sentiments, my daughter; you have upon 
 you a sacred relic . . . ." 
 
 Madame Crochard made a vague movement, which seemed 
 to indicate that her mind was wandering, for she pointed to the 
 imperial cross of the Legion of Honor. The priest when he 
 caught s'ght of the Emperor's head started back one step, but,, 
 immediately afterwards, again drew near to his penitent, who 
 held some conversation with him in so low a tone that for some 
 moments Fran9oise heard nothing. 
 
 "A curse upon me!" suddenly ejaculated the old woman, 
 " don't forsake me. What, Monsieur 1'Abbe', you believe that 
 I shall have to answer for my daughter's soul ?" 
 
 The priest replied in too low a tone, and the partition was 
 too thick, for Fran^oise to hear his answer. 
 
 " Alas," cried the widow, shedding tears, " the wretch has 
 left me nothing of what I can dispose. When he took my poor 
 Caroline, he separated us, and only gave me a life annuity of 
 3000 francs, the capital of which belongs to my daughter." 
 
 " Madame has a daughter, and has only an annuity," cried 
 Fran9oise, rushing into the salon. 
 
 The three old women looked at each other in profound 
 amazement. One of them, whose nose and chin almost joined 
 each other, and seemed thereby to confer upon her the palm 
 of hypocrisy and cunning, winked, and so soon as FranQoise's 
 back was turned, made a sign to her two friends, as much as to 
 say, " She is a knowing creature ; she has already had three 
 legacies." 
 
 So the three old women made up their minds to stay. But 
 the clergyman soon reappeared, and when he had said one 
 word to them, the witches hobbled down the stairs together
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 28U 
 
 after him, leaving Francoise alone with her mistress. It was 
 all very well for Madame Crochard, whose sufferings were be- 
 coming more and more intense, to ring for her servant now ; 
 Franchise contented herself with calling out " Coming, coming 
 directly." 
 
 Cupboard-doors and wardrobe-doors were opening and 
 shutting, as if Frangoise were looking for some lottery-ticket 
 that had been mislaid. Just as this crisis was at its climax, 
 Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille reached her mother's bedside, to 
 lavish on her sweet words of comfort. 
 
 "Oh, my poor mother, what a criminal I am ! you are in 
 pain, and I knew nothing of it; my heart did not tell it me. 
 But he^e I am. . . ." 
 
 " Caroline." 
 . "What, mother?" 
 
 " They brought a priest to me." 
 
 " They should have fetched a doctor," said Mademoiselle 
 de Bellefeuille. " A doctor, Frangoise ! How is it that these 
 women did not send for a doctor?" 
 
 " They brought me a priest," continued the old woman with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " How she suffers ! and no sedative nothing, on the table !' 
 
 The mother made a vague sign, which Caroline's penetrat- 
 ing eye understood, for she kept silence, that her mother might 
 speak. 
 
 " They brought me a priest under pretence of getting me 
 to confess. Caroline, beware," groaned the whilom ballet girl, 
 making a final effort ; " the priest extracted from me the name 
 of your benefactor." 
 
 " But who could- have told it you, my poor mother?" 
 
 In the attempt to assume a knowing look, the old woman 
 died. If Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille could have observed 
 her mother's face she would have seen what no one will ever 
 see Death smiling. 
 
 In order to understand the interest which underlies the 
 s
 
 290 BALZA.C. 
 
 introduction to this scene, we must for a moment forget the 
 actors in it, and listen to the recital of certain anterior events, 
 the last of which is closely connected with the death of Madame 
 Crochard. The two parts will then form one story, which, in 
 obedience to a law peculiar to life in Paris, divides itself into 
 two distinct series of events. 
 
 Towards the end of November, 1805, a young advocate, 
 about twenty-six years of age, was descending, at about three 
 o'clock, a.m., the grand staircase of the hotel inhabited by the 
 arch-chancellor of the empire. When he reached the court, 
 dressed as he was in ball-room attire, a fine sleet was falling. 
 He could not restrain an expression of disgust not, however, 
 entirely devoid of that gaiety which rarely forsakes a French- 
 man, wjien, on peering through the railings of the hotel, he 
 could neither discover any hackney-coach nor hear the sound 
 of horses' hoofs, or the hoarse voices of the Parisian hackney 
 coachmen. The silence was broken only by the impatient 
 feet of the horses of the grand judge (whom the young man 
 had left at the card-table of M. Cambace'res) as they pawed the 
 pavement of the court of the hotel which was dimly lighted by 
 the carriage-lamps. 
 
 All at once the young man received a friendly slap on the 
 shoulder, and turning round recognized and saluted the grand 
 judge, who just as his footman was letting down the carriage- 
 steps, guessed the young man's difficulty. 
 
 " In the night all cats are grey," said he gaily. " The grand 
 judge will not compromise himself if he gives a lift to an advo- 
 cate especially when that advocate is the nephew of an old 
 colleague who was one of the luminaries of the grand State 
 Council which gave the Code Napoleon to France." At a gesture 
 of the supreme chief of the imperial judges, the pedestrian 
 stepped into the carriage. 
 
 " Where do you live ?" inquired the minister of the advocate, 
 before the footman, who was waiting for directions, closed the 
 door,
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 291 
 
 " Quai des Augustins, mouseigneur." The horses started 
 off and the young man found himself alone with the minister, 
 whom both before and after Cambaceres' sumptuous dinner, 
 he had endeavored to accost, but in vain; for the grand judge 
 had visibly avoided him throughout the evening. 
 
 " Well, Monsieur de Granville you are in a fair road " 
 
 " So long as I am by the side" of your Excellency." 
 
 " I am not joking," said the minister. " You were admitted 
 to the bar two years ago, and your conduct of the defence in 
 the Simeuse and D'Hauteserre affair has given you a high 
 position." 
 
 " I thought until now, that my devotion to those unfortu- 
 nate bnigies had done me harm." 
 
 "You are very young," said the minister gravely; then after 
 a pause he continued, " you created a very favorable impres- 
 sion on the High Chancellor this evening. Join the magistracy 
 of the parquet ; we are in want of men. The nephew of a 
 man in whom Cambaceres and I take so lively an interest 
 must not remain an advocate for want of patronage. Your 
 uncle helped us to weather some very stormy times, and such 
 services as those are not to be forgotten." 
 
 Here the minister paused for a moment. 
 
 " In a short time," continued he, " I shall have three places 
 vacant at the tribunal of first instance, and at the court im- 
 perial of Paris ; come and see me then, and choose whichever 
 of them you prefer. Till then work on, but don't present 
 yourself at my audiences ; for, in the first place, I am over- 
 whelmed with business ; and in the second, your competitors 
 might guess your object, and injure you in the eyes of the 
 Emperor. Cambaceres and I, in not speaking to you this 
 evening, have saved you from the perils which beset a favorite." 
 
 As the minister concluded, the carriage stopped at the Quai 
 des Augustins ; the young advocate thanked his generous pro- 
 tector with great emotion for the tivo seats which he had given 
 him, and began to thunder at his door ; for the north-east wind
 
 292 BALZAC. 
 
 was whistling about the calves of his legs with great severity. 
 The bolt of the door was at length withdrawn by the old porter. 
 As the advocate passed the lodge, the porter called to him in 
 a hoarse voice, " Monsieur Granville, there is a letter for you." 
 The young man took it, and, in spite of the cold, tried to read 
 the address by the feeble light of a lamp, whose wick was well- 
 nigh burnt out. " It is from my father," said he, taking his 
 candle, which the porter had at last succeeded in lighting. 
 Then he went quickly up to his apartments, and read the fol- 
 lowing letter : 
 
 " Take the express, and if you can get here quickly, your 
 fortune is made. Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems has lost 
 her sister ; so she is now an only daughter, and we know she 
 does not hate you. Now, Madame Bontems has it in her 
 power to leave her nearly 40,000 francs a year, besides the 
 marriage portion which she will give her. I have smoothed 
 the way. Our friends will be astonished to see members of 
 the old nobility intermarrying with the Bontems family. Bon- 
 tems, the father, a red republican of the deepest dye, picked 
 up a number of the national estates at a very cheap price. But, 
 in the first place, it was church property, and will therefore 
 never be restored ; secondly, since you have already stooped to 
 the position of an advocate, I do not see why we should recoil 
 from another concession to existing ideas. The girl will have 
 300,000 francs ; I will give you 100,000; your mother's pro- 
 perty must be worth 150,000 crowns, or thereabouts. Thus, 
 then, my dear son, I see you in a position if you choose to join 
 the magistracy, to become a senator, just like any one else. 
 My brother-in-law, the Councillor of State, will not give you a 
 helping hand towards that, of course; but, as he is a bachelor, his 
 fortune will come to you some day, so that if you should not 
 get a senatorship upon your own merits, you will succeed to his. 
 Then you will be perched high enough to see how events are 
 likely to turn. out. Adieu. I embrace you." 
 
 Thus, then, young De Granville went to bed, framing a
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 203 
 
 thousand projects, each brighter than (he last. Under the 
 powerful patronage of the Grand Judge, and of his maternal 
 uncle, one of the compilers of the code, he was about to make 
 a start in an enviable position in the first court in the empire, 
 and would be a member of that parquet whence Napoleon 
 selected Ihc chief functionaries of his empire. Then, ready to 
 his hand, there presented itself a fortune large enough to help 
 him to maintain his rank, as he could not have done on his 
 meagre income of 5,000 francs, derived from an estate which 
 had once formed part of his mother's property. That happi- 
 ness might be added to his ambitious dreams, he conjured up 
 the artless face of Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems, the play- 
 mate of his childhood. So long as he had not arrived at years 
 of discretion, his father and mother had not opposed his inti- 
 macy with the pretty daughter of their country neighbor ; but 
 when, during the brief visits which his vacations enabled him 
 to pay to.Bayeux, his parents, who were bigots in the matter 
 of nobility, perceived his liking for the young girl, they forbade 
 him to think about her. So that during the last ten years 
 Granville had only been able to catch momentary glimpses of 
 her whom he used to call his little wife. During these moments 
 stolen from the active surveillance of their families, they had 
 been barely able to exchange a few vague words in passing 
 each other at church or in the street. Their happiest days 
 were those when they were brought together by one of those 
 rural fetes which in Normandy are called assemblies, and looked 
 at one another furtively and from afar. During his last holi- 
 day Granville had seen Angelique twice ; and the downcast 
 look and melancholy attitude of his little wife led him to 
 believe that she was being subjected to some secret tyranny. 
 
 By seven o'clock the next morning the young advocate was 
 at the coach-office in the Rue Notre-Dame des-Victoires, and 
 was lucky enough to find rocm in the vehicle which started for 
 Caen at that hour. 
 
