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of  Toronto 


THE  ESTATE  OF  THE  LATE 
Miss  CHRISTINA  CAMERON  GRANT 
B.  A.   TORONTO,  1901 


GAUDISSART 


Balzac,  Vol.  VIII 


THE  FIRST  COMPLETE  TRANSLATION 
INTO  ENGLISH 


lonord  de  Balzac 


IN    TWENTY-FIVE   VOLUMES 


Parisians  in  the  Country 


Gaudissart  the  Great 

The  Muse  of  the  Department 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley 


P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS 


PAG* 


Preface 7 

Parisians  in  the  Country — Gaudissart  the  Great -.    n 

The  Muse  of  the  Department -~ ~~ -.«. «- 53 

Preface...- „ „„_ 239 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley 243 


PARISIANS  IN  THE  COUNTRY 


PREFACE 

I  HAVE  sometimes  wondered  whether  it  was  accident  or 
intention  which  made  Balzac  so  frequently  combine  early 
and  late  work  in  the  same  volume.  The  question  is  cer- 
tainly insoluble,  and  perhaps  not  worth  solving,  but  it  pre- 
sents itself  once  more  in  the  present  instance.  "L'lllustre 
Gaudissart"  is  a  story  of  1832,  the  very  heyday  of  Balzac's 
creative  period,  when  even  his  pen  could  hardly  keep  up 
with  the  abundance  of  his  fancy  and  the  gathered  stores  of 
his  minute  observation.  "La  Muse  du  Departement"  dates 
ten  years  and  more  later,  when,  though  there  was  plenty  of 
both  left,  both  sacks  had  been  deeply  dipped  into. 

The  first  is,  of  course,  slight,  not  merely  in  bulk,  but 
in  conception.  Balzac's  Tourangeau  patriotism  may  have 
amused  itself  by  the  idea  of  the  villagers  "rolling"  the 
great  Gaudissart;  but  the  ending  of  the  tale  can  hardly  be 
thought  to  be  quite  so  good  as  the  beginning.  Still,  that 
beginning  is  altogether  excellent.  The  sketch  of  the 
commis-voyageur  generally  smacks  of  that  physiologie  style 
of  which  Balzac  was  so  fond;  but  it  is  good,  and  Gaudissart 
himself,  as  well  as  the  whole  scene  with  his  epouse  libre,  is 
delightful.  The  Illustrious  One  was  evidently  a  favorite 
character  with  his  creator.  He  nowhere  plays  a  very  great 
part;  but  it  is  everywhere  a  rather  favorable  and,  except 
in  this  little  mishap  with  Margaritis  (which,  it  must  be  ob- 
served, does  not  tarn  entirely  to  his  discomfiture),  a  rather 
successful  part.  We  have  him  in  "Cdsar  Birotteau"  super- 
intending the  early  efforts  of  Popinot  to  launch  the  Huile 
Ce'phalique.  He  was  present  at  the  great  ball.  He  served 

(7) 


8  PREFACE 

as  intermediary  to  M.  de  Bauvan  in  the  merciful  scheme  of 
buying  at  fancy  prices  the  handiwork  of  the  count's  faith- 
less spouse,  and  so  providing  her  with  a  livelihood;  and 
later  as  a  theatrical  manager,  a  little  spoiled  by  his  profes- 
sion, we  find  him  in  "Le  Cousin  Pons."  But  he  is  always 
what  the  French  call  a  "good  devil,"  and  here  he  is  a  very 
good  devil  indeed. 

Although  "La  Muse  du  De*partement"  is  a  much  more  im- 
portant work,  it  cannot  perhaps  be  spoken  of  in  quite  such 
unhesitating  terms.  It  contains  indeed,  in  the  personage  of 
Lousteau,  one  of  the  very  most  elaborate  of  Balzac's  por- 
traits of  a  particular  type  of  men  of  letters.  The  original 
is  said  to  have  been  Jules  Janin,  who  is  somewhat  disad- 
vantageously  contrasted  here  and  elsewhere  with  Claude 
Yignon,  said  on  the  same  rather  vague  authority  to  be 
Gustave  Planche.  Both  Janin  and  Planche  are  now  too 
much  forgotten,  but  in  both  more  or  less  (and  in  Lousteau 
very  much  "more")  Balzac  certainly  cannot  be  said  to  have 
dealt  mildly  with  his  b§te  noire,  the  critical  temperament. 
Lousteau,  indeed,  though  not  precisely  a  scoundrel,  is  both 
a  rascal  and  a  cad.  Even  Balzac  seems  a  little  shocked  at 
his  lettre  de  faire  part  in  reference  to  his  mistress's  child; 
and  it  is  seldom  possible  to  discern  in  any  of  his  proceed- 
ings the  most  remote  approximation  to  the  conduct  of  a 
gentleman.  But,  then,  as  we  have  seen,  and  shall  see, 
Balzac's  standard  for  the  conduct  of  his  actual  gentlemen 
was  by  no  means  fantastically  exquisite  or  discouragingly 
high,  and  in  the  case  of  his  Bohemians  it  was  accommodat- 
ing to  the  utmost  degree.  He  seems  to  despise  Lousteau, 
but  rather  for  his  insouciance  and  neglect  of  his  opportuni- 
ties of  making  himself  a  position  than  for  anything  else. 

I  have  often  felt  disposed  to  ask  those  who  would  assert 
Balzac's  absolute  infallibility  as  a  gynecologist  to  give  me 
a  reasoned  criticism  of  the  heroine  of  this  novel.  I  do  not 
entirely  "figure  to  myself"  Dinah  de  La  Baudraye.  It  is 
perfectly  possible  that  she  should  have  loved  a  "sweep" 
like  Lousteau;  there  is  certainly  nothing  extremely  un- 


PREFACE  9 

usual  in  a  woman  loving  worse  sweeps  even  than  he.  But 
would  she  have  done  it,  and  having  done  it,  have  also  done 
what  she  did  afterward  ?  These  questions  may  be  answered 
differently;  I  do  not  answer  them  in  the  negative  myself, 
but  I  cannot  give  them  an  affirmative  answer  with  the  con- 
viction which  I  should  like  to  show. 

Among  the  minor  characters,  the  substitut  de  Chagny 
has  a  touch  of  nobility  which  contrasts  happily  enough 
with  Lousteau's  unworthiness.  Bianchon  is  as  good  as 
usual:  Balzac  always  gives  Bianchon  a  favorable  part. 
Madame  Pie'defer  is  one  of  the  numerous  instances  in 
which  the  unfortunate  class  of  mothers-in-law  atones  for 
what  are  supposed  to  be  its  crimes  against  the  human  race ; 
and  old  La  Baudraye,  not  so  hopelessly  repulsive  in  a  French 
as  he  would  be  in  an  English  novel,  is  a  shrewd  old  rascal 
enough. 

But  I  cannot  think  the  scene  of  the  Parisians  llaguing 
the  Sancerrois  a  very  happy  one.  That  it  is  in  exceedingly 
bad  taste  might  not  matter  so  very  much ;  Balzac  would  re- 
ply, and  justly,  that  he  had  not  intended  to  represent  it  as 
anything  else.  That  the  fun  is  not  very  funny  may  be  a 
matter  of  definition  and  appreciation.  But  what  scarcely 
admits  of  denial  or  discussion  is  that  it  is  tyrannously  too 
long.  The  citations  of  "Olympia"  are  pushed  beyond 
measure,  beyond  what  is  comic,  almost  beyond  the  license 
of  farce;  and  the  comments,  which  remind  one  rather  of  the 
heavy  jesting  on  critics  in  "TJn  Prince  de  la  Boh&ne"  and 
the  short-lived  "Revue  Parisienne,"  are  labored  to  the  last 
degree.  The  part  of  Nathan,  too,  is  difficult  to  appreciate 
exactly,  and  altogether  the  book  does  not  seem  to  me  a 
reussite. 

The  history  of  "L'lllustre  Gaudissart"  is,  for  a  story  of 
Balzac's,  almost  null.  It  was  inserted  without  any  previous 
newspaper  appearance  in  the  first  edition  of  "Scenes  de  la 
Vie  de  Province"  in  1833,  and  entered  with  the  rest  of  them 
into  the  first  edition  also  of  the  "Come'die,"  when  the  joint 
title,  which  it  has  kept  since,  of  "Les  Parisiens  en  Prov- 


10  PREFACE 

ince"  was  given  to  it.  Its  companion  has  a  rather  more 
complicated  record.  It  appeared  at  first,  not  quite  com- 
plete and  under  the  title  of  "Dinah  Pie*defer,"  in  "Le  Mes- 
sager"  during  March  and  April,  1843,  and  was  almost  im- 
mediately published  as  a  book,  with  works  of  other  writers, 
under  the  general  title  of  "Les  Mysteres  de  Province,"  and 
accompanied  by  some  other  work  of  its  own  author's.  It 
had  four  parts  and  fifty-two  chapters  in  "Le  Messager,"  an 
arrangement  which  was  but  slightly  altered  in  the  volume 
form.  M.  de  Lovenjoul  gives  some  curious  indications  of 
mosaic  work  in  it,  and  some  fragments  which  do  not  now 
appear  in  the  text. 


PARISIANS  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

GAUDISSART  THE  GREAT 

To  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Castries 

/S  NOT  THE  commercial  traveller — a  being  unknown 
in  earlier  times — one  of  the  most  curious  types  pro- 
duced by  the  manners  and  customs  of  this  age?  And 
is  it  not  his  peculiar  function  to  carry  out  in  a  certain  class 
of  things  the  immense  transition  which  connects  the  age  of 
material  development  with  that  of  intellectual  development? 
Our  epoch  will  be  the  link  between  the  age  of  isolated 
forces  rich  in  original  creativeness,  and  that  of  the  uni- 
form but  levelling  force  which  gives  monotony  to  its 
products,  casting  them  in  masses,  and  following  out  a 
unifying  idea — the  ultimate  expression  of  social  commu- 
nities. After  the  Saturnalia  of  intellectual  communism, 
after  the  last  struggles  of  many  civilizations  concentrating 
all  the  treasures  of  the  world  on  a  single  spot,  must  not 
the  darkness  of  barbarism  invariably  supervene? 

The  commercial  traveller  is  to  ideas  what  coaches  are  to 
men  and  things.  He  carts  them  about,  he  sets  them  moving, 
brings  them  into  impact.  He  loads  himself  at  the  centre  of 
enlightenment  with  a  supply  of  beams  which  he  scatters 
among  torpid  communities.  This  human  pyrophoros  is  an 
ignorant  instructor,  mystified  and  mystifying,  a  disbelieving 
priest  who  talks  all  the  more  glibly  of  arcana  and  dogmas. 
A  strange  figure!  The  man  has  seen  everything,  he  knows 
everything,  he  is  acquainted  with  everybody.  Saturated 
in  Parisian  vice,  he  can  assume  the  rusticity  of  the  coun- 

ai) 


12  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tryman.  Is  lie  not  the  link  that  joins  the  village  to  the 
capital,  though  himself  not  essentially  either  Parisian  or 
provincial  ? 

For  he  is  a  wanderer.  He  never  sees  to  the  bottom  of 
things ;  he  learns  only  the  names  of  men  and  places,  only 
the  surface  of  things;  he  has  his  own  foot-rule,  and  meas- 
ures everything  by  that  standard ;  his  glance  glides  over  all 
he  sees,  and  never  penetrates  the  depths.  He  is  inquisitive 
about  everything,  and  really  cares  for  nothing.  A  scoffer, 
always  ready  with  a  political  song,  and  apparently  equally 
attached  to  all  parties,  he  is  generally  patriotic  at  heart.  A 
good  actor,  he  can  assume  by  turns  the  smile  of  liking,  sat- 
isfaction, and  obligingness,  or  cast  it  off  and  appear  in  his 
true  character,  in  the  normal  frame  which  is  his  state  of  rest. 

He  is  bound  to  be  an  observer  or  to  renounce  his  calling. 
Is  he  not  constantly  compelled  to  sound  a  man  at  a  glance, 
and  guess  his  mode  of  action,  his  character,  and,  above  all, 
his  solvency;  and,  in  order  to  save  time,  to  calculate  swiftly 
the  chances  of  profit?  This  habit  of  deciding  promptly  in 
matters  of  business  makes  him  essentially  dogmatic ;  he  set- 
tles questions  out  of  hand,  and  talks  as  a  master,  of  the  Paris 
theatres  and  actors,  and  of  those  in  the  provinces.  Besides, 
he  knows  all  the  good  and  all  the  bad  places  in  the  kingdom, 
de  actu  et  visu.  He  would  steer  you  with  equal  confidence 
to  the  abode  of  virtue  or  of  vice.  Gifted  as  he  is  with  the 
eloquence  of  a  hot- water  tap  turned  on  at  will,  he  can  with 
equal  readiness  stop  short  or  begin  again,  without  a  mistake, 
his  stream  of  ready-made  phrases,  flowing  without  pause,  and 
producing  on  the  victim  the  effect  of  a  moral  douche.  He 
is  full  of  pertinent  anecdotes,  he  smokes,  he  drinks. 
He  wears  a  chain  with  seals  and  trinkets,  he  impresses  the 
4 '  small  fry, ' '  is  looked  at  as  a  milord  in  the  villages,  never 
allows  himself  to  be  "got  over" — a  word  of  his  slang — and 
knows  exactly  when  to  slap  his  pocket  and  make  the  money 
jingle  so  as  not  to  be  taken  for  a  "sneak"  by  the  women  ser- 
vants— a  suspicious  race — of  the  houses  he  calls  at. 

As  to  his  energy,  is  it  not  the  least  of  the  characteristics 


PARISIANS   IN    THE   COUNTRY  13 

of  this  human  machine?  Not  the  kite  pouncing  on  its  prey, 
not  the  stag  inventing  fresh  doublings  to  escape  the  hounds 
and  put  the  hunter  off  the  trail,  not  the  dogs  coursing  the 
game,  can  compare  with  the  swiftness  of  his  rush  when  he 
scents  a  commission,  the  neatness  with  which  he  trips  tip  a 
rival  to  gain  upon  him,  the  keenness  with  which  he  feels, 
sniffs,  and  spies  out  an  opportunity  for  "doing  business." 
How  many  special  talents  must  such  a  man  possess  I  And 
how  many  will  you  find  in  any  country  of  these  diplomats 
of  the  lower  class,  profound  negotiators,  representatives  of 
the  calico,  jewelry,  cloth,  or  wine  trades,  and  often  with 
more  acumen  than  ambassadors,  who  are  indeed  for  the 
most  part  but  superficial? 

Nobody  in  France  suspects  the  immense  power  constant- 
ly wielded  by  the  commercial  traveller,  the  bold  pioneer  of 
the  transactions  which  embody  to  the  humblest  hamlet  the 
genius  of  civilization  and  Parisian  inventiveness  in  its 
struggle  against  the  common-sense,  the  ignorance,  or  the 
habits  of  rustic  life.  We  must  not  overlook  these  ingenious 
laborers,  by  whom  the  intelligence  of  the  masses  is  kneaded, 
molding  the  most  refractory  material  by  sheer  talk,  and  re- 
sembling in  this  the  persevering  polishers  whose  file  licks 
the  hardest  porphyry  smooth.  Do  you  want  to  know  the 
power  of  the  tongue,  and  the  coercive  force  of  mere  phrases 
on  the  most  tenacious  coin  known — that  of  the  country  free- 
holder in  his  rustic  lair? — Then  listen  to  what  some  high  dig- 
nitary of  Paris  industry  can  tell  you,  for  whose  benefit  these 
clever  pistons  of  the  steam-engine  called  Speculation  work, 
and  strike,  and  squeeze. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  director-cashier-manager-secretary- 
and-chairman  of  a  famous  Fire  Insurance  Company  to  an 
experienced  economist,  "in  the  country,  out  of  five  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  to  be  collected  in  renewing  insur- 
ances, not  more  than  fifty  thousand  are  paid  willingly. 
The  other  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  are  only  ex- 
tracted by  the  persistency  of  our  agents,  who  go  to  dun 
the  customers  who  are  in  arrears  till  they  have  renewed 


14  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

their  policies,  and  frighten  and  excite  them  by  fearful  tales 
of  fires. — Eloquence,  the  gift  of  the  gab,  is,  in  fact,  nine- 
tenths  of  the  matter  in  the  ways  and  means  of  working  our 
business." 

To  talk — to  make  one's  self  heard — is  not  this  seduction? 
A  nation  with  two  Chambers,  a  woman  with  two  ears,  alike 
are  lost!  Eve  and  the  Serpent  are  the  perennial  myth  of  a 
daily  recurring  fact  which  began,  and  will  probably  only  end, 
with  the  world. 

"After  two  hours'  talk  you  ought  to  have  won  a  man  over 
to  your  side, ' '  said  an  attorney  who  had  retired  from  business. 

Walk  round  the  commercial  traveller!  Study  the  man. 
Note  his  olive-green  overcoat,  his  cloak,  his  morocco  stock, 
his  pipe,  his  blue -striped  cotton  shirt.  In  that  figure,  so 
genuinely  original  that  it  can  stand  friction,  how  many  differ- 
ent natures  you  may  discover.  See!  What  an  athlete,  what 
a  circus,  and  what  a  weapon!  He — the  world — and  his 
tongue. 

A  daring  seaman,  he  embarks  with  a  stock  of  mere  words 
to  go  and  fish  for  money,  five  or  six  hundred  thousand  francs, 
say,  in  the  frozen  ocean,  the  land  of  savages,  of  Iroquois — 
in  France!  The  task  before  him  is  to  extract  by  a  purely 
mental  process  and  painless  operation  the  gold  that  lies  buried 
in  rural  hiding-places.  The  provincial  fish  will  not  stand 
the  harpoon  or  the  torch ;  it  is  only  to  be  caught  in  the  seine 
or  the  landing-net — the  gentlest  snare. 

Can  you  ever  think  again  without  a  shudder  of  the  deluge 
of  phrases  which  begins  anew  every  day  at  dawn  in  France? 
• — You  know  the  genus ;  now  for  the  individual. 

There  dwells  in  Paris  a  matchless  bagman,  the  paragon 
of  his  kind,  a  man  possessing  in  the  highest  degree  every 
condition  indispensable  to  success  in  his  profession.  In  his 
words  vitriol  mingles  with  bird-lime:  bird-lime  to  catch  the 
victim,  besmear  it  and  stick  it  to  the  trapper,  vitriol  to  dis- 
Bolve  the  hardest  limestone. 

His  "line"  was  hats — he  travelled  in  hats;  but  his  gifts, 
and  the  skill  with  which  he  insnared  folks,  had  earned  him 


PARISIANS  IN   THE   COUNTRY  15 

euch  commercial  celebrity  that  dealers  in  V Article  Paris,  the 
dainty  novelties  invented  in  Paris  workshops,  positively 
courted  him  to  undertake  their  business.  Thus,  when  he 
was  in  Paris  on  his  return  from  some  triumphant  progress, 
he  was  perpetually  being  feasted ;  in  the  provinces  the  agents 
made  much  of  him ;  in  Paris  the  largest  houses  were  respect- 
ful to  him.  Welcomed,  entertained,  and  fed  wherever  he 
went,  to  him  a  breakfast  or  a  dinner  in  solitude  was  a  pleas- 
ure and  a  debauch.  He  led  the  life  of  a  sovereign — nay, 
better,  of  a  journalist.  And  was  he  not  the  living  organ  of 
Paris  trade  ? 

His  name  was  Gaudissart;  and  his  fame,  his  influence, 
and  the  praises  poured  on  him  had  gained  him  the  epithet 
of  Gaudissart  the  Great.  Wherever  he  made  his  appearance, 
whether  in  a  counting-house  or  an  inn,  in  a  drawing-room 
or  a  diligence,  in  a  garret  or  a  bank,  each  one  would  exclaim 
on  seeing  him,  "Ah,  ha!  here  is  Gaudissart  the  Great!" 

Never  was  a  nickname  better  suited  to  the  appearance, 
the  manners,  the  countenance,  the  voice,  or  the  language 
of  a  man.  Everything  smiled  on  the  Traveller,  and  he 
smiled  on  all.  Similia  Similibus;  he  was  for  homeopathy: 
Puns,  a  horse-laugh,  the  complexion  of  a  jolly  friar,  a  Rabe- 
laisian aspect;  dress,  mien,  character,  and  face  combined  to 
give  his  whole  person  a  stamp  of  jollification  and  ribaldry. 

Blunt  in  business,  good-natured  and  capital  fun,  you  would 
have  known  him  at  once  for  a  favorite  of  the  grisette — a  man 
who  can  climb  with  a  grace  to  the  top  of  a  coach,  offer  a  hand 
to  a  lady  in  difficulties  over  getting  out,  jest  with  the  postil- 
ion about  his  bandanna,  and  sell  him  a  hat;  smile  at  the 
inn-maid,  taking  her  by  the  waist — or  by  the  fancy;  who  at 
table  will  imitate  the  gurgle  of  a  bottle  by  tapping  his  cheek 
while  putting  his  tongue  in  it,  knows  to  make  beer  go  off  by 
drawing  the  air  between  his  lips,  or  can  hit  a  champagne 
glass  a  sharp  blow  with  a  knife  without  breaking  it,  saying 
to  the  others,  "Can  you  do  that?" — who  chaffs  shy  travel- 
lers, contradicts  well-informed  men,  is  supreme  at  table, 
and  secures  all  the  best  bits. 


16  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

A  clever  man  too,  he  could  on  occasion  put  aside  all  such 
pleasantries,  and  look  very  serious  when,  throwing  away  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  he  would  look  out  on  a  town  and  say,  "I 
mean  to  see  what  the  folks  here  are  made  of. "  Then  Graudis- 
sart  was  the  most  cunning  and  shrewd  of  ambassadors.  He 
knew  how  to  be  the  official  with  the  preset,  the  capitalist 
with  the  banker,  orthodox  and  monarchical  with  the  royalist, 
the  blunt  citizen  with  the  citizen — in  short,  all  things  to  all 
men,  just  what  he  ought  to  be  wherever  he  went,  leaving 
Graudissart  outside  the  door,  and  finding  him  again  as  he 
went  out. 

Until  1830  Graudissart  the  Great  remained  faithful  to  the 
Article  Paris.  This  line  of  business,  in  all  its  branches, 
appealing  to  the  greater  number  of  human  fancies,  had  en- 
abled him  to  study  the  secrets  of  the  heart,  had  taught  him 
the  uses  of  his  persuasive  eloquence,  the  way  to  open  the 
most  closely  tied  money  bags,  to  incite  the  fancy  of  wives 
and  husbands,  of  children  and  servants,  and  to  persuade 
them  to  gratify  it.  None  so  well  as  he  knew  how  to  lure  a 
dealer  by  the  temptations  of  a  job,  and  to  turn  away  at  the 
moment  when  his  desire  for  the  bait  was  at  a  climax.  He 
acknowledged  his  indebtedness  to  the  hatter's- trade,  saying 
that  it  was  by  studying  the  outside  of  the  head  that  he  had 
learned  to  understand  its  inside,  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
find  caps  to  fit  folks,  to  throw  himself  at  their  head,  and 
so  forth.  His  jests  on  hats  were  inexhaustible. 

Nevertheless,  after  the  August  and  October  of  1830,  he 
gave  up  travelling  in  hats  and  the  Article  Paris,  and  left  off 
trading  in  all  things  mechanical  and  visible  to  soar  in  the 
loftier  spheres  of  Parisian  enterprise.  He  had  given  up 
matter  for  mind,  as  he  himself  said,  and  manufactured  prod- 
ucts for  the  infinitely  more  subtle  outcome  of  the  intellect. 

This  needs  explanation. 

The  stir  and  upset  of  1830  gave  rise,  as  everybody 
knows,  to  the  new  birth  of  various  antiquated  ideas  which 
skilful  speculators  strove  to  rejuvenate.  After  1830  ideas 


17 

were  more  than  ever  a  marketable  commodity ;  and,  as  was 
once  said  by  a  writer  who  is  clever  enough  to  publish  noth- 
ing, more  ideas  than  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  filched  nowa- 
days. Some  day,  perhaps,  there  may  be  an  Exchange  for 
ideas ;  but  even  now,  good  or  bad,  ideas  have  their  price,  are 
regarded  as  a  crop  imported,  transferred,  and  sold,  can  be 
realized,  and  are  viewed  as  an  investment.  When  there  are 
no  ideas  in  the  market,  speculators  try  to  bring  words  into 
fashion,  to  give  them  the  consistency  of  an  idea,  and  live  on 
those  words  as  birds  live  on  millet. 

Nay,  do  not  laugh !  A  word  is  as  good  as  an  idea  in  a 
country  where  the  ticket  on  the  bale  is  thought  more  of  than 
the  contents.  Have  we  not  seen  the  book  trade  thriving  on 
the  word  picturesque  when  literature  had  sealed  the  doom 
of  the  word  fantastic! 

Consequently,  the  excise  has  levied  a  tax  on  the  intellect  j 
it  has  exactly  measured  the  acreage  of  advertisements,  has 
assessed  the  prospectus,  and  weighed  thought — Eue  de  la  Paix 
Hdtel  du  Timbre  (the  Stamp  Office).  On  being  constituted 
taxable  goods,  the  intellect  and  its  products  were  bound 
to  obey  the  method  used  in  manufacturing  undertakings. 
Thus  the  ideas  conceived  after  drinking  in  the  brain  of 
some  of  those  apparently  idle  Parisians  who  do  battle 
on  intellectual  ground  while  emptying  a  bottle  or  carving 
a  pheasant's  thigh,  were  handed  over  the  day  after  their 
mental  birth  to  commercial  travellers,  whose  business  it  was 
to  set  forth,  with  due  skill,  urbi  et  orbi,  the  fried  bacon  of 
advertisement  and  prospectus  by  which  the  departmental 
mouse  is  tempted  into  the  editor's  trap,  and  becomes  known 
in  the  vulgar  tongue  as  a  subscriber,  or  a  shareholder,  a 
corresponding  member,  or,  perhaps,  a  backer  or  a  part  owner 
— and  being  always  a  flat. 

"What  a  flat  I  am!"  has  more  than  one  poor  investor 
exclaimed  after  being  tempted  by  the  prospect  of  founding 
something,  which  has  finally  proved  to  be  the  founding  that 
melts  down  some  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  francs. 

"Subscribers  are  the  fools  who  cannot  understand  that 


18  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

it  costs  more  to  forge  ahead  in  the  realm  of  intellect  than  to 
travel  all  over  Europe,"  is  the  speculator's  view. 

So  there  is  a  constant  struggle  going  on  between  the  dila- 
tory public  which  declines  to  pay  the  Paris  taxes  and  the 
collectors  who,  living  on  their  percentages,  baste  that  public 
with  new  ideas,  lard  it  with  undertakings,  roast  it  with  pro- 
spectuses, spit  it  on  flattery,  and  at  last  eat  it  up  with  some 
new  sauce  in  which  it  gets  caught  and  intoxicated  like  a  fly 
in  treacle.  What  has  not  been  done  in  France  since  1830  to 
stimulate  the  zeal,  the  conceit  of  the  intelligent  and  progres- 
sive masses  ?  Titles,  medals,  diplomas,  a  sort  of  Legion  of 
Honor  invented  for  the  vulgar  martyrs,  have  crowded  on 
each  other's  heels.  And  then  every  manufacturer  of  intel- 
lectual commodities  has  discovered  a  spice,  a  special  condi- 
ment, his  particular  makeweight.  Hence  the  promises  of 
premiums  and  of  anticipated  dividends ;  hence  the  advertise- 
ments of  celebrated  names  without  the  knowledge  of  the 
hapless  artists  who  own  them,  and  thus  find  themselves  im- 
plicated unawares  in  more  undertakings  than  there  are  days 
in  the  year ;  for  the  Law  could  not  foresee  this  theft  of  names. 
Hence,  too,  this  rape  of  ideas  which  the  contractors  for  public 
intelligence — like  the  slave  merchants  of  the  Bast — snatch 
from  the  paternal  brain  at  a  tender  age,  and  strip  and  parade 
before  the  Greenhorn,  their  bewildered  Sultan  the  terrible 
public,  who,  if  not  amused,  beheads  them  by  stopping  their 
rations  of  gold. 

This  mania  of  the  day  reacted  on  Graudissart  the  Great, 
and  this  was  how.  A  company  got  up  to  effect  insurances 
on  life  and  property  heard  of  his  irresistible  eloquence,  and 
offered  him  extraordinarily  handsome  terms,  which  he  ac- 
cepted. The  bargain  concluded,  the  compact  signed,  the 
bagman  was  weaned  of  the  past  under  the  eye  of  the  Secre- 
tary to  the  Society,  who  freed  Gaudissart's  mind  of  its  swad- 
dling-clothes, explained  the  dark  corners  of  the  business, 
taught  him  its  lingo,  showed  him  all  the  mechanism  bit  by 
bit,  anatomized  the  particular  class  of  the  public  on  whom 
he  was  to  work,  stuffed  him  with  cant  phrases,  crammed  him 


PARISIANS   IN   THE   COUNTRY  19 

with  repartees,  stocked  him  with  peremptory  arguments, 
and,  so  to  speak,  put  an  edge  on  the  tongue  that  was  to 
operate  on  life  in  France.  The  puppet  responded  admirably 
to  the  care  lavished  on  him  by  Monsieur  the  Secretary. 

The  directors  of  the  Insurance  Company  were  so  loud  in 
their  praises  of  Gaudissart  the  Great,  showed  him  so  much 
attention,  put  the  talents  of  this  living  prospectus  in  so  favor- 
able a  light  in  the  higher  circles  of  banking  and  of  intellect- 
ual diplomacy,  that  the  financial  managers  of  two  newspa- 
pers, then  living  but  since  dead,  thought  of  employing  him 
to  tout  for  subscriptions.  The  "Globe,"  the  organ  of  the 
doctrines  of  Saint-Simon,  and  the  "Mouvement,"  a  Repub- 
lican  paper,  invited  Gaudissart  the  Great  to  their  private 
offices  and  promised  him,  each,  ten  francs  a  head  on  every 
subscriber  if  he  secured  a  thousand,  but  only  five  francs 
a  head  if  he  could  catch  no  more  than  five  hundred.  As  the 
line  of  the  political  paper  did  not  interfere  with  that  of 
the  Insurance  Company,  the  bargain  was  concluded.  At  the 
same  time,  Gaudissart  demanded  an  indemnity  of  five  hun- 
dred francs  for  the  week  he  must  spend  in  "getting  up"  the 
doctrine  of  Saint-Simon,  pointing  out  what  efforts  of  memory 
and  brain  would  be  necessary  to  enable  him  to  become  thor- 
oughly conversant  with  this  article,  and  to  talk  of  it  so  coher- 
ently as  to  avoid,  said  he,  "putting  his  foot  in  it." 

He  made  no  claim  on  the  Republicans.  In  the  first  place, 
he  himself  had  a  leaning  to  Republican  notions — the  only 
views  according  to  the  Gaudissart  philosophy  that  could 
bring  about  rational  equality;  and  then  Gaudissart  had  ere 
now  dabbled  in  the  plots  of  the  French  carbonari.  He  had 
even  been  arrested,  but  released  for  lack  of  evidence;  and 
finally,  he  pointed  out  to  the  bankers  of  the  paper  that  since 
July  he  had  allowed  his  mustache  to  grow,  and  that  he  now 
only  needed  a  particular  shape  of  cap  and  long  spurs  to  be 
representative  of  the  Republic. 

So  for  a  week  he  went  every  morning  to  be  Saint-Simon- 
ized  at  the  "Globe"  office,  and  every 'evening  he  haunted  the 
bureau  of  the  Insurance  Company  to  learn  the  elegancies  of 


20  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

financial  slang.  His  aptitude  and  memory  were  so  good,  that 
lie  was  ready  to  start  by  the  15th  of  April,  the  date  at  which 
he  usur.lly  set  out  on  his  first  annual  circuit. 

Two  large  commercial  houses,  alarmed  at  the  downward 
tendency  of  trade,  tempted  the  ambitious  Gaudissart  still 
to  undertake  their  agency,  and  the  King  of  Commercial 
Travellers  showed  his  clemency  in  consideration  of  old 
friendship  and  of  the  enormous  percentage  he  was  to  take. 

"Listen  to  me,  my  little  Jenny,"  said  he,  riding  in  a 
hackney  cab  with  a  pretty  little  flower-maker. 

Every  truly  great  man  loves  to  be  tyrannized  over  by  some 
feeble  creature,  and  Jenny  was  Gaudissart's  tyrant;  he  was 
seeing  her  home  at  eleven  o'clock  from  the  Gymnase  theatre, 
where  he  had  taken  her  in  full  dress  to  a  private  box  on  the 
first  tier. 

"When  I  come  back,  Jenny,  I  will  furnish  your  room 
quite  elegantly.  That  gawky  Mathilde,  who  makes  you 
sick  with  her  innuendoes,  her  real  Indian  shawls  brought 
by  the  Russian  Ambassador's  messengers,  her  silver-gilt, 
and  her  Russian  Prince — who  is,  it  strikes  me,  a  rank  hum- 
bug— even  she  shall  not  find  a  fault  in  it.  I  will  devote  all 
the  '  Children'  I  can  get  in  the  provinces  to  the  decoration 
of  your  room. ' ' 

"Well,  that  is  a  nice  story,  I  must  say,"  cried  the  florist. 
"What,  you  monster  of  a  man,  you  talk  to  me  so  coolly  of 
your  children  I  Do  you  suppose  I  will  put  up  with  anything 
of  that  kind?" 

"Pshaw I  Jenny,  are  you  out  of  your  wits?  It  is  a  way 
of  talking  in  my  line  of  business." 

"A  pretty  line  of  business  indeed!" 

"Well,  but  listen;  if  you  go  on  talking  so  much,  you 
will  find  yourself  in  the  right. ' ' 

"I  choose  always  to  be  in  the  right!  I  may  say  you  are 
a  cool  hand  to-night. ' ' 

"You  will  not  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say  ?  I  have  to 
push  a  most  capital  idea,  a  magazine  that  is  to  be  brought 
out  for  children.  In  our  walk  of  life  a  traveller,  when  he 


PARISIANS   IN    THE   COUNTRY  21 

has  worked  up  a  town  and  got,  let  us  say,  ten  subscriptions 
to  the  'Children's  Magazine,'  says  I  have  got  ten  'Children'; 
just  as,  if  I  had  ten  subscriptions  to  the  'Mouvement,'  I 
should  simply  say  I  have  got  ten  'Mouvements.' — Now  do 
you  understand  ? ' ' 

"A  pretty  thing  too! — So  you  are  meddling  in  politics? 
I  can  see  you  already  in  Sainte-Pdlagie,  and  shall  have  to 
trot  there  to  see  you  every  day.  Oh,  when  we  love  a  man, 
my  word  I  If  we  knew  what  we  are  in  for,  we  should  leave 
you  to  manage  for  yourselves,  you  men! — Well,  well,  you 
are  going  to-morrow,  don't  let  us  get  the  black  dog  on  our 
shoulders ;  it  is  too  silly. ' ' 

The  cab  drew  up  before  a  pretty  house,  newly  built  in 
the  Rue  d'Artois,  where  Gaudissart  and  Jenny  went  up  to 
the  fourth  floor.  Here  resided  Mademoiselle  Jenny  Courand, 
who  was  commonly  supposed  to  have  been  privately  married 
to  Gaudissart,  a  report  which  the  traveller  did  not  deny.  To 
maintain  her  power  over  liim,  Jenny  Courand  compelled  him 
to  pay  her  a  thousand  little  attentions,  always  threatening 
to  abandon  him  to  his  fate  if  he  failed  in  the  least  of  them. 
Gaudissart  was  to  write  to  her  from  each  town  he  stopped  at 
and  give  an  account  of  every  action. 

"And  how  many  'Children'  will  you  want  to  furnish  my 
room  ? ' '  said  she,  throwing  off  her  shawl  and  sitting  down, 
by  a  good  fire. 

"I  get  five  sous  on  each  subscription." 

"A  pretty  joke!  Do  you  expect  to  make  me  a  rich 
woman — five  sous  at  a  time.  Unless  you  are  a  wandering 
Jew  and  have  your  pocket  sewn  up  tight. ' ' 

"But,  Jenny,  I  shall  get  thousands  of  'Children.'  Just 
think,  the  little  ones  have  never  had  a  paper  of  their  own. 
However,  I  am  a  great  simpleton  to  try  to  explain  the  econ- 
omy of  business  to  you — you  understand  nothing  about  such 
matters. ' ' 

"And  pray,  then,  Gaudissart,  if  I  am  such  a  gaby,  why 
io  you  love  me  ? ' ' 

"Because  you  are  such  a  sublime  gaby!    Listen,  Jenny. 


22  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Yon  see,  if  I  can  get  people  to  take  the  'Globe'  and  the 
*Mouvement,'  and  to  pay  their  insurances,  instead  of  earn- 
ing a  miserable  eight  or  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  by 
trundling  around  like  a  man  in  a  show,  I  may  make  twenty 
to  thirty  thousand  francs  out  of  one  round." 

"Unlace  my  stays,  Gaudissart,  and  pull  straight — don't 
drag  me  askew." 

"And  then,"  said  the  commercial  traveller,  as  he  admired 
the  girl's  satin  shoulders,  "I  shall  be  a  shareholder  in  the 
papers,  like  Finot,  a  friend  of  mine,  the  son  of  a  hatter,  who 
has  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  will  get  himself  made 
a  peerl  And  when  you  think  of  little  PopinotI — By  the 
way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Monsieur  Popinot  was  yester- 
day made  Minister  of  Commerce.  Why  should  not  I  too 
be  ambitious?  Ah,  ha  I  I  could  easily  catch  the  cant  of 
the  Tribune,  and  I  might  be  made  a  Minister — something 
like  a  Minister  tool  Just  listen: 

44  'Gentlemen,'  and  he  took  his  stand  behind  an  armchair, 
*the  Press  is  not  a  mere  tool,  not  a  mere  trade.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  the  politician,  the  Press  is  an  Institution. 
Now  we  are  absolutely  required  here  to  take  the  political 
view  of  things,  hence' — he  paused  for  breath — 'hence  we  are 
bound  to  inquire  whether  it  is  useful  or  mischievous,  whether 
it  should  be  encouraged  or  repressed,  whether  it  should  be 
taxed  or  free — serious  questions  all.  I  believe  I  shall  not 
be  wasting  the  precious  moments  of  this  Chamber  by  inves- 
tigating this  article  and  showing  you  the  conditions  of  the 
case.  We  are  walking  on  to  a  precipice.  The  Laws  indeed 
are  not  so  guarded  as  they  should  be — ' 

"How  is  that?"  said  he,  looking  at  Jenny.  "Every 
orator  says  that  France  is  marching  toward  a  precipice; 
they  either  say  that  or  they  talk  of  the  Chariot  of  the  State 
and  political  tempests  and  clouds  on  the  horizon.  Don't  I 
know  every  shade  of  color!  I  know  the  dodges  of  every 
trade. — And  do  you  know  why?  I  was  born  with  a  caul 
on.  My  grandmother  kept  the  caul,  and  I  will  give  it  to 
you.  So,  you  see,  I  shall  soon  be  in  power  1" 


PARISIANS   IN  THE   COUNTRY  23 

"You!" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  Baron  Gaudissart  and  Peer  of 
France?  Has  not  Monsieur  Popinot  been  twice  returned 
deputy  for  the  fourth  Arrondissement  ? — And  he  dines  with 
Louis-Philippe.  Finot  is  to  be  a  Councillor  of  State,  they 
say.  Oh!  if  only  they  would  send  me  to  London  as  Am- 
bassador, I  am  the  man  to  nonplus  the  English,  I  can  tell 
you.  Nobody  has  ever  caught  Gaudissart  napping — Gaudis- 
sart the  Great.  No,  no  one  has  ever  got  the  better  of  me, 
and  no  one  ever  shall  in  any  line,  politics  or  impolitics,  here 
or  anywhere.  But  for  the  present  I  must  give  my  mind  to 
insuring  property,  to  the  'Globe,'  to  the  'Mouvement,'  to 
the  'Children's'  paper,  and  to  the  'Article  de  Paris.'  ' 

"You  will  be  caught  over  your  newspapers.  I  will  lay 
a  wager  that  you  will  not  get  as  far  as  Poitiers  without  being 
done." 

"I  am  ready  to  bet,  my  jewel." 

"A  shawl!" 

"Done.  If  I  lose  the  shawl,  I  will  go  back  to  trade  and 
hats.  But,  get  the  better  of  Gaudissart?  Never!  never!" 

And  the  illustrious  commercial  traveller  struck  an  atti- 
tude in  front  of  Jenny,  looking  at  her  haughtily,  one  hand 
in  his  waistcoat,  and  his  head  half  turned  in  a  Napoleonic 
pose. 

"How  absurd  you  are!  "What  have  you  been  eating  this 
evening?" 

Gaudissart  was  a  man  of  eight-and-thirty,  of  middle 
height,  burly  and  fat,  as  a  man  is  who  is  accustomed  to 
go  about  in  mail-coaches ;  his  face  was  as  round  as  a  pump- 
kin, florid,  and  with  regular  features  resembling  the  tradi- 
tional type  adopted  by  sculptors  in  every  country  for  their 
statues  of  Abundance,  of  Law,  Force,  Commerce,  and  the 
like.  His  prominent  stomach  was  pear-shaped,  and  his 
legs  were  thin,  but  he  was  wiry  and  active.  He  picked 
up  Jenny,  who  was  half  undressed,  and  carried  her  to 
her  bed. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  free  ivoman,"  said  he.     "Ah,  you 


24:  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

don't  know  anything  about  the  free  woman  and  Saint- Simon- 
ism,  and  antagonism,  and  Fourierism,  and  criticism,  and  de- 
termined push — well  it  is — in  short,  it  is  ten  francs  on  every 
subscription,  Madame  Gaudissart." 

"On  my  honor,  you  are  going  crazy,  Gaudissart." 
"Always  more  and  more  crazy  about  you,"  said  he,  toss- 
ing his  hat  on  to  the  sofa. 

Next  day,  after  breakfasting  in  style  with  Jenny  Courand, 
Gaudissart  set  out  on  horseback  to  call  in  all  the  market  towns 
which  he  had  been  particularly  instructed  to  work  up  by  the 
various  companies  to  whose  success  he  was  devoting  his  gen- 
ius. After  spending  forty-five  days  in  beating  the  country 
lying  between  Paris  and  Blois,  he  stayed  for  a  fortnight  in 
this  little  city,  devoting  the  time  to  writing  letters  and  visit- 
ing the  neighboring  towns.  The  day  before  leaving  for  Tours 
he  wrote  to  Mademoiselle  Jenny  Courand  the  following  let- 
ter, of  which  the  fulness  and  charm  cannot  be  matched  by 
any  narrative,  and  which  also  serves  to  prove  the  peculiar 
legitimacy  of  the  ties  that  bound  these  two  persons  together. 

Letter  from  Gaudissart  to  Jenny  Courand 

"MY  DEAE  JENNY — I  am  afraid  you  will  lose  your  bet. 
Like  Napoleon,  Gaudissart  has  his  star,  and  will  know  no 
Waterloo.  I  have  triumphed  everywhere  under  the  condi- 
tions set  forth.  The  Insurance  business  is  doing  very  well. 
Between  Paris  and  Blois  I  secured  near  on  two  millions;  but 
toward  the  middle  of  France  heads  are  remarkably  hard,  and 
millions  infinitely  scarcer.  The  'Article  Paris'  toddles  on 
nicely,  as  usual;  it  is  a  ring  on  your  finger.  With  my  usual 
rattle,  I  can  always  come  round  the  shopkeepers.  I  got  rid 
of  sixty-two  Ternaux  shawls  at  Orleans;  but,  on  my  honor, 
I  don't  know  what  they  will  do  with  them  unless  they  put 
them  back  on  the  sheep. 

"As  to  the  newspaper  line,  the  Deuce  is  in  it!  that  is  quite 
another  pair  of  shoes.  God  above  us!  what  a  deal  of  P'ping 
those  good  people  take  before  they  have  learned  a  new  nine. 


PARISIANS   IN  THE   COUNTRY  25 

I  have  got  no  more  than  sixty-two  'Mouvements'  so  far;  and 
that  in  my  whole  journey  is  less  than  the  Ternaux  shawls  in 
one  town.  These  rascally  ^Republicans  won't  Bubscribe  at 
all;  you  talk  to  them,  and  they  talk;  they  are  quite  of  your 
way  of  thinking,  and  you  soon  are  all  agreed  to  upset  every- 
thing that  exists.  Do  you  think  the  man  will  fork  out? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  And  if  he  has  three  square  inches  of  ground, 
enough  to  grow  a  dozen  cabbages,  or  wood  enough  to  cut 
a  toothpick,  your  man  will  talk  of  the  settlement  of  landed 
estate,  of  taxation,  and  crops,  and  compensation — a  pack  of 
nonsense,  while  I  waste  my  time  and  spittle  in  patriotism. 
Business  is  bad,  and  the  'Mouvement'  generally  is  dull.  I 
am  writing  to  the  owners  to  say  so.  And  I  am  very  sorry 
as  a  matter  of  opinion. 

"As  to  the  'Globe,'  that  is  another  story.  If  I  talk  of 
the  new  doctrines  to  men  who  seem  likely  to  have  a  leaning 
to  such  quirks,  you  might  think  it  was  a  proposal  to  burn 
their  house  down.  I  tell  them  it  is  the  coming  thing,  the 
most  advantageous  to  their  interests,  the  principle  of  work 
by  which  nothing  is  lost; — that  men  have  oppressed  men 
long  enough,  that  woman  is  a  slave,  that  we  must  strive  to 
secure  the  triumph  of  the  great  Idea  of  thrift,  and  achieve 
a  more  rational  co-ordination  of  Society — in  short,  all  the 
rodomontade  at  my  command.  All  in  vain  I  As  soon  as 
I  start  on  this  subject,  these  country  louts  shut  up  their 
cupboards  as  if  I  had  come  to  steal  something,  and  beg  me 
to  be  off. 

"What  fools  these  owls  are!  The  'Globe'  is  nowhere. — 
I  told  them  so.  I  said,  'You  are  too  advanced.  You  are 
getting  forward,  and  that  is  all  very  well;  but  you  must 
have  something  to  show.  In  the  provinces  they  want  to  see 
results.'  However,  I  have  got  a  hundred  'Globes' ;  and,  see- 
ing the  density  of  these  country  noodles,  it  is  really  a  miracle. 
But  I  promise  them  such  a  heap  of  fine  things,  that  be  hanged 
if  I  know  how  the  Globules,  or  Globists,  or  Globites,  or  Glo- 
bians  are  ever  going  to  give  them.  However,  as  they  assured 
me  that  they  would  arrange  the  world  far  better  than  it  is 

"Vol.  4.  (B) 


26  BALZAC S    WORKS 

arranged  at  present,  I  lead  the  way  and  prophesy  good  things 
at  ten  francs  per  head. 

"There  is  a  farmer  who  thought  it  must  have  to  do  with 
soils,  by  reason  of  the  name,  and  I  rammed  the  'Globe'  down 
his  throat;  he  will  take  to  it,  I  feel  sure;  he  has  a  prominent 
forehead,  and  men  with  prominent  foreheads  are  always  ide- 
ologists. 

"But  as  to  the  'Children' !  give  me  the  'Children.'  I  got 
two  thousand  'Children'  between  Paris  and  Blois — a  nice  little 
turn !  And  there  is  less  waste  of  words.  You  show  the  pict- 
ure to  the  mother  on  the  sly,  so  that  the  child  wants  to  see; 
then,  of  course,  the  child  sees;  and  he  tugs  at  mamma's 
skirts  till  he  gets  his  paper,  because  'Daddy  has  hisn  paper.' 
Mamma's  gown  cost  twenty  francs,  and  she  does  not  want 
it  torn  by  the  brat;  the  paper  costs  but  six  francs,  that  is 
cheaper;  so  the  subscription  is  dragged  out.  It  is  a  capital, 
and  meets  a  real  want — something  between  the  sugar-plum 
and  the  picture-book,  the  two  eternal  cravings  of  childhood. 
And  they  can  read,  too,  these  frenzied  brats. 

"Here,  at  the  table-d'hote,  I  had  a  dispute  about  news- 
papers and  my  opinions.  I  was  sitting,  peacefully  eating, 
by  the  side  of  a  man  in  a  white  hat  who  was  reading  the 
'Ddbats.'  Said  I  to  myself,  'I  must  give  him  a  taste  of  my 
eloquence.  Here  is  a  man  who  is  all  for  the  dynasty;  I 
must  try  to  catch  him.  Such  a  triumph  would  be  a  splendid 
forecast  of  success  as  a  Minister.  So  I  set  to  work,  begin- 
ning by  praising  his  paper.  It  was  a  precious  long  job,  I 
can  tell  you.  From  one  thing  to  another  I  began  to  over- 
rule my  man,  giving  him  four-horse  speeches,  arguments  in 
F  sharp,  and  all  the  precious  rodomontade.  Everybody 
was  listening,  and  I  saw  a  man  with  July  in  his  mustaches, 
ready  to  bite  for  the  'Mouvement.'  But,  by  ill-luck,  I 
don't  know  how  I  let  slip  the  word  ganache  (old  woman). 
Away  went  my  dynastic  white  hat — and  a  bad  hat  too,  a 
Lyons  hat,  half  silk  and  half  cotton — with  the  bit  between 
his  teeth  in  a  fury.  So  I  put  on  my  grand  air — you  know 
it — and  I  say  to  him,  'Heyday,  Monsieur,  you  are  a  hot  pot  I 


PARISIANS  IN  THE   COUNTRY  27 

If  you  are  vexed,  I  am  ready  to  answer  for  my  words.  I 
fought  in  July — ' — 'Though  I  am  the  father  of  a  family,' 
says  he,  'I  am  ready — ' — 'You  are  the  father  of  a  family, 
my  dear  sir,'  say  I.  'You  have  children?' — 'Yes,  Monsieur.' 
—'Of  eleven?'— 'Thereabout.'— 'Well,  then,  Monsieur,  "The 
Children's  Magazine"  is  just  about  to  be  published — six 
francs  per  annum,  one  number  a  month,  two  columns,  con- 
tributors of  the  highest  literary  rank,  got  up  in  the  best  style, 
good  paper,  illustrations  from  drawings  by  our  first  artists, 
genuine  India  paper  proofs,  and  colors  that  will  not  fade.' 
And  then  I  give  him  a  broadside.  The  father  is  overpow- 
ered! The  squabble  ends  in  a  subscription. 

"  'No  one  but  Gaudissart  can  play  that  game,'  cried  little 
tomtit  Laniard  to  that  long  noodle  Bulot  when  he  told  him 
the  story  at  the  cafe*. 

"To-morrow  I  am  off  to  Amboise.  I  shall  do  Amboise 
in  two  days,  and  write  next  from  Tours,  where  I  am  going 
to  try  my  hand  on.  the  deadliest  country  from  the  point  of 
view  of  intelligence  and  speculation.  But  on  the  honor  of 
Gaudissart,  they  will  be  done,  they  shall  be  done  I  Done 
brown!  By-by,  little  one;  love  me  long,  and  be  true  to  me. 
Fidelity  through  thick  and  thin  is  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  free  woman.  Who  kisses  your  eyes  ? 

' '  Yours,  FELIX  forever. ' ' 

Five  days  later  Gaudissart  set  out  one  morning  from  the 
Faisan  hotel,  where  he  put  up  at  Tours,  and  went  to  Vou- 
vray,  a  rich  and  populous  district  where  the  public  mind 
seemed  to  him  to  be  open  to  conviction.  He  was  trotting 
along  the  river  quay  on  his  nag,  thinking  no  more  of  the 
speeches  he  was  about  to  make  than  an  actor  thinks  of  the 
part  he  has  played  a  hundred  times.  Gaudissart  the  Great 
cantered  on,  admiring  the  landscape,  and  thinking  of  noth- 
ing, never  dreaming  that  the  happy  valleys  of  Vouvray  were 
to  witness  the  overthrow  of  his  commercial  infallibility. 

It  will  here  be  necessary  to  give  the  reader  some  insight 
into  the  public  spirit  of  Touraine.  The  peculiar  wit  of  a  sly 


28  BALZAO'S    WORKS 

romancer,  full  of  banter  and  epigram,  which  stamps  every 
page  of  Eabelais'  work,  is  the  faithful  expression  of  the 
Tourangeau  nature,  of  an  intellect  as  keen  and  polished  as 
it  must  inevitably  be  in  a  province  where  the  Kings  of  France 
long  held  their  court;  an  ardent,  artistic,  poetical,  and  lux- 
urious nature,  but  prompt  to  forget  its  first  impulse.  The 
softness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  beauty  of  the  climate,  a  cer- 
tain ease  of  living  and  simplicity  of  manners,  soon  stifle  the 
feeling  for  art,  narrow  the  most  expansive  heart,  and  corrode 
the  most  tenacious  will. 

Transplant  the  native  of  Touraine,  and  his  qualities  de- 
velop and  lead  to  great  things,  as  has  been  proved  in  the 
most  dissimilar  ways,  by  Rabelais  and  by  Semblangay;  by 
Plantin  the  printer  and  by  Descartes;  by  Boucicault,  the 
Napoleon  of  his  day;  by  Pinaigrier,  who  painted  the  greater 
part  of  our  Cathedral  glass;  by  Verville  and  Courier.  But, 
left  at  home,  the  countryman  of  Touraine,  so  remarkable 
elsewhere,  remains  like  the  Indian  on  his  rug,  like  the  Turk 
on  his  divan.  He  uses  his  wit  to  make  fun  of  his  neighbor, 
to  amuse  himself,  and  to  live  happy  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
Touraine  is  the  true  Abbey  of  Thelema,  so  much  praised  in 
Gargantua's  book.  Consenting  nuns  may  be  found  there, 
as  in  the  poet's  dream,  and  the  good  cheer  sung  so  loudly 
by  Rabelais  is  supreme. 

As  to  his  indolence,  it  is  sublime,  and  well  characterized 
in  the  popular  witticism:  "Tourangeau,  will  you  have  some 
broth?"— "Yes."— "Then  bring  your  bowl."— "I  am  no 
longer  hungry." 

Is  it  to  the  glee  of  the  vinedresser,  to  the  harmonious 
beauty  of  the  loveliest  scenery  in  France,  or  to  the  perennial 
peace  of  a  province  which  has  always  escaped  the  invading 
armies  of  the  foreigner,  that  the  soft  indifference  of  those 
mild  and  easy  habits  is  due  ?  To  this  question  there  is  no 
answer.  Gro  yourself  to  that  Turkey  in  France,  and  there 
you  will  stay,  indolent,  idle,  and  happy.  Though  you  were 
as  ambitious  as  Napoleon,  or  a  poet  like  Byron,  an  irresisti- 
ble, indescribable  influence  would  compel  you  to  keep  your 


PARISIANS  IN  THE   COUNTRY  29 

poetry  to  yourself,  and  reduce  your  most  ambitious  schemes 
to  day-dreams. 

Gaudissart  the  Great  was  fated  to  meet  in  Vouvray  one 
of  those  indigenous  wags  whose  mockery  is  offensive  only 
by  its  absolute  perfection  of  fun,  and  with  whom  he  had  a 
deadly  battle.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  your  Tourangeau  likes 
to  come  into  his  father's  property.  Hence  the  doctrines 
of  Saint-Simon  were  held  particularly  odious,  and  heartily 
abused  in  those  parts;  still,  only  as  things  are  hated  and 
abused  in  Touraine,  with  the  disdain  and  lofty  pleasantry 
worthy  of  the  land  of  good  stories  and  jokes  played  between 
neighbors — a  spirit  which  is  vanishing  day  by  day  before 
what  Lord  Byron  called  English  Cant. 

After  putting  up  his  horse  at  the  Soleil  d'Or,  kept  by  one 
Mitouflet,  a  discharged  Grenadier  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  who 
had  married  a  wealthy  mistress  of  vinelands,  and  to  whose 
care  he  solemnly  confided  his  steed,  Gaudissart,  for  his  sins, 
went  first  to  the  prime  wit  of  Vouvray,  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  district,  the  jester  whose  reputation  and  nature  alike  made 
it  incumbent  on  him  to  keep  his  neighbors'  spirits  up.  This 
rustic  Figaro,  a  retired  dyer,  was  the  happy  possessor  of 
seven  or  eight  thousand  francs  a  year,  of  a  pretty  house  on 
the  slope  of  a  hill,  of  a  plump  little  wife,  and  of  robust 
health.  For  ten  years  past  he  had  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  take  care  of  his  garden  and  his  wife,  to  get  his  daughter 
married,  to  play  his  game  of  an  evening,  to  keep  himself 
informed  of  all  the  scandal  that  came  within  his  jurisdiction, 
to  give  trouble  at  elections,  to  squabble  with  the  great  land- 
owners, and  arrange  big  dinners;  to  air  himself  on  the  quay, 
inquire  what  was  going  on  in  the  town,  and  bother  the  priest; 
and,  for  dramatic  interest,  to  look  out  for  the  sale  of  a  plot 
of  ground  that  cut  into  the  ring  fence  of  his  vineyard.  la 
short,  he  lived  the  life  of  Touraine,  the  life  of  a  small  coun- 
try town. 

At  the  same  time,  he  was  the  most  important  of  the  minor 
notabilities  of  the  place,  and  the  leader  of  the  small  proprie- 
tors— a  jealous  and  envious  class,  chewing  the  cud  of  slander 


80  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  calumny  against  the  aristocracy,  and  repeating  them  with 
relish,  grinding  everything  down  to  one  level,  hostile  to  every 
form  of  superiority,  scorning  it  indeed,  with  the  admirable 
coolness  of  ignorance. 

Monsieur  Yernier — so  this  little  great  man  of  the  place 
was  named — was  finishing  his  breakfast,  between  his  wife 
and  his  daughter,  when  Gaudissart  made  his  appearance  in 
the  dining-room — one  of  the  most  cheerful  dining-rooms  for 
'miles  round,  with  a  view  from  the  windows  over  the  Loire 
and  the  Cher. 

"Is  it  to  Monsieur  Vernier  himself  that  I  have  the  hon- 
or— ?"  said  the  traveller,  bending  his  vertebral  column  with 
so  much  grace  that  it  seemed  to  be  elastic. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  the  wily  dyer,  interrupting  him 
with  a  scrutinizing  glance,  by  which  he  at  once  took  the 
measure  of  the  man  he  had  to  do  with. 

"I  have  come,  Monsieur,"  Gaudissart  went  on,  "to  re- 
quest the  assistance  of  your  enlightenment  to  direct  me  in 
this  district  where,  as  I  learn  from  Mitouflet,  you  exert  the 
greatest  influence.  I  am  an  emissary,  Monsieur,  to  this  De- 
partment in  behalf  of  an  undertaking  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance, backed  by  bankers  who  are  anxious — " 

"Anxious  to  swindle  us!"  sard  Vernier,  laughing,  long 
since  used  to  deal  with  the  commercial  traveller  and  to  follow 
his  game. 

"Just  so,"  replied  Gaudissart  the  Great  with  perfect  im- 
pudence. "But,  as  you  very  well  know,  sir,  since  you  are 
BO  clear-sighted,  people  are  not  to  be  swindled  unless  they 
think  it  to  their  interest  to  allow  themselves  to  be  swindled. 
I  beg  you  will  not  take  me  for  one  of  the  common  ruck  of 
commercial  gentlemen  who  trust  to  cunning  or  importunity 
to  win  success.  I  am  no  longer  a  traveller;  I  was  one,  Mon- 
sieur, and  I  glory  in  it.  But  I  have  now  a  mission,  of  su- 
preme importance,  which  ought  to  make  every  man  of  supe- 
rior mind  regard  me  as  devoted  to  the  enlightenment  of  his 
fellow-countrymen.  Be  kind  enough  to  hear  me,  Monsieur, 
and  you  will  find  that  you  will  have  profited  greatly  by  the 


PARISIANS   IN   THE   COUNTRY  oi 

half  hour's  conversation  I  beg  you  to  grant  me.  The  great 
Paris  bankers  have  not  merely  lent  their  names  to  this 
concern,  as  to  certain  discreditable  speculations  such  as  I 
call  mere  rat-traps.  No,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  can 
assure  you,  I  would  never  allow  myself  to  engage  in  promot- 
ing such  booby-traps.  No,  Monsieur,  the  soundest  and  most 
respectable  houses  in  Paris  are  concerned  in  the  undertaking, 
both  as  shareholders  and  as  guarantors — " 

And  Gaudissart  unrolled  the  frippery  of  his  phrases,  while 
Monsieur  Vernier  listened  with  an  affectation  of  interest  that 
quite  deceived  the  orator.  But  at  the  word  guarantor,  Vernier 
had,  in  fact,  ceased  to  heed  this  bagman's  rhetoric ;  he  was  bent 
on  playing  him  some  sly  trick,  so  as  to  clear  off  this  kind  of 
Parisian  caterpillar,  once  for  all,  from  a  district  justly  regarded 
as  barbarian  by  speculators,  who  can  get  no  footing  there. 

At  the  head  of  a  delightful  valley,  known  as  the  "Valle'e 
coquette,"  from  its  curves  and  bends,  new  at  every  step,  and 
each  more  charming  than  the  last,  whether  you  go  up  or 
down  the  winding  slope,  there  dwelt,  in  a  little  house  sur- 
rounded by  a  vineyard,  a  more  than  half-crazy  creature 
named  Margaritis.  This  man,  an  Italian  by  birth,  was  mar- 
ried, but  had  no  children,  and  his  wife  took  care  of  him  with 
a  degree  of  courage  that  was  universally  admired;  for  Ma- 
dame Margaritis  certainly  ran  some  risk  in  living  with  a  man 
who,  among  other  manias,  insisted  on  always  having  two  long 
knives  about  him,  not  infrequently  threatening  her  with 
them.  But  who  does  not  know  the  admirable  devotion  with 
which  country  people  care  for  afflicted  creatures,  perhaps  in 
consequence  of  the  discredit  that  attaches  to  a  middle-class 
wife  if  she  abandons  her  child  or  her  husband  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  a  public  asylum  ?  Again,  the  aversion  is  well 
known  which  country  folk  feel  for  paying  a  hundred  louis, 
or  perhaps  a  thousand  crowns,  the  price  charged  at  Charen- 
ton  or  in  a  private  asylum.  If  any  one  spoke  to  Madame 
Margaritis  of  Dubuisson,  Esquirol,  Blanche,  or  other  mad- 
doctors,  she  preferred,  with  lofty  indignation,  to  keep  her 
three  thousand  francs  and  her  good  man. 


32  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  inexplicable  caprices  of  this  worthy's  insanity  being 
closely  connected  with  the  course  of  my  story,  it  is  needful 
to  mention  some  of  his  more  conspicuous  vagaries.  Marga- 
ritis  would  always  go  out  as  soon  as  it  began  to  rain,  to  walk 
bareheaded  among  his  vines.  Indoors  he  was  perpetually 
asking  for  the  newspaper;  just  to  satisfy  him,  his  wife  or 
the  maid-servant  would  give  him  an  old  "Journal  d'lndre- 
et-Loire, ' '  and  for  seven  years  he  had  never  discovered  that 
it  was  always  the  same  copy.  A  doctor  might  perhaps  have 
found  it  interesting  to  note  the  connection  between  his  attacks 
of  asking  for  the  paper  and  the  variations  in  the  weather. 
The  poor  madman's  constant  occupation  was  to  study  the 
state  of  the  sky  and  its  effect  on  the  vines. 

When  his  wife  had  company,  which  was  almost  every 
evening — for  the  neighbors,  in  pity  for  her  position,  came 
in  to  play  boston  with  her — Margaritis  sat  in.  silence  in  a 
corner,  never  moving;  but  when  ten  o'clock  struck  by  a 
clock  in  a  tall  wooden  case,  he  rose  at  the  last  stroke  with 
the  mechanical  precision  of  the  figures  moved  by  a  spring 
in  a  German  toy,  went  slowly  up  to  the  card-players,  looked 
at  them  with  eyes  strangely  like  the  automatic  gaze  of  the 
Greeks  and  Turks  to  be  seen  in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple 
in  Paris,  and  said,  "Go  away!" 

At  times,  however,  this  man  recovered  his  natural  wits, 
and  could  then  advise  his  wife  very  shrewdly  as  to  the  sale 
of  her  wine ;  but  at  those  times  he  was  exceedingly  trouble- 
some, stealing  dainties  out  of  the  cupboards  and  eating  them 
in  secret. 

Occasionally  when  the  customary  visitors  came  in,  he 
answered  their  inquiries  civilly,  but  he  more  often  replied 
quite  at  random.  To  a  lady  who  asked  him,  "How  are  you 
to-day,  Monsieur  Margaritis?" — "I  have  shaved,"  he  would 
reply,  "and  you?" 

' '  Are  you  better,  Monsieur  ? ' '  another  would  say.  "Jeru- 
salem !  Jerusalem ! ' '  was  the  answer.  But  he  usually  looked 
at  them  with  a  blank  face,  not  speaking  a  word,  and  then  his 
wife  would  say, ' '  The  goodman  cannot  hear  anything  to-day. ' ' 


PARISIANS   IN   THE   COUNTRY  33 

Twice  or  thrice  in  the  course  of  five  years,  always  about  the 
time  of  the  equinox,  he  had  flown  into  a  rage  at  this  remark, 
had  drawn  a  knife  and  shrieked,  "That  hussy  disgraces  me!" 

Still,  he  drank,  ate,  and  walked  out  like  any  man  in  per- 
fect health ;  and  by  degrees  every  one  was  accustomed  to  pay 
him  no  more  respect  or  attention  than  if  he  had  been  a  clumsy 
piece  of  furniture. 

Of  all  his  eccentricities,  there  was  one  to  which  no  one 
had  ever  been  able  to  discover  a  clew;  for  the  wise  heads 
of  the  district  had  in  the  course  of  time  accounted  for,  or 
explained,  most  of  the  poor  lunatic's  maddest  acts.  He 
insisted  on  always  having  a  sack  of  flour  in  the  house,  and 
on  keeping  two  casks  of  wine  from  the  vintage,  never  allow- 
ing any  one  to  touch  either  the  flour  or  the  wine.  But  when 
the  month  of  June  came  round,  he  began  to  be  anxious  to 
sell  the  sack  and  the  wine-barrels  with  all  the  fretfulness 
of  a  madman.  Madame  Margaritis  generally  told  him  that 
she  had  sold  the  two  puncheons  at  an  exorbitant  price,  and 
gave  him  the  money,  which  he  then  hid  without  his  wife 
or  his  servant  ever  having  succeeded,  even  by  watching,  in 
discovering  the  hiding-place. 

The  day  before  Gaudissart's  visit  to  Vouvray,  Madame 
Margaritis  had  had  more  difficulty  than  ever  in  managing 
her  husband,  who  had  an  attack  of  lucid  reason. 

"I  declare  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  get  through  to-mor- 
row," said  she  to  Madame  Vernier.  "Only  fancy,  my  old 
man  insisted  on  seeing  his  two  casks  of  wine.  And  he  gave 
me  no  peace  all  day  till  I  showed  him  two  full  puncheons. 
Our  neighbor,  Pierre  Champlain,  luckily  had  two  casks  he 
had  not  been  able  to  sell,  and  at  my  request  he  rolled  them 
into  our  cellar.  And  then  what  must  he  want,  after  seeing  the 
casks,  but  nothing  will  content  him  but  selling  them  himself. " 

Madame  Vernier  had  just  been  telling  her  husband  of  this 
difficult  state  of  things  when  Gaudissart  walked  in.  At  the 
commercial  traveller's  very  first  words  Vernier  determined 
to  let  him  loose  on  old  Margaritis. 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  dyer,  when  Gaudissart  the  Great 


34  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

had  exhausted  his  first  broadside,  "I  will  not  conceal  from 
you  that  your  undertaking  will  meet  with  great  obstacles  in 
this  district.  In  our  part  of  the  world  the  good  folks  go  on, 
bodily,  in  a  way  of  their  own ;  it  is  a  country  where  no  new 
idea  can  ever  take  root.  We  live  as  our  fathers  did,  amusing 
ourselves  by  eating  four  meals  a  day,  occupying  ourselves 
by  looking  after  our  vineyards,  and  selling  our  wine  at  a 
good  price.  Our  notion  of  business  is,  very  honestly,  to  sell 
things  for  more  than  they  cost.  We  shall  go  on  in  that  rut, 
and  neither  God  nor  the  devil  can  get  us  out  of  it.  But  I 
will  give  you  some  good  advice,  and  good  advice  is  worth 
an  eye.  We  have  in  this  neighborhood  a  retired  banker,  in 
whose  judgment  I  myself  have  the  utmost  confidence,  and 
if  you  win  his  support  you  shall  have  mine.  If  your  pro- 
posals offer  any  substantial  prospects,  and  we  are  convinced 
of  it,  Monsieur  Margaritis'  vote  carries  mine  with  it,  and 
there  are  twenty  well-to-do  houses  in  Vouvray  where  purses 
will  be  opened  and  your  panacea  will  be  tried. ' ' 

As  she  heard  him  mention  the  madman,  Madame  Vernier 
looked  up  at  her  husband. 

"By  the  way,  I  believe  my  wife  was  just  going  to  call 
on  Madame  Margaritis  with  a  neighbor  of  ours.  Wait  a 
minute,  and  the  ladies  will  show  you  the  way. — You  can  go 
round  and  pick  up  Madame  Fontanier,"  said  the  old  dyer 
with  a  wink  at  his  wife. 

This  suggestion  that  she  should  take  with  her  the  mer- 
riest, the  most  voluble,  the  most  facetious  of  all  the  merry 
wives  of  Youvray,  was  as  much  as  to  tell  Madame  Vernier 
to  secure  a  witness  to  report  the  scene  which  would  certainly 
take  place  between  the  bagman  and  the  lunatic,  so  as  to 
amuse  the  country  with  it  for  a  month  to  come.  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Vernier  played  their  parts  so  well  that  Graudis- 
sart  had  no  suspicions,  and  rushed  headlong  into  the  snare. 
He  politely  offered  his  arm  to  Madame  Vernier,  and  fancied 
he  had  quite  made  a  conquest  of  both  ladies  on  the  way, 
being  dazzlingly  witty,  and  pelting  them  with  waggery  and 
puns  which  they  did  not  understand. 


PARISIANS   IN   THE   COUNTRY  86 

The  so-called  banker  lived  in  the  first  house  at  the  open- 
ing into  the  Valle'e  coquette.  It  was  called  la  Fuye,  and 
was  not  particularly  remarkable.  On  the  ground  floor  was 
a  large  panelled  sitting-room,  with  a  bedroom  on  each  side 
for  the  master  and  mistress.  The  entrance  was  through  a 
hall,  where  they  dined,  opening  into  the  kitchen.  This 
ground  floor,  quite  lacking  the  external  elegance  for  which 
even  the  humblest  dwellings  in  Touraine  are  noted,  was 
crowned  by  attics,  to  which  an  outside  stair  led  up,  built 
against  one  of  the  gable  ends,  and  covered  in  by  a  lean-to 
roof.  A  small  garden,  full  of  marigolds,  syringa,  and  elder, 
divided  the  house  from  the  vineyard.  Eound  the  courtyard 
were  the  buildings  for  the  winepresses  and  storage. 

Margaritis,  seated  in  a  yellow  Utrecht  velvet  chair  by  the 
window  in  the  drawing-room,  did  not  rise  as  the  ladies  came 
in  with  Gaudissart;  he  was  thinking  of  the  sale  of  his  butts 
of  wine.  He  was  a  lean  man,  with  a  pear-shaped  head,  bald 
above  the  forehead,  and  furnished  with  a  few  hairs  at  the 
back.  His  deep-set  eyes,  shaded  by  thick  black  brows,  and 
with  dark  rings  round  them,  his  nose  as  thin  as  the  blade  of  a 
knife,  his  high  cheek-bones  and  hollow  cheeks,  his  generally 
oblong  outline — everything,  down  to  his  absurdly  long  flat 
chin,  contributed  to  give  a  strange  look  to  his  countenance, 
suggesting  that  of  a  professor  of  rhetoric — or  of  a  ragpicker. 

"Monsieur  Margaritis,"  said  Madame  Vernier,  "come, 
wake  up !  Here  is  a  gentleman  sent  to  you  by  my  husband, 
and  you  are  to  hear  him  with  attention.  Put  aside  your 
mathematical  calculations  and  talk  to  him. ' ' 

At  this  speech  the  madman  rose,  looted  at  Gaudissart, 
waved  to  him  to  be  seated,  and  said: 

"Let  us  talk,  Monsieur." 

The  three  women  went  into  Madame  Margaritis'  room, 
leaving  the  door  open  so  as  to  hear  all  that  went  on,  and 
intervene  in  case  of  need.  Hardly  were  they  seated  when 
Monsieur  Vernier  came  in  quietly  from  the  vineyard,  and 
made  them  let  him  in  through  the  window  without  a  sound. 

"You  were  in  business,  Monsieur?"  Gaudissart  began. 


36  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Public  business,"  replied  Margaritis,  interrupting  him. 
"I  pacified  Calabria  when  Murat  was  King." 

"Heyday,  he  has  been  in  Calabria  nowl"  said  Vernier  in 
a  whisper. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  said  Gaudissart.  "Then,  Monsieur,  we 
cannot  fail  to  come  to  an  understanding." 

"I  am  listening,"  replied  Margaritis,  settling  himself  in 
the  attitude  of  a  man  sitting  for  his  portrait. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Gaudissart,  fidgeting  with  his  watch 
key,  which  he  twisted  round  and  round  without  thinking 
of  what  he  was  doing,  with  a  regular  rotatory  twirl  which 
engaged  the  madman's  attention,  and  perhaps  helped  to  keep 
him  quiet;  "Monsieur,  if  you  were  not  a  man  of  superior 
intelligence" — Margaritis  bowed — "I  should  restrict  myself 
to  setting  forth  the  material  advantages  of  this  concern;  but 
its  psychological  value  is  worthy  of  your  attention.  Mark 
me!  Of  all  forms  of  social  wealth,  time  is  the  most  precious; 
to  save  time  is  to  grow  rich,  is  it  not?  Now  is  there  any- 
thing which  takes  up  more  time  in  our  lives  than  anxiety  as 
to  what  I  may  call  boiling  the  pot — a  homely  metaphor,  but 
clearly  stating  the  question?  Or  is  there  anything  which 
consumes  more  time  than  the  lack  of  a  guarantee  to  offer  as 
security  to  those  of  whom  you  ask  money  when,  though  im- 
pecunious for  a  time,  you  yet  are  rich  in  prospects  ? ' ' 

"Money — you  have  come  to  the  point." 

"Well,  then,  Monsieur,  I  am  the  emissary  to  the  Depart- 
ments of  a  company  of  bankers  and  capitalists,  who  have 
perceived  what  enormous  loss  of  time,  and  consequently 
of  productive  intelligence  and  activity,  is  thus  entailed  on 
men  with  the  future  .before  them.  Now,  the  idea  has  oc- 
curred to  us  that,  to  such  men,  we  may  capitalize  the  future, 
we  may  discount  their  talents,  by  discounting  what  ? — why, 
their  time,  and  securing  its  value  to  their  heirs.  This  is  not 
merely  to  economize  time;  it  is  to  price  it,  to  value  it,  to 
represent  in  a  pecuniary  form  the  products  you  may  expect 
to  obtain  in  a  certain  unknown  time  by  representing  the 
moral  qualities  with  which  you  are  gifted,  and  which  are, 


PARISIANS  IN   THE   COUNTRY  87 

Monsieur,  a  living  force,  like  a  waterfall,  or  a  steam  engine 
of  three,  ten,  twenty,  fifty  horse-power.  This  is  progress,  a 
great  movement  toward  a  better  order  of  things,  a  movement 
due  to  the  energy  of  our  age — an  essentially  progressive  age, 
as  I  can  prove  to  you  when  we  come  to  the  conception  of  a 
more  logical  co-ordination  of  social  interests. 

"I  will  explain  myself  by  tangible  instances.  I  quit  the 
purely  abstract  argument  which  we,  in  our  line,  call  the 
mathematics  of  ideas.  Supposing  that  instead  of  being  a 
man  of  property,  living  on  your  dividends,  you  are  a  painter, 
a  musician,  a  poet — " 

"I  am  a  painter,"  the  other  put  in  by  way  of  parenthesis, 

"Very  good,  so  be  it,  since  you  take  my  metaphor;  you 
are  a  painter,  you  have  a  great  future  before  you.  But  I  am 
going  further — " 

At  those  words  the  lunatic  studied  Gaudissart  uneasily  to 
see  if  he  meant  to  go  away,  but  was  reassured  on  seeing  him 
remain  seated. 

"You  are  nothing  at  all,"  Gaudissart  went,  "but  you  feel 
yourself — ' ' 

"I  feel  myself,"  said  Margaritis. 

"You  say  to  yourself,  'I  shall  be  a  Minister';  very  good. 
You,  the  painter,  you,  the  artist,  the  man  of  letters,  the 
future  Minister,  you  calculate  your  prospects,  you  value 
them  at  so  much — you  estimate  them,  let  us  say — at  a  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns — " 

"And  you  have  brought  me  a  hundred  thousand  crowns?" 
said  the  lunatic. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  you  will  see.  Either  your  heirs  will  get 
them  without  fail,  in  the  event  of  your  death,  since  the  com- 
pany pledges  itself  to  pay,  or,  if  you  live,  you  get  them  by 
your  works  of  art  or  your  fortunate  speculations.  Nay,  if  you 
have  made  a  mistake,  you  can  begin  all  over  again.  Bat, 
when  once  you  have  fixed  the  value,  as  I  have  had  the  honor 
of  explaining  to  you,  of  your  intellectual  capital — for  it  is 
intellectual  capital,  bear  that  clearly  in  mind,  Monsieur." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  madman. 


38  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"You  sign  a  policy  of  insurance  with  this  company,  which 
credits  you  with  the  value  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns — 
you,  the  painter — " 

"I  am  a  painter,"  said  Margaritis. 

"You  the  musician,  the  Minister — and  promises  to  pay 
that  sum  to  your  family,  your  heirs,  if,  in  consequence  of 
your  demise,  the  hopes  of  the  income  to  be  derived  from 
your  intellectual  capital  should  be  lost.  The  payment  of  the 
premium  is  thus  all  that  is  needed  to  consolidate  your — ' ' 

41  Your  cash-box,"  said  the  madman,  interrupting  him. 

"Well,  of  course,  Monsieur;  I  see  that  you  understand 
business. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Margaritis,  "I  was  the  founder  of  the  Banque 
Territoriale,  Rue  des  Fosse's-Montmartre  in  Paris,  in  1798." 

"For,"  Gaudissart  went  on,  "in  order  to  repay  the  intel- 
lectual capital  with  which  each  of  us  credits  himself,  must 
not  all  who  insure  pay  a  certain  premium — three  per  cent, 
annually  three  per  cent?  And  thus,  by  paying  a  very  small 
sum,  a  mere  nothing,  you  are  protecting  your  family  against 
the  disastrous  effects  of  your  death." 

"But  I  am  alive,"  objected  the  lunatic. 

"Ah,  yes,  and  if  you  live  to  be  old — that  is  the  objection 
commonly  raised,  the  objection  of  the  vulgar,  and  you  must 
see  that  if  we  had  not  anticipated  and  annihilated  it,  we 
should  be  unworthy  to  become — what?  "What  are  we,  in 
fact? — The  bookkeepers  of  the  great  Bank  of  Intellect. 

"Monsieur,  I  do  not  say  this  to  you;  but  wherever  I  go, 
I  meet  with  men  who  pretend  to  teach  something  new,  to 
bring  forward  some  fresh  argument  against  those  who  have 
grown  pale  with  studying  the  business — on  my  word  of 
honor,  it  is  contemptible!  However,  the  world  is  made 
so,  and  I  have  no  hope  of  reforming  it. — Your  objection, 
Monsieur,  is  absurd — " 

"Quesaco?  (What!)"  said  Margaritis. 