 Deep was the emotion with which the sucking advocate
 
 294 BALZAC. 
 
 caught sight once more of the steeples of Bayeux cathedral. 
 As yet, none of his aspirations had been defeated, so that his 
 heart expanded under the influence of the beautiful feelings 
 which animate the young. After the protracted congratulatory 
 banquet prepared for him by his father and some of his friends, 
 was over, the impatient youth was conducted to a certain house 
 situated in the Rue Teinture, and well known to him. His 
 heart beat violently as his father who at Bayeux was still 
 called as Comte de Granville knocked so loudly at the 
 carriage-gates, that the green paint fell from them in scales. It 
 was about four o'clock in the afternoon. A young maid- 
 servant, with a white cotton cap upon her head, greeted the 
 two gentlemen with a little courtesy, and told them, in answer 
 to their inquiries, that the two ladies would soon be back from 
 vespers. The count and his son entered a low-pitched hall, 
 which was used as a drawing-room, and looked like a convent 
 parlor. A ceiling of polished walnut-wood gave a gloomy 
 aspect to the room, round which some tapestry covered chairs, 
 and antique armchairs were symmetrically ranged. The only 
 ornament of the stone chimney-piece was a mirror of greenish 
 glass, from either side of which projected the tortuous branches 
 of a pair of those old candelabra such as were manufactured at 
 the epoch of the Peace of Utrecht. Against the wainscot, 
 and opposite to the chimney-piece, young Granville noticed an 
 enormous crucifix of ebony and ivory, surrounded by conse- 
 crated box-wood. Although the room had three windows, 
 looking into a country garden, whose symmetrical squares 
 were bordered with long lines of box, so little daylight entered 
 the room, that it was difficult to distinguish three ecclesiasti- 
 cal pictures, which were the work of some skilful brush, and 
 had doubtless been purchased, during the Revolution, by old 
 Bontems, who, in his capacity of leader of the district, never 
 forgot his own interests. From the carefully polished floor, to 
 the curtains, with their square green pattern, everything shone 
 with a monastic neatness. The heart of the young man in-
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 29 5 
 
 voluntarily shrank within him, in that still retreat, which 
 formed the home of Ange'lique. His continual habit of 
 frequenting the brilliant drawing-rooms of Paris, and the 
 vortex of gaiety in which he lived, had readily effaced from 
 the memory of Granville the sombre and peaceful life, led by 
 the denizens of the provinces. The contrast was so sudden, 
 that it caused him an internal shudder. To quit one of the 
 assemblies of Cambaceres, where existence was on so grand a 
 scale, where large minded men abounded, and where the glory 
 of the emperor was reflected, and fall suddenly into a circle of 
 petty ideas, was like being transported from Italy to Green- 
 land. "To live here, is not to live at all," he said to himself, 
 as he looked at the methodistical salon. The old count, who 
 observed his son's astonishment, led him to a window, through 
 which a little daylight was struggling, and while the servant 
 lighted the old wax candles, tried to dissipate the clouds 
 which the aspect of the room had piled on Granville's brow. 
 
 " Listen to me, my boy," said the count ; " old Bontems' 
 widow is furiously sanctimonious. When the devil grew old 
 you know the saying. I see that the aspect of the room rather 
 sets your teeth on edge. Well, the truth is this. The old 
 woman is besieged by the priests ; they have persuaded her 
 that it is never too late to win heaven ; and to make sure of 
 St. Peter and his keys, she buys them. She goes to mass 
 every day, hears all the services, communicates every Sunday 
 that God gives us, and amuses herself by restoring chapels. 
 She has presented to the cathedral so many ornaments, aubes, 
 and copes, she has covered tue dais with so many plumes, 
 that, at the procession of the last Fete Dieu, there was as 
 great a crowd to see the magnificent dresses of the priests, and 
 the newly-gilded cups and plates, as there ever was at an 
 execution. So that this house is a regular Holy Land. It 
 was I who prevented the old madwoman from presenting these 
 three pictures to the church ; look you, a Dominichino, a
 
 296 BALZAC. 
 
 Correggio, and an Andre* del Sarto, which are worth a lot of 
 money." 
 
 "But about Ange'lique f" said the young man sharply. 
 "If you don't marry her, Ange'lique is lost," said the count. 
 " Our good apostles have advised her to live and die a virgin 
 and a martyr. It took me an infinite amount of trouble to 
 rouse her little heart by talking about you ; that was as soon 
 as I saw that she was an only daughter. But you see at a 
 glance that, as soon as you are married, you will carry her off 
 to Paris. There, what with marriage, dissipation, theatres, and 
 the torrent of Parisian life, she will soon forget confessionals, 
 fasts, hair shirts, and masses, which are meat and drink to 
 these creatures." 
 
 " But won't the 50,000 francs per annum, the spoils of the 
 Church, go back to the . . .?" 
 
 "There we are !" said the count, with a look of subtlety. 
 " In consideration of the marringe for the vanity of Madame 
 Bontems was not a little tickled at the notion of engrafting 
 the Bontems on the genealogical tree of the Granvilles the 
 aforesaid mother gives the corpus of her fortune to her daugh- 
 ter, reserving to herself only a life interest. You will have the 
 prettiest girl in Bayeux, a little gossip who will cause you no 
 anxiety, because she will be a woman of principle. She has 
 been moitified, as they term it in their jargon, by prayer and 
 fasting, and," added the count in a low voice, "by her 
 mother." 
 
 A gentle rap at the door stopped the flow of the count's 
 eloquence ; for he thought he saw the two ladies coming in. 
 But it was a busy-looking little page who entered. Overawed 
 at the sight of the two gentlemen, he beckoned to the maid- 
 servant, who went up to him. The lad wore a waistcoat of 
 blue cloth with little flaps which hung about his thighs, and 
 blue and white striped trowsers ; his hair was cropped all 
 round; his face looked like that of a chorister; so strongly
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 297 
 
 did it savor of that forced sanctimoniousness which all the 
 inhabitants of a methodislical household acquire. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Gatienne, do you know where the books for 
 the Service of the Virgin are ? The ladies of the Congrega- 
 tion of the Sacred Heart are going to have a procession in the 
 church this evening." 
 
 Gatienne went to look for the books. 
 
 "Will it last much longer, my little militia man?" asked the 
 count. 
 
 " Oh, half an hour, sir, at the utmost." 
 
 " Let us go and look at it, there are some pretty women to 
 be seen," said the father to the son. " Besides, a visit to the 
 cathedral can't do us any harm." 
 
 The young advocate followed his father with an air of irre- 
 solution. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said the count. 
 
 " The matter is, father, the matter is, that I am right." 
 
 " Right ? Why you have said nothing yet." 
 
 "True, but it has occurred to me that you have saved 
 10,000 francs a year from the wreck of your former fortune; 
 you will leave them to me at as distant a date as possible, I 
 hope. But if you give me 100,000 francs to make a stupid 
 marriage, you will allow me to ask you for 50,000 of them to 
 avert a calamity, and enjoy, while preserving my bachelorhood, 
 a fortune equal 1o that which your Demoiselle Bontems would 
 bring me." 
 
 "Are you mad?" 
 
 " No, father. The fact is this. The grand judge promised 
 me on the day before yesterday a place in the parquet of Paris. 
 Now 50,000 francs added to what I have, and to the salary 
 attached to my office, will yield me an income of 12,000. I 
 shall then, assuredly, have opportunities for making my fortune, 
 a thousand times preferable to those afforded by a marriage 
 as bankrupt in happiness as it is rich in money." 
 
 " It is easy to see," said the father, smiling, " that you didn't
 
 298 BALZAC. 
 
 live under the old regime ; are we men ever shackled by hav- 
 ing a \vife, think you ?" 
 
 " But, father, in the present age marriage has become . . ." 
 "Ah, then," said the count, interrupting his son, "all that 
 my old companions in emigration tell me, is really true? The 
 revolution has bequeathed to us manners devoid of gaiety, 
 and infected our young men with equivocal principles? You 
 are going, just like my Jacobin brother-in-law, to preach to me 
 about the nation, public morality, and disinterestedness. O 
 my God, but for the emperor's sisters, what would become of 
 us?" 
 
 They were under the roof of the cathedral as these last 
 words fell from the lips of the still lusty old man, who was 
 always called by the peasants on his estate, " Le Seigneur de 
 Granville." Heedless of the sanctity of the spot he hummed as 
 he dipped his fingers into the holy water, an air from the opera, 
 " Rose et Colas " and while conducting his son along the side 
 aisles of the nave, he stopped at each pillar to take a look at the 
 body of the church, with its rows of heads ranged in line, like 
 soldiers on parade. The appropriate service of the Sacred 
 Heart was on the point of beginning. The ladies belonging 
 to that society being placed near the choir, the count and his 
 son made their way to that part of the nave, and stood with 
 their backs against one of the darkest pillars, whence they 
 could perceive the entire group of heads, which had the appear- 
 ance of a prairie enamelled with flowers. Suddenly, from a 
 spot not more than two paces from young Granville, a voice 
 which seemed too sweet to belong to a human being, rang out 
 clear as the notes of the first nightingale that sings to welcome 
 the retuin of spring. Though accompanied by a thousand 
 female voices and the organ, this voice acted on the nerves as 
 if they had been attacked by the over-rich and vivid tones of 
 the harmonica. The Parisian turned round and saw a young 
 woman, whose face was, in consequence of the bending of the 
 head, completely ouried beneath a iaige hat of whiie material.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 290 
 
 He cr.me to the conclusion that it could only be from her that 
 this clear melody proceeded. He fancied he recognized Ange'- 
 liquc, in spite of the pelisse of brown merino in which the girl 
 was wrapped, and he nudged his father's arm. 
 
 " Yes, it is she," said the count, after looking in the direc- 
 tion indicated by his son. The old seigneur pointed to the 
 pale face of an old woman, whose eyes, deeply bordered with 
 dark circles, had already descried the strangers, though her 
 deceptive glance had not appeared to quit the prayer-book in 
 her hand. Angdlique looked up towards the altar, as if to 
 inhale the penetrating perfumes of the incense, whose clouds 
 floated to the spot where the two women were stationed. Then 
 by the weird mysterious light spread through the vast and 
 sombre building by the tapers which were burning on the altar, 
 by the lamp that depended from the centre of the nave, and by 
 sundry wax candles that were fixed against the pillars of the 
 cathedral, the youthful advocate caught sight of a countenance 
 which completely overthrew his resolutions. 
 
 Under a white mohair hat he saw a set of features of wonderful 
 regularity, to which the black satin strings of the hat, meeting 
 in a bow beneath the dimpled chin, formed a perfect oval 
 frame. Hair of a pale gold color was parted into two band?, 
 over a narrow but pretty little forehead, and fell upon the 
 cheeks like the shadow of foliage upon a tuft of flowers. The 
 two eyebrows were traced with that regularity which one ;>.d- 
 mires in beautiful Chinese faces. There was a rare firmness 
 in the outlines of the almost aquiline nose, and the two lips 
 resembled two rosy lines traced con amore by a delicate hand. 
 In the expression of the pale blue eyes there was much candor. 
 If Granville observed in this face a sort of taciturn rigidity, he 
 might well ascribe it to the devotional feelings, by which 
 Angelique was at that moment inspired. The sacred words of 
 prayer passed through two rows of pearls, and the cold air con- 
 densed the breath into a cloud, as it were, of incense. The 
 young man could not resist the temptation to lean forward and
 
 SCO BALZAC. 
 
 inhale tli: divine breath. This movement attracted the atten- 
 tion of the young girl, and the steady gaze which had been 
 fixed upon the altar was now turned upon Granville, in whom, 
 though the dim light prevented her from seeing him distinctly, 
 she recognized the companion of her childhood. A souvenir 
 more powerful than the spirit of prayer gave an unnatural 
 brightness to her face ; she blushed. The advocate, trembled 
 with joy at beholding the hopes of the life to come vanquished 
 by the hopes of love ; the glory of the sanctuary eclipsed by 
 the memories of earth. But his triumph was of brief duration. 
 Angelique dropped her veil over her face, assumed a calm 
 appearance, and resumed her singing, without betraying in her 
 voice the slightest emotion. Meanwhile he found himself 
 under the influence of a single desire, and all his prudential 
 ideas vanished. When the service was over, his impatience 
 had become so great, that instead of allowing the two ladies to 
 go home alone, he went straight up to his little wife and 
 accosted her. A recognition, timid on both sides, took place 
 beneath the church porch, in the presence of the faithful 
 Madame Bontems trembled with pride as she took the arm of 
 the Comte de Granville, who, being compelled to offer it in 
 the presence of so many persons, bore his son no good will for 
 his indecent impetuosity. 
 
 During the fortnight which elapsed between the official pre- 
 sentation of the young Vicomte de Granville as the intended 
 husband of Mademoiselle Bontems and the day fixed for the 
 solemn ceremony, he assiduously paid his respects to Angelique 
 in the sombre parlor, and grew accustomed to it. The object 
 of his long visits was to study the disposition of Ange'lique, for 
 his prudence had luckily been aroused on the morrow of their 
 first interview. He always found his future wife seated before 
 a little table of Saint Lucia wood, employed in marking the 
 linen of her trousseau. Angelique never introduced the sub- 
 ject of religion. If the young advocate began to coy with the 
 rich rosary which was kept in a small green velvet bag, or
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. SOI 
 
 smiled at the relic which always accompanies that implement 
 of devotion, Ange'lique with a beseeching look, would gently 
 take the rosary from his hands, and, without saying a single 
 word, replace it in the bag, and put it away. If Granville in a 
 spirit of mischief sometimes ventured to declaim against cer- 
 tain religious practices, the pretty Normandy girl listened and 
 encountered him with a smile of conviction, "You must 
 believe nothing, or believe all that the Church teaches," was 
 her reply. "Would you like to have an irreligious girl for the 
 mother of your children ? No. Where is the man who would 
 dare to judge between God and unbelievers? Well, then, 
 how can I find fault with that which the Church receives ?" 
 Ange'lique seemed to be inspired with such pathetic charity, 
 the young advocate observed such touching looks directed to 
 himself, that he was sometimes tempted to embrace the reli- 
 gious views of his intended bride. Her profound belief that 
 she was walking in the right path, awakened in the heart 
 of the young aspirant to the magistracy, doubts, by which 
 he endeavored to profit. Granville now committed the enor- 
 mous blunder of mistaking the charm of desire for that of love. 
 Ange'lique was so glad to reconcile the dictates of the heart, 
 with the dictates of duty, by yielding to an attachment formed 
 in early childhood, that the deluded advocate could not dis- 
 cover which of the two voices was the stronger. Are not all 
 young men disposed to rely upon the promises of a pretty face, 
 to infer that where there is beauty of feature, there is beauty 
 of heart ? An indefinable feeling impels them to believe that 
 moral and physical perfection always accompany each other. 
 If religion had forbidden Ange'lique to allow free play to her 
 feeling?, they would have withered in her bosom as quickly as 
 a plant wculd wither, if sprinkled with some deadly acid. 
 Could a man who loved and was beloved discover the exist- 
 ence of such well -concealed fanaticism ? 
 
 Such is the history of voung Granville, during this fortnight 
 which he galloped through, as we gallop through a book, when-
 
 o02 BALZAC. 
 
 we want to know how it ends. Ange'lique, when car fully 
 studied, seemed to be the gentlest of women ; he experienced, 
 to his surprise, a feeling of gratitude to Madame Bontems, 
 who, by imbuing her daughter so strongly with religious senti- 
 ments, had in some sort prepared her for life's cares and 
 troubles. 
 
 On the day appointed for the signing of the fatal contract, 
 Madame Bontems extorted from her son-in-law a solemn oath 
 that he would not interfere with the religious practices of her 
 daughter, that he would give her entire liberty of conscience, 
 would allow her to communicate, to go to church, and to con- 
 fession, as often as she felt inclined, and would never thwart 
 her in the choice of a confessor. At that solemn moment, 
 Ange'lique looked at her future husband with an air of such 
 ardour and purity, that he did not hesitate to take the required 
 oath. A faint smile played on the lips of the Abbe Fontanon, 
 the spiritual director of the household. Mademoiselle Bon- 
 tems, by a slight movement of the head, promised her friend 
 not to abuse the liberty accorded. As for the old count, he 
 simply hummed in an undertone, the air, " Va-femvoirfih 
 vicnnent" 
 
 After some days spent over the retours de noces, which figure 
 so conspicuously in provincial life, Granville and his wife 
 returned to Paris. There the young advocate received the 
 nomination to the post of advocate general to the Imperial 
 Court of the Seine. In looking about for a dwelling, Ange- 
 lique, using the influence which all women possess during the 
 honeymoon, prevailed upon Granville to take a spacious setof 
 rooms on the ground floor of an hotel situated at the corner of 
 the Vieille-Rue-du-Temple and the Rue Neuve Saint-Frangois. 
 Now the principal motive of this choice was that the house was 
 close to the Rue d'Orle'ans, in which tlr.re was a church, and 
 within a short distance of a little chapel in the Rue Saint-Louis, 
 
 " It is the duty of a good housekeeper to lay in a good stock 
 of provisions," was her husband's laughing remark. Ange'lique,
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 303 
 
 with great justice, pointed out to him that the district of the 
 Marais lies near to the Palais de Justice, and that the magis- 
 trates whom they had just been visiting, lived in that district. 
 Attached to the house there was a large garden which to a 
 young couple enhanced the value of the position ; their child- 
 ren, if heaven should send them any, might run about in the 
 garden. The court of the hotel was spacious, aad the stabling 
 was good. The advocate-general wanted to live in an hotel in 
 the Chausse'e-d'Antin, where all is fresh and lively, where the 
 fashions are to be seen in all their novelty, and whence the 
 boulevards, strewn with people of fashion, the theatres, and 
 places of amusement, are more easily accessible. But he was 
 forced to give way to the coaxing of the young wife, who was 
 asking her first favor ; and thus, in order to please her, he 
 buried himself in the Marais. As Granville's duties were new 
 to him, he was obliged to devote a very large amount of time to 
 them ; so his first care was to furnish a study, and set up his 
 library. He hastened to install himself in a room that was 
 soon encumbered with briefs, and left his young wife to super- 
 vise the fitting up of the other apartments. He was all the 
 more ready to involve Angelique in the bustle of making the 
 first household purchases which give rise to so many pleasures 
 and memories, in the hearts of young wives, because he was 
 ashamed of paying his bride less attention than the laws of the 
 honeymoon ordain. As soon as he was familiarized with his 
 work, the advocate-general allowed his wife to drag him from 
 his study, and show him the general effect of the furnishing 
 and decoration, which he had yet as seen only in detail. If there 
 be any truth in the adage, that one may form an estimate of 
 a woman's character from the appearance of her house-door, 
 her rooms should be a still more faithful index to her mind- 
 Whether or not, Ange'lique had inscribed her own character 
 upon a world of things, of which she had had the ordering, the 
 young magistrate was surprised at the stiffness and chill 
 solemnity which reigned throughout his rooms ; he sought in
 
 304 BALZAC. 
 
 vain for grace and harmony ; there was nothing to rejoice the 
 sight. The spirit of rectitude and politeness which was stamp- 
 ed upon the parlor at Bayeux, was here repeated. It breathed 
 from the large round hollow ceiling, adorned with those arabes- 
 ques, whose long curling lines are in such execrable taste. In 
 his desire to exculpate his wife, the young man retraced his 
 steps and renewed his examination of the long and lofty ante- 
 room, which served as a vestibule to the other rooms. The 
 color which his wife had ordered the painter to lay upon the 
 wainscoat, was too gloomy, and the dark green velvet with 
 which the seats were covered, added to the sombre aspect of 
 this apartment, which, however unimportant, always gives an 
 idea of the whole house, just as a man's intellect is judged of 
 from his opening phrases. An anteroom is a kind of preface, 
 which should announce everything, but promise nothing. The 
 young magistrate asked himself whether it was possible that his 
 wife would have selected the lamp in the antique case, which 
 hung in the centre of that bare hall, with its pavements of black 
 and white marble, and its paper representing a stone wall, with 
 here and there a line of green moss. A highly ornamented but 
 old-fashioned barometer hung in the middle of one of the walls, 
 as if to make its nakedness more conspicuous. When all this 
 met his eye, the young man looked at his wife, and saw that 
 she was so well satisfied with the red fringe of the muslin cur- 
 tains, with the barometer, and the decorous statue which 
 adorned the large gothic stove, that he lacked the barbarous 
 courage to destroy such strong illusions. Instead of condemn- 
 ing his wife, he condemned himself; he accused himself of 
 having neglected his first duty, the duty which summoned him 
 to guide the first steps in Paris, of a young girl brought up at 
 Bayeux. From this specimen, every one may judge of the 
 manner in which the other rooms were decorated. What could 
 be expected from a young woman who took fright at the naked 
 legs of a caryatid, who keenly repulsjd a candelabrum, a candle- 
 stick, or a piece of furniture, if it were ornamented with an
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. S05 
 