"Fox  this  reason.  If  you  should  live,  and  if  you  have 
the  money  credited  to  you  in  your  policy  of  insurance  against 
the  chances  of  death — you  follow  me — ' ' 


PARISIANS   IN  THE   COUNTRY  89 

"I  follow." 

"Well,  then,  it  is  because  you  have  succeeded  in  your 
undertakings!  And  you  will  have  succeeded  solely  in  con- 
sequence of  that  policy  of  insurance ;  for,  by  ridding  your- 
self of  all  the  anxieties  which  are  involved  in  having  a  wife 
at  your  heels,  and  children  whom  your  death  may  reduce  to 
beggary,  you  simply  double  your  chances  of  success.  If  you 
are  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  you  have  grasped  the  intellectual 
capital  compared  with  which  the  insurance  money  is  a  trifle, 
a  mere  trifle." 

"An  admirable  idea!" 

"Is  it  not,  Monsieur? — 1  call  this  beneficent  institution 
the  Mutual  Insurance  against  beggary ! — or,  if  you  prefer  it, 
the  Office  for  discounting  Talent.  For  talent,  sir,  talent 
is  a  bill  of  exchange,  bestowed  by  Nature  on  a  man  of  genius, 
and  which  is  often  at  long  date — ha,  hah!" 

"Very  handsome  usury,"  cried  Margaritis. 

"The  deuce!  He  is  sharp  enough,  this  old  boy!  I  have 
made  a  mistake;  I  must  attack  this  man  on  higher  ground 
with  palaver  Al,"  thought  Gaudissart. — "Not  at  all,  Mon- 
sieur," said  he  aloud.  "To  you  who — " 

"Will  you  take  a  glass  of  wine?"  asked  Margaritis. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"Wife!  give  us  a  bottle  of  the  wine  of  which  two  casks 
are  left. — You  are  here  in  the  headquarters  of  Vouvray," 
said  the  master,  pointing  to  his  vines.  "The  Clos  Mar- 
garitis." 

The  maid  brought  in  glasses  and  a  bottle  of  the  wine  of 
1819.  The  worthy  lunatic  filled  a  glass  with  scrupulous 
care,  and  solemnly  presented  it  to  Gaudissart,  who  drank  it. 

"But  you  are  playing  me  some  trick,  Monsieur,"  said  the 
commercial  traveller.  "This  is  Madeira,  genuine  Madeira!" 

"I  should  think  it  is!"  replied  the  lunatic.  "The  only 
fault  of  the  Vouvray  wine,  Monsieur,  is  that  it  cannot  be 
used  as  an  ordinaire,  as  a  table  wine.  It  is  too  generous, 
too  strong;  and  it  is  sold  in  Paris  as  Madeira  after  being 
doctored  with  brandy.  Our  wine  is  so  rich  that  many  of  the 


40  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

Paris  merchants,  when  the  French  crop  is  insufficient  for 
Holland  and  Belgium,  buy  our  wine  to  mix  with  the  wine 
grown  about  Paris,  and  so  manufacture  a  Bordeaux  wine. — 
But  what  you  are  drinking  at  this  moment,  my  dear  and  very 
amiable  sir,  is  fit  for  a  king ;  it  is  the  head  of  Youvray.  I 
have  two  casks,  only  two  casks  of  it.  Persons  who  appre- 
ciate the  finest  wines,  high-class  wines,  and  like  to  put  a 
wine  on  their  table  which  has  a  character  not  to  be  met  with 
in  the  regular  trade,  apply  direct  to  us.  Now,  do  you  happen 
to  know  any  one — " 

"Let  us  get  back  to  our  business,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"We  are  there,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  madman.  "My 
wine  is  heady,  and  you  are  talking  of  capital;  the  etymology 
of  capital  is  caput — head. — Heh? — The  Head  of  Vouvray — 
the  connection  is  obvious." 

"As  I  was  saying,"  persisted  Gaudissart,  "either  you 
have  realized  your  intellectual  capital — " 

"I  have  realized,  Monsieur. — Will  you  take  my  two 
puncheons?  I  will  give  you  favorable  terms." 

"No,"  said  Gaudissart  the  Great,  "I  allude  to  the  insur- 
ance of  intellectual  capital  and  policies  on  life.  I  will  resume 
the  thread  of  my  argument." 

The  madman  grew  calmer,  sat  down,  and  looked  at  Gau- 
dissart. 

"I  was  saying,  Monsieur,  that  if  you  should  die,  the 
capital  is  paid  over  to  your  family  without  difficulty. ' ' 

"Without  difficulty." 

"Yes,  excepting  in  the  case  of  suicide — " 

' '  A  question  for  the  law. ' ' 

"No,  sir.  As  you  know,  suicide  is  an  act  that  is  always 
easily  proved." 

"In  France,"  said  Margaritis.     "But—" 

"But  abroad,"  said  Gaudissart.  "Well,  Monsieur,  to 
conclude  that  part  of  the  question,  I  may  say  at  once  that 
death  abroad,  or  on  the  field  of  battle,  are  not  included — " 

"What  do  you  insure,  then?  Nothing  whatever,"  cried 
the  other.  "Now,  my  bank  was  based  on — " 


PARISIANS  IN   THE   COUNTRY  41 

"Nothing  whatever,  sir?"  cried  Gaudissart,  interrupting 
him.  "Nothing  whatever?  How  about  illness,  grief,  pov- 
erty, and  the  passions?  But  we  need  not  discuss  exceptional 
cases." 

"No,  we  will  not  discuss  them,"  said  the  madman. 

"What,  then,  is  the  upshot  of  this  transaction?"  ex- 
claimed Gaudissart.  "To  you,  as  a  banker,  I  will  simply 
state  the  figures. — You  have  a  man,  a  man  with  a  future, 
well  dressed,  living  on  his  art — he  wants  money,  he  asks  for 
it — a  blank.  Civilization  at  large  will  refuse  to  advance 
money  to  this  man,  who,  in  thought,  dominates  over  civiliza- 
tion, who  will  some  day  dominate  over  it  by  his  brush,  his 
chisel,  by  words,  or  ideas,  or  a  system.  Civilization  is 
merciless.  She  has  no  bread  for  the  great  men  who  pro- 
vide her  with  luxuries;  she  feeds  them  on  abuse  and  mock- 
ery, the  gilded  slut  I  The  expression  is  a  strong  one,  but 
I  will  not  retract  it. — Well,  your  misprized  great  man  comes 
to  us;  we  recognize  his  greatness,  we  bow  to  him  respect- 
fully, we  listen  to  him,  and  he  says  to  us: 

"  'Gentlemen  of  the  Insurance  Company,  my  life  is  worth 
so  much;  I  will  pay  you  so  much  per  cent  on  my  works.' — 
Well,  what  do  we  do?  At  once,  without  grudging,  we 
admit  him  to  the  splendid  banquet  of  civilization  as  an 
important  guest — " 

"Then  you  must  have  wine,"  said  the  madman. 

"As  an  important  guest.  He  signs  his  policy,  he  takes 
our  contemptible  paper  rags — mere  miserable  rags,  which, 
rags  as  they  are,  have  more  power  than  his  genius  had.  For, 
in  fact,  if  he  wants  money,  everybody  on  seeing  that  sheet 
of  paper  is  ready  to  lend  to  him.  On  the  Bourse,  at  the 
bankers',  anywhere,  even  at  the  money-lenders',  he  can  get 
money — because  he  can  offer  security. — Well,  sir,  was  not 
this  a  gulf  that  needed  filling  in  the  social  system? 

"But,  sir,  this  is  but  a  part  of  the  business  undertaken  by 
the  Life  Insurance  Company.  We  also  insure  debtors  on  a 
different  scale  of  premiums.  We  offer  annuities  on  terms 
graduated  by  age,  on  an  infinitely  more  favorable  calculation 


42  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

than  has  as  yet  been  allowed  in  tontines  based  on  tables  of 
mortality  now  known  to  be  inaccurate.  Our  Society  operat- 
ing on  the  mass,  our  annuitants  need  have  no  fear  of  the 
reflections  that  sadden  their  latter  years,  in  themselves  sad 
enough;  such  thoughts  as  must  necessarily  invade  them 
when  their  money  is  in  private  hands.  So,  you  see,  Mon- 
sieur, we  have  taken  the  measure  of  life  under  every 
aspect — " 

"Sucked  it  at  every  pore,"  said  Margaritis. — "But  take 
a  glass  of  wine;  you  have  certainly  earned  it.  You  must  lay 
some  velvet  on  your  stomach  if  you  want  to  keep  your  jaw 
in  working  order.  And  the  wine  of  Vouvray,  Monsieur,  is, 
when  old  enough,  pure  velvet." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  said  Gaudissart, 
emptying  his  glass. 

"It  is  all  very  fine,  very  new,  very  advantageous;  but 
I  think  better  of  the  system  of  loans  on  land  that  was  in  use 
in  my  bank  in  the  Rue  des  FosseVMontmartre. " 

"There  you  are  right,  Monsieur,"  said  Graudissart,  "that 
has  been  worked  and  worked  out,  done  and  done  again.  We 
now  have  the  Mortgage  Society  which  lends  on  real  estate, 
and  works  that  system  on  a  large  scale.  But  is  not  that  a 
mere  trifle  in  comparison  with  our  idea  of  consolidating 
possibilities?  Consolidating  hopes,  coagulating — financially 
— each  man's  desires  for  wealth,  and  securing  their  realiza- 
tion. It  remained  for  our  age,  sir,  an  age  of  transition — of 
transition  and  progress  combined  1" 

"Ay,  of  progress,"  said  the  lunatic.  "I  like  progress, 
especially  such  as  brings  good  times  for  the  wine-trade — " 

"The  'Times — le  Temps' — !"  exclaimed  Graudissart,  not 
heeding  the  madman's  meaning.  "A  poor  paper,  sir;  if  you 
take  it  in,  I  pity  you." 

"The  newspaper?"  cried  Margaritis.  "To  be  sure,  I  am 
devoted  to  the  newspaper. — Wife,  wife!  where  is  the  news- 
paper?" he  went  on,  turning  toward  the  door. 

"Ver}r  good,  Monsieur;  if  you  take  an  interest  in  the 
papers,  we  shall  certainly  agree." 


,         PARISIANS   IN  THE   COUNTRY  43 

"Yes,  yes;  but  before  you  hear  the  paper,  confess  that 
this  wine  is — " 

"Delicious,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"Come  on,  then,  we  will  finish  the  bottle  between  us." 
The  madman  a  quarter  filled  his  own  glass,  and  poured  out 
a  bumper  for  Gaudissart. 

"As  I  say,  sir,  I  have  two  casks  of  that  very  wine.  If 
you  think  it  good,  and  are  disposed  to  deal — " 

"The  fathers  of  the  Saint-Simonian  doctrine  have,  in 
fact,  commissioned  me  to  forward  them  such  products  as — 
But  let  me  tell  you  of  their  splendid  newspaper.  You,  who 
understand  the  insurance  business,  and  are  ready  to  help  me 
to  extend  it  in  this  district — " 

"Certainly,"  said  Margaritis,  "if—" 

"Of  course,  if  I  take  your  wine.  And  your  wine  is  very 
good,  Monsieur;  it  goes  to  the  spot." 

"Champagne  is  made  of  it.  There  is  a  gentleman 
here,  from  Paris,  who  has  come  to  make  champagne  at 
Tours." 

"I  quite  believe  it. — The  'Globe,'  which  you  must  have 
heard  mentioned — " 

"I  know  it  well,"  said  Margaritis. 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  Gaudissart.  "Monsieur,  you 
have  a  powerful  head — a  bump  which  is  known  as  the  equine 
head.  There  is  something  of  the  horse  in  the  head  of  every 
great  man.  Now  a  man  can  be  a  genius  and  live  unknown. 
It  is  a  trick  that  has  happened  often  enough  to  men  who,  in 
spite  of  their  talents,  live  in  obscurity,  and  which  nearly 
befell  the  great  Saint-Simon  and  Monsieur  Vico,  a  man  of 
mark  who  is  making  his  way.  He  is  coming  on  well,  is 
Vico,  and  I  am  glad.  Here  we  enter  on  the  new  theory 
and  formula  of  the  human  race.  Attention,  Monsieur — " 

"Attention!"  echoed  Margaritis. 

"The  oppression  of  man  by  man  ought  to  have  ended, 
Monsieur,  on  the  day  when  Christ — I  do  not  say  Jesus  Christ, 
I  say  Christ — came  to  proclaim  the  equality  of  men  before 
God.  But  has  not  this  equality  been  hitherto  the  most  il- 


44  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

lusory   chimera? — Now,    Saint-Simon    supplements    Christ. 
Christ  has  served  His  time — " 

"Then,  is  He  released?"  asked  Margaritis. 

"He  has  served  His  time  from  the  point  of  view  of  Lib- 
eralism. There  is  something  stronger  to  guide  us  now — the 
new  creed,  free  and  individual  creativeness,  social  co-ordina- 
tion by  which  each  one  shall  receive  his  social  reward  equi- 
tably, in  accordance  with  his  work,  and  no  longer  be  the 
hireling  of  individuals  who,  incapable  themselves,  make  all 
labor,  for  the  benefit  of  one  alone.  Hence  the  doctrine — " 

"And  what  becomes  of  the  servants?"  asked  Margaritis. 

"They  remain  servants,  Monsieur,  if  they  are  only  capa- 
ble of  being  servants. ' ' 

"Then  of  what  use  is  the  doctrine?" 

"Oh,  to  judge  of  that,  Monsieur,  you  must  take  your 
stand  on  the  highest  point  of  view  whence  you  can  clearly 
command  a  general  prospect  of  humanity.  This  brings  us 
to  Ballanche!  Do  you  know  Monsieur  Ballanche?" 

"It  is  my  principal  business,"  said  the  madman,  who 
misunderstood  the  name  for  la  planche  (boards  or  staves). 

"Yery  good,"  said  Gaudissart.  "Then,  sir,  if  the  palin- 
genesis and  successive  developments  of  the  spiritualized 
Globe  touch  you,  delight  you,  appeal  to  you — then,  my  dear 
sir,  the  newspaper  called  the  '  Globe, '  a  fine  name,  accurately 
expressing  its  mission — the  'Globe'  is  the  cicerone  who  will 
explain  to  you  every  morning  the  fresh  conditions  under 
which,  in  quite  a  short  time,  the  world  will  undergo  a  polit- 
ical and  moral  change." 

"  Qu&saco?"  said  Margaritis. 

"I  will  explain  the  argument  by  a  simile,"  said  Gaudis- 
sart. "If,  as  children,  our  nurses  took  us  to  Se'raphin,  do 
not  we  older  men  need  a  presentment  of  the  future  ? — These 
gentlemen — ' ' 

"Do  they  drink  wine?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  Their  house  is  establishedr  I  may  say, 
on  an  admirable  footing — a  prophetic  footing;  handsome 
receptions,  all  the  bigwigs,  splendid  parties." 


PARISIANS   IN   THE  COUNTRY  45 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  madman,  "the  laborers  who  pull 
down  must  be  fed  as  well  as  those  who  build." 

"All  the  more  so,  Monsieur,  when  they  pull  down  with 
one  hand  and  build  up  with  the  other,  as  the  apostles  of  the 
'Globe'  do." 

"Then  they  must  have  wine,  the  wine  of  Youvray;  the 
two  casks  I  have  left — three  hundred  bottles  for  a  hundred 
francs — a  mere  song  I" 

"How  much  a  bottle  does  that  come  to?"  said  Gaudis- 
sart.  "Let  me  see;  there  is  the  carriage,  and  the  town  dues 
— not  seven  sous — a  very  good  bargain."  ("I  have  caught 
my  man,"  thought  Gaudissart.  "Y"ou  want  to  sell  me  the 
wine  which  I  want,  and  I  can  get  the  whip  hand  of  you.") 
"They  pay  more  for  other  wine,"  he  went  on.  "Well,  Mon- 
sieur, men  who  haggle  are  sure  to  agree. — Speak  honestly; 
you  have  considerable  influence  in  the  district?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  the  madman.  "The  head  of  Vou- 
vray,  you  see." 

"Well,  and  you  perfectly  understand  the  working  of  the 
Intellectual  Capital  Insurance?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  have  realized  the  vast  proportions  of  the  'Globe'?" 

"Twice— on  foot." 

Gaudissart  did  not  heed  him;  he  was  entangled  in  the 
maze  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  listening  to  his  own  words, 
assured  of  success.  • 

"Well,  seeing  the  position  you  hold,  I  can  understand 
that  at  your  age  you  have  nothing  to  insure.  But,  Mon- 
sieur, you  can  persuade  those  persons  in  this  district  to  in- 
sure who,  either  by  their  personal  merits  or  by  the  precarious 
position  of  their  families,  may  be  anxious  to  provide  for  the 
future.  And  so,  if  you  will  subscribe  to  the  'Globe,'  and 
if  you  will  give  me  the  support  of  your  authority  in  this  dis- 
trict to  invite  the  investment  of  capital  in  annuities — for 
annuities  are  popular  in  the  provinces — well,  we  may  come 
to  an  agreement  as  to  the  purchase  of  the  two  casks  of  wine. 
—Will  you  take  in  the  'Globe'?" 


40  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"I  live  on  the  Globe." 

"Will  you  support  me  with  the  influential  residents  in 
the  district?" 

"I  support — " 

"And—" 

"And—?" 

"And  I —  But  you  will  pay  your  subscription  to  the 
'Globe'?" 

"The  'Globe' — a  good  paper — an  annuity?" 

"An  annuity,  Monsieur? — Well,  yes,  you  are  right;  for 
it  is  full  of  life,  of  vitality,  and  learning ;  chock-full  of  learn- 
ing; a  handsome  paper,  well  printed,  a  good  color,  thick 
paper.  Oh,  it  is  none  of  your  flimsy  shoddy,  mere  waste- 
paper  that  tears  if  you  look  at  it.  And  it  goes  deep,  gives 
you  reasoning  that  you  may  think  over  at  leisure,  and  pleas- 
ant occupation  here  in  the  depths  of  the  country." 

"That  is  the  thing  for  me,"  said  the  madman. 

"It  costs  a  mere  trifle — eighty  francs  a  year." 

"That  is  not  the  thing  for  me,"  said  Margaritis. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Gaudissart,  "of  course  you  have  little 
children?" 

"Some,"  said  Margaritis,  who  misunderstood  have  for 
love. 

"Well,  then,  the  'Journal  des  Enfants,'  seven  francs  a 
year— 

"Buy  my  two  casks  of  wine,"  said  Margaritis,  "and  I 
will  subscribe  to  your  children's  paper;  that  is  the  thing 
for  me;  a  fine  idea.  Intellectual  tyranny — a  child — heh? 
Does  not  man  tyrannize  over  man?" 

"Right  you  are,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"Right  I  am." 

"And  you  consent  to  steer  me  round  the  district?" 

4 'Round  the  district." 

"I  have  your  approbation?" 

"You  have." 

"Well,  then,  sir,  I  will  take  your  two  casks  of  wine  at  a 
hundred  francs — " 


PARISIANS   IN  THE   COUNTRY  47 

"No,  no,  a  hundred  and  ten." 

"Monsieur,  a  hundred  and  ten,  I  will  say  a  hundred  and 
ten,  but  it  is  a  hundred  and  ten  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  paper 
and  one  hundred  to  me.  If  I  find  you  a  buyer,  you  owe  me 
a  commission. ' ' 

14  A  hundred  and  twenty  to  them.  No  commission  to  the 
commissioners. ' ' 

"Very  neat.     And  not  only  witty,  but  spirited." 

"No,  spirituous." 

"Better  and  better — like  Nicolet." 

"That  is  my  way,"  said  the  lunatic.  "Come  and  look  at 
my  vineyards?"  . 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Gaudissart.  "That  wine  goes 
strangely  to  the  head. ' ' 

And  Gaudissart  the  Great  went  out  with  Monsieur  Marga- 
ritis,  who  led  him  from  terrace  to  terrace,  from  vine  to  vine. 

The  three  ladies  and  Monsieur  Vernier  could  laugh  now 
at  their  ease,  as  they  saw  the  two  men  from  the  window  ges- 
ticulating, haranguing^  standing  still,  and  going  on  again, 
talking  vehemently. 

"Why  did  your  good  man  take  him  out  of  hearing?" 
said  Vernier. 

At  last  Margaritis  came  in  again  with  the  commercial 
traveller;  they  were  both  walking  at  a  great  pace  as  if 
in  a  hurry  to  conclude  the  business. 

"And  the  countryman,  I  bet,  has  been  too  many  for  the 
Parisian, ' '  said  Vernier. 

In  point  of  fact,  Gaudissart  the  Great,  sitting  at  one  end 
of  the  card -table,  to  the  great  delight  of  Margaritis,  wrote 
an  order  for  the  delivery  of  two  casks  of  wine.  Then,  after 
reading  through  the  contract,  Margaritis  paid  him  down 
seven  francs  as  a  subscription  to  the  children's  paper. 

"Till  to-morrow,  then,  Monsieur,"  said  Gaudissart  the 
Great,  twisting  his  watch-key;  "I  shall  have  the  honor  of 
calling  for  you  to-morrow.  You  can  send  the  wine  to 
Paris  direct  to  the  address  I  have  given  you,  and  forward 
it  as  soon  as  you  receive  the  money." 


48  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Gaudissart  was  from  Normandy ;  there  were  two  sides  to 
every  bargain  he  made,  and  he  required  an  agreement  from 
Monsieur  Margaritis,  who  with  a  madman's  glee  in  gratify- 
ing his  favorite  whim,  signed,  after  reading,  a  contract  to 
deliver  two  casks  of  wine  of  Clos  Margaritis.- 

So  Gaudissart  went  off  in  high  spirits,  humming  "Le  roi 
des  mers,  prends  plus  bas,"  to  the  "Golden  Sun"  Inn,  where 
he  naturally  had  a  chat  with  the  host  while  waiting  for  din- 
ner. Mitouflet  was  an  old  soldier,  simple  but  cunning,  as 
peasants  are,  but  never  laughing  at  a  joke,  as  being  a  man 
who  is  accustomed  to  the  roar  of  cannon,  and  to  passing  a 
jest  in  the  ranks. 

"You  have  some  very  tough  customers  hereabout," 
said  Gaudissart,  leaning  against  the  door-post  and  lighting 
his  cigar  at  Mitouflet's  pipe. 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Mitouflet. 

"Well,  men  who  ride  roughshod  over  political  and  finan- 
cial theories." 

"Whom  have  you  been  talking  to,  if  I  may  make  so 
bold?"  asked  the  innkeeper  guilelessly,  while  he  skilfully 
expectorated  after  the  manner  of  smokers. 

' '  To  a  wideawake  chap  named  Margaritis. ' ' 

Mitouflet  glanced  at  his  customer,  twice,  with  calm  irony. 

"Oh  yes,  he  is  wideawake,  no  doubt!  He  knows  too 
much  for  most  people;  they  don't  follow  him — " 

"I  can  quite  believe  it.  He  has  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  higher  branches  of  finance." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mitouflet;  "and  for  my  part,  I  have 
always  thought  it  a  pity  that  he  should  be  mad." 

"Mad?     How?" 

"How?  Why,  mad,  as  a  madman  is  mad,"  repeated  the 
innkeeper.  "But  he  is  not  dangerous,  and  his  wife  looks 
after  him. — So  you  understood  each  other?  That's  funny," 
said  the  relentless  Mitouflet,  with  the  utmost  calm. 

"Funny?"  cried  Gaudissart.  "Funny?  But  your  pre- 
cious Monsieur  Yernier  was  making  a  fool  of  me!" 

"Did  he  send  you  there?"  said  Mitouflet. 


PARISIANS   IN   THE   COUNTRY  49 

"Yes." 

"I  say,  wife,"  cried  the  innkeeper,  "listen  to  that! 
Monsieur  Vernier  actually  sent  Monsieur  to  talk  to  old 
Margaritis — " 

"And  what  did  you  find  to  say  to  each  other,  my  good 
gentleman,"  said  the  woman,  "since  he  is  quite  mad?" 

"He  sold  me  two  casks  of  wine." 

"And  you  bought  them?" 

"Yes." 

"But  it  is  his  mania  to  want  to  sell  wine;  he  has  none." 

"Very  good!"  cried  the  bagman.  "In  the  first  place,  I 
will  go  and  thank  Monsieur  Vernier." 

Gaudissart,  boiling  with  rage,  went  off  to  the  house  of 
the  ex-dyer,  whom  he  found  in  his  parlor  laughing  with  the 
neighbors,  to  whom  he  was  already  telling  the  story. 

"Monsieur,"  said  this  Prince  of  Bagmen,  his  eyes  glaring 
with  wrath,  "you  are  a  sneak  and  a  blackguard;  and  if  you 
are  not  the  lowest  of  turnkeys — a  class  I  rank  below  the  con- 
victs— you  will  give  me  satisfaction  for  the  insult  you  have 
done  me  by  placing  me  in  the  power  of  a  man  whom  you  knew 
to  be  mad.  Do  you  hear  me,  Monsieur  Vernier,  the  dyer?" 

This  was  the  speech  Gaudissart  had  prepared,  as  a  trage- 
dian prepares  his  entrance  on  the  stage. 

"What  next?"  retorted  Vernier,  encouraged  by  the  pres- 
ence of  his  neighbors.  "Do  you  think  we  have  not  good 
right  to  make  game  of  a  gentleman  who  arrives  at  Vouvray 
with  an  air  and  a  flourish,  to  get  our  money  out  of  us  Under 
pretence  of  being  great  men — painters,  or  verse-mongers — 
and  who  thus  gratuitously  places  us  on  a  level  with  a  penni- 
less horde,  out  at  elbows,  homeless  and  roofless?  What 
have  we  done  to  deserve  it,  we  who  are  fathers  of  families? 
A  rogue,  who  asks  us  to  subscribe  to  the  'Globe,'  a  paper 
which  preaches  as  the  first  law  of  God,  if  you  please,  that 
a  man  shall  not  inherit  what  his  father  and  mother  can  leave 
him  ?  On  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  old  Margaritis  can  talk 
more  sense  than  that. 

Vol.  4.  (C) 


60  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"And,  after  all,  what  have  you  to  complain  of?  You 
were  quite  of  a  mind,  you  and  he.  These  gentlemen  can  bear 
witness  that  if  you  had  speechified  to  all  the  people  in  the 
countryside  you  would  not  have  been  so  well  understood. ' ' 

' '  That  is  all  very  well  to  say,  but  I  consider  myself  in- 
sulted, Monsieur,  and  I  expect  satisfaction." 

"Very  good,  sir;  I  consider  you  insulted  if  that  will  be 
any  comfort  to  you,  and  I  will  not  give  you  satisfaction,  for 
there  is  not  satisfaction  enough  in  the  whole  silly  business 
for  me  to  give  you  any.  Is  he  absurd,  I  ask  you?" 

At  these  words  Gaudissart  rushed  on  the  dyer  to  give 
him  a  blow;  but  the  Vouvrillons  were  on  the  alert,  and 
threw  themselves  between  them,  so  that  Gaudissart  the 
Great  only  hit  the  dyer's  wig,  which  flew  off  and  alighted 
on  the  head  of  Mademoiselle  Claire  Vernier. 

"If  you  are  not  satisfied  now,  Monsieur,  I  shall  be  at 
the  inn  till  to-morrow  morning;  you  will  find  me  there, 
and  ready  to  show  you  what  is  meant  by  satisfaction  for  an 
insult.  I  fought  in  July,  Monsieur!" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  dyer,  "you  shall  fight  at  Vouvray; 
and  you  will  stay  here  rather  longer  than  you  bargained  for. ' ' 

Gaudissart  departed,  pondering  on  this  reply,  which 
seemed  to  him  ominous  of  mischief.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  dined  cheerlessly. 

The  whole  borough  of  Vouvray  was  in  a  stir  over  the 
meeting  between  Graudissart  and  Monsieur  Vernier.  A 
duel  was  a  thing  unheard  of  in  this  benign  region. 

"Monsieur  Mitouflet,  I  am  going  to  fight  Monsieur  Ver- 
nier to-morrow  morning, "  said  Graudissart  to  his  host.  "I 
know  nobody  here;  will  you  be  my  second?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Mitouflet. 

Gaudissart  had  hardly  finished  his  dinner  when  Madame 
Fontanieu  and  the  Mayor's  deputy  came  to  the  "Golden 
Sun,"  took  Mitouflet  aside,  and  represented  to  him  what  a 
sad  thing  it  .would  be  for  the  whole  district  if  a  violent 
death  should  occur;  they  described  the  frightful  state  of 
affairs  for  good  Madame  Vernier,  and  implored  him  to 


PARISIANS  IN   THE   COUNTRY  5\ 

patch  the  matter  up  so  as  to  save  the  honor  of  the  com- 
munity. 

"I  will  see  to  it,"  said  the  innkeeper  with  a  wink. 

In  the  evening  Mitouflet  went  up  to  Gaudissart's  room 
carrying  pens,  ink,  and  paper. 

"What  is  all  that?"  asked  Gaudissart. 

"Well,  as  you  are  to  fight  to-morrow,  I  thought  you 
might  be  glad  to  leave  some  little  instructions,  and  that 
you  might  wish  to  write  some  letters,  for  we  all  have  some 
one  who  is  dear  to  us.  Oh  I  that  will  not  kill  you.  Are 
you  a  good  fencer?  Would  you  like  to  practice  a  little? 
I  have  some  foils." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  do  so." 

Mitouflet  fetched  the  foils  and  two  masks. 

"Now,  let  us  see." 

The  innkeeper  and  the  bagman  stood  on  guard.  Mitou- 
flet, who  had  been  an  instructor  of  grenadiers,  hit  Gaudis- 
sart sixty -eight  times,  driving  him  back  to  the  wall. 

"The  devil!  you  are  good  at  the  gamel"  said  Gaudissart, 
out  of  breath. 

"I  am  no  match  for  Monsieur  Vernier." 

"The  deuce !     Th en  I  will  fight  with  pistols. ' ' 

"I  advise  you  to. — You  see,  if  you  use  large  horse  pis- 
tols and  load  them  to  the  muzzle,  they  are  sure  to  kick  and 
miss,  and  each  man  withdraws  with  unblemished  honor. 
Leave  me  to  arrange  it.  By  the  Mass,  two  good  men  would 
be  great  fools  to  kill  each  other  for  a  jest." 

"Are  you  sure  the  pistols  will  fire  wide  enough?  I 
should  be  sorry  to  kill  the  man,"  said  Gaudissart. 

"Sleep  easy." 

Next  morning  the  adversaries,  both  rather  pale,  met  at 
the  foot  of  the  Pont  de  la  Cise. 

The  worthy  Vernier  narrowly  missed  killing  a  cow  that 
was  grazing  by  the  roadside  ten  yards  off. 

"Ah!  you  fired  in  the  air!"  exclaimed  Gaudissart,  and 
with  these  words  the  enemies  fell  into  each  other's  arms. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  traveller,  "your  joke  was  a  little 


52  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

rough,  but  it  was  funny.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  so  strongly, 
but  I  was  beside  myself. — I  hold  you  a  man  of  honor." 

"Monsieur,  we  will  get  you  twenty  subscribers  to  the 
children's  paper,"  replied  the  dyer,  still  rather  pale. 

"That  being  the  case,"  said  Gaudissart,  "why  should  we 
not  breakfast  together?  Men  who  have  fought  are  always 
ready  to  understand  each  other. ' ' 

"Monsieur  Mitouflet, "  said  Q-audissart,  as  they  went  in, 
"there  is  a  bailiff  here,  I  suppose?" 

"What  for?" 

"I  mean  to  serve  a  notice  on  my  dear  little  Monsieur 
Margaritis,  requiring  him  to  supply  me  with  two  casks  of 
his  wine." 

"But  he  has  none,"  said  Yernier. 

"Well,  Monsieur,  I  will  say  no  more  about  it  for  an  in- 
demnity of  twenty  francs.  But  I  will  not  have  it  said  in 
your  town  that  you  stole  a  march  on  Gaudissart  the  Great. ' ' 

Madame  Margaritis,  afraid  of  an  action,  which  the  plaintiff 
would  certainly  gain,  brought  the  twenty  francs  to  the  clem- 
ent bagman,  who  was  also  spared  the  pains  of  any  further 
propaganda  in  one  of  the  most  jovial  districts  of  France, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  least  open  to  new  ideas. 

On  his  return  from  his  tour  in  the  southern  provinces, 
Graudissart  the  Great  was  travelling  in  the  coupe  of  the 
Laffite-Caillard  diligence,  and  had  for  a  fellow  passenger  a 
young  man  to  whom,  having  passed  Angoul^me,  he  con- 
descended to  expatiate  on  the  mysteries  of  life,  fancying 
him,  no  doubt,  but  a  baby. 

On  reaching  Vouvray,  the  youth  exclaimed: 

"What  a  lovely  situation!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Gaudissart,  "but  the  land  is  un- 
inhabitable by  reason  of  the  inhabitants.  You  would  have 
a  duel  on  your  hands  every  day.  Why,  only  three  months 
ago  I  fought  on  that  very  spot" — and  he  pointed  to  the 
bridge — "with  a  confounded  dyer — pistols;  but — I  fleeced 
him!" 

PARIS,  November,  1832. 


THE    MUSE    OF   THE 
DEPARTMENT 

TO   MONSIEUR   LE  COMTE   FERDINAND   DE   GRAMONT 

My  dear  Ferdinand — If  the  chances  of  the  world  of  lit- 
erature— "habent  suafata  libelli" — -should  allow  these  lines 
to  be  an  enduring  record,  that  will  still  be  but  a  tri/le  in  re- 
turn for  the  trouble  you  have  taken — you,  the  Hozier,  the 
Cherin,  the  King -at- Arms  of  these  Studies  of  Life;  you, 
to  whom,  the  Navarreins,  Cadignans,  Langeais,  Blamont- 
Chauvrys,  Chaulieus,  Arthez,  Esgrignons,  Mortsaufs,  Valois 
— the  hundred  great  names  that  form  the  Aristocracy  of  the 
"Human  Comedy"  owe  their  lordly  mottoes  and  ingenious 
armorial  bearings.  Indeed,  "the  Armorial  of  the  fitudes, 
devised  by  Ferdinand  de  Oramont,  gentleman,"  is  a  com- 
plete manual  of  French  Heraldry,  in  which  nothing  is  for- 
gotten, not  even  the  arms  of  the  Empire,  and  I  shall  preserve 
it  as  a  monument  of  friendship  and  of  Benedictine  patience. 
What  profound  knowledge  of  the  old  feudal  spirit  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  motto  of  the  Bauseants,  "Pulchrb  sedens,  melius 
agens";  in  that  of  the  Espards,  "Des  partem  leonis"  ;  in 
that  of  the  Vandenesses,  "Nese  vend."  And  what  elegance 
in  the  thousand  details  of  the  learned  symbolism  which  will 
always  show  how  far  accuracy  has  been  carried  in  my  work, 
to  which  you,  the  poet,  have  contributed.  Your  old  friend^ 

De  Balzac. 

ON  THE  SKIRTS  of  Le  Berry  stands  a  town  which, 
watered  by  the  Loire,  infallibly  attracts  the  traveller's 
eye.     Sancerre  crowns  the  topmost  height  of  a  chain 
of  hills,  the  last  of  the  range  that  gives  variety  to  the  Niver- 
nais.     The  Loire  floods  the  flats  at  the  food  of  these  slopes, 

(53) 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

leaving  a  yellow  alluvium  that  is  extremely  fertile,  except- 
ing in  those  places  where  it  has  deluged  them  with  sand  and 
destroyed  them  forever,  by  one  of  those  terrible  risings  which 
are  also  incidental  to  the  Vistula — the  Loire  of  the  northern 
coast. 

The  hill  on  which  the  houses  of  Sancerre  are  grouped  is 
so  far  from  the  river  that  the  little  river-port  of  Saint-Thi- 
bault  thrives  on  the  life  of  Sancerre.  There  wine  is  shipped 
and  oak  staves  are  landed,  with  all  the  produce  brought  from 
the  upper  and  lower  Loire.  At  the  period  when  this  story 
begins  the  suspension  bridges  at  Cosne  and  at  Saint-Thibault 
were  already  built.  Travellers  from  Paris  to  Sancerre  by  the 
southern  road  were  no  longer  ferried  across  the  river  from 
Cosne  to  Saint-Thibault;  and  this  of  itself  is  enough  to  show 
that  the  great  cross-shuffle  of  1830  was  a  thing  of  the  past, 
for  the  House  of  Orleans  has  always  had  a  care  for  substan- 
tial improvements,  though  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  a 
husband  who  makes  his  wife  presents  out  of  her  marriage 
portion. 

Excepting  that  part  of  Sancerre  which  occupies  the  little 
plateau,  the  streets  are  more  or  less  steep,  and  the  town  is 
surrounded  by  slopes  known  as  the  Great  Ramparts,  a  name 
which  shows  that  they  are  the  highroads  of  the  place. 

Outside  the  ramparts  lies  a  belt  of  vineyards.  Wine  forms 
the  chief  industry  and  the  most  important  trade  of  the  coun- 
try, which  yields  several  vintages  of  high-class  wine  full  of 
aroma,  and  so  nearly  resembling  the  wines  of  Burgundy  that 
the  vulgar  palate  is  deceived.  So  Sancerre  finds  in  the  wine 
shops  of  Paris  the  quick  market  indispensable  for  liquor  that 
will  not  keep  for  more  than  seven  or  eight  years.  Below  the 
town  lie  a  few  villages,  Fontenoy  and  Saint-Satur,  almost 
suburbs,  reminding  us  by  their  situation  of  the  smiling  vine- 
yards about  Neufcha'tel  in  Switzerland. 

The  town  still  bears  much  of  its  ancient  aspect;  the  streets 
are  narrow  and  paved  with  pebbles  carted  up  from  the  Loire. 
Some  old  houses  are  to  be  seen  there.  The  citadel,  a  relic 
of  military  power  and  feudal  times,  stood  one  of  the  most 


THE   MUSE  OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  65 

terrible  sieges  of  our  religious  wars,  when  French  Calvinists 
far  outdid  the  ferocious  Cameronians  of  Walter  Scott's 
tales. 

The  town  of  Sancerre,  rich  in  its  greater  past,  but  widowed 
now  of  its  military  importance,  is  doomed  to  an  even  less  glo- 
rious future,  for  the  course  of  trade  lies  on  the  right  bank  of 
the  Loire.  The  sketch  here  given  shows  that  Sancerre  will 
be  left  more  and  more  lonely  in  spite  o!  the  two  bridges 
connecting  it  with  Cosne. 

Sancerre,  the  pride  of  the  left  bank,  numbers  three  thou- 
sand five  hundred  inhabitants  at  most,  while  at  Cosne  there 
are  now  more  than  six  thousand.  Within  half  a  century  the 
part  played  by  these  two  towns  standing  opposite  each  other 
has  been  reversed.  The  advantage  of  situation,  however, 
remains  with  the  historic  town,  whence  the  view  on  every 
side  is  perfectly  enchanting,  where  the  air  is  deliciously 
pure,  the  vegetation  splendid,  and  the  residents,  in  harmony 
with  nature,  are  friendly  souls,  good  fellows,  and  devoid  of 
Puritanism,  though  two-thirds  of  the  population  are  Calvin- 
ists. Under  such  conditions,  though  there  are  the  usual  dis- 
advantages of  life  in  a  small  town,  and  each  one  lives  under 
the  officious  eye  which  makes  private  life  almost  a  public 
concern,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spirit  of  township — a  sort 
of  patriotism,  which  cannot  indeed  take  the  place  of  a  love 
of  home — flourishes  triumphantly. 

Thus  the  town  of  Sancerre  is  exceedingly  proud  of  hav- 
ing given  birth  to  one  of  the  glories  of  modern  medicine, 
Horace  Bianchon,  and  to  an  author  of  secondary  rank, 
Etienne  Lousteau,  one  of  our  most  successful  journalists. 
The  district  included  under  the  municipality  of  Sancerre, 
distressed  at  finding  itself  practically  ruled  by  seven  or  eight 
large  landowners,  the  wirepullers  of  the  elections,  tried  to 
shake  off  the  electoral  yoke  of  a  creed  which  had  reduced 
it  to  a  rotten  borough.  This  little  conspiracy,  plotted  by 
a  handful  of  men  whose  vanity  was  provoked,  failed  through 
the  jealousy  which  the  elevation  of  one  of  them,  as  the  in- 
evitable result,  roused  in  the  breasts  of  the  others.  This 


56  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

result  showed  the  radical  defect  of  the  scheme,  and  the  rem- 
edy then  suggested  was  to  rally  round  a  champion  at  the 
next  election,  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  two  men  who  so 
gloriously  represented  Sancerre  in  Paris  circles. 

This  idea  was  extraordinarily  advanced  for  the  provinces, 
for  since  1830  the  nomination  of  parochial  dignitaries  has  in- 
creased so  greatly  that  real  statesmen  are  becoming  rare  indeed 
in  the  lower  chamber. 

In  point  of  fact,  this  plan,  of  very  doubtful  outcome,  was 
hatched  in  the  brain  of  the  Superior  "Woman  of  the  borough, 
duxfemina  fasti,  but  with  a  view  to  personal  interest.  This 
idea  was  so  widely  rooted  in  this  lady's  past  life,  and  so  en- 
tirely comprehended  her  future  prospects,  that  it  can  scarcely 
be  understood  without  some  sketch  of  her  antecedent  career. 

Sancerre  at  that  time  could  boast  of  a  Superior  Woman, 
long  misprized  indeed,  but  now,  about  1836,  enjoying  a 
pretty  extensive  local  reputation.  This,  too,  was  the  period 
at  which  the  two  Sancerrois  in  Paris  were  attaining,  each  in 
his  own  line,  to  the  highest  degree  of  glory  for  one,  and  of 
fashion  for  the  other.  Etienne  Lousteau,  a  writer  in  reviews, 
signed  his  name  to  contributions  to  a  paper  that  had  eight 
thousand  subscribers;  and  Bianchon,  already  chief  physician 
to  a  hospital,  Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  member  of 
the  Academy  of  Sciences,  had  just  been  made  a  professor. 

If  it  were  not  that  the  word  would  to  many  readers  seem 
to  imply  a  degree  of  blame,  it  might  be  said  that  George  Sand 
created  Sandism,  so  true  is  it  that,  morally  speaking,  all  good 
has  a  reverse  of  evil.  This  leprosy  of  sentimentality  has 
spoiled  many  a  woman, who,  but  for  her  pretensions  to  genius, 
would  have  been  charming.  Still,  Sandism  has  its  good  side, 
in  that  the  woman  attacked  by  it  bases  her  assumption  of  su- 
periority on  feelings  scorned ;  she  is  a  blue-stocking  of  senti- 
ment; and  she  is  rather  less  of  a  bore,  love  to  some  extent 
neutralizing  literature.  The  most  conspicuous  result  of 
George  Sand's  celebrity  was  to  elicit  the  fact  that  France 
has  a  perfectly  enormous  number  of  superior  women,  who 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  57 

have,  however,  till  now  been  so  generous  as  to  leave  the 
field  to  the  Mare'chal  de  Saxe's  granddaughter. 

The  Superior  Woman  of  Sancerre  lived  at  La  Baudraye, 
a  town-house  and  country-house  in  one,  within  ten  minutes 
of  the  town,  and  in  the  village,  or,  if  you  will,  the  suburb 
of  Saint-Satur.  The  La  Baudrayes  of  the  present  day  have, 
as  is  frequently  the  case,  thrust  themselves  in,  and  are  but 
a  substitute  for  those  La  Baudrayes  whose  name,  glorious  in 
the  Crusades,  figured  in  the  chief  events  of  the  history  of 
Le  Berry. 

The  story  must  be  told. 

In  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  a  certain  sheriff  named  Milaud, 
whose  forefathers  had  been  furious  Calvinists,  was  converted 
at  the  time  of  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  To 
encourage  this  movement  in  one  of  the  strongholds  of  Cal- 
vinism, the  King  gave  the  said  Milaud  a  good  appointment 
in  the  "Waters  and  Forests,"  granted  him  arms  and  the  title 
of  Sire  (or  Lord)  de  La  Baudraye,  with  the  fief  of  the  old 
and  genuine  La  Baudrayes.  The  descendants  of  the  famous 
Captain  La  Baudraye  fell,  sad  to  say,  into  one  of  the  snares 
laid  for  heretics  by  the  new  decrees,  and  were  hanged — an 
unworthy  deed  of  the  great  King's. 

Under  Louis  XV.  Milaud  de  la  Baudraye,  from  being  a 
mere  squire,  was  made  Chevalier,  and  had  influence  enough 
to  obtain  for  his  son  a  cornet's  commission  in  the  Musketeers. 
This  officer  perished  at  Fontenoy,  leaving  a  child,  to  whom 
King  Louis  XVI.  subsequently  granted  the  privileges,  by 
patent,  of  a  farmer-general,  in  remembrance  of  his  father's 
death  on  the  field  of  battle. 

This  financier,  a  fashionable  wit,  great  at  charades,  cap- 
ping verses,  and  posies  to  Chlora,  lived  in  society,  was  a 
hanger-on  to  the  Due  de  Navarreins,  and  fancied  himself 
obliged  to  follow  the  nobility  into  exile ;  but  he  took  care 
to  carry  his  money  with  him.  Thus  the  rich  e'migre'  was 
able  to  assist  more  than  one  family  of  high  rank. 

In  1800,  tired  of  hoping,  and  perhaps  tired  of  lending,  he 
returned  to  Sancerre,  bought  back  La  Baudraye  out  of  a  feel- 


68  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing  of  vanity  and  imaginary  pride,  quite  intelligible  in  a 
sheriff's  grandson,  though  under  the  Consulate  his  prospects 
Were  but  slender;  all  the  more  so,  indeed,  because  the  ex- 
farmer-general  had  small  hopes  of  his  heir's  perpetuating  the 
new  race  of  La  Baudraye. 

Jean  Athanase  Polydore  Milaud  de  la  Baudraye,  his  only 
son,  more  than  delicate  from  his  birth,  was  very  evidently 
the  child  of  a  man  whose  constitution  had  early  been  exhausted 
by  the  excesses  in  which  rich  men  indulge,  who  then  marry 
at  the  first  stage  of  premature  old  age,  and  thus  bring  degen- 
eracy into,  the  highest  circles  of  society.  During  the  years 
of  the  emigration  Madame  de  la  Baudraye,  a  girl  of  no  for- 
tune, chosen  for  her  noble  birth,  had  patiently  reared  this 
sallow,  sickly  boy,  for  whom  she  had  the  devoted  love  moth- 
ers feel  for  such  changeling  creatures.  Her  death — she  was 
a  Casteran  de  la  Tour — contributed  to  bring  about  Monsieur 
de  la  Baudraye's  return  to  France. 

This  Lucullus  of  the  Milauds,  when  he  died,  left  his  son 
the  fief,  stripped  indeed  of  its  fines  and  dues,  but  graced  with 
weathercocks  bearing  his  coat-of-arms,  a  thousand  louis-d'or 
—in  1802  a  considerable  sum  of  money — and  certain  receipts 
for  claims  on  very  distinguished  Emigre's  inclosed  in  a  pocket- 
book  full  of  verses,  with  this  inscription  on  the  wrapper, 
Vanitas  vanitatum  et  omnia  vanitas. 

Young  La  Baudraye  did  not  die,  but  he  owed  his  life  to 
habits  of  monastic  strictness ;  to  the  economy  of  action  which 
Fontenelle  preached  as  the  religion  of  the  invalid ;  and,  above 
all,  to  the  air  of  Sancerre  and  the  influence  of  its  fine  eleva- 
tion, whence  a  panorama  over  the  valley  of  the  Loire  may 
be  seen  extending  for  forty  leagues. 

From  1802  to  1815  young  La  Baudraye  added  several  plots 
to  his  vineyards,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  culture  of  the 
vine.  The  Restoration  seemed  to  him  at  first  so  insecure  that 
he  dared  not  go  to  Paris  to  claim  his  debts;  but  after  Napo- 
leon's death  he  tried  to  turn  his  father's  collection  of  auto- 
graphs into  money,  though  not  understanding  the  deep  phi- 
losophy which  had  thus  mixed  up  I  O  U's  and  copies  of 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  69 

verses.  But  the  winegrower  lost  so  much  time  in  impress- 
ing his  identity  on  the  Duke  of  Navarreins  "and  others,"  as 
he  phrased  it,  that  he  came  back  to  Sancerre,  to  his  beloved 
vintage,  without  having  obtained  anything  but  offers  of  service. 

The  Kestoration  had  raised  the  nobility  to  such  a  degree 
of  lustre  as  made  La  Baudraye  wisluto  justify  his  ambitions 
by  having  an  heir.  This  happy  result  of  matrimony  he  con- 
sidered doubtful,  or  he  would  not  so  long  have  postponed 
the  step;  however,  finding  himself  still  above  ground  in 
1823,  at  the  age  of  forty-three,  a  length  of  years  which  no 
doctor,  astrologer,  or  midwife  would  have  dared  to  promise 
him,  he  hoped  to  earn  the  reward  of  his  sober  life.  And  yet 
his  choice  showed  such  a  lack  of  prudence  in  regard  to  his 
frail  constitution  that  the  malicious  wit  of  a  country  town 
could  not  help  thinking  it  must  be  the  result  of  some  deep 
calculation. 

Just  at  this  time  His  Eminence,  Monseigneur  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Bourges,  had  converted  to  the  Catholic  faith  a 
young  person,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  citizen  families, 
who  were  the  first  upholders  of  Calvinism,  and  who,  thanks 
to  their  obscurity  or  to  some  compromise  with  Heaven,  had 
escaped  from  the  persecutions  under  Louis  XIV.  The 
Piddefers — a  name  that  was  obviously  one  of  the  quaint 
nicknames  assumed  by  the  champions  of  the  Keformation — 
had  set  up  as  highly  respectable  cloth  merchants.  But  in 
the  reign  of  Louis  XVI. ,  Abraham  Pie*defer  fell  into  diffi- 
culties, and  at  his  death  in  1786  left  his  two  children  in 
extreme  poverty.  One  of  them,  Tobie  PieMefer,  went  out 
to  the  Indies,  leaving  the  pittance  they  had  inherited  to  his 
elder  brother.  During  the  Eevolution  Moi'se  Piddefer  bought 
up  the  nationalized  land,  pulled  down  abbeys  and  churches 
with  all  the  zeal  of  his  ancestors,  oddly  enough,  and  married 
a  Catholic,  the  only  daughter  of  a  member  of  the  Convention 
who  had  perished  on  the  scaffold.  This  ambitious  Pie*defer 
died  in  1819,  leaving  his  wife  a  fortune  impaired  by  agricult- 
ural speculation,  and  a  little  girl  of  remarkable  beauty.  This 
child,  brought  up  in  the  Calvinist  faith,  was  named  Dinah, 


60  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

in  accordance  with  the  custom  in  use  among  the  sect,  of 
taking  their  Christian  names  from  the  Bible,  so  as  to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  Saints  of  the  Roman  Church. 

Mademoiselle  Dinah  Pie'defer  was  placed  by  her  mother 
in  one  of  the  best  schools  in  Bourges,  that  kept  by  the 
Demoiselles  Chamarolles,  and  was  soon  as  highly  distin- 
guished for  the  qualities  of  her  mind  as  for  her  beauty;  but 
she  found  herself  snubbed  by  girls  of  birth  and  fortune, 
destined  by  and  by  to  play  a  greater  part  in  the  world  than 
a  mere  plebeian,  the  daughter  of  a  mother  who  was  dependent 
on  the  settlement  of  Pie'defer's  estate.  Dinah,  having  raised 
herself  for  the  moment  above  her  companions,  now  aimed  at 
remaining  on  a  level  with  them  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  She 
determined,  therefore,  to  renounce  Calvinism,  in  the  hope 
that  the  Cardinal  would  extend  his  favor  to  his  proselyte 
and  interest  himself  in  her  prospects.  You  may  from  this 
judge  of  Mademoiselle  Dinah's  superiority,  since  at  the  age 
of  seventeen  she  was  a  convert  solely  from  ambition. 

The  Archbishop,  possessed  with  the  idea  that  Dinah 
Pie'defer  would  adorn  society,  was  anxious  to  see  her  mar- 
ried. But  every  family  to  whom  the  prelate  made  advances 
took  fright  at  a  damsel  gifted  with  the  looks  of  a  princess, 
who  was  reputed  the  cleverest  of  Mademoiselle  Chamarolles' 
pupils,  and  who,  at  the  somewhat  theatrical  ceremonial  of 
prize-giving,  always  took  a  leading  part.  A  thousand  crowns 
a  year,  which  was  as  much  as  she  could  hope  for  from  the 
estate  of  La  Hautoy  when  divided  between  the  mother  and 
daughter,  would  be  a  mere  trifle  in  comparison  with  the 
expenses  into  which  a  husband  would  be  led  by  the  personal 
advantages  of  so  brilliant  a  creature. 

As  soon  as  all  these  facts  came  to  the  ears  of  little  Poly- 
dore  de  La  Baudraye — for  they  were  the  talk  of  every  circle 
in  the  Department  of  the  Cher — he  went  to  Bourges  just 
when  Madame  Pie'defer,  a  devotee  at  high  services,  had 
almost  made  up  her  own  mind  and  her  daughter's  to  take 
the  first  comer  with  well-lined  pockets — the  first  chien  coiffe, 
as  they  say  in  Le  Berry.  And  if  the  Cardinal  was  delighted 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  61 

to  receive  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  Monsieur  dc  La  Bau- 
i  Ira  ye  was  even  better  pleased  to  receive  a  wife  from  the  hands 
of  the  Cardinal.  The  kittle  gentleman  only  demanded  of  Hi8 
Eminence  a  formal  promise  to  support  his  claims  with  the 
President  of  the  Council  to  enable  him  to  recover  his  debts 
from  the  Due  de  Navarreins  "and  others"  by  a  lien  on  their 
indemnities.  This  method,  however,  seemed  to  the  able 
Minister  then  occupying  the  Pavilion  Marsan  rather  too 
sharp  practice,  and  he  gave  the  vine-owner  to  understand 
that  his  business  should  be  attended  to  all  in  good  time. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  excitement  produced  in  the 
Saucerre  district  by  the  news  of  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye's 
imprudent  marriage. 

"It  is  quite  intelligible,"  said  President  Boirouge;  "the 
little  man  was  very  much  startled,  as  I  am  told,  at  hearing 
that  handsome  young  Milaud,  the  Attorney-General's  deputy 
at  Nevers,  say  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny  as  they  were  looking 
at  the  turrets  of  La  Baudraye,  'That  will  be  mine  some  day.' 
— 'But,'  says  Clagny,  'he  may  many  and  have  children.' — 
'Impossible!' — So  you  may  imagine  how  such  a  changeling 
as  little  La  Baudraye  must  hate  that  colossal  Milaud." 

There  was  at  Nevers  a  plebeian  branch  of  the  Milauds, 
which  had  grown  so  rich  in  the  cutlery  trade  that  the  present 
representative  of  that  branch  had  been  brought  up  to  the 
civil  service,  in  which  he  had  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  Mar- 
changy,  now  dead. 

It  will  be  as  well  to  eliminate  from  this  story,  in  which 
moral  developments  play  the  principal  part,  the  baser  ma- 
terial interests  which  alone  occupied  Monsieur  de  La  Bau- 
draye, by  briefly  relating  the  results  of  his  negotiations  in 
Paris.  This  will  also  throw  light  on  certain  mysterious 
phenomena  of  contemporary  history,  and  the  underground 
difficulties  in  matters  of  politics  which  hampered  the  Minis- 
try at  the  time  of  the  Kestoration. 

The  promises  of  Ministers  were  so  illusory  that  Monsieur 
de  La  Baudraye  determined  on  going  to  Paris  at  the  time 


62  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

when  the  Cardinal's  presence  was  required  there  by  the  sit- 
ting of  the  Chambers. 

This  is  how  the  Due  de  Navarreins,  the  principal  debtor 
threatened  by  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  got  out  of  the  scrape. 

The  country  gentleman,  lodging  at  the  Hotel  de  Mayence, 
Rue  Saint-Honore*,  near  the  Place  Vendome,  one  morning 
received  a  visit  from  a  confidential  agent  of  Hie  Ministry, 
who  was  an  expert  in  "winding  up"  business.  This  elegant 
personage,  who  stepped  out  of  an  elegant  cab,  and  was 
dressed  in  the  most  elegant  style,  was  requested  to  walk  up 
to  No.  37 — that  is  to  say,  to  the  third  floor,  to  a  small  room 
where  he  found  his  provincial  concocting  a  cup  of  coffee 
over  his  bedroom  fire. 

"Is  it  to  Monsieur  Milaud  de  La  Baudraye  that  I  have 
the  honor — ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  man,  draping  himself  in  his  dress- 
ing gown. 

After  examining  this  garment,  the  illicit  offspring  of  an 
old  chine"  wrapper  of  Madame  Pie*defer's  and  a  gown  of  the 
late  lamented  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  the  emissary  consid- 
ered the  man,  the  dressing  gown,  and  the  little  stove  on  which 
the  milk  was  boiling  in  a  tin  saucepan,  as  so  homogeneous 
and  characteristic  that  he  deemed  it  needless  to  beat  about 
the  bush. 

"I  will  lay  a  wager,  Monsieur,"  said  lie  audaciously,  "that 
you  dine  for  forty  sous  at  Hurbain's  in  the  Palais  Eoyal." 

"Pray,  why?" 

"Oh,  I  know  you,  having  seen  you  there,"  replied  the 
Parisian  with  perfect  gravity.  "All  the  princes'  creditors 
dine  there.  You  know  that  you  recover  scarcely  ten  per  cent 
on  debts  from  these  fine  gentlemen.  I  would  not  give  you 
five  per  cent  on  a  debt  to  be  recovered  from  the  estate  of  the 
late  Due  d' Orleans — nor  even,"  he  added  in  alow  voice — 
"from  MONSIEUR." 

"So  you  have  come  to  buy  up  the  bills?"  said  La  Bau- 
draye, thinking  himself  very  clever. 

"Buy  them!"  said  his  visitor.     "Why,  what  do  you  take 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  63 

me  for?  I  am  Monsieur  des  Lupeaulx,  Master  of  Appeals, 
Secretary-General  to  the  Ministry,  and  1  have  come  to  pro- 
pose an  arrangement." 

"What  is  that?" 

U0f  course,  Monsieur,  you  know  the  position  of  your 
debtor—" 

"Of  my  debtors—" 

"Well,  Monsieur,  you  understand  the  position  of  your 
debtors;  they  stand  high  in  the  King's  good  graces,  but  they 
have  no  money,  and  are  obliged  to  make  a  good  show. — 
Again,  you  know  the  difficulties  of  the  political  situation. 
The  aristocracy  has  to  be  rehabilitated  in  the  face  of  a  very- 
strong  force  of  the  third  estate.  The  King's  idea — and 
France  does  him  scant  justice — is  to  create  a  peerage  as  a 
national  institution  analogous  to  the  English  peerage.  To 
realize  this  grand  idea,  we  need  years — and  millions. — No- 
Hesse  oblige.  The  Due  de  Navarreins,  who  is,  as  you  know, 
first  gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber  to  the  King,  does  not 
repudiate  his  debt;  but  he  cannot — Now,  be  reasonable.— 
Consider  the  state  of  politics.  We  are  emerging  from  the 
pit  of  Eevolution. — And  you  yourself  are  noble — He  simply 
cannot  pay — " 

"Monsieur — " 

"You  are  hasty,"  said  des  Lupeaulx.  "Listen.  He  can- 
not pay  in  money.  Well,  then ;  you,  a  clever  man,  can  take 
payment  in  favors — Royal  or  Ministerial." 

' '  W  hat  1  When  in  1793  my  father  put  down  one  hundred 
thousand — " 

.  "My  dear  sir,  recrimination  is  useless.  Listen  to  a  simple 
statement  in  political  arithmetic :  The  collectorship  at  San- 
cerre  is  vacant;  a  certain  paymaster-general  of  the  forces 
has  a  claim  on  it,  but  he  has  no  chance  of  getting  it;  you 
have  the  chance — and  no  claim.  You  will  get  the  place. 
You  will  hold  it  for  three  months,  you  will  then  resign,  and 
Monsieur  Gravier  will  give  twenty  thousand  francs  for  it. 
In  addition,  the  Order  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  will  be  con- 
ferred on  you." 


64  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Well,  that  is  something,"  said  the  winegrower,  tempted 
by  the  money  rather  than  by  the  red  ribbon. 

"But  then,"  said  des  Lupeaulx,  "you  must  show  your 
gratitude  to  His  Excellency  by  restoring  to  Monseigneur  the 
Due  de  Navarreins  all  your  claims  on  him." 

La  Baudraye  returned  to  Sancerre  as  Collector  of  Taxes. 
Six  months  later  he  was  superseded  by  Monsieur  Gravier, 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  agreeable  financiers  who  had 
served  under  the  Empire,  and  who  was  of  course  presented 
by  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  to  his  wife. 

As  soon  as  he  was  released  from  his  functions,  Monsieur 
de  la  Baudraye  returned  to  Paris  to  come  to  an  understand- 
ing with  some  other  debtors.  This  time  he  was  made  a 
Referendary  under  the  Great  Seal,  Baron,  and  Officer  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  He  sold  the  appointment  as  Referendary ; 
and  then  the  Baron  de  La  Baudraye  called  on  his  last  remain- 
ing debtors,  and  reappeared  at  Sancerre  as  Master  of  Appeals, 
with  an  appointment  as  Royal  Commissioner  to  a  commercial 
association  established  in  the  Nivernais,  at  a  salary  of  six 
thousand  francs,  an  absolute  sinecure.  So  the  worthy  La 
Baudraye,  who  was  supposed  to  have  committed  a  financial 
blunder,  had,  in  fact,  done  very  good  business  in  the  choice 
of  a  wife. 

Thanks  to  sordid  economy  and  an  indemnity  paid  him  for 
the  estate  belonging  to  his  father,  nationalized  and  sold  in 
1793,  by  the  year  1827  the  little  man  could  realize  the  dream 
of  his  whole  life.  By  paying  four  hundred  thousand  francs 
down,  and  binding  himself  to  further  instalments,  which 
compelled  him  to  live  for  six  years  on  the  air  as  it  came, 
to  use  his  own  expression,  he  was  able  to  purchase  the  estate 
of  Anzy  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  about  two  leagues  above 
Sancerre,  and  its  magnificent  castle  built  by  Philibert  de 
1'Orme,  the  admiration  of  every  connoisseur,  and  for  five 
centuries  the  property  of  the  TJxelles  family.  At  last  he  was 
one  of  the  great  landowners  of  the  province !  It  is  not  abso- 
lutely certain  that  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  an  entail 
had  been  created,  by  letters  patent  dated  back  to  December, 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  65 

1820,  including  the  estates  of  Anzy,  of  La  Baudraye,  and 
of  La  Hautoy,  was  any  compensation  to  Dinah  on  finding 
herself  reduced  to  unconfessed  penuriousness  till  1835. 

This  sketch  of  the  financial  policy  of  the  first  Baron  do 
La  Baudraye  explains  the  man  completely.  Those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  manias  of  country  folk  will  recognize  in 
him  the  land-hunger  which  becomes  such  a  consuming  pas- 
sion to  the  exclusion  of  every  other;  a  sort  of  avarice  dis- 
played in  the  sight  of  the  sun,  which  often  leads  to  ruin  by 
a  want  of  balance  between  the  interest  on  mortgages  and  the 
products  of  the  soil.  Those  who,  from  1802  till  1827,  had 
merely  laughed  at  the  little  man  as  they  saw  him  trotting 
to  Saint-Thibault  and  attending  to  his  business,  like  a  mer- 
chant living  on  his  vineyards,  found  the  answer  to  the  riddle 
when  the  ant-lion  seized  his  prey,  after  waiting  for  the  day 
when  the  extravagance  of  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse 
culminated  in  the  sale  of  that  splendid  property. 

Madame  Pie*defer  came  to  live  with  her  daughter.  The 
combined  fortunes  of  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  and  his 
mother-in-law,  who  had  been  content  to  accept  an  annuity 
of  twelve  hundred  francs  on  the  lands  of  La  Hautoy  which 
she  handed  over  to  him,  amounted  to  an  acknowledged  in- 
come of  about  fifteen  thousand  francs. 

During  the  early  days  of  her  married  life,  Dinah  had 
effected  some  alterations  which  had  made  the  house  at  La 
Baudraye  a  very  pleasant  residence.  She  turned  a  spacious 
forecourt  into  a  formal  garden,  pulling  down  wine-stores, 
presses,  and  shabby  outhouses.  Behind  the  manor-house, 
which,  though  small,  did  not  lack  style  with  its  turrets  and 
gables,  she  laid  out  a  second  garden  with  shrubs,  flower- 
beds, and  lawns,  and  divided  it  from  the  vineyards  by  a  wall 
hidden  under  creepers.  She  also  made  everything  within 
doors  as  comfortable  as  their  narrow  circumstances  allowed. 

In  order  not  to  be  ruined  by  a  young  lady  so  very  superior 
as  Dinah  seemed  to  be,  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  was  shrewd 
enough  to  say  nothing  as  to  the  recovery  of  debts  in  Paris. 
This  dead  secrecy  as  to  his  money  matters  gave  a  touch  of 


66  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

mystery  to  his  character,  and  lent  him  dignity  in  his  wife's 
eyes  during  the  first  years  of  their  married  life — so  majestic 
is  silence ! 

The  alterations  effected  at  La  Baudraye  made  everybody 
eager  to  see  the  young  mistress,  all  the  more  so  because 
Dinah  would  never  show  herself,  nor  receive  any  company, 
before  she  felt  quite  settled  in  her  home  and  had  thoroughly 
studied  the  inhabitants,  and,  above  all,  her  taciturn  husband. 
When,  one  spring  morning  in  1825,  pretty  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  was  first  seen  walking  on  the  Mall  in  a  blue  vel- 
vet dress,  with  her  mother  in  black  velvet,  there  was  quite 
an  excitement  in  Sancerre.  This  dress  confirmed  the  young 
woman's  reputation  for  superiority,  brought  up,  as  she  had 
been,  in  the  capital  of  Le  Berry.  Every  one  was  afraid  lest, 
in  entertaining  this  phoenix  of  the  Department,  the  conversa- 
tion should  not  be  clever  enough ;  and,  of  course,  everybody 
was  constrained  in  the  presence  of  Madame  de  La  Baudraye, 
who  produced  a  sort  of  terror  among  the  women -folk.  As 
they  admired  a  carpet  of  Indian  shawl-pattern  in  the  La 
Baudraye  drawing-room,  a  Pompadour  writing-table  carved 
and  gilt,  brocade  window  curtains,  and  a  Japanese  bowl  full 
of  flowers  on  the  round  table  among  a  selection  of  the  new- 
est books;  when  they  heard  the  fair  Dinah  playing  at  sight, 
without  making  the  smallest  demur  before  seating  herself  at 
the  piano,  the  idea  they  conceived  of  her  superiority  assumed 
vast  proportions.  That  she  might  never  allow  herself  to  be- 
come careless  or  the  victim  of  bad  taste,  Dinah  had  deter- 
mined to  keep  herself  up  to  the  mark  as  to  the  fashions  and 
latest  developments  of  luxury  by  an  active  correspondence 
with  Anna  Grossete'te,  her  bosom  friend  at  Mademoiselle 
Chamarolles'  school. 

Anna,  thanks  to  a  fine  fortune,  had  married  the  Comte 
de  Fontaine's  third  son.  Thus  those  ladies  who  visited  at 
La  Baudraye  were  perpetually  piqued  by  Dinah's  success  in 
leading  the  fashion;  do  what  they  would,  they  were  always 
behind,  or,  as  they  say  on  the  turf,  distanced. 

While  all  these  trifles  gave  rise  to  malignant  envy  in  the 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  67 

ladies  of  Sancerre,  Dinah's  conversation  and  wit  engendered 
absolute  aversion.  In  her  ambition  to  keep  her  mind  on  the 
level  of  Parisian  brilliancy,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  allowed 
no  vacuous  small  talk  in  her  presence,  no  old-fashioned  com- 
pliments, no  pointless  remarks;  she  would  never  endure  the 
yelping  of  tittle-tattle,  the  backstairs  slander  which  forms 
the  staple  of  talk  in  the  country.  She  liked  to  hear  of  dis- 
coveries in  science  or  art,  or  the  latest  pieces  at  the  theatres, 
the  newest  poems,  and  by  airing  the  cant  words  of  the  day 
she  made  a  show  of  uttering  thoughts. 

The  Abbe*  Durct,  Cure*  of  Sancerre,  an  old  man  of  a  lost 
type  of  clergy  in  France,  a  man  of  the  world  with  a  liking 
for  cards,  had  not  dared  to  indulge  this  taste  in  so  liberal  a 
district  as  Sancerre ;  he,  therefore,  was  delighted  at  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye's  coming,  and  they  got  on  together  to  ad- 
miration. The  sous-prefet,  one  Vicomte  de  Chargebceuf, 
was  delighted  to  find  in  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  draw- 
ing-room a  sort  of  oasis  where  there  was  a  truce  to  provin- 
cial life.  As  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  the  Public  Prosecutor, 
his  admiration  for  the  fair  Dinah  kept  him  bound  to  San- 
cerre. The  enthusiastic  lawyer  refused  all  promotion,  and 
became  a  quite  pious  adorer  of  this  angel  of  grace  and 
beauty.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  man,  with  a  minatory  counte- 
nance set  off  by  terrible  eyes  in  deep  black  circles,  under 
enormous  eyebrows;  and  his  eloquence,  very  unlike  his 
love-making,  could  be  incisive. 

Monsieur  Gravier  was  a  little,  round  man,  who,  in  the 
days  of  the  Empire,  had  been  a  charming  ballad-singer;  it 
was  this  accomplishment  that  had  won  him  the  high  posi- 
tion of  Paymaster-General  of  the  forces.  Having  mixed 
himself  up  in  certain  important  matters  in  Spain  with  gen- 
erals at  that  time  in  opposition,  he  had  made  the  most  of 
these  connections  to  the  Minister,  who,  in  consideration 
of  the  place  he  had  lost,  promised  him  the  Eeceivership  at 
Sancerre,  and  then  allowed  him  to  pay  for  the  appointment. 
The  frivolous  spirit  and  light  tone  of  the  Empire  had  become 
ponderous  in  Monsieur  Gravier;  he  did  not,  or  would  not, 


68  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

understand  the  "wide  difference  between  manners  under  the 
Eestoration  and  under  the  Empire.  Still,  he  conceived  of 
himself  as  far  superior  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny;  his  style  was 
in  better  taste;  he  followed  the  fashion,  was  to  be  seen  in  a 
buff  waistcoat,  gray  trousers,  and  neat,  tightly-fitting  coats; 
he  wore  a  fashionable  silk  tie  slipped  through  a  diamond 
ring,  while  the  lawyer  never  dressed  in  anything  but  black 
— coat,  trousers  and  waistcoat  alike,  and  those  often  shabby. 

These  four  men  were  the  first  to  go  into  ecstasies  over 
Dinah's  cultivation,  good  taste,  and  refinement,  and  pro- 
nounced her  a  woman  of  most  superior  mind.  Then  the 
women  said  to  each  other,  "Madame  de  La  Baudraye  must 
laugh  at  us  behind  our  back." 

This  view,  which  was  more  or  less  correct,  kept  them 
from  visiting  at  La  Baudraye.  Dinah,  attainted  and  con- 
victed of  pedantry,  because  she  spoke  grammatically,  was 
nicknamed  the  Sappho  of  Saint-Satur.  At  last  everybody 
made  insolent  game  of  the  great  qualities  of  the  woman  who 
had  thus  roused  the  enmity  of  the  ladies  of  Sancerre.  And 
they  ended  by  denying  a  superiority — after  all,  merely  com- 
parative I — which  emphasized  their  ignorance,  and  did  not 
forgive  it.  Where  the  whole  population  is  hunchbacked,  a 
straight  shape  is  the  monstrosity;  Dinah  was  regarded  as 
monstrous  and  dangerous,  and  she  found  herself  in  a  desert. 

Astonished  at  seeing  the  women  of  the  neighborhood 
only  at  long  intervals,  and  for  visits  of  a  few  minutes, 
Dinah  asked  Monsieur  de  Clagny  the  reason  of  this  state 
of  things. 

"You  are  too  superior  a  woman  to  be  liked  by  other 
women,"  said  the  lawyer. 

Monsieur  Gravier,  when  questioned  by  the  forlorn  fair, 
only,  after  much  entreaty,  replied: 

"Well,  lady  fair,  you  are  not  satisfied  to  be  merely 
charming.  You  are  clever  and  well  educated,  you  know 
every  book  that  comes  out,  you  love  poetry,  you  are  a 
musician,  and  you  talk  delightfully.  Women  cannot  for- 
give so  much  superiority." 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  69 

Men  said  to  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye: 

"You  who  have  such  a  Superior  Woman  for  a  wife  are 
very  fortunate — "  And  at  last  he  himself  would  say: 

"I  who  have  a  Superior  Woman  for  a  wife,  am  very  for- 
tunate," etc. 

Madame  Pie*defer,  flattered  through  her  daughter,  also 
allowed  herself  to  say  such  things — "My  daughter,  who  is 
a  very  Superior  Woman,  was  writing  yesterday  to  Madame 
de  Fontaine  such  and  such  a  thing." 

Those  who  know  the  world — France,  Paris — know  how 
true  it  is  that  many  celebrities  are  thus  created. 

Two  years  later,  by  the  end  of  the  year  1825,  D'mah  de 
La  Baudraye  was  accused  of  not  choosing  to  have  any  vis- 
itors but  men;  then  it  was  said  that  she  did  not  care  for 
women — and  that  was  a  crime.  Not  a  thing  she  could  do, 
not  her  most  trifling  action,  could  escape  criticism  and  mis- 
representation. After  making  every  sacrifice  that  a  well- 
bred  woman  can  make,  and  placing  herself  entirely  in  the 
right,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  so  rash  as  to  say  to  a 
false  friend  who  condoled  with  her  on  her  isolation: 

"I  would  rather  have  my  bowl  empty  than  with  anything 
in  it!" 

This  speech  produced  a  terrible  effect  on  Sancerre,  and 
was  cruelly  retorted  on  the  Sappho  of  Saint-Satur  when, 
seeing  her  childless  after  five  years  of  married  life,  little 
de  La  Baudraye  became  a  byword  for  laughter.  To  under- 
stand this  provincial  witticism,  readers  may  be  reminded 
of  the  Bailli  de  Ferrette — some,  no  doubt,  having  known 
him — of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  was  the  bravest  man  in 
Europe  for  daring  to  walk  on  his  legs,  and  who  was  accused 
of  putting  lead  in  his  shoes  to  save  himself  from  being  blown 
away.  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  a  sallow  and  almost  diaph- 
anous creature,  would  have  been  engaged  by  the  Bailli  de 
Ferrette  as  first  gentleman-in-waiting  if  that  diplomatist  had 
been  the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden  instead  of  being  merely  his 
envoy. 


70  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  whose  legs  were  so  thin  that, 
for  mere  decency,  he  wore  false  calves,  whose  thighs  were 
like  the  arms  of  an  average  man,  whose  body  was  not  unlike 
that  of  a  cockchafer,  would  have  been  an  advantageous  foil 
to  the  Bailli  de  Ferrette.  As  he  walked,  the  little  vine- 
owner's  leg-pads  often  twisted  round  on  to  his  shins,  so 
little  did  he  make  a  secret  of  them,  and  he  would  thank 
any  one  who  warned  him  of  this  little  mishap.  He  wore 
knee-breeches,  black  silk  stockings,  and  a  white  waistcoat 
till  1824.  After  his  marriage  he  adopted  blue  trousers  and 
boots  with  heels,  which  made  Sancerre  declare  that  he  had 
added  two  inches  to  his  stature  that  he  might  come  up  to 
his  wife's  chin.  For  ten  years  he  was  always  seen  in  the 
same  little  bottle-green  coat  with  large  white-metal  buttons, 
and  a  black  stock  that  accentuated  his  cold  stingy  face, 
lighted  up  by  gray-blue  eyes  as  keen  and  passionless  as  a 
cat's.  Being  very  gentle,  as  men  are  who  act  on  a  fixed 
plan  of  conduct,  he  seemed  to  make  his  wife  happy  by 
never  contradicting  her;  he  allowed  her  to  do  the  talking, 
and  was  satisfied  to  move  with  the  deliberate  tenacity  of  an 
insect. 

Dinah,  adored  for  her  beauty,  in  which  she  had  no  rival, 
and  admired  for  her  cleverness  by  the  most  gentlemanly  men 
of  the  place,  encouraged  their  admiration  by  conversations, 
for  which,  it  was  subsequently  asserted,  she  prepared  herself 
beforehand.  Finding  herself  listened  to  with  rapture,  she 
soon  began  to  listen  to  herself,  enjoyed  haranguing  her  au- 
dience, and  at  last  regarded  her  friends  as  the  chorus  in  a 
tragedy,  there  only  to  give  her  her  cues.  In  fact,  she  had  a 
very  fine  collection  of  phrases  and  ideas,  derived  either  from 
books  or  by  assimilating  the  opinions  of  her  companions,  and 
thus  became  a  sort  of  mechanical  instrument,  going  off  on  a 
round  of  phrases  as  soon  as  some  chance  remark  released  the 
spring.  To  do  her  justice,  Dinah  was  chock-full  of  knowl- 
edge, and  read  everything,  even  medical  books,  statistics, 
science,  and  jurisprudence;  for  she  did  not  know  how  to 
spend  her  days  when  she  had  reviewed  her  flower-beds  and 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  71 

given  her  orders  to  the  gardener.  Gifted  with  an  excellent 
memory,  and  the  talent  which  some  women  have  for  hitting 
on  the  right  word,  she  could  talk  on  any  subject  with  the 
lucidity  of  a  studied  style.  And  so  men  came  from  Cosne, 
from  la  Charite',  and  from  Nevers,  on  the  right  bank;  from 
Ldrd,  Vailly,  Argent,  Blancafort,  and  Aubigny,  on  the  left 
bank,  to  be  introduced  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  as  they 
used  in  Switzerland  to  be  introduced  to  Madame  de  Stae'l. 
Those  who  only  once  heard  the  round  of  tunes  emitted  by 
this  musical  snuff-box  went  away  amazed,  and  told  such 
wonders  of  Dinah  as  made  all  the  women  jealous  for  ten 
leagues  round. 

There  is  an  indescribable  mental  headiness  in  the  ad- 
miration we  inspire,  or  in  the  effect  of  playing  a  part, 
which  fends  off  criticism  from  reaching  the  idol.  An  at- 
mosphere, produced  perhaps  by  unceasing  nervous  tension, 
forms  a  sort  of  halo,  through  which  the  world  below  is  seen. 
How  otherwise  can  we  account  for  the  perennial  good  faith 
which  leads  to  so  many  repeated  presentments  of  the  same 
effects,  and  the  constant  ignoring  of  warnings  given  by  chil- 
dren, such  a  terror  to  their  parents,  or  by  husbands,  so  fa- 
miliar as  they  are  with  the  peacock  airs  of  their  wives? 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  had  the  frankness  of  a  man  who 
opens  an  umbrella  at  the  first  drop  of  rain.  When  his  wife 
was  started  on  the  subject  of  negro  emancipation  or  the  im- 
provement of  convict  prisons,  he  would  take  up  his  little 
blue  cap  and  vanish  without  a  sound,  in  the  certainty  of 
being  able  to  get  to  Saint-Thibault  to  see  off  a  cargo  of 
puncheons,  and  return  an  hour  later  to  find  the  discussion 
approaching  a  close.  Or,  if  he  had  no  business  to  attend  to, 
he  would  go  for  a  walk  on  the  Mall,  whence  he  commanded 
the  lovely  panorama  of  the  Loire  Valley,  and  take  a  draught 
of  fresh  air  while  his  wife  was  performing  a  sonata  in  words, 
or  a  dialectical  duet. 