 Egyptian torso in a state of nudity? At that epoch the school 
 of the painter David, was just reaching the apogee of its glory. 
 Everything throughout the length and breadth of France felt 
 the influence of the accuracy of his drawing, and of his love 
 for the antique, which made his painting a sort of colored 
 sculpture. Not one of the creations of the luxury of the em- 
 pire gained the rights of citizenship with Madame de Granville. 
 The vast square salon of her dwelling retained the faded white 
 and gold with which it was decorated in the days of Louis 
 Quinze, the lozenge-shaped gratings and intolerable festoons 
 due to the sterile fecundity of the painters of that period. If 
 there had only been harmony of detail, if modern mahogany 
 had assumed the tortured shapes brought into fashion by the 
 corrupt taste of Boucher, Angelique's home would simply have 
 afforded the amusing contrast of a pair of young folks living in 
 the nineteenth century, as if they had belonged to the eigh- 
 teenth ; but a crowd of things in it, produced ridiculous 
 antitheses. Consoles, time pieces, and flambeaux, all were re- 
 dolent of those warlike attributes which imperial victories 
 rendered so dear to Paris. The Greek helmets, the Roman, 
 cross-swords, and the bucklers, due to military enthusiasm,, 
 which at that period were employed in the decoration of the 
 most peaceful articles of furniture, did not exactly harmonize 
 with the delicate and labyrinthine arabesques, in which Ma- 
 dame de Pompadour delighted. Sanctimoniousness induces a 
 certain wearisome humility, which by no means excludes pride- 
 Either through modesty or from inclination, Madame de Gran- 
 ville seemed to have a horror of soft, light colors ; perhaps- 
 also she thought that purple and brown were suitable to the 
 dignity of a magistrate. But how should a young girl, accus- 
 tomed to a life of austerity, have had any notion of those 
 voluptuous couches which inspire naughty ideas, those elegant, 
 perfidious boudoirs, in which sin is rough- sketched ? The pour 
 magistrate was quite disheartened. The tone of approbation 
 in which he endorsed the praises which his wife bestowed upo: 
 
 T
 
 300 EALZAC. 
 
 herself, showed her that he was not pleased with anything. 
 Thereupon she exhibited so much chagrin that the loving Gran- 
 ville took her profound regret to be a proof of love, not a 
 manifestation of wounded self-esteem. How could a young 
 girl, suddenly snatched av/ay from commonplace country no- 
 tions, and ignorant of the vanities and refinement of Parisian 
 life, do better ? The magistrate preferred to believe that his 
 wife had been controlled in her choice by the contractor, rather 
 than admit the truth ; if he had not been so much in love, he 
 would have felt that the shopkeepers, so quick in detecting the 
 wishes of their customers, so far from controlling his wife's 
 taste, had thanked heaven for sending them a tasteless little 
 Puritan, to help them to get rid of their old-fashioned stock. 
 He therefore began to console his pretty Normandy bride. 
 
 " Happiness, my dear Angelique, does not depend on the 
 greater or less elegance of a piece of furniture, but on the 
 gentleness, complaisance, and affection of a wife." 
 
 " But it is my duty to love you, and never will the accom- 
 plishment of a duty give me so much pleasure," said Angelique 
 gently. Nature has endowed women with so great a desire to 
 please and to be loved, that even in the case of a young 
 Puritan, ideas about a future state and eternal salvation must 
 give way to the first delights of matrimony. Accordingly, 
 from the month of April, when their marriage took place, 
 until the beginning of winter, the husband and wife lived 
 together in perfect harmony. Love and labor have the merit 
 of rendering a man tolerably indifferent to mere externals. 
 Granville, being obliged to pass half the day at the Palais de 
 Justice, and to debate weighty matters involving the lives and 
 the fortunes of men, was less able than another to notice certain 
 home affairs. If on Friday there was nothing but fish for 
 dinner, and he asked in vain for a dish of meat, his wife, 
 whom the Gospel prohibited from lying, nevertheless contrived 
 by means of little tricks permitted in the interests of religion, 
 lo ascribe to her own heedlessness or the emptiness oi the
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 307 
 
 markets what was really premeditated ; slie would often justify 
 Sierself at the expense of the cook, and sometimes went so far 
 as to scold him. At that epoch, young magistrates did not, as 
 in these times, observe fast days, ember week, and the eves of 
 saints' days ; so that Granville did not at first notice the peri- 
 odicity of the Lenten dinners; especially as his wife, with per- 
 fidious care rendered them very appetizing by means of teal, 
 moor-hens, patties, or fish, whose amphibious flesh or the sea- 
 soning deceived the taste. Thus the magistrate, without being 
 aware of it lived very orthodoxly, and secured his salvation 
 incognito. On weekdays he did not know whether his wife 
 -went to mass or not, but on Sundays, with very natural com- 
 plaisance, he accompanied her to church to make up, as it 
 were, for her occasionally sacrificing vespers on his account. 
 Thus he could not at first discover the rigor of his wife's reli- 
 gious practices. Places of amusement being insupportable in 
 summer-time on account of the heat, Granville was even de- 
 prived of the pretext of a successful hit for taking his wife to 
 the play; so that the serious question of the theatre was not 
 raised. In short, during the first days of a marriage to which 
 the beauty of the young girl has formed the principal induce- 
 ment, 'tis very difficult for a man to be exacting in the matter 
 of amusements. Youth is gluttonous rather than dainty, and 
 moreover mere possession is a charm. How can a man recog- 
 nize coldness, dignity, or reserve on the part of a woman when 
 he endows her with his own enthusiasm, when the flame which 
 inspires him is reflected in her ? A man must reach a certain 
 stage of conjugal tranquilily in order to discern that a Puritan 
 waits for love with folded arms. 
 
 Granville, therefore, believed himself happy enough, until 
 the occurrence of a fatal event, which arose to influence his 
 married life. In the month of November, 1808, the canon of 
 Bayeux Cathedral, who formerly directed the consciences of 
 Madame Bontems and her daughter, came to Paris, attracted 
 thither bv an ambition to obtain a cure of souls in the capital,
 
 303 BALZAC. 
 
 a post which he probably coveted as a stepping-stone to n 
 bishopric. On resuming his old dominion over his sheep, he 
 shuddered to find her already so much changed by the air of 
 Paris, and longed to bring her back into his frigid fold. The 
 ex-canon, a man of about thirty-eight, introduced into the 
 mid?t of the Parisian clergy a body so tolerent and enlight- 
 ened the harsh provincial asceticism and inflexible bigotry 
 whose multiplied exigencies ore so many bonds for timorous 
 souls. Madame de Granville repented and returned to her 
 Jansenism. It would be tedious to recount with exactitude the 
 incidents which gradually and imperceptibly introduced unhap- 
 piness into the bosom of this household ; it will perhaps be 
 sufficient to relate the principle facts, without attempting to 
 arrange them in strict chronological order. The first misun- 
 derstanding, however, between this young couple, was striking 
 enough. Madame Granville did not refuse to accompany her 
 husband to grave re-unions, dinner-parties, concerts, or to the 
 assemblies of magistrates, placed above her husband in the 
 judicial hierarchy ; but she contrived for some time to feign a 
 headache whenever it was a question of going to a ball. One 
 day Granville, weary of these pretended illnesses, destroyed the 
 note of invitation to a ball at the house of one of the Council- 
 lors of State, and surprising his wife with a verbal invitation one 
 evening when there was not the least suspicion of ill-health, he 
 produced her in the midst of a wonderful fete. 
 
 The dejected look which his wife wore on their return home 
 offended Granville, and he said to her, " My dear, your posi- 
 tion as a wife, the rank which you hold in the world, and the 
 fortune which you enjoy, impose upon you certain obligations, 
 which no divine law can abrogate. Are you not the glory of 
 your husband? You ought therefore to go with me to balis, 
 and appear there in proper trim." 
 
 " Why, my friend, what was there so much amiss about my 
 toilette?" 
 
 " I am not speaking of your dress, but of your manner, n;>-
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 809 
 
 clear. When a young man comes up and addresses you, you 
 grow so serious that a wag might conclude your virtue extremely 
 fragile. You seem to fear that a smile might compromise you. 
 You really looked this evening, as if you were invoking God's 
 forgiveness for the sins that were being committed all round 
 you. The world, my dear angel, is not a convent. But since 
 you have mentioned your toilette, I will confess to you that \ 
 it is also your duty to follow the fashions and customs of the 
 world." 
 
 " Would you then have me display my figure like those brazen- 
 faced women who wear such low dresses that unchaste eyes can 
 see their naked shoulders ? . . ." 
 
 "There is a difference, my dear," said the substitute, 
 " between exposing the whole breast, and dressing the upper 
 part of the body gracefully ; you have a triple row of tulle- 
 ruches which envelope you from neck to chin. It looks as if 
 you had besought your dressmaker to deprive your shoulders 
 and the outlines of your bosom, of all grace, as earnestly as a 
 coquette entreats hers so to make her dresses as to bring out 
 all the secrets of her figure. Your bosom is buried beneath 
 folds so numerous, that everybody was laughing at your affec- 
 tation of coyness. I should cause you pain were I to repeat 
 the absurd things that were said about you." 
 
 " Those who are pleased with such obscenities will not 
 have to bear the burthen of our sins," answered the young wife 
 drily. 
 
 " You didn't dance, did you ? " asked Granville. 
 " I will never dance," she replied. 
 
 " What if I tell you that you ought to dance," resumed the 
 magistrate sharply ; " yes, you ought to follow the fashion, nut 
 (lowers in your hair, and wear diamonds. Consider, my dear, 
 that rich people, and we are rich, are obliged to support luxury 
 in the state. Is it not better to encourage manufactures than 
 to scatter one's money about in almsgiving, inrough the nands 
 of the clergy r"
 
 310 BALZAC. 
 
 " You speak as a statesman," said Ange'lique. 
 
 " And you as a priest," retorted Granville sharply. 
 
 The discussion grew very bitter. Madame Granville in her 
 replies, which were always gentle, and uttered in a voice that 
 was as clear as a church-bell, exhibited an obstinacy that 
 betrayed the influence of the priest. When in claiming the 
 rights which Granville's promise had given her, she said that 
 her confessor had specially forbidden her to go to balls, the 
 magistrate tried to prove to her that the priest exceeded the 
 requirements of the Church. This odious theological dispute 
 was renewed with much more violence and acrimony on both 
 sides, when Granville wanted to take his wife to the play. At 
 length the magistrate, with the sole object of overcoming the 
 pernicious influence exercised over his wife, by the ex-canon,, 
 placed the quarrel on such a footing that Madame de Granville 
 accepted her husband's challenge, to write to the Court of 
 Rome for information as to whether a woman could, without 
 imperilling her mortal soul, wear low dresses, and go to balls 
 and theatres, to please her husband. The response of the 
 venerable Pius VII. was not long delayed. It boldly con- 
 demned the resistance of the wife, and censured the confessor. 
 The letter, which was a regular catechism of matrimony, 
 seemed, as it were, dictated by the gentle voice of Fe'nelon, 
 breathing throughout his elegance and mildness. " A woman 
 is well placed wherever she goes with her husband." " If she 
 commits sin by his order, she will not one day have to answer 
 for it." 
 
 These two passages of the pope's homily led Madame de 
 Granville and her confessor to accuse the holy father of irreli- 
 gion. But before the brief arrived, the substitute noticed the 
 strict observance of waigre days imposed upon him by his- 
 wife, and ordered his servants to serve meat throughout the 
 year. Notwithstanding the displeasure which this order caused 1 
 his wife, Granville, who cared little or nothing for feasts or 
 fasts, adhered to it with manly firmness.
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 311 
 
 The weakest creature that can think, is wounded in its ter- 
 derest point when performing at the instigation of a will other 
 than its own, something which it would have done of its own 
 accord. Of all tyrannies that is the most odious which per- 
 petually robs the heart of its thoughts and actions. It is abdi- 
 cation without having reigned. The word which it would have 
 been most sweet to utter, the sentiment which it would have 
 been most sweet to express, when we believe them to be 
 commanded, die upon the lips. The young magistrate soon 
 gave up receiving his friends, and ceased to entertain them. 
 His house seemed to be in mourning. A house whose mis- 
 tress is a Puritan has an aspect peculiar to itself. The servants, 
 who are constantly subjected to the surveillance of the wife, 
 are chosen from among the class of so-called pious persons 
 who have faces which are sui gene-is. Just as the most jovial 
 lad who joins the police force will acquire the look of a police- 
 man ; even so, people who adopt Puritan habits contract a 
 uniform cast of countenance. The habit of looking upon the 
 ground, of maintaining an attitude of compunction, invest 
 them with a livery of hypocrisy, which rogues can don with 
 marvellous facility. Then again, the Puritans form a kind of 
 republic, they all know each other ; the servants whom they 
 recommend to one another form a distinct race, which is care- 
 fully preserved by them ; just as lovers of horse-flesh only admit 
 to their stable, horses whose pedigrees are beyond dispute. 
 The more those who are termed irreligious examine the house 
 of a Puritan, the more clearly do they perceive that everything 
 which it contains is stamped with a certain indefinable want of 
 grace; there is the same appearance of avarice and mystery 
 that stamps the house of the usurer, the same incense-perfumed 
 dampness that chills the air of the chapel. This sordid regu- 
 larity, this poverty of ideas everywhere portrayed, can be 
 expressed by one word only bigotry. In these sinister and 
 unbending households bigotry is imprinted upon the furniture, 
 the engravings, the pictures ; the talk is bigoted, the silence is
 
 312 BALZ1C. 
 
 bigoted, the faces are bigoted. The transformation of men 
 and things through bigotry is an inexplicable mystery, but the 
 fact is there. Every one may have noticed that bigots do not 
 walk, do not sit down, do not talk as men of the world walk, 
 sit down, and talk. In the house of the bigot there is con- 
 straint; people do not laugh ; there is stiffness and formality 
 in everything, from the cap of the mistress of the house, to her 
 pincushion ; there are no frank looks ; people move about 
 like ghosts ; the lady of the house seems to be seated on a 
 throne of ice. 
 
 One morning poor Granville remarked with sadness and with 
 sorrow, all the symptoms of bigotry in his house. There are 
 in the world certain circles where the same effects exist, though 
 they are not produced by the same causes. Boredom traces 
 around their miserable haunts, a wall of brass, which includes 
 all the horrors of the desert, and the infinity of emptiness. 
 Under such conditions a household is not a tomb ; it is worse, 
 it is a convent. Placed in the centre of this glacial sphere, the 
 magistrate considered his wife dispassionately ; he observed, 
 with acute pain, the narrow ideas betrayed by the manner in 
 which the hair was planted on the low and somewhat sunken 
 brow ; he noticed in the too perfect regularity of the features an 
 immobility and stiffness which soon rendered the affected 
 gentleness by which he had been seduced, quite odious to him. 
 He felt that some day, on the arrival of some misfortune, those 
 thin lips might say to him, " It is for your good, my friend." 
 The face of Madame Granville assumed a pallid hue and serious 
 expression fatal to the cheerfulness of those who came near 
 her. Was it to the ascetic habits of a puritanism which is no 
 more piety than avarice is economy, that this change was due ? 
 Was it the result of the sterility natural to the bigoted mind ? 
 It would be difficult to determine. Beauty without expression 
 is perhaps an imposture. 
 
 The imperturbable smile which the young woman wore upon 
 her countenance when she looked at Granville seemed with
 
 A DOUBLE FAMIICT, 313 
 
 Iier to be a Jesuitical formula of happiness, whereby she be- 
 lieved that she satisfied all the exigencies of marriage ; her 
 charity inflicted wounds, her passionless beauty seemed a mon- 
 strosity to those who knew her, and the gentlest of her words 
 caused irritation ! She obeyed not feeling, but duty. There 
 are some female defects which may yield to the stern lessons 
 of experience, or to the teaching of a husband ; but nothing^ 
 can overcome the tyranny of false ideas of religion. An eter- 
 nity of happiness to be won, weighed in the balance against a 
 worldly pleasure, triumphs over everything, and makes every- 
 thing endurable. Is not this the very apotheosis of egotism, 
 the ego beyond the tomb? The pope, accordingly, was con- 
 demned at the tribunal of the infallible canon and the young 
 Puritan. Not to be in the wrong is one of those feelings which 
 supplant all other feelings in these despotic minds. For a 
 long time past there had been a secret conflict between the 
 ideas of the husband and those of the wife, and the young 
 magistrate soon grew weary of a strife which was destined to 
 have no end. Where is the man, where is the despotism, 
 which can overcome a face of affectionate hypocrisy and cate- 
 gorical remonstrances opposed to the slightest wishes ? How 
 can one deal with a woman who makes use of one's passion as 
 a shield for her own insensibility, who seems resolved to remain 
 znildly inexorable, joyfully prepares herself to play the part of 
 a. victim, and looks upon her husband as an instrument in the 
 hands of God, as a scourge whereby to escape the scourges of 
 purgatory ? What colors can one employ to give an idea of 
 those women who, by carrying beyond all bounds the sweetest 
 precepts of that religion which St. John summed up in the 
 words " Love one another," make virtue itself detestable ? 
 
 Was there in some milliner's shop a particular hat doomed 
 to hang on hand or to be despatched to the Isles, Granville 
 was sure to see his wife adorned with it. Was there manufac- 
 tured some material of peculiarly untasteful design, she muffled 
 herself up in it. These poor Puritans are terrible in their style
 
 314 BALZAC. 
 
 of dress. Want of taste is a defect inseparable from mistaken 
 piety. 
 
 Thus, then, in that intimate home-life to which the most 
 perfect freedom is essential, Granville found himself alone ; he 
 went into society alone, he went to balls and theatres alone- 
 In his own home, there was nothing sympathetic about him. 
 A large crucifix, placed between his wife's bed and his own, 
 stood there as a symbol of his destiny ; for does it not repre- 
 sent a divinity put to death, a man-God Hlled in all the beauty 
 of life and youth. The ivory of that cross was not so cold as 
 Ange'lique, crucifying her husband in the name of virtue. It 
 was between those two beds that unhappiness was born. This 
 young wife could see nothing but duty in the pleasures of 
 marriage. There, between these two beds, on a certain Ash 
 Wednesday, arose the keeping of the fast a pale and livid 
 spectre, who, in curt tones, ordained a complete Lent ; nor did 
 Granville on this occasion deem it fitting to write to the Pope, 
 to obtain the opinion of the Consistory as to the mode of 
 observing Lent, Ember Week, and the vigils of the F.-stivals. 
 The unhappiness of the young magistrate was complete ; he 
 could not even complain ; he had a pretty, virtuous young 
 wife, devoted to her duties, in fact, the model of every virtue. 
 Every year she presented him with a child, which she herself 
 suckled, and educated in the best principles. The charitable 
 Ange'lique was promoted to the rank of angel. The old women, 
 who composed the society in the midst of which she lived (for 
 at that epoch young women had not yet taken it into their heads 
 to launch out into extreme Puritanism, as a matter of fashion), 
 all admired the devotion of Madame de Granville, and regard- 
 ed her, if not as a virgin, at least as a martyr. They blamed, 
 not the scruples of the wife, but the procreative barbarity of 
 the husband. Granville, meanwhile, overwhelmed with work, 
 cut off from pleasure, and weary of the haunts of society, in 
 which he wandered solitary, fell imperceptibly, as he approached 
 thirty-two, into the most frightful atrophy. Life was hateful to
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 315 
 
 him. Having too keen a sense of the obligations imposed 
 upon him by his station, to set the example of an irregular life, he 
 tried to relieve his mind by labor, and therefore engaged in a 
 great work upon the law. But he did not long enjoy that 
 monastic tranquility on which he reckoned. When the celes- 
 tial Angdlique saw that he forsook the gaieties of the world,, 
 and took with a kind of regularity to working at home, she 
 essayed to make a convert of him. She was really grieved to- 
 know that her husband's principles were barely Christian ; she 
 sometimes wept, when she reflected that, if her husband should 
 die, he would perish in final impenitence, and that she could 
 not hope to snatch him from the everlasting flames of hell. 
 Granville, therefore, became the target of those petty notions,, 
 those empty arguments and narrow thoughts whereby his wife r 
 who fancied she had gained one victory over him, endeavored 
 to obtain another, by bringing him within the pale of the- 
 Church. That was the final blow. What could be more dis- 
 tressing than those silent contests, in which the obstinacy of 
 the Puritan tried to subdue the dialectics of the magistrate ? 
 What more fearful to describe, than those acrimonious cavils 
 which, to impassioned minds, are worse than the point of the 
 dagger ? 
 
 Granville deserted the house, in which everything had be- 
 come insupportable to him ; his children, bowed down beneath 
 their mother's frigid tyranny, did not venture to go with their 
 father to the play, nor could Granville procure them any diver- 
 sion, without drawing down upon them the chastisement of 
 their terrible mother. This man, so full of affection, was- 
 forced into an indifference, into an egotism, worse than death. 
 He, however, saved his sons from the infernal regions of home r 
 by sending them to school while quite young, and keeping the 
 reins of management in his own hands. He rarely interfered 
 between the mother and her daughters, but he resolved to> 
 procure husbands for them, so soon as they should attain a 
 uu-jriageable age. Had he tried to assume the high hand,.
 
 316 BALZAC. 
 
 there was nothing to justify him ; his wife, supported by a for- 
 midable phalanx of dowagers, would have secured his condem- 
 nation by the whole earth. Granville's only resource, then, 
 was to live in complete isolation, but, bowed as he was beneath 
 the tyranny of misfortune, he was disgusted with his own 
 features, withered by misery, and worn by toil. And to crown 
 .all, his relations and intercourse with women of the world 
 taught him that it was vain to expect consolation from them. 
 Of such consolation, moreover, he was afraid. 
 