Once  fairly  established  as  a  Superior  Woman,  Dinah  was 
eager  to  prove  her  devotion  to  the  most  remarkable  creations 
of  art.  She  threw  herself  into  the  propaganda  of  the  roman- 


72  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

tic  school,  including,  under  Art,  poetry  and  painting,  liter- 
ature and  sculpture,  furniture  and  the  opera.  Thus  sh« 
became  a  medievalist.  She  was  also  interested  in  any 
treasures  that  dated  from  the  Eenaissance,  and  employed 
her  allies  as  so  many  devoted  commission  agents.  Soon 
after  she  was  married,  she  had  become  possessed  of  the 
Rougets'  furniture,  sold  at  Issoudun  early  in  1824.  She 
purchased  some  very  good  things  in  the  Nivernais  and  the 
Haute-Loire.  At  the  New  Year  and  on  her  birthday  her 
friends  never  failed  to  give  her  some  curiosities.  These 
fancies  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Monsieur  de  La  Bau- 
draye;  they  gave  him  an  appearance  of  sacrificing  a  few 
crowns  to  his  wife's  taste.  In  point  of  fact,  his  land  mania 
allowed  him  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  estate  of  Anzy. 
These  "antiquities"  at  that  time  cost  much  less  than 
modern  furniture.  By  the  end  of  five  or  six  years  the 
anteroom,  the  dining-room,  the  two  drawing-rooms,  and 
the  boudoir  which  Dinah  had  arranged  on  the  ground  floor 
of  La  Baudraye,  every  spot  even  to  the  staircase,  were 
crammed  with  masterpieces  collected  in  the  four  adjacent 
departments.  These  surroundings,  which  were  called  queer 
by  the  neighbors,  were  quite  in  harmony  with  Dinah.  All 
these  marvels,  so  soon  to  be  the  rage,  struck  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  strangers  introduced  to  her;  they  came  expecting 
something  unusual;  and  they  found  their  expectations  sur- 
passed when,  behind  a  bower  of  flowers,  they  saw  these  cata- 
combs full  of  old  things,  piled  up  as  Sommerard  used  to  pile 
them — that  "Old  Mortality"  of  furniture.  And  then  these 
finds  served  as  so  many  springs  which,  turned  on  by  a  ques- 
tion, played  off  an  essay  on  Jean  Goujon,  Michel  Columb, 
Germain  Pilon,  Boulle,  Van  Huysum,  and  Boucher,  the 
great  native  painter  of  Le  Berry;  on  Clodion,  the  carver 
of  wood,  on  Venetian  mirrors,  on  Brustolone,  an  Italian 
tenor  who  was  the  Michelangelo  of  boxwood  and  holm  oak; 
on  the  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  sixteenth,  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  on  the  glazes  of  Bernard  de  Palissy,  the 
enamels  of  Petitot,  the  engravings  of  Albrecht  Durer— 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  73 

whom  she  called  Diir;  on  illuminations  on  vellum,  on 
Gothic  architecture,  early  decorated,  flamboyant  and  pure 
— enough  to  turn  an  old  man's  brain  and  fire  a  young  man 
with  enthusiasm. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
waking  up  Sancerre,  tried  to  form  a  so-called  literary  cir- 
cle. The  Presiding  Judge,  Monsieur  Boirouge,  who  hap- 
pened to  have  a  house  and  garden  on  his  hands,  part  of  the 
Popinot- Chandier  property,  favored  the  notion  of  this  coterie. 
The  wily  Judge  talked  over  the  rules  of  the  society  with  Ma- 
dame de  La  Baudraye;  he  proposed  to  figure  as  one  of  the 
founders,  and  to  let  the  house  for  fifteen  years  to  the  literary 
club.  By  the  time  it  had  existed  a  year  the  members  were 
playing  dominoes,  billiards,  and  bouillotte,  and  drinking 
mulled  wine,  punch,  and  liqueurs.  A  few  elegant  little 
suppers  were  then  given,  and  some  masked  balls  during  the 
Carnival.  As  to  literature — there  were  the  newspapers. 
Politics  and  business  were  discussed.  Monsieur  de  La 
Baudraye  was  constantly  there — on  his  wife's  account,  as 
he  said  jestingly. 

This  result  deeply  grieved  the  Superior  Woman,  who  de- 
spaired of  Sancerre,  and  collected  the  wit  of  the  neighbor- 
hood in  her  own  drawing-room.  Nevertheless,  and  in  spite 
of  the  efforts  of  Messieurs  de  Chargebceuf ,  Gravier,  and  de 
Clagny,  of  the  Abbe*  Duret  and  the  two  chief  magistrates, 
of  a  young  doctor  and  a  young  Assistant  Judge — all  blind 
admirers  of  Dinah's — there  were  occasions  when,  weary  of 
discussion,  they  allowed  themselves  an  excursion  into  the 
domain  of  agreeable  frivolity  which  constitutes  the  common 
basis  of  worldly  conversation.  Monsieur  Gravier  called  this 
"from  grave  to  gay."  The  Abbe*  Duret's  rubber  made  an- 
other pleasing  variety  on  the  monologues  of  the  oracle.  The 
three  rivals,  tired  of  keeping  their  minds  up  to  the  level  of 
the  "high  range  of  discussion" — as  they  called  their  conver- 
sation-— but  not  daring  to  confess  it,  would  sometimes  turn 
with  ingratiating  hints  to  the  old  priest. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure*  is  dying  for  his  game,"  they  would  say. 

Vol.  4.  (D) 


4  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  wily  priest  lent  himself  very  readily  to  the  little 
trick.  He  protested. 

"We  should  lose  too  much  by  ceasing  to  listen  to  our 
inspired  hostess!"  and  so  he  would  incite  Dinah's  magna- 
nimity to  take  pity  at  last  on  her  dear  Abbe*. 

This  bold  manoeuvre,  a  device  of  the  Sous-pr6fet's,  was 
repeated  with  so  much  skill  that  Dinah  never  suspected  her 
slaves  of  escaping  to  the  prison  yard,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
card-table;  and  they  would  leave  her  one  of  the  younger 
functionaries  to  harry. 

One  young  landowner,  and  the  dandy  of  Sancerre,  fell 
away  from  Dinah's  good  graces  in  consequence  of  some  rash 
demonstrations.  After  soliciting  the  honor  of  admission  to 
this  little  circle,  where  he  flattered  himself  he  could  snatch 
the  blossom  from  the  constituted  authorities  who  guarded  it, 
he  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  yawn  in  the  middle  of  an  expla- 
nation Dinah  was  favoring  him  with — for  the  fourth  time, 
it  is  true — of  the  philosophy  of  Kant.  Monsieur  de  la  Thau- 
massiere,  the  grandson  of  the  historian  of  Le  Berry,  was 
thenceforth  regarded  as  a  man  entirely  bereft  of  soul  and 
brains. 

The  three  devotees  en  titre  each  submitted  to  these  ex- 
orbitant demands  on  their  mind  and  attention,  in  hope  of  a 
crowning  triumph,  when  at  last  Dinah  should  become  human; 
for  neither  of  them  was  so  bold  as  to  imagine  that  Dinah 
would  give  up  her  innocence  as  a  wife  till  she  should  have 
lost  all  her  illusions.  In  1826,  when  she  was  surrounded  by 
adorers,  Dinah  completed  her  twentieth  year,  and  the  Abbe* 
Duret  kept  her  in  a  sort  of  perfervid  Catholicism;  so  her 
worshippers  had  to  be  content  to  overwhelm  her  with  little 
attentions  and  small  services,  only  too  happy  to  be  taken  for 
the  carpet-knights  of  this  sovereign  lady,  by  strangers  ad- 
mitted to  spend  an  evening  or  two  at  La  Baudraye. 

"Madame  de  La  Baudraye  is  a  fruit  that  must  be  left 
to  ripen."  This  was  the  opinion  of  Monsieur  Grravier,  who 
was  waiting. 

As  to  the  lawyer,  he  wrote  letters  four  pages  long,  to 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  75 

which  Dinah  replied  in  soothing  speech  as  she  walked,  lean* 
ing  on  his  arm,  round  and  round  the  lawn  after  dinner. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  thus  guarded  by  three  passions, 
and  always  under  the  eye  of  her  pious  mother,  escaped  the 
malignity  of  slander.  It  was  so  evident  to  all  Sancerre  that 
no  two  of  these  three  men  would  ever  leave  the  third  alone 
with  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  that  their  jealousy  was  a 
comedy  to  the  lookers-on. 

To  reach  Saint-Thibault  from  Caesar's  gate  there  is  a  way 
much  shorter  than  that  by  the  ramparts,  down  what  is  known 
in  mountainous  districts  as  a  coursilre,  called  at  Sancerre  le 
Casse-coUj  or  Break-neck  Alley.  The  name  is  significant 
as  applied  to  a  path  down  the  steepest  part  of  the  hillside, 
thickly  strewn  with  stones,  and  shut  in  by  the  high  banks 
of  the  vineyards  on  each  side.  By  way  of  the  Break-neck 
the  distance  from  Sancerre  to  La  Baudraye  is  much  abridged. 
The  ladies  of  the  place,  jealous  of  the  Sappho  of  Saint-Satur, 
were  wont  to  .walk  on  the  Mall,  looking  down  this  Longchamp 
of  the  bigwigs,  whom  they  would  stop  and  engage  in  con- 
versation— sometimes  the  Sous-pre*fet  and  sometimes  the 
Public  Prosecutor — and  who  would  listen  with  every  sign 
of  impatience  or  uncivil  absence  of  mind.  As  the  turrets 
of  La  Baudraye  are  visible  from  the  Mall,  many  a  younger 
man  came  to  contemplate  the  abode  of  Dinah  while  envy- 
ing the  ten  or  twelve  privileged  persons  who  might  spend 
their  afternoons  with  the  Queen  of  the  neighborhood. 

Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  was  not  slow  to  discover  the 
advantage  he,  as  Dinah's  husband,  held  over  his  wife's 
adorers,  and  he  made  use  of  them  without  any  disguise, 
obtaining  a  remission  of  taxes,  and  gaining  two  lawsuits. 
In  every  litigation  he  used  the  Public  Prosecutor's  name 
with  such  good  effect  that  the  matter  was  carried  no  further, 
and,  like  all  undersized  men,  he  was  contentious  and  litigious 
in  business,  though  in  the  gentlest  manner. 

At  the  same  time,  the  more  certainly  guiltless  she  was, 
the  less  conceivable  did  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  position- 
seem  to  the  prying  eyes  of  these  women.  Frequently,  at  the 


76  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

house  of  the  Pre*sidente  de  Boirouge,  the  ladies  of  a  certain 
age  would  spend  a  whole  evening  discussing  the  La  Baudraye 
household,  among  themselves  of  course.  They  all  had  sus- 
picions of  a  mystery,  a  secret  such  as  always  interests  women 
who  have  had  some  experience  of  life.  And,  in  fact,  at  La 
Baudraye  one  of  those  slow  and  monotonous  conjugal  trage- 
dies was  being  played  out  which  would  have  remained  for- 
ever unknown  if  the  merciless  scalpel  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  guided  by  the  insistent  demand  for  novelty,  had 
not  dissected  the  darkest  corners  of  the  heart,  or  at  any  rate 
those  which  the  decency  of  past  centuries  left  unopened. 
And  that  domestic  drama  sufficiently  accounts  for  Dinah's 
immaculate  virtue  during  her  early  married  life. 

A  young  lady,  whose  triumphs  at  school  had  been  the 
outcome  of  her  pride,  and  whose  first  scheme  in  life  had 
been  rewarded  by  a  victory,  was  not  likely  to  pause  in  such 
a  brilliant  career.  Frail  as  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  might 
seem,  he  was  really  an  unhoped-for  good  match  for  Madem- 
oiselle Dinah  Piddefer.  But  what  was  the  hidden  motive 
of  this  country  landowner  when,  at  forty-four,  he  married  a 
girl  of  seventeen;  and  what  could  his  wife  make  out  of  the 
bargain  ?  This  was  the  text  of  Dinah's  first  meditations. 

The  little  man  never  behaved  quite  as  his  wife  expected. 
To  begin  with,  he  allowed  her  to  take  the  five  precious  acres 
now  wasted  in  pleasure  grounds  round  La  Baudraye,  and 
paid,  almost  with  generosity,  the  seven  or  eight  thousand 
francs  required  by  Dinah  for  improvements  in  the  house, 
enabling  her  to  buy  the  furniture  at  the  Eougets'  sale  at 
Issoudun,  and  to  redecorate  her  rooms  in  various  styles — 
Mediaeval,  Louis  XIV.,  and  Pompadour.  The  young  wife 
found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye 
was  so  miserly  as  he  was  reputed,  or  else  she  must  have  great 
influence  with  him.  This  illusion  lasted  a  year  and  a  half. 

After  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye 's  second  journey  to 
Paris,  Dinah  discovered  in  him  the  Arctic  coldness  of  a 
provincial  miser  whenever  money  was  in  question.  The 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  77 

first  time  she  asked  for  supplies  she  played  the  sweetest  of 
the  comedies  of  which  Eve  invented  the  secret;  but  the  little 
man  put  it  plainly  to  his  wife  that  he  gave  her  two  hundred 
francs  a  month  for  her  personal  expenses,  and  paid  Madame 
PieMefer  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  as  a  charge  on  the 
lands  of  La  Hautoy,  and  that  this  was  two  hundred  francs  a 
year  more  than  was  agreed  to  under  the  marriage  settlement. 

"I  say  nothing  of  the  cost  of  housekeeping,"  he  said  in 
conclusion.  "You  may  give  your  friends  cake  and  tea  in 
the  evening,  for  you  must  have  some  amusement  But  I, 
who  spent  but  fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year  as  a  bachelor, 
now  spend  six  thousand,  including  rates  and  repairs,  and 
this  is  rather  too  much  in  relation  to  the  nature  of  our  prop- 
erty. A  winegrower  is  never  sure  of  what  his  expenses 
may  be — the  making,  the  duty,  the  casks — while  the  returns 
depend  on  a  scorching  day  or  a  sudden  frost.  Small  own- 
ers, like  us,  whose  income  is  far  from  being  fixed,  must  base 
their  estimates  on  their  minimum,  for  they  have  no  means 
of  making  up  a  deficit  or  a  loss.  What  would  become  of 
us  if  a  wine  merchant  became  bankrupt?  In  my  opinion, 
promissory  notes  are  so  many  cabbage -leaves.  To  live  as 
we  are  living,  we  ought  always  to  have  a  year's  income  in 
hand  and  count  on  no  more  than  two-thirds  of  our  returns." 

Any  form  of  resistance  is  enough  to  make  a  woman  vow 
to  subdue  it;  Dinah  flung  herself  against  a  will  of  iron 
padded  round  with  gentleness.  She  tried  to  fill  the  little 
man's  soul  with  jealousy  and  alarms,  but  it  was  stockaded 
with  insolent  confidence.  He  left  Dinah,  when  he  went  to 
Paris,  with  all  the  conviction  of  Me*dor  in  Angelique's  fidel- 
ity. When  she  affected  cold  disdain,  to  nettle  this  change- 
ling by  the  scorn  a  courtesan  sometimes  shows  to  her  "pro- 
tector," and  which  acts  on  him  with  the  certainty  of  the 
screw  of  a  winepress,  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  gazed  at  his 
wife  with  fixed  eyes,  like  those  of  a  cat  which,  in  the  midst 
of  domestic  broils,  waits  till  a  blow  is  threatened  before  stir- 
ring from  its  place.  The  strange,  speechless  uneasiness  that 
was  perceptible  under  his  mute  indifference  almost  terrified 


78  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

the  young  wife  of  twenty ;  she  could  not  at  first  understand 
the  selfish  quiescence  of  this  man,  who  might  be  compared 
to  a  cracked  pot,  and  who,  in  order  to  live,  regulated  his 
existence  with  the  unchangeable  regularity  which  a  clock- 
maker  requires  of  a  clock.  So  the  little  man  always  evaded 
his-  wife,  while  she  always  hit  out,  as  it  were,  ten  feet  above 
his  head. 

Dinah's  fits  of  fury  when  she  saw  herself  condemned 
never  to  escape  from  La  Baudraye  and  Sancerre  are  more 
easily  imagined  than  described — she  who  had  dreamed  of 
handling  a  fortune  and  managing  the  dwarf  whom  she,  the 
giant,  had  at  first  humored  in  order  to  command.  In  the 
hope  of  some  day  making  her  appearance  on  the  greater 
stage  of  Paris,  she  accepted  the  vulgar  incense  of  her  attend- 
ant knights  with  a  view  to  seeing  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye's 
name  drawn  from  the  electoral  urn ;  for  she  supposed  him  to 
be  ambitious,  after  seeing  him  return  thrice  from  Paris,  each 
time  a  step  higher  on  the  social  ladder.  But  when  she  struck 
on  the  man's  heart,  it  was  as  though  she  had  tapped  on 
marble!  The  man  who  had  been  Receiver-General  and 
Referendary,  who  was  now  Master  of  Appeals,  Officer  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  and  Royal  Commissioner,  was  but  a  mole 
throwing  up  its  little  hills  round  and  round  a  vineyard! 
Then  some  lamentations  were  poured  into  the  heart  of  the 
Public  Prosecutor,  of  the  Sous-prefet,  even  of  Monsieur 
Gravier,  and  they  all  increased  in  their  devotion  to  this 
sublime  victim;  for,  like  all  women,  she  never  mentioned 
her  speculative  schemes,  and — again  like  all  women — finding 
such  speculation  vain,  she  ceased  to  speculate. 

Dinah,  tossed  by  mental  storms,  was  still  undecided  when, 
in  the  autumn  of  1827,  the  news  was  told  of  the  purchase  by 
the  Baron  de  La  Baudraye  of  the  estate  of  Anzy.  Then  the 
little  old  man  showed  an  impulsion  of  pride  and  glee  which 
for  a  few  months  changed  the  current  of  his  wife's  ideas;  she 
fancied  there  was  a  hidden  vein  of  greatness  in  the  man  when 
she  found  him  applying  for  a  patent  of  entail.  In  his  tri- 
umph the  Baron  exclaimed: 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  79 

"Dinah,  you  shall  be  a  countess  yet!" 

There  was  then  a  patched-up  reunion  between  the  hus- 
band and  wife,  such  as  can  never  endure,  and  which  only 
humiliated  and  fatigued  a  woman  whose  apparent  superiority 
was  unreal,  while  her  unseen  superiority  was  genuine.  This 
whimsical  medley  is  commoner  than  people  think.  Dinah, 
who  was  ridiculous  from  the  perversity  of  her  cleverness,  had 
really  great  qualities  of  soul,  but  circumstances  did  not  bring 
these  rarer  powers  to  light,  while  a  provincial  life  debased 
the  small  change  of  her  wit  from  day  to  day.  Monsieur  de 
La  Baudraye,  on  the  contrary,  devoid  of  soul,  of  strength, 
and  of  wit,  was  fated  to  figure  as  a  man  of  character,  simply 
by  pursuing  a  plan  of  conduct  which  he  was  too  feeble  to 
change. 

There  was  in  their  lives  a  first  phase,  lasting  six  years, 
during  which  Dinah,  alas!  became  utterly  provincial.  In 
Paris  there  are  several  kinds  of  women:  the  duchess  and  the 
financier's  wife,  the  ambassadress  and  the  consul's  wife,  the 
wife  of  the  minister  who  is  a  minister,  and  of  him  who  is  no 
longer  a  minister;  then  there  is  the  lady — quite  the  lady — 
of  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine  and  of  the  left.  But  in  the 
country  there  is  but  one  kind  of  woman,  and  she,  poor  thing, 
is  the  provincial  woman. 

This  remark  points  to  one  of  the  sores  of  modern  society. 
It  must  be  clearly  understood:  France  in  the  nineteenth 
centurv  i«  divided  into  two  broad  /'.ones — K.nria.  and  the 
provinces  The  provinces  jealous  01  Paris;  Fans  never 
thiniving  of  the  provinces  but  to  demand  money.  Of  old, 
Paris  was  the  Capital  of  the  provinces,  and  the  Court  ruled 
the  Capital;  now,  all  Paris  is  the  Court,  and  all  the  country 
is  the  town. 

However  lofty,  beautiful,  and  clever  a  girl  born  in  any 
department  of  France  may  be  on  entering  life,  if,  like  Dinah 
Piddefer,  she  marries  in  the  country  and  remains  there,  she 
inevitably  becomes  the  provincial  woman.  In  spite  of  every 
determination,  the  commonplace  of  second-rate  ideas,  indif- 


80  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

ference  to  dress,  the  culture  of  yulgar  people,  swamp  the 
sublimer  essence  hidden  in  the  youthful  plant;  all  is  over, 
it  falls  into  decay.,  How  should  it  be  otherwise?  From 
their  earliest  years  girls  bred  in  the  country  see  none  but 
provincials;  they  cannot  imagine  anything  superior,  their 
choice  lies  among  mediocrities;  provincial  fathers  marry  their 
daughters  to  provincial  sons;  crossing  the  races  is  never 
thought  of,  and  the  brain  inevitably  degenerates,  so  that  in 
many  country  towns  intellect  is  as  rare  as  the  breed  is  hide- 
ous. Mankind  becomes  dwarfed  in  mind  and  body,  for  the 
fatal  principle  of  conformity  of  fortune  governs  every  mat- 
rimonial alliance.  Men  of  talent,  artists,  superior  brains — 
every  bird  of  brilliant  plumage  flies  to  Paris.  The  provin- 
cial woman,  inferior  in  herself,  is  also  inferior  through  her 
husband.  How  is  she  to  live  happy  under  this  crushing 
twofold  consciousness  ? 

But  there  is  a  third  and  terrible  element  besides  her  con- 
genital and  conjugal  inferiority  which  contributes  to  make 
the  figure  arid  and  gloomy;  to  reduce  it,  narrow  it,  distort 
it  fatally.  Is  not  one  of  the  most  flattering  unctions  a  woman 
can  lay  to  her  soul  the  assurance  of  being  something  in  the 
existence  of  a  superior  man,  chosen  by  herself,  wittingly,  as 
if  to  have  some  revenge  on  marriage,  wherein  her  tastes  were 
so  little  consulted?  But  if  in  the  country  the  husbands  are 
inferior  beings,  the  bachelors  are  no  less  so.  When  a  pro- 
vincial wife  commits  her  "little  sin,"  she  falls  in  love  with 
some  so-called  handsome  native,  some  indigenous  dandy,  a 
youth  who  wears  gloves  and  is  supposed  to  ride  well ;  but 
she  knows  at  the  bottom  of  her  soul  that  her  fancy  is  in  pur- 
suit of  the  commonplace,  more  or  less  well  dressed.  Dinah 
was  preserved  from  this  danger  by  the  idea  impressed  upon 
her  of  her  own  superiority.  Even  if  she  had  not  been  as 
carefully  guarded  during  her  early  married  life  as  she  was 
by  her  mother,  whose  presence  never  weighed  upon  her  till 
the  day  when  she  wanted  to  be  rid  of  it,  her  pride,  and  her 
high  sense  of  her  own  destinies,  would  have  protected  her. 
Flattered  as  she  was  to  find  herself  surrounded  by  admirers, 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  81 

she  saw  no  lover  among  them.  No  man  here  realized  the 
poetical  ideal  which  she  and  Anna  Grossetete  had  been  wont 
to  sketch.  When,  stirred  by  the  involuntary  temptations 
suggested  by  the  homage  she  received,  she  asked  herself, 
"If  I  had  to  make  a  choice,  who  should  it  be?"  she  owned 
to  a  preference  for  Monsieur  de  Chargeboeuf,  a  gentleman  of 
good  family,  whose  appearance  and  manners  she  liked,  but 
whose  cold  nature,  selfishness,  and  narrow  ambition,  never 
rising  above  a  prefecture  and  a  good  marriage,  repelled  her. 
At  a  word  from  his  family,  who  were  alarmed  lest  he  should 
be  killed  for  an  intrigue,  the  Vicomte  had  already  deserted 
a  woman  he  had  loved  in  the  town  where  he  previously  had 
been  Sous-pre"fet. 

Monsieur  de  Clagny,  on  the  other  hand,  the  only  man 
whose  mind  appealed  to  hers,  whose  ambition  was  founded 
on  love,  and  who  knew  what  love  means,  Dinah  thought  per- 
fectly odious.  When  Dinah  saw  herself  condemned  to  six 
years'  residence  at  Sancerre  she  was  on  the  point  of  accept- 
ing the  devotion  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Chargeboeuf; 
but  he  was  appointed  to  a  prefecture  and  left  the  district. 
To  Monsieur  de  Clagny's  great  satisfaction,  the  new  Sous- 
prefet  was  a  married  man  whose  wife  made  friends  with 
Dinah.  The  lawyer  had  now  no  rival  to  fear  but  Monsieur 
Gravier.  Now,  Monsieur  Gravier  was  the  typical  man  of 
forty  of  whom  women  make  use  while  they  laugh  at  him, 
whose  hopes  they  intentionally  and  remorselessly  encourage, 
as  we  are  kind  to  a  beast  of  burden.  In  six  years,  among 
all  the  men  who  were  introduced  to  her  from  twenty  leagues 
round,  there  was  not  one  in  whose  presence  Dinah  was  con- 
scious of  the  excitement  caused  by  personal  beauty,  by  a 
belief  in  promised  happiness,  by  the  impact  of  a  superior 
soul,  or  the  anticipation  of  a  love  affair,  even  an  unhappy 
one. 

Thus  none  of  Dinah's  choicest  faculties  had  a  chance  of 
developing;  she  swallowed  many  insults  to  her  pride,  which 
was  constantly  suffering  under  the  husband  who  so  calmly 
walked  the  stage  as  supernumerary  in  the  drama  of  her  life. 


82  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Compelled  to  bury  her  wealth  of  love,  she  showed  only  the 
surface  to  the  world.  Now  and  then  she  would  try  to  rouse 
herself,  try  to  form  some  manly  resolution ;  but  she  was  kept 
in  leading  strings  by  the  need  for  money.  And  so,  slowly 
and  in  spite  of  the  ambitious  protests  and  grievous  recrimina- 
tions of  her  own  mind,  she  underwent  the  provincial  meta- 
morphosis here  described.  Each  day  took  with  it  a  fragment 
of  her  spirited  determination.  She  had  laid  down  a  rule  for 
the  care  of  her  person,  which  she  gradually  departed  from. 
Though  at  first  she  kept  up  with  the  fashions  and  the  little 
novelties  of  elegant  life,  she  was  obliged  to  limit  her  pur- 
chases by  the  amount  of  her  allowance.  Instead  of  six  hats, 
caps,  or  gowns,  she  resigned  herself  to  one  gown  each  season. 
She  was  so  much  admired  in  a  certain  bonnet  that  she  made 
it  do  duty  for  two  seasons.  So  it  was  in  everything. 

Not  infrequently  her  artistic  sense  led  her  to  sacrifice  the 
requirements  of  her  person  to  secure  some  bit  of  Gothic  fur- 
niture. By  the  seventh  year  she  had  come  so  low  as  to  think 
it  convenient  to  have  her  morning  dresses  made  at  home  by 
the  best  needlewoman  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  her  mother, 
her  husband,  and  her  friends  pronounced  her  charming  in 
these  inexpensive  costumes  which  did  credit  to  her  taste. 
Her  ideas  were  imitated !  As  she  had  no  standard  of  com- 
parison, Dinah  fell  into  the  snares  that  surround  the  provin- 
cial woman.  If  a  Parisian  woman's  hips  are  too  narrow  or 
too  full,  her  inventive  wit  and  the  desire  to  please  help 
to  find  some  heroic  remedy;  if  she  has  some  defect,  some 
ugly  spot,  or  small  disfigurement,  she  is  capable  of  making 
it  an  adornment;  this  is  often  seen;  but  the  provincial 
woman — never!  If  her  waist  is  too  short,  and  her  figure 
ill  balanced,  well,  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  the  worst,  and 
her  adorers — or  they  do  not  adore  her — must  take  her  as 
she  is,  while  the  Parisian  always  insists  on  being  taken  for 
what  she  is  not.  Hence  the  preposterous  bustles,  the  auda- 
cious flatness,  the  ridiculous  fulness,  the  hideous  outlines 
ingeniously  displayed,  to  which  a  whole  town  will  become 
accustomed,  but  which  are  so  astounding  when  a  provincial 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  83 

woman  makes  her  appearance  in  Paris  or  among  Parisians. 
Dinah,  who  was  extremely  slim,  showed  it  off  to  excess,  and 
never  knew  the  moment  when  it  became  ridiculous;  when, 
reduced  by  the  dull  weariness  of  her  life,  she  looked  like 
a  skeleton  in  clothes;  and  her  friends,  seeing  her  every  day, 
did  not  observe  the  gradual  change  in  her  appearance. 

This  is  one  of  the  natural  results  of  a  provincial  life.  In 
spite  of  marriage,  a  young  woman  preserves  her  beauty  for 
some  time,  and  the  town  is  proud  of  her;  but  everybody  sees 
her  every  day,  and  when  people  meet  every  day  their  per- 
ception is  dulled.  If,  like  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  she  loses 
her  color,  it  is  scarcely  noticed;  or,  again,  if  she  flushes  a 
little,  that  is  intelligible  and  interesting.  A  little  neglect 
is  thought  charming,  and  her  face  is  so  carefully  studied,  so 
well  known,  that  slight  changes  are  scarcely  noticed,  and 
regarded  at  last  as  "beauty  spots."  When  Dinah  ceased  to 
have  a  new  dress  with  a  new  season,  she  seemed  to  have 
made  a  concession  to  the  philosophy  of  the  place. 

It  is  the  same  with  matters  of  speech,  choice  of  words 
and  ideas,  as  it  is  with  matters  of  feeling.  The  mind  can  rust 
as  well  as  the  body  if  it  is  not  rubbed  up  in  Paris;  but  the 
thing  on  which  provincialism  most  sets  its  stamp  is  gesture, 
gait,  and  movement;  these  soon  lose  the  briskness  which 
Paris  constantly  keeps  alive.  The  provincial  is  used  to  walk 
and  move  in  a  world  devoid  of  accident  or  change;  there  is 
nothing  to  be  avoided;  so  in  Paris  she  walks  on  as  raw  re- 
cruits do,  never  remembering  that  there  may  be  hindrances, 
for  there  are  none  in  her  way  in  her  native  place,  where  she 
is  known,  where  she  is  always  in  her  place,  and  every  one 
makes  way  for  her.  Thus  she  loses  all  the  charm  of  the 
unforeseen. 

And  have  you  ever  noticed  the  effect  on  human  beings 
of  a  life  in  common  ?  By  the  ineffaceable  instinct  of  simian 
mimicry  they  all  tend  to  copy  each  other.  Each  one,  with- 
out knowing  it,  acquires  the  gestures,  the  tone  of  voice,  the 
manner,  the  attitudes,  the  very  countenance  of  others.  In 
six  years  Dinah  had  sunk  to  the  pitch  of  the  society  she 


84  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

lived  in.  As  she  acquired  Monsieur  de  Clagny's  ideas  she 
assumed  his  tone  of  voice;  she  unconsciously  fell  into  mas- 
culine manners  from  seeing  none  but  men ;  she  fancied  that 
by  laughing  at  what  was  ridiculous  in  them  she  was  safe 
from  catching  it;  but,  as  often  happens,  some  hue  of  what 
she  laughed  at  remained  in  grain. 

A  Parisian  woman  sees  so  many  examples  of  good  taste 
that  a  contrary  result  ensues.  In  Paris  women  learn  to  seize 
the  hour  and  moment  when  they  may  appear  to  advantage; 
while  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  accustomed  to  take  the  stage, 
acquired  an  indefinable  theatrical  and  domineering  manner, 
the  air  of  a  prima  donna  coming  forward  on  the  boards,  of 
which  ironical  smiles  would  soon  have  cured  her  in  the  capital. 

But  after  she  had  acquired  this  stock  of  absurdities,  and, 
deceived  by  her  worshippers,  imagined  them  to  be  added 
graces,  a  moment  of  terrible  awakening  came  upon  her  like 
the  fall  of  an  avalanche  from  a  mountain.  In  one  day  she 
was  crushed  by  a  frightful  comparison. 

In  1822,  after  the  departure  of  Monsieur  de  Chargeboeuf, 
she  was  excited  by  the  anticipation  of  a  little  pleasure;  she 
was  expecting  the  Baronne  de  Fontaine.  Anna's  husband, 
who  was  now  Director-General  under  the  Minister  of  Finance, 
took  advantage  of  leave  of  absence  on  the  occasion  of  his 
father's  death  to  take  his  wife  to  Italy.  Anna  wished  to 
spend  a  day  at  Sancerre  with  her  school  friend.  This  meet- 
ing was  strangely  disastrous.  Anna,  who  at  school  had  been 
far  less  handsome  than  Dinah,  now,  as  Baronne  de  Fontaine, 
was  a  thousand  times  handsomer  than  the  Baronne  de  La 
Baudraye,  in  spite  of  her  fatigue  and  her  travelling  dress. 
Anna  stepped  out  of  an  elegant  travelling  chaise  loaded  with 
Paris  milliners'  boxes,  and  she  had  with  her  a  lady's-maid, 
whose  airs  quite  frightened  Dinah.  All  the  difference  be- 
tween a  woman  of  Paris  and  a  provincial  was  at  once  evident 
to  Dinah's  intelligent  eyej  she  saw  herself  as  her  friend^saw 
her — and  Anna  found  her  altered  beyond  recognition.  Anna 
spent  six  thousand  francs  a  year  on  herself  alone,  as  much 
as  kept  the  whole  household  at  La  Baudraye. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  86 

In  twenty-four  hours  the  friends  had  exchanged  many 
confidences ;  and  the  Parisian,  seeing  herself  so  far  superior 
to  the  phoenix  of  Mademoiselle  Chamarolles'  school,  showed 
her  provincial  friend  such  kindness,  such  attentions,  while 
giving  her  certain  explanations,  as  were  so  many  stabs  to 
Dinah,  though  she  perfectly  understood  that  Anna's  advan- 
tages all  lay  on  the  surface,  while  her  own  were  forever 
buried. 

When  Anna  had  left,  Madame  de  La  Baudrayo,  by  this 
time  two-and-twenty,  fell  into  the  depths  of  despair. 

"What  is  it  that  ails  you?"  asked  Monsieur  de  Clagny, 
seeing  her  so  dejected. 

"Anna,"  said  she,  "has  learned  to  live,  while  I  have 
been  learning  to  endure." 

A  tragi-comedy  was,  in  fact,  being  enacted  in  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye's  house,  in  harmony  with  her  struggles  over 
money  matters  and  her  successive  transformations — a  drama 
to  which  no  one  but  Monsieur  de  Clagny  and  the  Abbe"  Duret 
ever  knew  the  clew,  when  Dinah  in  sheer  idleness,  or  perhaps 
sheer  vanity,  revealed  the  secret  of  her  anonymous  fame. 

Though  a  mixture  of  verse  and  prose  is  a  monstrous  anom- 
aly in  French  literature,  there  must  be  exceptions  to  the  rule. 
This  tale  will  be  one  of  the  two  instances  in  these  Studies  of 
violation  of  the  laws  of  narrative ;  for  to  give  a  just  idea  of 
the  unconfessed  struggle  which  may  excuse,  though  it  cannot 
absolve  Dinah,  it  is  necessary  to  give  an  analysis  of  a  poem 
which  was  the  outcome  of  her  deep  despair. 

Her  patience  and  her  resignation  alike  broken  by  the 
departure  of  the  Vicomte  de  Chargebceuf,  Dinah  took  the 
worthy  Abbd's  advice  to  exhale  her  evil  thoughts  in  verse 
— a  proceeding  which  perhaps  accounts  for  some  poets. 

"You  will  find  such  relief  as  those  who  write  epitaphs  or 
elegies  over  those  whom  they  have  lost.  Pain  is  soothed  in 
the  heart  as  lines  surge  up  in  the  brain." 

This  strange  production  caused  a  great  ferment  in  the 
departments  of  the  Allier,  the  Nievre,  and  the  Cher,  proud 
to  possess  a  poet  capable  of  rivalry  with  the  glories  of  Paris. 


86  BALZAC *S    WORKS 

"Paquita  la  Sevillane,"  by  Jan  Diaz,  was  published  in  the 
"Echo  du  Morvan,"  a  review  which  for  eighteen  months 
maintained  its  existence  in  spite  of  provincial  indifference. 
Some  knowing  persons  at  Nevers  declared  that  Jan  Diaz 
was  making  fun  of  the  new  school,  just  then  bringing  out 
its  eccentric  verse,  full  of  vitality  and  imagery,  and  of  bril- 
liant effects  produced  by  defying  the  Muse  under  pretext  of 
adapting  German,  English,  and  Komanesque  mannerisms. 
The  poem  began  with  this  ballad: 

Ah !  if  you  knew  the  fragrant  plain. 
The  air,  the  sky,  of  golden  Spain, 

Its  fervid  noons,  its  balmy  spring, 
Sad  daughters  of  the  northern  gloom, 
Of  love,  of  heav'n,  of  native  home, 

You  never  would  presume  to  sing! 

For  men  are  there  of  other  mold 
Than  those  who  live  in  this  dull  cold. 

And  there  to  music  low  and  sweet 
Sevillian  maids,  from  eve  till  dawn, 
Dance  lightly  on  the  moonlit  lawn 

In  satin  shoes,  on  dainty  feet. 

Ah,  you  would  be  the  first  to  blush 
Over  your  dancers'  romp  and  rush, 

And  your  too  hideous  carnival, 
That  turns  your  cheeks  all  chill  and  blue, 
And  skips  the  mud  in  hobnail'd  shoe— 

A  truly  dismal  festival. 

To  pale-faced  girls,  and  in  a  squalid  room, 
Paquita  sang;  the  murky  town  beneath 
Was  Rouen,  whence  the  slender  spires  rise 

To  chew  the  storm  with  teeth. 
Rouen  so  hideous,  noisy,  full  of  rage— 

And  here  followed  a  magnificent  description  of  Eouen — 
where  l)inah  had  never  been — written  with  the  affected  bru- 
tality which,  a  little  later,  inspired  so  many  imitations  of 
Juvenal;  a  contrast  drawn  between  the  life  of  a  manufactur- 
ing town  and  the  careless  life  of  Spain,  between  the  love  of 
Heaven  and  of  human  beauty,  and  the  worship  of  machinery, 
in  short,  between  poetry  and  sordid  money-making. 

Then  Jan  Diaz  accounted  for  Paquita's  horror  of  Nor- 
mandy by  saying: 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  87 

Seville,  you  see,  had  been  her  native  home, 

Seville,  where  skies  are  blue  and  evening  sweet. 

She,  at  thirteen,  the  sovereign  of  the  town, 
Had  lovers  at  her  feet. 

For  her  three  Toreadors  had  gone  to  death 

Or  victory ;  the  prize  to  be  a  kiss — 
One  kiss  from  those  red  lips  of  sweetest  breath— 

A  longed-for  touch  of  bliss  1 

The  features  of  the  Spanish  girl's  portrait  have  served  so 
often  as  those  of  the  courtesan  in  so  many  self-styled  poems 
that  it  would  be  tiresome  to  quote  here  the  hundred  lines  of 
description.  To  judge  of  the  lengths  to  which  audacity  had 
carried  Dinah,  it  will  be  enough  to  give  the  conclusion. 
According  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  ardent  pen,  Paquita 
was  so  entirely  created  for  love  that  she  can  hardly  have  met 
with  a  knight  worthy  of  her;  for 

.     .     .     .     In  her  passionate  fire 

Every  man  would  have  swooned  from  the  heat, 

When  she  at  love's  feast,  in  her  fervid  desire, 
As  yet  had  but  taken  her  seat. 

"And  yet  she  could  quit  the  joys  of  Seville,  its  woods 
and  fields  of  orange-trees,  for  a  Norman  soldier  who  won  her 
love  and  carried  her  away  to  his  hearth  and  home.  She  did 
not  weep  for  her  Andalusia,  the  Soldier  was  her  whole  joy. 
.  .  .  But  the  day  came  when  he  was  compelled  to  start  for 
Eussia  in  the  footsteps  of  the  great  Emperor." 

Nothing  could  be  more  dainty  than  the  description  of  the 
parting  between  the  Spanish  girl  and  the  Normandy  Captain 
of  Artillery,  who,  in  the  delirium  of  passion  expressed  with 
feeling  worthy  of  Byron,  exacted  from  Paquita  a  vow  of  ab- 
solute fidelity,  in  the  Cathedral  at  Kouen  in  front  of  the  altar 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  who 

Though  a  Maid  is  a  woman,  and  never  forgives 
When  lovers  are  false  to  their  vows. 

A  large  part  of  the  poem  was  devoted  to  describing  Pa- 
quita's  sufferings  when  alone  in  Rouen  waiting  till  the  cam- 
paign was  over;  she  stood  writhing  at  the  window  bars  as 


88  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

she  watched  happy  couples  go  by ;  she  suppressed  her  passion 
in  her  heart  with  a  determination  that  consumed  her;  she 
lived  on  narcotics,  and  exhausted  herself  in  dreams. 

Almost  she  died,  but  still  her  heart  was  true; 

And  when  at  last  her  soldier  came  again, 
He  found  her  beauty  ever  fresh  and  new — 

He  had  not  loved  in  vain  I 

"But  he,  pale  and  frozen  by  the  cold  of  Eussia,  chilled  to 
the  very  marrow,  met  his  yearning  fair  one  with  a  melancholy 
smile. ' ' 

The  whole  poem  was  written  up  to  this  situation,  which 
was  worked  out  with  such  vigor  and  boldness  as  too  entirely 
justified  the  Abbe*  Duret. 

Paquita,  on  reaching  the  limits  set  to  real  love,  did  not, 
like  Julie  and  Helo'ise,  throw  herself  into  the  ideal;  no,  she 
rushed  into  the  paths  of  vice,  which  is,  no  doubt,  shockingly 
natural ;  but  she  did  it  without  any  touch  of  magnificence, 
for  lack  of  means,  as  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  Rouen  men 
impassioned  enough  to  place  Paquita  in  a  suitable  setting  of 
luxury  and  splendor.  This  horrible  realism,  emphasized  by 
gloomy  poetic  feeling,  had  inspired  some  passages  such  as 
modern  poetry  is  too  free  with,  rather  too  like  the  flayed 
anatomical  figures  known  to  artists  as  Scorches.  Then,  by  a 
highly  philosophical  revulsion,  after  describing  the  house 
of  ill-fame  where  the  Andalusian  ended  her  days,  the  writer 
came  back  to  the  ballad  at  the  opening : 

Paquita  now  is  faded,  shrunk,  and  old, 
But  she  it  was  who  sang : 

"If  you  but  knew  the  fragrant  plain, 
The  air,  the  sky,  of  golden  Spain,"  etc. 

The  gloomy  vigor  of  this  poem,  running  to  about  six 
hundred  lines,  and  serving  as  a  powerful  foil,  to  use  a  paint- 
er's word,  to  the  two  seguidillas  at  the  beginning  and  end, 
the  masculine  utterance  of  inexpressible  grief  alarmed  the 
woman  who  found  herself  admired  by  three  departments, 
under  the  black  cloak  of  the  anonymous.  While  she  fully 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  89 

enjoyed  the  intoxicating  delights  of  success,  Dinah  dreaded 
the  malignity  of  provincial  society,  where  more  than  one 
woman,  if  the  secret  should  slip  out,  would  certainly  find 
points  of  resemblance  between  the  writer  and  Paquita.  Ke- 
flection  came  too  late ;  Dinah  shuddered  with  shame  at  having 
made  "copy"  of  some  of  her  woes. 

' '  Write  no  more, ' '  said  the  Abbe*  Duret.  ' '  You  will  cease 
to  be  a  woman ;  you  will  be  a  poet. ' ' 

Moulins,  Nevers,  Bourges  were  searched  to  find  Jan  Diaz; 
but  Dinah  was  impenetrable.  To  remove  any  evil  impres- 
sion, in  case  any  unforeseen  chance  should  betray  her  name, 
she  wrote  a  charming  poem  in  two  cantos  on  "The  Mass- 
Oak,"  a  legend  of  the  Nivernais: 

"Once  on  a  time  the  folk  of  Nevers  and  the  folk  of 
Saint-Saulge,  at  war  with  each  other,  came  at  daybreak  to 
fight  a  battle,  in  which  one  or  other  should  perish,  and  met 
in  the  forest  of  Faye.  And  then  there  stood  between  them, 
under  an  oak,  a  priest  whose  aspect  in  the  morning  sun  was 
BO  commanding  that  the  foes  at  his  bidding  heard  Mass  as 
he  performed  it  under  the  oak,  and  at  the  words  of  the  Gospel 
they  made  friends. ' ' — The  oak  is  still  shown  in  the  forest  of 
Faye. 

This  poem,  immeasurably  superior  to  "Paquita  la  Sevil- 
lane,"  was  far  less  admired. 

After  these  two  attempts,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  feel- 
ing herself  a  poet,  had  a  light  on  her  brow  and  a  flash  in  her 
eyes  that  made  her  handsomer  than  ever.  She  cast  longing 
looks  at  Paris,  aspiring  to  fame — and  fell  back  into  her  den 
of  La  Baudraye,  her  daily  squabbles  with  her  husband,  and 
her  little  circle,  where  everybody's  character,  intentions  and 
remarks  were  too  well  known  not  to  have  become  a  bore. 
Though  she  found  relief  from  her  dreary  life  in  literary 
work,  and  poetry  echoed  loudly  in  her  empty  life,  though 
she  thus  found  an  outlet  for  her  energies,  literature  increased 
her  hatred  of  the  gray  and  ponderous  provincial  atmosphere. 

When,  after  the  ^Revolution  of  1830,  the  glory  of  George 
Sand  was  reflected  on  Le  Berry,  many  a  town  envied  La 


90  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

CMtre  the  privilege  of  having  given  birth  to  this  rival  of 
Madame  de  Stael  and  Camille  Maupin,  and  were  ready  to  do 
homage  to  minor  feminine  talent.  Thus  there  arose  in  France 
a  vast  number  of  tenth  Muses,  young  girls  or  young  wives 
tempted  from  a  silent  life  by  the  bait  of  glory.  Very  strange 
doctrines  were  proclaimed  as  to  the  part  women  should  play 
in  society.  Though  the  sound  common-sense  which  lies  at 
the  root  of  the  French  nature  was  not  perverted,  women  were 
suffered  to  express  ideas  and  profess  opinions  which  they 
would  not  have  owned  to  a  few  years  previously. 

Monsieur  de  Clagny  took  advantage  of  this  outbreak  of 
freedom  to  collect  the  works  of  Jan  Diaz  in  a  small  volume 
printed  by  Desroziers  at  Moulins.  He  wrote  a  little  notice 
of  the  author,  too  early  snatched  from  the  world  of  letters, 
which  was  amusing  to  those  who  were  in  the  secret,  but 
which  even  then  had  not  the  merit  of  novelty.  Such  prac- 
tical jokes,  capital  so  long  as  the  author  remains  unknown, 
fall  rather  flat  if  subsequently  the  poet  stands  confessed. 

From  this  point  of  view,  however,  the  memoir  of  Jan 
Diaz,  born  at  Bourges  in  1807,  the  son  of  a  Spanish  prisoner, 
may  very  likely  some  day  deceive  the  compiler  of  some 
"Universal  Biography."  Nothing  is  overlooked;  neither 
the  names  of  the  professor  at  the  Bourges  college,  nor  those 
of  his  deceased  schoolfellows,  such  as  Lousteau,  Bianchon, 
and  other  famous  natives  of  the  province,  who,  it  is  said, 
knew  the  dreamy,  melancholy  boy  and  his  precocious  bent 
toward  poetry.  An  elegy  called  "Tristesse"  (Melancholy), 
written  at  school;  the  two  poems  "Paquita  la  Sevillane" 
and  "Le  Ch&ie  de  la  Messe";  three  sonnets,  a  description 
of  the  Cathedral  and  the  House  of  Jacques  Coeur  at  Bourges, 
with  a  tale  called  "Carola,"  published  as  the  work  he  was 
engaged  on  at  the  time  of  his  death,  constituted  the  whole 
of  these  literary  remains;  and  the  poet's  last  hours,  full  of 
misery  and  despair,  could  not  fail  to  wring  the  hearts  of  the 
feeling  public  of  the  Nievre,  the  Bourbonnais,  the  Cher,  and 
the  Morvan,  where  he  died  near  Chateau-Chinon,  unknown 
to  all,  even  to  the  woman  he  had  loved! 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  91 

Of  this  little  yellow  paper  volume  two  hundred  copies 
were  printed;  one  hundred  and  fifty  were  sold — about  fifty 
in  each  department.  This  average  of  tender  and  poetic  souls 
in  three  departments  of  France  is  enough  to  revive  the  en- 
thusiasm of  writers  as  to  the  "Furia  Francese,"  which  nowa- 
days is  more  apt  to  expend  itself  in  business  than  in  books. 

When  Monsieur  de  Clagny  had  given  away  a  certain  num- 
ber of  copies,  Dinah  still  had  seven  or  eight,  wrapped  up  in 
the  newspapers  which  had  published  notices  of  the  work. 
Twenty  copies  forwarded  to  the  Paris  papers  were  swamped 
in  the  editors'  offices.  Nathan  was  taken  in  as  well  as  sev- 
eral of  his  fellow-countrymen  of  Le  Berry,  and  wrote  an 
article  on  the  great  man,  in  which  he  credited  him  with  all 
the  fine  qualities  we  discover  in  those  who  are  dead  and 
buried. 

Lousteau,  warned  by  his  former  schoolfellows,  who  could 
not  remember  Jan  Diaz,  waited  for  information  from  San- 
cerre,  and  learned  that  Jan  Diaz  was  a  pseudonym  assumed 
by  a  woman. 

Then,  in  and  around  Sancerre,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
became  the  rage;  she  was  the  future  rival  of  George  Sand. 
From  Sancerre  to  Bourges  a  poem  was  praised  which,  at  any 
other  time,  would  certainly  have  been  hooted.  The  provin- 
cial public — like  every  French  public,  perhaps — does  not 
share  the  love  of  the  King  of  the  French  for  the  happy  me- 
dium: it  lifts  you  to  the  skies  or  drags  you  in  the  mud. 

By  this  time  the  good  Abbe",  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's 
counsellor,  was  dead;  he  would  certainly  have  prevented  her 
rushing  into  public  life.  But  three  years  of  work  without 
recognition  weighed  on  Dinah's  soul,  and  she  accepted  the 
clatter  of  fame  as  a  substitute  for  her  disappointed  ambitions. 
Poetry  and  dreams  of  celebrity,  which  had  lulled  her  grief 
since  her  meeting  with  Anna  Grosset^te,  no  longer  sufficed  to 
exhaust  the  activity  of  her  morbid  heart.  The  Abbe"  Duret, 
who  had  talked  of  the  world  when  the  voice  of  religion  was 
impotent,  who  understood  Dinah,  and  promised  her  a  happy 
future  by  assuring  her  that  God  would  compensate  her  for 


92  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sufferings  bravely  endured — this  good  old  man  could  no 
longer  stand  between  the  opening  to  sin  and  the  handsome 
young  woman  he  had  called  his  daughter. 

The  wise  old  priest  had  more  than  once  endeavored  to 
enlighten  Dinah  as  to  her  husband's  character,  telling  her 
that  the  man  could  hate;  but  women  are  not  ready  to  believe 
in  such  force  in  weak  natures,  and  hatred  is  too  constantly 
in  action  not  to  be  a  vital  force.  Dinah,  finding  her  hus- 
band incapable  of  love,  denied  him  the  power  to  hate. 

"Do  not  confound  hatred  and  vengeance,"  said  the  Abbe*. 
11  They  are  two  quite  different  sentiments:  one  is  the  instinct 
of  small  minds ;  the  other  is  the  outcome  of  law  which  great 
souls  obey.  God  is  avenged,  but  He  does  not  hate.  Hatred 
is  a  vice  of  narrow  souls;  they  feed  it  with  all  their  mean- 
ness, and  make  it  a  pretext  for  sordid  tyranny.  So  beware 
of  offending  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye ;  he  would  forgive  an 
infidelity,  because  he  could  make  capital  of  it,  but  he  would 
be  doubly  implacable  if  you  should  touch  him  on  the  spot  so 
cruelly  wounded  by  Monsieur  Milaud  of  Nevers,  and  would 
make  your  life  unendurable." 

Now,  at  the  time  when  the  whole  countryside — Nevers 
and  Sancerre,  Le  Morvan  and  Le  Berry — was  priding  it- 
self on  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  and  lauding  her  under 
the  name  of  Jan  Diaz,  "little  La  Baudraye"  felt  her  glory  a 
mortal  blow.  He  alone  knew  the  secret  source  of  "Paquita 
la  Sevillane. ' '  When  this  terrible  work  was  spoken  of, 
everybody  said  of  Dinah — "Poor  woman  I  Poor  soull" 

The  women  rejoiced  in  being  able  to  pity  her  who  had 
so  long  oppressed  them;  never  had  Dinah  seemed  to  stand 
higher  in  the  eyes  of  the  neighborhood. 

The  shrivelled  old  man,  more  wrinkled,  yellower,  feebler 
than  ever,  gave  no  sign;  but  Dinah  sometimes  detected  in 
his  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  her,  a  sort  of  icy  venom  which 
gave  the  lie  to  his  increased  politeness  and  gentleness.  She 
understood  at  last  that  this  was  not,  as  she  had  supposed,  a 
mere  domestic  squabble;  but  when  she  forced  an  explana- 
tion with  her  "insect,"  as  Monsieur  Gravier  called  him,  she 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  93 

found  the  cold,  hard  impassibility  of  steel.  She  flew  into  a 
passion;  she  reproached  him  for  her  life  these  eleven  years 
past;  she  made — intentionally — what  women  call  a  scene. 
But  "little  La  Baudraye"  sat  in  an  armchair  with  his  eyes 
shut,  and  listened  phlegmatically  to  the  storm.  And,  as 
usual,  the  dwarf  got  the  better  of  his  wife.  Dinah  saw 
that  she  had  done  wrong  in  writing;  she  vowed  never  to 
write  another  line,  and  she  kept  her  vow. 

Then  was  there  desolation  in  the  Sancerrois. 

"Why  did  not  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  compose  any 
more  verses?"  was  the  universal  cry. 

At  this  time  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  no  enemies; 
every  one  rushed  to  see  her,  not  a  week  passed  without  fresh 
introductions.  The  wife  of  the  presiding  judge,  an  august 
lourgeoise,  nee  Popinot-Chandier,  desired  her  son,  a  youth, 
of  two-and-twenty,  to  pay  his  humble  respects  at  La  Bau- 
draye, and  flattered  herself  that  she  might  see  her  Gatien 
in  the  good  graces  of  this  Superior  Woman. — The  words 
Superior  Woman  had  superseded  the  absurd  nickname  of 
The  Sappho  of  Saint-Satur. — This  lady,  who  for  nine  years 
had  led  the  opposition,  was  so  delighted  at  the  good  recep- 
tion accorded  to  her  son  that  she  became  loud  in  her  praises 
of  the  Muse  of  Sancerre. 

"After  all,"  she  exclaimed,  in  reply  to  a  tirade  from 
Madame  de  Clagny,  who  hated  her  husband's  supposed 
mistress,  "she  is  the  handsomest  and  cleverest  woman  in 
the  whole  province  1" 

After  scrambling  through  so  many  brambles  and  setting 
off  on  so  many  different  roads,  after  dreaming  of  love  in 
splendor  and  scenting  the  darkest  dramas,  thinking  such 
terrible  joys  would  be  cheaply  purchased,  so  weary  was  she 
of  her  dreary  existence,  one  day  Dinah  fell  into  the  pit 
she  had  sworn  to  avoid.  Seeing  Monsieur  de  Clagny  al- 
ways sacrificing  himself,  and  at  last  refusing  a  high  ap- 
pointment in  Paris,  where  his  family  wanted  to  see  him, 
she  said  to  herself,  "He  loves  me!"  She  vanquished  her 
repulsion,  and  seemed  willing  to  reward  so  much  constancy. 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

It  was  to  this  impulse  of  generosity  on  her  part  that  a 
coalition  was  due,  formed  in  Sancerre  to  secure  the  return 
of  Monsieur  de  Clagny  at  the  next  elections.  Madame  de 
La  Baudraye  had  dreamed  of  going  to  Paris  in  the  wake  of 
the  new  deputy. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  most  solemn  promises,  the  hundred 
and  fifty  votes  to  be  recorded  in  favor  of  this  adorer  of  the 
lovely  Dinah — who  hoped  to  see  this  defender  of  the  widow 
and  the  orphan  wearing  the  gown  of  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals 
— figured  as  an  imposing  minority  of  fifty  votes.  The  jeal- 
ousy of  the  President  de  Boirouge,  and  Monsieur  Gravier's 
hatred,  for  he  believed  in  the  candidate's  supremacy  in  Di- 
nah's heart,  had  been  worked  upon  by  a  young  Sous-prefet; 
and  for  this  worthy  deed  the  allies  got  the  young  man  made 
a  pre*f  et  elsewhere. 

"I  shall  never  cease  to  regret,"  said  he,  as  he  quitted 
Sancerre,  "that  I  did  not  succeed  in  pleasing  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye;  that  would  have  made  my  triumph  complete!" 

The  household  that  was  thus  racked  by  domestic  troubles 
was  calm  on  the  surface ;  here  were  two  ill-assorted  but  re- 
signed beings,  and  the  indescribable  propriety,  the  lie  that 
society  insists  on,  and  which  to  Dinah  was  an  unendurable 
yoke.  Why  did  she  long  to  throw  off  the  mask  she  had 
worn  for  twelve  years?  Whence  this  weariness  which, 
ever  day,  increased  her  hope  of  finding  herself  a  widow? 

The  reader  who  has  noted  all  the  phases  of  her  existence 
will  have  understood  the  various  illusions  by  which  Dinah, 
like  many  another  woman,  had  been  deceived.  After  an  at- 
tempt to  master  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  she  had  indulged 
the  hope  of  becoming  a  mother.  Between  those  miserable 
disputes  over  household  matters  and  the  melancholy  convic- 
tion as  to  her  fate,  quite  a  long  time  had  elapsed.  Then, 
when  she  had  looked  for  consolation,  the  consoler,  Monsieur 
de  Chargebceuf,  had  left  her.  Thus,  the  overwhelming 
temptation  which  commonly  causes  women  to  sin  had 
hitherto  been  absent.  For  if  there  are,  after  all,  some 
women  who  make  straight  for  unfaithfulness,  are  there  not 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  H5 

many  more  who  cling  to  hope,  and  do  not  fall  till  they  have 
wandered  long  in  a  labyrinth  of  secret  woes  ? 

Such  was  Dinah.  She  had  so  little  impulse  to  fail  in  her 
duty,  that  she  did  not  care  enough  for  Monsieur  de  Clagny 
to  forgive  him  his  defeat. 

Then  the  move  to  the  Chateau  d'Anzy,  the  rearrange- 
ment of  her  collected  treasures  and  curiosities,  which  de- 
rived added  value  from  the  splendid  setting  which  Philibert 
de  Lorme  seemed  to  have  planned  on  purpose  for  this  mu- 
seum, occupied  her  for  several  months,  giving  her  leisure  to 
meditate  one  of  those  decisive  steps  that  startle  the  public, 
ignorant  of  the  motives  which,  however,  it  sometimes  dis- 
covers by  dint  of  gossip  and  suppositions. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye^  had  been  greatly  struck  by  the 
reputation  of  Lousteau,  who  was  regarded  as  a  lady's  man 
of  the  first  water  in  consequence  of  his  intimacies  among 
actresses;  she  was  anxious  to  know  him;  she  read  his 
books,  and  was  fired  with  enthusiasm,  less  perhaps  for  his 
talents  than  for  his  successes  with  women;  and  to  attract 
him  to  the  country,  she  started  the  notion  that  it  was  obli- 
gatory on  Sancerre  to  return  one  of  its  great  men  at  the 
elections.  She  made  Gratien  Boirouge  write  to  the  great 
physician  Bianchon,  whom  he  claimed  as  a  cousin  through 
the  Popinots.  Then  she  persuaded  an  old  friend  of  the  de- 
parted Madame  Lousteau  to  stir  up  the  journalist's  ambi- 
tions by  letting  him  know  that  certain  persons  in  Sancerre 
were  firmly  bent  on  electing  a  deputy  from  among  the  dis- 
tinguished men  in  Paris. 

Tired  of  her  commonplace  neighbors,  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  would  thus  at  last  meet  really  illustrious  men, 
and  might  give  her  fall  the  lustre  of  fame. 

Neither  Lousteau  nor  Bianchon  replied;  they  were  wait- 
ing perhaps  till  the  holidays.  Bianchon,  who  had  won  his 
professor's  chair  the  year  before  after  a  brilliant  contest, 
could  not  leave  his  lectures. 

In  the  month  of  September,  when  the  vintage  was  at  its 
height,  the  two  Parisians  arrived  in  their  native  province, 


96  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  found  it  absorbed  in  the  unremitting  toil  of  the  wine- 
crop  of  1836;  there  could  therefore  be  no  public  demonstra- 
tion in  their  favor.  "We  have  fallen  flat,"  said  Lousteau  to 
his  companion,  in  the  slang  of  the  stage. 

In  1836,  Lousteau,  worn  by  sixteen  years  of  struggle  in 
the  Capital,  and  aged  quite  as  much  by  pleasure  as  by 
penury,  hard  work,  and  disappointments,  looked  eight-and- 
forty,  though  he  was  no  more  than  thirty-seven.  He  was 
already  bald,  and  had  assumed  a  Byron ic  air  in  harmony 
with  his  early  decay  and  the  lines  furrowed  in  his  face  by 
overindulgence  in  champagne.  He  ascribed  these  signs- 
manual  of  dissipation  to  the  severities  of  a  literary  life,  de- 
claring that  the  Press  was  murderous ;  and  he  gave  it  to  be 
understood  that  it  consumed  superior  talents,  so  as  to  lend 
a  grace  to  his  exhaustion.  In  his  native  town  he  thought 
proper  to  exaggerate  his  affected  contempt  of  life  and  his 
spurious  misanthropy.  Still,  his  eyes  could  flash  with  fire 
like  a  volcano  supposed  to  be  extinct,  and  he  endeavored, 
by  dressing  fashionably,  to  make  up  for  the  lack  of  youth 
that  might  strike  a  woman's  eye. 

Horace  Bianchon,  who  wore  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  was  fat  and  burly,  as  beseems  a  fashionable  phy- 
sician, with  a  patriarchal  air,  his  hair  thick  and  long,  a 
prominent  brow,  the  frame  of  a  hard  worker,  and  the  calm 
expression  of  a  philosopher.  This  somewhat  prosaic  per- 
sonality set  off  his  more  frivolous  companion  to  advan- 
tage. 

The  two  great  men  remained  unrecognized  during  a 
whole  morning  at  the  inn  where  they  had  put  up,  and  it 
was  only  by  chance  that  Monsieur  de  Clagny  heard  of  their 
arrival.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  in  despair  at  this,  de- 
spatched Gatien  Boirouge,  who  had  no  vineyards,  to  beg 
the  two  gentlemen  to  spend  a  few  days  at  the  Chateau 
d'Anzy.  For  the  last  year  Dinah  had  played  the  chate- 
laine, and  spent  the  winter  only  at  La  Baudraye.  Monsieur 
Gravier,  the  Public  Prosecutor,  the  Presiding  Judge,  and 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  97 

Gatien  Boirouge  combined  to  give  a  banquet  to  the  two 
great  men,  to  meet  the  literary  personages  of  the  town. 

On  hearing  that  the  beautiful  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
was  Jan  Diaz,  the  Parisians  went  to  spend  three  days  at 
Anzy,  fetched  in  a  sort  of  wagonette  driven  by  Gatien 
himself.  The  young  man,  under  a  genuine  illusion,  spoke 
of  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  not  only  as  the  handsomest 
woman  in  those  parts,  a  woman  so  superior  that  she  might 
give  George  Sand  a  qualm,  but  as  a  woman  who  would  pro- 
duce a  great  sensation  in  Paris.  Hence  the  extreme  though 
suppressed  astonishment  of  Doctor  Bianchon  and  the  wag- 
gish journalist  when  they  beheld,  on  the  garden  steps  of 
Anzy,  a  lady  dressed  in  thin  black  cashmere  with  a  deep 
tucker,  in  effect  like  a  riding-habit  cut  short,  for  they  quite 
understood  the  pretentiousness  of  such  extreme  simplicity. 
Dinah  also  wore  a  black  velvet  cap,  like  that  in  the  portrait 
of  Rafael,  and  below  it  her  hair  fell  in  thick  curls.  Thia 
attire  showed  off  a  rather  pretty  figure,  fine  eyes,  and  hand- 
some eyelids  somewhat  faded  by  the  weariful  life  that  has 
been  described.  In  Le  Berry  the  singularity  of  this  artistic 
costume  was  a  cloak  for  the  romantic  affectations  of  the 
Superior  Woman. 

On  seeing  the  affectations  of  their  too  amiable  hostess 
— which  were,  indeed,  affectations  of  soul  and  mind— the 
friends  glanced  at  each  other,  and  put  on  a  deeply  serious 
expression  to  listen  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  who  made 
them  a  set  speech  of  thanks  for  coming  to  cheer  the  monot- 
ony of  her  days.  Dinah  walked  her  guests  round  and  round 
the  lawn,  ornamented  with  large  vases  of  flowers,  which  lay 
in  front  of  the  Chateau  d'Anzy. 

"How  is  it,"  said  Lousteau,  the  practical  joker,  "that 
so  handsome  a  woman  as  you,  and  apparently  so  superior, 
should  have  remained  buried  in  the  country?  What  do 
you  do  to  make  life  endurable?" 

"Ah!  that  is  the  crux, "  said  the  lady.  "It  is  unendur- 
able. Utter  despair  or  dull  resignation — there  is  no  third 
alternative;  that  is  the  arid  soil  in  which  our  existence  is 

"Vol.  4.  (E) 


98  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

rooted,  and  on  which  a  thousand  stagnant  ideas  fall;  they 
cannot  fertilize  the  ground,  but  they  supply  food  for  the 
etiolated  flowers  of  our  desert  souls.  Never  believe  in  in- 
difference! Indifference  is  either  despair  or  resignation. 
Then  each  woman  takes  up  the  pursuit  which,  according 
to  her  character,  seems  to  promise  some  amusement.  Some 
rush  into  jam-making  and  washing,  household  management, 
the  rural  joys  of  the  vintage  or  the  harvest,  bottling  fruit, 
embroidering  handkerchiefs,  the  cares  of  motherhood,  the 
intrigues  of  a  country  town.  Others  torment  a  much-endur- 
ing piano,  which,  at  the  end  of  seven  years,  sounds  like  an 
old  kettle,  and  ends  its  asthmatic  life  at  the  Chateau  d' Anzy. 
Some  pious  dames  talk  over  the  different  brands  of  the  Word 
of  Grod — the  Abb£  Fritaud  as  compared  with  the  Abbe* 
Guinard.  They  play  cards  in  the  evening,  dance  with  the 
same  partners  for  twelve  years  running,  in  the  same  rooms, 
at  the  same  dates.  This  delightful  life  is  varied  by  solemn 
walks  on  the  Mall,  visits  of  politeness  among  the  women, 
who  ask  each  other  where  they  bought  their  gowns. 

"Conversation  is  bounded  on  the  south  by  remarks  on  the 
intrigues  lying  hidden  under  the  stagnant  water  of  provincial 
life,  on  the  north  by  proposed  marriages,  on  the  west  by 
jealousies,  and  on  the  east  by  sour  remarks. 

"And  so,"  she  went  on,  striking  an  attitude,  "you  see 
a  woman  wrinkled  at  nine-and-twenty,  ten  years  before  the 
time  fixed  by  the  rules  of  Doctor  Bianchon,  a  woman  whose 
skin  is  ruined  at  an  early  age,  who  turns  as  yellow  as  a 
quince  when  she  is  yellow  at  all — we  have  seen  some  turn 
green.  When  we  have  reached  that  point,  we  try  to  justify 
our  normal  condition;  then  we  turn  and  rend  the  terrible 
passions  of  Paris  with  teeth  as  sharp  as  rats'  teeth.  We 
have  Puritan  women  here,  sour  enough  to  tear  the  laces 
of  Parisian  finery,  and  eat  out  all  the  poetry  of  your  Parisian 
beauties,  who  undermine  the  happiness  of  others  while  they 
cry  up  their  walnuts  and  rancid  bacon,  glorify  this  squalid 
mouse-hole,  and  the  dingy  color  and  conventual  smell  of  our 
delightful  life  at  Sancerre." 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  99 

"I  admire  such  courage,  Madame,"  said  Bianchon. 
"When  we  have  to  endure  such  misfortunes,  it  is  well  to 
have  the  wit  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity." 

Amazed  at  the  brilliant  move  by  which  Dinah  thus  placed 
provincial  life  at  the  mercy  of  her  guests,  in  anticipation  of 
their  sarcasms,  Gatien  Boirouge  nudged  Lousteau's  elbow, 
with  a  glance  and  a  smile,  which  said: 

"Welll  did  I  say  too  much?" 

"But,  Madame,"  said  Lousteau,  4tyou  are  proving  that 
we  are  still  in  Paris.  I  shall  steal  this  gem  of  description ; 
it  will  be  worth  ten  francs  to  me  in  an  article." 

"Oh,  Monsieur  1"  she  retorted,  "never  trust  provincial 
women. ' ' 

"And  why  not?"  said  Lousteau. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  wily  enough — an  innocent 
form  of  cunning,  to  be  sure — to  show  the  two  Parisians,  one 
of  whom  she  would  choose  to  be  her  conqueror,  the  snare 
into  which  he  would  fall,  reflecting  that  she  would  have  the 
upper  hand  at  the  moment  when  he  should  cease  to  see  it. 

"When  you  first  come,"  said  she,  "you  laugh  at  us. 
Then  when  you  have  forgotten  the  impression  of  Paris  bril- 
liancy, and  see  us  in  our  own  sphere,  you  pay  court  to  us, 
if  only  as  a  pastime.  And  you,  who  are  famous  for  your 
past  passions,  will  be  the  object  of  attentions  which  will  flat- 
ter you.  Then  take  care!"  cried  Dinah,  with  a  coquettish 
gesture,  raising  herself  above  provincial  absurdities  and 
Lousteau's  irony  by  her  own  sarcastic  speech.  "When  a 
poor  little  country-bred  woman  has  an  eccentric  passion  for 
some  superior  man,  some  Parisian  who  has  wandered  into 
the  provinces,  it  is  to  her  something  more  than  a  sentiment; 
she  makes  it  her  occupation  and  part  of  all  her  life.  There 
is  nothing  more  dangerous  than  the  attachment  of  such  a 
woman;  she  compares,  she  studies,  she  reflects,  she  dreams; 
and  she  will  not  give  up  her  dream,  she  thinks  still  of  the 
man  she  loves  when  he  has  ceased  to  think  of  her. 

"Now  one  of  the  catastrophes  that  weigh  most  heavily 
on  a  woman  in  the  provinces  is  that  abrupt  termination  of 


100  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

her  passion  which  is  so  often  seen  in  England.  In  the 
country,  a  life  under  minute  observation  as  keen  as  an 
Indian's  compels  a  woman  either  to  keep  on  the  rails  or 
to  start  aside  like  a  steam-engine  wrecked  by  an  obstacle. 
The  strategies  of  love,  the  coquetting  which  form  half  the 
composition  of  a  Parisian  woman,  are  utterly  unknown 
here." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Lousteau.  "There  is  in  a  country- 
bred  woman's  heart  a  store  of  surprises,  as  in  some  toys." 

"Dear  me!"  Dinah  went  on,  "a  woman  will  have  spoken 
to  you  three  times  in  the  course  of  a  winter,  and,  without 
your  knowing  it,  you  will  be  lodged  in  her  heart.  Then 
comes  a  picnic,  an  excursion,  what  not,  and  all  is  said — or, 
if  you  prefer  it,  all  is  done!  This  conduct,  which  seems  odd 
to  unobserving  persons,  is  really  very  natural.  A  poet,  such 
as  you  are,  or  a  philosopher,  an  observer,  like  Doctor  Bian- 
chon,  instead  of  vilifying  the  provincial  woman  and  believ- 
ing her  depraved,  would  be  able  to  guess  the  wonderful 
unrevealed  poetry,  every  chapter,  in  short,  of  the  sweet 
romance  of  which  the  last  phase  falls  to  the  benefit  of  some 
happy  sub-lieutenant  or  some  provincial  bigwig." 

"The  provincial  women  I  have  met  in  Paris,"  said  Lou- 
steau, "were,  in  fact,  rapid  in  their  proceedings — " 

"My  word,  they  are  strange,"  said  the  lady,  giving  a 
significant  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"They  are  like  the  playgoers  who  book  for  the  second 
performance,  feeling  sure  that  the  piece  will  not  fail, ' '  replied 
the  journalist. 

"And  what  is  the  cause  of  all  these  woes?"  asked  Bian- 
chon. 

"Paris  is  the  monster  that  brings  us  grief,"  replied  the 
Superior  Woman.  "The  evil  is  seven  leagues  round,  and 
devastates  the  whole  land.  Provincial  life  is  not  self-exist- 
ent. It  is  only  when  a  nation  is  divided  into  fifty  minor 
states  that  each  can  have  a  physiognomy  of  its  own,  and  then 
a  woman  reflects  the  glory  of  the  sphere  where  she  reigns. 
This  social  phenomenon,  I  am  told,  may  be  seen  in  Italy, 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  101 

Switzerland,  and  Germany;  but  in  France,  as  in  every  coun- 
try where  there  is  but  one  capital,  a  dead  level  of  manners 
must  necessarily  result  from  centralization. ' ' 

"Then  you  would  say  that  manners  could  only  recover 
their  individuality  and  native  distinction  by  the  formation 
of  a  federation  of  French  states  into  one  empire?"  said 
Lousteau. 

"That  is  hardly  to  be  wished,  for  France  would  have 
to  conquer  too  many  countries,"  said  Bianchon. 

"This  misfortune  is  unknown  to  England,"  exclaimed 
Dinah.  "London  does  not  exert  such  tyranny  as  that  by 
•which  Paris  oppresses  France — for  which,  indeed,  French 
ingenuity  will  at  last  find  a  remedy;  however,  it  has  a  worse 
disease  in  its  vile  hypocrisy,  which  is  a  far  greater  evil!" 

"The  English  aristocracy,"  said  Lousteau,  hastening  to 
put  a  word  in,  for  he  foresaw  a  Byronic  paragraph,  "has  the 
advantage  over  ours  of  assimilating  every  form  of  superi- 
ority; it  lives  in  the  midst  of  magnificent  parks ;  it  is  in  Lon- 
don for  no  more  than  two  months.  It  lives  in  the  country, 
flourishing  there,  and  making  it  nourish." 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  "London  is  the 
capital  of  trade  and  speculation,  and  the  centre  of  govern- 
ment. The  aristocracy  hold  a  'mote'  there  for  sixty  days 
only;  it  gives  and  takes  the  passwords  of  the  day,  looks 
in  on  the  legislative  cookery,  reviews  the  girls  to  marry,  the 
carriages  to  be  sold,  exchanges  greetings,  and  is  away  again; 
and  is  so  far  from  amusing,  that  it  cannot  bear  itself  for  more 
than  the  few  days  known  as  'the  season.'  " 

"Hence,"  said  Lousteau,  hoping  to  stop  this  nimble 
tongue  by  an  epigram,  "in  Perfidious  Albion,  as  the  'Con- 
stitutionnel'  has  it,  you  may  happen  to  meet  a  charming 
woman  in  any  part  of  the  kingdom. ' ' 

"But  charming  English  women!"  replied  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  with  a  smile.  "Here  is  my  mother,  I  will  intro- 
duce you, ' '  said  she,  seeing  Madame  Pie*def er  coming  toward 
them. 

Having  introduced  the  two  Paris  lions  to  the  ambitious 


102  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

skeleton  that  called  itself  woman  under  the  name  of  Madame 
Pie'defer — a  tall,  lean  personage  with  a  red  face,  teeth  that 
were  doubtfully  genuine,  and  hair  that  was  undoubtedly 
dyed,  Dinah  left  her  visitors  to  themselves  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Well,"  said  Gatien  to  Lousteau,  "what  do  you  think 
of  her?" 

"I  think  that  the  clever  woman  of  Sancerre  is  simply  the 
greatest  chatterbox,"  replied  the  journalist. 

"A  woman  who  wants  to  see  you  deputy!"  cried  Gatien. 
"An  angel!" 

"Forgive  me,  I  forgot  you  were  in  love  with  her,"  said 
Lousteau.  "Forgive  the  cynicism  of  an  old  scamp. — Ask 
Bianchon;  I  have  no  illusions  left.  I  see  things  as  they  are. 
The  woman  has  evidently  dried  up  her  mother  like  a  par- 
tridge left  to  roast  at  too  fierce  a  fire. ' ' 

Gatien  de  Boirouge  contrived  to  let  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye  know  what,  the  journalist  had  said  of  her  in  the  course 
of  the  dinner,  which  was  copious,  not  to  say  splendid,  and 
the  lady  took  care  not  to  talk  too  much  while  it  was  proceed- 
ing. This  lack  of  conversation  betrayed  Gatien's  indiscre- 
tion. Etienne  tried  to  regain  his  footing,  but  all  Dinah's 
advances  were  directed  to  Bianchon. 

However,  half-way  through  the  evening,  the  Baroness  was 
gracious  to  Lousteau  again.  Have  you  never  observed  what 
great  meanness  may  be  committed  for  small  ends?  Thus 
the  haughty  Dinah,  who  would  not  sacrifice  herself  for  a 
fool,  who  in  the  depths  of  the  country  led  such  a  wretched 
life  of  struggles,  of  suppressed  rebellion,  of  unuttered  poetry, 
who  to  get  away  from  Lousteau  had  climbed  the  highest  and 
steepest  peak  of  her  scorn,  and  who  would  not  have  come 
down  if  she  had  seen  the  sham  Byron  at  her  feet,  suddenly 
stepped  off  it  as  she  recollected  her  album. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  caught  the  mania  for  auto- 
graphs; she  possessed  an  oblong  volume  which  deserved  the 
name  of  album  better  than  most,  as  two-thirds  of  the  pages 
were  still  blank.  The  Baronne  de  Fontaine,  who  had  kept 
it  for  three  months,  had  with  great  difficulty  obtained  a  line 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  103 

from  Rossini,  six  bars  written  by  Meyerbeer,  the  four  lines 
that  Victor  Hugo  writes  in  every  album,  a  verse  from  Lamar- 
tine,  a  few  words  from  Bdranger,  Calypso  nepouvait  se  consoler 
du  depart  d'  Ulysse"  (the  first  words  of  Tdldmaque),  written 
by  George  Sand,  Scribe's  famous  lines  on  the  Umbrella,  a 
sentence  from  Charles  Nodier,  an  outline  of  distance  by  Jules 
Dupre,  the  signature  of  David  d'Angers,  and  three  notes 
written  by  Hector  Berlioz.  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  during  a 
visit  to  Paris,  added  a  song  by  Lacenaire — a  much  coveted 
autograph,  two  lines  from  Fieschi,  and  an  extremely  short 
note  from  Napoleon,  which  were  pasted  on  to  pages  of  the 
album.  Then  Monsieur  Gravier,  in  the  course  of  a  tour,  had 
persuaded  Mademoiselle  Mars  to  write  her  name  on  this 
album,  with  Mademoiselle  Georges,  Taglioni,  and  Grisi,  and 
some  distinguished  actors,  such  as  Fre'de'rick  Lemaitre,  Mon- 
rose,  Bouffe',  Rubini,  Lablache,  Nourrit,  and  Arnal;  for  he 
knew  a  set  of  old  fellows  brought  up  in  the  seraglio,  as  they 
phrased  it,  who  did  him  this  favor. 

This  beginning  of  a  collection  was  all  the  more  precious 
to  Dinah  because  she  was  the  only  person  for  ten  leagues 
round  who  owned  an  album.  Within  the  last  two  years, 
however,  several  young  ladies  had  acquired  such  books,  in 
which  they  made  their  friends  and  acquaintances  write  more 
or  less  absurd  quotations  or  sentiments.  You  who  spend 
your  lives  in  collecting  autographs,  simple  and  happy  souls, 
like  Dutch  tulip  fanciers,  you  will  excuse  Dinah  when,  in  her 
fear  of  not  keeping  her  guests  more  than  two  days,  she  begged 
Bianchon  to  enrich  the  volume  she  handed  to  him  with  a  few 
lines  of  his  writing. 

The  doctor  made  Lousteau  smile  by  showing  him -this 
sentence  on  the  first  page : 

"What  makes  the  populace  dangerous  is  that  it  has  in  its 
pocket  an  absolution  for  every  crime.  J.  B.  DE  CLAGNY." 

"We  will  second  the  man  who  is  brave  enough  to  plead 
in  favor  of  the  Monarchy,"  Desplein's  great  pupil  whispered 
to  Lousteau,  and  he  wrote  below: 


104  BALZACTS    WORKS 

"The  distinction  between  Napoleon  and  a  water-carrier  is 
evident  only  to  Society ;  Nature  takes  no  account  of  it.  Thus 
Democracy,  which  resists  inequality,  constantly  appeals  to 
Nature.  H.  BIANCHON." 

"Ah!"  cried  Dinah,  amazed,  "you  rich  men  take  a  gold 
piece  out  of  your  purse  as  poor  men  bring  out  a  farthing.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Lousteau,  "whether 
it  is  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  a  guest  to  hope  for  a  few 
lines—" 

"Nay,  Madame,  you  flatter  me.  Bianchon  is  a  great 
man,  but  I  am  too  insignificant! — -Twenty  years  hence  my 
name  will  be  more  difficult  to  identify  than  that  of  the 
Public  Prosecutor  whose  axiom,  written  in  your  album, 
will  designate  him  as  an  obscurer  Montesquieu.  And  I 
should  want  at  least  twenty-four  hours  to  improvise  some 
sufficiently  bitter  reflections,  for  I  could  only  describe  what 
I  feel." 

"I  wish  you  needed  a  fortnight,"  said  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  graciously,  as  she  handed  him  the  book.  "I 
should  keep  you  here  all  the  longer." 

At  five  next  morning  all  the  party  in  the  Chateau  d' Anzy 
were  astir,  little  La  Baudraye  having  arranged  a  day's  sport 
for  the  Parisians — less  for  their  pleasure  than  to  gratify  his 
own  conceit.  He  was  delighted  to  make  them  walk  over  the 
twelve  hundred  acres  of  waste  land  that  he  was  intending  to 
reclaim,  an  undertaking  that  would  cost  some  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  but  which  might  yield  an  increase  of  thirty  to 
sixty  thousand  francs  a  year  in  the  returns  of  the  estate  of 
Anzy. 

"Do  you  know  why  the  Public  Prosecutor  has  not  come 
out  with  us?"  asked  Gatien  Boirouge  of  Monsieur  Gravier. 

"Why,  he  told  us  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  to-day;  the 
minor  cases  are  before  the  Court, ' '  replied  the  other. 

"And  did  you  believe  that?"  cried  Gatien.  "Well,  my 
papa  said  to  me,  'Monsieur  Lebas  will  not  join  you  early,  for 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  105 

Monsieur  de  Clagiry  has  begged  him  as  his  deputy  to  sit  for 
him!'  " 

"Indeed!"  said  Gravier,  changing  countenance.  "And 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  is  gone  to  La  Charite*!" 

"But  why  do  you  meddle  in  such  matters  ?"  said  Bianchon 
to  Gatien. 

"Horace  is  right,"  said  Lousteau.  "I  cannot  imagine 
•why  you  trouble  your  heads  so  much  about  each  other;  you 
waste  your  time  in  frivolities." 

Horace  Bianchon  looked  at  Etienne  Lousteau,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  newspaper  epigrams  and  the  satire  of  the 
"funny  column"  were  incomprehensible  at  Sancerre. 

On  reaching  a  copse,  Monsieur  Gravier  left  the  two  great 
men  and  Gatien,  under  the  guidance  of  a  keeper,  to  make 
their  way  through  a  little  ravine. 

"Well,  we  must  wait  for  Monsieur  Gravier,"  said 
Bianchon,  when  they  had  reached  a  clearing. 

"You  may  be  a  great  physician,"  said  Gatien,  "but  you 
are  ignorant  of  provincial  life.  You  mean  to  wait  for  Mon- 
sieur Gravier  ? — By  this  time  he  is  running  like  a  hare,  in 
spite  of  his  little  round  stomach ;  he  is  within  twenty  minutes 
of  Anzy  by  now — "  Gatien  looked  at  his  watch.  "Good I 
he  will  be  just  in  time." 

"Where?" 

"At the  chateau  for  breakfast,"  replied  Gatien.  "Do you 
suppose  I  could  rest  easy  if  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  were 
alone  with  Monsieur  de  Clagny?  There  are  two  of  them 
now;  they  will  keep  an  eye  on  each  other.  Dinah  will  be 
well  guarded." 

"Ah,  ha!  Then  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  has  not  yet 
made  up  her  mind?"  said  Lousteau. 

"So  mamma  thinks.  For  my  part,  I  am  afraid  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Clagny  has  at  last  succeeded  in  bewitching  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye.  If  he  has  been  able  to  show  her  that  he 
had  any  chance  of  putting  on  the  robes  of  the  Keeper  of  the 
Seals,  he  may  have  hidden  his  mole-skin  complexion,  his 
terrible  eyes,  his  touzled  mane,  his  voice  like  a  hoarse  crier's, 


106  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

his  bony  figure,  like  that  of  a  starveling  poet,  and  have  as- 
sumed all  the  charms  of  Adonis.  If  Dinah  sees  Monsieur 
de  Clagny  as  Attorney-General,  she  may  see  him  as  a  hand- 
some youth.  Eloquence  has  great  privileges. — Besides,  Ma- 
dame de  La  Baudraye  is  full  of  ambition.  She  does  not  like 
Sancerre,  and  dreams  of  the  glories  of  Paris." 

"But  what  interest  have  you  in  all  this?"  said  Lousteau. 
*'If  she  is  in  love  with  the  Public  Prosecutor! — Ah !  you  think 
she  will  not  love  him  for  long,  and  you  hope  to  succeed  him." 

"You  who  live  in  Paris,"  said  Gatien,  "meet  as  many 
different  women  as  there  are  days  in  the  year.  But  at  San- 
cerre, where  there  are  not  half  a  dozen,  and  where,  of  those 
six,  five  set  up  for  the  most  extravagant  virtue,  when  the 
handsomest  of  them  all  keeps  you  at  an  infinite  distance  by 
looks  as  scornful  as  though  she  were  of  the  blood  royal,  a 
young  man  of  two-and-twenty  may  surely  be  allowed  to 
make  a  guess  at  her  secrets,  since  she  must  then  treat  him 
with  some  consideration." 

"Consideration!  So  that  is  what  you  call  it  in  these 
parts?"  said  the  journalist  with  a  smile. 

"I  should  suppose  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  to  have  too 
much  good  taste  to  trouble  her  head  about  that  ugly  ape," 
said  Bianchon. 

"Horace,"  said  Lousteau,  "look  here,  oh  learned  inter- 
preter of  human  nature,  let  us  lay  a  trap  for  the  Public 
Prosecutor;  we  shall  be  doing  our  friend  Gatien  a  service, 
and  get  a  laugh  out  of  it.  1  do  not  love  Public  Prose- 
cutors. ' ' 

"You  have  a  keen  intuition  of  destiny,"  said  Horace. 
"But  what  can  we  do?" 

"Well,  after  dinner  we  will  tell  sundry  little  anecdotes 
of  wives  caught  out  by  their  husbands,  killed,  murdered 
under  the  most  terrible  circumstances. — Then  we  shall  see 
the  faces  that  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  and  de  Clagny  will 
make. ' ' 

"Not  amiss!"  said  Bianchon;  "one  or  the  other  must 
surely,  by  look  or  gesture — ' ' 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  107 

"I  know  a  newspaper  editor,"  Lousteau  went  on,  ad- 
dressing Gatien,  "who,  anxious  to  forefend  a  grievous  fate, 
will  take  no  stories  but  such  as  tell  the  tale  of  lovers  burned, 
hewn,  pounded,  or  cut  to  pieces;  of  wives  boiled,  fried,  or 
baked;  he  takes  them  to  his  wife  to  read,  hoping  that  sheer 
fear  will  keep  her  faithful — satisfied  with  that  humble  alter- 
native, poor  man!  'You  see,  my  dear,  to  what  the  smallest 
error  may  lead  you!'  says  he,  epitomizing  Arnolfe's  address 
to  Agnes. ' ' 

"Madame  de  La  Baudraye  is  quite  guiltless;  this  youth 
sees  double,"  said  Bianchon.  "Madame  PieMefer  seems  to 
me  far  too  pious  to  invite  her  daughter's  lover  to  the  Chateau 
d' Anzy.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  would  have  to  hoodwink 
her  mother,  her  husband,  her  maid,  and  her  mother's  maid; 
that  is  too  much  to  do.  I  acquit  her. ' ' 

"With  the  more  reason  because  her  husband  never  'quits 
her,'  "  said  Gatien,  laughing  at  his  own  wit. 

' '  We  can  easily  remember  two  or  three  stories  that  will 
make  Dinah  quake,"  said  Lousteau.  "Young  man — and 
you  too,  Bianchon — let  me  beg  you  to  maintain  a  stern  de- 
meanor; be  thorough  diplomatists,  an  easy  manner  without 
exaggeration,  and  watch  the  faces  of  the  two  criminals,  you 
know,  without  seeming  to  do  so — out  of  the  corner  of  your 
eye,  or  in  a  glass,  on  the  sly.  This  morning  we  will  hunt 
the  hare,  this  evening  we  will  hunt  the  Public  Prosecutor." 

The  evening  began  with  a  triumph  for  Lousteau,  who 
returned  the  album  to  the  lady  with  this  elegy  written  in  it: 

SPLEEN 

You  ask  for  verse  from  me,  the  feeble  prey 
Of  this  self-seeking  world,  a  waif  and  stray 

With  none  to  whom  to  cling; 
From  me— unhappy,  purblind,  hopeless  devttl 
Who  e'en  in  what  is  good  see  only  evil 

In  any  earthly  thing  1 

This  page,  the  pastime  of  a  dame  so  fair, 

May  not  reflect  the  shadow  of  my  care, 
For  all  things  have  their  place. 

Of  love,  to  ladies  bright,  the  poet  sings, 

Of  joy,  and  balls,  and  dress,  and  dainty  things- 
Nay,  or  of  God  and  Grace. 


108  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

It  were  a  bitter  jest  to  bid  the  pen 

Of  one  so  worn  with  life,  so  hating  men, 

Depict  a  scene  of  joy. 

Would  you  exult  in  sight  to  one  born  blind, 
Or — cruel!  of  a  mother's  love  remind 

Some  hapless  orphan  boy? 

"When  cold  despair  has  gripped  a  heart  still  fond, 
"When  there  is  no  young  heart  that  will  respond 

To  it  in  love,  the  future  is  a  lie. 
If  there  is  none  to  weep  When  he  is  sad, 
And  share  his  woe,  a  man  were  better  dead  I  — 

And  so  I  soon  must  die. 

Give  me  your  pity !  often  I  blaspheme 
The  sacred  name  of  God.     Does  it  not  seem 

That  I  was  born  in  vain? 

Why  should  I  bless  Him?     Or  why  thank  Him,  since 
He  might  have  made  me  handsome,  rich,  a  prince — 
And  I  am  poor  and  plain  ? 

ETIENNE  LOUSTEAU. 
September,  1836,  Chateau  d'Anzy. 

"And  you  have  written  those  verses  since  yesterday?" 
cried  Clagny  in  a  suspicious  tone. 

"Dear  me,  yes,  as  I  was  following  the  game;  it  is  only 
too  evident.  I  would  gladly  have  done  something  better 
for  Madame." 

"The  verses  are  exquisite!"  cried  Dinah,  casting  up  her 
eyes  to  heaven. 

"They  are,  alas!  the  expression  of  a  too  genuine  feeling," 
replied  Lousteau,  in  a  tone  of  deep  dejection. 

The  reader  will,  of  course,  have  guessed  that  the  journal- 
ist had  stored  these  lines  in  his  memory  for  ten  years  at  least, 
for  he  had  written  them  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration  in  dis- 
gust at  being  unable  to  get  on.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
gazed  at  him  with  such  pity  as  the  woes  of  genius  inspire; 
and  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  who  caught  her  expression,  turned 
in  hatred  against  this  sham  "Jeune  Malade."  '  He  sat  down 
to  backgammon  with  the  curd  of  Sancerre.  The  Presiding 
Judge's  son  was  so  extremely  obliging  as  to  place  a  lamp 
near  the  two  players  in  such  a  way  as  that  the  light  fell  full 
on  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  who  took  up  her  work;  she  was 

1  The  name  of  an  Elegy  written  by  Millevoye. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  109 

embroidering  in  coarse  wool  a  wicker-plait  paper-basket.  The 
three  conspirators  sat  close  at  hand. 

"For  whom  are  you  decorating  that  pretty  basket,  Ma- 
dame ? ' '  said  Lousteau.  ' '  For  some  charity  lottery,  perhaps  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  she,  "I  think  there  is  too  much  display  in 
charity  done  to  the  sound  of  a  trumpet." 

"You  are  very  indiscreet,"  said  Monsieur  Gravier. 

"Can  there  be  any  indiscretion,"  said  Lousteau,  "in  in- 
quiring who  the  happy  mortal  may  be  in  whose  room  that 
basket  is  to  stand  ? ' ' 

"There  is  no  happy  mortal  in  the  case,"  said  Dinah;  "it 
is  for  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye." 

The  Public  Prosecutor  looked  slyly  at  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  and  her  work,  as  if  he  had  said  to  himself,  "I 
have  lost  my  paper-basket!" 

"Why,  Madame,  may  we  not  think  him  happy  in  having 
a  lovely  wife,  happy  in  her  decorating  his  paper-baskets  so 
charmingly?  The  colors  are  red  and  black,  like  Kobin 
Goodf ellow.  If  ever  I  marry,  I  only  hope  that  twelve  years 
after,  my  wife's  embroidered  baskets  may  still  be  for  me." 

"And  why  should  they  not  be  for  you?"  'said  the  lady, 
fixing  her  fine  gray  eyes,  full  of  invitation,  on  Etienne's  face. 

"Parisians  believe  in  nothing,"  said  the  lawyer  bitterly. 
"The  virtue  of  women  is  doubted  above  all  things  with  ter- 
rible insolence.  Yes,  for  some  time  past  the  books  you  have 
written,  you  Paris  authors,  your  farces,  your  dramas,  all  your 
atrocious  literature  turn  on  adultery — " 

"Come,  come,  Monsieur  the  Public  Prosecutor,"  retorted 
Etienne,  laughing,  "I  left  you  to  play  your  game  in  peace, 
I  did  not  attack  you,  and  here  you  are  bringing  an  indict- 
ment against  me.  On  my  honor  as  a  journalist,  I  have 
launched  above  a  hundred  articles  against  the  writers  you 
speak  of;  but  I  confess  that  in  attacking  them  it  was  to 
attempt  something  like  criticism.  Be  just;  if  you  condemn 
them,  you  must  condemn  Homer,  whose  'Iliad'  turns  on 
Helen  of  Troy;  you  must  condemn  Milton's  'Paradise  Lost.1 
Eve  and  her  serpent  seem  to  me  a  pretty  little  case  of  sym- 


110  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

bolical  adultery;  you  must  suppress  the  Psalms  of  David, 
inspired  by  the  highly  adulterous  love  affairs  of  that  Louis 
XIV.  of  Judah;  you  must  make  a  bonfire  of  'Mithridate, ' 
*le  Tartuffe,'  Tficole  des  Femmes,'  'Phedre,'  'Andromaque,' 
*le  Mariage  de  Figaro,'  Dante's  'Inferno,'  Petrarch's  Sonnets, 
all  the  works  of  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau,  the  romances  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  History  of  France  and  of  Borne,  etc.,  etc. 
Excepting  Bossuet's  'Histoire  des  Variations'  and  Pascal's 
'Provinciales,'  I  do  not  think  there  are  many  books  left  to 
read  if  you  insist  on  eliminating  all  those  in  which  illicit 
love  is  mentioned." 

''Much  loss  that  would  be!"  said  Monsieur  de  Clagny. 

Etienne,  nettled  by  the  superior  air  assumed  by  Mon- 
sieur de  Clagny,  wanted  to  infuriate  him  by  one  of  those 
cold-drawn  jests  which  consist  in  defending  an  opinion  in 
which  we  have  no  belief,  simply  to  rouse  the  wrath  of  a 
poor  man  who  argues  in  good  faith;  a  regular  journalist's 
pleasantry. 

"If  we  take  up  the  political  attitude  into  which  you  would 
force  yourself,"  he  went  on,  without  heeding  the  lawyer's 
remark,  "and  assume  the  part  of  Public  Prosecutor  of  all  the 
ages — for  every  Government  has  its  public  ministry — well, 
the  Catholic  religion  is  infected  at  its  fountain-head  by  a 
startling  instance  of  illegal  union.  In  the  opinion  of  King 
Herod,  and  of  Pilate  as  representing  the  Roman  Empire, 
Joseph's  wife  figured  as  an  adulteress,  since,  by  her  own 
avowal,  Joseph  was  not  the  father  of  Jesus.  The  heathen 
judge  could  no  more  recognize  the  Immaculate  Conception 
than  you  yourself  would  admit  the  possibility  of  such  a  mir- 
acle if  a  new  religion  should  nowadays  be  preached  as  based 
on  a  similar  mystery.  Do  you  suppose  that  a  judge  and  jury 
in  a  police  court  would  give  credence  to  the  operation  of  the 
Holy  Ghost!  And  yet  who  can  venture  to  assert  that  God 
will  never  again  redeem  mankind?  Is  it  any  better  now 
than  it  was  under  Tiberius  ? ' ' 

"Your  argument  is  blasphemy,"  said  Monsieur  de  Clagny. 

"I  grant  it,"  said  the  journalist,  "but  not  with  malicious 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  111 

intent.  You  cannot  suppress  historical  fact.  In  my  opinion, 
Pilate,  when  he  sentenced  Jesus,  and  Anytus — who  spoke  for 
the  aristocratic  party  at  Athens — when  he  insisted  on  the 
death  of  Socrates,  both  represented  established  social  interests 
which  held  themselves  legitimate,  invested  with  co-operative 
powers,  and  obliged  to  defend  themselves.  Pilate  and  Anytus 
in  their  time  were  not  less  logical  than  the  public  prosecutors 
who  demanded  the  heads  of  the  sergeants  of  La  Rochelle; 
who,  at  this  day,  are  guillotining  the  republicans  who  take 
up  arms  against  the  throne  as  established  by  the  revolution 
of  July,  and  the  innovators  who  aim  at  upsetting  society  for 
their  own  advantage  under  pretence  of  organizing  it  on  a 
better  footing.  In  the  eyes  of  the  great  families  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  Socrates  and  Jesus  were  criminals;  to  those 
ancient  aristocracies  their  opinions  were  akin  to  those  of  the 
Mountain;  and  if  their  followers  had  been  victorious,  they 
would  have  produced  a  little  'ninety-three'  in  the  Roman. 
Empire  or  in  Attica." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  come  to,  Monsieur?"  asked  the 
lawyer. 

"To  adultery! — For  thus,  Monsieur,  a  Buddhist  as  he 
smokes  his  pipe  may  very  well  assert  that  the  Christian  relig- 
ion is  founded  in  adultery ;  as  we  believe  that  Mahomet  is  an 
impostor ;  that  his  Koran  is  an  epitome  of  the  Old  Testament 
and  the  Gospels;  and  that  God  never  had  the  least  intention 
of  constituting  that  camel-driver  His  Prophet." 

"If  there  were  many  men  like  you  in  France — and  there 
are  more  than  enough,  unfortunately — all  government  would 
be  impossible. ' ' 

"And  there  would  be  no  religion  at  all,"  said  Madame 
Pie*defer,  who  had  been  making  strangely  wry  faces  all 
through  this  discussion. 

"You  are  paining  them  very  much,"  said  Bianchon  to 
Lousteau  in  an  undertone.  "Do  not  talk  of  religion;  you 
are  saying  things  that  are  enough  to  upset  them." 

"If  I  were  a  writer  or  a  romancer,"  said  Monsieur  Gra- 
vier,  "I  should  take  the  side  of  the  luckless  husbands.  I, 


112  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

who  have  seen  many  things,  and  strange  things,  too,  know 
that  among  the  ranks  of  deceived  husbands  there  are  some 
whose  attitude  is  not  devoid  of  energy,  men  who,  at  a  crisis, 
can  be  very  dramatic,  to  use  one  of  your  words,  Monsieur," 
he  said,  addressing  Etienne. 

"You  are  very  right,  my  dear  Monsieur  Gravier,"  said 
Lousteau.  "I  never  thought  that  deceived  husbands  were 
ridiculous;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  highly  of  them — " 

"Do  you  not  think  a  husband's  confidence  a  sublime 
thing?"  said  Bianchon.  "He  believes  in  his  wife,  he  does 
not  suspect  her,  he  trusts  her  implicitly.  But  if  he  is  so 
weak  as  to  trust  her,  you  make  game  of  him;  if  he  is  jealous 
and  suspicious,  you  hate  him;  what,  then,  I  ask  you,  is  the 
happy  medium  for  a  man  of  spirit  ? ' ' 

"If  Monsieur  de  Clagny  had  not  just  expressed  such 
vehement  disapproval  of  the  immorality  of  stories  in  which 
the  matrimonial  compact  is  violated,  I  could  tell  you  of  a 
husband's  revenge,"  said  Lousteau. 

Monsieur  de  Clagny  threw  the  dice  with  a  convulsive 
jerk,  and  dared  not  look  up  at  the  journalist. 

"A  story,  from  you!"  cried  Madame  de  La  Baudraye. 
4 'I  should  hardly  have  dared  to  hope  for  such  a  treat — " 

"It  is  not  my  story,  Madame;  I  am  not  clever  enough 
to  invent  such  a  tragedy.  It  was  told  me — and  how  delight- 
fully!— by  one  of  our  greatest  writers,  the  finest  literary 
musician  of  our  day,  Charles  Nodier." 

"Well,  tell  it,"  said  Dinah.  "I  never  met  Monsieur 
Nodier,  so  you  have  no  comparison  to  fear." 

"Not  long  after  the  18th  Brumaire,"  Etienne  began,  "there 
was,  as  you  know,  a  call  to  arms  in  Brittany  and  la  Vendee. 
The  First  Consul,  anxious  before  all  things  for  peace  in  France, 
opened  negotiations  with  the  rebel  chiefs,  and  took  energetic 
military  measures ;  but,  while  combining  his  plans  of  campaign 
with  the  insinuating  charm  of  Italian  diplomacy,  he  also  set 
the  Machiavelian  springs  of  the  police  in  movement,  Fouchd 
then  being  at  its  head.  And  none  of  these  means  were  super- 
fluous to  stifle  the  fire  of  war  then  blazing  in  the  West. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  113 

"At  this  time  a  young  man  of  the  MaiHe*  family  was  de- 
spatched by  the  Chouans  from  Brittany  to  Saumur,  to  open 
communications  between  certain  magnates  of  that  town  and 
its  environs  and  the  leaders  of  the  Royalist  party.  The  envoy 
was,  in  fact,  arrested  on  the  very  day  he  landed — for  he  trav- 
elled by  boat,  disguised  as  a  master  mariner.  However,  as  a 
man  of  practical  intelligence,  he  had  calculated  all  the  risks 
of  the  undertaking ;  his  passport  and  papers  were  all  in  order, 
and  the  men  told  off  to  take  him  were  afraid  of  blundering. 

"The  Chevalier  de  Beauvoir — I  now  remember  his  name 
— had  studied  his  part  well ;  he  appealed  to  the  family  whose 
name  he  had  borrowed,  persisted  in  his  false  address,  and 
stood  his  examination  so  boldly  that  he  would  have  been  set 
at  large  but  for  the  blind  belief  that  the  spies  had  in  their 
instructions,  which  were  unfortunately  only  too  minute.  In 
this  dilemma  the  authorities  were  more  ready  to  risk  an  arbi- 
trary act  than  to  let  a  man  escape  to  whose  capture  the  Min- 
ister attached  great  importance.  In  those  days  of  liberty  the 
agents  of  the  powers  in  authority  cared  little  enough  for  what 
we  now  regard  as  legal.  The  Chevalier  was  therefore  impris- 
oned provisionally,  until  the  superior  officials  should  come 
to  some  decision  as  to  his  identity.  He  had  not  long  to  wait 
for  it;  orders  were  given  to  guard  the  prisoner  closely  in  spite 
of  his  denials. 

"The  Chevalier  de  Beauvoir  was  next  transferred,  in 
obedience  to  further  orders,  to  the  Castle  of  1'Escarpe,  a  name 
which  sufficiently  indicates  its  situation.  This  fortress, 
perched  on  very  high  rocks,  has  precipices  for  its  trenches; 
it  is  reached  on  all  sides  by  steep  and  dangerous  paths;  and, 
like  every  ancient  castle,  its  principal  gate  has  a  drawbridge 
over  a  wide  moat.  The  commandant  of  this  prison,  delighted 
to  have  charge  of  a  man  of  family  whose  manners  were  most 
agreeable,  who  expressed  himself  well,  and  seemed  highly 
educated,  received  the  Chevalier  as  a  godsend;  he  offered 
him  the  freedom  of  the  place  on  parole,  that  they  might 
together  the  better  defy  its  dulness.  The  prisoner  was  more 
than  content. 


114  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Beauvoir  was  a  loyal  gentleman,  but,  unfortunately,  lie 
was  also  a  very  handsome  youth.  He  had  attractive  features, 
a  dashing  air,  a  pleasing  address,  and  extraordinary  strength. 
Well  made,  active,  full  of  enterprise,  and  loving  danger,  he 
would  have  made  an  admirable  leader  of  guerilla,  and  was 
the  very  man  for  the  part.  The  commandant  gave  his  pris- 
oner the  most  comfortable  room,  entertained  him  at  his  table, 
and  at  first  had  nothing  but  praise  for  the  Vende"en.  This 
officer  was  a  Corsican  and  married;  his  wife  was  pretty  and 
charming,  and  he  thought  her,  perhaps,  not  to  be  trusted — 
at  any  rate,  he  was  as  jealous  as  a  Corsican  and  a  rather  ill- 
looking  soldier  may  be.  The  lady  took  a  fancy  to  Beauvoir, 
and  he  found  her  very  much  to  his  taste;  perhaps  they  loved  1 
Love  in  a  prison  is  quick  work.  Did  they  commit  some  im- 
prudence? Was  the  sentiment  they  entertained  something 
warmer  than  the  superficial  gallantry  which  is  almost  a  duty 
of  men  toward  women  ? 

"Beauvoir  never  fully  explained  this  rather  obscure  epi- 
sode of  the  story;  it  is  at  least  certain  that  the  commandant 
thought  himself  justified  in  treating  his  prisoner  with  exces- 
sive severity.  Beauvoir  was  placed  in  the  dungeon,  fed  on 
black  bread  and  cold  water,  and  fettered  in  accordance  with 
the  time-honored  traditions  of  the  treatment  lavished  on  cap- 
tives. His  cell,  under  the  fortress-yard,  was  vaulted  with 
hard  stone,  the  walls  were  of  desperate  thickness;  the  tower 
overlooked  the  precipice. 

"When  the  luckless  man  had  convinced  himself  of  the 
impossibility  of  escape,  he  fell  into  those  day-dreams  which 
are  at  once  the  comfort  and  the  crowning  despair  of  pris- 
oners. He  gave  himself  up  to  the  trifles  which  in  such  cases 
seem  so  important;  he  counted  the  hours  and  the  days;  he 
studied  the  melancholy  trade  of  being  prisoner;  he  became 
absorbed  in  himself,  and  learned  the  value  of  air  and  sun- 
shine; then,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  he  was  attacked  by 
that  terrible  malady,  that  fever  for  liberty,  which  drives 
prisoners  to  those  heroic  efforts  of  which  the  prodigious 
achievements  seem  to  us  impossible,  though  true,  and  which 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  115 

my  friend  the  doctor"  (and  he  turned  to  Bianchon)  "would 
perhaps  ascribe  to  some  unknown  forces  too  recondite  for  his 
physiological  analysis  to  detect,  some  mysteries  of  the  human 
will  of  which  the  obscurity  baffles  science." 

Bianchon  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"Beauvoir  was  eating  his  heart  out,  for  death  alone  could 
set  him  free.  One  morning  the  turnkey,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  bring  him  his  food,  instead  of  leaving  him  when  he  had 
given  him  his  meagre  pittance,  stood  with  his  arms  folded, 
looking  at  him  with  strange  meaning.  Conversation  between 
them  was  generally  brief,  and  the  warder  never  began  it. 
The  Chevalier  was  therefore  greatly  surprised  when  the  man 
said  to  him:  'Of  course,  Monsieur,  you  know  your  own  busi- 
ness when  you  insist  on  being  always  called  Monsieur  Lebrun, 
or  Citizen  Lebrun.  It  is  no  concern  of  mine;  ascertaining 
your  name  is  no  part  of  my  duty.  It  is  all  the  same  to  me 
whether  you  call  yourself  Peter  or  Paul.  If  every  man 
minds  his  own  business,  the  cows  will  not  stray.  At  the 
same  time,  /know,'  said  he,  with  a  wink,  'that  you  are  Mon- 
sieur Charles-Fe'lix-The'odore,  Chevalier  de  Beauvoir,  and 
cousin  to  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  MaiHe*. — Heh?'  he  added 
after  a  short  silence,  during  which  he  looked  at  his  prisoner. 

"Beauvoir,  seeing  that  he  was  safe  under  lock  and  key, 
did  not  imagine  that  his  position  could  be  any  the  worse  if 
his  real  name  were  known. 

"  'Well,  and  supposing  I  were  the  Chevalier  de  Beauvoir, 
what  should  I  gain  by  that?'  said  he. 

"  'Oh,  there  is  everything  to  be  gained  by  it,'  replied  the 
jailer  in  an  undertone.  'I  have  been  paid  to  help  you  to  get 
away;  but  wait  a  minute!  If  I  were  suspected  in  the  small- 
est degree,  I  should  be  shot  out  of  hand.  So  I  have  said 
that  I  will  do  no  more  in  the  matter  than  will  just  earn  the 
money. — Look  here,'  said  he,  taking  a  small  file  out  of  his 
pocket,  'this  is  your  key;  with  this  you  can  cut  through  one 
of  your  bars.  By  the  Mass,  but  it  will  not  be  an  easy  job/ 
he  went  on,  glancing  at  the  narrow  loophole  that  let  daylight 
into  the  dungeon. 


116  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"It  was  in  a  splayed  recess  under  the  deep  cornice  that 
ran  round  the  top  of  the  tower,  between  the  brackets  that 
supported  the  embrasures. 

"  'Monsieur,'  said  the  man,  'you  must  take  care  to  saw 
through  the  iron  low  enough  to  get  your  body  through. ' 

"  'I  will  get  through,  never  fear,'  said  the  prisoner. 

"  'But  high  enough  to  leave  a  stanchion  to  fasten  a  cord 
to, '  the  warder  went  on. 

"  'And  where  is  the  cord?'  asked  Beauvoir. 

"'Here,'  said  the  man,  throwing  down  a  knotted  rope. 
'It  is  made  of  ravelled  linen,  that  you  may  be  supposed  to 
have  contrived  it  yourself,  and  it  is  long  enough.  When 
you  have  got  to  the  bottom  knot,  let  yourself  drop  gently, 
and  the  rest  you  must  manage  for  yourself.  You  will  prob- 
ably find  a  carriage  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
friends  looking  out  for  you.  But  I  know  nothing  about 
that. — I  need  not  remind  you  that  there  is  a  man-at-arms 
to  the  right  of  the  tower.  You  will  take  care,  of  course,  to 
choose  a  dark  night,  and  wait  till  the  sentinel  is  asleep.  You 
must  take  your  chance  of  being  shot;  but — ' 

"  'All  right!  All  right!  At  least  I  shall  not  rot  here,1 
cried  the  young  man. 

"  'Well,  that  may  happen  nevertheless,'  replied  the  jailer, 
with  a  stupid  expression. 

"Beauvoir  thought  this  was  merely  one  of  the  aimless 
remarks  that  such  folks  indulge  in.  The  hope  of  freedom 
filled  him  with  such  joy  that  he  could  not  be  troubled  to 
consider  the  words  of  a  man  who  was  no  more  than  a  better 
sort  of  peasant.  He  set  to  work  at  once,  and  had  filed  the 
bars  through  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Fearing  a  visit  from 
the  Governor,  he  stopped  up  the  breaches  with  bread  crumb 
rubbed  in  rust  to  make  it  look  like  the  iron;  he  hid  his 
rope,  and  waited  for  a  favorable  night  with  the  intensity  of 
anticipation,  the  deep  anguish  of  soul  that  makes  a  pris- 
oner's life  dramatic. 

"At  last,  one  murky  night,  an  autumn  night,  he  finished 
cutting  through  the  bars,  tied  the  cord  firmly  to  the  stump, 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  117 

and  perched  himself  on  the  sill  outside,  holding  on  by  one 
hand  to  the  piece  of  iron  remaining.  Then  he  waited  for 
the  darkest  hour  of  the  night,  when  the  sentinels  would 
probably  be  asleep;  this  would  be  not  long  before  dawn. 
He  knew  the  hours  of  their  rounds,  the  length  of  each 
watch,  every  detail  with  which  prisoners,  almost  involun- 
tarily, become  familiar.  He  waited  till  the  moment  when 
one  of  the  men-at-arms  had  spent  two- thirds  of  his  watch 
and  gone  into  his  box  for  shelter  from  the  fog.  Then,  feel- 
ing sure  that  the  chances  were  at  the  best  for  his  escape,  he 
let  himself  down  knot  by  knot,  hanging  between  earth  and 
sky,  and  clinging  to  his  rope  with  the  strength  of  a  giant. 
All  was  well.  At  the  last  knot  but  one,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  let  himself  drop,  a  prudent  impulse  led  him  to  feel 
for  the  ground  with  his  feet,  and  he  found  no  footing.  The 
predicament  was  awkward  for  a  man  bathed  in  sweat,  tired, 
and  perplexed,  and  in  a  position  where  his  life  was  at  stake 
on  even  chances.  He  was  about  to  risk  it,  when  a  trivial 
incident  stopped  him;  his  hat  fell  off;  happily,  he  listened 
for  the  noise  it  must  make  in  striking  the  ground,  and  he 
heard  not  a  sound. 

"The  prisoner  felt  vaguely  suspicious  as  to  this  state  of 
affairs.  He  began  to  wonder  whether  the  Commandant  had 
not  laid  a  trap  for  him — but  if  so,  why  ?  Torn  by  doubts,  he 
almost  resolved  to  postpone  the  attempt  till  another  night. 
At  any  rate,  he  would  wait  for  the  first  gleam  of  day,  when 
it  would  still  not  be  impossible  to  escape.  His  great  strength 
enabled  him  to  climb  up  again  to  his  window;  still,  he  was 
almost  exhausted  by  the  time  he  gained  the  sill,  where  he 
crouched  on  the  lookout,  exactly  like  a  cat  on  the  parapet 
of  a  gutter.  Before  long,  by  the  pale  light  of  dawn,  he  per- 
ceived as  he  waved  the  rope  that  there  was  a  little  interval 
of  a  hundred  feet  between  the  lowest  knot  and  the  pointed 
rocks  below. 

"  'Thank  you,  my  friend  the  Governor!'  said  he,  with  char- 
acteristic coolness.  Then,  after  a  brief  meditation  on  this  skil- 
fully-planned revenge,  he  thought  it  wise  to  return  to  his  cell. 


118  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"He  laid  Ms  outer  clothes  conspicuously  on  the  bed,  left 
the  rope  outside  to  make  it  seem  that  he  had  fallen,  and  hid 
himself  behind  the  door  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  treacher- 
ous turnkey,  arming  himself  with  one  of  the  iron  bars  he  had 
filed  out.  The  jailer,  who  returned  rather  earlier  than  usual 
to  secure  the  dead  man's  leavings,  opened  the  door,  whistling 
as  he  came  in;  but  when  he  was  at  arm's-length,  Beauvoir 
hit  him  such  a  tremendous  blow  on  the  head  that  the  wretch 
fell  in  a  heap  without  a  cry;  the  bar  had  cracked  his  skull. 

"The  Chevalier  hastily  stripped  him  and  put  on  his 
clothes,  mimicked  his  walk,  and,  thanks  to  the  early  hour 
and  the  undoubting  confidence  of  the  warders  of  the  great 
gate,  he  walked  out  and  away." 

It  did  not  seem  to  strike  either  the  lawyer  or  Madame  de 
La  Baudraye  that  there  was  in  this  narrative  the  least  allu- 
sion that  should  apply  to  them.  Those  in  the  little  plot 
looked  inquiringly  at  each  other,  evidently  surprised  at  the 
perfect  coolness  of  the  two  supposed  lovers. 

"Oh I  I  can  tell  you  a  better  story  than  that,"  said 
Bianchon. 

"Let  us  hear,"  said  the  audience,  at  a  sign  from  Lousteau, 
conveying  that  Bianchon  had  a  reputation  as  a  story-teller. 

Among  the  stock  of  narratives  he  had  in  store,  for  every 
clever  man  has  a  fund  of  anecdotes  as  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye had  a  collection  of  phrases,  the  doctor  chose  that  which 
is  known  as  "La  Grande  Breteche,"  and  is  so  famous  indeed 
that  it  was  put  on  the  stage  at  the  Grymnase-Dramatique  un- 
der the  title  of  ' '  Valentine. "  So  it  is  not  necessary  to  repeat 
it  here,  though  it  was  then  new  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Chateau  d'Anzy.  And  it  was  told  with  the  same  finish  of 
gesture  and  tone  which  had  won  such  praise  for  Bianchon 
when  at  Mademoiselle  des  Touches'  supper-party  he  had 
told  it  for  the  first  time.  The  final  picture  of  the  Spanish 
grandee,  starved  to  death  where  he  stood  in  the  cupboard 
walled  up  by  Madame  de  Merret's  husband,  and  that  hus- 
band's last  word  as  he  replied  to  his  wife's  entreaty,  "You 
swore  on  that  crucifix  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  closet!" 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT 

produced  their  full  effect.  There  was  a  silent  minute,  highly 
flattering  to  Bianchon. 

"Do  you  know,  gentlemen,"  said  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye,  "love  must  be  a  mighty  thing  that  it  can  tempt  a 
woman  to  put  herself  -in  such  a  position?" 

"I,  who  have  certainly  seen  some  strange  things  in  the 
course  of  my  life,"  said  Gravier,  "was  cognizant  in  Spain 
of  an  adventure  of  the  same  kind." 

"You  come  forward  after  two  great  performers,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  La  Baudraye,  with  coquettish  flattery,  as  she  glanced 
at  the  two  Parisians.  "But  never  mind — proceed." 

"Some  little  time  after  his  entry  into  Madrid,"  said  the 
Receiver-General,  "the  Grandduke  of  Berg  invited  the  mag- 
nates of  the  capital  to  an  entertainment  given  to  the  newly- 
conquered  city  by  the  French  army.  In  spite  of  the  splendor 
of  the  affair,  the  Spaniards  were  not  very  cheerful;  their 
ladies  hardly  danced  at  all,  and  most  of  the  company  sat 
down  to  cards.  The  gardens  of  the  Duke's  palace  were  so 
brilliantly  illuminated  that  the  ladies  could  walk  about  in  as 
perfect  safety  as  in  broad  daylight.  The  fe"te  was  of  imperial 
magnificence.  Nothing  was  grudged  to  give  the  Spaniards 
a  high  idea  of  the  Emperor,  if  they  were  to  measure  him  by 
the  standard  of  his  officers. 

"In  an  arbor  near  the  house,  between  one  and  two  in 
the  morning,  a  party  of  French  officers  were  discussing  the 
chances  of  war,  and  the  not  too  hopeful  outlook  prognpsti- 
cated  by  the  conduct  of  the  Spaniards  present  at  that  grand 
ball. 

"  'I  can  only  tell  you,'  said  the  surgeon-major  of  the 
company  of  which  I  was  paymaster,  'I  applied  formally  to 
Prince  Murat  only  yesterday  to  be  recalled.  Without  being 
afraid  exactly  of  leaving  my  bones  in  the  Peninsula,  I  would 
rather  dress  the  wounds  made  by  our  worthy  neighbors  the 
Germans.  Their  weapons  do  not  run  quite  so  deep  into  the 
body  as  these  Castilian  daggers.  Besides,  a  certain  dread 
of  Spain  is,  with  me,  a  sort  of  superstition.  From  my  ear- 
liest youth  I  have  read  Spanish  books,  and  a  heap  of  gloomy 


120  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

romances  and  tales  of  adventures  in  this  country  have 
given  me  a  serious  prejudice  against  its  manners  and 
customs. 

"  'Well,  now,  since  my  arrival  in  Madrid,  I  have  already 
been,  not  indeed  the  hero,  but  the  accomplice  of  a  dangerous 
intrigue,  as  dark  and  mysterious  as  any  romance  by  Lady 
[Mrs.]  Radcliffe.  I  am  apt  to  attend  to  my  presentiments, 
and  I  am  off  to-morrow.  Murat  will  not  refuse  me  leave, 
for,  thanks  to  our  varied  services,  we  always  have  influential 
friends. ' 

"  'Since  you  mean  to  cut  your  stick,  tell  us  what's  up,' 
said  an  old  Republican  colonel,  who  cared  not  a  rap  for 
Imperial  gentility  and  choice  language. 

"The  surgeon-major  looked  about  him  cautiously,  as  if 
to  make  sure  who  were  his  audience,  and  being  satisfied  that 
no  Spaniard  was  within  hearing,  he  said: 

"  'We  are  none  but  Frenchmen — then,  with  pleasure, 
Colonel  Hulot.  About  six  days  since,  I  was  quietly  going 
home,  at  about  eleven  at  night,  after  leaving  General  Mont- 
cornet,  whose  hotel  is  but  a  few  yards  from  mine.  We  had 
come  away  together  from  the  Quartermaster-General's,  where 
we  had  played  rather  high  at  bouillotte.  Suddenly,  at  the 
corner  of  a  narrow  side-street,  two  strangers,  or  rather,  two 
demons,  rushed  upon  me  and  flung  a  large  cloak  round  my 
head  and  arms.  I  yelled  out,  as  you  may  suppose,  like  a 
dog  that  is  thrashed,  but  the  cloth  smothered  my  voice,  and 
I  was  lifted  into  a  chaise  with  dexterous  rapidity.  When 
my  two  companions  released  me  from  the  cloak,  I  heard  these 
dreadful  words  spoken  by  a  woman,  in  bad  French : 

"  4  "If  you  cry  out,  or  if  you  attempt  to  escape,  if  you 
make  the  very  least  suspicious  demonstration,  the  gentleman 
opposite  to  you  will  stab  you  without  hesitation.  So  you 
had  better  keep  quiet. — Now,  I  will  tell  you  why  you  have 
been  carried  off.  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  put  your 
hand  out  in  this  direction,  you  will  find  your  case  of  instru- 
ments lying  between  us;  we  sent  a  messenger  for  them  to 
your  rooms,  in  your  name.  You  will  need  them.  We  are 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  121 

taking  you  to  a  house  that  you  may  save  the  honor  of  a  lady 
who  is  about  to  give  birth  to  a  child  that  she  wishes  to  place 
in  this  gentleman's  keeping  without  her  husband's  knowl- 
edge. Though  Monsieur  rarely  leaves  his  wife,  with  whom 
he  is  still  passionately  in  love,  watching  over  her  with  all 
the  vigilance  of  Spanish  jealousy,  she  has  succeeded  in  con- 
cealing her  condition;  he  believes  her  to  be  ill.  You  must 
bring  the  child  into  the  world.  The  dangers  of  this  enter- 
prise do  not  concern  us:  only,  you  must  obey  us,  otherwise 
the  lover,  who  is  sitting  opposite  to  you  in  this  carriage,  and 
who  does  not  understand  a  word  of  French,  will  kill  you  on 
the  least  rash  movement. ' ' 

"  '  "And  who  are  you?"  I  asked,  feeling  for  the  speak- 
er's hand,  for  her  arm  was  inside  the  sleeve  of  a  soldier's 
uniform. 

"  '  "I  am  my  lady's  wai ting- woman, "  said  she,  "and 
ready  to  reward  you  with  my  own  person  if  you  show  your- 
self gallant  and  helpful  in  our  necessities." 

"  '  "Gladly,"  said  I,  seeing  that  I  was  inevitably  started 
on  a  perilous  adventure. 

"  'Under  favor  of  the  darkness,  I  felt  whether  the  person 
and  figure  of  the  girl  were  in  keeping  with  the  idea  I  had 
formed  of  her  from  her  tone  of  voice.  The  good  soul  had, 
no  doubt,  made  up  her  mind  from  the  first  to  accept  all  the 
chances  of  this  strange  act  of  kidnapping,  for  she  kept  si- 
lence very  obligingly,  and  the  coach  had  not  been  more  than 
ten  minutes  on  the  way  when  she  accepted  and  returned  a 
very  satisfactory  kiss.  The  lover,  who  sat  opposite  to  me, 
took  no  offence  at  an  occasional  quite  involuntary  kick;  as 
he  did  not  understand  French,  I  conclude  he  paid  no  heed 
to  them. 

"I  can  be  your  mistress  on  one  condition  only,"  said 
the  woman,  in  reply  to  the  nonsense  I  poured  into  her  ear, 
carried  away  by  the  fervor  of  an  improvised  passion,  to  which 
everything  was  unpropitious. 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"That  you  will  never  attempt  to  find  out  whose  ser- 

Vol.  4.  (F) 


122  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

vant  I  am.  If  I  am  to  go  to  you,  it  must  be  at  night,  and 
you  must  receive  me  in  the  dark. ' ' 

'""Very  good,"  said  I. 

"  'We  had  got  as  far  as  this,  when  the  carriage  drew  up 
under  a  garden  wall. 

"  '  "You  must  allow  me  to  bandage  your  eyes,"  said 
the  maid.  "You  can  lean  on  my  arm,  and  I  will  lead 
you." 

"  'She  tied  a  handkerchief  over  my  eyes,  fastening  it  in 
a  tight  knot  at  the  back  of  my  head.  I  heard  the  sound  of 
a  key  being  cautiously  fitted  to  the  lock  of  a  little  side  door 
by  the  speechless  lover  who  had  sat  opposite  to  me.  In  a 
moment  the  waiting-woman,  whose  shape  was  slender,  and 
who  walked  with  an  elegant  jauntiness  ' — meneho,  as  they 
call  it,"  Monsieur  Gravier  explained  in  a  superior  tone,  "a 
word  which  describes  the  swing  which  women  contrive  to 
give  a  certain  part  of  their  dress  that  shall  be  nameless. — 
'The  waiting- woman' — it  is  the  surgeon-major  who  is  speak- 
ing," the  narrator  went  on — "  'led  me  along  the  gravel  walks 
of  a  large  garden,  till  at  a  certain  spot  she  stopped.  From 
the  louder  sound  of  our  footsteps,  I  concluded  that  we  were 
close  to  the  house.  "Now  silence!"  said  she  in  a  whisper, 
1 '  and  mind  what  you  are  about.  Do  not  overlook  one  of  my 
signals ;  I  cannot  speak  without  terrible  danger  for  both  of 
us,  and  at  this  moment  your  life  is  of  the  first  importance." 
Then  she  added:  "My  mistress  is  in  a  room  on  the  ground 
floor.  To  get  into  it  we  must  pass  through  her  husband's 
room  and  close  to  his  bed.  Do  not  cough,  walk  softly,  and 
follow  me  closely,  so  as  not  to  knock  against  the  furniture 
or  tread  anywhere  but  on  the  carpets  I  laid  down." 

"  'Here  the  lover  gave  an  impatient  growl,  as  a  man 
annoyed  by  so  much  delay. 

"  'The  woman  said  no  more,  I  heard  a  door  open,  I  felt 
the  warm  air  of  the  house,  and  we  stole  in  like  thieves. 
Presently  the  girl's  light  hand  removed  the  bandage.  I 
found  myself  in  a  lofty  and  spacious  room,  badly  lighted 
by  a  smoky  lamp.  The  window  was  open,  but  the  jealous 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  123 

husband  had  fitted  it  with  iron  bars.  I  was  in  the  bottom 
of  a  sack,  as  it  were. 

14  'On  the  ground  a  woman  was  lying  on  a  mat;  her  head 
was  covered  with  a  muslin  veil,  but  I  could  see  her  eyes 
through  it  full  of  tears  and  flashing  with  the  brightness  of 
stars;  she  held  a  handkerchief  in  her  mouth,  biting  it  so  hard 
that  her  teeth  were  set  in  it:  I  never  saw  finer  limbs,  but  her 
body  was  writhing  with  pain  like  a  harp-string  thrown  on 
the  fire.  The  poor  creature  had  made  a  sort  of  struts  of  her 
legs  by  setting  her  feet  against  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  with 
both  hands  she  held  on  to  the  bar  of  a  chair,  her  arms  out- 
stretched, with  every  vein  painfully  swelled.  She  might 
have  been  a  criminal  undergoing  torture.  But  she  did  not 
utter  a  cry ;  there  was  not  a  sound  but  the  dull  cracking  of 
her  joints.  There  we  stood,  all  three  speechless  and  motion- 
less. The  husband  snored  with  reassuring  regularity.  I 
wanted  to  study  the  waiting-woman's  face,  but  she  had  put 
on  a  mask,  which  she  had  removed,  no  doubt,  during  our 
drive,  and  I  could  see  nothing  but  a  pair  of  black  eyes  and 
a  pleasingly  rounded  figure. 

"  'The  lover  threw  some  towels  over  his  mistress's  legs 
and  folded  the  muslin  veil  double  over  her  face.  As  soon 
as  I  had  examined  the  lady  with  care,  I  perceived  from  cer- 
tain symptoms  which  I  had  noted  once  before  on  a  very  sad 
occasion  in  my  life,  that  the  infant  was  dead.  I  turned  to 
the  maid  in  order  to  tell  her  this.  Instantly  the  suspicious 
stranger  drew  his  dagger;  but  I  had  time  to  explain  the  mat- 
ter to  the  woman,  who  explained  in  a  word  or  two  to  him 
in  a  low  voice.  On  hearing  my  opinion,  a  quick,  slight 
shudder  ran  through  him  from  head  to  foot  like  a  lightning 
flash;  I  fancied  I  could  see  him  turn  pale  under  his  black 
velvet  mask. 

"  'The  waiting-woman  took  advantage  of  a  moment  when 
he  was  bending  in  despair  over  the  dying  woman,  who  had 
turned  blue,  to  point  to  some  glasses  of  lemonade  standing 
on  a  table,  at  the  same  time  shaking  her  head  negatively. 
I  understood  that  I  was  not  to  drink  anything  in  spite  of  the 


124  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

dreadful  thirst  that  parched  my  throat.  The  lover  was 
thirsty,  too ;  he  took  an  empty  glass,  poured  out  some  fresh 
lemonade,  and  drank  it  off. 

"  'At  this  moment  the  lady  had  a  violent  attack  of  pain, 
which  showed  me  that  now  was  the  time  to  operate.  I  sum- 
moned all  my  courage,  and  in  about  an  hour  had  succeeded 
in  delivering  her  of  the  child,  cutting  it  up  to  extract  it. 
The  Spaniard  no  longer  thought  of  poisoning  me,  under- 
standing that  I  had  saved  the  mother's  life.  Large  tears  fell 
on  his  cloak.  The  woman  uttered  no  sound,  but  she  trembled 
like  a  hunted  animal,  and  was  bathed  in  sweat. 

'  'At  one  horribly  critical  moment  she  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  her  husband's  room;  he  had  turned  in  his  sleep, 
and  she  alone  had  heard  the  rustle  of  the  sheets,  the  creaking 
of  the  bed  or  of  the  curtain.  We  all  paused,  and  the  lover 
and  the  waiting-woman,  through  the  eyeholes  of  their  masks, 
gave  each  other  a  look  that  said,  "If  he  wakes,  shall  we  kill 
him?" 

"  'At  that  instant  I  put  out  my  hand  to  take  the  glass  of 
lemonade  the  Spaniard  had  drunk  part  of.  He,  thinking  that 
I  was  about  to  take  one  of  the  full  glasses,  sprang  forward 
like  a  cat,  and  laid  his  long  dagger  over  the  two  poisoned 
goblets,  leaving  me  his  own,  and  signing  to  me  to  drink  what 
was  left.  So  much  was  conveyed  by  this  quick  action,  and 
it  was  so  full  of  good  feeling,  that  I  forgave  him  his  atrocious 
schemes  for  killing  me,  and  thus  burying  every  trace  of  this 
event. 

"  'After  two  hours  of  care  and  alarms,  the  maid  and  I  put 
her  mistress  to  bed.  The  lover,  forced  into  so  perilous  an 
adventure,  had,  to  provide  means  in  case  of  having  to  fly, 
a  packet  of  diamonds  stuck  to  paper;  these  he  put  into  my 
pocket  without  my  knowing  it;  and  I  may  add,  parentheti- 
cally, that  as  I  was  ignorant  of  the  Spaniard's  magnificent 
gift,  my  servant  stole  the  jewels  the  day  after,  and  went  off 
with  a  perfect  fortune. 

"  'I  whispered  my  instructions  to  the  waiting-woman  as 
to  the  further  care  of  her  patient,  and  wanted  to  be  gone. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  126 

The  maid  remained  with  her  mistress,  which  was  not  very 
reassuring,  but  I  was  on  my  guard.  The  lover  made  a  bun- 
dle of  the  dead  infant  and  the  blood-stained  cloths,  tying  it 
up  tightly,  and  hiding  it  under  his  cloak;  he  passed  his  hand 
over  my  eyes  as  if  to  bid  me  to  see  nothing,  and  signed  to 
me  to  take  hold  of  the  skirt  of  his  coat.  He  went  first  out 
of  the  room,  and  I  followed,  not  without  a  parting  glance  at 
rny  lady  of  an  hour.  She,  seeing  the  Spaniard  had  gone 
out,  snatched  off  her  mask  and  showed  me  an  exquisite  face. 

"  'When  I  found  myself  in  the  garden,  in  the  open  air, 
I  confess  that  I  breathed  as  if  a  heavy  load  had  been  lifted 
from  my  breast.  I  followed  my  guide  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance, watching  his  least  movement  with  keen  attention. 
Having  reached  the  little  door,  he  took  my  hand  and  pressed 
a  seal  to  my  lips,  set  in  a  ring  which  I  had  seen  him  wearing 
on  a  finger  of  his  left  hand,  and  I  gave  him  to  understand 
that  this  significant  sign  would  be  obeyed.  In  the  street  two 
horses  were  waiting;  we  each  mounted  one.  My  Spaniard 
took  my  bridle,  held  his  own  between  his  teeth,  for  his  right 
hand  held  the  bloodstained  bundle,  and  we  went  off  at  light- 
ning speed. 

"  'I  could  not  see  the  smallest  object  by  which  to  retrace 
the  road  we  came  by.  At  dawn  I  found  myself  close  by  my 
own  door,  and  the  Spaniard  fled  toward  the  Atocha  gate. ' 

"  'And  you  saw  nothing  which  could  lead  you  to  suspect 
who  the  woman  was  whom  you  had  attended?'  the  Colonel 
asked  of  the  surgeon. 

"  'One  thing  only,'  he  replied.  'When  I  turned  the  un- 
known lady  over,  I  happened  to  remark  a  mole  on  her  arm, 
about  half-way  down,  as  big  as  a  lentil,  and  surrounded  with 
brown  hairs. ' — At  this  instant  the  rash  speaker  turned  pale. 
All  our  eyes,  that  had  been  fixed  on  his,  followed  his  glance, 
and  we  saw  a  Spaniard,  whose  glittering  eyes  shone  through 
a  clump  of  orange-trees.  On  finding  himself  the  object  of  our 
attention,  the  man  vanished  with  the  swiftness  of  a  sylph. 
A  young  captain  rushed  in  pursuit. 

"  'By  Heaven!'  cried  the  surgeon,  'that  basilisk  stare  has 


126  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

chilled  me  through,  my  friends.  I  can  hear  bells  ringing 
in  my  ears!  I  may  take  leave  of  you;  you  will  bury  me 
here!' 

"  '"What  a  fool  you  are!'  exclaimed  Colonel  Hulot.  'Fal- 
con is  on  the  track  of  the  Spaniard  who  was  listening,  and 
he  will  call  him  to  account.' 

"  'Well,'  cried  one  and  another,  seeing  the  captain  return 
quite  out  of  breath. 

"  'The  devil's  in  it,'  said  Falcon;  'the  man  went  through 
a  wall,  I  believe!  As  I  do  not  suppose  that  he  is  a  wizard, 
I  fancy  he  must  belong  to  the  house !  He  knows  every  corner 
and  turning,  and  easily  escaped. ' 

"  'I  am  done  for,'  said  the  surgeon,  in  a  gloomy  voice. 

"  'Come,  come,  keep  calm,  Bdga, '  said  I  (his  name  was 
Be"ga),  'we  will  sit  on  watch  with  you  till  you  leave.  We 
will  not  leave  you  this  evening.' 

"In  point  of  fact,  three  young  officers  who  had  been  los- 
ing at  play  went  home  with  the  surgeon  to  his  lodgings,  and 
one  of  us  offered  to  stay  with  him. 

"Within  two  days  Be*ga  had  obtained  his  recall  to  France; 
he  made  arrangements  to  travel  with  a  lady  to  whom  Murat 
had  given  a  strong  escort,  and  had  just  finished  dinner  with 
a  party  of  friends,  when  his  servant  came  to  say  that  a  young 
lady  wished  to  speak  to  him.  The  surgeon  and  the  three 
officers  went  down,  suspecting  mischief.  The  stranger  could 
only  say,  'Be  on  your  guard — '  when  she  dropped  down  dead. 
It  was  the  waiting-woman,  who,  finding  she  had  been  poi- 
soned, had  hoped  to  arrive  in  time  to  warn  her  lover. 

"  'Devil  take  it!'  cried  Captain  Falcon,  'that  is  what  I  call 
love !  No  woman  on  earth  but  a  Spaniard  can  run  about  with 
a  dose  of  poison  in  her  inside!' 

"Bega  remained  strangely  pensive.  To  drown  the  dark 
presentiments  that  haunted  him,  he  sat  down  to  table  again, 
and  with  his  companions  drank  immoderately.  The  whole 
party  went  early  to  bed,  half  drunk. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  hapless  Bega  was  aroused 
by  the  sharp  rattle  of  the  curtain  rings  pulled  violently  along 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  127 

the  rods.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  in  the  mechanical  trepidation 
which  we  all  feel  on  waking  with  such  a  start.  He  saw 
standing  before  him  a  Spaniard  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  who 
fixed  on  him  the  same  burning  gaze  that  he  had  seen  through 
the  bushes. 

"Bdga  shouted  out,  'Help,  help,  come  at  once,  friends!' 
But  the  Spaniard  answered  his  cry  of  distress  with  a  bitter 
laugh. — 'Opium  grows  for  all!'  said  he. 

"Having  thus  pronounced  sentence  as  it  were,  the  stranger 
pointed  to  the  three  other  men  sleeping  soundly,  took  from 
under  his  cloak  the  arm  of  a  woman,  freshly  amputated,  and 
held  it  out  to  Be*ga,  pointing  to  a  mole  like  that  he  had  so 
rashly  described.  'Is  it  the  same?'  he  asked.  By  the  light 
of  the  lantern  the  man  had  set  on  the  bed,  Be'ga  recognized 
the  arm,  and  his  speechless  amazement  was  answer  enough. 

"Without  waiting  for  further  information,  the  lady's  hus- 
band stabbed  him  to  the  heart. ' ' 

"You  must  tell  that  to  the  marines!"  said  Lousteau.  "It 
needs  their  robust  faith  to  swallow  it!  Can  you  tell  me  which 
told  the  tale,  the  dead  man  or  the  Spaniard?" 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  Eeceiver-General,  "I  nursed  poor 
Bega,  who  died  five  days  after  in  dreadful  suffering. — That 
is  not  the  end. 

"At  the  time  of  the  expedition  sent  out  to  restore  Ferdi- 
nand VII.,  I  was  appointed  to  a  place  in  Spain;  but,  happily 
for  me,  I  had  got  no  further  than  Tours  when  I  was  promised 
the  post  of  Receiver  here  at  Sancerre.  On  the  eve  of  setting 
out  I  was  at  a  ball  at  Madame  de  Listomere's,  where  we  were 
to  meet  several  Spaniards  of  high  rank.  On  rising  from  the 
card-table,  I  saw  a  Spanish  grandee,  an  afrancesado  in  exile, 
who  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in  Touraine.  He  had  arrived 
very  late  at  this  ball — his  first  appearance  in  society — accom- 
panied by  his  wife,  whose  right  arm  was  perfectly  motion- 
less. Everybody  made  way  in  silence  for  this  couple,  whom 
we  all  watched  with  some  excitement.  Imagine  a  picture  by 
Murillo  come  to  life.  Under  black  and  hollow  brows  the 
man's  eyes  were  like  a  fixed  blaze;  his  face  looked  dried  up, 


128  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

his  bald  skull  was  red,  and  his  frame  was  a  terror  to  behold, 
he  was  so  emaciated.  His  wife — no,  you  cannot  imagine 
her.  Her  figure  had  the  supple  swing  for  which  the  Span- 
iards created  the  word  meneho;  though  pale,  she  was  still 
beautiful;  her  complexion  was  dazzlingly  fair — a  rare  thing 
in  a  Spaniard;  and  her  gaze,  full  of  the  Spanish  sun,  fell  on 
you  like  a  stream  of  melted  lead. 

"  'Madame,'  said  I  to  her,  toward  the  end  of  the  evening, 
'what  occurrence  led  to  the  loss  of  your  arm?' 

"  4I  lost  it  in  the  war  of  independence,'  said  she." 

"Spain  is  a  strange  country,"  said  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye.  "It  still  shows  traces  of  Arab  manners." 

"Oh!"  said  the  journalist,  laughing,  "the  mania  for  cut- 
ting off  arms  is  an  old  one  there.  It  turns  up  again  every 
now  and  then  like  some  of  our  newspaper  hoaxes,  for  the 
subject  has  given  plots  for  plays  on  the  Spanish  stage  so  early 
as  1570—" 

"Then  do  you  think  me  capable  of  inventing  such  a 
story?"  said  Monsieur  Gravier,  nettled  by  Lousteau's  im- 
pertinent tone. 

"Quite  incapable  of  such  a  thing,"  said  the  journalist 
with  grave  irony. 

"Pooh!  "said  Bianchon,  "the  inventions  of  romancers~and 
play -writers  are  quite  as  often  transferred  from  their  books 
and  pieces  into  real  life,  as  the  events  of  real  life  are  made 
use  of  on  the  stage  or  adapted  to  a  tale.  I  have  seen  the 
comedy  of  'Tartufe'  played  out — with  the  exception  of  the 
close;  Orgon's  eyes  could  not  be  opened  to  the  truth." 

"And  the  tragi-comedy  of  'Adolphe'  by  Benjamin  Con- 
stant is  constantly  enacted,"  cried  Lousteau. 

"And  do  you  suppose,"  asked  Madame  de  La  Baudraye, 
"that  such  adventures  as  Monsieur  Gravier  has  related  could 
ever  occur  now,  and  in  France  ? ' ' 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Clagny,  "of  the  ten  or  twelve  startling 
crimes  that  are  annually  committed  in  France,  quite  half  are 
mixed  up  with  circumstances  at  least  as  extraordinary  as 
these,  and  often  outdoing  them  in  romantic  details.  Indeed, 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  129 

is  not  this  proved  by  the  reports  in  the  'Gazette  des  Tribu- 
naux' — The  Police  News — in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  worst 
abuses  of  the  Press?  This  newspaper,  which  was  started 
only  in  1826  or  '27,  was  not  in  existence  when  I  began  my 
professional  career,  and  the  facts  of  the  crime  I  am  about  to 
speak  of  were  not  known  beyond  the  limits  of  the  department 
where  it  was  committed. 

"In  the  quarter  of  Saint-Pierre-des-Corps  at  Tours,  a 
woman  whose  husband  had  disappeared  at  the  time  when  the 
army  of  the  Loire  was  disbanded,  and  who  had  mourned  him 
deeply,  was  conspicuous  for  her  excess  of  devotion.  When 
the  mission  priests  went  through  all  the  provinces  to  restore 
the  crosses  that  had  been  destroyed  and  to  efface  the  traces 
of  revolutionary  impiety,  this  widow  was  one  of  their  most 
zealous  proselytes,  she  carried  a  cross  and  nailed  to  it  a  silver 
heart  pierced  by  an  arrow;  and,  for  a  long  time  after,  she 
went  every  evening  to  pray  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  which  was 
erected  behind  the  Cathedral  apse. 

"At  last,  overwhelmed  by  remorse,  she  confessed  to  a 
horrible  crime.  She  had  killed  her  husband,  as  Fuald&s 
was  murdered,  by  bleeding  him;  she  had  salted  the  body 
and  packed  it  in  pieces  into  old  casks,  exactly  as  if  it  had 
been  pork;  and  for  a  long  tin  e  she  had  taken  a  piece  every 
morning  and  thrown  it  into  the  Loire.  Her  confessor  con- 
sulted his  superiors,  and  told  her  that  ii  would  be  his  duty 
to  inform  the  public  prosecutor.  The  woman  awaited  the 
action  of  the  Law.  The  public  prosecutor  and  the  exam- 
ining judge,  on  examining  the  cellar,  found  the  husband's 
head  still  in  pickle  in  one  of  the  casks. — 'Wretched  woman,' 
said  the  judge  to  the  accused,  'since  you  were  so  barbarous 
as  to  throw  your  husband's  body  piecemeal  into  the  river, 
why  did  you  not  get  rid  of  the  head  ?  Then  there  would 
have  been  no  proof." 

'I   often   tried,   Monsieur,'    said   she,   'but  it  was  too 
heavy.'  " 

"Well,  and  what  became  of  the  woman?"  askea  the  two 
Parisians. 


130  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

4 '  She  was  sentenced  and  executed  at  Tours, ' '  replied  the 
lawyer;  "but  her  repentance  and  piety  had  attracted  interest 
in  spite  of  her  monstrous  crime. ' ' 

"And  do  you  suppose,"  said  Bianchon,  "that  we  know 
all  the  tragedies  that  are  played  out  behind  the  curtain  of 
private  life  that  the  public  never  lifts  ? — It  seems  to  me  that 
human  justice  is  ill  adapted  to  judge  of  crimes  as  between 
husband  and  wife.  It  has  every  right  to  intervene  as  the 
police;  but  in  equity  it  knows  nothing  of  the  heart  of 
the  matter." 

"The  victim  has  in  many  cases  been  for  so  long  the  tor- 
mentor," said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  guilelessly,  "that 
the  crime  would  sometimes  seem  almost  excusable  if  the 
accused  could  tell  all." 

This  reply,  led  up  to  by  Bianchon  and  by  the  story  which 
Clagny  had  told,  left  the  two  Parisians  excessively  puzzled 
as  to  Dinah's  position. 

At  bedtime  council  was  held,  one  of  those  discussions 
which  take  place  in  the  passages  of  old  country-houses  where 
the  bachelors  linger,  candle  in  hand,  for  mysterious  conver- 
sations. 

Monsieur  Gravier  was  now  informed  of  the  object  in  view 
during  this  entertaining  evening  which  had  brought  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye's  innocence  to  light. 

"But,  after  all,"  said  Lousteau,  "our  hostess's  serenity 
may  indicate  deep  depravity  instead  of  the  most  childlike 
innocence.  The  Public  Prosecutor  looks  to  me  quite  capa- 
ble of  suggesting  that  little  La  Baudraye  should  be  put  in 
pickle—" 

"He  is  not  to  return  till  to-morrow;  who  knows  what  may 
happen  in  the  course  of  the  night  ? ' '  said  Gatien. 

"We  will  know!"  cried  Monsieur  Gravier. 

In  the  life  of  a  country  house  a  number  of  practical  jokes 
are  considered  admissible,  some  of  them  odiously  treacher- 
ous. Monsieur  Gravier,  who  had  seen  so  much  of  the  world, 
proposed  setting  seals  on  the  doors  of  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye and  of  the  Public  Prosecutor.  The  ducks  that  de- 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  181 

nounced  the  poet  Ibycus  are  as  nothing  in  comparison  -with 
the  single  hair  that  these  country  spies  fasten  across  the 
opening  of  a  door  by  means  of  two  little  flattened  pills  of 
wax,  fixed  so  high  up,  or  so  low  down,  that  the  trick  is 
never  suspected.  If  the  gallant  comes  out  of  his  own  door 
and  opens  the  other,  the  broken  hair  tells  the  tale. 

When  everybody  was  supposed  to  be  asleep,  the  doctor, 
the  journalist,  the  receiver  of  taxes,  and  Gatien  came  bare- 
foot, like  robbers,  and  silently  fastened  up  the  two  doors, 
agreeing  to  come  again  at  five  in  the  morning  to  examine 
the  state  of  the  fastenings.  Imagine  their  astonishment  and 
Gatien's  delight  when  all  four,  candle  in  hand,  and  with 
hardly  any  clothes  on,  came  to  look  at  the  hairs,  and  found 
them  in  perfect  preservation  on  both  doors. 

"Is  it  the  same  wax?"  asked  Monsieur  Gravier. 

"Are  they  the  same  hairs?"  asked  Lousteau. 

"Yes,"  replied  Gatien. 

"This  quite  alters  the  matter!"  cried  Lousteau.  "You 
have  been  beating  the  bush  for  a  will-o'-the-wisp." 

Monsieur  Gravier  and  Gatien  exchanged  questioning 
glances  which  were  meant  to  convey,  "Is  there  not  some- 
thing offensive  to  us  in  that  speech?  Ought  we  to  laugh 
or  to  be  angry?" 

"If  Dinah  is  virtuous,"  said  the  journalist  in  a  whisper 
to  Bianchon,  "she  is  worth  an  effort  on  my  part  to  pluck  the 
fruit  of  her  first  love." 

The  idea  of  carrying  by  storm  a  fortress  that  had  for  nine 
years  stood  out  against  the  besiegers  of  Sancerre  smiled  on 
Lousteau. 

With  this  notion  in  his  head,  he  was  the  first  to  go  down 
and  into  the  garden,  hoping  to  meet  his  hostess.  And  this 
chance  fell  out  all  the  more  easily  because  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  on  her  part  wished  to  converse  with  her  critic. 
Half  such  chances  are  planned. 

"You  were  out  shooting  yesterday,  Monsieur,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  La  Baudraye.  "This  morning  I  am  rather  puzzled 
as  to  how  to  find  you  any  new  amusement;  unless  you  would 


133  BALZAO'S    WORKS 

like  to  come  to  La  Baudraye,  where  you  may  study  more  of 
our  provincial  life  than  you  can  see  here,  for  you  have  made 
but  one  mouthful  of  my  absurdities.  However,  the  saying 
about  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  world  is  not  less  true  of  the 
poor  provincial  woman!" 

"That  little  simpleton  Gatien  has,  I  suppose,  repeated 
to  you  a  speech  I  made  simply  to  make  him  confess  that  he 
adored  you,"  said  Etienne.  "Your  silence,  during  dinner 
the  day  before  yesterday  and  throughout  the  evening,  was 
enough  to  betray  one  of  those  indiscretions  which  we  never 
commit  in  Paris. — What  can  I  say?  I  do  not  flatter  myself 
that  you  will  understand  me.  In  fact,  I  laid  a  plot  for  the 
telling  of  all  those  stories  yesterday  solely  to  see  whether  I 
could  rouse  you  and  Monsieur  de  Clagny  to  a  pang  of  re- 
morse.— Oh!  be  quite  easy;  your  innocence  is  fully  proved. 

"If  you  had  the  slightest  fancy  for  that  estimable  magis- 
trate, you  would  have  lost  all  your  value  in  my  eyes. — I  love 
perfection. 

"You  do  not,  you  cannot  love  that  cold,  dried-up,  taci- 
turn little  usurer  on  wine  casks  and  land,  who  would  leave 
any  man  in  the  lurch  for  twenty-five  centimes  on  a  renewal. 
Oh,  I  have  fully  recognized  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye's 
similarity  to  a  Parisian  bill-discounter;  their  nature  is  iden- 
tical.— At  eight-and-twenty,  handsome,  well  conducted,  and 
childless — I  assure  you,  Madame,  I  never  saw  the  problem 
of  virtue  more  admirably  expressed. — The  author  of  'Paquita 
la  Sevillane'  must  have  dreamed  many  dreams! 

"I  can  speak  of  such  things  without  the  hypocritical  gloss 
lent  them  by  young  men,  for  I  am  old  before  my  time.  I 
nave  no  illusions  left.  Can  a  man  have  any  illusions  in  the 
trade  I  follow?" 

By  opening  the  game  in  this  tone,  Lousteau  cut  out  all 
excursions  in  the  "Pays  de  Tendre,"  where  genuine  passion 
beats  the  bush  so  long;  he  went  straight  to  the  point  and 
placed  himself  in  a  position  to  force  the  offer  of  what  women 
often  make  a  man  pray  for  for  years;  witness  the  hapless 
Public  Prosecutor,  to  whom  the  greatest  favor  had  consisted 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  133 

in  clasping  Dinah's  hand  to  his  heart  more  tenderly  than 
UMuil  as  they  walked,  happy  manl 

And  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  to  be  true  to  her  reputa- 
tion as  a  Superior  Woman,  tried  to  console  the  Manfred  of 
the  Press  by  prophesying  such  a  future  of  love  as  he  had  not 
had  in  his  mind. 

"You  have  sought  pleasure,"  said  she,  "but  you  have 
never  loved.  Believe  me,  true  love  often  comes  late  in  life. 
.Remember  Monsieur  de  Gentz,  who  fell  in  love  in  his  old 
age  with  Fanny  Ellsler,  arid  left  the  Revolution  of  July  to 
take  its  course  while  he  attended  the  dancer's  rehearsals." 

"It  seems  to  me  unlikely,"  replied  Lousteau.  "1  can  still 
believe  in  love,  but  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  woman.  There 
are  in  me,  I  suppose,  certain  defects  which  hinder  me  from 
being  loved,  for  I  have  often  been  thrown  over.  Perhaps 
I  have  too  strong  a  feeling  for  the  ideal — like  all  men  who 
have  looked  too  closely  into  reality — " 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  at  last  heard  the  mind  of  a  man 
who,  flung  into  the  wittiest  Parisian  circles,  represented  to 
her  its  most  daring  axioms,  its  almost  artless  depravity,  its 
advanced  convictions;  who,  if  he  were  not  really  superior, 
acted  superiority  extremely  welL  Etienne,  performing  be- 
fore Dinah,  had  all  the  success  of  a  first  night.  "Paquita" 
of  Sancerre  scented  the  storms,  the  atmosphere  of  Paris.  She 
spent  one  of  the  most  delightful  days  of  her  life  with  Lousteau 
and  Bianchon,  who  told  her  strange  tales  about  the  great  men 
of  the  day,  the  anecdotes  which  will  some  day  form  the  "Ana" 
of  our  century ;  sayings  and  doings  that  were  the  common 
talk  of  Paris,  but  quite  new  to  her. 

Of  course,  Lousteau  spoke  very  ill  of  the  great  female 
celebrity  of  Le  Berry,  with  the  obvious  intention  of  flatter- 
ing Madame  de  La  Baudraye  and  leading  her  into  literary 
confidences,  by  suggesting  that  she  could  rival  so  great  a 
writer.  This  praise  intoxicated  Madame  de  La  Baudraye; 
and  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  Monsieur  Gravier,  and  Gatien  all 
thought  her  warmer  in  her  manner  to  Etienne  than  she  had 
been  on  the  previous  day.  Dinah's  three  attaches  greatly 


134  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

regretted  having  all  gone  to  Sancerre  to  blow  the  trumpet 
in  honor  of  the  evening  at  Anzy;  nothing,  to  hear  them, 
had  ever  been  so  brilliant.  The  Hours  had  fled  on  feet  so 
light  that  none  had  marked  their  pace.  The  two  Parisians 
they  spoke  of  as  perfect  prodigies. 

These  exaggerated  reports  loudly  proclaimed  on  the  Mall 
brought  sixteen  persons  to  Anzy  that  evening,  some  in  family 
coaches,  some  in  wagonets,  and  a  few  bachelors  on  hired  saddle 
horses.  By  about  seven  o'clock  this  provincial  company  had 
made  a  more  or  less  graceful  entry  into  the  huge  Anzy  draw- 
ing-room, which  Dinah,  warned  of  the  invasion,  had  lighted 
•up,  giving  it  all  the  lustre  it  was  capable  of  by  taking  the  hoi- 
land  covers  off  the  handsome  furniture,  for  she  regarded  this 
assembly  as  one  of  her  great  triumphs.  Lousteau,  Bianchon, 
and  Dinah  exchanged  meaning  looks  as  they  studied  the  atti- 
tudes and  listened  to  the  speeches  of  these  visitors,  attracted 
by  curiosity. 

What  invalided  ribbons,  what  ancestral  laces,  what  an- 
cient flowers,  more  imaginative  than  imitative,  were  boldly 
displayed  on  some  perennial  caps  1  The  Pre'sidente  Boirouge, 
Bianchon's  cousin,  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  doctor, 
from  whom  she  extracted  some  "advice  gratis"  by  expatiat- 
ing on  certain  pains  in  the  chest,  which  she  declared  were 
nervous,  but  which  he  ascribed  to  chronic  indigestion. 

"Simply  drink  a  cup  of  tea  every  day  an  hour  after  din- 
ner, as  the  English  do,  and  you  will  get  over  it,  for  what 
you  suffer  from  is  an  English  malady,"  Bianchon  replied 
very  gravely. 

"He  is  certainly  a  great  physician,"  said  the  Pre'sidente, 
coming  back  to  Madame  de  Clagny,  Madame  Popinot-Chan- 
disr,  and  Madame  Grorju,  the  Mayor's  wife. 

"They  say,"  replied  Madame  de  Clagny  behind  her  fan, 
"that  Dinah  sent  for  him,  not  so  much  with  a  view  to  the 
elections  as  to  ascertain  why  she  has  no  children." 

In  the  first  excitement  of  this  success,  Lousteau  introduced 
the  great  doctor  as  the  only  possible  candidate  at  the  ensuing 
elections.  But  Bianchon,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  new 


THE  MUSE   OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  136 

Sous-prdf  et,  remarked  that  it  seemed  to  him  almost  impossible 
to  give  up  science  in  favor  of  politics. 