 The didactic history of this melancholy household did not, 
 during the fifteen years which had elapsed between 1806 and 
 1821, present any scene worth reporting. Madame de Gran- 
 -ville, from the time when she lost her husband's heart, remained 
 exactly the same as she had been during the days when she 
 called herself happy. She fasted for nine days at a time, in 
 order to pray to God, and His saints, to enlighten her as to 
 the faults which displeased her husband, and to teach her the 
 means of bringing back the wandering sheep; but the more 
 fervently she prayed, the more persistently did Granville absent 
 himself from home. For about five years past, the advocate- 
 -general, who, in consequence of the Restoration, obtained high 
 functions in the magistracy, had taken refuge in the entresol 
 of his hotel, to avoid living with the Countess of Granville. 
 Hence, every morning, a scene took place, which, if we are 
 to believe the scandal of society, occurs in several 
 households, where it is produced by certain incompati- 
 bilities of temper, by maladies, moral or physical, or by 
 caprices, which involve many an union in the misfortunes 
 recorded in this story. At about eight o'clock in the 
 morning, a lady's maid, bearing a strong resemblance to a 
 nun, came to ring at the door of the Comte de Granville's 
 rooms. After being admitted into the salon, which formed an 
 anteroom to the magistrate's study, she repeated to the valet- 
 de-chambre, always in the same tone of voice, the message of 
 *thc day before. " Madame wishes to know whether Monsieur
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 31 T 
 
 le Comte has passed a good night, and whether she will have 
 the pleasure of breakfasting with him." 
 
 " Monsieur," replied the valet, after having gone and spokeiT 
 to his master, "Monsieur presents his compliments to Madame 
 la Comtesse, and begs her to accept his excuses ; important. 
 business compels him to go to the Palais." 
 
 An instant afterwards, the lady's maid again presented her- 
 self, and inquired, on madame's behalf, whether she would 
 have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur le Comte, before his 
 departure. 
 
 " He is gone," replied the valet ; whereas it would often 
 happen that his cabriolet was still in the court. 
 
 This ambassadorial dialogue became a quotidian ceremony- 
 Granville's valet, who was a favorite with his master, and had- 
 caused more than one quarrel in the establishment, on account 
 of his impiety, and the laxity of his morals, would sometimes, 
 as a matter of form, go into the study, where his master was 
 not, and then return, to make the customary answer. 
 
 The afflicted wife always watched for her husband's return,, 
 and stationed herself upon \\ieperron, in order that as he passed 
 she might be in the way, and meet him like a Remorse. The 
 teasing triviality which is the essence of monastic tyranny, was 
 at the root of that of Madame de Granville, who, though only- 
 thirty-five, looked forty. When, constrained by decorum r 
 Granville addressed his wife, or remained at home to dine, 
 pleased to inflict upon him her pressence, her bitter-sweet 
 discourse, and the intolerable boredom of her society of bigots, 
 she would seize the opportunity of putting him in the wrong; 
 before her servants, and her charitable friends. 
 
 Just about this time, the presidency of one of the Courts- 
 Royal was offered to Granville, who was at this time in high 
 favor with the king; but he begged the minister to be allowed 
 to remain in Paris. This refusal of promotion, the motives of 
 which was known only to the Keeper of the Seals, suggested the 
 oddest conjectures to the intimate friends, and to the confessor
 
 318 BALZAC. 
 
 of the countess. Granville, who had 100,000 francs a year, 
 belonged to one of the best families in Normandy; his nomi- 
 nation to the presidency was a step towards the peerage. Why 
 this lack of ambition ? Why had the great law-work been cast 
 aside ? Whence this dissipation, which, for nearly six years, 
 had made him a stranger in his own house, to his family, to 
 his labors, to all that ought to have been dear to him ? The 
 countess's confessor, who, for the obtaining of the bishopric, 
 -counted as much upon the suffrages of the houses in which he 
 reigned, as upon the services he rendered to a religious society, 
 of which he was one of the main supporters, was disappointed at 
 Oranville's refusal and endeavored to calumniate him by various 
 suppositions. If Monsieur le Comte had so much dislike to 
 the provinces, it might be that he was afraid of the necessity 
 lie would be placed in, of leading a regular life. Forced to set 
 an example of good morals, he would live with the countess, 
 from whom nothing but an illicit passion could divide him. 
 Would a woman so pure as Madame de Grenville ever recog- 
 nize the irregularities of her husband's mode of life ? The 
 worthy friends of the countess turned these hypotheses into 
 truths; and unfortunately they were not mere hypotheses. 
 Madame de Granville was thunderstruck. Not knowing any- 
 thing of the morals of the great woild, ignorant of love and its 
 follies, Angdlique was so far from thinking that marriage could 
 involve any incidents different from those which had alienated 
 Granville's heart, that she believed him incapable of faults, 
 which, in the eyes of every woman, are crimes. When the" 
 count had withdrawn his attentions from her, she imagined 
 that the calm, which he seemed to enjoy was natural ; and now 
 that, after she had given him all the affection which it was in 
 her power to bestow on any man, all the illusions which up to 
 that moment, she had cherished were wholly dispelled by the 
 conjectures of her confessor, she undertook her husband's 
 defence, but without being able to get rid of the suspicion? 
 which had been so cunningly instilled into her mind. Thesd
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 319 
 
 apprehensions caused such ravage^ in her weak head, that she 
 fell ill, and was attacked by a slow fever. These events took 
 place during the Lent of 1822; she would not consent to abate 
 her austerities, and so gradually sank into a consumptive con- 
 dition, which excited grave anxiety for her life. The uncon- 
 cerned air of Granville killed her. Such care and attention as 
 the magistrate did bestow upon her, resembled that which a 
 nephew constrains himself to show to a rich old uncle. 
 Although the countess had renounced her system of teasing 
 and remonstration, and endeavored to greet her husband with 
 gentle words, the bitterness of the Puritan pierced the disguise, 
 and one word would often destroy the work of a whole week. 
 Towards the end of the month of May, the gentle breath of 
 spring, and a diet more nutritious than Lenten fare, restored 
 some strength to Madame de Grenville. One morning, on her 
 return from mass, she went into her little garden, and sat down 
 upon a stone bench, where the caressing warmth of the sun 
 reminded her of the first days of her married life. She was 
 taking a bird's-eye view of the whole of her life, in order to 
 discover in what respect she had failed in her duties as a wife 
 and a mother, when the Abbe Fontanon appeared before 
 her in a state of agitation difficult to be described. 
 
 " Have you met with any misfortune, father ? " she inquired, 
 with daughterly anxiety. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied the Normandy priest, " I would that all the 
 misfortunes with which the hand of God afflicts you, were 
 allotted to me; but my estimable friend, there are trials to 
 which we must learn to submit." 
 
 " Is it possible that greater chastisement can be in store for 
 me than that with which Providence overwhelms me by em- 
 ploying my husband as the instrument of its wrath ? " 
 
 " Prepare yourself, my daughter, for chastisement even 
 greater than that which we and your pious friends formerly 
 supposed." 
 
 " I ought then to thank God," replied the countess, " for
 
 320 BALZAC. 
 
 
 deigning to employ you as the messenger of His will; thus 
 
 placing, as He ever does, the treasures of His mercy beside 
 the scourge of His wrath, as formerly, in banishing Hagar, He 
 opened up for her a fountain in the wilderness." 
 
 " He has proportioned your troubles to the strength of your 
 resignation and the weight of your sins." 
 
 " Speak, I am prepared to hear all." With these words the 
 countess raised her eyes to heaven and added, " Speak, 
 Monsieur de Fontanon." 
 
 " For the last seven years monsieur has been guilty of the 
 sin of adultery with a concubine by whom he has had two chil- 
 dren ; and he has squandered on that adulterous household 
 more than 500,000 francs, which should of a right belong to- 
 his legitimate family." 
 
 " I must see it with my own eyes," said the countess. 
 
 "Take care how you do that," said the abbe'. "You must 
 forgive and wait in prayer, my daughter, until God shall en- 
 lighten your husband, unless you resort to the remedies which 
 human laws provide." 
 
 The long conversation which thereupon ensued between the 
 Abbe Fontanon and his penitent produced a violent change irr 
 the countess. Having dismissed him, she appeared before her 
 servants with a face that had almost a color in it. She ordered 
 the horses to be put into the carriage ; countermanded her 
 order, changed her mind twenty times in the course of an 
 hour; but at length, as if she had arrived at some important 
 resolution, she set out at about three o'clock, leaving the 
 household astonished at so sudden a change. 
 
 " Is your master coming back to dinner ? " she inquired cf 
 the valet-de-chambre, to whom she never spoke. 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 "Did you take him to the Palais this morning?" 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Is not to-day Monday?" 
 
 " Yes, madame."
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 321 
 
 "Then there is business at the Palais on Monday now?" 
 
 " May the devil take you !" cried the valet as he saw his mis- 
 tress drive off, with orders to the coachman to drive to the Rue 
 Taitbout. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was weeping. Roger close be- 
 side her had one of her hands in his. He was silent and 
 gazed first at little Charles, who, not understanding his 
 mother's grief, looked on without speaking, while she wept ; 
 then at the cradle in which Eugenie was sleeping, and then at 
 the face of Caroline, whose tears resembled an April shower. 
 
 " Well, yes, my angel," said Roger, after a long silence, 
 " that is the great secret, I am married. But some day, I hope, 
 we shall make one family. My wife has been in a desperate 
 state of health since last March. I do not wish for her death, 
 but if it please God to take her to Him, I believe she will be 
 more happy in Paradise, than in the midst of a world to the 
 pains and pleasures of which she is equally indifferent." 
 
 " How I hate that woman ! How could she render you un- 
 happy ? However, it is to your unhappiness that I owe my 
 felicity." 
 
 And her tears suddenly dried. 
 
 " Caroline, let us live in hope," said Roger, snatching a kiss. 
 " Don't be frightened at what this abbe may have said to you.. 
 Although my wife's confessor is, on account of his influence 
 over the congregation, a formidable man, if he should seek to- 
 disturb our happiness I should know what to do. ..." 
 
 " Why, what would you do ?" 
 
 " We would go to Italy, I would fly. . . ." 
 
 A cry from the neighboring drawing-room made Roger 
 shudder, and Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille tremble. They 
 rushed into the drawing-room, and there found the countess in 
 a swoon. When Madame de Granville recovered conscious 
 ness, she sighed profoundly on finding herself between the 
 count and her rival, whom she repulsed with an involuntary 
 gesture full of contempt, 
 u
 
 322 BALZAC. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille rose to leave the room, 
 
 " You are in your own house, madame ; I beg you to re- 
 main," said Granville, taking hold of Caroline's arm. 
 