"Only  a  physician  without  a  practice,"  said  he,  "could 
care  to  be  returned  as  a  deputy.  Nominate  statesmen,  think- 
ers, men  whose  knowledge  is  universal,  and  who  are  capable 
of  placing  themselves  on  the  high  level  which  a  legislator 
should  occupy.  That  is  what  is  lacking  in  our  Chambers, 
and  what  our  country  needs." 

Two  or  three  young  ladies,  some  of  the  younger  men,  and 
the  elder  women  stared  at  Lousteau  as  if  he  were  a  mounte- 
bank. 

"Monsieur  Gatien  Boirouge  declares  that  Monsieur  Lou- 
steau makes  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  by  his  writings," 
observed  the  Mayor's  wife  to  Madame  de  Clagny.  "Can  you 
believe  it?" 

"Is  it  possible?  Why,  a  Public  Prosecutor  gets  but  a 
thousand  crowns!" 

"Monsieur  Gatien,"  said  Madame  Chandier,  "get  Mon- 
sieur Lousteau  to  talk  a  little  louder.  I  have  not  heard 
him  yet." 

"What  pretty  boots  he  wears,"  said  Mademoiselle  Chan- 
dier to  her  brother,  "and  how  they  shine  1" 

"Yes — patent  leather." 

"Why  haven't  you  the  same?" 

Lousteau  began  to  feel  that  he  was  too  much  on  show,  and 
saw  in  the  manners  of  the  good  townsfolk  indications  of  the 
desires  that  had  brought  them  there. 

"What  trick  can  I  play  them?"  thought  he. 

At  this  moment  the  footman,  so  called — a  farm-servant 
put  into  livery — brought  in  the  letters  and  papers,  and 
among  them  a  packet  of  proof,  which  the  journalist  left 
for  Bianchon;  for  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  on  seeing  the 
parcel,  of  which  the  form  and  string  were  obviously  from 
the  printers,  exclaimed: 

"What,  does  literature  pursue  you  even  here?" 

"Not  literature,"  replied  he,  "but  a  review  in  which  I 
am  now  finishing  a  story  to  come  out  ten  days  hence.  I  have 


136  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

reached  the  stage  of  '  To  be  concluded  in  our  next, '  so  I  was 
obliged  to  give  mj  address  to  the  printer.  Oh,  we  eat  very 
hard-earned  bread  at  the  hands  of  these  speculators  in  black 
and  white !  I  will  give  you  a  description  of  these  editors  of 
magazines." 

"When  will  the  conversation  begin?"  Madame  de  Clagny 
asked  of  Dinah,  as  one  might  ask,  "When  do  the  fireworks 
go  off?" 

"I  fancied  we  should  hear  some  amusing  stories,"  said 
Madame  Popinot  to  her  cousin,  the  Pre'sidente  Boirouge. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  good  folk  of  Sancerre  were 
beginning  to  murmur  like  an  impatient  pit,  Lousteau  observed 
that  Bianchon  was  lost  in  a  meditation  inspired  by  the  wrap- 
per round  the  proofs. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Etienne. 

"Why,  here  is  the  most  fascinating  romance  possible  on 
some  spoiled  proof  used  to  wrap  yours  in.  Here,  read  it. 
'Olympia  or  Eoman  Revenge.'  ' 

"Let  us  see,"  said  Lousteau,  taking  the  sheet  the  doctor 
held  out  to  him,  and  he  read  aloud  as  follows: 

240  OLTMPIA 

cavern.  Rinaldo,  indignant  at  his 
companions'  cowardice,  for  they  had 
no  courage  but  in  the  open  field,  and 
dared  not  venture  into  Rome,  looked 
at  them  with  scorn. 

"Then  I  go  alone?"  said  he.  He 
seemed  to  reflect,  and  then  he  went 
on:  "You  are  poor  wretches.  I  shall 
proceed  alone,  and  have  the  rich 
booty  to  myself.  —  You  hear  me  I 
Farewell." 

"My  Captain,"  said  Lamberti,  "if 
you  should  be  captured  without 
having  succeeded?" 

"God  protects  me  I"  said  Rinaldo, 
pointing  to  the  sky. 

With  these  words  he  went  out,  and  on 
his  way  he  met  the  steward  Bracciano 

"That  is  the  end  of  the  page,"  said  Lousteau,  to  whom 
every  one  had  listened  devoutly. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  137 

"He  is  reading  his  work  to  us,"  said  Gatien  to  Madame 
Popinot-Chandier's  son. 

"From  the  first  word,  ladies,"  said  the  journalist,  jump- 
Ing  at  an  opportunity  of  mystifying  the  natives,  "it  is  evident 
that  the  brigands  are  in  a  cave.  But  how  careless  romancers 
of  that  date  were  as  to  details  which  are  nowadays  so  closely, 
eo  elaborately  studied  under  the  name  of  'local  color.'  If  the 
robbers  were  in  a  cavern,  instead  of  pointing  to  the  sky  he 
ought  to  have  pointed  to  the  vault  above  him. — In  spite  of  this 
inaccuracy,  Einaldo  strikes  me  as  a  man  of  spirit,  and  his 
appeal  to  God  is  quite  Italian.  There  must  have  been  a  touch 
of  local  color  in  this  romance.  Why,  what  with  brigands, 
and  a  cavern,  and  one  Lamberti  who  could  foresee  future 
possibilities — there  is  a  whole  melodrama  in  that  page.  Add 
to  these  elements  a  little  intrigue,  a  peasant  maiden  with  her 
hair  dressed  high,  short  skirts,  and  a  hundred  or  so  of  bad 
couplets. — Oh!  the  public  would  crowd  to  see  it!  And  then 
Rinaldo — how  well  the  name  suits  Lafont!  By  giving  him 
black  whiskers,  tightly-fitting  trousers,  a  cloak,  a  mustache, 
a  pistol,  and  a  peaked  hat — if  the  manager  of  the  Vaudeville 
Theatre  were  but  bold  enough  to  pay  for  a  few  newspaper 
articles,  that  would  secure  fifty  performances,  and  six  thou- 
sand francs  for  the  author's  rights,  if  only  I  were  to  cry  it  up 
in  my  columns. 

"To  proceed: 

OE  ROMAN  REVENGE  219 

The  Duchess  of  Bracciano  found 
her  glove.  Adolphe,  who  had  brought 
her  back  to  the  orange  grove,  might 
certainly  have  supposed  that  there  was 
some  purpose  in  her  forgetfulness,  for 
at  this  moment  the  arbor  was  de- 
serted. The  sound  of  the  festivities 
was  audible  in  the  distance.  The 
puppet  show  that  had  been  promised 
had  attracted  all  the  guests  to  the 
ballroom.  Never  had  Olympia  looked 
more  beautiful.  Her  lover's  eyea  met 
hers  with  an  answering  glow,  and  they 
understood  each  other.  There  was  a 
moment  of  silence,  delicious  to  their 


138  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

souls,  and  impossible  to  describe. 
They  sat  down  on  the  same  bench 
where  they  had  sat  in  the  presence  of 
the  Cavaliere  Paluzzi  and  the  laughing 

"Devil  take  it!  Our  Rinaldo  lias  vanished!"  cried  Lou- 
steau. "But  a  literary  man  once  started  by  this  page  would 
make  rapid  progress  in  the  comprehension  of  the  plot.  The 
Duchess  Olympia  is  a  lady  who  could  intentionally  forget  her 
gloves  in  a  deserted  arbor, ' ' 

"Unless  she  may  be  classed  between  the  oyster  and 
head-clerk  of  an  office,  the  two  creatures  nearest  to  marble 
in  the  zoological  kingdom,  it  is  impossible  not  to  discern  in 
Olympia — "  Bianchon  began. 

"A  woman  of  thirty/'  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  hastily 
interposed,  fearing  some  all  too  medical  term. 

"Then  Adolphe  must  be  two-and-twenty, "  the  doctor 
went  on,  "for  an  Italian  woman  at  thirty  is  equivalent  to  a 
Parisian  of  forty." 

"From  these  two  facts,  the  romance  may  easily  be  recon- 
structed, '  said  Lousteau.  "And  this  Cavaliere  Paluzzi — 
what  a  man! — The  style  is  weak  in  these  two  passages;  the 
author  was  perhaps  a  clerk  in  the  Excise  Office,  and  wrote 
the  novel  to  pay  his  tailor!" 

"In  his  time,"  said  Bianchon,  "the  censor  flourished ;  you 
must  show  as  much  indulgence  to  a  man  who  underwent  the 
ordeal  by  scissors  in  1805  as  to  those  who  went  to  the  scaffold 
in  1793." 

"Do  you  understand  in  the  least?"  asked  Madame  Gorju 
timidly  of  Madame  de  Clagny. 

The  Public  Prosecutor's  wife,  who,  to  use  a  phrase  of 
Monsieur  Gravier's,  might  have  put  a  Cossack  to  flight  in 
1814,  straightened  herself  in  her  chair  like  a  horseman  in  his 
stirrups,  and  made  a  face  at  her  neighbor,  conveying,  "They 
are  looking  at  us;  we  must  smile  as  if  we  understood." 

' '  Charming ! ' '  said  the  Mayoress  to  Gatien.  ' '  Pray  go  on, 
Monsieur  Lousteau." 

Lousteau  looked  at  the  two  women,  two  Indian  idols, 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  139 

and  contrived  to  keep  his  countenance.     He  thought  it  de- 
sirable to  say,  "Attention!"  before  going  on  as  follows: 

OR    ROMAN    REVENGE  209 

dress  rustled  in  the  silence.  Suddenly 
Cardinal  Borborigano  stood  before  the 
Duchess. 

His  face  was  gloomy,  his  brow 
was  dark  with  clouds,  and  a  bitter 
smile  lurked  in  his  wrinkles. 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "you  are  under 
suspicion.  If  you  are  guilty,  fly.  If 
you  are  not,  still  fly ;  because,  whether 
criminal  or  innocent,  you  will  find 
it  easier  to  defend  yourself  from  a 
distance." 

"I  thank  your  Eminence  for  your 
solicitude,"  said  she.  "The  Duke  of 
Bracciano  will  reappear  when  I  find 
it  needful  to  prove  that  he  is  alive." 

"Cardinal  Borborigano!"  exclaimed  Bianchon.  "By  the 
Pope's  keys!  If  you  do  not  agree  with  me  that  there  is  a 
magnificent  creation  in  the  very  name,  if  at  those  words  dress 
rustled  in  the  silence  you  do  not  feel  all  the  poetry  thrown 
into  the  part  of  Schedoni  by  Mrs.  Radcliffe  in  'The  Black 
Penitent, '  you  do  not  deserve  to  read  a  romance. ' ' 

"For  my  part,"  said  Dinah,  who  had  some  pity  on  the 
eighteen  faces  gazing  up  at  Lousteau,  "I  see  how  the  story 
is  progressing.  I  know  it  all.  I  am  in  Rome ;  I  can  see  the 
body  of  a  murdered  husband  whose  wife,  as  bold  as  she  is 
wicked,  has  made  her  bed  on  the  crater  of  a  volcano.  Every 
night,  at  every  kiss,  she  says  to  herself,  'All  will  be  discov- 
ered!' " 

"Can  you  see  her,"  said  Lousteau,  "clasping  Monsieur 
Adolphe  in  her  arms,  to  her  heart,  throwing  her  whole  life 
into  a  kiss? — Adolphe  I  see  as  a  well-made  young  man,  but 
not  clever — the  sort  of  man  an  Italian  woman  likes.  Rinaldo 
hovers  behind  the  scenes  of  a  plot  we  do  not  know,  but  which 
must  be  as  full  of  incident  as  a  melodrama  by  Pixe're'court. 
Or  we  can  imagine  Rinaldo  crossing  the  stage  in  the  back- 
ground like  a  figure  in  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  plays." 


140  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

"He,  perhaps,  is  the  husband,"  exclaimed  Madame  de 
La  Baudraye. 

"Do  you  understand  anything  of  it  all?"  Madame  Pie"defer 
asked  of  the  Prdsidente. 

"Why,  it  is  charming!"  said  Dinah  to  her  mother. 

All  the  good  folk  of  Sancerre  sat  with  eyes  as  large  as 
live-franc  pieces. 

"Go  on,  I  beg,"  said  the  hostess. 

Lousteau  went  on : 

216  OLYMPIA 

"Your  key—" 

"Have  you  lost  it?" 

"It  is  in  the  arbor." 

"Let  us  hasten." 

"Can  the  Cardinal  have  taken  it?" 

"No,  here  it  is." 

"What  danger  we  have  escaped!" 

Olympia  looked  at  the  key,  and 
fancied  she  recognized  it  as  her  own. 
But  Rinaldo  had  changed  it;  his 
cunning  had  triumphed;  he  had  the 
right  key.  Like  a  modern  Cartouche, 
he  was  no  less  skilful  than  bold, 
and  suspecting  that  nothing  but  a 
vast  treasure  could  require  a  duchess 
to  carry  it  constantly  at  her  belt. 

"Guess!'  cried  Lousteau.  "The  corresponding  page  is 
not  here.  We  must  look  to  page  212  to  relieve  our  anxiety. 

212  OLYMPIA 

"If  the  key  had  been  lost?" 

"He  would  now  be  a  dead  man." 

"Dead?  But  ought  you  not  to  grant 
the  last  request  he  made,  and  to  give 
him  his  liberty  on  the  conditions — " 

"You  do  not  know  him." 

"But—" 

"Silence!  I  took  you  for  my  lover, 
not  for  my  confessor." 

Adolphe  was  silent. 

"And  then  comes  an  exquisite  galloping  goat,  a  tailpiece 
drawn  by  Normand,  and  cut  by  Duplat. — The  names  are 
signed,"  said  Lousteau. 


141 

"Well,  and  then?"  said  such  of  the  audience  as  under- 
stood . 

"That  is  the  end  of  the  chapter,"  said  Lousteau.  "The 
fact  of  this  tailpiece  changes  my  views  as  to  the  authorship. 
To  have  his  book  got  up,  under  the  Empire,  with  vignettes 
engraved  on  wood,  the  writer  must  have  been  a  Councillor 
of  State,  or  Madame  Barthdlemy-Hadot,  or  the  late  lamented 
Desforges,  or  Sewrin." 

"  '  Adolphe  was  silent.' — Ah!"  cried  Bianchon,  "the 
Duchess  must  have  been  under  thirty." 

"If  there  is  no  more,  invent  a  conclusion,"  said  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye. 

"You  see,"  said  Lousteau,  "the  waste  sheet  has  been 
printed  fair  on  one  side  only.  In  printers'  lingo,  it  is  a  back 
sheet,  or,  to  make  it  clearer,  the  other  side  which  would  have 
to  be  printed  is  covered  all  over  with  pages  printed  one  above 
another,  all  experiments  in  making  up.  It  would  take  too 
long  to  explain  to  you  all  the  complications  of  a  making-up 
sheet;  but  you  may  understand  that  it  will  show  no  more 
trace  of  the  first  twelve  pages  that  were  printed  on  it  than 
you  would  in  the  least  remember  the  first  stroke  of  the  bas- 
tinado if  a  Pacha  had  condemned  you  to  have  fifty  on  the 
soles  of  your  feet." 

"I  am  quite  bewildered,"  said  Madame  Popinot-Chandier 
to  Monsieur  Gravier.  "I  am  vainly  trying  to  connect  the 
Councillor  of  State,  the  Cardinal,  the  key,  and  the  mak- 
ing-up—" 

"You  have  not  the  key  to  the  jest,"  said  Monsieur  Gra- 
vier. "  Well!  no  more  have  I,  fair  lady,  if  that  can  comfort 
you." 

"But  here  is  another  sheet,"  said  Bianchon,  hunting  on 
the  table  where  the  proofs  had  been  laid. 

"Capital!"  said  Lousteau,  "and  it  is  complete  and  unin- 
jured! It  is  signed  iv;  J,  Second  Edition.  -Ladies,  the 
figure  IV  means  that  this  is  part  of  the  fourth  volume.  The 
letter  J,  the  tenth  letter  of  the  alphabet,  shows  that  this  is 
the  tenth  sheet.  And  it  is  perfectly  clear  to  me,  that  in  spite 


142  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

of  any  publisher's  tricks,  this  romance,  in  four  duodecimo 
volumes,  had  a  great  success,  since  it  came  to  a  second  edi- 
tion.— We  will  read  on  and  find  a  clew  to  the  mystery." 

OK   HOMAN   REVENGE  217 

corridor;  but  finding  that  he  was 
pursued  by  the  Duchess's  people, 

"Oh,  get  along!" 

"But,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  "some  important 
events  have  taken  place  between  your  waste  sheet  and  this 
page." 

"This  complete  sheet,  Madame,  this  precious  made-up 
sheet.  But  does  the  waste  sheet  in  which  the  Duchess  for- 
gets her  gloves  in  the  arbor  belong  to  the  fourth  volume? 
Well,  Deuce  take  it — to  proceed. 

Rinaldo  saw  no  safer  refuge  than  to 
make  forthwith  for  the  cellar  where 
the  treasures  of  the  Bracciano  family 
no  doubt  lay  hid.  As  light  of  foot 
as  Camilla  sung  by  the  Latin  poet, 
he  flew  to  the  entrance  to  the  Baths 
of  Vespasian.  The  torchlight  al- 
ready flickered  on  the  walls  when 
Rinaldo,  with  the  readiness  bestowed 
on  him  by  nature,  discovered  the 
door  concealed  in  the  stone  work, 
and  suddenly  vanished.  A  hideous 
thought  then  flashed  on  Rinaldo's 
brain  like  lightning  rending  a  cloud: 
He  was  imprisoned!  He  felt  the 

"Yes,  this  made-up  sheet  follows  the  waste  sheet.  The 
last  page  of  the  damaged  sheet  was  212,  and  this  is  217.  In 
fact,  since  Einaldo,  who  in  the  earlier  fragment  stole  the  key 
of  the  Duchess's  treasure  by  exchanging  it  for  another  very 
much  like  it,  is  now — on  the  made-up  sheet — in  the  palace 
of  the  Dukes  of  Bracciano,  the  story  seems  to  me  to  be  ad- 
vancing to  a  conclusion  of  some  kind.  I  hope  it  is  as  clear 
to  you  as  it  becomes  to  me. — I  understand  that  the  festivities 
are  over,  the  lovers  have  returned  to  the  Bracciano  Palace; 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  143 

it  is  night — one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Rinaldo  will  have 
a  good  time. ' ' 

"And  Adolphe,  too!"  said  President  Boirouge,  who  was 
considered  rather  free  in  his  speech. 

"And  the  style!"  said  Bianchon. — "Rinaldo,  who  saw 
no  letter  refuge  than  to  make  for  the  cellar. ' ' 

"It  is  quite  clear  that  neither  Maradau,  nor  Treuttel  and 
"Wurtz,  nor  Doguereau,  were  the  printers,"  said  Lousteau, 
"for  they  employed  correctors  who  revised  the  proofs,  a  lux- 
ury in  which  our  publishers  might  very  well  indulge,  and  the 
writers  of  the  present  day  would  benefit  greatly.  Some 
scrubby  pamphlet  printer  on  the  Quay — " 

"What  quay?"  a  lady  asked  of  her  neighbor.  "They 
spoke  of  baths — " 

"Pray  go  on,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye. 

"At  any  rate,  it  is  not  by  a  councillor,"  said  Bianchon. 

"It  may  be  by  Madame  Hadot, "  replied  Lousteau. 

"What  has  Madame  Hadot  of  La  Charite"  to  do  with  it?" 
the  Prdsidente  asked  of  her  son. 

"This  Madame  Hadot,  my  dear  friend,"  the  hostess  an- 
swered, "was  an  authoress,  who  lived  at  the  time  of  the 
Consulate." 

"What,  did  women  write  in  the  Emperor's  time?"  asked 
Madame  Popinot-Chandier. 

"What  of  Madame  de  Genlis  and  Madame  de  Stae'l?" 
cried  the  Public  Prosecutor,  piqued  on  Dinah's  account  by 
this  remark. 

"To  be  sure!" 

"I  beg  you  to  go  on,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  to 
Lousteau. 

Lousteau  went  on,  saying:  "Page  218." 

218  OLYMPIA 

wall  with  uneasy  haste  and  gave  a 
shriek  of  despair  when  he  had  vainly 
sought  any  trace  of  a  secret  spring.  It 
was  impossible  to  ignore  the  horrible 
truth.  The  door,  cleverly  constructed 
to  servo  the  vengeful  purposes  of  the 


144  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Duchess,  could  not  be  opened  from 
within.  Rinaldo  laid  his  cheek  against 
the  wall  in  various  spots;  nowhere 
could  he  feel  the  warmer  air  from  the 
passage.  He  had  hoped  he  might 
find  a  crack  that  would  show  him 
where  there  was  an  opening  in 
the  wall,  but  nothing,  nothing  I 
The  whole  seemed  to  be  of  one  block 
of  marble. 

Then  he  gave  a  hollow  roar  like 
that  of  a  hyena — 

"Well,  we  fancied  that  the  cry  of  the  hyena  was  a  recent 
invention  of  our  own!"  said  Lousteau,  "and  it  was  already 
known  to  the  literature  of  the  Empire.  It  is  even  intro- 
duced with  a  certain  skill  in  natural  history,  as  we  see  in  the 
word  hollow." 

"Make  no  more  comments,  Monsieur,"  said  Madame  de 
La  Baudraye. 

"There,  you  see!"  cried  Bianchon.  "Interest,  the  ro- 
mantic demon,  has  you  by  the  collar,  as  he  had  me  a  while 
ago." 

"Kead  on,"  cried  de  Clagny,  "I  understand." 

' '  What  a  coxcomb ! ' '  said  the  Presiding  Judge  in  a  whisper 
to  his  neighbor  the  Sous-pre'fet. 

"He  wants  to  please  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,"  replied 
the  new  Sous-pre'fet. 

"Well,  then,  I  will  read  straight  on,"  said  Lousteau 
solemnly. 

Everybody  listened  in  dead  silence. 

OH   ROMAN   REVENGE  219 

A  deep  groan  answered  Rinaldo's 
cry,  but  in  his  alarm  he  took  it  for  an 
echo,  so  weak  and  hollow  was  the 
sound.  It  could  not  proceed  from 
any  human  breast. 

"Santa  Maria!"  said  the  voice. 

"If  I  stir  from  this  spot  I  shall  never 
find  it  again,"  thought  Einaldo,  when 
he  had  recovered  his  usual  presence 
of  mind.  "If  I  knock,  I  shall  be 
discovered.  What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Who  is  here?"    asked  the  voice. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  145 

"Hallo!"  cried  the  brigand;  "do 
the  toads  here  talk?" 

"I    am    the    Duke    of    Bracciano. 

220  OLYMPIA 

Whoever  you  may  be,  if  you  are  not  a 
follower  of  the  Duchess's,  in  the  name 
of  all  the  saints,  come  toward  me." 

"I  should  have  to  know  where  to  find 
you,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  said  Rinaldo, 
with  the  insolence  of  a  man  who  knows 
himself  to  be  necessary. 

"I  can  see  you,  my  friend,  for  my 
eyea  are  accustomed  to  the  darkness. 
Listen:  walk  straight  forward — good; 
now  turn  to  the  left — come  on — this 
way.  There,  we  are  close  to  each  other. " 

Rinaldo,  putting  out  his  hands  as  a 
precaution,  touched  some  iron  bare. 

"I  am  being  deceived,"  cried  the 
bandit. 

"No,   you  are   touching  my  cage. 

OB  ROMAN   REVENGE  221 

Sit  down  on  a  broken  shaft  of  por- 
phyry that  is  there." 

"How  can  the  Duke  of  Bracciano 
be  in  a  cage?"  asked  the  brigand. 

"My  friend,  I  have  been  here  for 
thirty  months,  standing  up,  unable 
to  sit  down —  But  you,  who  are 
you?" 

"I  am  Rinaldo,  prince  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,  the  chief  of  four-and-twenty 
brave  men  whom  the  law  describes  as 
miscreants,  whom  all  the  ladies  ad- 
mire, and  whom  judges  hang  in  obe- 
dience to  an  old  habit." 

"God  be  praised!  I  am  saved. 
An  honest  man  would  have  been 
afraid,  whereas  I  am  sure  of  coming 

222  OLYMPIA 

to  an  understanding  with  you,"  cried 
the  Duke.  "Oh,  my  worthy  deliverer, 
you  must  be  armed  to  the  teeth." 

"E  verissimo"  (most  true). 

"Do  you  happen  to  have — " 

"Yes;  files,  pincers  —  Corpo  di 
Baccot  I  came  to  borrow  the  treasures 
of  the  Bracciani  on  a  long  loan." 

"You  will  earn  a  handsome  share 
7ol.  4.  (O) 


146  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  them  very  legitimately,  my  good 
Rinaldo,  and  we  may  possibly  go  man- 
hunting  together — " 

"You  surprise  me,   Eccellenza!" 

"Listen  to  me,  Rinaldo.  I  will 
say  nothing  of  the  craving  for  ven- 
geance that  gnaws  at  my  heart.  I 
have  been  here  for  thirty  months 
—  you  too  are  Italian  —  you  will 

OR   ROMAN   REVENGE  223 

understand  me!  Alas,  my  friend,  my 
fatigue  and  my  horrible  incarcera- 
tion are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  rage  that  devours  my  soul.  The 
Duchess  of  Bracciano  is  still  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  in  Rome. 
I  loved  her  well  enough  to  be  jeal- 
ous— " 

"You,  her  husband?" 

"Yes,  I  was  wrong,  no  doubt." 

"It  is  not  the  correct  thing,  to  be 
sure,"  said  Rinaldo. 

"My  jealousy  was  roused  by  the 
Duchess's  conduct,"  the  Duke  went 
on.  "The  event  proved  me  right. 
A  young  Frenchman  fell  in  love  with 
Olympia,  and  she  loved  him.  I  had 
proofs  of  their  reciprocal  affection. 

"Pray  excuse  me,  ladies,"  said  Lousteau,  "but  I  find  it 
Impossible  to  go  on  without  remarking  to  you  how  direct  this 
Empire  literature  is,  going  to  the  point  without  any  details, 
a  characteristic,  as  it  seems  to  me,  of  a  primitive  time.  The 
literature  of  that  period  holds  a  place  between  the  summaries 
of  chapters  in  'Te'le'maque'  and  the  categorical  reports  of 
a  public  office.  It  had  ideas,  but  refrained  from  express- 
ing them,  it  was  so  scornful !  It  was  observant,  but  would 
not  communicate  its  observations  to  any  one,  it  was  so  mi- 
serly! Nobody  but  Fouch^  ever  mentioned  what  he  had 
observed.  'At  that  time,'  to  quote  the  words  of  one  of  the 
most  imbecile  critics  in  the  'Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,' 
'literature  was  content  with  a  clear  sketch  and  the  simple 
outline  of  all  antique  statues.  It  did  not  dance  over  its 
periods.' — I  should  think  not!  It  had  no  periods  to  dance 
over.  It  had  no  words  to  make  play  with.  You  were  plainly 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  147 

told  that  Lubin  loved  Toinette;  that  Toinette  did  not  love 
Lubin;  that  Lubin  killed  Toinette  and  the  police  caught 
Lubin,  who  was  put  in  prison,  tried  at  the  assizes,  and  guillo- 
tined.— A  strong  sketch,  a  clear  outline!  What  a  noble 
drama!  Well,  in  these  days  the  barbarians  make  words 
sparkle." 

"Like  hair  in  a  frost,"  said  Monsieur  de  Clagny. 

"So  those  are  the  airs  you  affect?"  '  retorted  Lousteau. 

"What  can  he  mean?"  asked  Madame  de  Clagny,  puzzled 
by  this  vile  pun. 

"I  seem  to  be  walking  in  the  dark,"  replied  the  Mayoress. 

"The  jest  would  be  lost  in  an  explanation,"  remarked 
Gatien. 

"Nowadays,"  Lousteau  went  on,  "a  novelist  draws  char- 
acters, and  instead  of  a  'simple  outline,'  he  unveils  the  human 
heart  and  gives  you  some  interest  either  in  Lubin  or  in 
Toinette." 

"For  my  part,  I  am  alarmed  at  the  progress  of  public 
knowledge  in  the  matter  of  literature,"  said  Bianchon. 
"Like  the  Kussians,  beaten  by  Charles  XII.,  who  at  last 
learned  the  art  of  war,  the  reader  has  learned  the  art  of 
writing.  Formerly  all  that  was  expected  of  a  romance  was 
that  it  should  be  interesting.  As  to  style,  no  one  cared  for 
that,  not  even  the  author ;  as  to  ideas — zero ;  as  to  local  color 
— non  est.  By  degrees  the  reader  has  demanded  style,  inter- 
est, pathos,  and  complete  information;  he  insists  on  the  five 
literary  senses — Invention,  Style,  Thought,  Learning,  and 
Feeling.  Then  came  criticism  commenting  on  everything. 
The  critic,  incapable  of  inventing  anything  but  calumny, 
pronounces  every  work  that  proceeds  from  a  not  perfect 
brain  to  be  deformed.  Some  magicians,  as  Walter  Scott, 

1  The  rendering  given  above  is  only  intended  to  link  the  various  speeches 
into  coherence;  it  has  no  resemblance  with  the  French.  In  the  original,  "Font 
chatoyer  lea  mots." 

"Et  quelquefois  lea  marts,"  dit  Monaieur  de  Clagny. 

"Ah!  Lousteau  1  vous  vous  donnez  de  ces  R-la"  (airs-la). 

Literally:  "And  sometimes  the  dead." — "Ah,  are  those  the  airs  you  as- 
•ume?" — the  play  on  the  insertion  of  the  letter  R  (mots,  marts)  has  no  meaning 
in  English. 


148  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

for  instance,  having  appeared  in  the  world,  who  combined 
all  the  five  literary  senses,  such  writers  as  had  but  one — wit 
or  learning,  style  or  feeling — these  cripples,  these  acephalous, 
maimed  or  purblind  creatures — in  a  literary  sense — have  taken 
to  shrieking  that  all  is  lost,  and  have  preached  a  crusade 
against  men  who  were  spoiling  the  business,  or  have  de- 
nounced their  works." 

"The  history  of  your  last  literary  quarrel!"  Dinah  ob- 
served. 

"For  pity's  sake,  come  back  to  the  Duke  of  Bracciano," 
cried  Monsieur  de  Clagny. 

To  the  despair  of  all  the  company,  Lousteau  went  on  with 
the  made-up  sheet. 

224  OLTMPIA 

I  then  wished  to  make  sure  of  my 
misfortune,  that  I  might  be  avenged 
under  the  protection  of  Providence 
and  the  Law.  The  Duchess  guessed 
my  intentions.  We  were  at  war  in 
our  purposes  before  we  fought  with 
poison  in  our  hands.  We  tried  to 
tempt  each  other  to  such  confidence 
as  we  could  not  feel,  I  to  induce  her 
to  drink  a  potion,  she  to  get  posses- 
sion of  me.  She  was  a  woman,  and 
she  won  the  day ;  for  women  have  a 
snare  more  than  we  men.  I  fell  into 
it — I  was  happy ;  but  I  awoke  next  day 
in  this  iron  cage.  All  through  the  day 
I  bellowed  with  rage  in  the  darkness 

OB   ROMAN   REVENGE  225 

of  this  cellar,  over  which  is  the 
Duchess's  bedroom.  At  night  an 
ingenious  counterpoise  acting  as  a 
lift  raised  me  through  the  floor,  and 
I  saw  the  Duchess  in  her  lover's 
arms.  She  threw  me  a  piece  of 
bread,  my  daily  pittance. 

"Thus  have  I  lived  for  thirty 
months!  From  this  marble  prison 
my  cries  can  reach  no  ear.  There  ia 
no  chance  for  me.  I  will  hope  no 
more.  Indeed,  the  Duchess's  room  is 
at  the  furthest  end  of  the  palace,  and 
when  I  am  carried  up  there  none  can 
hear  my  voice.  Each  time  I  see  my 
wife  she  shows  me  the  poison  I  had 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT 


226  OLTMPIA 

prepared  for  her  and  her  lover.  I 
crave  it  for  myself,  but  she  will  not 
let  me  die;  she  gives  me  bread,  and 
I  eat  it. 

"I  have  done  well  to  eat  and  live; 
I  had  not  reckoned  on  robbers  1" 

"Yes,  Eccellenza,  when  those  fools 
the  honest  men  are  asleep,  we  are  wide 
awake." 

"Oh,  Rinaldo,  all  I  possess  shall  be 
yours ;  we  will  share  my  treasure  like 
brothers;  I  would  give  you  every- 
thing— even  to  my  Duchy — " 

"Eccellenza,  procure  from  the  Pope 
an  absolution  in  articulo  mortis.  It 
would  be  of  more  use  to  me  in  my 
walk  of  life." 

OB   ROMAN   REVENGE  227 

"What  you  will.  Only  file  through 
the  bars  of  my  cage  and  lend  me  your 
dagger.  "We  have  but  little  time, 
quick,  quick  1  Oh,  if  my  teeth  were 
but  files  1 — I  have  tried  to  eat  through 
this  iron." 

"Eccellenza,"  said  Rinaldo,  "I  have 
already  filed  through  one  bar." 

"You  are  a  god!" 

"Your  wife  was  at  the  f&e  given 
by  the  Princess  Villaviciosa.  She 
brought  home  her  little  Frenchman; 
she  is  drunk  with  love. — You  have 
plenty  of  time." 

"Have  you  done?" 

"Yes." 

228  OLTMPIA 

"Your  dagger?"  said  the  Duke 
eagerly  to  the  brigand. 

"Here  it  is." 

"Good.  I  hear  the  clatter  of  the 
spring." 

"Do  not  forget  mel"  cried  the 
robber,  who  knew  what  gratitude 
was. 

"No  more  than  my  father,"  cried 
the  Duke. 

"Good-by!"  said  Rinaldo.  "Lord! 
How  he  Hies  up!"  he  added  to  him- 
self as  the  Duke  disappeared. — "No 
more  than  his  father!  If  that  is  all 
he  means  to  do  for  me. — And  I  had 


150  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sworn  a  vow  never  to  injure  a 
woman!" 

But  let  us  leave  the  robber  for  a 

OR   ROMAN    REVENGE  229 

moment  to  his  meditations  and  go 
up,  like  the  Duke,  to  the  rooms  in 
the  palace. 

"Another  tailpiece,  a  Cupid  on  a  snail!  And  page  230 
is  blank,"  said  the  journalist.  "Then  there  are  two  more 
blank  pages  before  we  come  to  the  word  it  is  such  joy  to 
write  when  one  is  unhappily  so  happy  as  to  be  a  novelist — 
Conclusion!" 

CONCLUSION 

Never  had  the  Duchess  been  more 
lovely;  she  came  from  her  bath 
clothed  like  a  goddess,  and  on  seeing 

234  OLYMPIA 

Adolphe  voluptuously  reclining  on 
piles  of  cushipns — 

"You  are  beautiful,"  said  she. 

"And  so  are  you,  Olympia!" 

"And  you  still  love  me?" 

"More  and  more,"  said  he. 

"Ah,  none  but  a  Frenchman  knows 
how  to  love!"  cried  the  Duchess. 
"Do  you  love  me  well  to-night?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  come!" 

And  with  an  impulse  of  love  and 
hate — whether  it  was  that  Cardinal 
Borborigano  had  reminded  her  of  her 
husband,  or  that  she  felt  unwonted 
passion  to  display,  she  pressed  the 
springs  and  held  out  her  arms. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Lousteau,  "for  the  foreman  has  torn 
off  the  rest  in  wrapping  up  my  proofs.  But  it  is  enough  to 
show  that  the  author  was  full  of  promise." 

"I  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of  it,"  said  Gratien  Boirouge, 
who  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  of  the  party  from 
Sancerre. 

"Nor  I,"  replied  Monsieur  Grravier. 


THE   MUSE  OF   THE   DEPARTMENT 


151 


"And  yet  it  is  a  novel  of  the  time  of  the  Empire,"  said 
Lousteau. 

"By  the  way  in  which  the  brigand  is  made  to  speak," 
said  Monsieur  Gravier,  "it  is  evident  that  the  author  knew 
nothing  of  Italy.  Banditti  do  not  allow  themselves  such 
graceful  conceits." 

Madame  Gorju  came  up  to  Bianchon,  seeing  him  pensive, 
and  with  a  glance  toward  her  daughter  Mademoiselle  Eu- 
pheinie  Gorju,  the  owner  of  a  fairly  good  fortune — "What 
a  rodomontade!"  said  she.  "The  prescriptions  you  write 
are  worth  more  than  all  that  rubbish. ' ' 

The  Mayoress  had  elaborately  worked  up  this  speech, 
which,  in  her  opinion,  showed  strong  judgment. 

"Well,  Madame,  we  must  be  lenient,  we  have  but  twenty 
pages  out  of  a  thousand,"  said  Bianchon,  looking  at  Madem- 
oiselle Gorju,  whose  figure  threatened  terrible  things  after 
the  birth  of  her  first  child. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Clagny,"  said  Lousteau,  "we  were 
talking  yesterday  of  the  forms  of  revenge  invented  by  hus- 
bands. What  do  you  say  to  those  invented  by  wives?" 

"I  say,"  replied  the  Public  Prosecutor,  "that  the  romance 
is  not  by  a  Councillor  of  State,  but  by  a  woman.  For  ex- 
travagant inventions  the  imagination  of  women  far  outdoes 
that  of  men;  witness  'Frankenstein'  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  'Leone 
Leoni'  by  George  Sand,  the  works  of  Anne  Kadcliffe,  and 
the  'Nouveau  Prorne'theV  (New  Prometheus)  of  Canaille  de 
Maupin. " 

Dinah  looked  steadily  at  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  making 
him  feel,  by  an  expression  that  gave  him  a  chill,  that  in  spite 
of  the  illustrious  examples  he  had  quoted,  she  regarded  this 
as  a  reflection  on  "Paquita  la  Sevillane." 

"Poohl"  said  little  La  Baudraye,  "the  Duke  of  Bracciano, 
whom  his  wife  puts  into  a  cage,  and  to  whom  she  shows  her- 
self every  night  in  the  arms  of  her  lover,  will  kill  her — and 
do  you  call  that  revenge? — Our  laws  and  our  society  are  far 
more  cruel." 

"How  so?"  asked  Lousteau. 


152  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Why,  little  Baudraye  is  talking  I"  said  Monsieur  Boi- 
rouge  to  his  wife. 

"Why,  the  woman  is  left  to  live  on  a  small  allowance, 
the  world  turns  its  back  on  her,  she  has  no  more  finery,  and 
no  respect  paid  her — the  two  things  which,  in  my  opinion, 
are  the  sum-total  of  woman,"  said  the  little  old  man. 

"But  she  has  happiness!"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
sententiously. 

"No,"  said  the  master  of  the  house,  lighting  his  candle 
to  go  to  bed,  "for  she  has  a  lover  1" 

"For  a  man  who  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  vine-stocks  and 
poles,  he  has  some  spunk!"  said  Lousteau. 

"Well,  he  must  have  something!"  replied  Bianchon. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  the  only  person  who  could  hear 
Bianchon's  remark,  laughed  so  knowingly,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  bitterly,  that  the  physician  could  guess  the  mystery 
of  this  woman's  life;  her  premature  wrinkles  had  been  puz- 
zling him  all  day. 

But  Dinah  did  not  guess,  on  her  part,  the  ominous  proph- 
ecy contained  for  her  in  her  husband's  little  speech,  which 
her  kind  old  Abbe*  Duret,  if  he  had  been  alive,  would  not 
have  failed  to  elucidate.  Little  La  Baudraye  had  detected 
in  Dinah's  eyes,  when  she  glanced  at  the  journalist  returning 
the  ball  of  his  jests,  that  swift  and  luminous  flash  of  tender- 
ness which  gilds  the  gleam  of  a  woman's  eye  when  pru- 
dence is  cast  to  the  winds,  and  she  is  fairly  carried  away. 
Dinah  paid  no  more  heed  to  her  husband's  hint  to  her  to 
observe  the  proprieties  than  Lousteau  had  done  to  Dinah's 
significant  warnings  on  the  day  of  his  arrival. 

Any  other  man  than  Bianchon  would  have  been  surprised 
at  Lousteau 's  immediate  success;  but  he  was  so  much  the 
doctor  that  he  was  not  even  nettled  at  Dinah's  marked  pref- 
erence for  the  newspaper-  rather  than  the  prescription-writer! 
In  fact,  Dinah,  herself  famous,  was  naturally  more  alive  to 
wit  than  to  fame.  Love  generally  prefers  contrast  to  simili- 
tude. Everything  was  against  the  physician — his  frankness, 
his  simplicity,  and  his  profession.  And  this  is  why :  women 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  163 

who  want  to  love — and  Dinah  wanted  to  love  as  much  as  to 
be  loved — have  an  instinctive  aversion  for  men  who  are  de- 
voted to  an  absorbing  occupation;  in  spite  of  superiority, 
they  are  all  women  in  the  matter  of  encroachment.  Lou- 
steau,  a  poet  and  journalist,  and  a  libertine  with  a  veneer  of 
misanthropy,  had  that  tinsel  of  the  intellect,  and  led  the  half- 
idle  life  that  attracts  women.  The  blunt  good  sense  and  keen 
insight  of  the  really  great  man  weighed  upon  Dinah,  who 
would  not  confess  her  own  smallness  even  to  herself.  She 
said  in  her  mind — "The  doctor  is  perhaps  the  better  man, 
but  I  do  not  like  him. ' ' 

Then,  again,  she  reflected  on  his  professional  duties,  won- 
dering whether  a  woman  could  ever  be  anything  but  a  subject 
to  a  medical  man,  who  saw  so  many  subjects  in  the  course  of 
a  day's  work.  The  first  sentence  of  the  aphorism  written 
by  Bianchon  in  her  album  was  a  medical  observation  striking 
BO  directly  at  woman  that  Dinah  could  not  fail  to  be  hit  by 
it.  And  then  Bianchon  was  leaving  on  the  morrow;  his 
practice  required  his  return.  What  woman,  short  of  having 
Cupid's  mythological  dart  in  her  heart,  could  decide  in  so 
short  a  time  ? 

These  little  things — which  lead  to  such  great  catastrophes 
« — having  been  seen  in  a  mass  by  Bianchon,  he  pronounced 
the  verdict  he  had  come  to  as  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  in 
a  few  words  to  Lousteau,  to  the  journalist's  great  amazement. 

"While  the  two  friends  stood  talking  together,  a  storm 
was  gathering  in  the  Sancerre  circle,  who  could  not  in  the 
least  understand  Lousteau's  paraphrases  and  commentaries, 
and  who  vented  it  on  their  hostess.  Far  from  finding  in 
his  talk  the  romance  which  the  Public  Prosecutor,  the  Sous- 
pre*fet,  the  Presiding  Judge,  and  his  deputy,  Lebas,  had  dis- 
covered there — to  say  nothing  of  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye 
and  Dinah — the  ladies  now  gathered  round  the  tea-table,  took 
the  matter  as  a  practical  joke,  and  accused  the  Muse  of  San- 
cerre of  having  a  finger  in  it.  They  had  all  looked  forward 
to  a  delightful  evening,  and  had  all  strained  in  vain  every 
faculty  of  their  mind.  Nothing  makes  provincial  folk  so 


154  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

angry  as  the  notion  of  having  been  a  laughing-stock  for  Paris 
folk. 

Madame  Pie*defer  left  the  table  to  say  to  her  daughter, 
"Do  go  and  talk  to  the  ladies;  they  are  quite  annoyed  by 
your  behavior." 

Lousteau  could  not  fail  to  see  Dinah's  great  superiority 
over  the  best  women  of  Sancerre ;  she  was  better  dressed,  her 
movements  were  graceful,  her  complexion  was  exquisitely 
white  by  candle-light — in  short,  she  stood  out  against  this 
background  of  old  faces,  shy  and  ill-dressed  girls,  like  a 
queen  in  the  midst  of  her  court.  Visions  of  Paris  faded  from 
his  brain ;  Lousteau  was  accepting  the  provincial  surround- 
ings; and  while  he  had  too  much  imagination  to  remain 
unimpressed  by  the  royal  splendor  of  this  chateau,  the  beau- 
tiful carvings,  and  the  antique  beauty  of  the  rooms,  he  had 
also  too  much  experience  to  overlook  the  value  of  the  per- 
sonality which  completed  this  gem  of  the  Kenaissance.  So 
by  the  time  when  the  visitors  from  Sancerre  had  taken  their 
leave  one  by  one — for  they  had  an  hour's  drive  before  them 
— when  no  one  remained  in  the  drawing-room  but  Monsieur 
de  Clagny,  Monsieur  Lebas,  Gatien,  and  Monsieur  Gravier, 
who  were  all  to  sleep  at  Anzy — the  journalist  had  already 
changed  his  mind  about  Dinah.  His  opinion  had  gone 
through  the  evolution  that  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had 
so  audaciously  prophesied  at  their  first  meeting. 

"Ah,  what  things  they  will  say  about  us  on  the  drive 
home!"  cried  the  mistress  of  the  house,  as  she  returned  to  the 
drawing-room  after  seeing  the  President  and  the  Prdsidente 
to  their  carriage  with  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Popinot- 
Chandier. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  had  its  pleasant  side.  Jn  the 
intimacy  of  a  small  party  each  one  brought  to  the  conversa- 
tion his  contribution  of  epigrams  on  the  figure  the  visitors 
from  Sancerre  had  cut  during  Lousteau's  comments  on  the 
paper  wrapped  round  the  proofs. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Bianchon  to  Lousteau  as  they 
went  to  bed — they  had  an  enormous  room  with  two  beds  in 


THE   MUSE    OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  155 

it — "you  will  be  the  happy  man  of  this  woman's  choice — 
n&PieMefer!" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"It  is  quite  natural.  You  are  supposed  here  to  have  had 
many  mistresses  in  Paris ;  and  to  a  woman  there  is  something 
indescribably  inviting  in  a  man  whom  other  women  favor — 
something  attractive  and  fascinating;  is  it  that  she  prides 
herself  on  being  longer  remembered  than  all  the  rest?  that 
she  appeals  to  his  experience,  as  a  sick  man  will  pay  more 
to  a  famous  physician?  or  that  she  is  flattered  by  the  revival 
of  a  world- worn  heart?" 

"Vanity  and  the  senses  count  for  so  much  in  love  affairs," 
said  Lousteau,  "that  there  maybe  some  truth  in  all  those 
hypotheses.  However,  if  I  remain,  it  will  be  in  consequence 
of  the  certificate  of  innocence,  without  ignorance,  that  you 
have  given  Dinah.  She  is  handsome,  is  she  not?" 

"Love  will  make  her  beautiful,"  said  the  doctor.  "And, 
after  all,  she  will  be  a  rich  widow  some  day  or  other!  And 
a  child  would  secure  her  the  life-interest  in  the  Master  of  La 
Baudraye's  fortune — " 

"Why,  it  is  quite  an  act  of  virtue  to  make  love  to  her," 
said  Lousteau,  rolling  himself  up  in  the  bedclothes,  "and 
to-morrow,  with  your  help — yes,  to-morrow,  I — well,  good- 
night." 

On  the  following  day,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  to  whom 
her  husband  had  six  months  since  given  a  pair  of  horses, 
which  he  also  used  in  the  fields,  and  an  old  carriage  that 
rattled  on  the  road,  decided  that  she  would  take  Bianchon 
so  far  on  his  way  as  Cosne,  where  he  would  get  into  the 
Lyons  diligence  as  it  passed  through.  She  also  took  her 
mother  and  Lousteau,  but  she  intended  to  drop  her  mother 
at  La  Baudraye  to  go  on  to  Cosne  with  the  two  Parisians,  and 
return  alone  with  Etienne.  She  was  elegantly  dressed,  as  the 
journalist  at  once  perceived — bronze  kid  boots,  gray  silk  stock- 
ings, a  muslin  dress,  a  green  silk  scarf  with  shaded  fringe  at 
the  ends,  and  a  pretty  black  lace  bonnet  with  flowers  in  it. 
As  to  Lousteau,  the  wretch  had  assumed  his  war-paint — 


156  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

patent-leather  boots,  trousers  of  English  kerseymere  with 
pleats  in  front,  a  very  open  waistcoat  showing  a  particularly 
fine  shirt  and  the  black  brocade  waterfall  of  his  handsomest 
cravat,  and  a  very  thin,  very  short  black  riding-coat. 

Monsieur  de  Clagny  and  Monsieur  Gravier  looked  at  each 
other,  feeling  rather  silly  as  they  beheld  the  two  Parisians  in 
the  carriage,  while  they,  like  two  simpletons,  were  left  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  who 
stood  at  the  top  waving  his  little  hand  in  a  little  farewell 
to  the  doctor,  could  not  forbear  from  smiling  as  he  heard 
Monsieur  de  Clagny  say  to  Monsieur  Gravier: 

"You  should  have  escorted  them  on  horseback." 

At  this  juncture  Gatien,  riding  Monsieur  de  La  Bau- 
draye's  quiet  little  mare,  came  out  of  the  side  road  from  the 
stables,  and  joined  the  party  in  the  chaise. 

"Ah,  good!"  said  the  Eeceiver-General,  "the  boy  has 
mounted  guard." 

"What  a  bore!"  cried  Dinah  as  she  saw  Gatien.  "In 
thirteen  years — for  I  have  been  married  nearly  thirteen  years 
— I  have  never  had  three  hours'  liberty." 

"Married,  Madame?"  said  the  journalist  with  a  smile. 
"You  remind  me  of  a  saying  of  Michaud's — he  was  so  witty! 
He  was  setting  out  for  the  Holy  Land,  and  his  friends  were 
remonstrating  with  him,  urging  his  age,  and  the  perils  of  such 
an  expedition.  'And  then,'  said  one,  'you  are  married.' — 
'Married!'  said  he,  'so  little  married.'  ' 

Even  the  rigid  Madame  Pie'defer  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"I  should  not  be  surprised  to  see  Monsieur  de  Clagny 
mounted  on  my  pony  to  complete  the  escort, ' '  said  Dinah. 

"Well,  if  the  Public  Prosecutor  does  not  pursue  us,  you 
can  get  rid  of  this  little  fellow  at  Sancerre.  Bianchon  must, 
of  course,  have  left  something  behind  on  his  table — the  notes 
for  the  first  lecture  of  his  course — and  you  can  ask  Gatien  to 
go  back  to  Anzy  to  fetch  it." 

This  simple  little  plot  put  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  into 
high  spirits.  From  the  road  between  Anzy  to  Sancerre,  a 
glorious  landscape  frequently  comes  into  view,  of  the  noble 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  157 

stretches  of  the  Loire  looking  like  a  lake,  and  it  was  got  over 
very  pleasantly,  for  Dinah  was  happy  in  finding  herself  well 
understood.  Love  was  discussed  in  theory,  a  subject  allow- 
ing lovers  in  petto  to  take  the  measure,  as  it  were,  of  each 
other's  heart.  The  journalist  took  a  tone  of  refined  corrup- 
tion to  prove  that  love  obeys  no  law,  that  the  character  of  the 
lovers  gives  infinite  variety  to  its  incidents,  that  the  circum- 
stances of  social  life  add  to  the  multiplicity  of  its  manifesta- 
tions, that  in  love  all  is  possible  and  true,  and  that  any  given 
woman,  after  resisting  every  temptation  and  the  seductions 
of  the  most  passionate  lover,  may  be  carried  off  her  feet  in 
the  course  of  a  few  hours  by  a  fancy,  an  internal  whirlwind 
of  which  God  alone  would  ever  know  the  secret! 

"Why,"  said  he,  "is  not  that  the  key  to  all  the  adven- 
tures we  have  talked  over  these  three  days  past?" 

For  these  three  days,  indeed,  Dinah's  lively  imagination 
had  been  full  of  the  most  insidious  romances,  and  the  con- 
versation of  the  two  Parisians  had  affected  the  woman  as 
the  most  mischievous  reading  might  have  done.  Lousteau 
watched  the  effects  of  this  clever  manoeuvre,  to  seize  the 
moment  when  his  prey,  whose  readiness  to  be  caught  was 
hidden  under  the  abstraction  caused  by  irresolution,  should 
be  quite  dizzy. 

Dinah  wished  to  show  La  Baudraye  to  her  two  visitors, 
and  the  farce  was  duly  played  out  of  remembering  the  papers 
left  by  Bianchon  in  his  room  at  Anzy.  Gatien  flew  off  at  a 
gallop  to  obey  his  sovereign;  Madame  Piddefer  went  to  do 
some  shopping  in  Sancerre;  and  Dinah  went  on  to  Cosne 
alone  with  the  two  friends.  Lousteau  took  his  seat  by  the 
lady,  Bianchon  riding  backward.  The  two  friends  talked 
affectionately  and  with  deep  compassion  for  the  fate  of  this 
choice  nature  so  ill  understood  and  in  the  midst  of  such  vul- 
gar surroundings.  Bianchon  served  Lousteau  well  by  mak- 
ing fun  of  the  Public  Prosecutor,  of  Monsieur  Gravier,  and 
of  Gatien;  there  was  a  tone  of  such  genuine  contempt  in  his 
remarks  that  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  dared  not  take  the 
part  of  her  adorers. 


158  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

4 '  1  perfectly  understand  the  position  you  have  maintained, ' ' 
said  the  doctor  as  they  crossed  the  Loire.  "You  were  inac- 
cessible excepting  to  that  brain-love  which  often  leads  to 
heart-love;  and  not  one  of  those  men,  it  is  very  certain,  is 
capable  of  disguising  what,  at  an  early  stage  of  life,  is  dis- 
gusting to  the  senses  in  the  eyes  of  a  refined  woman.  To  you, 
now,  love  is  indispensable." 

"Indispensable!"  cried  Dinah,  looking  curiously  at  the 
doctor.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  prescribe  love  to  me?" 

"If  you  go  on  living  as  you  live  now,  in  three  years  you 
will  be  hideous,"  replied  Bianchon  in  a  dictatorial  tone. 

"Monsieur!"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  almost  fright- 
ened. 

"Forgive  my  friend, ' '  said  Lousteau,  half -jestingly.  "He 
is  always  the  medical  man,  and  to  him  love  is  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  hygiene.  But  he  is  quite  disinterested — it  is  for  your 
sake  only  that  he  speaks — as  is  evident,  since  he  is  starting 
in  an  hour — " 

At  Cosne  a  little  crowd  gathered  round  the  old  repainted 
chaise,  with  the  arms  on  the  panels  granted  by  Louis  XIV. 
to  the  new  La  Baudraye.  (rules,  a  pair  of  scales  or;  on  a 
chief  azure  (color  on  color)  three  cross-crosslets  argent.  For 
supporters  two  greyhounds  argent,  collared  azure,  chained 
or.  The  ironical  motto,  Deo  sic  patet  fides  et  hominibus, 
had  been  inflicted  on  the  converted  Calvinist  by  Hozier  the 
satirical. 

"Let  us  get  out;  they  will  come  and  find  us,"  said  the 
Baroness,  desiring  her  coachman  to  keep  watch. 

Dinah  took  Bianchon's  arm,  and  the  doctor  set  off  by  the 
banks  of  the  Loire  at  so  rapid  a  pace  that  the  journalist  had 
to  linger  behind.  The  physician  had  explained  by  a  single 
wink  that  he  meant  to  do  Lousteau  a  good  turn. 

"You  have  been  attracted  by  Etienne, "  said  Bianchon  to 
Dinah;  "he  has  appealed  strongly  to  your  imagination;  last 
night  we  were  talking  about  you. — He  loves  you.  But  he 
is  frivolous,  and  difficult  to  hold;  his  poverty  compels  him 
to  live  in  Paris,  while  everything  condemns  you  to  live  at 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  159 

Sancerre. — Take  a  lofty  view  of  life.  Make  Lousteau  your 
friend ;  do  not  ask  too  much  of  him ;  he  will  come  three  times 
a  year  to  spend  a  few  days  with  you,  and  you  will  owe  to  him 
your  beauty,  happiness,  and  fortune.  Monsieur  de  La  Bau- 
dray e  may  live  to  be  a  hundred ;  but  he  might  die  in  a  few 
days  if  he  should  leave  off  the  flannel  winding-sheet  in  which 
he  swathes  himself.  So  run  no  risks,  be  prudent  both  of  you. 
— Say  not  a  word — I  have  read  your  heart." 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  defenceless  under  this  ser- 
ried attack,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  man  who  spoke  at  once 
as  a  doctor,  a  confessor,  and  confidential  friend. 

"  Indeed  1"  said  she.  "  Can  you  suppose  that  any  woman 
would  care  to  compete  with  a  journalist's  mistresses? — Mon- 
sieur Lousteau  strikes  me  as  agreeable  and  witty ;  but  he  is 
llasi)  etc.,  etc, — " 

Dinah  had  turned  back,  and  was  obliged  to  check  the  flow 
of  words  by  which  she  tried  to  disguise  her  intentions ;  for 
Etienne,  who  seemed  to  be  studying  progress  in  Cosne,  was 
coming  to  meet  them. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Bianchon,  "what  he  wants  is  to  be 
truly  loved;  and  if  he  alters  his  course  of  life,  it  will  be  to 
the  benefit  of  his  talent." 

Dinah's  coachman  hurried  up  breathlessly  to  say  that  the 
diligence  had  come  in,  and  they  walked  on  quickly,  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye  between  the  two  men. 

"Good-by,  my  children  I"  said  Bianchon,  before  they  got 
into  the  town,  "you  have  my  blessing  I" 

He  released  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  hand  from  his  arm, 
and  allowed  Lousteau  to  draw  it  into  his,  with  a  tender  look, 
as  he  pressed  it  to  his  heart.  What  a  difference  to  Dinah! 
Etienne's  arm  thrilled  her  deeply.  Bianchon's  had  not  stirred 
her  in  the  least.  She  and  the  journalist  exchanged  one  of 
those  glowing  looks  that  are  more  than  an  avowal. 

"Only  provincial  women  wear  muslin  gowns  in  these 
days,"  thought  Lousteau  to  himself,  "the  only  stuff  which 
shows  every  crease.  This  woman,  who  has  chosen  me  for 
her  lover,  will  make  a  fuss  over  her  frock!  If  she  had  but 


160  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

put  on  a  foulard  skirt,  I  should  be  happy. — What  is  the 
meaning  of  these  difficulties — ?" 

While  Lousteau  was  wondering  whether  Dinah  had  put 
on  a  muslin  gown  on  purpose  to  protect  herself  by  an  insuper- 
able obstacle,  Bianchon,  with  the  help  of  the  coachman,  was 
seeing  his  luggage  piled  on  the  diligence.  Finally,  he  came 
to  take  leave  of  Dinah,  who  was  excessively  friendly  with 
him. 

"Go  home,  Madame  la  Baronne,  leave  me  here — Gatien 
will  be  coming,"  he  added  in  an  undertone.  "It  is  getting 
late,"  said  he  aloud.  "Good-by!" 

"Good-by — great  man!"  cried  Lousteau,  shaking  hands 
with  Bianchon. 

When  the  journalist  and  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  side 
by  side  in  the  rickety  old  chaise,  had  recrossed  the  Loire, 
they  both  were  unready  to  speak.  In  these-  circumstances, 
the  first  words  that  break  the  silence  are  full  of  terrible 
meaning. 

"Do  you  know  how  much  I  love  you?"  said  the  journalist 
pointblank. 

Victory  might  gratify  Lousteau,  but  defeat  could  cause 
him  no  grief.  This  indifference  was  the  secret  of  his  au- 
dacity. He  took  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  hand  as  he 
spoke  these  decisive  words,  and  pressed  it  in  both  his ;  but 
Dinah  gently  released  it. 

"Yes,  I  am  as  good  as  an  actress  or  a  grisette"  she  said  in 
a  voice  that  trembled,  though  she  spoke  lightly.  "But  can 
you  suppose  that  a  woman  who,  in  spite  of  her  absurdities, 
has  some  intelligence,  will  have  reserved  the  best  treasures 
of  her  heart  for  a  man  who  will  regard  her  merely  as  a  tran- 
sient pleasure  ? — I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  from  your  lips  the 
words  which  so  many  men  have  said  to  me — but — ' ' 

The  coachman  turned  round. 

"Here  comes  Monsieur  Gatien,"  said  he. 

"I  love  you,  I  will  have  you,  you  shall  be  mine,  for  I  have 
never  felt  for  any  woman  the  passion  I  have  for  you!"  said 
Lousteau  in  her  ear. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  161 

"In  spite  of  my  will,  perhaps?"  said  she,  with  a  smile. 

"At  least  you  must  seem  to  have  been  assaulted  to  save 
my  honor,"  said  the  Parisian,  to  whom  the  fatal  immaculate- 
ness  of  clean  muslin  suggested  a  ridiculous  notion. 

Before  Gatien  had  reached  the  end  of  the  bridge,  the  out- 
rageous journalist  had  crumpled  up  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye's  muslin  dress  to  such  effect  that  she  was  absolutely 
not  presentable. 

"Oh,  Monsieur!"  she  exclaimed  in  dignified  reproof. 

"You  defied  me,"  said  the  Parisian. 

But  Gatien  now  rode  up  with  the  vehemence  of  a  duped 
lover.  To  regain  a  little  of  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  esteem, 
Lousteau  did  his  best  to  hide  the  tumbled  dress  from  Gatien'a 
eyes  by  leaning  out  of  the  chaise  to  speak  to  him  from  Dinah's 
gide. 

"Go  back  to  our  inn,"  said  he,  "there  is  still  time;  the 
diligence  does  not  start  for  half  an  hour.  The  papers  are 
on  the  table  of  the  room  Bianchon  was  in;  he  wants  them 
particularly,  for  he  will  be  lost  without  his  notes  for  the 
lecture." 

"Pray  go,  Gatien,"  said  Dinah  to  her  young  adorer,  with 
an  imperious  glance.  And  the  boy  thus  commanded  turned 
his  horse  and  was  off  with  a  loose  rein. 

"Go  quickly  to  La  Baudraye,"  cried  Lousteau  to  the 
coachman.  "Madame  is  not  well —  Your  mother  only  will 
know  the  secret  of  my  trick,"  added  he,  taking  his  seat  by 
Dinah. 

"You  call  such  infamous  conduct  a  trick?"  cried  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye,  swallowing  down  a  few  tears  that  dried  up 
with  the  fire  of  outraged  pride. 

She  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the  chaise,  crossed  her 
arms,  and  gazed  out  at  the  Loire  and  the  landscape,  at  any- 
thing rather  than  at  Lousteau.  The  journalist  put  on  hia 
most  ingratiating  tone,  and  talked  till  they  reached  La  Bau- 
draye, where  Dinah  fled  indoors,  trying  not  to  be  seen  by 
any  one.  In  her  agitation  she  threw  herself  on  a  sofa  and 
burst  into  tears. 


162  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"If  I  am  an  object  of  horror  to  you,  of  aversion  or  scorn, 
I  will  go,"  said  Lousteau,  who  had  followed  her.  And  he 
threw  himself  at  her  feet, 

It  was  at  this  crisis  that  Madame  Pie*defer  came  in,  saying 
to  her  daughter; 

1 '  W  hat  is  the  matter  ?     What  has  happened  ? ' ' 

"Give  your  daughter  another  dress  at  once,"  said  the 
audacious  Parisian  in  the  prim  old  lady's  ear. 

Hearing  the  mad  gallop  of  Gatien's  horse,  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye  fled  to  her  bedroom,  followed  by  her  mother. 

"There  are  no  papers  at  the  inn,"  said  Gatien  to  Lou- 
steau,  who  went  out  to  meet  him. 

"And  you  found  none  at  the  Chateau  d'Anzy  either?" 
replied  Lousteau. 

"You  have  been  making  a  fool  of  me,"  said  Gatien,  in  a 
cold  set  voice. 

"Quite  so,"  replied  Lousteau.  "Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
was  greatly  annoyed  by  your  choosing  to  follow  her  without 
being  invited.  Believe  me,  to  bore  a  woman  is  a  bad  way 
of  courting  her.  Dinah  has  played  you  a  trick,  and  you  have 
given  her  a  laugh ;  it  is  more  than  any  of  you  has  done  in 
these  thirteen  years  past.  You  owe  that  success  to  Bianchon, 
for  your  cousin  was  the  author  of  the  Farce  of  'The  Manu- 
Bcript. ' — Will  the  horse  get  over  it  ? "  asked  Lousteau  with 
a  laugh,  while  Gatien  was  wondering  whether  to  be  angry 
or  not. 

"The  horse  I"  said  Gatien. 

At  this  moment  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  came  in,  dressed 
in  a  velvet  gown,  and  accompanied  by  her  mother,  who  shot 
angry  flashes  at  Lousteau.  It  would  have  been  too  rash  for 
Dinah  to  seem  cold  or  severe  to  Lousteau  in  Gatien's  pres- 
ence; and  Etienne,  taking  advantage  of  this,  offered  his  arm 
to  the  supposed  Lucretia ;  however,  she  declined  it. 

"Do  you  mean  to  cast  off  a  man  who  has  vowed  to  live 
for  you?"  said  he,  walking  close  beside  her,  "I  shall  stop 
at  Sancerre  and  go  home  to-morrow." 

"Are  you  coming,  mamma?"  said  Madame  de  La  Bau- 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  163 

druve  to  Madame  PieMefer,  thus  avoiding  a  reply  to  the  direct 
challenge  by  which  Lousteau  was  forcing  her  to  a  decision. 

Lousteau  handed  the  mother  into  the  chaise,  he  helped 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye  by  gently  taking  her  arm,  and  he 
and  Gatien  took  the  front  seat,  leaving  the  saddle  horse 
at  La  Baudraye. 

"You  have  changed  your  gown,"  said  Gatien,  blunder- 
ingly, to  Dinah. 

"Madame  la  Baronne  was  chilled  by  the  cool  air  off  the 
river,"  replied  Lousteau.  "Bianchon  advised,  her  to  put  on 
a  warm  dress." 

Dinah  turned  as  red  as  a  poppy,  and  Madame  Piddefer 
assumed  a  stern  expression. 

"Poor  Bianchon!  he  is  on  the  road  to  Paris.  A  noble 
soul!''  said  Lousteau. 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  "he  is  high- 
minded,  full  of  delicate  feeling — " 

"We  were  in  such  good  spirits  when  we  set  out,"  said 
Lousteau;  "now  you  are  overdone,  and  you  speak  to  me  so 
bitterly — why  ?  Are  you  not  accustomed  to  being  told  how 
handsome  and  how  clever  you  are?  For  my  part,  I  say 
boldly,  before  Gatien,  I  give  up  Paris;  I  mean  to  stay  at 
Sancerre  and  swell  the  number  of  your  cavalieri  serventi. 
I  feel  so  young  again  in  my  native  district;  I  have  quite 
forgotten  Paris  and  all  its  wickedness,  and  its  bores,  and  its 
wearisome  pleasures. — Yes,  my  life  seems  in  a  way  purified." 

Dinah  allowed  Lousteau  to  talk  without  even  looking  at 
him;  but  at  last  there  was  a  moment  when  this  serpent's 
rodomontade  was  really  so  inspired  by  the  effort  he  made 
to  affect  passion  in  phrases  and  ideas  of  which  the  meaning, 
though  hidden  from  Gatien,  found  aloud  response  in  Dinah's 
heart,  that  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  This  look  seemed  to 
crown  Lousteau's  joy;  his  wit  flowed  more  freely,  and  at  last 
he  made  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  laugh.  When,  under  cir- 
cumstances which  so  seriously  compromise  her  pride,  a  woman 
has  been  made  to  laugh,  she  is  finally  committed. 

As  they  drove  in  by  the  spacious  gravelled  forecourt, 


164  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

with  its  lawn  in  the  middle,  and  the  large  vases  filled  with 
flowers  which  so  well  set  off  the  fa9ade  of  Anzy,  the  journal- 
ist was  saying: 

"When  women  love,  they  forgive  everything,  even  our 
crimes ;  when  they  do  not  love,  they  cannot  forgive  anything 
— not  even  our  virtues. — Do  you  forgive  me?"  he  added  in 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  ear,  and  pressing  her  arm  to  his 
heart  with  tender  emphasis.  And  Dinah  could  not  help 
smiling. 

All  through  dinner,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening, 
Etienne  was  in  the  most  delightful  spirits,  inexhaustibly 
cheerful;  but  while  thus  giving  vent  to  his  intoxication,  he 
now  and  then  fell  into  the  dreamy  abstraction  of  a  man  who 
seems  wrapped  in  his  own  happiness. 

After  coffee  had  been  served,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
and  her  mother  left  the  men  to  wander  about  the  gardens. 
Monsieur  Gravier  then  remarked  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny: 

"Did  you  observe  that  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  after 
going  out  in  a  muslin  gown  came  home  in  a  velvet?" 

"As  she  got  into  the  carriage  at  Cosne,  the  muslin  dress 
caught  on  a  brass  nail  and  was  torn  all  the  way  down," 
replied  Lousteau. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Gatien,  stricken  to  the  heart  by  hearing 
two  such  different  explanations. 

The  journalist,  who  understood,  took  Gatien  by  the  arm 
and  pressed  it  as  a  hint  to  him  to  be  silent.  A  few  minutes 
later  Etienne  left  Dinah's  three  adorers  and  took  possession 
of  little  La  Baudraye.  Then  Gatien  was  cross-questioned 
as  to  the  events  of  the  day.  Monsieur  Gravier  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Clagny  were  dismayed  to  hear  that  on  the  return 
from  Cosne  Lousteau  had  been  alone  with  Dinah,  and  even 
more  so  on  hearing  the  two  versions  explaining  the  lady's 
change  of  dress.  And  the  three  discomfited  gentlemen  were 
in  a  very  awkward  position  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Next  day  each,  on  various  business,  was  obliged  to  leave 
Anzy;  Dinah  remained  with  her  mother,  Lousteau,  and  her 
husband.  The  annoyance  vented  by  the  three  victims  gave 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  166 

rise  to  an  organized  rebellion  in  Sancerre.  The  surrender 
of  the  Muse  of  Le  Berry,  of  the  Nivernais,  and  of  Morvan 
was  the  cause  of  a  perfect  hue  and  cry  of  slander,  evil  re- 
port, and  various  guesses  in  which  the  story  of  the  muslin 
gown  held  a  prominent  place.  No  dress  Dinah  had  ever 
worn  had  been  so  much  commented  on,  or  was  half  as  inter- 
esting to  the  girls,  who  could  not  conceive  what  the  connec- 
tion might  be,  that  made  the  married  women  laugh,  between 
love  and  a  muslin  gown. 

The  Pre'sidente  Boirouge,  furious  at  her  son's  discom- 
fiture, forgot  the  praise  she  had  lavished  on  the  poem  of 
"Paquita,"  and  fulminated  terrific  condemnation  on  the 
woman  who  could  publish  such  a  disgraceful  work. 

*'The  wretched  woman  commits  every  crime  she  writes 
about,"  said  she.  "Perhaps  she  will  come  to  the  same  end 
as  her  heroine  I" 

Dinah's  fate  among  the  good  folk  of  Sancerre  was  like 
that  of  Marshal  Soult  in  the  opposition  newspapers:  as  long 
as  he  is  Minister  he  lost  the  battle  of  Toulouse;  whenever 
he  is  out  of  the  Government  he  won  it!  While  she  was 
virtuous,  Dinah  was  a  match  for  Camille  de  Maupin,  a  rival 
of  the  most  famous  women ;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  happy, 
she  was  an  unhappy  creature. 

Monsieur  de  Clagny  was  her  valiant  champion;  he  went 
several  times  to  the  Chateau  d'Anzy  to  acquire  the  right  to 
contradict  the  rumors  current  as  to  the  woman  he  still  faith- 
fully adored,  even  in  her  fall;  and  he  maintained  that  she 
and  Lousteau  were  engaged  together  on  some  great  work. 
But  the  lawyer  was  laughed  to  scorn. 

The  month  of  October  was  lovely ;  autumn  is  the  finest 
season  in  the  valley  of  the  Loire;  but  in  1836  it  was  unusu- 
ally glorious.  Nature  seemed  to  aid  and  abet  Dinah,  who, 
as  Bianchon  had  predicted,  gradually  developed  a  heartfelt 
passion.  In  one  month  she  was  an  altered  woman.  She 
was  surprised  to  find  in  herself  so  many  inert  and  dormant 
qualities,  hitherto  in  abeyance.  To  her  Lousteau  seemed  an 
angel ;  for  heart-love,  the  crowning  need  of  a  great  nature, 


166  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

had  made  a  new  woman  of  her.  Dinah  was  alive!  She  had 
found  an  outlet  for  her  powers,  she  saw  undreamed-of  vistas 
in  the  future — in  short,  she  was  happy,  happy  without  alarms 
or  hinderances.  The  vast  castle,  the  gardens,  the  park,  the 
forest,  favored  lovel 

Lousteau  found  in  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  an  artless  - 
ness,  nay,  if  you  will,  an  innocence  of  mind  which  made  her 
very  original;  there  was  much  more  of  the  unexpected  and 
winning  in  her  than  in  a  girl.  Lousteau  was  quite  alive  to 
a  form  of  flattery  which  in  most  women  is  assumed,  but  which 
in  Dinah  was  genuine;  she  really  learned  from  him  the  ways 
of  love ;  he  really  was  the  first  to  reign  in  her  heart.  And, 
indeed,  he  took  the  trouble  to  be  exceedingly  amiable. 

Men,  like  women,  have  a  stock  in  hand  of  recitatives,  of 
cantalile,  of  nocturnes,  airs  and  refrains — shall  we  say  of  rec- 
ipes, although  we  speak  of  love — which  each  one  believes 
to  be  exclusively  his  own.  Men  who  have  reached  Lousteau's 
age  try  to  distribute  the  "movements"  of  this  repertoire 
through  the  whole  opera  of  a  passion.  Lousteau,  regarding 
this  adventure  with  Dinah  as  a  mere  temporary  connection, 
was  eager  to  stamp  himself  on  her  memory  in  indelible  lines ; 
and  during  that  beautiful  October  he  was  prodigal  of  his  most 
entrancing  melodies  and  most  elaborate  barcarolles.  In  fact, 
he  exhausted  every  resource  of  the  stage  management  of  love, 
to  use  an  expression  borrowed  from  the  theatrical  dictionary, 
and  admirably  descriptive  of  his  manoeuvres. 

"If  that  woman  ever  forgets  me!"  he  would  sometimes 
say  to  himself  as  they  returned  together  from  a  long  walk 
in  the  woods,  "I  will  owe  her  no  grudge — she  will  have 
found  something  better." 

When  two  beings  have  sung  together  all  the  duets  of  that 
enchanting  score,  and  still  love  each  other,  it  may  be  said 
that  they  love  truly. 

Lousteau,  however,  had  not  time  to  repeat  himself,  for 
he  was  to  leave  Anzy  in  the  early  days  of  November.  His 
paper  required  his  presence  in  Paris.  Before  breakfast,  on 
the  day  before  he  was  to  leave,  the  journalist  and  Dinah  saw 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  167 

the  master  of  the  house  come  in  with  an  artist  from  Nevers, 
who  restored  carvings  of  all  kinds. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Lousteau.  "What 
is  to  be  done  to  the  chateau?" 

"This  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  said  the  little  man,  lead- 
ing Lousteau,  the  local  artist,  and  Dinah  out  on  the  terrace. 

He  pointed  out,  on  the  front  of  the  building,  a  shield  sup- 
ported by  two  sirens,  not  unlike  that  which  may  be  seen  on 
the  arcade,  now  closed,  through  which  there  used  to  be  a 
passage  from  the  Quai  des  Tuileries  to  the  courtyard  of  the 
old  Louvre,  and  over  which  the  words  may  still  be  seen, 
"Bibliotheque  du  Cabinet  du  Hoi."  This  shield  bore  the 
arms  of  the  noble  House  of  Uxelles ;  namely,  Or  and  gules 
party  per  fess,  with  two  lions  or,  dexter  and  sinister  as  sup- 
porters. Above,  a  knight's  helm,  mantled  of  the  tincture 
of  the  shield,  and  surmounted  by  a  ducal  coronet.  Motto, 
"Cy  paroist!"  A  proud  and  sonorous  device. 

"I  want  to  put  my  own  coat-of-arms  in  the  place  of  that 
of  the  Uxelles ;  and  as  they  are  repeated  six  times  on  the  two 
fronts  and  the  two  wings,  it  is  not  a  trifling  affair." 

"Your  arms,  so  new,  and  since  1830?"  exclaimed  Dinah. 

"Have  I  not  created  an  entail?" 

"I  could  understand  it  if  you  had  children,"  said  the 
journalist. 

"Oh!"  said  the  old  man,  "Madame  de  La  Baudraye  is 
still  young ;  there  is  no  time  lost. ' ' 

This  allusion  made  Lousteau  smile ;  he  did  not  understand 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye. 

"There,  Didine!"  said  he  in  Dinah's  ear,  "what  a  waste 
of  remorse!" 

Dinah  begged  him  to  give  her  one  day  more,  and  the 
lovers  parted  after  the  manner  of  certain  theatres,  which 
give  ten  last  performances  of  a  piece  that  is  paying.  And 
how  many  promises  they  made !  How  many  solemn  pledges 
did  not  Dinah  exact  and  the  unblushing  journalist  give  her! 

Dinah,  with  the  superiority  of  the  Superior  Woman,  ac- 
companied Lousteau,  in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  as  far  as 


168  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

Cosne,  with,  her  mother  and  little  La  Baudraye.  When,  ten 
days  later,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  saw  in  her  drawing-room 
at  La  Baudraye  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  Gatien,  and  Gravier, 
she  found  an  opportunity  of  saying  to  each  in  turn : 

"I  owe  it  to  Monsieur  Lousteau  that  I  discovered  that  I 
had  not  been  loved  for  my  own  sake." 

And  what  noble  speeches  she  uttered,  on  man,  on  the 
nature  of  his  feelings,  on  the  end  of  his  base  passions,  and 
so  forth.  Of  Dinah's  three  worshippers,  Monsieur  de  Clagny 
only  said  to  her:  "I  love  you,  come  what  may" — and  Dinah 
accepted  him  as  her  confidant,  lavished  on  him  all  the  marks 
of  friendship  which  women  can  devise  for  the  Gurths  who  are 
ready  thus  to  wear  the  collar  of  gilded  slavery. 

In  Paris  once  more,  Lousteau  had,  in  a  few  weeks,  lost 
the  impression  of  the  happy  time  he  had  spent  at  the  Chateau 
d'Anzy.  This  is  why:  Lousteau  lived  by  his  pen. 

In  this  century,  especially  since  the  triumph  of  the  bour- 
geoisie— the  commonplace,  money-saving  citizen,  who  takes 
good  care  not  to  imitate  Francis  I.  or  Louis  XIV. — to  live 
by  the  pen  is  a  form  of  penal  servitude  to  which  a  galley 
slave  would  prefer  death.  To  live  by  the  pen  means  to 
create — to  create  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  and  incessantly — 
or  to  seem  to  create;  and  the  imitation  costs  as  dear  as  the 
reality.  So,  besides  his  daily  contribution  to  a  newspaper, 
which  was  like  the  stone  of  Sisyphus,  and  which  came  every 
Monday,  crashing  down  on  to  the  feather  of  his  pen,  Btienne 
worked  for  three  or  four  literary  magazines.  Still,  do  not 
be  alarmed;  he  put  no  artistic  conscientiousness  into  his 
work.  This  man  of  Sancerre  had  a  facility,  a  carelessness, 
if  you  call  it  so,  which  ranked  him  with  those  writers  who 
are  mere  scriveners,  literary  hacks.  In  Paris,  in  our  day, 
hack-work  cuts  a  man  off  from  every  pretension  to  a  literary 
position.  When  he  can  do  no  more,  or  no  longer  cares  for 
advancement,  the  man  who  can  write  becomes  a  journalist 
and  a  hack. 

The  life  he  leads  is  not  unpleasing.     Blue-stockings,  be- 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  169 

ginnings  in  every  walk  of  life,  actresses  at  the  outset  or  the 
close  of  a  career,  publishers  and  authors,  all  make  much  of 
these  writers  of  the  ready  pen.  Lousteau,  a  thorough  man 
about  town,  lived  at  scarcely  any  expense  beyond  paying  his 
rent.  He  had  boxes  at  all  the  theatres;  the  sale  of  the  books 
he  reviewed  or  left  unreviewed  paid  for  his  gloves ;  and  he 
would  say  to  those  authors  who  published  at  their  own  ex- 
pense, "I  have  your  book  always  in  my  hands  I"  He  took 
toll  from  vanity  in  the  form  of  drawings  or  pictures.  Every 
day  had  its  engagements  to  dinner,  every  night  its  theatre, 
every  morning  was  filled  up  with  callers,  visits,  and  loung- 
ing. His  serial  in  the  paper,  two  novels  a  year  for  weekly 
magazines,  and  his  miscellaneous  article  were  the  tax  he  paid 
for  this  easy-going  life.  And  yet,  to  reach  this  position, 
Etienne  had  struggled  for  ten  years. 

At  the  present  time,  known  to  the  literary  world,  liked 
for  the  good  or  the  mischief  he  did  with  equally  facile  good- 
humor,  he  let  himself  float  with  the  stream,  never  caring  for 
the  future.  He  ruled  a  little  set  of  new-comers,  he  had 
friendships — or  rather,  habits  of  fifteen  years'  standing,  and 
men  with  whom  he  supped,  and  dined,  and  indulged  his  wit. 
He  earned  from  seven  to  eight  hundred  francs  a  month,  a 
sum  which  he  found  quite  insufficient  for  the  prodigality 
peculiar  to  the  impecunious.  Indeed,  Lousteau  found  him- 
self now  just  as  hard  up  as  when,  on  first  appearing  in  Paris, 
he  had  said  to  himself,  "If  I  had  but  five  hundred  francs  a 
month,  I  should  be  rich ! ' ' 

The  cause  of  this  phenomenon  was  as  follows.  Lousteau 
lived  in  the  Rue  des  Martyrs  in  pretty  ground-floor  rooms 
with  a  garden,  and  splendidly  furnished.  When  he  settled 
there  in  1833  he  had  come  to  an  agreement  with  an  uphol- 
sterer that  kept  his  pocket-money  low  for  a  long  time.  These 
rooms  were  let  for  twelve  hundred  francs.  The  months  of 
January,  April,  July,  and  October  were,  as  he  phrased  it, 
his  indigent  months.  The  rent  and  the  porter's  account 
cleaned  him  out.  Lousteau  took  no  fewer  hackney  cabs, 
spent  a  hundred  francs  in  breakfasts  all  the  same,  smoked 

"Vol.  4.  (H) 


170  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

thirty  francs'  worth,  of  cigars,  and  could  never  refuse  the 
mistress  of  a  day  a  dinner  or  a  new  dress.  He  thus  dipped 
so  deeply  into  the  fluctuating  earnings  of  the  following 
months  that  he  could  no  more  find  a  hundred  francs  on  his 
chimney-piece  now,  when  he  was  making  seven  or  eight  hun- 
dred francs  a  month,  than  he  could  in  1822,  when  he  was 
hardly  getting  two  hundred. 

Tired,  sometimes,  by  the  incessant  vicissitudes  of  a  liter- 
ary life,  and  as  much  bored  by  amusement  as  a  courtesan, 
Lousteau  would  get  out  of  the  tideway  and  sit  on  the  bank, 
and  say  to  one  and  another  of  his  intimate  allies — Nathan  or 
Bixiou — as  they  sat  smoking  in  his  scrap  of  garden,  looking 
out  on  an  evergreen  lawn  as  big  as  a  dinner-table: 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  us?  White  hairs  are  giving 
us  respectful  hints!" 

"Lord!  we  shall  marry  when  we  choose  to  give  as  much 
thought  to  the  matter  as  we  give  to  a  drama  or  a  novel," 
said  Nathan. 

"And  Florine?"  retorted  Bixiou. 

"Oh,  we  all  have  a  Florine,"  said  fitienne,  flinging  away 
the  end  of  his  cigar  and  thinking  of  Madame  Schontz. 

Madame  Schontz  was  a  pretty  enough  woman  to  put  a 
very  high  price  on  the  interest  on  her  beauty,  while  reserv- 
ing absolute  ownership  for  Lousteau,  the  man  of  her  heart. 
Like  all  those  women  who  got  the  name  in  Paris  of  Lorettes, 
from  the  Church  of  Notre-Dame  de  Lorette  round  about 
which  they  dwell,  she  lived  in  the  Eue  Fle'chier,  a  stone's 
throw  from  Lousteau.  This  lady  took  a  pride  and  delight 
in  teasing  her  friends  by  boasting  of  having  a  Wit  for  her 
lover. 

These  details  of  Lousteau's  life  and  fortune  are  indispen- 
sable, for  this  penury  and  this  bohemian  existence  of  a  man 
to  whom  Parisian  luxury  had  become  a  necessity  were  fated 
to  have  a  cruel  influence  on  Dinah's  life.  Those  to  whom 
the  bohemia  of  Paris  is  familiar  will  now  understand  how  it 
was  that,  by  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  the  journalist,  up  to  his 
^ars  in  the  literary  environment,  could  laugh  about  his  Bar- 


THE  MUSE  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT       171 

oness  with  his  friends  and  even  with  Madame  Schontz.  To 
such  readers  as  regard  such  doings  as  utterly  mean,  it  is  al- 
most useless  to  make  excuses  which  they  will  not  accept. 

"What  did  you  do  at  Sancerre?"  asked  Bixiou  the  first 
time  he  met  Lousteau. 

UI  did  good  service  to  three  worthy  provincials — a  Re- 
ceiver-General of  Taxes,  a  little  cousin  of  his,  and  a  Public 
Prosecutor,  who  for  ten  years  had  been  dancing  round  and 
round  one  of  the  hundred  'Tenth  Muses'  who  adorn  the  De- 
partments," said  he.  "But  they  had  no  more  dared  to  touch 
her  than  we  touch  a  decorated  cream  at  dessert  till  some 
strong-minded  person  has  made  a  hole  in  it." 

"Poor  boy!"  said  Bixiou.  "I  said  you  had  gone  to  San- 
cerre to  turn  Pegasus  out  to  grass. ' ' 

"Your  joke  is  as  stupid  as  my  Muse  is  handsome,"  re- 
torted Lousteau.  "Ask  Bianchon,  my  dear  fellow." 

"A  Muse  and  Poet!  A  homeopathic  cure  then!"  said 
Bixiou. 

On  the  tenth  day  Lousteau  received  a  letter  with  the  San- 
cerre postmark. 

"Good!  very  good!"  said  Lousteau. 

"Beloved  friend,  idol  of  my  heart  and  soul — "  twenty 
pages  of  it!  all  at  one  sitting,  and  dated  midnight!  She 
writes  when  she  finds  herself  alone.  Poor  woman!  Ah, 
ha!  And  a  postscript: 

"  'I  dare  not  ask  you  to  write  to  me  as  I  write,  every 
day;  still,  I  hope  to  have  a  few  lines  from  my  dear  one 
every  week,  to  relieve  my  mind.' — What  a  pity  to  bum  it 
all!  it  is  really  well  written,"  said  Lousteau  to  himself,  as 
he  threw  the  ten  sheets  of  paper  into  the  fire  after  having 
read  them.  That  woman  was  born  to  reel  off  copy!" 

Lousteau  was  not  much  afraid  of  Madame  Schontz,  who 
really  loved  him  for  himself ;  but  he  had  supplanted  a  friend 
in  the  heart  of  a  Marquise.  This  Marquise,  a  lady  nowise 
coy,  sometimes  dropped  in  unexpectedly  at  his  rooms  in  the 
evening,  arriving  veiled  in  a  hackney  coach ;  and  she,  as  a  liter- 
ary woman,  allowed  herself  to  hunt  through  all  his  drawers. 


172  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

A  week  later,  Lousteau,  who  hardly  remembered  Dinah, 
was  startled  by  another  budget  from  Sancerre — eight  leaves, 
sixteen  pages!  He  heard  a  woman's  step;  he  thought  it 
announced  a  search  from  the  Marquise,  and  tossed  these 
rapturous  and  entrancing  proofs  of  affection  into  the  fire 
— unread ! 

"A  woman's  letter!"  exclaimed  Madame  Schontz  as  she 
came  in.  "The  paper,  the  wax,  are  scented — " 

"Here  you  are,  sir,"  said  a  porter  from  the  coach  office, 
setting  down  two  huge  hampers  in  the  anteroom.  "Carriage 
paid.  Please  to  sign  my  book." 

"Carriage  paid!"  cried  Madame  Schontz.  "It must  have 
come  from  Sancerre." 

"Yes,  Madame,"  said  the  porter. 

"Your  Tenth  Muse  is  a  remarkably  intelligent  woman," 
said  the  courtesan,  opening  one  of  the  hampers,  while  Lou- 
steau was  writing  his  name.  "I  like  a  Muse  who  under- 
stands housekeeping,  and  who  can  make  game  pies  as  well 
as  blots.  And,  oh!  what  beautiful  flowers!"  she  went  on, 
opening  the  second  hamper.  "Why,  you  could  get  none 
finer  in  Paris! — And  here,  and  here!  A  hare,  partridges, 
half  a  roebuck! — We  will  ask  your  friends  and  have  a 
famous  dinner,  for  Athalie  has  a  special  talent  for  dressing 
venison." 

Lousteau  wrote  to  Dinah ;  but  instead  of  writing  from  the 
heart,  he  was  clever.  The  letter  was  all  the  more  insidious; 
it  was  like  one  of  Mirabeau's  letters  to  Sophie.  The  style 
of  a  true  lover  is  transparent.  It  is  a  clear  stream  which 
allows  the  bottom  of  the  heart  to  be  seen  between  two 
banks,  bright  with  the  trifles  of  existence,  and  covered 
with  the  flowers  of  the  soul  that  blossom  afresh  every  day, 
full  of  intoxicating  beauty — but  only  for  two  beings.  As 
soon  as  a  love  letter  has  any  charm  for  a  third  reader,  it  is 
beyond  doubt  the  product  of  the  head,  not  of  the  heart. 
But  a  woman  will  always  be  beguiled ;  she  always  believes 
herself  to  be  the  determining  cause  of  this  flow  of  wit. 

By  the  end  of  December  Lousteau  had  ceased  to  read 


THE  MUSE  OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  173 

Dinah's  letters;  they  lay  in  a  heap  in  a  drawer  of  his  chest 
that  was  never  locked,  under  his  shirts,  which  they  scented. 
Then  one  of  those  chances  came  to  Lousteau  which  such 
bohemians  ought  to  clutch  by  every  hair.  In  the  middle 
of  December,  Madame  Schontz,  who  took  a  real  interest  in 
Etienne,  sent  to  beg  him  to  call  on  her  one  morning  on 
business. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  have  a  chance  of  marrying." 
"I  can  marry  very  often,  happily,  my  dear." 
"When  I  say  marrying,  I  mean  marrying  well.  You 
have  no  prejudices:  I  need  not  mince  matters.  This  is  the 
position:  A  young  lady  has  got  into  trouble;  her  mother 
knows  nothing  of  even  a  kiss.  Her  father  is  an  honest 
notary,  a  man  of  honor;  he  has  been  wise  enough  to  keep 
it  dark.  He  wants  to  get  his  daughter  married  within  a 
fortnight,  and  he  will  give  her  a  fortune  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs — for  he  has  three  other  children;  but 
— and  it  is  not  a  bad  idea — he  will  add  a  hundred  thousand 
'francs,  under  the  rose,  hand  to  hand,  to  cover  the  damages. 
They  are  an  old  family  of  Paris  citizens,  Eue  des  Lom- 
bards—" 

"Well,  then,  why  does  not  the  lover  marry  her?" 
"Dead." 

' '  W  hat  a  Eomance !     Such  things  are  nowhere  to  be  heard 
of  but  in  the  Rue  des  Lombards." 

"But  do  not  take  it  into  your  head  that  a  jealous  brother 
murdered  the  seducer.     The  young  man  died  in  the  most 
commonplace  way  of  a  pleurisy  caught  as  he  came  out  of 
the   theatre.      A  head-clerk  and    penniless,   the    man  en- 
trapped the  daughter  in  order  to  marry  into  the  business. 
— A  judgment  from  heaven,  I  call  it!" 
"Where  did  you  hear  the  story?" 
"From  Malaga;  the  notary  is  her  milord.'11 
"What,  Cardot,  the  son  of  that  little  old  man  in  hair- 
powder,  Florentine's  first  friend?" 

"Just  so.     Malaga,  whose  'fancy'  is  a  little  tomtit  of  a 
fiddler  of  eighteen,  cannot  in  conscience  make  such  a  boy 


174:  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

marry  the  girL  Besides,  she  has  no  cause  to  do  him  an  ill 
tarn.  —  Indeed.  Monsieur  Cardot  wants  a  man  of  thirty  at 
least.  Our  notary,  I  feel  sure,  will  be  proud  to  have  a 
famous  man  for  his  son-in-law.  So  just  feel  yourself  all 
over.  —  Tou  will  pay  your  debts,  you  will  have  twelve 
thousand  francs  a  year,  and  be  a  father  without  any  trouble 
on  your  part;  what  do  you  say  to  that  to  the  good?  And, 
after  all,  you  only  marry  a  very  consolable  widow.  There 
is  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  francs  in  the  house,  and  the 
value  of  the  connection,  so  in  due  time  you  may  look  for- 
ward to  not  less  than  fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year  more  for 
your  share,  and  you  will  enter  a  family  holding  a  fine  polit- 
ical position;  Cardot  is  the  brother-in-law  of  old  Camusot, 
the  depute  who  lived  so  long  with  Fanny  BeaupreV  ' 

"Yes,"   said    Lousteau,    "old    Camusot    married    little 
Baddy  Caxdot's  eldest  daughter,  and  they  had  high  times 


"Well!"  Madame  Schontz  went  on,  "and  Madame  Car- 
dot,  the  notary's  wife,  was  a  Chiffreville  —  manufacturers  of 
chemical  products,  the  aristocracy  of  these  days!  Potash, 
I  tell  you!  Still,  this  is  the  unpleasant  side  of  the  matter. 
You  will  have  a  terrible  mother-in-law,  a  woman  capable  of 
InTling  her  daughter  if  she  knew  —  !  This  Cardot  woman  is 
a  bigot;  she  has  lips  like  two  faded  narrow  pink  ribbons. 

"A  man  of  the  town  like  you  would  never  pass  muster 
with  that  woman,  who,  in  her  well-meaning  way,  will  spy 
out  your  bachelor  life  and  know  every  fact  of  the  past. 
However,  Cardot  says  he  means  to  exert  his  paternal  au- 
thority. The  poor  man  will  be  obliged  to  do  the  civil  to 
his  wife  for  some  days;  a  woman  made  of  wood,  my  dear 
fellow;  Malaga,  who  has  seen  her,  calls  her  a  penitential 
scrubber.  Cardot  is  a  man  of  forty;  he  will  be  mayor  of 
his  district,  and  perhaps  be  elected  deputy.  He  is  prepared 
to  give  in  lieu  of  the  hundred  thousand  francs  a  nice  little 
house  in  the  fine  Saint-Lazare,  with  a  forecourt  and  a  gar- 
den, which  cost  him  no  more  than  sixty  thousand  at  the  time 
of  the  July  overthrow;  he  would  sell,  and  that  would  be  an 


THE  MUSE  OP  THE  DEPARTMENT  175 

opportunity  for  TOO  to  go  and  come  at  the  house,  to  see  the 
daughter,  and  be  ciril  to  the  mother. — And  it  would  give 
you  a  look  of  property  in  Madame  Cardot's  eyes.  You 
would  be  housed  like  a  prince  in  that  little  mansion.  Then, 
by  Camusot's  interest,  you  may  get  an  appointment  as  libra- 
rian to  some  public  office  where  there  is  no  library. — Well, 
and  then  if  you  invest  your  money  in  backing  up  a  news- 
paper, you  will  get  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  on  it,  yoa 
can  earn  six,  your  librarianship  win  bring  you  in  four. — 
Can  you  do  better  for  yourself? 

"If  you  were  to  marry  a  lamb  without  spot,  it  might  be  a 
light  woman  by  the  end  of  two  years.  What  is  the  damage? 
— an  anticipated  dividend!  It  is  quite  the  fashion. 

"Take  my  word  for  it,  you  can  do  no  better  than  come  to 
dine  with  Malaga  to-morrow.  Tou  will  meet  your  father-in- 
law;  he  will  know  the  secret  has  been  let  out — by  Malaga, 
with  whom  he  cannot  be  angry — and  then  you  are  master 
of  the  situation.  As  to  your  wife! — Why,  her  misconduct 
leaves  you  as  free  as  a  bachelor — " 

"Tour  language  is  as  blunt  as  a  cannon  baJL" 

"I  love  you  for  your  own  sake,  that  is  aD — and  I  can 
reason.  Well!  why  do  you  stand  there  Eke  a  wax  image 
of  Abd-el-Kader?  There  is  nothing  to  mgnlfr^ti*  over. 
Marriage  is  heads  or  tails — well,  you  have  tossed  heads 
up." 

"You  shall  have  my  reply  to-morrow,"  said  Lousteau. 

"I  would  sooner  have  it  at  once;  Malaga  wOl  write  you. 
up  to-night." 

"Well,  then,  yes." 

Lousteau  spent  the  evening  in  writing  a  long  letter  to  the 
Marquise,  giving  her  the  reasons  which  compelled  him  to 
marry:  his  constant  poverty,  the  torpor  of  his  imagination, 
his  white  hairs,  his  moral  and  physical  exhaustion — in  short, 
four  pages  of  arguments. — "As  to  Dinah,  I  will  send  her  a 
circular  announcing  the  marriage,"  said  he  to  liimarff,  **  As 
Bixiou  says,  I  have  not  my  match  for  knowing  how  to  dock 
the  tail  of  a  passion." 


176  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Lousteau,  who  at  first  had  been  on  some  ceremony  with 
himself,  by  next  day  had  come  to  the  point  of  dreading  lest 
the  marriage  should  not  come  off.  He  was  pressingly  civil 
to  the  notary. 

"I  knew  Monsieur  your  father,"  said  he,  "at  Floren- 
tine's, so  I  may  well  know  you  here,  at  Mademoiselle  Tur- 
quet's.  Like  father,  like  son.  A  very  good  fellow  and  a 
philosopher,  was  little  Daddy  Cardot — excuse  me,  we  al- 
ways called  him  so.  At  that  time,  Florine,  Florentine, 
Tullia,  Coralie,  and  Mariette  were  the  five  fingers  of  your 
hand,  so  to  speak — it  is  fifteen  years  ago.  My  follies,  as 
you  may  suppose,  are  a  thing  of  the  past. — In  those  days  it 
was  pleasure  that  ran  away  with  me;  now  I  am  ambitious; 
but,  in  our  day,  to  get  on  at  all  a  man  must  be  free  from 
debt,  have  a  good  income,  a  wife,  and  a  family.  If  I  pay 
taxes  enough  to  qualify  me,  I  may  be  a  deputy  yet,  like 
any  other  man." 

Maitre  Cardot  appreciated  this  profession  of  faith.  Lou- 
steau had  laid  himself  out  to  please,  and  the  notary  liked 
him,  feeling  himself  more  at  his  ease,  as  may  be  easily  im- 
agined, with  a  man  who  had  known  his  father's  secrets  than 
he  would  have  been  with  another.  On  the  following  day 
Lousteau  was  introduced  to  the  Cardot  family  as  the  pur- 
chaser of  the  house  in  the  Eue  Saint-Lazare.  and  three 
days  later  he  dined  there. 

Cardot  lived  in  an  old  house  near  the  Place  du  Ch&telet. 
In  this  house  everything  was  "good."  Economy  covered 
every  scrap  of  gilding  with  green  gauze ;  all  the  furniture 
wore  holland  covers.  Though  it  was  impossible  to  feel  a 
shade  of  uneasiness  as  to  the  wealth  of  the  inhabitants,  at 
the  end  of  half  an  hour  no  one  could  suppress  a  yawn. 
Boredom  perched  in  every  nook;  the  curtains  hung  dole- 
fully; the  dining-room  was  like  Harpagon's.  Even  if  Lou- 
steau had  not  known  all  about  Malaga,  he  could  have  guessed 
that  the  notary's  real  life  was  spent  elsewhere. 

The  journalist  saw  a  tall,  fair  girl  with  blue  eyes,  at 
once  shy  and  languishing.  The  elder  brother  took  a  fancy 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  177 

to  him;  he  was  the  fourth  clerk  in  the  office,  but  strongly 
attracted  by  the  snares  of  literary  fame,  though  destined  to 
succeed  his  father.  The  younger  sister  was  twelve  years 
old.  Lousteau,  assuming  a  little  Jesuitical  air,  played  the 
Monarchist  and  Churchman  for  the  benefit  of  the  mother, 
was  quiet,  smooth,  deliberate,  and  complimentary. 

Within  three  weeks  of  their  introduction,  at  his  fourth 
dinner  there,  Felicie  Cardot,  who  had  been  watching  Lou- 
steau out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  carried  him  a  cup  of 
coffee  where  he  stood  in  the  window  recess,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice,  with  tears  in  her  eyes: 

"I  will  devote  my  whole  life,  Monsieur,  to  thanking  you 
for  your  sacrifice  in  favor  of  a  poor  girl — ' ' 

Lousteau  was  touched;  .there  was  so  much  expression  in 
her  look,  her  accent,  her  attitude.  "She  would  make  a  good 
man  happy,"  thought  he,  pressing  her  hand  in  reply. 

Madame  Cardot  looked  upon  her  son-in-law  as  a  man  with 
a  future  before  him;  but,  above  all  the  fine  qualities  she  as- 
cribed to  him,  she  was  most  delighted  by  his  high  tone  of 
morals.  Etienne,  prompted  by  the  wily  notary,  had  pledged 
his  word  that  he  had  no  natural  children,  no  tie  that  could 
endanger  the  happiness  of  her  dear  Felicie. 

"You  may  perhaps  think  I  go  rather  too  far,"  said  the 
bigot  to  the  journalist;  "but  in  giving  such  a  jewel  as  my 
Felicie  to  any  man,  one  must  think  of  the  future.  I  am  not 
one  of  those  mothers  who  want  to  be  rid  of  their  daughters. 
Monsieur  Cardot  hurries  matters  on,  urges  forward  his  daugh- 
ter's marriage;  he  wishes  it  over.  This  is  the  only  point  on 
which  we  differ. — Though  with  a  man  like  you,  Monsieur,  a 
literary  man  whose  youth  has  beeji  preserved  by  hard  work 
from  the  moral  shipwreck  now  so  prevalent,  we  may  feel 
quite  safe;  still,  you  would  be  the  first  to  laugh  at  me  if  I 
looked  for  a  husband  for  my  daughter  with  my  eyes  shut. 
I  know  you  are  not  an  innocent,  and  I  should  be  very  sorry 
for  my  Fe*licie  if  you  were"  (this  was  said  in  a  whisper); 
"but  if  you  had  any  liaison — For  instance,  Monsieur,  you 
have  heard  of  Madame  Roguin,  the  wife  of  a  notary  who, 


178  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

unhappily  for  our  faculty,  was  sadly  notorious.  Madame 
Koguin  has,  ever  since  1820,  been  kept  by  a  banker — " 

"Yes,  du  Tillet,"  replied  Etienne;  but  he  bit  his  tongue 
as  he  recollected  how  rash  it  was  to  confess  to  an  acquaint- 
ance with  du  Tillet. 

"Yes. — Well,  Monsieur,  if  you  were  a  mother,  would 
you  not  quake  at  the  thought  that  Madame  du  Tillet's  fate 
might  be  your  child's?  At  her  age,  and  nee  de  Grandvillel 
To  have  as  a  rival  a  woman  of  fifty  and  more.  Sooner 
would  I  see  my  daughter  dead  than  give  her  to  a  man  who 
had  such  a  connection  with  a  married  woman.  A  grisette, 
an  actress,  you  take  her  and  leave  her. — There  is  no  danger, 
in  my  opinion,  from  women  of  that  stamp ;  love  is  their  trade, 
they  care  for  no  one,  one  down  and  another  to  come  on! — But 
a  woman  who  has  sinned  against  duty  must  hug  her  sin,  her 
only  excuse  is  constancy,  if  such  a  crime  can  ever  have  an 
excuse.  At  least,  that  is  the  view  I  hold  of  a  respectable 
woman's  fall,  and  that  is  what  makes  it  so  terrible — " 

Instead  of  looking  for  the  meaning  of  these  speeches, 
Etienne  made  a  jest  of  them  at  Malaga's,  whither  he  went 
with  his  father-in-law  elect;  for  the  notary  and  the  journal- 
ist were  the  best  of  friends. 

Lousteau  had  already  given  himself  the  airs  of  a  person 
of  importance ;  his  life  at  last  was  to  have  a  purpose ;  he  was 
in  luck's  way,  and  in  a  few  days  would  be  the  owner  of  a  de- 
lightful little  house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare ;  he  was  going 
to  be  married  to  a  charming  woman,  he  would  have  about 
twenty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  could  give  the  reins  to 
his  ambition ;  the  young  lady  loved  him,  and  he  would  be 
connected  with  several  respectable  families.  In  short,  he 
was  in  full  sail  on  the  blue  waters  of  hope. 

Madame  Cardot  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  prints 
for  "Gil  Bias,"  one  of  the  illustrated  volumes  which  the 
French  publishers  were  at  that  time  bringing  out,  and  Lou- 
steau had  taken  the  first  numbers  for  the  lady's  inspection. 
The  lawyer's  wife  had  a  scheme  of  her  own,  she  had  bor- 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  179 

rowed  the  book  merely  to  return  it;  she  wanted  an  excuse 
for  walking  in  on  her  future  son-in-law  quite  unexpectedly. 
The  sight  of  those  bachelor  rooms,  which  her  husband  had 
described  as  charming,  would  tell  her  more,  she  thought,  as 
to  Lousteau's  habits  of  life  than  any  information  she  could 
pick  up.  Her  sister-in-law,  Madame  Camusot,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  fateful  secret,  was  terrified  at  such  a  mar- 
riage for  her  niece.  Monsieur  Camusot,  a  Councillor  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  old  Camusot's  son  by  his  first  marriage,  had 
given  his  stepmother,  who  was  Cardot's  sister,  a  far  from 
flattering  account  of  the  journalist. 

Lousteau,  clever  as  he  was,  did  not  think  it  strange  that 
the  wife  of  a  rich  notary  should  wish  to  inspect  a  volume 
costing  fifteen  francs  before  deciding  on  the  purchase.  Your 
clever  man  never  condescends  to  study  the  middle-class,  who 
escape  his  ken  by  this  want  of  attention;  and  while  he  is 
making  game  of  them,  they  are  at  leisure  to  throttle  him. 

So  one  day  early  in  January,  1837,  Madame  Cardot  and 
her  daughter  took  a  hackney  coach  and  went  to  the  Eue 
des  Martyrs  to  return  the  parts  of  "Gil  Bias"  to  Fdlicie's 
betrothed,  both  delighted  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Lou- 
steau's rooms.  These  domiciliary  visitations  are  not  un- 
usual in  the  old  citizen  class.  The  porter  at  the  front  gate 
was  not  in;  but  his  daughter,  on  being  informed  by  the 
worthy  lady  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Lou- 
steau's future  mother-in-law  and  bride,  handed  over  the  key 
of  the  apartment — all  the  more  readily  because  Madame  Car- 
dot  placed  a  gold  piece  in  her  hand. 

It  was  by  this  time  about  noon,  the  hour  at  which  the 
journalist  would  return  from  breakfasting  at  the  Cafe*  An- 
glais. As  he  crossed  the  open  space  between  the  Church  of 
Notre-Dame  de  Lorette  and  the  Hue  des  Martyrs,  Lousteau 
happened  to  look  at  a  hired  coach  that  was  toiling  up  the 
Rue  du  Faubourg-Montmartre,  and  he  fancied  it  was  a 
dream  when  he  saw  the  face  of  Dinah!  He  stood  frozen  to 
the  spot  when,  on  reaching  his  house,  he  beheld  his  Didine 
at  the  coach  door. 


180  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"What  lias  brought  you  here?"  he  inquired, — He  adopted 
the  familiar  tu.  The  formality  of  vous  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion to  a  woman  he  must  get  rid  of. 

"Why,  my  love,"  cried  sjie,  "have  you  not  read  my 
letters?" 

"Certainly  I  have,"  said  Lousteau. 

"Well,  then?" 

"Well,  then?" 

"You  are  a  father,"  replied  the  country  lady. 

"Faugh!"  cried  he,  disregarding  the  barbarity  of  such  an 
exclamation.  "Well,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "she  must  be 
prepared  for  the  blow." 

He  signed  to  the  coachman  to  wait,  gave  his  hand  to  Ma- 
dame de  La  Baudraye,  and  left  the  man  with  the  chaise  full 
of  trunks,  vowing  that  he  would  send  away  illico,  as  he  said 
to  himself,  the  woman  and  her  luggage,  back  to  the  place  she 
had  come  from. 

"Monsieur,  Monsieur,"  called  out  little  Pamela. 

The  child  had  some  sense,  and  felt  that  three  women  must 
not  be  allowed  to  meet  in  a  bachelor's  rooms. 

"Well,  well!"  said  Lousteau,  dragging  Dinah  along. 

Pamela  concluded  that  the  lady  must  be  some  relation; 
however,  she  added: 

"The  key  is  in  the  door;  your  mother-in-law  is  there." 

In  his  agitation,  while  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  pour- 
ing out  a  flood  of  words,  Etienne  understood  the  child  to  say, 
"Mother  is  there,"  the  only  circumstance  that  suggested  it- 
self as  possible,  and  he  went  in. 

Felicie  and  her  mother,  who  were  by  this  time  in  the 
bedroom,  crept  into  a  corner  on  seeing  Etienne  enter  with 
a  woman. 

"At  last,  Etienne,  my  dearest,  I  am  yours  for  life!"  cried 
Dinah,  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  clasping  him 
closely,  while  he  took  the  key  from  the  outside  of  the  door. 
"Life  was  a  perpetual  anguish  to  me  in  that  house  at  Anzy. 
I  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  and  when  the  time  came  for  me  to 
proclaim  my  happiness — well,  I  had  not  the  courage. — Here 


THE  MUSE  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT       181 

I  am,  your  wife  with  your  child  1  And  you  have  not  written 
to  me ;  you  have  left  me  two  months  without  a  line. ' ' 

"But,  Dinah,  you  place  me  in  the  greatest  difficulty — " 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

"How  can  I  do  otherwise  than  love  you? — But  would 
you  not  have  been  wiser  to  remain  at  Sancerre? — I  am  in 
the  most  abject  poverty,  and  I  fear  to  drag  you  into  it — " 

"Your  misery  will  be  paradise  to  me.  I  only  ask  to  live 
here,  never  to  go  out — " 

"Good  God!  that  is  all  very  fine  in  words,  but — " 
Dinah  sat  down  and  melted  into  tears  as  she  heard  this 
speech,  roughly  spoken. 

Lousteau  could  not  resist  this  distress.  He  clasped  the 
Baroness  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"Do  not  cry,  Didine!"  said  he;  and,  as  he  uttered  the 
words,  he  saw  in  the  mirror  the  figure  of  Madame  Cardot, 
looking  at  him  from  the  further  end  of  the  rooms.  "Come, 
Didine,  go  with  Pamela  and  get  your  trunks  unloaded,"  said 
he  in  her  ear.  "Go;  do  not  cry;  we  will  be  happy!" 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  and  then  came  back  to  divert  the 
storm. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Madame  Cardot,  "I  congratulate  my- 
self on  having  resolved  to  see  for  myself  the  home  of  the 
man  who  was  to  have  been  my  son-in-law.  If  my  daughter 
were  to  die  of  it,  she  should  never  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man 
as  you.  You  must  devote  yourself  to  making  your  Didine 
happy,  Monsieur." 

And  the  virtuous  lady  walked  out,  followed  by  Felicie, 
who  was  crying,  too,  for  she  had  become  accustomed  to  Eti- 
enne.  The  dreadful  Madame  Cardot  got  into  her  hackney- 
coach  again,  staring  insolently  at  the  hapless  Dinah,  in 
whose  heart  the  sting  still  rankled  of  "that  is  all  very  fine 
in  words";  but  who,  nevertheless,  like  every  woman  in 
love,  believed  in  the  murmured,  "Do  not  cry,  Didine  1" 

Lousteau,  who  was  not  lacking  in  the  sort  of  decision 
which  grows  out  of  the  vicissitudes  of  a  storm-tossed  life, 
reflected  thus: 


182  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Didine  is  high-minded;  when  once  she  knows  of  my 
proposed  marriage,  she  will  sacrifice  herself  for  my  future 
prospects,  and  I  know  how  I  can  manage  to  let  her  know." 
Delighted  at  having  hit  on  a  trick  of  which  the  success 
seemed  certain,  he  danced  round  to  a  familiar  tune — 

"Larifla,  fla,  fla! — And  Didine  once  out  of  the  way,"  he 
went  on,  talking  to  himself,  "I  will  treat  Martian  Cardot  to 
a  call  and  a  novelette:  I  have  seduced  her  Fdlicie  at  Saint- 
Eustache — Felicie,  guilty  through  passion,  bears  in  her  bosom 
the  pledge  of  our  affection — and  larifla,  fla,  fla!  The  father 
cannot  give  me  the  lie,  fla,  fla — no,  nor  the  girl — larifla  ! — 
Ergo,  the  notary,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter  are  caught, 
nabbed — " 

And,  to  her  great  amazement,  Dinah  discovered  Etienne 
performing  a  prohibited  dance. 

"Your  arrival  and  our  happiness  have  turned  my  head 
with  joy,"  said  he,  to  explain  this  crazy  mood. 

"And  I  had  fancied  you  had  ceased  to  love  me!"  ex- 
claimed the  poor  woman,  dropping  the  handbag  she  was 
carrying,  and  weeping  with  joy  as  she  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,  my  darling,"  said  Etienne, 
laughing  in  his  sleeve;  "I  must  write  two  lines  to  excuse 
myself  from  a  bachelor  party,  for  I  mean  to  devote  myself 
to  you.  Give  your  orders;  you  are  at  home." 

Etienne  wrote  to  Bixiou: 

"MY  DEAR  BOY — My  Baroness  has  dropped  into  my 
arms,  and  will  be  fatal  to  my  marriage  unless  we  perform 
one  of  the  most  familiar  stratagems  of  the  thousand  and  one 
comedies  at  the  Grymnase.  I  rely  on  you  to  come  here,  like 
one  of  Moli&re's  old  men,  to  scold  your  nephew  Leandre  for 
his  folly,  while  the  Tenth  Muse  lies  hidden  in  my  bedroom ; 
you  must  work  on  her  feelings ;  strike  hard,  be  brutal,  offen- 
sive. I,  you  understand,  shall  express  my  blind  devotion, 
and  shall  seem  to  be  deaf,  so  that  you  may  have  to  shout  at 
me.  Come,  if  you  can,  at  seven  o'clock. 

"Yours,  E.  LousTEAU'." 


THE  JdUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  183 

Having  sent  this  letter  by  a  commissionaire  to  the  man 
who,  in  all  Paris,  most  delighted  in  such  practical  jokes — 
in  the  slang  of  artists,  a  "charge" — Lousteau  made  a  great 
show  of  settling  the  Muse  of  Sancerre  in  his  apartment.  He 
busied  himself  in  arranging  the  luggage  she  had  brought, 
and  informed  her  as  to  the  persons  and  ways  of  the  house 
with  such  perfect  good  faith,  and  a  glee  which  overflowed 
in  kind  words  and  caresses,  that  Dinah  believed  herself  the 
best-beloved  woman  in  the  world.  These  rooms,  where 
everything  bore  the  stamp  of  fashion,  pleased  her  far  better 
than  her  old  chateau. 

Pamela  Migeon,  the  intelligent  damsel  of  fourteen,  was 
questioned  by  the  journalist  as  to  whether  she  would  like  to 
be  waiting-maid  to  the  imposing  Baroness.  Pamela,  perfect- 
ly enchanted,  entered  on  her  duties  at  once,  by  going  off  to 
order  dinner  from  a  restaurant  on  the  boulevard.  Dinah  was 
able  to  judge  of  the  extreme  poverty  that  lay  hidden  under 
the  purely  superficial  elegance  of  this  bachelor  home  when 
she  found  none  of  the  necessaries  of  life.  As  she  took  pos- 
session of  the  closets  and  drawers,  she  indulged  in  the  fond- 
est dreams;  she  would  alter  Etienne's  habits,  she  would 
make  him  home-keeping,  she  would  fill  his  cup  of  domestic 
happiness. 

The  novelty  of  the  position  hid  its  disastrous  side;  Dinah 
regarded  reciprocated  love  as  the  absolution  of  her  sin;  she 
did  not  yet  look  beyond  the  walls  of  these  rooms.  Pamela, 
whose  wits  were  as  sharp  as  those  of  a  lorette,  went  straight 
to  Madame  Schontz  to  beg  the  loan  of  some  plate,  telling  her 
what  had  happened  to  Lousteau.  After  making  the  child 
welcome  to  all  she  had,  Madame  Schontz  went  off  to  her 
friend  Malaga,  that  Cardot  might  be  warned  of  the  catas- 
trophe that  had  befallen  his  future  son-in-law. 

The  journalist,  not  in  the  least  uneasy  about  the  crisis 
as  affecting  his  marriage,  was  more  and  more  charming  to 
the  lady  from  the  provinces.  The  dinner  was  the  occasion 
of  the  delightful  child's-play  of  lovers  set  at  liberty,  and 
happy  to  be  free.  When  they  had  had  their  coffee,  and 


184  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Lousteau  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,  Dinah  on  his  knee, 
Pamela  ran  in  with  a  scared  face. 

"Here  is  Monsieur  Bixiou!"  said  she. 

"Go  into  the  bedroom,"  said  the  journalist  to  his  mis- 
tress; "I  will  soon  get  rid  of  him.  He  is  one  of  my  most 
intimate  friends,  and  I  shall  have  to  explain  to  him  my  new 
start  in  life." 

"Oh,  ho!  dinner  for  two,  and  a  blue  velvet  bonnet!"  cried 
Bixiou.  "I  am  off. — Ah!  that  is  what  comes  of  marrying — 
one  must  go  through  some  partings.  How  rich  one  feels 
when  one  begins  to  move  one's  sticks,  heh?" 

"Who  talks  of  marrying?"  said  Lousteau. 

"What!  are  you  not  going  to  be  married,  then?"  cried 
Bixiou. 

"No!" 

"No?  My  word,  what  next?  Are  you  making  a  fool 
of  yourself,  if  you  please? — What! — You,  who,  by  the  mercy 
of  Heaven,  have  come  across  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
and  a  house,  and  a  wife  connected  with  all  the  first  families 
of  the  better  middle  class — a-  wife,  in  short,  out  of  the  Rue 
des  Lombards — " 

"That  will  do,  Bixiou,  enough;  it  is  at  an  end.     Be  off!" 

"Be  off?  I  have  a  friend's  privileges,  and  I  shall  take 
every  advantage  of  them. — What  has  come  over  you?" 

"What  has  'come  over'  me  is  my  lady  from  Sancerre. 
She  is  a  mother,  and  we  are  going  to  live  together  happily 
to  the  end  of  our  days. — You  would  have  heard  it  to-morrow, 
so  you  may  as  well  be  told  it  now." 

"Many  chimney-pots  are  falling  on  my  head,  as  Arnal 
says.  But  if  this  woman  really  loves  you,  my  dear  fellow, 
she  will  go  back  to  the  place  she  came  from.  Did  any  pro- 
vincial woman  ever  yet  find  her  sea-legs  in  Paris  ?  She  will 
wound  all  your  vanities.  Have  you  forgotten  what  a  pro- 
vincial is  ?  She  will  bore  you  as  much  when  she  is  happy 
as  when  she  is  sad;  she  will  have  as  great  a  talent  for  escap- 
ing grace  as  a  Parisian  has  in  inventing  it. 

"Lousteau,  listen  to  me.     That  a  passion  should  lead  you 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  186 

to  forget  to  some  extent  the  times  in  which  we  live,  is  con- 
ceivable; but  I,  my  dear  fellow,  have  not  the  mythological 
bandage  over  my  eyes. — Well,  then,  consider  your  position. 
For  fifteen  years  you  have  been,  tossing  in  the  literary  world; 
you  are  no  longer  young,  you  have  padded  the  hoof  till  your 
soles  are  worn  through ! — Yes,  my  boy,  you  turn  your  socks 
under  like  a  street  urchin  to  hide  the  holes,  so  that  the  legs 
cover  the  heels!  In  short,  the  joke  is  too  stale.  Your 
excuses  are  more  familiar  than  a  patent  medicine — " 

"I  may  say  to  you,  like  the  Regent  to  Cardinal  Dubois, 
'That  is  kicking  enough!'  "  said  Lousteau,  laughhig. 

"Oh,  venerable  young  man,"  replied  Bixiou,  "the  iron 
has  touched  the  sore  to  the  quick.  You  are  worn  out,  aren't 
you?  Well,  then;  in  the  heyday  of  youth,  under  the  press- 
ure of  penury,  what  have  you  done?  You  are  not  in  the 
front  rank,  and  you  have  not  a  thousand  francs  of  your  own. 
That  is  the  sum-total  of  the  situation.  Can  you,  in  the 
decline  of  your  powers,  support  a  family  by  your  pen,  when 
your  wife,  if  she  is  an  honest  woman,  will  not  have  at  her 
command  the  resources  of  the  woman  of  the  streets,  who  can 
extract  her  thousand-franc  note  from  the  depths  where  milord 
keeps  it  safe?  You  are  rushing  into  the  lowest  depths  of  the 
social  theatre. 

"And  this  is  only  the  financial  side.  Now,  consider  the 
political  position.  We  are  struggling  in  an  essentially  bour- 
geois age,  in  which  honor,  virtue,  high-mindedness,  talent, 
learning — genius,  in  short — is  summed  up  in  paying  your 
way,  owing  nobody  anything,  and  conducting  your  affairs 
with  judgment.  Be  steady,  be  respectable,  have  a  wife  and 
children,  pay  your  rent  and  taxes,  serve  in  the  National 
Guard,  and  be  on  the  same  pattern  as  all  the  men  of  your 
company — then  you  may  indulge  in  the  loftiest  pretensions, 
rise  to  the  Ministry ! — And  you  have  the  best  chances  pos- 
sible, since  you  are  no  Montmorency.  You  were  preparing 
to  fulfil  all  the  conditions  insisted  on  for  turning  out  a  polit- 
ical personage,  you  are  capable  of  every  mean  trick  that  is 
necessary  in  office,  even  of  pretending  to  be  commonplace — 


186  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

you  would  have  acted  it  to  the  life.  And  just  for  a  woman, 
who  will  leave  you  in  the  lurch — the  end  of  every  eternal 
passion — in  three,  five,  or  seven  years — after  exhausting  your 
last  physical  and  intellectual  powers,  you  turn  your  back  on 
the  sacred  Hearth,  on  the  Rue  des  Lombards,  on  a  political 
career,  on  thirty  thousand  francs  per  annum,  on  respecta- 
bility and  respect! — Ought  that  to  be  the  end  of  a  man  who 
has  done  with  illusions  ? 

"If  you  had  kept  a  pot-boiling  for  some  actress  who  gave 
you  your  fun  for  it — well;  that  is  what  you  may  call  a  cab- 
inet matter.  But  to  live  with  another  man's  wife  ?  It  is  a 
draft  at  sight  on  disaster;  it  is  bolting  the  bitter  pills  of  vice 
with  none  of  the  gilding. ' ' 

"That  will  do.  One  word  answers  it  all;  I  love  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye,  and  prefer  her  to  every  fortune,  to  every 
position  the  world  can  offer. — I  may  have  been  carried  away 
by  a  gust  of  ambition,  but  everything  must  give  way  to  the 
joy  of  being  a  father. ' ' 

"Ah,  ha!  you  have  a  fancy  for  paternity  ?  But,  wretched 
man,  we  are  the  fathers  only  of  our  legitimate  children. 
What  is  a  brat  that  does  not  bear  your  name?  The  last 
chapter  of  tthe  romance — Your  child  will  be  taken  from  you ! 
"We  have  seen  that  story  in  twenty  plays  these  ten  years  past. 

"Society,  my  dear  boy,  will  drop  upon  you  sooner  or 
later.  Read  'Adolphe'  once  more. — Dear  me!  I  fancy  I  can 
see  you  when  you  and  she  are  used  to  each  other ; — I  see  you 
dejected,  hang-dog,  bereft  of  position  and  fortune,  and  fight- 
ing like  the  shareholders  of  a  bogus  company  when  they  are 
tricked  by  a  director! — Your  director  is  happiness." 

"Say  no  more,  Bixiou." 

"But  I  have  only  just  begun,"  said  Bixiou.  "Listen, 
my  dear  boy.  Marriage  has  been  out  of  favor  for  some  time 
past;  but,  apart  from  the  advantages  it  offers  in  being  the 
only  recognized  way  of  certifying  heredity,  as  it  affords  a 
good-looking  young  man,  though  penniless,  the  opportunity 
of  making  his  fortune  in  two  months,  it  survives  in  spite  of 
disadvantages.  And  there  is  not  the  man  living  who  would 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  187 

not  repent,  sooner  or  later,  of  having,  by  his  own  fault,  lost 
the  chance  of  marrying  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year." 

"You.  won't  understand  me,"  cried  Lousteau,  in  a  voice 
of  exasperation.  "Go  away — she  is  there — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  why  did  you  not  tell  me  sooner? — 
You  are  of  age,  and  so  is  she,"  he  added  in  a  lower  voice, 
but  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Dinah.  "She  will  make 
you  repent  bitterly  of  your  happiness! — " 

"If  it  is  a  folly,  I  intend  to  commit  it. — Good-by." 

"A  man  gone  overboard!"  cried  Bixiou. 

"Devil  take  those  friends  who  think  they  have  a  right 
to  preach  to  you,"  said  Lousteau,  opening  the  door  of  the 
bedroom,  where  he  found  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  sunk 
in  an  armchair  and  dabbing  her  eyes  with  an  embroidered 
handkerchief. 

"Oh,  why  did  I  come  here?"  sobbed  she.  "Good  Heav- 
ens, why  indeed? — Etienne,  I  am  not  so  provincial  as  you 
think  me. — You  are  making  a  fool  of  me." 

"Darling  angel,"  replied  Lousteau,  taking  Dinah  in  his 
arms,  lifting  her  from  her  chair,  and  dragging  her  half  dead 
into  the  drawing-room,  "we  have  both  pledged  our  future, 
it  is  sacrifice  for  sacrifice.  While  I  was  loving  you  at  San- 
cerre,  they  were  engaging  me  to  be  married  here,  but  I 
refused. — Oh!  I  was  extremely  distressed — " 

"I  am  going,"  cried  Dinah,  starting  wildly  to  her  feet 
and  turning  to  the  door. 

"You  will  stay  here,  my  Didine.  All  is  at  an  end.  And 
is  this  fortune  so  lightly  earned  after  all?  Must  I  not  marry 
a  gawky,  tow-haired  creature,  with  a  red  nose,  the  daughter 
of  a  notary,  and  saddle  myself  with  a  stepmother  who  could 
give  Madame  de  PieMefer  points  on  the  score  of  bigotry — " 

Pamela  flew  in,  and  whispered  in  Lousteau's  ear: 

"Madame  Schontz!" 

Lousteau  rose,  leaving  Dinah  on  the  sofa,  and  went  out. 

"It  is  all  over  with  you,  my  dear,"  said  the  woman. 
"Cardot  does  not  mean  to  quarrel  with  his  wife  for  the  sake 
of  a  son-in-law.  The  lady  made  a  scene — something  like 


188  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  scene,  I  can  tell  you!  So,  to  conclude,  the  head-clerk, 
who  was  the  late  head-clerk's  deputy  for  two  years,  agrees 
to  take  the  girl  with  the  business.'' 

"Mean  wretch!"  exclaimed  Lousteau.  "What!  in  two 
hours  he  has  made  up  his  mind?" 

"Bless  me,  that  is  simple  enough.  The  rascal,  who  knew 
all  the  dead  man's  little  secrets,  guessed  what  a  fix  his  master 
was  in  from  overhearing  a  few  words  of  the  squabble  with 
Madame  Cardot.  The  notary  relies  on  your  honor  and  good 
feeling,  for  the  affair  is  settled.  The  clerk,  whose  conduct 
has  been  admirable,  went  so  far  as  to  attend  mass  I  A  fin- 
ished hypocrite,  I  say — just  suits  the  mamma.  You  and 
Cardot  will  still  be  friends.  He  is  to  be  a  director  in  an 
immense  financial  concern,  and  he  may  be  of  use  to  you.— 
So  you  have  been  waked  from  a  sweet  dream." 

"I  have  lost  a  fortune,  a  wife,  and — " 

"And  a  mistress,"  said  Madame  Schontz,  smiling.  "Here 
you  are,  more  than  married;  you  will  be  insufferable,  you 
will  be  always  wanting  to  get  home,  there  will  be  nothing 
loose  about  you,  neither  your  clothes  nor  your  habits.  And, 
after  all,  my  Arthur  does  things  in  style.  I  will  be  faithful 
to  him  and  cut  Malaga's  acquaintance. 

"Let  me  peep  at  her  through  the  door — your  Sancerre 
Muse,"  she  went  on.  "Is  there  no  finer  bird  than  that  to 
be  found  in  the  desert?"  she  exclaimed.  "You  are  cheated! 
She  is  dignified,  lean,  lachrymose;  she  only  needs  Lady 
Dudley's  turban!" 

"What  is  it  now?"  asked  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  who 
had  heard  the  rustle  of  a  silk  dress  and  the  murmur  of  a 
woman's  voice. 

"It  is,  my  darling,  that  we  are  now  indissolubly  united. 
—I  have  just  had  an  answer  to  the  letter  you  saw  me  write, 
which  was  to  break  off  my  marriage — " 

"So  that  was  the  party  which  you  gave  up?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  I  will  be  more  than  your  wife — I  am  your  slave, 
I  give  you  my  life,"  said  the  poor  deluded  creature.  "I  did 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  189 

not  believe  I  could  love  you  more  than  I  did ! — Now  I  shall 
not  be  a  mere  incident,  but  your  whole  life?" 

"Yes,  my  beautiful,  my  generous  Didine." 

"Swearto  me,"  said  she,  "that  only  death  shall  divide  us." 

Lousteau  was  ready  to  sweeten  his  vows  with  the  most 
fascinating  prettinesses.  And  this  was  why.  Between  the 
door  of  the  apartment  where  he  had  taken  the  lorette's 
farewell  kiss,  and  that  of  the  drawing-room,  where  the  Muse 
was  reclining,  bewildered  by  such  a  succession  of  shocks, 
Lousteau  had  remembered  little  de  La  Baudraye's  precarious 
health,  his  fine  fortune,  and  Bianchon's  remark  about  Dinah, 
"She  will  be  a  rich  widow!"  and  he  said  to  himself,  "I  would 
a  hundred  times  rather  have  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  for  a 
wife  than  Felicie!" 

His  plan  of  action  was  quickly  decided  on;  he  determined 
to  play  the  farce  of  passion  once  more,  and  to  perfection. 

His  mean  self-interest  and  his  false  vehemence  of  passion 
had  disastrous  results.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  when  she 
set  out  from  Sancerre  for  Paris,  had  intended  to  live  .in  rooms 
of  her  own  quite  near  to  Lousteau ;  but  the  proofs  of  devo- 
tion her  lover  had  given  her  by  giving  up  such  brilliant  pros- 
pects, and  yet  more  the  perfect  happiness  of  the  first  days 
of  their  illicit  union,  kept  her  from  mentioning  such  a  part- 
ing. The  second  day  was  to  be — and  indeed  was — a  high 
festival,  in  which  such  a  suggestion  proposed  to  "her  angel" 
would  have  been  a  discordant  note. 

Lousteau,  on  his  part,  anxious  to  make  Dinah  feel  herself 
dependent  on  him,  kept  her  in  a  state  of  constant  intoxication 
by  incessant  amusement.  These  circumstances  hindered  two 
persons  so  clever  as  these  were  from  avoiding  the  slough  into 
which  they  fell — that  of  a  life  in  common,  a  piece  of  folly  of 
which,  unfortunately,  many  instances  may  be  seen  in  Paris 
in  literary  circles. 

And  thus  was  the  whole  programme  played  cut  of  a  pro- 
vincial amour,  so  satirically  described  by  Lousteau  to  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye — a  fact  which  neither  he  nor  she  remem- 
bered. Passion  is  born  a  deaf-mute. 


190  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

This  winter  in  Paris  was  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  all 
that  the  month  of  October  had  been  at  Sancerre.  Etienne, 
to  initiate  "his  wife"  into  Paris  life,  varied  this  honeymoon 
by  evenings  at  the  play,  where  Dinah  would  only  go  to  the 
stage  box.  At  first  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  preserved  some 
remnants  of  her  countrified  modesty ;  she  was  afraid  of  being 
seen;  she  hid  her  happiness.  She  would  say:  "Monsieur 
de  Clagny  or  Monsieur  Gravier  may  have  followed  me  to 
Paris."  She  was  afraid  of  Sancerre  even  in  Paris. 

Lousteau,  who  was  excessively  vain,  educated  Dinah, 
took  her  to  the  best  dressmakers,  and  pointed  out  to  her 
the  most  fashionable  women,  advising  her  to  take  them  as 
models  for  imitation.  And  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's 
provincial  appearance  was  soon  a  thing  of  the  past.  Lou- 
steau, when  his  friends  met  him,  was  congratulated  on  his 
conquest. 

All  through  that  season  Etienne  wrote  little  and  got  very 
much  into  debt,  though  Dinah,  who  was  proud,  bought  all 
her  clothes  out  of  her  savings,  and  fancied  she  had  not  been 
the  smallest  expense  to  her  beloved.  By  the  end  of  three 
months  Dinah  was  acclimatized;  she  had  revelled  in  the 
music  at  the  Italian  opera;  she  knew  the  pieces  "on"  at  all 
theatres,  and  the  actors  and  jests  of  the  day;  she  had  be- 
come inured  to  this  life  of  perpetual  excitement,  this  rapid 
torrent  in  which  everything  is  forgotten.  She  no  longer 
craned  her  neck  or  stood  with  her  nose  in  the  air,  like  an 
image  of  Amazement,  at  the  constant  surprises  that  Paris 
has  for  a  stranger.  She  had  learned  to  breathe  that  witty, 
vitalizing,  teeming  atmosphere  where  clever  people  feel 
themselves  in  their  element,  and  which  they  can  no  longer 
bear  to  quit. 

One  morning,  as  she  read  the  papers,  for  Lousteau  had 
them  all,  two  lines  carried  her  back  to  Sancerre  and  the  past, 
two  lines  that  seemed  not  unfamiliar — as  follows: 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Clagny,  Public  Prosecutor  to  the 
Criminal  Court  at  Sancerre,  has  been  appointed  Deputy 
Public  Prosecutor  to  the  Supreme  Court  in  Paris." 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  191 

"How  well  that  worthy  lawyer  loves  you!"  said  the 
journalist,  smiling. 

"Poor  man!"  said  she.  "What  did  I  tell  you?  He  is 
following  me." 

Etienne  and  Dinah  were  just  then  at  the  most  dazzling 
and  fervid  stage  of  a  passion  when  each  is  perfectly  accus- 
tomed to  the  other,  and  yet  love  has  not  lost  its  freshness 
and  relish.  The  lovers  know  each  other  well,  but  all  is  not 
yet  understood;  they  have  not  been  a  second  time  to  the 
same  secret  haunts  of  the  soul ;  they  have  not  studied  each 
other  till  they  know,  as  they  must  later,  the  very  thought, 
word,  and  gesture  that  responds  to  every  event,  the  greatest 
and  the  smallest.  Enchantment  reigns;  there  are  no  colli- 
sions, no  differences  of  opinion,  no  cold  looks.  Their  two 
souls  are  always  on  the  same  side.  And  Dinah  would  speak 
the  magical  words,  emphasized  by  the  yet  more  magical  ex- 
pression and  looks  which  every  woman  can  use  under  such 
circumstances. 

"When  you  cease  to  love  me,  kill  me. — If  you  should  cease 
to  love  me,  I  believe  I  could  kill  you  first  and  myself  after." 

To  this  sweet  exaggeration,  Lousteau  would  reply: 

"All  I  ask  of  God  is  to  see  you  as  constant  as  I  shall  be. 
It  is  you  who  will  desert  me!" 

"My  love  is  supreme." 

"Supreme,"  echoed  Lousteau.  "Come,  now?  Suppose 
I  am  dragged  away  to  a  bachelor  party,  and  find  there  one 
of  my  former  mistresses,  and  she  makes  fun  of  me;  I,  out  of 
vanity,  behave  as  if  I  were  free,  and  do  not  come  in  here  till 
next  morning — would  you  still  love  me  ? ' ' 

"A  woman  is  only  sure  of  being  loved  when  she  is  pre- 
ferred ;  and  if  you  came  back  to  me,  if —  Oh !  you  make  me 
understand  what  the  happiness  would  be  of  forgiving  the  man 
I  adore." 

"Well,  then,  I  am  truly  loved  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life!"  cried  Lousteau. 

"At  last  you  understand  that!"  said  she. 

Lousteau  proposed  that  they  should  each  write  a  fetter 


192  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

setting  forth  the  reasons  which  would  compel  them  to  end  by 
suicide.  Once  in  possession  of  such  a  document,  each  might 
kill  the  other  without  danger  in  case  of  infidelity.  But  in 
spite  of  mutual  promises,  neither  wrote  the  letter. 

The  journalist,  happy  for  the  moment,  promised  himself 
that  he  would  deceive  Dinah  when  he  should  be  tired  of  her, 
and  would  sacrifice  everything  to  the  requirements  of  that 
deception.  To  him  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  a  fortune 
in  herself.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  the  yoke. 

Dinah,  by  consenting  to  this  union,  showed  a  generous 
mind  and  the  power  derived  from  self-respect.  In  this  ab- 
solute intimacy,  in  which  both  lovers  put  off  their  mask,  the 
young  woman  never  abdicated  her  modesty,  her  masculine 
rectitude,  and  the  strength  peculiar  to  ambitious  souls,  which 
formed  the  basis  of  her  character.  Lousteau  involuntarily 
held  her  in  high  esteem.  As  a  Parisian,  Dinah  was  superior 
to  the  most  fascinating  courtesan ;  she  could  be  as  amusing 
and  as  witty  as  Malaga;  but  her  extensive  information,  her 
habits  of  mind,  her  vast  reading  enabled  her  to  generalize 
her  wit,  while  the  Florines  and  the  Schontzes  exerted  theirs 
over  a  very  narrow  circle. 

"There  is  in  Dinah,"  said  Etienne  to  Bixiou,  "the  stuff 
to  make  both  a  Ninon  and  a  de  Stael." 

"A  woman  who  combines  an  encyclopedia  and  a  seraglio 
is  very  dangerous, ' '  replied  the  mocking  spirit. 

When  the  expected  infant  became  a  visible  fact,  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye  would  be  seen  no  more ;  but  before  shutting 
herself  up,  never  to  go  out  unless  into  the  country,  she  was 
bent  on  being  present  at  the  first  performance  of  a  play  by 
Nathan.  This  literary  solemnity  occupied  the  minds  of  the 
two  thousand  persons  who  regard  themselves  as  constituting 
"all  Paris."  Dinah,  who  had  never  been  at  a  first  night's 
performance,  was  full  of  very  natural  curiosity.  She  had  by 
this  time  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  affection  for  Lousteau 
that  she  gloried  in  her  misconduct;  she  exerted  a  sort  of 
savage  strength  to  defy  the  world;  she  was  determined  to 
look  it  in  the  face  without  turning  her  head  aside. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  193 

She  dressed  herself  to  perfection,  in  a  style  suited  to  her 
delicate  looks  and  the  sickly  whiteness  of  her  face.  Her 
pallid  complexion  gave  her  an  expression  of  refinement,  and 
her  black  hair  in  smooth  bands  enhanced  her  pallor.  Her 
brilliant  gray  eyes  looked  finer  than  ever,  set  in  dark  rings. 
But  a  terribly  distressing  incident  awaited  her.  By  a  very 
simple  chance,  the  box  given  to  the  journalist,  on  the  first 
tier,  was  next  to  that  which  Anna  Grosset6te  had  taken. 
The  two  intimate  friends  did  not  even  bow;  neither  chose 
to  acknowledge  the  other.  At  the  end  of  the  first  act 
Lousteau  left  his  seat,  abandoning  Dinah  to  the  fire  of 
eyes,  the  glare  of  opera-glasses;  while  the  Baronne  de  Fon- 
taine and  the  Comtesse  Marie  de  Vandenesse,  who  accom- 
panied her,  received  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  fashion. 

Dinah's  solitude  was  all  the  more  distressing  because  she 
had  not  the  art  of  putting  a  good  face  on  the  matter  by  ex- 
amining the  company  through  her  opera-glass.  In  vain  did 
she  try  to  assume  a  dignified  and  thoughtful  attitude,  and 
fix  her  eyes  on  vacancy;  she  was  overpoweringly  conscious 
of  being  the  object  of  general  attention ;  she  could  not  dis- 
guise her  discomfort,  and  lapsed  a  little  into  provincialism, 
displaying  her  handkerchief  and  making  involuntary  move- 
ments of  which  she  had  almost  cured  herself.  At  last,  be- 
tween the  second  and  third  acts,  a  man  had  himself  admitted 
to  Dinah's  box !  It  was  Monsieur  de  Clagny. 

"I  am  happy  to  see  you,  to  tell  you  how  much  I  am 
pleased  by  your  promotion,"  said  she. 

"Oh!  Madame,  for  whom  should  I  come  to  Paris — ?" 

"What!"  said  she.  "Have  I  anything  to  do  with  your 
appointment?" 

' '  E  verything, "  sai  d  he.  "  Since  you  left  Sancerre,  it  had 
become  intolerable  to  me;  I  was  dying — " 

"Your  sincere  friendship  does  me  good,"  replied  she, 
holding  out  her  hand.  "I  am  in  a  position  to  make  much 
of  tny  true  friends;  I  now  know  their  value. — I  feared  I 
must  have  lost  your  esteem,  but  the  proof  you  have  given 

Tol.4.  (I) 


194  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

me  by  this  visit  touches  me  more  deeply  than  your  ten  years1 
attachment. ' ' 

"You  are  an  object  of  curiosity  to  the  whole  house,"  said 
the  lawyer.  "Oh!  my  dear,  is  this  a  part  for  you  to  be 
playing  ?  Could  you  not  be  happy  and  yet  remain  honored  ? 
— I  have  just  heard  that  you  are  Monsieur  Etienne  Lousteau's 
mistress,  that  you  live  together  as  man  and  wife ! — You  have 
broken  forever  with  society;  even  if  you  should  some  day 
marry  your  lover,  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  feel  the 
want  of  the  respectability  you  now  despise.  Ought  you  not 
to  be  in  a  home  of  your  own  with  your  mother,  who  loves 
you  well  enough  to  protect  you  with  her  segis  ? — Appearances 
at  least  would  be  saved. ' ' 

"I  am  in  the  wrong  to  have  come  here,"  replied  she,  "that 
is  all. — I  have  bid  farewell  to  all  the  advantages  which  the 
world  confers  on  women  who  know  how  to  reconcile  happi- 
ness and  the  proprieties.  My  abnegation  is  so  complete  that 
I  only  wish  I  could  clear  a  vast  space  about  me  to  make  a 
desert  of  my  love,  full  of  God,  of  him,  and  of  myself. — We 
have  made  too  many  sacrifices  on  both  sides  not  to  be  united 
— united  by  disgrace  if  you  will,  but  indissolubly  one.  I  am 
happy;  so  happy  that  I  can  love  freely,  my  friend,  and  con- 
fide in  you  more  than  of  old — for  I  need  a  friend. ' ' 

The  lawyer  was  magnanimous,  nay,  truly  great.  To  this 
declaration,  in  which  Dinah's  soul  thrilled,  he  replied  in 
heartrending  tones: 

"I  wanted  to  go  to  see  you,  to  be  sure  that  you  were 
loved:  I  shall  now  be  easy  and  no  longer  alarmed  as  to 
your  future. — But  will  your  lover  appreciate  the  magni- 
tude of  your  sacrifice;  is  there  any  gratitude  in  his  affec- 
tion?" 

"Come  to  the  Eue  des  Martyrs  and  you  will  see!" 

"Yes,  I  will  call,"  he  replied.  "I  have  already  passed 
your  door  without  daring  to  inquire  for  you. — You  do  not 
yet  know  the  literary  world.  There  are  glorious  exceptions, 
no  doubt;  but  these  men  of  letters  drag  terrible  evils  in  their 
train;  among  these  I  account  publicity  as  one  of  the  great- 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  195 

est,  for  it  blights  everything.  A  woman  may  commit  herself 
with—" 

"With  a  Public  Prosecutor?"  the  Baronne  put  in  with 
a  smile. 

"Well! — and  then  after  a  rupture  there  is  still  something 
to  fall  back  on;  the  world  has  known  nothing.  But  with  a 
more  or  less  famous  man  the  public  is  thoroughly  informed. 
Why,  look  there !  What  an  example  you  have  close  at  hand  I 
You  are  sitting  back  to  back  with  the  Comtesse  Marie  Van- 
denesse,  who  was  within  an  ace  of  committing  the  utmost 
folly  for  a  more  celebrated  man  than  Lousteau — for  Nathan 
— and  now  they  do  not  even  recognize  each  other.  After 
going  to  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice,  the  Countess  was 
saved,  no  one  knows  how;  she  neither  left  her  husband  nor 
her  house;  but  as  a  famous  man  was  concerned,  she  was  the 
talk  of  the  town  for  a  whole  winter.  But  for  her  husband's 
great  fortune,  great  name,  and  high  position,  but  for  the  ad- 
mirable management  of  that  true  statesman — whose  conduct 
to  his  wife,  they  say,  was  perfect — she  would  have  been 
ruined;  in  her  position  no  other  woman  would  have  re- 
mained respected  as  she  is." 

"And  how  was  Sancerre  when  you  came  away?"  asked 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  to  change  the  subject. 

"Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  announced  that  your  expected 
confinement  after  so  many  years  made  it  necessary  that  it 
should  take  place  in  Paris,  and  that  he  had  insisted  on  your 
going  to  be  attended  by  the  first  physicians,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur de  Clagny,  guessing  what  it  was  that  Binah  most 
wanted  to  know.  "And  so,  in  spite  of  the  commotion  to 
which  your  departure  gave  rise,  you  still  have  your  legal 
status." 

"Whyl"  she  exclaimed,  "can  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye 
Btill  hope—" 

"  Your  husband,  Madame,  did  what  he  always  does — made 
a  little  calculation." 

The  lawyer  left  the  box  when  the  journalist  returned, 
bowing  with  dignity. 


196  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

"You  are  a  greater  hit  than  the  piece,"  said  Etienne  to 
Dinah. 

This  brief  triumph  brought  greater  happiness  to  the 
poor  woman  than  she  had  ever  known  in  the  whole  of  her 
provincial  existence ;  still,  as  they  left  the  theatre  she  was 
very  grave. 

"What  ails  you,  my  Didine?"  asked  Lousteau.. 

"I  am  wondering  how  a  woman  succeeds  in  conquering 
the  world?" 

"There  are  two  ways.  One  is  by  being  Madame  de  Stael, 
the  other  is  by  having  two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year. ' ' 

"Society,"  said  she,  "asserts  its  hold  on  us  by  appealing 
to  our  vanity,  our  love  of  appearances. — Pooh !  We  will  be 
philosophers!" 

That  evening  was  the  last  gleam  of  the  delusive  well- 
being  in  which  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  lived  since 
coming  to  Paris.  Three  days  later  she  observed  a  cloud 
on  Lousteau's  brow  as  he  walked  round  the  little  garden- 
plot  smoking  a  cigar.  This  woman,  who  had  acquired  from 
her  husband  the  habit  and  the  pleasure  of  never  owing  any- 
body a  sou,  was  informed  that  the  household  was  penniless, 
with  two  quarters'  rent  owing,  and  on  the  eve,  in  fact,  of  an 
execution. 

This  reality  of  Paris  life  pierced  Dinah's  heart  like  a 
thorn ;  she  repented  of  having  tempted  Etienne  into  the  ex- 
travagances of  love.  It  is  so  difficult  to  pass  from  pleasure 
to  work  that  happiness  has  wrecked  more  poems  than  sor- 
rows ever  helped  to  flow  in  sparkling  jets.  Dinah,  happy 
in  seeing  Etienne  taking  his  ease,  smoking  a  cigar  after 
breakfast,  his  face  beaming  as  he  basked  like  a  lizard  in 
the  sunshine,  could  not  summon  up  courage  enough  to  make 
herself  the  bum-bailiff  of  a  magazine. 

It  struck  her  that  through  the  worthy  Migeon,  Pamela's 
father,  she  might  pawn  the  few  jewels  she  possessed,  on 
which  her  "uncle,"  for  she  was  learning  to  talk  the  slang 
of  the  town,  advanced  her  nine  hundred  francs.  She  kept 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  197 

three  hundred  for  her  baby-clothes  and  the  expenses  of  her 
illness,  and  joyfully  presented  the  sum  due  to  Lousteau,  who 
was  plowing,  furrow  by  furrow,  or,  if  you  will,  line  by  line, 
through  a  novel  for  a  periodical. 

"Dearest  heart,"  said  she,  "finish  your  novel  without 
making  any  sacrifice  to  necessity;  polish  the  style,  work  up 
the  subject. — I  have  played  the  fine  lady  too  long;  I  am 
going  to  be  tho  housewife  and  attend  to  business." 

For  the  last  four  months  Etienne  had  been  taking  Dinah 
to  the  Cafe*  Kiche  to  dine  every  day,  a  corner  being  always 
kept  for  them.  The  countrywoman  was  in  dismay  at  being 
told  that  five  hundred  francs  were  owing  for  the  last  fort- 
night. 

"What!  we  have  been  drinking  wine  at  six  francs  a  bot- 
tle !  A  sole  Normande  costs  five  francs ! — and  twenty  centimes 
for  a  roll?"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  looked  through  the  bill 
Lousteau  showed  her. 

"Well,  it  makes  very  little  difference  to  us  whether  we 
are  robbed  at  a  restaurant  or  by  a  cook,"  said  Lousteau. 

"Henceforth,  for  the  cost  of  your  dinner,  you  shall  live 
like  a  prince." 

Having  induced  the  landlord  to  let  her  have  a  kitchen 
and  two  servants'  rooms,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  wrote  a 
few  lines  to  her  mother,  begging  her  to  send  her  some  linen 
and  a  loan  of  a  thousand  francs.  She  received  two  trunks 
full  of  linen,  some  plate,  and  two  thousand  francs,  sent  by 
the  hand  of  an  honest  and  pious  cook  recommended  her  by 
her  mother. 

Ten  days  after  the  evening  at  the  theatre  when  they  had 
met,  Monsieur  de  Clagny  came  to  call  at  four  o'clock,  after 
coming  out  of  court,  and  found  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
making  a  little  cap.  The  sight  of  this  proud  and  ambitious 
woman,  whose  mind  was  so  accomplished,  and  who  had 
queened  it  so  well  at  the  Chateau  d'Anzy,  now  condescend- 
ing to  household  cares  and  sewing  for  the  coming  infant, 
moved  the  poor  lawyer,  who  had  just  left  the  bench.  And 
as  he  saw  the  pricks  on  one  of  the  taper  fingers  he  had  so 


198  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

often  kissed,  lie  understood  that  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
was  not  merely  playing  at  this  maternal  task. 

In  the  course  of  this  first  interview  the  magistrate  saw  to 
the  depths  of  Dinah's  soul.  This  perspicacity  in  a  man  so 
much  in  love  was  a  superhuman  effort.  He  saw  that  Didine 
meant  to  be  the  journalist's  guardian  spirit  and  lead  him  into 
a  nobler  road;  she  had  seen  that  the  difficulties  of  his  prac- 
tical life  were  due  to  some  moral  defects.  Between  two  be- 
ings united  by  love — in  one  so  genuine,  and  in  the  other  so 
well  feigned — more  than  one  confidence  had  been  exchanged 
in  the  course  of  four  months.  Notwithstanding  the  care  with 
which  Etienne  wrapped  up  his  true  self,  a  word  now  and  then 
had  not  failed  to  enlighten  Dinah  as  to  the  previous  life  of  a 
man  whose  talents  were  so  hampered  by  poverty,  so  perverted 
by  bad  examples,  so  thwarted  by  obstacles  beyond  his  cour- 
age to  surmount.  "He  will  be  a  greater  man  if  life  is  easy 
to  him,"  said  she  to  herself.  And  she  strove  to  make  him 
happy,  to  give  him  the  sense  of  a  sheltered  home  by  dint  of 
such  economy  and  method  as  are  familiar  to  provincial  folk. 
Thus  Dinah  became  a  housekeeper,  as  she  had  become  a  poet, 
by  the  soaring  of  her  soul  toward  the  heights. 

"His  happiness  will  be  my  absolution." 

These  words,  wrung  from  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  by  her 
friend  the  lawyer,  accounted  for  the  existing  state  of  things. 
The  publicity  of  his  triumph,  flaunted  by  Etienne  on  the 
evening  of  the  first  performance,  had  very  plainly  shown  the 
lawyer  what  Lousteau's  purpose  was.  To  Etienne,  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye  was,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  "a  fine  feather 
in  his  cap."  Far  from  preferring  the  joys  of  a  shy  and  mys- 
terious passion,  of  hiding  such  exquisite  happiness  from  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  he  found  vulgar  satisfaction  in  displaying 
the  first  woman  of  respectability  who  had  ever  honored  him 
with  her  affection. 

The  Judge,  however,  was  for  some  time  deceived  by  the 
attentions  which  any  man  would  lavish  on  any  woman  in 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye' s  situation,  and  Lousteau  made 
them  doubly  charming  by  the  ingratiating  ways  character- 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  199 

istic  of  men  whose  manners  are  naturally  attractive.  There 
are,  in  fact,  men  who  have  something  of  the  monkey  in  them 
by  nature,  and  to  whom  the  assumption  of  the  most  engaging 
forms  of  sentiment  is  so  easy  that  the  actor  is  not  detected ; 
and  Lousteau's  natural  gifts  had  been  fully  developed  on  the 
stage  on  which  he  had  hitherto  figured. 

Between  the  months  of  April  and  July,  when  Dinah  ex- 
pected her  confinement,  she  discovered  why  it  was  that  Lou- 
steau  had  not  triumphed  over  poverty ;  he  was  idle  and  had 
no  power  of  will.  The  brain,  to  be  sure,  must  obey  its  own 
laws ;  it  recognizes  neither  the  exigencies  of  life  nor  the  voice 
of  honor ;  a  man  cannot  write  a  great  book  because  a  woman 
is  dying,  or  to  pay  a  discreditable  debt,  or  to  bring  up  a 
family;  at  the  same  time,  there  is  no  great  talent  without 
a  strong  will.  These  twin  forces  are  requisite  for  the  erec- 
tion of  the  vast  edifice  of  personal  glory.  A  distinguished 
genius  keeps  his  brain  in  a  productive  condition,  just  as  the 
knights  of  old  kept  their  weapons  always  ready  for  battle. 
They  conquer  indolence,  they  deny  themselves  enervating 
pleasures,  or  indulge  only  to  a  fixed  limit  proportioned  to 
their  powers.  This  explains  the  life  of  such  men  as  Walter 
Scott,  Cuvier,  Voltaire,  Newton,  Buffon,  Bayle,  Bossuet, 
Leibnitz,  Lopez  de  Vega,  Calderon,  Boccaccio,  Aretino,  Aris- 
totle— in  short,  every  man  who  delighted,  governed,  or  led 
his  contemporaries. 

A  man  may  and  ought  to  pride  himself  more  on  his  will 
than  on  his  talent.  Though  Talent  has  its  germ  in  a  culti- 
vated gift,  Will  means  the  incessant  conquest  of  his  in- 
stincts, of  proclivities  subdued  and  mortified,  and  difficulties 
of  every  kind  heroically  defeated.  The  abuse  of  smoking 
encouraged  Lousteau's  indolence.  Tobacco,  which  can  lull 
grief,  inevitably  numbs  a  man's  energy. 

Then,  while  the  cigar  deteriorated  him  physically,  criti- 
cism as  a  profession  morally  stultified  a  man  so  easily  tempted 
by  pleasure.  Criticism  is  as  fatal  to  the  critic  as  seeing  two 
sides  of  a  question  is  to  a  pleader.  In  these  professions  the 
judgment  is  undermined,  the  mind  loses  its  lucid  rectitude. 


200  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

The  writer  lives  by  taking  sides.  Thus,  we  may  distinguish 
two  kinds  of  criticism,  as  in  painting  we  may  distinguish  art 
from  practical  dexterity.  Criticism,  after  the  pattern  of  most 
contemporary  leader-writers,  is  the  expression  of  judgments 
formed  at  random  in  a  more  or  less  witty  way,  just  as  an  ad- 
vocate pleads  in  court  on  the  most  contradictory  briefs.  The 
newspaper  critic  always  finds  a  subject  to  work  up  in  the 
book  he  is  discussing.  Done  after  this  fashion,  the  business 
is  well  adapted  to  indolent  brains,  to  men  devoid  of  the  sub- 
lime faculty  of  imagination,  or,  possessed  of  it  indeed,  but 
lacking  courage  to  cultivate  it.  Every  play,  every  book 
comes  to  their  pen  as  a  subject,  making  no  demand  on  their 
imagination,  and  of  which  they  simply  write  a  report,  seri- 
ously or  in  irony,  according  to  the  mood  of  the  moment.  Aa 
to  an  opinion,  whatever  it  may  be,  French  wit  can  always 
justify  it,  being  admirably  ready  to  defend  either  side  of  any 
case.  And  conscience  counts  for  so  little,  these  bravi  have 
so  little  value  for  their  own  words,  that  they  will  loudly  praise 
in  the  greenroom  the  work  they  tear  to  tatters  in  print. 

Nay,  men  have  been  known  to  transfer  their  services  from 
one  paper  to  another  without  being  at  the  pains  to  consider 
that  the  opinions  of  the  new  sheet  must  be  diametrically  an- 
tagonistic to  those  of  the  old.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  could 
smile  to  see  Lousteau  with  one  article  on  the  Legitimist  side 
and  one  on  the  side  of  the  new  dynasty,  both  on  the  same 
occasion.  She  admired  the  maxim  he  preached: 
"We  are  the  attorneys  of  public  opinion." 
The  other  kind  of  criticism  is  a  science.  It  necessitates 
a  thorough  comprehension  of  each  work,  a  lucid  insight  into 
the  tendencies  of  the  age,  the  adoption  of  a  system,  and  faith 
in  fixed  principles — that  is  to  say,  a  scheme  of  jurisprudence, 
a  summing-up,  and  a  verdict.  The  critic  is  then  a  magistrate 
of  ideas,  the  censor  of  his  time;  he  fulfils  a  sacred  function; 
while  in  the  former  case  he  is  but  an  acrobat  who  turns  somer- 
saults for  a  living  as  long  as  he  has  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Be- 
tween Claude  Vignon  and  Lousteau  lay  the  gulf  that  divides 
mere  dexterity  from  art. 