 The magistrate raised his dying wife, carried her to the car- 
 riage, and took a seat by her side. 
 
 " Who has induced you to wish for my death to desert 
 me?" asked the countess in a feeble voice, while she looked 
 at her husband with as much anger as pain. " Was I not 
 young ? You thought me beautiful. What have you to reproach 
 me with? Have I deceived you? Have I not been a virtuous 
 and prudent wife? My heart has treasured no image but 
 yours, I have listened to no other voice than yours. In what 
 duty have I fallen short ? What have I refused you ?" 
 
 " Happiness" said the count firmly. 
 
 " You know, madame, that there are two ways of serving 
 God. Certain Christians imagine that by going into a church 
 at fixed hours to say Paternosters, hearing mass there regularly, 
 and refraining from all sin, they will gain heaven. Such per- 
 sons, madame, go to hell. They have not loved God for His own 
 sake, they have not worshipped Him as He would be worshipped, 
 they have made no sacrifice for Him ; although in outward 
 seeming gentle, they are harsh to their neighbor; they see the 
 rule, the letter, but not the spirit. That is how you have acted 
 towards your earthly spouse, you have sacrificed my happiness 
 to your salvation ; when I approached you with my heart full 
 of joy, I found you on your knees ; when you should have 
 lightened my labors, you were weeping; you have entirely 
 failed to minister to my pleasures." 
 
 "And if they were criminal," cried the countess passionately, 
 " was I bound to lose my soul in order to please you ?" 
 
 " That would have been a sacrifice which another more lov- 
 ing than you has had the courage to make for me," said Gran- 
 ville coldly. 
 
 " O my God," cried Madame de Granville, weeping. "Thou 
 litarest him. Was he worthy of the prayers I uttered, and the
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 323 
 
 austerities I underwent in order to redeem his fauUs as we)! as 
 my own ? What is the use of virtue ?" 
 
 " To gain heaven, my dear. One cannot be at the same 
 timethe wife of a man and of Jesus Christ ; that would be 
 bigamy. Women must choose between a husband and a con- 
 vent. You, with an eye to the future, have divested your 
 heart of all love, of all the devotion which God ordained that 
 you should have for me ; and for the world you have no feeling 
 but hatred." 
 
 " Have I not loved you, then?" 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 "What, then, is love?" asked the countess involuntarily. 
 
 "Love, my dear?" replied Granville, with a kind of ironical 
 surprise. " You are not in a condition to understand it. The 
 cold sky of Normandy cannot be that of Spain. Doubtless the 
 question of climates is the secret of our unhappiness. To yield 
 to the caprices of a lover, to divine them, to find pleasure even 
 in pain, to sacrifice for his sake the opinion of the world, self- 
 esteem, even religion itself, and to regard these offerings as 
 mere grains of incense, burned in honor of the idol that is 
 love." 
 
 " Yes, the love of opera girls," said the countess, horrified. 
 " Such fiery passion cannot last, and must soon leave us nothing 
 but coals and ashes, sorrow or despair. A wife, sir, ought, in 
 my opinion, to offer you a true affection, an even warmth of 
 feeling " 
 
 "You talk of warmth, as negroes talk of ice," said the count, 
 with a sardonic smile. " Consider, the most humble Easter 
 daisy is more seductive than the proudest and most brilliant of 
 the roses which in the spring-time attract us with their pene- 
 trating perfumes and vivid colors. Moreover" added he, " I 
 do you justice ; you have kept so strictly within the line of 
 duty laid down by the law, that in order to show you in what 
 respect you have failed in relation to me, it would be necessary 
 for me to enter into details which would offend your dignity,
 
 324 BALZAC. 
 
 and to teach you certain things which would seem to you to be 
 the subversion of all morality." 
 
 " You dare to talk of morality, when you have just left a 
 house in which you have squandered the fortune of your chil- 
 dren in a'place of debauchery !" 
 
 " Madame, there I stop you," said the count coolly, inter- 
 rupting his wife. " If Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille is rich, she 
 is not rich at any one's expense. My uncle was the master of 
 his fortune, he had several heirs, but in his lifetime, and out of 
 pure friendship for her whom he regarded as his niece, he gave 
 her the estate of Bellefeuille. As for the rest, I owe it to his 
 liberality." 
 
 "That conduct is worthy of such a Jacobin," said the 
 countess. 
 
 " Madame, you forget that your father was one of those 
 Jacobins whom you, as a wife, condemn with so .little charity," 
 said the count severely. " Citizen Bontems was signing death- 
 warrants, while my uncle was rendering only services to 
 France." 
 
 Madame de Granville was silent, but as the recollection of 
 what she had just seen aroused that jealousy which nothing 
 can extinguish in the heart of a woman, she said in a low voice, 
 as if speaking to herself, " Is it possible thus to destroy one's 
 own soul, and that of others ?" 
 
 " Ah, madame," resumed the count, fatigued with this con- 
 versation, " perhaps it is you who will some day have to answer 
 for all this." (At this phrase the countess trembled.) " In 
 the eyes of the indulgent Judge who will weigh our offences, 
 you will doubtless be excused on account of the good faith 
 with which you have wrought my misery. I do not hate_jw// 
 I do hate the persons who have perverted your head and your 
 heart. You have prayed for me, just as Mademoiselle de 
 Bellefeuille has given me her heart, and poured out on me the 
 treasures of her love. You should have been in turn, my 
 mistress and a saint praying at the* foot of the altar. Do me
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 325 
 
 the justice to admit that I am neither wicked nor depraved. 
 My morals are pure. Alas, at the end of seven years of suffer- 
 ing, the want of happiness has led me by imperceptible degrees 
 to love another woman than you, and to create another family 
 than mine. Don't suppose, however, that I stand alone ; there 
 are in this city thousands of husbands who have all been led by 
 divers causes to this double life." 
 
 " Great God," cried the countess, " how heavy is my cross 
 become. If the husband whom, in Thine anger, Thou hast 
 imposed upon me, cannot find happiness here below save by 
 my death, recall me to Thy bosom." 
 
 " Had you always been actuated by such admirable senti- 
 ments, and such self-sacrifice, we should still have been happy," 
 said the count coldly. 
 
 " Ah, well," said Ange'lique, bursting into a flood of tears, 
 " forgive me, if I have committed faults. Yes, sir, I am ready 
 to obey you in all things, feeling sure that you will ask only 
 what is just and natural. I will be henceforth all that you 
 would wish a wife to be." 
 
 " Madame, if your object be to lead me to say that I no 
 longer love you, I shall have the ruthless courage to enlighten 
 you. Can I command my heart ? Can I in one instant efface 
 the memory of fifteen years of misery ? I have ceased to love. 
 Those words enshroud a mystery as deep as that contained in 
 the words I love. Esteem, consideration, regard, may be won, 
 may be lost, and be regained ; but as for love, if I lectured 
 myself for a thousand years, I could not cause it to grow 
 again, especially for a woman who has tried to make herself 
 old." 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur le Comte, I most sincerely hope that those 
 words may not some day be uttered to you in that tone, and 
 with that accent, by her whom you love." 
 
 "Will you put on a dress a- la Grecque, and come to the 
 opera with me this evening?"
 
 326 BALZAC. 
 
 The shudder which this question at once caused the countess 
 was an unspoken reply. 
 
 In the early part of the month of December, 1833, a man 
 whose snow-white hair and the general appearance of whose 
 face seemed to show that grief rather than years had aged him, 
 was passing at midnight through the Rue de Gaillon. When 
 he had got as far as a mean-looking house two storeys high, he 
 stopped to look at one of the attic windows which at regular 
 intervals pierced the middle of the roof. This humble window, 
 some of whose panes had been replaced by paper, was very 
 dimly illuminated. The passenger was looking at the flicker- 
 ing light with the indefinable curiosity of the Parisian idler, 
 when a young man suddenly came out of the house. As the 
 pale rays of the street lamp fell upon the face of the inquisitive 
 loiterer, it will not seem surprising that, though it was in the 
 night-time, the young man advanced towards the passenger 
 with the hesitation which a Parisian displays when he fears he 
 may be mistaken in supposing that he is meeting an acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 " What," cried he, " you, Monsieur le President, alone and 
 on foot at this hour, and so far from the Rue St. Lazre ? Allow 
 me to have the honor of offering you my arm. The pavement 
 this morning is so slippery, that if we do not support one 
 another " (this he said in order not to offend the old man's 
 self-esteem) " it will be very difficult to avoid a fall." 
 
 " But my dear sir, unhappily for me, I am as yet only fifty- 
 five years of age," replied the Comte de Granville. " A doctor 
 so celebrated as you are, ought to know that at that time of 
 life a man retains all his strength ?" 
 
 "Then you must have a little love affair on hand; you are 
 not, I fancy, in the habit of going about Paris on foot. When 
 a man has such splendid horses as yours . . . ."
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 327 
 
 " Why, unless I go out in the evening," interrupted the 
 Comte de Granville, " I generally return from the Palais Royal 
 or from the Strangers' Club on foot." 
 
 " Having large sums of money, about you, no doubt," said 
 the doctor. " Isn't that inviting the assassin's dagger?" 
 
 " I am not afraid of them" said the Comte de Granville with 
 careless sadness. 
 
 " But at all events it is wrong to stand still," resumed the 
 doctor, dragging the magistrate towards the boulevard. " I 
 shall soon begin to think that you want to rob me of your last 
 illness, and to die by another hand than mine." 
 
 " Ah, you have caught me playing the spy," replied the 
 count. " Whether I pass on foot or in a carriage, and what- 
 ever the hour of night may be, I have for some time past seen 
 the shadow of a person, who seems to be working with heroic 
 courage cast upon the window of the third storey of the house 
 which you have just left." Here the count frowned as if he 
 had felt a sudden pang. " I have begun to take as much in- 
 terest in that attic, as a citizen of Paris can possibly feel in the 
 completion of the Palais Royal." 
 
 " Well," cried Horace quickly, interrupting the count, " I 
 can tell you . . . ." 
 