THE   MUSE   OF    THE   DEPARTMENT  201 

Dinah,  whose  mind  was  soon  freed  from  rust,  and  whose 
intellect  was  by  no  means  narrow,  had  ere  long  taken  literary 
measure  of  her  idol.  She  saw  Lousteau  working  up  to  the 
last  minute  under  the  most  discreditable  compulsion,  and 
scamping  his  work,  as  painters  say  of  a  picture  from  which 
sound  technique  is  absent;  but  she  would  excuse  him  by 
saying,  "He  is  a  poet!"  so  anxious  was  she  to  justify  him 
in  her  own  eyes.  When  she  thus  guessed  the  secret  of  many 
a  writer's  existence,  she  also  guessed  that  Lousteau's  pen 
could  never  be  trusted  to  as  a  resource. 

Then  her  love  for  him  led  her  to  take  a  step  she  would 
never  have  thought  of  for  her  own  sake.  Through  her 
mother  she  tried  to  negotiate  with  her  husband  for  an  allow- 
ance, but  without  Etienne's  knowledge;  for,  as  she  thought, 
it  would  be  an  offence  to  his  delicate  feelings,  which  must  be 
considered.  A  few  days  before  the  end  of  July,  Dinah  crum- 
pled up  in  her  wrath  the  letter  from  her  mother  containing 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye's  ultimatum: 

"Madame  de  La  Baudraye  cannot  need  an  allowance  in 
Paris  when  she  can  live  in  perfect  luxury  at  her  Chateau  of 
Anzy:  she  may  return. " 

Lousteau  picked  up  this  letter  and  read  it. 

"I  will  avenge  you!"  said  he  to  Dinah  in  the  ominous 
tone  that  delights  a  woman  when  her  antipathies  are  flat- 
tered. 

Five  days  after  this,  Bianchon  and  Duriau,  the  famous 
ladies'  doctor,  were  engaged  at  Lousteau's;  for  he,  ever  since 
little  La  Baudraye's  reply,  had  been  making  a  great  display 
of  his  joy  and  importance  over  the  advent  of  the  infant. 
Monsieur  de  Clagny  and  Madame  PieMefer — sent  for  in  all 
haste — were  to  be  the  godparents,  for  the  cautious  magistrate 
feared  lest  Lousteau  should  commit  some  compromising  blun- 
der. Madame  de  La  Baudraye  gave  birth  to  a  boy  that  might 
have  filled  a  queen  with  envy  who  hoped  for  an  heir-pre- 
eumptive. 

Bianchon  and  Monsieur  de  Clagny  went  off  to  register  the 
child  at  the  Mayor's  office  as  the  son  of  Monsieur  and  Ma- 


202  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

daine  de  La  Baudraye,  unknown  to  Etienne,  who,  on  his 
part,  rushed  off  to  a  printer's  to  have  this  circular  set  up : 

"Madame  la  Baronne  de  La  Baudraye  is  happily  delivered 
of  a  son. 

"Monsieur  fitienne  Lousteau  has  the  pleasure  of  informing 
you  of  the  fact. 

"The  mother  and  child  are  doing  well." 

Lousteau  had  already  sent  out  sixty  of  these  announce- 
ments when  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  on  coming  to  make  in- 
quiries, happened  to  see  the  list  of  the  persons  at  Sancerre 
to  whom  Lousteau  proposed  to  send  this  amazing  notice,  writ- 
ten below  the  names  of  the  persons  in  Paris  to  whom  it  was 
already  gone.  The  lawyer  confiscated  the  list  and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  circulars,  showed  them  to  Madame  Pie'defer, 
begging  her  on  no  account  to  allow  Lousteau  to  carry  on  this 
atrocious  jest,  and  jumped  into  a  cab.  The  devoted  friend 
then  ordered  from  the  same  printer  another  announcement 
in  the  following  words: 

"Madame  la  Baronne  de  La  Baudraye  is  happily  delivered 
of  a  son. 

" Monsieur  le  Baron  de  La  Baudraye  has  the  honor  of  inform- 
ing you  of  the  fact. 

"Mother  and  child  are  doing  well." 

After  seeing  the  proofs  destroyed,  the  form  of  type, 
everything  that  could  bear  witness  to  the  existence  of  the 
former  document,  Monsieur  de  Clagny  set  to  work  to  inter- 
cept those  that  had  been  sent;  in  many  cases  he  changed 
them  at  the  porter's  lodge,  he  got  thirty  back  into  his  own 
hands,  and  at  last,  after  three  days  of  hard  work,  only  one 
of  the  original  notes  existed,  that,  namely,  sent  to  Nathan. 

Five  times  had  the  lawyer  called  on  the  great  man  with- 
out finding  him.  By  the  time  Monsieur  de  Clagny  was 
admitted,  after  requesting  an  interview,  the  story  of  the 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT 

announcement  was  known  to  all  Paris.  Some  persons  re- 
ganled  it  as  one  of  those  waggish  calumnies,  a  sort  of  stab 
to  which  every  reputation,  even  the  most  ephemeral,  is  ex- 
posed ;  others  said  they  had  read  the  paper  and  returned 
it  to  some  friend  of  the  La  Baudraye  family ;  a  great  many 
declaimed  against  the  immorality  of  journalists;  in  short, 
this  last  remaining  specimen  was  regarded  as  a  curiosity. 
Florine,  with  whom  Nathan  was  living,  had  shown  it  about, 
stamped  in  the  post  as  paid,  and  addressed  in  Etienne's 
hand.  So,  as  soon  as  the  judge  spoke  of  the  announcement, 
Nathan  began  to  smile. 

"Give  up  that  monument  of  recklessness  and  folly?" 
cried  he.  "That  autograph  is  one  of  those  weapons  which 
an  athlete  in  the  circus  cannot  afford  to  lay  down.  That 
note  proves  that  Lousteau  has  no  heart,  no  taste,  no  dignity; 
that  he  knows  nothing  of  the  world  nor  of  public  morality ; 
that  he  insults  himself  when  he  can  find  no  one  else  to  insult. 
— None  but  the  son  of  a  provincial  citizen  imported  from 
Sancerre  to  become  a  poet,  but  who  is  only  the  bravo  of  some 
contemptible  magazine,  could  ever  have  sent  out  such  a  cir- 
cular letter,  as  you  must  allow,  Monsieur.  This  is  a  doc- 
ument indispensable  to  the  archives  of  the  age. — To-day 
Lousteau  flatters  me,  to-morrow  he  may  ask  for  my  head. 
• — Excuse  me,  I  forgot  you  were  a  judge. 

"I  have  gone  through  a  passion  for  a  lady,  a  great  lady, 
as  far  superior  to  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  as  your  fine  feel- 
ing, Monsieur,  is  superior  to  Lousteau's  vulgar  retaliation; 
but  I  would  have  died  rather  than  utter  her  name.  A  few 
months  of  her  airs  and  graces  cost  me  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  and  my  prospects  for  life ;  but  I  do  not  think  the  price 
too  high! — And  I  have  never  murmured! — If  a  woman  be- 
trays the  secret  of  her  passion,  it  is  the  supreme  offering 
of  her  love,  but  a  man! — He  must  be  a  Lousteau! 

"No,  I  would  not  give  up  that  paper  for  a  thousand 
crowns. ' ' 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  lawyer  at  last,  after  an  eloquent 
battle  lasting  half  an  hour,  "I  have  called  on  fifteen  or  six- 


204  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

teen  men  of  letters  about  this  affair,  and  can  it  be  that  you 
are  the  only  one  immovable  by  an  appeal  of  honor?  It  is 
not  for  Etienne  Lousteau  that  I  plead,  but  for  a  woman  and 
child,  both  equally  ignorant  of  the  damage  thus  done  to  their 
fortune,  their  prospects,  and  their  honor. — "Who  knows, 
Monsieur,  whether  you  might  not  some  day  be  compelled 
to  plead  for  some  favor  of  justice  for  a  friend,  for  some  per- 
son whose  honor  was  dearer  to  you  than  your  own. — It  might 
be  remembered  against  you  that  you  had  been  ruthless. — 
Can  such  a  man  as  you  are  hesitate?"  added  Monsieur  de 
Clagny. 

"I  only  wished  you  to  understand  the  extent  of  the  sacri- 
fice," replied  Nathan,  giving  up  the  letter,  as  he  reflected  on 
the  judge's  influence  and  accepted  this  implied  bargain. 

When  the  journalist's  stupid  jest  had  been  counteracted, 
Monsieur  de  Clagny  went  to  give  him  a  rating  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Madame  Pie*defer;  but  he  found  Lousteau  fuming 
with  irritation. 

"What  I  did,  Monsieur,  I  did  with  a  purpose!"  replied 
Etienne.  "Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  has  sixty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  and  refuses  to  make  his  wife  an  allowance; 
I  wished  to  make  him  feel  that  the  child  is  in  my  power. ' ' 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  I  quite  suspected  it,"  replied  the  law- 
yer. "For  that  reason  I  readily  agreed  to  be  little  Poly- 
dore's  godfather,  and  he  is  registered  as  the  son  of  the  Baron 
and  Baronne  de  La  Baudraye;  if  you  have  the  feelings  of  a 
father,  you  ought  to  rejoice  in  knowing  that  the  child  is  heir 
to  one  of  the  finest  entailed  estates  in  France." 

"And  pray,  sir,  is  the  mother  to  die  of  hunger?" 

"Be  quite  easy,"  said  the  lawyer,  bitterly,  having  dragged 
from  Lousteau  the  expression  of  feeling  he  had  so  long  been 
expecting.  "I  will  undertake  to  transact  the  matter  with 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye." 

Monsieur  de  Clagny  left  the  house  with  a  chill  at  his 
heart. 

Dinah,  his  idol,  was  loved  for  her  money.  Would  she 
not,  when  too  late,  have  her  eyes  opened? 


TEE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  205 

"Poor  woman!"  said  the  lawyer,  as  he  walked  away. 
And  this  justice  we  will  do  him — for  to  whom  should  justice 
be  done  unless  to  a  Judge? — he  loved  Dinah  too  sincerely 
to  regard  her  degradation  as  a  means  of  triumph  one  day; 
he  was  all  pity  and  devotion ;  he  really  loved  her. 

The  care  and  nursing  of  the  infant,  its  cries,  the  quiet 
needed  for  the  mother  during  the  first  few  days,  and  the 
ubiquity  of  Madame  Pie'defer,  were  so  entirely  adverse  to 
literary  labors,  that  Lousteau  moved  up  to  the  three  rooms 
taken  on  the  first  floor  for  the  old  bigot.  The  journalist, 
obliged  to  go  to  first  performances  without  Dinah,  and  living 
apart  from  her,  found  an  indescribable  charm  in  the  use  of 
his  liberty.  More  than  once  he  submitted  to  be  taken  by  the 
arm  and  dragged  off  to  some  jollification;  more  than  once  he 
found  himself  at  the  house  of  a  friend's  mistress  in  the  heart 
of  bohemia.  He  again  saw  women  brilliantly  young  and 
splendidly  dressed,  in  whom  economy  seemed  treason  to  their 
youth  and  power.  Dinah,  in  spite  of  her  striking  beauty, 
after  nursing  her  baby  for  three  months,  could  not  stand 
comparison  with  these  perishable  blossoms,  so  soon  faded, 
but  so  showy  as  long  as  they  live  rooted  in  opulence. 

Home  life  had,  nevertheless,  a  strong  attraction  for 
Etienne.  In  three  months  the  mother  and  daughter,  with 
the  help  of  the  cook  from  Sancerre  and  of  little  Pamela,  had 
given  the  apartment  a  quite  changed  appearance.  The  jour- 
nalist found  his  breakfast  and  his  dinner  there  served  with 
a  sort  of  luxury.  Dinah,  handsome,  and  nicely  dressed,  was 
careful  to  anticipate  her  dear  Etienne's  wishes,  and  he  felt  him- 
self the  king  of  his  home,  where  everything,  even  the  baby, 
was  subject  to  his  selfishness.  Dinah's  affection  was  to  be 
seen  in  every  trifle ;  Lousteau  could  not  possibly  cease  the 
entrancing  deceptions  of  his  unreal  passion. 

Dinah,  meanwhile,  was  aware  of  a  source  of  ruin,  both  to 
her  love  and  to  the  household,  in  the  kind  of  life  into  which 
Lousteau  had  allowed  himself  to  drift.  At  the  end  of  ten 
months  she  weaned  her  baby  installed  her  mother  in  the 


206  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

upstairs  rooms,  and  restored  the  family  intimacy  which  in- 
dissolubly  links  a  man  and  woman  when  the  woman  is  loving 
and  clever.  One  of  the  most  striking  circumstances  in  Ben- 
jamin Constant's  novel,  one  of  the  explanations  of  Elldnore's 
desertion,  is  the  want  of  daily — or,  if  you  will,  of  nightly-- 
intercourse between  her  and  Adolphe.  Each  of  the  lovers 
has  a  separate  home ;  they  have  both  submitted  to  the  world 
and  saved  appearances.  Elle*nore,  repeatedly  left  to  herself, 
is  compelled  to  vast  labors  of  affection  to  expel  the  thoughts 
of  release  which  captivate  Adolphe  when  absent.  The  con- 
stant exchange  of  glances  and  thoughts  in  domestic  life  gives 
a  woman  such  power  that  a  man  needs  stronger  reasons  for 
desertion  than  she  will  ever  give  him  so  long  as  she  loves 
him. 

This  was  an  entirely  new  phase  both  to  Etienne  and  to 
Dinah.  Dinah  intended  to  be  indispensable;  she  wanted 
to  infuse  fresh  energy  into  this  man,  whose  weakness  smiled 
upon  her,  for  she  thought  it  a  security.  She  found  him  sub- 
jects, sketched  the  treatment,  and  at  a  pinch  would  write 
whole  chapters.  She  revived  the  vitality  of  this  dying  talent 
by  transfusing  fresh  blood  into  his  veins ;  she  supplied  him 
with  ideas  and  opinions.  In  short,  she  produced  two  books 
which  were  a  success.  More  than  once  she  saved  Lousteau's 
self-esteem  by  dictating,  correcting,  or  finishing  his  articles 
when  he  was  in  despair  at  his  own  lack  of  ideas.  The  secret 
of  this  collaboration  was  strictly  preserved ;  Madame  Piedef  er 
knew  nothing  of  it. 

This  mental  galvanism  was  rewarded  by  improved  pay, 
enabling  them  to  live  comfortably  till  the  end  of  1838.  Lou- 
steau  became  used  to  seeing  Dinah  do  his  work,  and  he  paid 
her — as  the  French  people  say  in  their  vigorous  lingo — in 
"monkey  money,"  nothing  for  her  pains.  This  expenditure 
in  self-sacrifice  becomes  a  treasure  which  generous  souls 
prize,  and  the  more  she  gave  the  more  she  loved  Lousteau ; 
the  time  soon  came  when  Dinah  felt  that  it  would  be  too 
bitter  a  grief  ever  to  give  him  up. 

But  then  another  child  was  coming,  and  this  year  was 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  207 

a  terrible  trial.  In  spite  of  the  precautions  of  the  two  women, 
Etienue  contracted  debts ;  he  worked  himself  to  death  to  pay 
them  off  while  Dinah  was  laid  up;  and,  knowing  him  as  she 
did,  she  thought  him  heroic.  But  after  this  effort,  appalled 
at  having  two  women,  two  children,  and  two  maids  on  his 
hands,  he  was  incapable  of  the  struggle  to  maintain  a  family 
by  his  pen  when  he  had  failed  to  maintain  even  himself.  So 
he  let  things  take  their  chance.  Then  the  ruthless  specula- 
tor exaggerated  the  farce  of  love-making  at  home  to  secure 
greater  liberty  abroad. 

Dinah  proudly  endured  the  burden  of  life  without  sup- 
port. The  one  idea,  "He  loves  me!"  gave  her  superhuman 
strength.  She  worked  as  hard  as  the  most  energetic  spirits 
of  our  time.  At  the  risk  of  her  beauty  and  health,  Didine 
was  to  Lousteau  what  Mademoiselle  Delachaux  was  to  Gar- 
dane,  in  Diderot's  noble  and  true  tale.  But  while  sacrificing 
herself,  she  committed  the  magnanimous  blunder  of  sacri- 
ficing dress.  She  had  her  gowns  dyed,  and  wore  nothing 
but  black.  She  stank  of  black,  as  Malaga  said,  making  fun 
mercilessly  of  Lousteau. 

By  the  end  of  1839,  Etienne,  following  the  example  of 
Louis  XV.,  had,  by  dint  of  gradual  capitulations  of  con- 
science, come  to  the  point  of  establishing  a  distinction  be- 
tween his  own  money  and  the  housekeeping  money,  just 
as  Louis  XV.  drew  the  line  between  his  privy  purse  and  the 
public  moneys.  He  deceived  Dinah  as  to  his  earnings.  On 
discovering  this  baseness,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  went 
through  fearful  tortures  of  jealousy.  She  wanted  to  live  two 
lives — the  life  of  the  world  and  the  life  of  a  literary  woman; 
she  accompanied  Lousteau  to  every  first-night  performance, 
and  could  detect  in  him  many  impulses  of  wounded  vanity, 
for  her  black  attire  rubbed  off,  as  it  were,  on  him,  clouding 
his  brow,  and  sometimes  leading  him  to  be  quite  brutal.  He 
was  really  the  woman  of  the  two ;  and  he  had  all  a  woman's 
exacting  perversity;  he  would  reproach  Dinah  for  the  dowdi- 
ness  of  her  appearance,  even  while  benefiting  by  the  sacrifice, 
which  to  a  mistress  is  so  cruel — exactly  like  a  woman  who, 


208  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

after  sending  a  man  through  a  gutter  to  save  her  honor,  tells 
him  she  "cannot  bear  dirt!"  when  he  comes  out. 

Dinah  then  found  herself  obliged  to  gather  up  the  rather 
loose  reins  of  power  by  which  a  clever  woman  drives  a  man 
devoid  of  will.  But  in  so  doing  she  could  not  fail  to  lose 
much  of  her  moral  lustre.  Such  suspicions  as  she  betrayed 
drag  a  woman  into  quarrels  which  lead  to  disrespect,  because 
she  herself  comes  down  from  the  high  level  on  which  she  had 
at  first  placed  herself.  Next  she  made  some  concessions: 
Lousteau  was  allowed  to  entertain  several  of  his  friends — 
Nathan,  Bixiou,  Blondet,  Finot — whose  manners,  language, 
and  intercourse  were  depraving.  They  tried  to  convince 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye  that  her  principles  and  aversions 
were  a  survival  of  provincial  prudishness ;  and  they  preached 
the  creed  of  woman's  superiority. 

Before  long,  her  jealousy  put  weapons  into  Lousteau's 
hands.  During  the  carnival  of  1840,  she  disguised  herself 
to  go  to  the  balls  at  the  opera  house,  and  to  suppers  where 
she  met  courtesans,  in  order  to  keep  an  eye  on  all  Etienne's 
amusements. 

On  the  day  of  Mid-Lent — or  rather,  at  eight  on  the  morn- 
ing after — Dinah  came  home  from  the  ball  in  her  fancy  dress 
to  go  to  bed.  She  had  gone  to  spy  on  Lousteau,  who,  believ- 
ing her  to  be  ill,  had  engaged  himself  for  that  evening  to 
Fanny  Beaupre*.  The  journalist,  warned  by  a  friend,  had 
behaved  so  as  to  deceive  the  poor  woman,  only  too  ready  to 
be  deceived. 

As  she  stepped  out  of  the  hired  cab,  Dinah  met  Monsieur 
de  La  Baudraye,  to  whom  the  porter  pointed  her  out.  The 
little  old  man  took  his  wife  by  the  arm,  saying,  in  an  icy 
tone:  "So  this  is  you,  Madame!" 

This  sudden  advent  of  conjugal  authority,  before  which 
she  felt  herself  so  small,  and,  above  all,  these  words,  almost 
froze  the  heart  of  the  unhappy  woman  caught  in  the  costume 
of  a  debardeur.  To  escape  Etienne's  eye  the  more  effec- 
tually, she  had  chosen  a  dress  he  was  not  likely  to  detect  her 
in.  She  took  advantage  of  the  mask  she  still  had  on  to 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  209 

escape  without  replying,  changed  her  dress,  and  went  up 
to  her  mother's  rooms,  where  she  found  her  husband  waiting 
for  her.  In  spite  of  her  assumed  dignity,  she  blushed  in  the 
old  man's  presence. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me,  Monsieur?"  she  asked.  "Are 
we  not  separated  forever?" 

"Actually,  yes,"  said  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye.  "Le- 
gally, no." 

Madame  Pie*defer  was  telegraphing  signals  to  her  daugh- 
ter, which  Dinah  presently  observed  and  understood. 

"Nothing  could  have  brought  you  here  but  your  own  in- 
terests," she  said,  in  a  bitter  tone. 

"Our  interests,"  said  the  little  man  coldly,  "for  we  have 
two  children. — Your  uncle  Silas  Pie*defer  is  dead,  at  New 
York,  where,  after  having  made  and  lost  several  fortunes 
in  various  parts  of  the  world,  he  has  finally  left  some  seven 
or  eight  hundred  thousand  francs — they  say  twelve — but 
there  is  stock-in-trade  to  be  sold.  I  am  the  chief  in  our 
common  interests,  and  act  for  you." 

"Oh!"  cried  Dinah,  "in  everything  that  relates  to  busi- 
ness, I  trust  no  one  but  Monsieur  de  Clagny.  He  knows  the 
law,  come  to  terms  with  him;  what  he  does,  will  be  done 
right." 

"I  have  no  occasion  for  Monsieur  Clagny,"  answered 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  "to  take  my  children  from 
you-" 

"Your  children  1"  exclaimed  Dinah.  "Your  children, 
to  whom  you  have  not  sent  a  sou!  Tour  children!"  She 
burst  into  a  loud  shout  of  laughter;  but  Monsieur  de  La 
Baudraye' s  unmoved  coolness  threw  ice  on  the  explosion. 

"Your  mother  has  just  brought  them  to  show  me,"  he 
went  on.  "They  are  charming  boys.  I  do  not  intend  to 
part  from  them.  I  shall  take  them  to  our  house  at  Anzy, 
if  it  were  only  to  save  them  from  seeing  their  mother  dis- 
guised like  a — " 

"Silence!"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  imperatively. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me  that  brought  you  here?" 


210  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"A  power  of  attorney  to  receive  our  uncle  Silas's  prop- 
erty." 

Dinah  took  a  pen,  wrote  two  lines  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny, 
and  desired  her  husband  to  call  again  in  the  afternoon. 

At  five  o'clock,  Monsieur  de  Clagny — who  had  been  pro- 
moted to  the  post  of  Attorney-General — enlightened  Madame 
de  La  Baudraye  as  to  her  position ;  still,  he  undertook  to  ar- 
range everything  by  a  bargain  with  the  old  fellow,  whose 
visit  had  been  prompted  by  avarice  alone.  Monsieur  de 
La  Baudraye,  to  whom  his  wife's  power  of  attorney  was  in- 
dispensable to  enable  him  to  deal  with  the  business  as  he 
wished,  purchased  it  by  certain  concessions.  In  the  first 
place,  he  undertook  to  allow  her  ten  thousand  francs  a  year 
so  long  as  she  found  it  convenient — so  the  document  was 
worded — to  reside  in  Paris;  the  children,  each  on  attaining 
the  age  of  six,  were  to  be  placed  in  Monsieur  de  La  Bau- 
draye's  keeping.  Finally,  the  lawyer  extracted  the  pay- 
ment of  the  allowance  in  advance. 

Little  La  Baudraye,  who  came  jauntily  enough  to  say 
good-by  to  his  wife  and  his  children,  appeared  in  a  white 
India-rubber  overcoat.  He  was  so  firm  on  his  feet,  and  so 
exactly  like  the  La  Baudraye  of  1836,  that  Dinah  despaired 
of  ever  burying  the  dreadful  little  dwarf.  From  the  garden, 
where  he  was  smoking  a  cigar,  the  journalist  could  watch 
Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  for  so  long  as  it  took  the  little 
reptile  to  cross  the  forecourt,  but  that  was  enough  for  Lou- 
steau;  it  was  plain  to  him  that  the  little  man  had  intended 
to  wreck  every  hope  of  his  dying  that  his  wife  might  have 
conceived. 

This  short  scene  made  a  considerable  change  in  the 
writer's  secret  scheming.  As  he  smoked  a  second  cigar, 
he  seriously  reviewed  the  position. 

His  life  with  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  hitherto  cost 
him  quite  as  much  as  it  had  cost  her.  To  use  the  language 
of  business,  the  two  sides  of  the  account  balanced,  and  they 
could,  if  necessary,  cry  quits.  Considering  how  small  his 
income  was,  and  how  hardly  he  earned  it,  Lousteau  re- 


THE   MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  211 

garded  himself,  morally  speaking,  as  the  creditor.  It  was, 
no  doubt,  a  favorable  moment  for  throwing  the  woman  over. 
Tired  at  the  end  of  three  years  of  playing  a  comedy  which 
never  can  become  a  habit,  he  was  perpetually  concealing  his 
weariness;  and  this  fellow,  who  was  accustomed  to  disguise 
none  of  his  feelings,  compelled  himself  to  wear  a  smile  at 
home  like  that  of  a  debtor  in  the  presence  of  his  creditor. 
This  compulsion  was  every  day  more  intolerable. 

Hitherto  the  immense  advantages  he  foresaw  in  the  fu- 
ture had  given  him  strength ;  but  when  he  saw  Monsieur  de 
La  Baudraye  embark  for  the  United  States,  as  briskly  as 
if  it  were  to  go  down  to  Rouen  in  a  steamboat,  he  ceased  to 
believe  in  the  future. 

He  went  in  from  the  garden  to  the  pretty  drawing-room, 
where  Dinah  had  just  taken  leave  of  her  husband. 

"Etienne,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  "do  you  know 
what  my  lord  and  master  has  proposed  to  me  ?  In  the  event 
of  my  wishing  to  return  to  live  at  Anzy  during  his  absence, 
he  has  left  his  orders,  and  he  hopes  that  my  mother's  good 
advice  will  weigh  with  me,  and  that  I  shall  go  back  there 
with  my  children." 

"It  is  very  good  advice,"  replied  Lousteau  dryly,  know- 
ing the  passionate  disclaimer  that  Dinah  expected,  and  in- 
deed begged  for  with  her  eyes. 

The  tone,  the  words,  the  cold  look,  all  hit  the  hapless 
woman  so  hard,  who  lived  only  in  her  love,  that  two  large 
tears  trickled  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  while  she  did  not 
speak  a  word,  and  Lousteau  only  saw  them  when  she  took 
out  her  handkerchief  to  wipe  away  these  two  beads  of  anguish. 

"What  is  it,  Didine?"  he  asked,  touched  to  the  heart  by 
this  excessive  sensibility. 

"Just  as  I  was  priding  myself  on  having  won  our  free- 
dom," said  she — "at  the  cost  of  my  fortune — by  selling — 
what  is  most  precious  to  a  mother's  heart — selling  my  chil- 
dren!— for  he  is  to  have  them  from  the  age  of  six — and  I 
cannot  see  them  without  going  to  Sancerre! — and  that  is 
torture!— Ah,  dear  God!  What  have  I  done — ?" 


212  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Lousteau  knelt  down  by  her  and  kissed  her  hands  with  a 
lavish  display  of  coaxing  and  petting. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,"  said  he.  "I  blame  my- 
self, for  I  am  not  worth  such  sacrifices,  dear  angel.  I  am, 
in  a  literary  sense,  a  quite  second-rate  man.  If  the  day 
comes  when  I  can  no  longer  cut  a  figure  at  the  bottom  of 
the  newspaper,  the  editors  will  let  me  lie,  like  an  old  shoe 
flung  into  the  rubbish  heap.  Remember,  we  tight-rope 
dancers  have  no  retiring  pension!  The  State  would  have 
too  many  clever  men  on  its  hands  if  it  started  on  such  a 
career  of  beneficence.  I  am  forty-two,  and  I  am  as  idle  as 
a  marmot.  I  feel  it — I  know  it' ' — and  he  took  her  hand — 
"my  love  can  only  be  fatal  to  you. 

"As  you  know,  at  two-and-twenty  I  lived  on  Florine, 
but  what  is  excusable  in  a  youth,  what  then  seems  smart 
and  charming,  is  a  disgrace  to  a  man  of  forty.  Hitherto  we 
have  shared  the  burden  of  existence,  and  it  has  not  been 
lovely  for  this  year  and  a  half.  Out  of  devotion  to  me  you 
wear  nothing  but  black,  and  that  does  me  no  credit." — 
Dinah  gave  one  of  those  magnanimous  shrugs  which  are 
worth  all  the  words  ever  spoken. — "Yes,"  Etienne  went 
on,  "I  know  you  sacrifice  everything  to  my  whims,  even 
your  beauty.  And  I,  with  a  heart  worn  out  in  past  strug- 
gles, a  soul  full  of  dark  presentiments  as  to  the  future,  I 
cannot  repay  your  exquisite  love  with  an  equal  affection. 
We  were  very  happy — without  a  cloud — for  a  long  time. — 
Well,  then,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  so  sweet  a  poem  end  badly. 
Am  I  wrong  ? ' ' 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  loved  Etienne  so  truly  that  this 
prudence,  worthy  of  de  Clagny,  gratified  her  and  stanched 
her  tears. 

"He  loves  me  for  myself  alone!"  thought  she,  looking  at 
him  with  smiling  eyes. 

After  four  years  of  intimacy,  this  woman's  love  now  com- 
bined every  shade  of  affection  which  our  powers  of  analysis 
can  discern,  and  which  modern  society  has  created;  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  men  of  our  age,  whose  death  is  a  recent 


THE  MUSE  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT       213 

loss  to  the  world  of  letters,  Beyle  (Stendhal),  was  the  first  to 
delineate  them  to  perfection. 

Lousteau  could  produce  in  Dinah  the  acute  agitation 
which  may  be  compared  to  magnetis-m,  that  upsets  every 
power  of  the  mind  and  body,  and  overcomes  every  instinct 
of  resistance  in  a  woman.  A  look  from  him,  or  his  hand 
laid  on  hers,  reduced  her  to  implicit  obedience.  A  kind 
word  or  a  smile  wreathed  the  poor  woman's  soul  with  flow- 
ers; a  fond  look  elated,  a  cold  look  depressed  her.  "When 
she  walked,  taking  his  arm  and  keeping  step  with  him  in 
the  street  or  on  the  boulevard,  she  was  so  entirely  absorbed 
in  him  that  she  lost  all  sense  of  herself.  Fascinated  by  this 
fellow's  wit,  magnetized  by  his  airs,  his  vices  were  but 
trivial  defects  in  her,  eyes.  She  loved  the  puffs  of  cigar 
smoke  that  the  wind  brought  into  her  room  from  the  gar- 
den ;  she  went  to  inhale  them,  and  made  no  wry  faces,  hid- 
ing herself  to  enjoy  them.  She  hated  the  publisher  or  the 
newspaper  editor  who  refused  Lousteau  money  on  the 
ground  of  the  enormous  advances  he  had  had  already. 
She  deluded  herself  so  far  as  to  believe  that  her  bohemian 
was  writing  a  novel,  for  which  the  payment  was  to  come, 
instead  of  working  off  a  debt  long  since  incurred. 

This,  no  doubt,  is  true  love,  and  includes  every  mode  of 
loving;  the  love  of  the  heart  and  of  the  head — passion,  ca- 
price and  taste — to  accept  Beyle's  definitions.  Didine  loved 
him  so  wholly  that  in  certain  moments,  when  her  critical 
judgment,  just  by  nature,  and  constantly  exercised  since 
she  had  lived  in  Paris,  compelled  her  to  read  to  the  bottom 
of  Lousteau's  soul,  sense  was  still  too  much  for  reason,  and 
suggested  excuses. 

"And  what  am  I?"  she  replied.  "A  woman  who  has 
put  herself  outside  the  pale.  Since  I  have  sacrificed  all  a 
woman's  honor,  why  should  not  you  sacrifice  to  me  some  of 
a  man's  honor?  Do  we  not  live  outside  the  limits  of  social 
conventionality?  Why  not  accept  from  me  what  Nathan 
can  accept  from  Florine?  We  will  square  accounts  when 
we  part,  and  only  death  can  part  us — you  know.  My  hap- 


214  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

piness  is  your  honor,  Etienne,  as  my  constancy  and  your 
happiness  are  mine.  If  I  fail  to  make  you  happy,  all  is  at 
an  end.  If  I  cause  you  a  pang,  condemn  me. 

"Our  debts  are  paid;  we  have  ten  thousand  francs  a  year, 
and  between  us  we  can  certainly  make  eight  thousand  francs 
a  year — I  will  write  theatrical  articles. — With  fifteen  hundred 
francs  a  month  we  shall  be  as  rich  as  Rothschild. — Be  quite 
easy.  I  will  have  some  lovely  dresses,  and  give  you  every 
day  some  gratified  vanity,  as  on  the  first  night  of  Nathan's 
play-" 

"And  what  about  your  mother,  who  goes  to  Mass  every 
day,  and  wants  to  bring  a  priest  to  the  house  and  make  you 
give  up  this  way  of  life  ? ' ' 

"Every  one  has  a  pet  vice.  You  smoke,  she  preaches  at 
me,  poor  woman!  But  she  takes  great  care  of  the  children, 
she  takes  them  out,  she  is  absolutely  devoted,  and  idolizes 
me.  "Would  you  hinder  her  from  crying?" 

"What  will  be  thought  of  me?" 

"But  we  do  not  live  for  the  world?"  cried  she,  raising 
Etienne  and  making  him  sit  by  her.  "Besides,  we  shall  be 
married  some  day — we  have  the  risks  of  a  sea  voyage — " 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Lousteau  simply;  and 
he  added  to  himself,  "Time  enough  to  part  when  little  La 
Baudraye  is  safe  back  again." 

From  that  day  forth  Etienne  lived  in  luxury ;  and  Dinah, 
on  first  nights,  could  hold  her  own  with  the  best  dressed 
women  in  Paris.  Lousteau  was  so  fatuous  as  to  affect, 
among  his  friends,  the  attitude  of  a  man  overborne,  bored 
to  extinction,  ruined  by  Madame  de  La  Baudraye. 

"Oh,  what  would  I  not  give  to  the  friend  who  would 
deliver  me  from  Dinah!  But  no  one  ever  can!"  said  he. 
"She  loves  me  enough  to  throw  herself  out  of  the  window 
if  I  told  her." 

The  journalist  was  duly  pitied;  he  would  take  precau- 
tions against  Dinah's  jealousy  when  he  accepted  an  invita- 
tion. And  then  he  was  shamelessly  unfaithful.  Monsieur 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  215 

de  Clagny,  really  in  despair  at  seeing  Dinah  in  such  dis- 
graceful circumstances  when  she  might  have  been  so  rich, 
and  in  so  wretched  a  position  at  the  time  when  her  original 
ambitions  would  have  been  fulfilled,  came  to  warn  her,  to 
tell  her — "You  are  betrayed,"  and  she  only  replied,  "I 
know  it." 

The  lawyer  was  silenced;  still  he  found  his  tongue  to  say 
one  thing. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  interrupted  him  when  he  had 
scarcely  spoken  a  word. 

"Do  you  still  love  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  would  lose  my  soul  for  you!"  he  exclaimed,  starting 
to  his  feet. 

The  hapless  man's  eyes  flashed  like  torches,  he  trembled 
like  a  leaf,  his  throat  was  rigid,  his  hair  thrilled  to  the  roots; 
he  believed  he  was  so  blessed  as  to  be  accepted  as  his  idol's 
avenger,  and  this  poor  joy  filled  him  with  rapture. 

"Why  are  you  so  startled?"  said  she,  making  him  sit 
down  again.  "That  is  howl  love  him." 

The  lawyer  understood  this  argument  ad  hominem.  And 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  Judge,  who  had  just  con- 
demned a  man  to  death ! 

Lousteau's  satiety,  that  odious  conclusion  of  such  illicit 
relations,  had  betrayed  itself  in  a  thousand  little  things, 
which  are  like  grains  of  sand  thrown  against  the  panes  of 
the  little  magical  hut  where  those  who  love  dwell  and 
dream.  These  grains  of  sand,  which  grow  to  be  pebbles, 
had  never  been  discerned  by  Dinah  till  they  were  as  big  as 
rocks.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  at  last  thoroughly  un- 
derstood Lousteau's  character. 

"He  is,"  she  said  to  her  mother,  "a  poet,  defenceless 
against  disaster,  mean  out  of  laziness,  not  for  want  of  heart, 
and  rather  too  prone  to  pleasure ;  in  short,  a  great  cat,  whom 
it  is  impossible  to  hate.  What  would  become  of  him  with- 
out me  ?  I  hindered  his  marriage ;  he  has  no  prospects.  His 
talent  would  perish  in  privation." 

"Oh,  my  Dinah!"  Madame  PieMefer  had  exclaimed,  "what 


216  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  hell  you  live  in !  "What  is  the  feeling  that  gives  you  strength 
enough  to  persist?" 

"I  will  be  a  mother  to  him!"  she  had  replied. 

There  are  certain  horrible  situations  in  which  we  come  to 
no  decision  till  the  moment  when  our  friends  discern  our  dis- 
honor. We  accept  compromises  with  ourselves  so  long  as  we 
escape  a  censor  who  comes  to  play  prosecutor.  Monsieur  de 
Clagny,  as  clumsy  as  a  tortured  man,  had  been  torturing  Dinah. 

"To  preserve  my  love  I  will  be  all  that  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour was  to  preserve  her  power, ' '  said  she  to  herself  when 
Monsieur  de  Clagny  had  left  her.  And  this  phrase  suffi- 
ciently proves  that  her  love  was  becoming  a  burden  to  her, 
and  would  presently  be  a  toil  rather  than  a  pleasure. 

The  part  now  assumed  by  Dinah  was  horribly  painful,  and 
Lousteau  made  it  no  easier  to  play.  When  he  wanted  to  go 
out  after  dinner  he  would  perform  the  tenderest  little  farces 
of  affection,  and  address  Dinah  in  words  full  of  devotion;  he 
would  take  her  by  the  chain,  and  when  he  had  bruised  her 
with  it,  even  while  he  hurt  her,  the  lordly  ingrate  would  say, 
"Did  I  wound  you?" 

These  false  caresses  and  deceptions  had  degrading  conse- 
quences for  Dinah,  who  believed  in  a  revival  of  his  love. 
The  mother,  alas,  gave  way  to  the  mistress  with  shameful 
readiness.  She  felt  herself  a  mere  plaything  in  the  man's 
hands,  and  at  last  she  confessed  to  herself: 

"Well,  then,  I  will  be  his  plaything  1"  finding  joy  in  it 
— the  rapture  of  damnation. 

When  this  woman,  of  a  really  manly  spirit,  pictured  her- 
self as  living  in  solitude,  she  felt  her  courage  fail.  She  pre- 
ferred the  anticipated  and  inevitable  miseries  of  this  fierce 
intimacy  to  the  absence  of  the  joys,  which  were  all  the  more 
exquisite  because  they  arose  from  the  midst  of  remorse,  of 
terrible  struggles  with  herself,  of  a  No  persuaded  to  be  Yes. 
At  every  moment  she  seemed  to  come  across  the  pool  of  bit- 
ter water  found  in  a  desert,  and  drunk  with  greater  relish 
than  the  traveller  would  find  in  sipping  the  finest  wines  at  a 
prince's  table. 


THE  MUSE   OF  THE   DEPARTMENT  217 

When  Dinah  wondered  to  herself  at  midnight: 

"Will  he  come  home,  or  will  he  not?"  she  was  not  alive 
again  till  she  heard  the  familiar  sound  of  Lousteau's  boots, 
and  his  well-known  ring  at  the  bell. 

She  would  often  try  to  restrain  him  by  giving  him  pleas- 
ure ;  she  would  hope  to  be  a  match  for  her  rivals,  and  leave 
them  no  hold  on  that  satiated  heart.  How  many  times  a  day 
would  she  rehearse  the  tragedy  of  "Le  Dernier  Jour  d'un 
condamne*, ' '  saying  to  herself,  ' '  To-morrow  we  part. ' '  And 
how  often  would  a  word,  a  look,  a  kiss  full  of  apparently 
artless  feeling,  bring  her  back  to  the  depths  of  her  love ! 

It  was  terrible.  More  than  once  had  she  meditated  suicide 
as  she  paced  the  little  town  garden  where  a  few  pale  flowers 
bloomed.  In  fact,  she  had  not  yet  exhausted  the  vast  treas- 
ure of  devotion  and  love  which  a  loving  woman  bears  in  her 
heart. 

The  romance  of  "Adolphe"  was  her  Bible,  her  study,  for 
above  all  else  she  would  not  be  an  Elle*nore.  She  allowed 
herself  no  tears,  she  avoided  all  the  bitterness  so  cleverly  de- 
scribed by  the  critic  to  whom  we  owe  an  analysis  of  this  strik- 
ing work ;  whose  comments  indeed  seemed  to  Dinah  almost 
superior  to  the  book.  And  she  road  again  and  again  this  fine 
essay  by  the  only  real  critic  who  has  written  in  the  "Kevue 
des  Deux  Mondes, ' '  an  article  now  printed  at  the  beginning 
of  the  new  edition  of  "Adolphe." 

"No,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  as  she  repeated  the 
author's  fateful  words,  "no,  I  will  not  'give  my  requests 
the  form  of  an  order,'  I  will  not  'fly  to  tears  as  a  means  of 
revenge,'  I  will  not  'condemn  the  things  I  once  approved 
without  reservation,'  I  will  not  'dog  his  footsteps  with  a  pry- 
ing eye';  if  he  plays  truant,  he  shall  not  on  his  return  'see  a 
scornful  lip,  whose  kiss  is  an  unanswerable  command. '  No, 
'my  silence  shall  not  be  a  reproach  nor  my  first  word  a  quar- 
rel.'— I  will  not  be  like  every  other  woman!"  she  went  on, 
laying  on  her  table  the  little  yellow  paper  volume  which  had 
already  attracted  Lousteau's  remark,  "What!  are  you  study- 
ing 'Adolphe'  ?" — "If  for  one  day  only  he  should  recognize 
VoL  4.  (J) 


218  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  merits  and  say,  'That  victim  never  uttered  a  cry!' — it 
will  be  all  I  ask.  And  besides,  the  others  only  have  him 
for  an  hour;  I  have  him  for  life!" 

Thinking  himself  justified  by  his  private  tribunal  in  pun- 
ishing his  wife,  Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  robbed  her  to 
achieve  his  cherished  enterprise  of  reclaiming  three  thousand 
acres  of  moorland,  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself  ever  since 
1836,  living  like  a  mouse.  He  manipulated  the  property  left 
by  Monsieur  Silas  Pie*defer  so  ingeniously  that  he  contrived 
to  reduce  the  proved  value  to  eight  hundred  thousand  francs, 
while  pocketing  twelve  hundred  thousand.  He  did  not  an- 
nounce his  return ;  but  while  his  wife  was  enduring  unspeak- 
able woes,  he  was  building  farms,  digging  trenches,  and  plow- 
ing rough  ground  with  a  courage  that  ranked  him  among  the 
most  remarkable  agriculturists  of  the  province. 

The  four  hundred  thousand  francs  he  had  filched  from  his 
wife  were  spent  in  three  years  on  this  undertaking,  and  the 
estate  of  Anzy  was  expected  to  return  seventy-two  thousand 
francs  a  year  of  net  profits  after  the  taxes  were  paid.  The 
eight  hundred  thousand  he  invested  at  four  and  a  half  per 
cent  in  the  funds,  buying  at  eighty  francs,  at  the  time  of 
the  financial  crisis  brought  about  by  the  Ministry  of  the  First 
of  March,  as  it  was  called.  By  thus  securing  to  his  wife  an 
income  of  forty- eight  thousand  francs  he  considered  himself 
no  longer  in  her  debt.  Could  he  not  restore  the  odd  twelve 
hundred  thousand  as  soon  as  the  four  and  a  half  per  cents 
had  risen  above  a  hundred  ?  He  was  now  the  greatest  man 
in  Sancerre,  with  the  exception  of  one — the  richest  proprietor 
in  France — whose  rival  he  considered  himself.  He  saw  him- 
self with  an  income  of  a  hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs, 
of  which  ninety  thousand  formed  the  revenue  from  the  lands 
he  had  entailed.  Having  calculated  that  besides  this  net  in- 
come he  paid  ten  thousand  francs  in  taxes,  three  thousand 
in  working  expenses,  ten  thousand  to  his  wife,  and  twelve 
hundred  to  his  mother-in-law,  he  would  say  in  the  literary 
circles  of  Sancerre: 

"I  am  reputed  miserly,  and  said  to  spend  nothing;  but 


THE  MUSE  OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  219 

my  outlay  amounts  to  twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred 
francs  a  year.  And  I  have  still  to  pay  for  the  education  of 
my  two  children !  I  dare  say  it  is  not  a  pleasing  fact  to  the 
Milauds  of  Nevers,  but  the  second  house  of  La  Baudraye 
may  yet  have  as  noble  a  career  as  the  first. — I  shall  most 
likely  go  to  Paris  and  petition  the  King  of  the  French  to 
grant  me  the  title  of  Count — Monsieur  Roy  is  a  Count — and 
my  wife  would  be  pleased  to  be  Madame  la  Comtesse. ' ' 

And  this  was  said  with  such  splendid  coolness  that  no  one 
would  have  dared  to  laugh  at  the  little  man.  Only  Monsieur 
Boirouge,  the  Presiding  Judge,  remarked: 

"In  your  place,  I  should  not  be  happy  unless  I  had  a 
daughter. ' ' 

"Well,  I  shall  go  to  Paris  before  long — "  said  the 
Baron. 

In  the  early  part  of  1842  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  feeling 
that  she  was  to  Lousteau  no  more  than  a  reserve  in  the  back- 
ground, had  again  sacrificed  herself  absolutely  to  secure  his 
comfort;  she  had  resumed  her  black  raiment,  but  now  it  was 
in  sign  of  mourning,  for  her  pleasure  was  turning  to  remorse. 
She  was  too  often  put  to  shame  not  to  feel  the  weight  of  the 
chain,  and  her  mother  found  her  sunk  in  those  moods  of 
meditation  into  which  visions  of  the  future  cast  unhappy 
souls  in  a  sort  of  torpor. 

Madame  Piddefer,  by  the  advice  of  her  spiritual  director, 
was  on  the  watch  for  the  moment  of  exhaustion,  which  the 
priest  told  her  would  inevitably  supervene,  and  then  she 
pleaded  in  behalf  of  the  children.  She  restricted  herself  to 
urging  that  Dinah  and  Lousteau  should  live  apart,  not  ask- 
ing her  to  give  him  up.  In  real  life  these  violent  situations 
are  not  closed  as  they  are  in  books,  by  death  or  cleverly  con- 
trived catastrophes ;  they  end  far  less  poetically — in  disgust, 
in  the  blighting  of  every  flower  of  the  soul,  in  the  common- 
place of  habit,  and  very  often  too  in  another  passion,  which 
robs  a  wife  of  the  interest  which  is  traditionally  ascribed  to 
women.  So,  when  common-sense,  the  law  of  social  proprie- 
ties, family  interest — all  the  mixed  elements  which,  since  the 


220  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Eestoration,  have  been  dignified  by  the  name  of  Public  Mor- 
als, out  of  sheer  aversion  to  the  name  of  the  Catholic  religion 
— where  this  is  seconded  by  a  sense  of  insults  a  little  too 
offensive;  when  the  fatigue  of  constant  self-sacrifice  has  al- 
most reached  the  point  of  exhaustion ;  and  when,  under  these 
circumstances,  a  too  cruel  blow — one  of  those  mean  acts  which 
a  man  never  lets  a  woman  know  of  unless  he  believes  himself 
to  be  her  assured  master — puts  the  crowning  touch  to  her  re- 
vulsion and  disenchantment,  the  moment  has  come  for  the 
intervention  of  the  friend  who  undertakes  the  cure.  Madame 
Pie*defer  had  no  great  difficulty  now  in  removing  the  film 
from  her  daughter's  eyes. 

She  sent  for  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  who  completed  the  work 
by  assuring  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  that  if  she  would  give 
up  Etienne,  fyer  husband  would  allow  her  to  keep  the  chil- 
dren and  to  live  in  Paris,  and  would  restore  her  to  the  com- 
mand of  her  own  fortune. 

1 '  And  what  a  life  you  are  leading ! ' '  said  he.  ' '  With  care 
and  judgment,  and  the  support  of  some  pious  and  charitable 
persons,  you  may  have  a  salon  and  conquer  a  position.  Paris 
is  not  Sancerre." 

Dinah  left  it  to  Monsieur  de  Clagny  to  negotiate  a  recon- 
ciliation with  the  old  man. 

Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye  had  sold  his  wine  well,  he  had 
sold  his  wool,  he  had  felled  his  timber,  and,  without  telling 
his  wife,  he  had  come  to  Paris  to  invest  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  the  purchase  of  a  delightful  residence  in  the 
Eue  de  1' Arcade,  that  was  being  sold  in  liquidation  of  an 
aristocratic  House  that  was  in  difficulties.  He  had  been  a 
member  of  the  Council  for  the  Department  since  1826,  and 
now,  paying  ten  thousand  francs  in  taxes,  he  was  doubly 
qualified  for  a  peerage  under  the  conditions  of  the  new 
legislation. 

Some  time  before  the  elections  of  1842  he  had  put  himself 
forward  as  candidate  unless  he  were  meanwhile  called  to  the 
Upper  House  as  Peer  of  France.  At  the  same  time,  he  asked 
for  the  title  of  Count,  and  for  promotion  to  the  higher  grade 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  221 

of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  In  the  matter  of  the  elections,  the 
Ministry  approved  of  everything  that  could  give  strength  to 
the  dynastic  nominations;  now,  in  the  event  of  Monsieur  de 
La  Baudraye  being  won  over  to  the  Government,  Sancerre 
would  be  more  than  ever  a  rotten  borough  of  royalism.  Mon- 
sieur de  Clagny,  whose  talents  and  modesty  were  more  and 
more  highly  appreciated  by  the  authorities,  gave  Monsieur 
de  La  Baudraye  his  support;  he  pointed  out  that  by  raising 
this  enterprising  agriculturist  to  the  peerage,  a  guarantee 
would  be  offered  to  such  important  undertakings. 

Monsieur  de  La  Baudraye,  then,  a  Count,  a  Peer  of 
France,  and  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  was  vain 
enough  to  wish  to  cut  a  figure  with  a  wife  and  hand- 
somely appointed  house. — "He  wanted  to  enjoy  life,"  he 
said. 

He  therefore  addressed  a  letter  to  his  wife,  dictated  by 
Monsieur  de  Clagny,  begging  her  to  live  under  his  roof  and 
to  furnish  the  house,  giving  play  to  the  taste  of  which  the 
evidences,  he  said,  had  charmed  him  at  the  Chateau  d'Anzy. 
The  newly  made  Count  pointed  out  to  his  wife  that  while  the 
interests  of  their  property  forbade  his  leaving  Sancerre,  the 
education  of  their  boys  required  her  presence  in  Paris.  The 
accommodating  husband  desired  Monsieur  de  Clagny  to  place 
sixty  thousand  francs  at  the  disposal  of  Madame  la  Comtesse 
for  the  interior  decoration  of  their  mansion,  requesting  that 
she  would  have  a  marble  tablet  inserted  over  the  gateway  with 
the  inscription:  "Hotel  de  La  Baudraye." 

He  then  accounted  to  his  wife  for  the  money  derived  from 
the  estate  of  Silas  Pie"def er,  told  her  of  the  investment  at  four 
and  a  half  per  cent  of  the  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  he 
had  brought  from  New  York,  and  allowed  her  that  income 
for  her  expenses,  including  the  education  of  the  children. 
As  he  would  be  compelled  to  stay  in  Paris  during  some  part 
of  the  session  of  the  House  of  Peers,  he  requested  his  wife  to 
reserve  for  him  a  little  suite  of  rooms  in  an  entresol  over  the 
kitchens. 

"Bless  me  I  why,  he  is  growing  young  again — a  gentle- 


222  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

man! — a  magnifico! — What  will  lie  become  next?  It  is 
quite  alarming,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye. 

"He  now  fulfils  all  your  wishes  at  the  age  of  twenty," 
replied  the  lawyer. 

The  comparison  of  her  future  prospects  with  her  present 
position  was  unendurable  to  Dinah.  Only  the  day  before, 
Anna  de  Fontaine  had  turned  her  head  away  in  order  to 
avoid  seeing  her  bosom  friend  at  the  Chamarolles'  school. 

"I  am  a  countess,"  said  Dinah  to  herself.  "I  shall  have 
the  peer's  blue  hammer-cloth  on  my  carriage,  and  the  leaders 
of  the  literary  world  in  my  drawing-room — and  I  will  look 
at  her!" — And  it  was  this  little  triumph  that  told  with  all 
its  weight  at  the  moment  of  her  rehabilitation,  as  the  world's 
contempt  had  of  old  weighed  on  her  happiness. 

One  fine  day,  in  May,  1842,  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  paid 
all  her  little  household  debts  and  left  a  thousand  crowns  on 
the  top  of  the  packet  of  receipted  bills.  After  sending  her 
mother  and  the  children  away  to  the  Hotel  de  La  Baudraye, 
she  awaited  Lousteau,  dressed  ready  to  leave  the  house. 
When  the  deposed  king  of  her  heart  came  in  to  dinner,  she 
said:  "I  have  upset  the  pot,  my  dear.  M.adame  de  La  Bau- 
draye requests  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  the  'Eocher 
de  Cancale.' ' 

She  carried  off  Lousteau,  quite  bewildered  by  the  light 
and  easy  manners  assumed  by  the  woman  who  till  that  morn- 
ing had  been  the  slave  of  his  least  whim,  for  she  too  had 
been  acting  a  farce  for  two  months  past. 

"Madame  de  La  Baudraye  is  figged  out  as  if  for  a  first 
night,"  said  he — une  premiere,  the  slang  abbreviation  for  a 
first  performance. 

"Do  not  forget  the  respect  you  owe  to  Madame  de  La 
Baudraye,"  said  Dinah  gravely.  "I  do  not  mean  to  under- 
stand such  a  word  as  Jigged  out.11 

"Didine  a  rebel?"  said  he,  putting  his  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"There  is  no  such  person  as  Didine;  you  have  killed  her, 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  223 

my  dear,"  she  replied,  releasing  herself.  "I  am  taking  you 
to  the  first  performance  of  'Madame  la  Comtesse  de  La 
Baudraye.1  ' 

"It  is  true,  then,  that  our  insect  is  a  peer  of  France?" 

"The  nomination  is  to  be  gazetted  in  this  evening's 
'Moniteur,'  as  I  am  told  by  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  who  is 
promoted  to  the  Court  of  Appeal." 

"Well,  it  is  quite  right,"  said  the  journalist.  "The 
entomology  of  society  ought  to  be  represented  in  the  Upper 
House." 

"My  friend,  we  are  parting  forever,"  said  Madame  de 
La  Baudraye,  trying  to  control  the  trembling  of  her  voice. 
"I  have  dismissed  the  two  servants.  When  you  go  in,  you 
will  find  the  house  in  order,  and  no  debts.  I  shall  always 
feel  a  mother's  affection  for  you,  but  in  secret.  Let  us 
part  calmly,  without  a  fuss,  like  decent  people. — Have  you 
had  a  fault  to  find  with  my  conduct  during  the  past  six 
years?" 

"None,  but  that  you  have  spoiled  my  life  and  wrecked 
my  prospects,"  said  he  in  a  hard  tone.  "You  have  read 
Benjamin  Constant's  book  very  diligently;  you  have  even 
studied  the  last  critique  on  it;  but  you  have  read  with  a 
woman's  eyes.  Though  you  have  one  of  those  superior 
intellects  which  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  poet,  you  have 
never  dared  to  take  the  man's  point  of  view. 

"That  book,  my  dear,  is  of  both  sexes. — We  agreed  that 
books  were  male  or  female,  dark  or  fair.  In  'Adolphe' 
women  see  nothing  but  Elle'nore;  young  men  see  only 
Adolphe;  men  of  experience  see  Elle'nore  and  Adolphe; 
political  men  see  the  whole  of  social  existence.  You  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  read  the  soul  of  Adolphe — any  more 
than  your  critic  indeed,  who  saw  only  Elle'nore.  What  kills 
that  poor  fellow,  my  dear,  is  that  he  has  sacrificed  his  future 
for  a  woman ;  that  he  never  can  be  what  he  might  have  been 
— an  ambassador,  a  minister,  a  chamberlain,  a  poet — and  rich. 
He  gives  up  six  years  of  his  energy  at  that  stage  of  his  life 
when  a  man  is  ready  to  submit  to  the  hardships  of  any  ap- 


224  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

prenticeship — to  a  petticoat,  which  he  outstrips  in  the  career 
of  ingratitude,  for  the  woman  who  has  thrown  over  her  first 
lover  is  certain  sooner  or  later  to  desert  the  second.  Adolphe 
is,  in  fact,  a  tow-haired  German,  who  has  not  spirit  enough 
to  be  false  to  Elle'nore.  There  are  Adolphes  who  spare  their 
Elle'nores  all  ignominious  quarrelling  and  reproaches,  who 
say  to  themselves,  'I  will  not  talk  of  what  I  have  sacrificed; 
I  will  not  forever  be  showing  the  stump  of  my  wrist  to  that 
incarnate  selfishness  I  have  made  my  queen,'  as  Ramorny 
does  in  'The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth.'  But  men  like  that,  my 
dear,  get  cast  aside. 

"Adolphe  is  a  man  of  birth,  an  aristocratic  nature,  who 
wants  to  get  back  into  the  highroad  to  honors  and  recover 
his  social  birthright,  his  blighted  position. — You,  at  this 
moment,  are  playing  both  parts.  You  are  suffering  from 
the  pangs  of  having  lost  your  position,  and  think  yourself 
justified  in  throwing  over  a  hapless  lover  whose  misfortune 
it  has  been  that  he  fancied  you  so  far  superior  as  to  under- 
stand that,  though  a  man's  heart  ought  to  be  true,  his  sex 
may  be  allowed  to  indulge  its  caprices. ' ' 

"And  do  you  suppose  that  I  shall  not  make  it  my  busi- 
ness to  restore  to  you  all  you  have  lost  by  me  ?  Be  quite 
easy,"  said  Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  astounded  by  this 
attack.  "Your  Elle'nore  is  not  dying;  and  if  God  gives  her 
life,  if  you  amend  your  ways,  if  you  give  up  courtesans  and 
actresses,  we  will  find  you  a  better  match  than  a  Felicie 
Cardot."- 

The.  two  lovers  were  sullen.  Lousteau  affected  dejection, 
he  aimed  at  appearing  hard  and  cold;  while  Dinah,  really 
distressed,  listened  to  the  reproaches  of  her  heart. 

"Why,"  said  Lousteau  presently,  "why  not  end  as  we 
ought  to  have  begun — hide  our  love  from  all  eyes,  and  see 
each  other  in  secret?" 

."Never!"  cried  the  new-made  Countess,  with  an  icy  look. 
"Do  you  not  comprehend  that  we  are,  after  all,  but  finite 
creatures?  Our  feelings  seem  infinite  by  reason  of  our 
anticipation  of  heaven,  but  here  on  earth  they  are  limited  by 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  225 

the  strength  of  our  physical  being.  There  are  some  feeble, 
mean  natures  which  may  receive  an  endless  number  of  wounds 
and  live  on;  but  there  are  some  more  highly-tempered  souls 
which  snap  at  last  under  repeated  blows.  You  have — " 

"Oh!  enough!"  cried  he.  "No  more  copy!  Your  dis- 
sertation is  unnecessary,  since  you  can  justify  yourself  by 
merely  saying — 'I  have  ceased  to  love!'  ' 

"What!"  she  exclaimed  in  bewilderment  "Is  it  I  who 
have  ceased  to  love?" 

"Certainly.  You  have  calculated  that  I  gave  you  more 
trouble,  more  vexation  than  pleasure,  and  you  desert  your 
partner — ' ' 

"I  desert! — "  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands. 

"Have  not  you  yourself  just  said  'Never'  ?" 

"Well,  then,  yes!     Never,"  she  repeated  vehemently. 

This  final  Never,  spoken  in  the  fear  of  falling  once  more 
under  Lousteau's  influence,  was  interpreted  by  him  as  the 
death-warrant  of  his  power,  since  Dinah  remained  insensible 
to  his  sarcastic  scorn. 

The  journalist  could  not  suppress  a  tear.  He  was  losing 
a  sincere  and  unbounded  affection.  He  had  found  in  Dinah 
the  gentlest  La  Valli&re,  the  most  delightful  Pompadour  that 
any  egoist  short  of  a  king  could  hope  for;  and,  like  a  boy 
who  has  discovered  that  by  dint  of  tormenting  a  cockchafer 
he  has  killed  it,  Lousteau  shed  a  tear. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  rushed  out  of  the  private  room 
where  they  had  been  dining,  paid  the  bill,  and  fled  home 
to  the  Rue  de  1' Arcade,  scolding  herself  and  thinking  herself 
a  brute. 

Dinah,  who  had  made  her  house  a  model  of  comfort,  now 
metamorphosed  herself.  This  double  metamorphosis  cost 
thirty  thousand  francs  more  than  her  husband  had  anticipated. 

The  fatal  accident  which  in  1842  deprived  the  House,  of 
Orleans  of  the  heir-presumptive  having  necessitated  a  meet- 
ing of  the  Chambers  in  August  of  that  year,  little  La  Bau- 
draye came  to  present  his  titles  to  the  Upper  House  sooner 


226  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

than  lie  had  expected,  and  then  saw  what  his  wife  had  done. 
He  was  so  much  delighted  that  he  paid  the  thirty  thousand 
francs  without  a  word,  just  as  he  had  formerly  paid  eight 
thousand  for  decorating  La  Baudraye. 

On  his  return  from  the  Luxembourg,  where  he  had  been 
presented  according  to  custom  by  two  of  his  peers — the  Baron 
de  Nucingen  and  the  Marquis  de  Montriveau — the  new  Count 
met  the  old  Due  de  Chaulieu,  a  former  creditor,  walking  along, 
umbrella  in  hand,  while  he  himself  sat  perched  in  a  low 
chaise  on  which  his  coat-of-arms  was  resplendent,  with  the 
motto,  Deo  sic  patet  fides  et  hominibus.  This  contrast  filled 
his  heart  with  a  large  draught  of  the  balm  on  which  the 
middle  class  has  been  getting  drunk  ever  since  1840. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye  was  shocked  to  see  her  husband 
improved  and  looking  better  than  on  the  day  of  his  marriage. 
The  little  dwarf,  full  of  rapturous  delight,  at  sixty-four  tri- 
umphed in  the  life  which  had  so  long  been  denied  him:  in 
the  family,  which  his  handsome  cousin  Milaud  of  Nevers 
had  declared  he  would  never  have;  and  in  his  wife — who 
had  asked  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Clagny  to  dinner  to 
meet  the  curd  of  the  parish  and  his  two  sponsors  to  the  Cham- 
ber of  Peers.  He  petted  the  children  with  fatuous  delight. 

The  handsome  display  on  the  table  met  with  his  approval. 

"These  are  the  fleeces  of  the  Berry  sheep,"  said  he,  show- 
ing Monsieur  de  Nucingen  the  dish-covers  surmounted  by 
his  newly- won  coronet.  "They  are  of  silver,  you  see!" 

Though  consumed  by  melancholy,  which  she  concealed 
with  the  determination  of  a  really  superior  woman,  Dinah 
was  charming,  witty,  and,  above  all,  young  again  in  her 
court  mourning. 

"You  might  declare,"  cried  La  Baudraye  to  Monsieur  de 
Nucingen,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  his  wife,  "that  the 
countess  was  not  yet  thirty." 

"Ah,  ha!  Matame  is  a  voman  of  dirty!"  replied  the 
Baron,  who  was  prone  to  time-honored  remarks,  which  he 
took  to  be  the  small  change  of  conversation. 

"In  every  sense  of  the  words,"  replied  the  Countess.     "I 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  227 

am,  in  fact,  five-and-thirty,  and  mean  to  set  up  a  little 
passion — ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  my  wife  ruins  me  in  curiosities  and  china 
images — ' ' 

"She  started  that  mania  at  an  early  age,"  said  the  Mar- 
quis de  Montriveau  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  said  La  Baudraye,  with  a  cold  stare  at  the  Mar- 
quis, whom  he  had  known  at  Bourges,  "you  know  that  in 
'25,  '26,  and  '27,  she  picked  a  million  francs'  worth  of  treas- 
ures. Anzy  is  a  perfect  museum." 

"What  a  cool  hand!"  thought  Monsieur  de  Clagny,  as 
he  saw  this  little  country  miser  quite  on  the  level  of  his  new 
position. 

But  misers  have  savings  of  all  kinds  ready  for  use. 

On  the  day  after  the  vote  on  the  Regency  had  passed  the 
Chambers,  the  little  Count  went  back  to  Sancerre  for  the 
vintage,  and  resumed  his  old  habits. 

In  the  course  of  that  winter,  the  Comtesse  de  La  Bau- 
draye, with  the  support  of  the  Attorney -General  to  the  Court 
of  Appeals,  tried  to  form  a  little  circle.  Of  course,  she  had 
an  "at  home"  day,  she  made  a  selection  among  men  of  mark, 
receiving  none  but  those  of  serious  purpose  and  ripe  years. 
She  tried  to  amuse  herself  by  going  to  the  Opera,  French 
and  Italian.  Twice  a  week  she  appeared  there  with  her 
mother  and  Madame  de  Clagny,  who  was  made  by  her  hus- 
band to  visit  Dinah.  Still,  in  spite  of  her  cleverness,  her 
charming  manners,  her  fashionable  stylishness,  she  was  never 
really  happy  but  with  her  children,  on  whom  she  lavished  all 
her  disappointed  affection. 

Worthy  Monsieur  de  Clagny  tried  to  recruit  women  for 
the.  Countess's  circle,  and  he  succeeded;  but  he  was  more 
successful  among  the  advocates  of  piety  than  the  women  of 
fashion. 

"And  they  bore  her!"  said  he  to  himself  with  horror,  as 
he  saw  his  idol  matured  by  grief,  pale  from  remorse,  and 
then,  in  all  the  splendor  of  recovered  beauty,  restored  by  a 
life  of  luxury  and  care  for  her  boys.  This  devoted  friend, 


228  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

encouraged  in  his  efforts  by  her  mother  and  by  the  cure*,  was 
full  of  expedient.  Every  Wednesday  he  introduced  some 
celebrity  from  Germany,  England,  Italy,  or  Prussia  to  his 
dear  Countess ;  he  spoke  of  her  as  a  quite  exceptional  woman 
to  people  to  whom  she  hardly  addressed  two  words ;  but  she 
listened  to  them  with  such  deep  attention  that  they  went 
away  fully  convinced  of  her  superiority.  In  Paris,  Dinah 
conquered  by  silence,  as  at  Sancerre  she  had  conquered  by 
loquacity.  Now  and  then,  some  smart  saying  about  affairs, 
or  sarcasm  on  an  absurdity,  betrayed  a  woman  accustomed 
to  deal  with  ideas — the  woman  who,  four  years  since,  had 
given  new  life  to  Lousteau's  articles. 

This  phase  was  to  the  poor  lawyer's  hapless  passion  like 
the  late  season  known  as  the  Indian  summer  after  a  sunless 
year.  He  affected  to  be  older  than  he  was,  to  have  the  right 
to  befriend  Dinah  without  doing  her  an  injury,  and  kept  him- 
self at  a  distance  as  though  he  were  young,  handsome,  and 
compromising,  like  a  man  who  has  happiness  to  conceal. 
He  tried  to  keep  his  little  attentions  a  profound  secret,  and 
the  trifling  gifts  which  Dinah  showed  to  every  one ;  and  he 
endeavored  to  suggest  a  dangerous  meaning  for  his  little 
services. 

"He  plays  at  passion,"  said  the  Countess,  laughing.  She 
made  fun  of  Monsieur  de  Clagny  to  his  face,  and  the  lawyer 
said,  "She  notices  me." 

"I  impress  that  poor  man  so  deeply,"  said  she  to  her 
mother,  laughing,  "that  if  I  would  say  Yes,  I  believe  he 
would  say  No." 

One  evening  Monsieur  de  Clagny  and  his  wife  were  taking 
his  dear  Countess  home  from  the  theatre,  and  she  was  deeply 
pensive.  They  had  been  to  the  first  performance  of  Leon 
Gozlan's  first  play,  "La  Main  Droite  et  la  Main  Gauche" 
("The  Eight  Hand  and  the  Left"). 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  asked  the  lawyer, 
alarmed  at  his  idol's  dejection. 

This  deep  and  persistent  melancholy,  though  disguised 
by  the  Countess,  was  a  perilous  malady  for  which  Monsieur 


TEE  MUSE   OF   THE  DEPARTMENT  229 

de  Clagny  knew  no  remedy;  for  true  love  is  often  clumsy,  es- 
pecially when  it  is  not  reciprocated.  True  love  takes  its  ex- 
pression from  the  character.  Now,  this  good  man  loved 
after  the  fashion  of  Alceste,  when  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
wanted  to  be  loved  after  the  manner  of  Philinte.  The 
meaner  side  of  love  can  never  get  on  with  the  Misan- 
thrope's loyalty.  Thus,  Dinah  had  taken  care  never  to 
open  her  heart  to  this  man.  How  could  she  confess  to  him 
that  she  sometimes  regretted  the  slough  she  had  left? 

She  felt  a  void  in  this  fashionable  life;  she  had  no  one 
for  whom  to  dress,  or  whom  to  tell  of  her  successes  and  tri- 
umphs. Sometimes  the  memory  of  her  wretchedness  came 
to  her,  mingled  with  memories  of  consuming  joys.  She 
would  hate  Lousteau  for  not  taking  any  pains  to  follow 
her;  she  would  have  liked  to  get  tender  or  furious  letters 
from  him. 

Dinah  made  no  reply,  so  Monsieur  de  Clagny  repeated 
the  question,  taking  the  Countess's  hand  and  pressing  it 
between  his  own  with  devout  respect. 

"Will  you  have  the  right  hand  or  the  left?"  said  she, 
smiling. 

"The  left,"  said  he,  "for  I  suppose  you  mean  the  truth 
or  a  fib." 

"Well,  then,  I  saw  him,"  she  said,  speaking  into  the 
lawyer's  ear.  "And  as  I  saw  him  looking  so  sad,  so  out 
of  heart,  I  said  to  myself,  Has  he  a  cigar?  Has  he  any 
money?" 

"If  you  wish  for  the  truth,  I  can  tell  it  you,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "He  is  living  as  a  husband  with  Fanny  Beaupre*. 
You  have  forced  me  to  tell  you  this  secret;  I  should  never 
have  told  you,  for  you  might  have  suspected  me  perhaps  of 
an  ungenerous  motive." 

Ivladame  de  la  Baudraye  grasped  his  hand. 

"Your  husband,"  said  she  to  her  chaperon,  "is  one  of  the 
rarest  souls ! — Ah !  Why — ' ' 

She  shrank  into  her  corner,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
but  she  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  of  which  the  lawyer 


230  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

could  guess  the  end:  "Why  had  not  Lousteau  a  little  of 
your  husband's  generosity  of  heart?" 

This  information  served,  however,  to  cure  Dinah  of  her 
melancholy;  she  threw  herself  into  the  whirl  of  fashion. 
She  wished  for  success,  and  she  achieved  it;  still,  she  did 
not  make  much  way  with  women,  and  found  it  difficult  to 
get  introductions. 

In  the  month  of  March,  Madame  Pie*defer's  friends  the 
priests  and  Monsieur  de  Clagny  made  a  fine  stroke  by  get- 
ting Madame  de  La  Baudraye  appointed  receiver  of  sub- 
scriptions  for  the  great  charitable  work  founded  by  Madame 
de  Carcado.  Then  she  was  commissioned  to  collect  from  the 
Royal  Family  their  donations  for  the  benefit  of  the  sufferers 
from  the  earthquake  at  Guadeloupe.  The  Marquise  d'Bs- 
pard,  to  whom  Monsieur  de  Canalis  read  the  list  of  ladies 
thus  appointed,  one  evening  at  the  Opera,  said,  on  hearing 
that  of  the  Countess: 

"I  have  lived  a  long  time  in  the  world,  and  I  can  re- 
member nothing  finer  than  the  manoeuvres  undertaken  for 
the  rehabilitation  of  Madame  de  La  Baudraye." 

In  the  early  spring,  which,  by  some  whim  of  our  planets, 
smiled  on  Paris  in  the  first  week  of  March  in  1843,  making 
the  Champs  Elyse*es  green  and  leafy  before  Longchamp, 
Fanny  Beaupre*'s  attache*  had  seen  Madame  de  La  Baudraye 
several  times  without  being  seen  by  her.  More  than  once 
he  was  stung  to  the  heart  by  one  of  those  promptings  of 
jealousy  and  envy  familiar  to  those  who  are  born  and  bred 
provincials,  when  he  beheld  his  former  mistress  comfortably 
ensconced  in  a  handsome  carriage,  well  dressed,  with  dreamy 
eyes,  and  his  two  little  boys,  one  at  each  window.  He  ac- 
cused himself  with  all  the  more  virulence  because  he  was 
waging  war  with  the  sharpest  poverty  of  all — poverty  un- 
confessed.  Like  all  essentially  light  and  frivolous  natures, 
he  cherished  the  singular  point  of  honor  which  consists  in 
never  derogating  in  the  eyes  of  one's  own  little  public, 
which  makes  men  on  the  Bourse  commit  crimes  to  escape 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  231 

expulsion  from  the  temple  of  the  goddess  Per-cent,  and  has 
given  some  criminals  courage  enough  to  perform  acts  of 
virtue. 

Lousteau  dined  and  breakfasted  and  smoked  as  if  he 
were  a  rich  man.  Not  for  an  inheritance  would  he  have 
bought  any  but  the  dearest  cigars,  for  himself  as  well  as  for 
the  playwright  or  author  with  whom  he  went  into  the  shop. 
The  journalist  took  his  walks  abroad  in  patent-leather  boots; 
but  he  was  constantly  afraid  of  an  execution  on  goods  which, 
to  use  the  bailiff's  slang,  had  already  received  the  last  sac- 
rament. Fanny  Beaupre*  had  nothing  left  to  pawn,  and  her 
salary  was  pledged  to  pay  her  debts.  After  exhausting 
every  possible  advance  of  pay  from  newspapers,  mag- 
azines, and  publishers,  Etienne  knew  not  of  what  ink  he 
could  churn  gold.  Gambling-houses,  so  ruthlessly  sup- 
pressed, could  no  longer,  as  of  old,  cash  I  0  U's  drawn 
over  the  green  table  by  beggary  in  despair.  In  short,  the 
journalist  was  reduced  to  such  extremity  that  he  had  just 
borrowed  a  hundred  francs  of  the  poorest  of  his  friends, 
Bixiou,  from  whom  he  had  never  yet  asked  for  a  franc. 
What  distressed  Lousteau  was  not  the  fact  of  owing  five 
thousand  francs,  but  seeing  himself  bereft  of  his  elegance, 
and  of  the  furniture  purchased  at  the  cost  of  so  many  pri- 
vations, and  added  to  by  Madame  de  La  Baudraye. 

On  April  the  3d,  a  yellow  poster,  torn  down  by  the  porter 
after  being  displayed  on  the  wall,  announced  the  sale  of  a 
handsome  suite  of  furniture  on  the  following  Saturday,  the 
day  fixed  for  sales  under  legal  authority.  Lousteau  was 
taking  a  walk,  smoking  cigars,  and  seeking  ideas — for,  in 
Paris,  ideas  are  in  the  air,  they  smile  on  you  from  a  street 
corner,  they  splash  up  with  a  spurt  of  mud  from  under  the 
wheels  of  a  cab !  Thus  loafing,  he  had  been  seeking  ideas 
for  articles,  and  subjects  for  novels  for  a  month  past,  and 
had  found  nothing  but  friends  who  carried  him  off  to 
dinner  or  to  the  play,  and  who  intoxicated  his  woes,  tell- 
ing him  that  champagne  would  inspire  him. 

"Beware,"  said  the  virulent  Bixiou  one  night,  the  man 


232  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

who  would  at  the  same  moment  give  a  comrade  a  hundred 
francs  and  stab  him  to  the  heart  with  a  sarcasm;  "if  you 
go  to  sleep  drunk  every  night,  one  day  you  will  wake  up 
mad." 

On  the  day  before,  the  Friday,  the  unhappy  wretch,  al- 
though he  was  accustomed  to  poverty,  felt  like  a  man  con- 
demned to  death.  Of  old  he  would  have  said: 

"Well,  the  furniture  is  very  old!     I  will  buy  new." 

But  he  was  incapable  now  of  literary  legerdemain.  Pub- 
lishers, undermined  by  piracy,  paid  badly;  the  newspapers 
made  close  bargains  with  hard-driven  writers,  as  the  Opera 
managers  did  with  tenors  that  sang  flat. 

He  walked  on,  his  eye  on  the  crowd,  though  seeing  noth- 
ing, a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  every 
feature  of  his  face  twitching,  and  an  affected  smile  on  his  lips. 
Then  he  saw  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  go  by  in  a  carriage; 
she  was  going  to  the  Boulevard  by  the  Eue  de  la  Chausse'e 
d'Antin  to  drive  in  the  Bois. 

"There  is  nothing  else  left!"  said  he  to  himself ,  and  he 
went  home  to  smarten  himself  up. 

That  evening,  at  seven,  he  arrived  in  a  hackney  cab  at 
Madame  de  La  Baudraye 's  door,  and  begged  the  porter  to 
send  a  note  up  to  the  Countess — a  few  lines,  as  follows: 

"Would  Madame  la  Comtesse  do  Monsieur  Lousteau  the 
favor  of  receiving  him  for  a  moment,  and  at  once  ? ' ' 

This  note  was  sealed  with  a  seal  which  as  lovers  they 
had  both  used.  Madame  de  La  Baudraye  had  had  the 
word  Parce  que  engraved  on  a  genuine  Oriental  carnelian 
— a  potent  word — a  woman's  word — the  word  that  accounts 
for  everything,  even  for  the  Creation. 

The  Countess  had  just  finished  dressing  to  go  to  the 
Opera;  Friday  was  her  night  in  turn  for  her  box.  At 
the  sight  of  this  seal  she  turned  pale. 

"I  will  come,"  she  said,  tucking  the  note  into  her  dress. 
'  She  was  firm  enough  to  conceal  her  agitation,  and  begged 


THE  MUSE  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT       283 

her  mother  to  see  the  children  put  to  bed.  She  then  sent 
for  Lousteau,  and  received  him  in  a  boudoir,  next  to  the 
great  drawing-room,  with  open  doors.  She  was  going  to  a 
ball  after  the  Opera,  and  was  wearing  a  beautiful  dress  of 
brocade  in  stripes  alternately  plain  and  flowered  with  pale 
blue.  Her  gloves,  trimmed  with  tassels,  showed  off  her 
beautiful  white  arms.  She  was  shimmering  with  lace  and 
all  the  dainty  trifles  required  by  fashion.  Her  hair,  dressed 
d  la  Sevigne,  gave  her  a  look  of  elegance ;  a  necklace  of  pearls 
lay  on  her  bosom  like  bubbles  on  snow. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Monsieur?"  said  the  Countess, 
putting  out  her  foot  from  below  her  skirt  to  rest  it  on  a 
velvet  cushion.  "I  thought,  I  hoped,  I  was  quite  for- 
gotten." 