 " Tell me nothing," replied Granville, cutting the doctor 
 short, " I would not give a single centime to learn whether 
 the shadow that trembles on those tattered curtains, be that 
 of a man or that of a woman, and whether the occupant of the 
 garret be happy or miserable. If it surprised me to see no 
 one working there to-night, and if I stopped, it was simply for 
 the pleasure of forming conjectures as numerous and silly as 
 idlers form at sight of a building suddenly abandoned. For 
 the last nine years my young " Here the count hesitated to 
 employ some expression ; then with a "?*' "ire continued 
 " No, I will not call you my friend, 1 nate everything which 
 resembles a sentiment. In the last nine years, then, I have 
 ceased to wonder at the pleasure which old men find in culti
 
 328 BALZAC. 
 
 vating flowers and planting trees. The events of life have 
 taught me no longer to put any faith in human affections, and 
 I grew old in a few days. I want to sever myself from every- 
 thing, save unreasoning animals, plants, and the mere externals 
 of life. I attach more importance to the movements of Tagli- 
 oni than to all human sentiments put together. I hate life ; 
 I hate the world in which I find myself alone. Nothing, 1 
 nothing," added the count with an expression which made the 
 young man shudder, "no, nothing moves, nothing interests 
 me." 
 
 "But you have children ?" 
 
 " My children ! " he resumed in a peculiarly bitter tone. 
 " Well, as to my children, there is the eldest of my daughters, 
 is she not Comtesse de Vaudenesse ? As for the second, her 
 sister's marriage will be the means of securing her a good match. 
 As for my two sons, have they not met with very great success? 
 The vicomte, after being attorney-general at Limoges, has been 
 made first president at Orleans, and my younger son is here as 
 the king's attorney. My children have cares, anxieties, and 
 business of their own. If one among them had entirely devot- 
 ed herself or himself to me, and tried to fill with affection the 
 void which I feel then" said he striking his bosom ; " well, 
 that child's life would have been a failure, would have been 
 sacrificed to me. And after all, to what purpose ? To embel- 
 lish my few remaining years. Would he have succeeded? 
 Should I not perhaps have looked upon his generous attentions 
 as a debt? But, doctor" (here the old man began to smile 
 with profound irony), "doctor, it is not for nothing that we 
 teach our children arithmetic; they know how to calculate. 
 Perhaps at this very moment my children are on the look out 
 for my fortune." 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur le Comte, how could such an idea occur to 
 you who are so good, so obliging and so humane ? Truly if I 
 were not myself a living proof of that benevolence which you 
 conceive in all its breadth and beauty. . . ."
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 329 
 
 " For my pleasure," quickly interposed the count I pray 
 for a sensation as I would to-morrow give a heap of gold for 
 the most puerile illusion which would stir my heart. I help 
 my fellow creatures, just as I gamble for my own sake. Thus, 
 I do not count upon the gratitude of any one. I could with- 
 out a sign of grief see you yourself die, and I require you to 
 feel towards me as I feel towards you. Ah, young man, the. 
 events of life have passed over my heart as the lava of Vesuvius 
 over Herculaneum ; the city exists, but it is dead." 
 
 " Those who have reduced to such a state of insensibility, 
 a heart so warm and susceptible as yours was, are highly 
 culpable." 
 
 " Don't add another word," said the count with a feeling of 
 horror. 
 
 " You have a disease which you should allow me to cure," 
 said Bianchon, in a voice of deep emotion. 
 
 " Do you know any remedy for death ? " cried the count 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur le Comte, I undertake to reanimate the 
 heart which you think so dead." 
 
 " Are you equal to Talma ? " asked the chief president 
 ironically. 
 
 " No, Monsieur le Comte, but nature is as superior to Talma 
 as Talma is to me. Listen ; the denizen of the garret in which 
 you take an interest is a woman of thirty; with her, love 
 reaches fanaticism. The object of her worship is a young man 
 with a handsome face, but endowed by some wicked fairy with 
 every possible vice. The youth is a gambler, and I do not 
 know which he likes best, women cr wine ; he has been guilty, 
 to my certain knowledge, of actions which ought to bring him 
 under the notice of the correctional police. Well, this unfor- 
 tunate woman has sacrificed for his sake a very prosperous 
 existence, a man who adoied her and by whom she has children. 
 But what is the matter, Monsieur le Comte ?" 
 
 " Nothing go on."
 
 330 BALZAC. 
 
 "She has allowed him to squander a complete fortune, she 
 would give him the world, I believe, if she had it ; she works 
 day and night, and she has often without one murmur seen the 
 monster she adores rob her of the money which was intended 
 to pay for the clothes which her children lacked, and even the 
 morrow's food. Three days ago she sold her hair the most 
 beautiful hair I ever saw ; he came in before she had time to 
 hide the piece of gold ; he asked her for it, and for a smile 
 for a kiss she surrendered what would have secured them 
 food and tranquility for a fortnight. Is it not at once horrible 
 and sublime? But work- is beginning to hollow her cheeks. 
 The cries of her children have rent her heart ; she has fallen 
 ill, she now lies moaning on a truckle bed. This evening she 
 had nothing to eat, and her children were too weak to cry ; 
 they were quiet when I went in." 
 
 Horace Bianchon stopped. The Comte de Granville had, 
 as if in spite of himself, plunged his hand into his waistcoat- 
 pocket. 
 
 " I understand, my young friend, how she manages still to 
 exist, if she is under your care." 
 
 " Ah, poor creature ! " cried the doctor, " who would not 
 render her aid ? I wish I were richer, for I hope to cure her 
 of her love." 
 
 The count, who, unobserved by the doctor, had put his hand 
 into his pocket, now withdrew it full of notes which he appeared 
 to have been searching for there. 
 
 " But," replied he, " how can you expect me to sympathize 
 with suffering, the pleasures of which would seem to me to be 
 cheaply purchased with my whole fortune. This woman feels; 
 she lives. Would not Louis Quinze have given his whole realm 
 to have risen from his coffin, and have three years of youth and 
 life? Is not that the history of millions of dead folks, of 
 millions of invalids, of millions of old men?" 
 
 " Poor Caroline ! " cried the doctor. 
 
 When he heard that name, the Comte de Granville trembled,
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 331 
 
 and seized the arm of the doctor, who felt as if he were in the 
 grasp of the iron lips of a vice. 
 
 " Is her name Caroline Crochard ? " asked the president in 
 a voice that betokened deep emotion. 
 
 " You know her, then ? " asked the doctor in astonishment. 
 
 " And the wretch's name is Solvet. Ah, you have kept your 
 word," cried the first president; "you have excited in my 
 heart the most terrible sensation which it will experience till it 
 turns to dust. This emotion is yet another gift of hell, and I 
 always know how to pay such debts." 
 
 At this moment the count and the doctor had reached the 
 corner of the Rue de la Chausse'e d'Antin. One of those 
 children of the night who go about with a wicker basket on 
 their backs, and a hook in their hands, and were therefore 
 during the revolutionary epoch wittily called, " members of the 
 committee of researches," was standing near the post before 
 which the president had just stopped The rag-gatherer had 
 an old face worthy of those which Charlet has immortalized in 
 his caricatures of the scavenger school. 
 
 " Do you often find thousand franc notes ? " inquired the' 
 count. 
 
 " Sometimes, master." 
 
 " And do you give them up ? " 
 
 " That depends upon the reward that is offered." 
 
 "There, my man," said the count, presenting the rag- 
 gatherer with a thousand franc note. " Take that," said he, 
 " but bear in mind that I give it you on condition that you 
 spend it in the public-house, that you get drunk there, fight, 
 beat your wife, and knock your friends' eyes out. That will 
 make work for the watchmen, the surgeons, the apothecaries, 
 perhaps for the gendarmes, the king's attorneys, the judges, 
 and the jailers. Stick to that programme, or the devil will 
 sooner or later have it out with you." 
 
 To do justice to this nocturnal scene a man would need the
 
 332 BALZAC. 
 
 pencils of Charlet and Callot, and the brushes of Teniers and 
 Rembrandt. 
 
 " Now my account with hell is settled, and I have had some 
 pleasure for my money," said the count, in a deep voice, as he 
 pointed out to the astounded doctor the indescribable face of 
 the gaping rag-gatherer. 
 
 " As for Caroline Crochard, she may die in all . the horrors 
 of hunger and thirst, with the heart-rending cries of her chil- 
 dren in her ears, and in her heart the full conviction of the 
 baseness of the man she loves. I would not give one farthing 
 to hinder her from suffering, and for the single reason that you 
 have given her help, I hope that I may never see you more 
 
 Leaving Bianchon more motionless than a statue, the count 
 disappeared in the direction of the Rue St. Lazare, with all the 
 speed of youth. He very soon reached the door of the little 
 hotel which he occupied. Somewhat to his surprise, a carriage 
 was waiting at the door. 
 
 " Monsieur le Procureur du roi came here an hour since to 
 speak to you, sir, and is waiting in your bed-room," said the 
 valet to his master. 
 
 Granville motioned his servant away. 
 
 "What important motive compels you to infringe the order 
 I gave my children not to come to my house unless I send for 
 them?" said the old man, as he entered the room where his 
 son was. 
 
 " Father," replied the young man, in a trembling voice, and 
 with a respectful air, " I venture to hope that you will forgive 
 me when you have heard me." 
 
 " That is a very proper answer," said the count. " Sit 
 down. But whether I walk about or remain seated, take no 
 notice of me." 
 
 " Father," resumed the baron, " this afternoon at four o'clock, 
 a young man who was arrested in the house of one of my 
 friends, from whom he had stolen a considerable sum, referred 
 us to you. He says he is your son."
 
 A DOUBLE FAMILY. 333 
 
 " What 5s his name ? " said ihe count, trembling. 
 
 " Charles Crochard." 
 
 " Enough," said the father, with a gesture of command. 
 
 Thereupon Granville began to pace up and down the room 
 amid profound silence, which his son was careful not to 
 interrupt. 
 
 " My son " (these words were uttered in a voice so gentle 
 and so paternal, that the young man trembled with emotion), 
 " Charles Crochard has told you the truth. I am glad you 
 came this evening, my good Eugene," added the old man. 
 " Here is a considerable sum of money," said he, producing a 
 pile of bank-notes ; " you will employ it in this matter as you 
 think best. I trust to you and approve beforehand of all your 
 arrangements, whether for the present or the future. Eugene, 
 my dear boy, come and embrace me ; this is perhaps the last 
 time we shall see each other. To-morrow I shall ask the king 
 for leave of absence, and shall start for Italy. If a father is 
 not bound to account to his children for his life, he is bound 
 to bequeath them the experience fate has sold him ; is it not 
 a part of the inheritance ? When you marry," resumed the 
 count, with an involuntary shudder, " do not lightly enter into 
 that solemn engagement, the most important of all those which 
 society forces upon us. Remember to study for a long time 
 the disposition of the woman with whom you are about to 
 associate yourself; but consult me; I should like to form my 
 own opinion about her. The want of union between husband 
 and wife, no matter whence it springs, brings dreadful misery 
 in its train ; we are, sooner or later, punished for not obeying 
 the laws of society. I will write to you from Florence upon 
 this subject. A father, especially if he has the honor of being 
 president of a supreme court, ought not to have to blush before 
 his son. Good-bye." 
 
 THE END.
 
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