"If  I  should  reply  Never >  you  would  refuse  to  believe 
me,"  said  Lousteau,  who  remained  standing,  or  walked 
about  the  room,  chewing  the  flowers  he  plucked  from  the 
flower-stands  full  of  plants  that  scented  the  room. 

For  a  moment  silence  reigned.  Madame  de  La  Bau- 
draye,  studying  Lousteau,  saw  that  he  was  dressed  as  the 
most  fastidious  dandy  might  have  been. 

"You  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  can  help  me, 
or  hold  out  a  plank  to  me — for  I  am  drowning,  and  have  al- 
ready swallowed  more  than  one  mouthful — "  said  he,  stand- 
ing still  in  front  of  Dinah,  and  seeming  to  yield  to  an  over- 
powering impulse.  "Since  you  see  me  here,  it  is  because 
my  affairs  are  going  to  the  devil." 

"That  is  enough,"  said  she;  "I  understand." 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  Lousteau  turned 
away,  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  seemed  to  wipe  away  a 
tear. 

"How  much  do  you  want,  Etienne?"  she  went  on  in 
motherly  tones.  "We  are  at  this  moment  old  comrades; 
speak  to  me  as  you  would  to — to  Bixiou." 

"To  save  my  furniture  from  vanishing  into  thin  air  to- 
morrow morning  at  the  auction  mart,  eighteen  hundred 
francs!  To  repay  my  friends,  as  much  again!  Three* 


234  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

quarters'  rent  to  the  landlord — whom  you  know. — My 
'uncle'  wants  five  hundred  francs — " 

"And  you? — to  live  on?" 

"Oh!  I  have  my  pen — " 

"It  is  heavier  to  lift  than  any  one  could  believe  who 
reads  your  articles,"  said  she,  with  a  subtle  smile. — "I  have 
not  such  a  sum  as  you  need,  but  come  to-morrow  at  eight; 
theTbailiff  will  surely  wait  till  nine,  especially  if  you  bring 
him  away  to  pay  him. ' ' 

She  must,  she  felt,  dismiss  Lousteau,  who  affected  to  be 
unable  to  look  at  her ;  she  herself  felt  such  pity  as  might  cut 
every  social  Grordian  knot. 

"Thank  you,"  she  added,  rising  and  offering  her  hand 
to  Lousteau.  "Your  confidence  has  done  me  good!  It  is 
long  indeed  since  my  heart  has  known  such  joy — ' ' 

Lousteau  toqk_  her  hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly  to  his 
heart. 

"A  drop  of  water  in  the  desert — and  sent  by  the  hand  of 
an  angel! — God  always  does  things  handsomely!" 

He  spoke  half  in  jest  and  half  pathetically ;  but,  believe 
me,  as  a  piece  of  acting  it  was  as  fine  as  Talma's  in  his 
famous  part  of  Leicester,  which  was  played  throughout 
with  touches  of  this  kind.  Dinah  felt  his  heart  beating 
through  his  coat;  it  was  throbbing  with  satisfaction,  for 
the  journalist  had  had  a  narrow  escape  from  the  hawks  of 
justice;  but  it  also  beat  with  a  very  natural  fire  at  seeing 
Dinah  rejuvenescent  and  restored  by  wealth. 

Madame  de  La  Baudraye,  stealing  an  examining  glance  at 
Etienne,  saw  that  his  expression  was  in  harmony  with  the 
flowers  of  love,  which,  as  she  thought,  had  blossomed  again 
in  that  throbbing  heart;  she  tried  to  look  once  into  the  eyes 
of  the  man  she  had  loved  so  well,  but  the  seething  blood 
rushed  through  her  veins  and  mounted  to  her  brain.  Their 
eyes  met  with  the  same  fiery  glow  as  had  encouraged  Lou- 
steau on  the  Quay  by  the  Loire  to  crumple  Dinah's  muslin 
gown.  The  bohemian  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  she 
yielded,  and  their  cheeks  were  touching. 


THE  MUSE   OF   THE   DEPARTMENT  236 

"Here  comes  my  mother,  hide!"  cried  Dinah  in  alarm. 
And  she  hurried  forward  to  intercept  Madame  Piddefer. 

"Mamma,"  said  she — this  word  was  to  the  stern  old  lady 
a  coaxing  expression  which  never  failed  of  its  effect — "will 
you  do  me  a  great  favor  ?  Take  the  carriage  and  go  your- 
self to  my  banker,  Monsieur  Mongenod,  with  a  note  I  will 
give  you,  and  bring  back  six  thousand  francs.  Come, 
come — it  is  an  act  of  charity;  come  into  my  room." 

And  she  dragged  away  her  mother,  who  seemed  very 
anxious  to  see  who  it  was  that  her  daughter  had  been  talk- 
ing with  in  the  boudoir. 

Two  days  afterward,  Madame  PieMefer  held  a  conference 
with  the  cure"  of  the  parish.  After  listening  to  the  lamenta- 
tions of  the  old  mother,  who  was  in  despair,  the  priest  said 
very  gravely: 

"Any  moral  regeneration  which  is  not  based  on  a  strong 
religious  sentiment,  and  carried  out  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Church,  is  built  on  sand. — The  many  means  of  grace  en- 
joined by  the  Catholic  religion,  small  as  they  are,  and  not 
understood,  are  so  many  dams  necessary  to  restrain  the 
violence  of  evil  promptings.  Persuade  your  daughter  to 
perform  all  her  religious  duties,  and  we  shall  save  her  yet." 

Within  ten  days  of  this  meeting  the  Hotel  de  La  Bau- 
draye  was  shut  up.  The  Countess,  the  children,  and  her 
mother,  in  short,  the  whole  household,  including  a  tutor, 
had  gone  away  to  Sancerre,  where  Dinah  intended  to  spend 
the  summer.  She  was  everything  that  was  nice  to  the  Count, 
people  said. 

And  so  the  Muse  of  Sancerre  had  simply  come  back  to 
family  and  married  life ;  but  certain  evil  tongues  declared 
that  she  had  been  compelled  to  come  back,  for  that  the  little 
peer's  wishes  would  no  doubt  be  fulfilled — he  hoped  for  a 
little  girl. 

Gatien  and  Monsieur  Gravier  lavished  every  care,  every 
servile  attention  on  the  handsome  Countess.  Gatien,  who 
during  Madame  de  La  Baudraye's  long  absence  had  been  to 


236  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Paris  to  learn  the  arts  of  lionneric  or  dandyism,  was  supposed 
to  have  a  good  chance  of  finding  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  dis- 
enchanted "Superior  Woman."  Others  bet  on  the  tutor; 
Madame  Pie'defer  urged  the  claims  of  religion. 

In  1844,  about  the  middle  of  June,  as  the  Comte  de  La 
Baudraye  was  taking  a  walk  on  the  Mall  at  Sancerre  with 
the  two  fine  little  boys,  he  met  Monsieur  Milaud,  the  Public 
Prosecutor,  who  was  at  Sancerre  on  business,  and  said  to 
him:  "These  are  my  children,  cousin." 

"Ah,  ha!  so  these  are  our  children  1"  replied  the  lawyer, 
with  a  mischievous  twinkle. 

PARIS,  June,  1843— August,  1844. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 


PREFACE 

"LE  LYS  DANS  LA  VALLEE"  has  considerable  importance 
in  the  history  of  Balzac's  books,  and  not  a  little  in  that  of 
his  life,  independently  of  its  intrinsic  merit.  It  brought  on 
a  lawsuit  between  him  and  the  "Kevue  de  Paris,"  in  which 
the  greater  part  of  it  was  published,  and  in  which  he  refused 
to  complete  it.  As  the  actual  suit  was  decided  in  his  favor, 
his  legal  justification  is  not  matter  of  dispute,  and  his  adver- 
saries put  themselves  hopelessly  in  the  wrong  by  reviewing 
the  termination  of  the  book,  when  it  appeared  elsewhere,  in 
a  strain  of  virulent  but  clumsy  ridicule.  As  to  where  the 
right  or  wrong  lay,  independent  of  questions  of  pure  law  on 
one  side  and  pure  taste  on  the  other,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  come 
to  any  conclusion.  Balzac  published  an  elaborate  justifica- 
tion of  his  own  conduct,  which  does  not  now  appear  with  the 
book,  but  may  be  found,  by  any  one  who  is  curious,  among 
the  rejected  prefaces  which  fill  a  large  part  of  the  twenty- 
second  volume  (the  third  of  the  "(Euvres  Diverges")  of  his 
"Works."  It  is  exceedingly  long,  not  by  any  means  tem- 
perate, and  so  confused  that  it  is  difficult  to  make  head  or 
tail  of  it.  What  is  clear  is  that  the  parties  went  on  the  dan- 
gerous and  unsatisfactory  plan  of  neither  complete  perform- 
ance of  the  work  before  payment  nor  complete  payment 
beforehand,  but  of  a  per  contra  account,  the  author  draw- 
ing money  as  he  wanted  it,  and  sending  in  copy  as  he  could 
or  chose.  Balzac  seems  to  allow  that  he  got  into  arrears, 
contending  that  if  he  paid  those  arrears  the  rest  of  the  work 
was  his  own  property.  But  there  were  complicating  dis- 
.agreements  in  reference  to  a  simultaneous  publication  at  St. 
Petersburg;  and,  on  the  whole,  we  may  fairly  conclude  in 

(239) 


240  PREFACE 

the  not  very  original  terms  of  "faults  on  both  sides."  The 
affair,  however,  evidently  gave  him  much  annoyance,  and 
seems  to  have  brought  him  into  some  discredit. 

The  other  point  of  personal  interest  is  that  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  is  very  generally  said  to  represent  Madame  de 
Berny,  his  early  friend,  and  his  first  instructress  in  aristo- 
cratic ways.  Although  there  are  strong  expressions  of  affec- 
tion in  his  letters  with  regard  to  this  lady,  who  died  early 
in  his  career,  they  do  not  definitely  indicate  what  is  com- 
monly called  love.  But  the  whole  scenery  and  atmosphere 
of  "Le  Lys  dans  la  YalleV'  are  those  of  his  own  early  haunts. 
Frapesle,  which  is  so  often  mentioned,  was  the  home  of  an- 
other platonic  friend,  Madame  Zulma  Carraud,  and  there  is 
much  in  the  early  experiences  of  Felix  de  Yandenesse  which 
has  nearly  as  personal  a  touch  as  that  of  "Louis  Lambert" 
itself. 

Dismissing  this,  we  may  come  to  the  book  itself.  Balzac 
took  so  much  interest  in  it — indeed,  the  personal  throb  may 
be  felt  throughout — that  he  departed  (according  to  his  own 
account,  for  the  second  time  only)  from  his  rule  of  not  an- 
swering criticism.  This  was  in  regard  to  a  very  remarkable 
article  of  M.  Hippolyte  Castilles  (to  be  found  in  M.  de  Loven- 
joul's  invaluable  bibliography,  as  is  the  answering  letter  in 
the  "OEuvres  Diverses"),  reflecting  upon  the  rather  pagan  and 
materialist  "resurrection  of  the  flesh"  in  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
on  her  deathbed.  His  plea  that  it  was  the  disease  not  the 
person,  though  possessing  a  good  deal  of  physiological  force, 
is  psychologically  rather  weak,  and  might  have  been  made 
much  stronger.  Indeed  this  scene,  though  shocking  and  dis- 
concerting to  weak  brethren,  is  not  merely  the  strongest  in  the 
novel,  but  one  of  the  strongest  in  Balzac's  works.  There  is 
further  to  be  noted  in  the  book  a  quaint  delineation,  in  the 
personage  of  M.  de  Mortsauf,  of  a  kind  of  conjugal  torment 
which,  as  a  rule,  is  rather  borne  by  husbands  at  the  hands  of 
wives  than  vice  versa.  The  behavior  of  the  "lily's"  husband, 
sudden  rages  and  all,  is  exactly  that  of  a  shrewish  and  vale- 
tudinarian woman. 


PREFACE  241 

This,  however,  and  some  minor  matters,  may  be  left  to 
the  reader  to  find  out  and  appreciate.  The  most  interesting 
point,  and  the  most  debatable,  is  the  character  of  the  heroine 
with,  in  a  lesser  degree,  that  of  the  hero.  Of  M.  Felix  de 
Vandenesse  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  very  much,  because 
that  capital  letter  from  Madame  de  Manerville  (one  of  the 
very  best  things  that  Balzac  ever  wrote,  and  exhibiting  a 
sharpness  and  precision  of  mere  writing  which  he  too  fre- 
quently lacked)  does  fair,  though  not  complete,  justice  on 
the  young  man.  The  lady,  who  was  not  a  model  of  excel- 
lence herself,  perhaps  did  not  perceive — for  it  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  in  her  nature  to  conceal  it  through  kindness — 
that  he  was  not  only,  as  she  tells  him,  wanting  in  tact,  but 
also  wanting,  and  that  execrably,  in  taste.  M.  de  Vande- 
nesse, I  think,  ranks  in  Balzac's  list  of  good  heroes;  at  any 
rate  he  saves  him  later  from  a  fate  which  he  rather  richly 
deserved,  and  introduces  him  honorably  in  other  places. 
But  he  was  not  a  nice  young  man.  His  "pawing"  and 
timid  advances  on  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  and  his  effusive 
"kissing  and  telling"  in  reference  to  Lady  Dudley,  both 
smack  of  the  worst  sides  of  Rousseau :  they  deserve  not  so 
much  moral  reprehension  as  physical  kicking.  It  is  no  won- 
der that  Madeleine  de  Mortsauf  turned  a  cold  shoulder  on 
him ;  and  it  is  an  addition  to  his  demerits  that  he  seems  to 
have  thought  her  unjust  in  doing  so. 

As  for  the  "lily"  we  come  once  more  to  one  of  those 
ineradicable  differences  between  French  and  English  taste 
—one  of  those  moral  fosses  not  to  be  filled  which  answer  to 
the  physical  Channel.  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  think  the 
last  scene  unnatural,  or  even  repulsive:  it  is  pretty  true,  and 
rather  terrible,  and  where  truth  and  terror  are  there  is  seldom 
disgust.  But,  elsewhere,  for  all  her  technical  purity,  her 
shudderings,  and  the  rest  of  it,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that, 
without  insular  narrowness  or  prudery,  one  may  find  Madame 
de  Mortsauf  a  little  rancid,  a  little  like  stale  cold  cream  of 
roses.  And  if  it  is  insular  narrowness  and  prudery  so  to 
find  her,  let  us  thank  God  for  a  narrowness  which  yet  leaves 

Vol.  4.  (K) 


242  PREFACE 

room  for  Cleopatra,  for  Beatrix  Esmond,  and  for  Becky 
Sharp.  I  should  myself  have  thought  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
a  person  of  bad  taste  in  caring  at  all  for  such  a  creature  as 
Felix.  But  if  she  did  care,  I  should  have  thought  better  of 
her  for  pitching  her  cap  over  the  very  highest  mill  in  her 
care  for  him,  than  for  this  fulsome  hankering,  this  "I  would, 
but  dare  not' '  platonism.  Still,  others  may  think  differently, 
and  that  the  book  is  a  very  powerful  book  they  cannot  hold 
more  distinctly  than  I  do. 

Some  bibliographical  details  about  "Le  Lys"  have  been 
anticipated  above.  It  need  only  be  added  that  the  appear- 
ances in  the  "Kevue  de  Paris"  were  in  the  numbers  for 
November  and  December,  1835,  and  that  the  book  was  pub- 
lished by  Werdet  in  June  of  next  year.  The  date  of  the 
"Envoi"  (afterward  removed),  August  8,  1827,  may  have 
some  biographical  interest.  Charpentier  republished  the 
book  in  a  slightly  different  form  in  1839,  and,  five  years 
later,  it  was  installed  in  the  "Come'die." 

Note. — It  maybe  barely  necessary  for  me  to  protect  myself  and 
the  translator  from  a  possible  charge  of  mistaking  Lilium  candi- 
dum  for  Convallwia  majalis.  The  French  for  our  "lily-of-the- 
valley"  is,  of  course,  muguet.  But  "Lily  in  the  Valley"  would 
inevitably  sound  in  England  like  a  worse  mistake,  or  a  tasteless 
variation  on  a  consecrated  phrase.  And  "Lily  of  the  Valley" 
meets  the  real  sense  well. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 


TO  MONSIEUR  J.  B.  NACQUART 

Jf ember  of  the  Royal  Academy   of  Medicine 

Dear  Doctor — Here  is  one  of  the  most  highly  wrought 
stones  of  the  second  story  of  a  literary  edijice  that  is  being 
slowly  and  laboriously  constructed;  I  wish  to  set  your 
name  Aere,  as  much  to  thank  the  physician  who  once 
saved  my  life  as  to  do  honor  to  the  friend  of  every  day. 

De  Balzac. 

To  Madame  la  Comtesse  Natalie  de  Manerville 

7    YIELD  to  your  wish.      It  is  the  privilege  of  the 
woman  whom  we  love    more   than  she  loves  us  that 
she  can  at  any  moment  make  us  forget  the  laws  of 
good  sense.     To  spare  ourselves  the  sight  of  a  wrinkle  on 
your  brow,  to  dissipate  a  pout  on  your  lips — which  so  small 
a  contradiction  saddens — we  work  miracles  to  annihilate  dis- 
tance, we  give  our  blood,  we  mortgage  the  future. 

"You,  to-day,  want  my  past:  here  it  is.  But  understand 
this,  Natalie ;  to  obey  you  I  have  had  to  trample  under  foot 
a  repugnance  I  never  before  have  conquered.  Why  must 
you  be  suspicious  of  the  long  and  sudden  reveries  which 
come  over  me  when  I  am  happiest?  Why  show  the  pretty 
tempers  of  a  woman  beloved  because  I  fall  silent  ?  Could 
you  not  play  with  the  contrasts  of  my  nature  without  know- 
ing their  causes?  Have  you  in  your  heart  secrets  which 
must  have  mine  to  gain  absolution? 

"Well,  you  have  guessed  rightly,  Natalie,  and  it  is  bet- 
ter perhaps  that  you  should  know  everything :  yes,  my  life 

(243) 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

is  overshadowed  by  a  phantom;  it  asserts  itself  vaguely  at 
the  least  word  that  evokes  it ;  it  often  hovers  over  me  un- 
bidden.. I  have,  buried  within  my  soul,  astounding  memo- 
ries, like  those  marine  growths  which  may  be  seen  in  calm 
waters,  and  which  the  surges  of  the  storm  fling  in  fragments 
on  the  shore. 

"Though  the  travail  needed  for  the  utterance  of  ideas  has 
controlled  the  old  emotions  which  hurt  me  so  much  when 
they  are  suddenly  aroused,  if  there  should  be  in  this  con- 
fession any  outbreaks  that  offend  you,  remember  that  you 
threatened  me  in  case  of  disobedience,  and  do  not  punish 
me  for  having  obliged  you. 

"I  only  wish  my  confidence  might  increase  your  tender- 
ness twofold. 

"Till  this  evening.  FELIX.  ' ' 

To  what  genius  fed  on  tears  may  we  some  day  owe  the 
most  touching  elegy — the  picture  of  the  tortures  suffered  in 
silence  by  souls  whose  roots,  while  still  tender,  find  nothing 
but  hard  pebbles  in  the  soil  of  home,  whose  earliest  blossoms 
are  rent  by  the  hands  of  hate,  whose  flowers  are  frostbitten 
as  soon  as  they  open  ?  What  poet  will  tell  of  the  sorrows  of 
the  child  whose  lips  suck  the  milk  of  bitterness,  whose  smiles 
are  checked  by  the  scorching  fire  of  a  stern  eye  ?  The  fiction 
that  should  depict  these  poor  crushed  hearts,  downtrodden 
by  those  who  are  placed  about  them  to  encourage  the  de- 
velopment of  their  feelings,  would  be  the  true  story  of  my 
childhood. 

What  vanities  could  I,  a  new-born  babe,  have  fretted? 
What  moral  or  physical  deformity  earned  me  my  mother's 
coldness  ?  Was  I  the  offspring  of  duty,  a  child  whose  birth 
is  fortuitous,  or  one  whose  existence  is  a  standing  reproach  ? 

Sent  to  be  nursed  in  the  country  and  forgotten  by  iny 
parents  for  three  years,  when  I  returned  to  my  father's  house 
I  counted  for  so  little  that  I  had  to  endure  the  pity  of  the 
servants.  I  know  not  to  what  feeling  nor  to  what  happy 
chance  I  owed  it  that  I  was  able  to  rally  after  this  first  dis- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  246 

aster;  as  a  child  I  did  not  understand,  and  as  a  man  I  do  not 
know.  My  brother  and  my  two  sisters,  far  from  mitigating 
my  fate,  amused  themselves  by  tormenting  me.  The  mutual 
compact,  in  virtue  of  which  children  hide  each  other's  pecca- 
dilloes and  learn  an'^infant  code  of  honor,  was  null  and  void 
as  regarded  me;  nay  more,  I  often  found  myself  in  disgrace 
for  my  brother's  misdeeds,  with  no  power  of  appeal  against 
the  injustice;  was  it  that  insidious^  self-interest,  of  which  a 
germ  exists  even  in  children,  prompted  them  to  add  to  the 
persecution  that  weighed  on  me,  so  as  to  win  the  good  graces 
of  the  mother  whom  they  feared  no  less  ?  Was  it  the  result 
of  their  imitative  instinct  ?  Was  it  a  desire  to  try  their  power, 
or  a  lack  of  fellow-feeling  ?  All  these  causes  combined  per- 
haps to  deprive  me  of  the  comfort  of  brotherly  kindness.  Cut 
off  already  from  all  affection,  I  could  love  nothing,  and  Nat- 
ure had  made  me  loving !  Is  there  an  angel  who  collects  the 
sighs  of  such  ever-repressed  feeling  ?  If  misprized  sentiments 
turn  to  hatred  in  some  souls,  in  mine  they  became  concen- 
trated, and  wore  a  channel  from  whence  at  a  later  date  they 
gushed  into  my  life.  In  some  characters  the  habit  of  shrink- 
ing relaxes  every  fibre,  and  gives  rise  to  fear;  and  fear  re- 
duces us  to  perpetual  subjection.  Hence  proceeds  a  weak- 
ness which  debases  a  man  and  gives  him  an  indescribable 
taint  of  servility. 

But  this  constant  torment  gave  me  the  habit  of  exerting 
a  force  which  increased  with  exercise,  and  predisposed  my 
soul  to  moral  fortitude.  Always  on  the  lookout  for  some 
new  misery,  as  martyrs  expect  a  fresh  blow,  my  whole  being 
must  have  expressed  a  gloomy  dejection  which  stifled  all  the 
graces  and  impulses  of  childhood,  a  condition  which  was  re- 
garded as  a  symptom  of  idiocy,  justifying  my  mother's  omi- 
nous prognostics.  A  sense  of  this  injustice  gave  rise  in  my 
spirit  to  a  premature  feeling  of  pride,  the  outcome  of  reason, 
which,  no  doubt,  was  a  check  on  the  evil  disposition  fostered 
by  such  a  manner  of  education. 

Though  completely  neglected  by  my  mother,  I  was  occa- 
sionally the  cause  of  some  scruples  in  her  mind ;  she  some- 


246  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

times  talked  of  my  learning  something,  and  expressed  a 
purpose  of  teaching  me;  then  I  shuddered  miserably  at  the 
thought  of  the  anguish  of  daily  contact  with  her.  I  blessed 
my  deserted  loneliness,  and  was  happy  in  being  left  in  the 
garden  to  play  with  pebbles,  watch  the  insects,  and  gaze  at 
the  blue  sky. 

Though  isolation  made  me  dreamy,  my  love  of  meditation 
had  its  rise  in  an  incident  which  will  give  you  an  idea  of  my 
first  woes.  I  was  so  entirely  overlooked  that  the  governess 
often  forgot  to  put  me  to  bed.  One  evening,  peacefully 
sitting  under  a  fig-tree,  I  was  looking  at  a  star  with  the 
passionate  curiosity  known  to  children,  to  which,  in  me, 
precocious  melancholy  gave  a  sort  of  sentimental  intuition. 
My  sisters  were  playing  and  shouting;  I  heard  the  remote 
clatter  like  an  accompaniment  to  my  thoughts.  The  noise 
presently  ceased ;  night  fell.  By  chance  my  mother  noticed 
my  absence.  To  avert  a  scolding,  our  governess,  a  certain 
terrible  Mademoiselle  Caroline,  justified  my  mother's  affected 
fears  by  declaring  that  I  had  a  horror  of  home ;  that  if  she 
had  not  watched  me  narrowly,  I  should  have  run  away  before 
then;  that  I  was  not  weak  of  intellect,  but  sly;  that  of  all 
the  children  she  had  ever  had  care  of,  she  had  never  known 
one  whose  disposition  was  so  vile  as  mine. 

She  then  pretended  to  search  for  me,  and  called  me;  I 
replied ;  she  came  to  the  fig-tree  where  she  knew  that  I  was. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  here?"  she  asked. 

' '  I  was  looking  at  a  star. ' ' 

"You  were  not  looking  at  a  star,"  cried  my  mother,  who 
was  listening  from  her  balcony,  "as  if  a  child  of  your  age 
could  know  anything  of  astronomy!" 

•'Oh,  Madame,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Caroline,  "he  turned 
on  the  tap  of  the  cistern,  the  garden  is  flooded!" 

There  was  a  great  commotion.  My  sisters  had  amused 
themselves  with  turning  the  tap  to  see  the  water  flow;  but, 
startled  by  a  spurt  sidewise  that  had  wetted  them  all  over, 
they  lost  their  head,  and  fled  without  turning  the  water  off 
again.  Accused  and  convicted  of  having  devised  this  piece 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  247 

of  mischief,  and  of  lying  when  I  asserted  my  innocence,  I  was 
severely  punished.  But,  worst  of  all,  I  was  mocked  at  for 
my  love  of  star-gazing,  and  my  mother  forbade  my  staying 
in  the  garden  in  the  evening. 

Tyrannical  prohibitions  give  zest  to  a  passion,  even  more 
in  children  than  in  men;  children  have  the  advantage  of 
thinking  of  nothing  else  but  the  forbidden  thing,  which  then 
becomes  irresistibly  fascinating.  So  I  was  often  caned  for 
my  star.  Unable  to  confide  my  woes  to  any  human  being, 
I  told  my  griefs  to  the  star  in  that  exquisite  internal  warbling 
by  which  a  child  lisps  its  first  ideas  as  he  has  already  lisped 
his  first  words.  At  the  age  of  twelve,  a  boy  at  school,  I  still 
contemplated  it  with  a  sense  of  unspeakable  rapture,  so  deep 
are  the  marks  set  on  the  heart  by  the  impressions  received 
in  the  dawn  of  life. 

My  brother  Charles,  five  years  my  senior,  was  not  less 
handsome  as  a  child  than  he  is  as  a  man;  he  was  my  father's 
favorite,  my  mother's  darling,  the  hope  of  the  family,  and 
consequently  the  king  of  the  household.  Well  made  and 
strong,  he  had  a  tutor.  I,  frail  and  sickly,  was  sent,  at  the 
age  of  five,  to  a  day-school  in  the  town,  whither  I  was  taken 
in  the  morning  by  ray  father's  valet,  who  fetched  me  home 
in  the  afternoon.  I  took  my  midday  meal  in  a  basket  but 
scantily  filled,  while  my  comrades  brought  ample  supplies. 
This  contrast  of  my  necessity  with  their  abundance  was  the 
source  of  much  suffering.  The  famous  rillettes  and  rillons 
of  Tours  (a  kind  of  sausage  meat)  formed  the  larger  part  of 
our  midday  luncheon,  between  breakfast  in  the  morning  and 
late  dinner  at  the  hour  of  our  return  home.  This  prepara- 
tion, highly  prized  by  some  epicures,  is  rarely  seen  at  Tours 
on  any  genteel  table ;  though  I  may  have  heard  of  it  before 
going  to  school,  I  had  never  been  so  happy  as  to  see  the 
brown  confection  spread  on  a  slice  of  bread  for  my  own  eat- 
ing; but  even  if  it  had  not  been  a  fashionable  dainty  at 
school,  my  longing  for  it  would  have  been  no  less  eager,  for 
it  had  become  a  fixed  idea  in  my  brain,  just  as  the  stews 
concocted  by  her  porter's  wife  inspired  a  longing  in  one  of 


248  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

the  most  elegant  of  Paris  duchesses,  who,  fteing  a  woman, 
gratified  her  fancy. 

Children  can  read  such  a  longing  in  each  other's  eyes  just 
as  you  can  read  love :  thenceforth  I  was  a  standing  laughing- 
stock. My  school-fellows,  almost  all  of  the  shopkeeper 
class,  would  come  to  display  their  excellent  rillettes,  and  ask 
me  if  I  knew  how  they  were  made,  where  they  were  sold, 
and  why  I  had  none.  They  would  smack  their  lips  as  they 
praised  their  .rillons,  fragments  of  pork  fried  in  their  own 
fat  and  looking  like  boiled  truffles;  they  took  stock  of  my 
basket,  and  finding  only  Olivet  cheeses  or  dried  fruit,  struck 
me  dumb  by  saying,  "Why,  you  have  nothing  at  alii"  in  a 
way  that  taught  me  to  estimate  the  difference  made  between 
my  brother  and  myself. 

This  comparison  of  my  own  misery  with  the  good  fortune 
of  others  dashed  the  roses  of  my  childhood  and  blighted  my 
blossoming  youth.  The  first  time  that  I,  taken  in  by  a  sem- 
blance of  generosity,  put  out  my  hand  to  take  the  longed- 
for  treat  from  a  hypocrite  who  offered  it,  the  boy  snatched 
it  away,  raising  a  shout  of  laughter  among  the  others  who 
were  aware  of  the  practical  joke. 

If  the  loftiest  minds  are  accessible  to  vanity,  we  may 
surely  pardon  a  child  for  crying  when  he  finds  himself  de- 
spised and  made  game  of.  Treated  thus,  most  children 
would  become  greedy,  sneaking,  and  mean.  To  avoid  per- 
secution, I  fought  my  foes;  the  courage  of  despair  made  me 
formidable,  but  I  was  detested,  and  remained  without  defence 
against  treachery.  One  evening,  as  I  left  school,  a  handker- 
chief, tightly  rolled  and  full  of  stones,  struck  me  on  the  back. 
When  the  valet,  who  avenged  me  amply,  told  my  mother 
about  it,  she  only  said:  "That  dreadful  child  will  never  be 
anything  but  a  trouble  to  us!" 

I  then  suffered  the  most  miserable  distrust  of  myself,  dis- 
cerning at  school  the  same  repulsion  as  was  felt  for  me  by  my 
family.  I  was  thrown  in  on  myself  at  school  and  at  home. 
A  second  fall  of  snow  checked  the  blossoming  of  the  germs 
sown  in  my  soul.  Those  who  were  16ved  were,  I  saw,  sturdy 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  249 

rascals;  with  this  I  comforted  my  pride,  and  I  dwelt  alone. 
Thus  there  was  no  end  to  the  impossibility  of  pouring  out 
the  feelings  which  swelled  my  poor  little  heart.  Seeing  me 
always  alone,  hated  and  dejected,  the  master  confirmed  my 
parents'  unjust  notions  as  to  my  evil  nature. 

As  soon  as  I  could  read  and  write,  my  mother  had  me 
exiled  to  Pont-lc-Voy,  a  school  managed  by  Oratorians,  who 
received  children  of  my  age  into  a  class  designated  as  that 
of  the  Pas  latins  (Latin  steps),  which  also  included  scholars 
whose  defective  intelligence  had  precluded  the  rudiments. 
There  I  remained  for  eight  years,  seeing  no  one,  and  leading 
the  life  of  a  Pariah.  And  this  was  why.  I  had  but  three 
francs  a  month  for  pocket-money,  a  sum  which  barely  suf- 
ficed for  the  pens,  knives,  rulers,  ink  and  paper,  with  which 
we  had  to  provide  ourselves.  And  so,  being  unable  to  buy 
stilts  or  ropes,  or  any  of  the  things  needed  for  schoolboy 
amusements,  I  was  banished  from  every  game;  to  gain  ad- 
mittance I  must  either  have  toadied  the  rich  or  have  flattered 
the  strong  boys  in  my  division.  Now  the  least  idea  of  such 
meanness,  which  children  so  often  drift  into,  raised  my 
gorge. 

I  used  to  sit  under  a  tree  reading  the  books  given  out  to 
us  once  a  month  by  the  librarian.  How  much  anguish  lay 
hidden  in  the  depths  of  this  unnatural  isolation,  what  misery 
this  desertion  caused  me!  Imagine  what  my  tender  soul 
must  have  felt  when,  at  the  first  distribution  of  prizes,  I  was 
awarded  the  two  most  anxiously  looked  for — that  [for  com- 
position and  that  for  translation  I  When  I  went  up  to  the 
platform  to  receive  them,  in  the  midst  of  applause  and  cheers, 
I  had  neither  father  nor  mother  to  rejoice  with  me,  while  the 
room  was  full  of  my  comrades'  parents.  Instead  of  kissing 
the  visitor  who  distributed  the  prizes,  as  was  usual,  I  threw 
myself  on  his  breast  and  melted  into  tears.  In  the  evening 
I  burned  my  laurel  crowns  in  the  stove.  The  other  boys' 
parents  stayed  in  the  town  during  the  week  of  examinations 
preceding  the  prize-giving,  so  that  my  school-fellows  went 
off  next  morning  in  high  glee ;  while  I,  whose  parents  were 


250  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

only  a  few  leagues  away,  remained  at  school  with  the  "  Outre- 
mers,"  a  name  given  to  boys  whose  families  lived  in  the 
islands  or  abroad.  In  the  evening,  while  prayers  were  read, 
the  barbarous  little  wretches  would  boast  of  the  good  dinners 
they  had  had  at  home. 

You  will  see  that  my  misfortunes  went  on  growing  in  pro- 
portion to  the  circumference  of  the  social  spheres  in  which. 
I  moved.  How  many  efforts  have  I  not  made  to  invalidate 
the  sentence  which  condemned  me  to  live  in  myself  alone! 
How  many  hopes  long  cherished,  with  a  thousand  soul-felt 
aspirations,  have  been  destroyed  in  a  single  day!  To  induce 
my  parents  to  come  to  the  school,  I  wrote  them  letters  full 
of  feeling,  rather  emphatically  worded  perhaps — but  should 
these  letters  have  drawn  down  on  me  my  mother's  reproaches 
and  ironical  comments  on  my  style  ?  Still,  not  discouraged, 
I  promised  to  do-all  my  parents  insisted  on  as  the  conditions 
of  a  visit;  I  implored  my  sisters'  aid,  writing  to  them  on  their 
name-days  and  birthdays  with  the  punctuality  of  a  hapless, 
deserted  child — but  with  vain  persistency. 

As  the  day  for  prize-giving  approached,  I  made  my  en 
treaties  more  urgent,  and  wrote  of  my  hopes  of  success. 
Deceived  by  my  parents'  silence,  I  expected  them  with 
exultant  hopes,  telling  my  school-fellows  that  they  were 
coming;  and  when,  as  family  parties  began  to  arrive,  the 
old  porter's  step  echoed  along  the  passages,  I  felt  sick  with 
anticipation.  But  the  old  man  never  uttered  my  name. 

One  day  when  I  confessed  that  I  had  cursed  my  exist- 
ence, the  priest  spoke  to  me  of  Heaven,  where  the  palm 
branch  grows  that  the  Saviour  promised  to  the  Beati  qui 
lugent.  So  in  preparing  for  my  first  communion,  I  threw 
myself  into  the  mystic  gulf  of  prayer,  bewitched  by  religious 
notions,  whose  spiritual  fairy  dreams  enchant  the  youthful 
mind.  Fired  with  eager  faith,  I  besought  God  to  renew  in 
my  favor  the  fascinating  miracles  of  which  I  read  in  the  his- 
tory of  martyrs.  At  five  I  had  gone  forth  to  a  star;  at 
twelve  I  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  sanctuary.  My 
ecstasy  gave  rise  to  unutterable  dreams  which  supplied 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  251 

my  imagination,  gave  fervor  to  my  tenderness,  and  strength- 
ened my  thinking  powers.  I  often  ascribed  these  sublime 
visions  to  angels  charged  with  fashioning  my  soul  to  divine 
ends,  and  they  gave  my  eyes  the  power  of  seeing  the  inmost 
soul  of  things;  they  prepared  my  heart  for  the  magic  which 
makes  the  poet  wretched  when  he  has  the  fatal  power  of  com- 
paring what  he  feels  with  what  exists,  the  great  things  he 
craves  after  with  what  he  obtains;  they  wrote  in  my  brain  a 
book  in  which  I  have  read  what  I  was  required  to  express; 
they  touched  my  lips  with  the  fire  of  the  improvisator e. 

My  father  having  conceived  some  doubts  as  to  the  ten- 
dency of  the  Oratorian  teaching,  came  to  fetch  me  from 
Pont-le-Voy,  and  placed  me  in  a  boarding-house  for  boys 
in  Paris,  situated  in  the  Marais.  I  was  now  fifteen.  On 
examination  as  to  my  acquirements,  the  pupil  from  Pont- 
le-Voy  was  judged  capable  of  entering  the  third  class.  The 
miseries  I  had  endured  at  home,  at  day-school,  and  at  Pont- 
le-Voy  were  renewed  under  a  new  aspect  during  my  life  at 
the  pension  Lepitre.  My  father  gave  me  no  money.  When 
my  parents  had  ascertained  that  I  could  be  fed,  clothed, 
crammed  with  Latin,  and  stuffed  with  Greek,  that  was 
enough.  In  the  whole  course  of  my  career  at  school  and 
college,  I  have  known  perhaps  a  thousand  fellow-students, 
and  I  never  heard  of  a  case  of  such  utter  indifference. 

Monsieur  Lepitre,  a  fanatical  adherent  of  the  Bourbons, 
had  been  thrown  in  my  father's  way  at  the  time  when  some 
devoted  Royalists  tried  to  rescue  Queen  Marie  Antoinette 
from  the  Temple;  they  had  since  renewed  their  acquaint- 
ance. Hence  Monsieur  Lepitre  conceived  it  his  duty  to 
remedy  my  father's  oversight;  but  the  sum  he  allowed  me 
monthly  was  small,  for  he  did  not  know  what  my  parents' 
intentions  might  be. 

M.  Lepitre  occupied  a  fine  old  house,  the  Hotel  Joyeuse, 
where,  as  in  all  the  ancient  residences  of  the  nobility,  there 
was  a  lodge  for  a  gate-porter.  During  the  hour  of  recreation, 
before  the  usher  took  us  in  a  file  to  the  Lyce'e  Charlemagne, 
the  wealthy  boys  got  breakfast  at  the  lodge,  provided  by  the 


262  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

porter  named  Doisy.  Monsieur  Lepitre  either  knew  nothing 
of  Doisy's  business,  or  he  winked  at  it.  The  man  was  a  per- 
fect smuggler,  made  much  of  by  the  boys  in  their  own  inter- 
est; he  was  the  screen  for  all  our  mischief ,  [our  confidant 
when  we  stole  in  after  hours,  our  go-between  with  the  lend- 
ing library  for  prohibited  books.  Breakfast  with  a  cup  of 
coffee  was  in  the  most  aristocratic  taste,  in  consequence  of  the 
exorbitant  price  to  which  colonial  products  rose  under  Napo- 
leon. If  the  use  of  coffee  and  of  sugar  was  a  luxury  to  our 
parents,  in  us  it  was  a  sign  of  such  arrogant  superiority  as 
was  enough  to  give  us  a  passion  for  it,  if  the  tendency  to  imi- 
tation, greediness,  and  the  infection  of  fashion  had  not  been 
enough.  Doisy  gave  us  credit;  he  supposed  that  every 
schoolboy  must  have  sisters  or  aunts  who  would  uphold  his 
honor  and  pay  his  debts. 

For  a  long  time  I  resisted  the  blandishments  of  the 
coffee-bar.  If  my  judges  could  have  known  the  force  of 
temptation,  the  heroic  efforts  of  my  soul  to  attain  to  such 
stoicism,  and,  the  suppressed  rages  of  my  long  resistance, 
they  would  have  dried  away  my  tears  instead  of  provoking 
them  to  flow.  But,  boy  as  I  was,  could  I  have  acquired  the 
magnanimity  which  leads  us  to  scorn  the  scorn  of  others? 
And  I  was  also  feeling  perhaps  the  temptations  of  various 
social  vices  whose  power  was  increased  by  my  longing. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year  my  father  and  mother  came 
to  Paris.  The  day  of  their  arrival  was  announced  to  me  by 
my  brother ;  he  was  living  in  Pans,  but  had  not  paid  me  a 
single  visit.  My  sisters  were  to  come,  too,  and  we  were  all 
to  see  Paris  together.  The  first  day  we  were  to  dine  at  the 
Palais-Royal  to  be  close  to  the  The^re-Fra^ais.  In  spite 
of  the  intoxicating  delight  of  such  a  programme  of  unhoped- 
for joys,  my  glee  was  mitigated  by  the  sense  of  a  coming 
storm,  which  so  easily  blights  those  who  are  inured  to 
troubles.  I  had  to  confess  a  debt  of  a  hundred  francs  to 
the  Sieur  Doisy,  who  threatened  to  apply  to  my  parents  for 
the  money.  I  determined  to  make  use  of  my  brother  as 
Doisy 's  dragoman,  to  plead  my^repentance  and  mediate  for 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  263 

forgiveness.  My  father  was  in  favor  of  mercy;  but  my 
mother  was  relentless:  her  dark-blue  eye  petrified  me,  and 
she  fulminated  terrible  forecasts. 

"If  I  allowed  myself  such  licenses  at  seventeen,  what 
should  I  become  later?  Could  I  be  a  son  of  hers?  Did  I 
want  to  ruin  the  family?  Was  I  the  only  child  to  be 
thought  of  ?  The  career  on  which  my  brother  Charles  had 
embarked  required  an  independent  income,  and  he  de- 
served it,  for  he  had  already  done  the  family  credit,  while 
I  should  disgrace  it.  Did  I  know  nothing  of  the  value  of 
the  money  I  cost  them?  What  benefit  to  my  education 
would  come  of  coffee  and  sugar?  Was  not  such  conduct 
an  apprenticeship  to  every  vice?"  Marat  was  an  angel  as 
compared  with  me. 

After  enduring  the  shock  of  this  torrent,  which  filled  my 
soul  with  terrors,  my  brother  took  me  back  to  the  boarding- 
house,  I  lost  my  dinner  at  the  Trois  Fr&res  Provengaux,  and 
was  deprived  of  seeing  Talma  in  "Britannicus."  This  was 
my  interview  with  my  mother  after  a  parting  of  twelve  years. 

When  I  had  gone  through  the  "humanities,"  my  father 
still  left  me  in  the  care  of  Monsieur  Lepitre.  I  was  to  study 
higher  mathematics,  to  work  at  law  for  a  year,  and  begin  the 
higher  branches. 

Now,  as  a  private  boarder,  and  free  from  attending  classes, 
I  hoped  for  a  truce  between  misery  and  me.  But  notwith- 
standing that  I  was  now  nineteen — or  perhaps  because  I  was 
nineteen — my  father  continued  the  system  which  had  of  old 
sent  me  to  school  without  sufficient  food,  to  college  without 
pocket-money,  and  had  run  me  into  debt  to  Doisy.  I  had 
very  little  money  at  command,  and  what  can  be  done  in 
Paris  without  money?  My  liberty,  too,  was  ingeniously 
fettered.  Monsieur  Lepitre  always  sent  me  to  the  law- 
schools  with  an  usher  at  my  heels,  who  handed  me  over  to 
the  professor,  and  came  again  to  escort  me  back.  A  girl 
would  have  been  watched  with  less  care  than  my  mother's 
fears  devised  for  my  protection.  Paris  had  justifiable  ter- 
rors for  my  parents.  Students  are  secretly  interested  in  the 


254  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

self -same  thoughts  as  fill  the  heads  of  schoolgirls;  do  what 
you  will,  a  girl  always  talks  of  lovers,  a  youth  of  women. 

But  in  Paris  at  that  time  the  conversation  of  fellow-stu- 
dents was  tinged  by  the  Oriental  and  Sultan-like  world  of 
the  Palais-Eoyal.  The  Palais-Royal  was  an  Eldorado  of 
love  where  ingots  ready  coined  were  current  every  evening. 
Virgin  doubts  were  there  enlightened,  and  there  our  curi- 
osity might  find  gratification.  The  Palais-Royal  and  I  were 
asymptotes,  ever  tending  to  meet,  but  never  meeting. 

This  is  how  fate  thwarted  my  hopes.  My  father  had  in- 
troduced me  to  one  of  my  aunts,  who  lived  in  the  He  Saint- 
Louis,  and  I  was  to  dine  there  every  Thursday  and  Sunday, 
escorted  thither  by  Madame  or  Monsieur  Lepitre,  who  went 
out  themselves  on  those  days,  and  called  for  me  on  their  way 
home  in  the  evening.  A  singular  form  of  recreation !  The 
Marquise  de  Listomere  was  a  very  ceremonious  fine  lady, 
to  whom  it  never  occurred  to  make  me  a  present  of  a  crown- 
piece.  As  old  as  a  cathedral,  as  much  painted  as  a  minia- 
ture, and  magnificently  dressed,  she  lived  in  her  mansion 
just  as  though  Louis  XV.  were  still  alive,  seeing  none  but 
old  ladies  and  gentlemen,  a  company  of  fossils  among  whom 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  a  cemetery.  No  one  ever  spoke  to  me, 
and  I  had  not  the  courage  to  speak  first.  Cold  looks  of 
aversion  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  my  youth,  which  was  so 
annoying  to  all  the  others. 

I  hoped  for  the  success  of  an  escapade  based  on  their  in- 
difference, making  up  my  mind  to  steal  off  one  evening  di- 
rectly after  dinner  and  fly  to  the  wooden  galleries.  My 
aunt,  when  once  she  was  absorbed  in  whist,  paid  no  further 
heed  to  me.  Jean,  her  man-servant,  cared  little  enough  for 
Monsieur  Lepitre;  but  those  ill-starred  dinners  were,  unfor- 
tunately, lengthy  in  consequence  of  the  antiquity  of  the  jaws 
or  the  weakness  of  the  teeth  of  that  ancient  company. 

At  last,  one  evening  between  eight  and  nine,  I  had  got 
as  far  as  the  stairs,  as  tremulous  as  Bianca  Capello  when 
she  made  her  escape ;  but  just  as  the  porter  had  let  me  out, 
I  saw  Monsieur  Lepitre's  cab  in  the  street,  and  the  worthy 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  255 

man  asking  for  me  in  his  wheezy  tones.  Three  times  did 
fate  come  between  the  hell  of  the  Palais-Koyal  and  the  par- 
adise of  my  youth.  On  the  day  when,  ashamed  of  being  so 
ignorant,  and  already  twenty,  I  determined  to  defy  every 
peril  to  gain  my  end — at  the  very  moment  when  I  was 
about  to  evade  Monsieur  Lepitre  as  he  got  into  a  hackney 
coach  (a  difficult  matter,  for  he  had  a  club  foot,  and  was  as 
stout  as  Louis  XVIII.) — who  should  appear  but  my  mother, 
arriving  in  a  post-chaise.  I  was  riveted  by  her  eye,  and 
stood  like  a  bird  fascinated  by  a  serpent. 

What  chance  had  led  to  this  meeting?  Nothing  could 
be  simpler.  Napoleon  was  making  a  last  effort.  My  father, 
foreseeing  the  return  of  the  Bourbons,  had  come  to  explain 
matters  to  my  brother,  who  was  already  embarked  in  diplo- 
macy under  the  Imperial  rule.  He  had  come  from  Tours 
with  my  mother.  My  mother  had  undertaken  to  convey  me 
home,  to  remove  me  from  the  dangers  which,  to  those  who 
were  keen  enough  to  follow  the  advance  of  the  enemy, 
seemed  to  threaten  the  capital.  Thus,  in  a  few  minutes  I 
was  snatched  from  Paris,  just  as  my  residence  there  would 
have  proved  fateful. 

The  torments  of  an  imagination  forever  agitated  by 
thwarted  desires,  and  the  weariness  of  a  life  saddened  by 
constant  privations,  had  thrown  me  into  study,  just  as  in 
former  times  men  weary  of  life  shut  themselves  up  in  clois- 
ters. Study  had  become  a  passion  with  me,  which  might 
have  blighted  me  utterly  by  imprisoning  me  at  an  age  when 
young  men  ought  to  be  free  to  enjoy  the  activities  of  their 
natural  springtime. 

This  slight  sketch  of  my  early  years,  in  which  you  can 
imagine  much  sadness,  was  necessary  to  give  you  some  idea 
of  the  effect  of  that  training  on  my  later  life.  Bearing  the 
stamp  of  so  many  adverse  influences,  at  the  age  of  twenty  I 
was  stunted,  thin,  and  pale.  My  spirit,  fall  of  cravings, 
struggled  with  a  body  which  was  frail  indeed  in  appear- 
ance, but  which — as  an  old  doctor  of  Tours  was  wont  to 


256  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

say — was  going  tlirougli  the  last  annealing  process  of  an 
iron  temperament.  Young  in  body  and  old  in  mind,  I  had 
read  and  thought  so  much  that  I  was  metaphysically  famil- 
iar with  life  in  its  highest  summits,  just  when  I  was  about 
to  explore  the  tortuous  difficulties  of  its  narrow  passes  and 
the  sandy  ways  of  its  plains.  Exceptional  chances  had  kept 
me  late  in  that  delightful  phase  when  the  soul  is  conscious 
of  its  first  agitation,  when  it  is  opening  to  its  first  raptures, 
when  everything  is  fresh  and  full  of  savor.  I  was  standing 
between  boyhood  prolonged  by  study,  and  manhood  late  in 
showing  its  green  shoots.  No  young  man  was  ever  more 
fully  prepared  than  I  to  feel  and  to  love. 

To  fully  understand  my  narrative,  think  of  me  at  the 
charming  age  when  the  lips  are  pure  from  falsehood,  when 
the  eyes  are  honest  though  veiled  by  lids  weighed  down  by 
shyness  in  conflict  with  desire,  when  the  spirit  is  not  yet 
abject  before  Jesuitical  worldliness,  and  when  the  heart  is 
as  timid  as  its  first  impulses  are  vehemently  generous. 

I  need  say  nothing  of  my  journey  from  Paris  to  Tours 
with  my  mother.  Her  cold  demeanor  crushed  the  effusive- 
ness of  my  affection.  As  we  started  afresh  after  each  relay, 
I  resolved  to  talk  to  her;  but  a  look  or  a  word  scared  away 
the  phrases  I  had  composed  as  a  beginning.  At  Orleans, 
where  we  were  to  sleep,  my  mother  reproached  me  for  my 
silence.  I  fell  at  her  knees  and  clasped  them,  shedding  hot 
tears ;  I  poured  out  my  heart  to  her,  bursting  with  affection ; 
I  tried  to  soften  her  by  the  eloquence  of  my  pleading ;  starv- 
ing for  love,  my  words  might  have  stirred  the  soul  of  a  step- 
mother. My  mother  told  me  I  was  acting  a  farce.  I  com- 
plained of  her  neglect;  she  called  me  an  unnatural  son. 
There  was  such  a  cold  grip  about  my  heart  that  at  Blois  I 
went  out  on  the  bridge  to  throw  myself  into  the  Loire.  I 
was  put  off  from  suicide  simply  by  the  height  of  the 
parapet. 

On  my  arrival,  my  two  sisters,  who  scarcely  knew  me, 
showed  more  surprise  than  warmth;  later,  however,  by 
comparison  they  seemed  to  me  full  of  kindliness.  I  was 


THE   LILY    OF   THE   VALLEY  207 

given  a  bedroom  on  the  third  floor.  You  will  understand 
the  extent  of  my  wretchedness  when  I  tell  you  that  my 
mother  left  me,  a  grown  man,  with  no  linen  but  my  shabby 
college  outfit,  and  no  wardrobe  but  what  I  had  brought  from 
Paris. 

When  I  flew  from  one  end  of  the  drawing-room  to  the 
other  to  pick  up  her  handkerchief,  she  gave  me  thanks  as 
cold  as  she  might  have  granted  to  a  servant.  Watching  her 
anxiously  as  I  did,  to  discover  whether  there  were  in 
her  heart  a  friable  spot  where  I  could  insert  some  buds  of 
affection,  I  saw  her  a  tall,  parched,  thin  woman,  a  gambler, 
selfish  and  insolent — like  all  the  Listomeres,  in  whom  imper- 
tinence is  part  of  their  dower.  She  saw  nothing  in  life  but 
duties  to  be  performed;  every  cold-hearted  women  I  have 
ever  met  has  made  duty  her  religion,  as  she  did;  she  ac- 
cepted our  adoration  as  a  priest  accepts  incense  at  mass; 
my  elder  brother  seemed  to  have  absorbed  the  modicum  of 
maternal  feeling  her  heart  could  contain.  She  was  con- 
stantly inflicting  small  stings  of  biting  irony,  the  weapon 
of  heartless  people,  which  she  freely  used  on  us  who  could 
not  retort. 

In  spite  of  all  these  thorny  barriers,  instinctive  feeling  is 
held  by  so  many  roots,  the  pious  terror  inspired  by  a  mother 
includes  so  many  ties — indeed,  to  give  her  up  as  hopeless  is 
too  cruel  a  shock — that  the  sublime  blunder  of  loving  her 
lasted  till  a  day  when  at  a  riper  age  we  judged  her  truly. 
Then  began  her  children's  reprisals.  Their  indifference, 
resulting  from  the  disenchantment  of  the  past,  enhanced 
by  the  slimy  wreckage  they  have  rescued  from  it,  over- 
flows her  tomb  even. 

This  frightful  despotism  drove  out  the  voluptuous  dreams 
1  had  madly  hoped  to  realize  at  Tours.  I  flung  myself  des- 
perately into  my  father's  library,  where  1  read  all  the  books 
I  did  not  already  know.  My  long  hours  of  study  spared 
me  all  contact  with  my  mother;  but  they  left  me,  morally, 
worse  off  than  ever.  My  eldest  sister,  who  has  since  married 
our  cousin  the  Marquis  de  Listornere,  sometimes  tried  to 
t 


258  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

comfort  me  without  being  able  to  soothe  the  irritation  from 
which  I  suffered.  I  longed  for  death. 

Grreat  events,  of  which  I  knew  nothing,  were  then  in  the 
air.  The  Due  d'Angoule'me,  having  left  Bordeaux  to  join 
Louis  XVIII.  in  Paris,  was  to  be  the  recipient  of  the  ova- 
tions prepared  by  the  enthusiasm  that  possessed  France  on 
the  return  of  the  Bourbons.  Touraine  in  a  ferment  round 
its  legitimate  princes,  the  town  in  a  turmoil,  the  windows 
hung  with  flags,  the  residents  all  in  their  best,  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  fe'te,  the  indefinable  something  in  the  air  which 
mounted  to  my  head,  all  made  me  long  to  be  present  at  the 
ball  that  was  to  be  given  to  the  Prince.  When,  greatly  dar- 
ing, I  expressed  this  wish  to  my  mother — at  that  time  too  ill 
to  go  out — she  was  extremely  wroth.  Had  I  dropped  from 
the  Congo,  that  I  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on? 
How  could  I  imagine  that  the  family  would  not  be  fitly 
represented  at  the  ball?  In  the  absence  of  my  father  and 
brother,  of  course  it  would  be  my  part  to  go.  Had  1  no 
mother?  Did  she  never  think  of  her  children's  happiness? 
— In  a  moment  the  almost  disowned  son  had  become  a  per- 
son of  importance.  I  was  as  much  amazed  by  finding  my- 
self of  consequence  as  by  the  deluge  of  ironical  reasoning 
with  which  my  mother  received  my  request. 

I  questioned  my  sisters,  and  heard  that  my  mother,  who 
liked  theatrical  surprises,  had  necessarily  considered  the 
matter  of  my  dress.  The  tailors  of  Tours,  in  the  sudden 
rush  of  customers,  could  none  of  them  undertake  to  fit  me 
out.  So  my  mother  had  sent  for  a  needlewoman,  who,  as 
usual  in  provincial  towns,  was  supposed  to  be  able  to  do 
every  kind  of  sewing.  A  blue  coat  was  secretly  made  for 
me,  more  or  less  successfully.  Silk  stockings  and  new 
pumps  were  easily  procured;  men  wore  their  waistcoats 
short,  and  I  could  have  one  of  my  father's;  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  donned  a  shirt  with  a  goffered  frill  that 
gave  importance  to  my  figure  and  was  lost  in  the  folds  of 
my  cravat.  When  I  was  dressed,  I  was  so  little  like  my- 
self that  my  sisters'  compliments  gave  me  courage  to 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  259 

make  my  appearance  before  the  whole  of  assembled  Tou- 
raine. 

It  was  a  formidable  enterprise !  But  too  many  were  called 
to  this  festivity  to  allow  of  there  being  many  elect.  Thanks 
to  my  slender  figure,  I  was  able  to  creep  into  a  tent  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Maison  Papion,  and  got  close  to  the  armchair 
in  which  the  Prince  was  enthroned.  In  an  instant  I  was 
stifled  by  the  heat,  dazzled  by  the  lights,  by  the  crimson 
hangings,  the  gilt  ornaments,  the  dresses  and  the  diamonds 
of  the  first  public  function  I  had  ever  attended.  I  was 
pushed  about  by  a  throng  of  men  and  women,  all  hustling 
and  crowding  each  other  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  blatant 
brass  and  Bourbon  strains  of  the  military  band  were  drowned 
by  shouts  of:  "Hurrah  for  the  Due  d'Angoule'me!  Long 
live  the  King!  Hurrah  for  the  Bourbons!" 

The  fe"te  was  an  outbreak  of  enthusiasm  in  which  every 
one  vied  with  the  rest  in  his  vehement  eagerness  to  hail  the 
rising  sun  of  the  Bourbons,  a  display  of  party  selfishness 
that  left  me  cold,  made  me  feel  small,  and  shrink  into  myself. 

Carried  away  like  a  straw  in  a  whirlpool,  I  was  childishly 
wishing  that  I  were  the  Due  d' Angoul^me,  and  could  mingle 
with  these  Princes  thus  made  a  show  of  to  the  staring  crowd. 
This  silly  provincial  fancy  gave  rise  to  an  ambition  dignified 
by  my  character  and  by  circumstances.  Who  might  not  have 
coveted  this  worship,  repeated  on  a  more  splendid  scale  a 
few  months  later  when  all  Paris  rushed  to  greet  the  Emperor 
on  his  return  from  the  island  of  Elba  ?  This  supreme  power 
over  the  masses,  whose  feelings  and  vitality  discharge  them- 
selves into  one  soul,  made  me  a  sudden  devotee  to  Glory,  the 
goddess  who  puts  the  French  to  the  sword  nowadays,  as  the 
Druidess  of  old  sacrificed  the  Gauls. 

And  then,  as  suddenly,  I  saw  the  woman  who  was  fated 
to  goad  perpetually  my  ambitious  hopes  and  to  crown  them 
by  throwing  me  into  contact  with  Royalty. 

Too  shy  to  ask  any  one  to  dance  with  me,  and  fearing, 
too,  that  I  might  make  confusion  in  the  figures,  I  naturally 
felt  very  awkward,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  myself. 


260  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

Just  when  I  was.  most  conscious  of  the  fatigue  of  constantly 
moving  under  the  pressure  of  the  crowd,  an  officer  trod  on 
my  feet,  which  were  swollen  by  the  pressure  of  my  shoes. and 
by  the  heat.  This  crowning  annoyance  disgusted  me  with 
the  whole  affair.  It  was  impossible  to  get  away,  and  I  took 
refuge  in  a  corner  at  the  extreme  end  of  a  vacant  bench, 
where  I  sat  down,  my  gaze  fixed,  motionless,  and  sulky.  A 
woman,  misled  by  my  delicate  looks,  took  me  for  a  boy  half 
asleep  while  awaiting  my  mother's  pleasure,  and  seated  her- 
self by  me  with  the  light  movement  of  a  bird  settling  on  its 
nest.  I  was  at  once  aware  of  a  feminine  fragrance  which 
flashed  upon  my  soul  as  Oriental  poetry  has  flashed  upon  it 
since.  I  looked  at  my  neighbor,  and  was  more  dazzled  by 
her  than  I  had  been  by  the  ball. 

If  you  have  at  all  entered  into  my  previous  life,  you  can 
guess  the  emotions  that  swelled  my  heart.  My  eyes  were 
suddenly  fascinated  by  white  rounded  shoulders  that  made 
me  long  to  bury  my  face  in  them,  shoulders  faintly  pink, 
as  if  they  were  blushing  to  find  themselves  bare  for  the  first 
time,  bashful  shoulders  with  a  soul  of  their  own  and  a  satin 
skin  shining  in  the  light  like  a  silken  fabric.  Between  these 
shoulders  ran  a  furrow  which  my  eyes,  bolder  than  my  hand, 
glided  into.  My  heart  beat  as  I  stood  up  to  look  over  them, 
and  I  was  entirely  captivated  by  a  bosom  modestly  covered 
with  gauze,  perfect  in  roundness,  and  bluely  veined  as  it  lay 
(softly  bedded  in  lace  frills.  The  least  details  of  the  charming 
head  were  allurements  stirring  me  to  endless  delight:  the 
sheen  of  the  hair  knotted  above  a  neck  as  peach-like  as  a 
little  girl's,  the  white  partings  made  by  the  comb  along 
which  my  imagination  played  as  in  a  new-made  path — every- 
thing together  turned  my  brain. 

Looking  round  to  make  sure  that  no  one  saw  me,  I  buried 
my  face  in  that  back  as  a  baby  hides  in  its  mother's  breast, 
and  kissed  those  shoulders  all  over,  rubbing  my  cheek  against 
them.  The  lady  gave  a  piercing  cry, inaudible  above  the  music ; 
she  turned  sharply  round,  saw  me,  and  said,  "Monsieur I" 

If  she  had  said,  "My  good  boy,  what  possesses  you?" 


THE   LILY   OF    THE    VALLEY  261 

I  should  perhaps  have  killed  her;  but  this  word  Monsieur 
brought  hot  tears  to  my  eyes. 

I  was  petrified  by  a  look  fired  with  righteous  anger,  and 
an  exquisite  face  crowned  with  a  plait  of  fair  brown  hair,  in 
harmony  with  those  adorable  shoulders.  The  crimson  of 
offended  modesty  flamed  in  her  face,  which  was  already  soft- 
ening with  a  woman's  forgiveness  for  a  mad  act  when  she  is 
the  cause  of  it,  and  when  she  sees  a  passion  of  worship  in  the 
tears  of  repentance.  She  rose  and  walked  away  with  the 
dignity  of  a  queen. 

Then  I  understood  how  ridiculous  was  my  position ;  then, 
and  not  till  then,  I  felt  that  I  was  dressed  like  a  Savoyard's 
monkey.  I  was  ashamed.  I  sat  there  quite  stupefied,  relish- 
ing the  apple  I  had  stolen,  feeling  on  my  lips  the  warmth  of 
the  blood  I  had  scented;  quite  unrepentant,  and  following 
with  my  eyes  this  being  come  down  from  heaven.  Then, 
overpowered  by  this  first  physical  indulgence  of  my  heart's 
wild  fever,  I  wandered  through  the  ballroom,  now  a  desert, 
without  finding  the  unknown  vision.  I  went  home  and  to 
bed,  an  altered  creature. 

A  new  soul,  a  soul  with  iridescent  wings,  had  burst  its 
chrysalis  within  me.  My  favorite  star,  dropping  from  the 
blue  waste  where  I  had  admired  it,  had  become  woman, 
while  preserving  its  light,  its  sparkle,  and  its  brilliancy. 
Suddenly,  knowing  nothing  of  love,  I  had  fallen  in  love. 
Is  not  this  first  irruption  of  the  most  intense  feeling  a  man 
can  know  a  very  strange  thing?  I  had  met  some  pretty 
women  in  my  aunt's  drawing-room;  they  had  not  made  the 
slightest  impression  on  me.  Is  there  an  hour,  a  conjunction 
of  the  stars,  a  combination  of  fitting  circumstances,  a  par- 
ticular woman  above  all  other  women,  which  seal  a  passion 
as  exclusive  at  the  age  when  passion  includes  the  whole 
female  sex? 

As  I  thought  that  my  chosen  lady  dwelt  in  Touraine,  I 
inhaled  the  air  with  rapture ;  I  saw  a  blue  in  the  sky  which 
I  have  never  since  perceived  elsewhere. 

Though  mentally  I  was  in  ecstasy  I  seemed  to  be  very  ill; 


262  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  mother  was  at  once  alarmed  and  remorseful.  Like  ani- 
mals aware  of  approaching  distemper,  I  would  creep  into  a 
corner  of  the  garden  to  dream  of  the  kisses  I  had  stolen. 
A  few  days  after  the  memorable  ball  my  mother  began  to 
ascribe  my  neglect  of  study,  my  indifference  to  her  searching 
looks,  my  heedlessness  of  her  irony,  and  my  gloomy  behavior, 
to  the  natural  development  of  a  growing  man.  Country  air, 
the  universal  remedy  for  every  malady  of  which  science  can 
give  no  account,  was  regarded  as  the  best  means  of  curing 
me  of  my  apathy.  My  mother  decided  that  I  should  spend 
a  few  days  at  Frapesle,  a  chateau  on  the  Indre,  between 
Montvazon  and  Azay-le-Rigeau,  with  a  friend  of  hers,  to 
whom,  no  doubt,  she  gave  her  private  instructions. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  thus  given  the  key  of  the  fields, 
I  had  plunged  so  deeply  into  the  ocean  of  love  that  I  had 
crossed  it.  I  knew  not  my  fair  one's  name ;  what  could  I  call 
her  or  where  could  I  find  her?  To  whom  indeed  could  I 
speak  of  her?  My  natural  shyness  increased  the  unaccount- 
able terrors  which  possess  a  young  heart  at  the  first  flutter 
of  love,  and  made  me  begin  with  the  melancholy  which  is  the 
end  of  a  hopeless  passion.  I  was  quite  content  to  come  and 
go  and  wander  about  the  country,  with  the  childlike  spirit 
that  is  ready  for  anything  and  has  a  certain  tinge  of  chivalry; 
I  was  prepared  to  hunt  through  all  the  country-houses  of 
Touraine,  wandering  on  foot,  and  saying  at  each  pretty 
turret,  "It  will  be  there  1" 

So  one  Thursday  morning  I  left  Tours  by  the  Saint-Eloy 
gate,  I  crossed  the  bridges  of  Saint-Sauveur,  I  reached  Pon- 
cher,  my  nose  in  the  air  in  front  of  every  house  I  passed, 
and  was  on  the  road  to  Chinon.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  could  rest  under  a  tree,  walk  fast  or  slowly  as  I  list, 
without  being  called  to  account  by  any  one.  To  a  poor 
creature  so  utterly  crushed  by  the  various  despotisms  which 
weigh  more  or  less  on  every  young  life,  the  first  taste  of  free- 
dom, though  exerted  in  trifles,  brought  unspeakable  expan- 
sion to  my  soul. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  263 

Several  reasons  combined  to  make  that  a  high  day  full 
of  delights.  In  my  childhood  my  walks  had  never  taken 
me  more  than  a  league  out  of  the  town.  My  excursions  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Pont-le-Voy  and  the  walks  I  had  taken 
in  Paris  had  not  surfeited  me  with  rural  beauty.  Neverthe- 
less, I  had  retained  from  the  earliest  impressions  of  my  life 
a  strong  feeling  of  the  beauty  inherent  in  the  scenery  round 
Tours,  with  which  I  was  familiar.  Thus,  though  I  was  new 
to  what  constitutes  the  poetry  of  a  site,  I  was  unconsciously 
exacting,  as  men  are  who  have  conceived  of  the  ideal  of  an 
art  without  ever  having  practiced  it. 

To  go  to  the  chateau  of  Frapesle,  those  who  walk  or  ride 
shorten  the  way  by  crossing  the  common  known  as  the 
Landes  de  Charlemagne,  a  waste  lying  at  the  top  of  the  pla- 
teau which  divides  the  valley  of  the  Cher  from  that  of  the 
Indre,  and  which  is  reached  by  a  cross-road  from  Champy. 
This  flat  and  sandy  down,  depressing  enough  for  about 
a  league,  ends  in  a  coppice  adjoining  the  road  to  Sadie",  the 
village  nearest  to  Frapesle.  This  country  lane,  leading  into 
the  Chinon  road  at  some  distance  beyond  Ballan,  skirts  an 
undulating  plain  devoid  of  remarkable  features  as  far  as  the 
hamlet  of  Artanne.  Thence  a  valley  opens  down  to  the 
Loire,  from  Montvazon  at  the  head ;  the  hills  seem  to  rebound 
under  the  country-houses  on  each  range  of  slopes;  it  is  a 
glorious  emerald  basin,  and  at  the  bottom  the  Indre  winds 
in  serpentine  curves.  I  was  startled  by  the  view  into  a  rap- 
turous astonishment  for  which  the  dulness  of  the  Landes  or 
the  fatigue  of  my  walk  had  prepared  me: — If  this  woman,  the 
flower  of  her  sex,  inhabits  a  spot  on  earth,  it  must  be  this  I 

At  the  thought  I  leaned  against  a  walnut-tree;  and  now, 
whenever  I  revisit  that  beloved  valley,  I  go  to  rest  under  its 
boughs.  Under  that  tree,  the  confidant  of  all  my  thoughts, 
I  examine  myself  as  to  the  changes  that  may  have  taken 
place  during  the  time  that  has  elapsed  since  last  I  left  it. 

My  heart  had  not  deceived  me:  it  was  there  that  she 
dwelt;  the  first  chateau  I  could  see  on  a  shelf  of  the  down 
was  her  home.  When  I  sat  down  under  my  walnut-tree,  the 


264  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

noonday  sun  struck  sparks  from  the  slates  of  her  roof  and 
the  glass  panes  of  her  windows.  Her  cambric  dress  was  the 
white  spot  I  could  see  among  some  vines  under  a  pleached 
alley.  She  was,  as  you  know  already,  though  as  yet  you 
know  nothing,  the  Lily  of  this  Yalley,  where  she  grew  for 
heaven,  filling  it  with  the  fragrance  of  her  virtues.  I  saw 
an  emblem  of  infinite  love  with  nothing  to  keep  it  alive  but 
an  object  only  once  seen,  in  the  long  watery  ribbon  which 
glistens  in  the  sun  between  two  green  banks,  in  the  rows  of 
poplars  which  deck  that  vale  of  love  with  moving  tracery, 
in  the  oak  woods  thrust  forward  between  the  vineyards  on 
the  hillsides  rounded  by  the  river  into  constant  variety,  and 
in  the  soft  outlines  crossing  each  other  and  fading  to  the 
horizon. 

If  you  wish  to  see  Nature  fair  and  virginal  as  a  bride,  go 
thither  some  spring  day;  if  you  want  to  solace  the  bleeding 
wounds  of  your  heart,  return  in  the  late  days  of  autumn.  In 
spring  Love  flutters  his  wings  under  the  open  sky ;  in  autumn 
we  dream  of  those  who  are  no  more.  Weak  lungs  inhale  a 
healing  freshness,  the  eye  finds  rest  on  golden-hued  groves 
from  which  the  soul  borrows  sweet  peace. 

At  the  moment  when  I  looked  down  on  the  valley  of  the 
Indre,  the  mills  on  its  falls  gave  voice  to  the  murmuring 
vale;  the  poplars  laughed  as  they  swayed;  there  was  not  a 
cloud  in  the  sky;  the  birds  sang,  the  grasshoppers  chirped, 
everything  was  melody.  Never  ask  me  again  why  I  love 
Touraine?  I  do  not  love  it  as  we  love  our  childhood's 
home,  nor  as  we  love  an  oasis  in  the  desert;  I  love  it  as  an 
artist  loves  art.  I  love  it  less  than  I  love  you;  still,  but  for 
Touraine,  perhaps  I  should  not  now  be  alive. 

Without  knowing  why,  my  eyes  were  riveted  to  the  white 
spot,  to  the  woman  who  shone  in  that  garden  as  the  bell  of  a 
convolvulus  shines  among  shrubs  and  is  blighted  by  a  touch. 
My  soul  deeply  stirred,  I  went  down  into  this  bower,  and 
presently  saw  a  village,  which  to  my  highly  strung  poetic 
mood  seemed  matchless.  Picture  to  yourself  three  mills, 
charmingly  situated  among  pretty  islets  with  imbayed  banks, 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY 

and  crowned  with  clumps  of  trees,  in  the  midst  of  a  meadow 
of  water;  for  what  other  name  can  I  give  to  the  aquatic 
vegetation,  so  brightly  tinted,  which  carpets  the  stream, 
floats  on  its  surface,  follows  its  eddies,  yields  to  its  caprices, 
and  bends  to  the  turmoil  of  waters  lashed  by  the  mill-wheels. 
Here  and  there  rise  shoals  of  pebbles  on  which  the  river 
breaks  in  a  fringe  of  surf  reflecting  the  sun.  Amaryllis, 
water-lilies,  white  and  yellow,  reeds,  and  phlox  dress  the 
banks  with  glorious  hues.  A  crumbling  bridge  of  rotten 
timbers,  its  piles  hung  with  flowers,  its  balustrade  covered 
with  herbage  and  velvety  mosses,  and  hanging  over  the 
stream,  but  not  yet  fallen;  time-worn  boats,  fishing-nets,  the 
monotonous  song  of  a  shepherd,  ducks  paddling  from  isle  to 
isle,  or  preening  themselves  on  the  shoals — le  jard,  as  the 
coarso  gravel  deposited  by  the  Loire  is  called;  miller's  men, 
a  cap  over  one  ear,  loading  their  mules;  every  detail  made 
the  scene  strikingly  artless.  Then,  beyond  the  bridge, 
imagine  two  or  three  farms,  a  dove-cot,  sundry  turrets, 
thirty  houses  or  more,  standing  apart  in  gardens  divided  by 
hedges  of  honeysuckle,  jessamine,  and  clematis;  heaps  of 
manure  in  front  of  every  door,  and  cocks  and  hens  in  the 
road — and  you  see  the  village  of  Pont-du-Euan,  a  pretty 
hamlet  crowned  with  an  old  church  of  characteristic  style, 
a  church  of  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  such  as  painters  love 
for  their  pictures.  Set  it  all  in  the  midst  of  ancient  walnut- 
trees,  of  young  poplars  with  their  pale  gold  foliage,  add  some 
elegant  dwellings  rising  from  broad  meadows  where  the 
eye  loses  itself  under  the  warm  misty  sky,  and  you  will 
have  some  idea  of  the  thousand  beauties  of  this  lovely  country. 
I  followed  the  lane  to  Sache  along  the  left  bank  of  the 
river,  noting  the  details  of  the  hills  that  broke  the  line  of  the 
opposite  shore.  At  last  I  reached  a  park  of  venerable  trees 
which  showed  me  that  I  was  at  Frapesle,  I  arrived  exactly 
as  the  bell  was  ringing  for  late  breakfast.  After  this  meal, 
my  host,  never  suspecting  that  I  had  come  from  Tours  on 
foot,  took  me  all  over  his  grounds,  and  from  every  part  of 
them  I  could  see  the  valley  under  various  aspects;  here 
Tol.  4.  (L) 


266  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

through  a  vista,  and  there  spread  out  before  me.  In  many 
places  my  gaze  was  attracted  to  the  horizon  by  the  broad 
golden  tide  of  the  Loire,  where  between  the  rolling  hills  sails 
showed  their  fantastic  shapes  flying  before  the  wind.  As  I 
climbed  a  ridge  I  could  admire  for  the  first  time  the  chateau 
of  Azay,  a  diamond  with  a  thousand  'facets,  with  the  Indre 
for  a  setting,  and  perched  on  piles  buried  in  flowers.  There 
in  a  dell  I  saw  the  romantic  mass  of  the  chateau  of  Sadie",  a 
melancholy  spot,  full  of  harmonies  too  sad  for  superficial 
minds,  but  dear  to  poets  whose  spirit  is  stricken.  I  myself 
at  a  later  time  loved  its  silence,  its  huge  hoary  trees,  and  the 
mystery  that  seemed  to  hang  over  that  deserted  hollow ! — 
And  still,  each  time  I  caught  eight,  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
next  hill,  of  the  pretty  little  chateau  I  had  seen  and  chosen 
at  a  first  glance,  my  eye  lingered  on  it  with  delight. 

"Oh,  hoi"  said  my  host,  reading  in  my  eyes  an  eager 
desire  such  as  a  youth  of  my  age  expresses  without  guile, 
"you  scent  a  pretty  woman  from  afar  as  a  dog  scents  game." 

I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  this  remark,  but  I  asked  the 
name  of  the  place  and  of  the  owner. 

"It  is  Clochegourde, "  said  he,  "a  pretty  house  belonging 
to  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf,  the  representative  of  a  family 
noted  in  the  history  of  Touraine,  whose  fortune  dates  from 
the  time  of  Louis  XI.,  and  whose  name  reveals  the  adventure 
to  which  he  owes  his  arms  and  his  fame.  He  is  descended 
from  a  man  who  survived  hanging.  The  arms  borne  by  the 
Mortsauf s  are:  Or,  on  a  cross  potent  and  counter  potent, 
sable,  a  fleur-de-lys  rooted,  of  the  field.  Motto,  Dieu  saulve 
le  Roi  notre  Sire. 

"The  Count  came  to  settle  here  on  the  return  of  the 
e'migre's.  The  house  of  Lenoncourt-Grivry  becomes  extinct 
in  his  wife,  who  was  a  Demoiselle  de  Lenoncourt;  Madame 
de  Mortsauf  is  an  only  child.  The  small  wealth  of  this  fam- 
ily is  in  such  strong  contrast  to  the  splendor  of  their  names 
that  from  pride — or  perhaps  from  necessity — they  always 
live  at  Clochegourde,  and  see  no  one.  Hitherto  their  de- 
votion to  the  Bourbons  may  have  justified  their  isolation; 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  267 

but  I  doubt  whether  the  King's  return  will  change  their  way 
of  living.  When  I  settled  here  last  year  I  paid  them  a  call 
of  politeness ;  they  returned  it,  and  asked  us  to  dinner.  Then 
the  winter  kept  us  apart  for  some  months,  and  political  events 
delayed  our  return,  for  I  have  only  lately  come  home  to 
Frapesle.  Madame  de  Mortsauf  is  a  woman  who  might  take 
the  first  place  anywhere. ' ' 

"Does  she  often  go  to  Tours  ?" 

"She  never  goes  there.  Yes,"  he  added,  correcting  him- 
self, "she  went  there  quite  lately,  on  the  occasion  when  the 
Due  d'Angoule'me  passed  through,  and  was  very  gracious 
to  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf."  ^ 

"It  is  she!"  I  cried. 

"She!    Who?" 

"A  woman  with  beautiful  shoulders." 

"You  will  find  many  women  with  beautiful  shoulders  in 
Touraine,"  said  he,  laughing;  "but  if  you  are  not  tired,  we 
can  cross  the  river  and  go  up  to  Clochegourde,  where  you 
may  possibly  recognize  your  fine  shoulders. ' ' 

I  agreed,  not  without  reddening  from  pleasure  and  shy- 
ness. By  about  four  o'clock  we  reached  the  house  on  which 
my  eyes  had  so  fondly  lingered.  This  little  chateau,  which 
looked  well  in  the  landscape,  is,  in  fact,  a  modest  building. 
It  has  five  windows  in  front;  that  at  each  end  of  the  south 
front  projects  by  about  two  yards,  giving  the  effect  of  wings, 
and  adding  to  the  importance  of  the  house.  The  middle  win- 
dow serves  as  the  door,  whence  double  steps  lead  to  a  garden 
extending  in  terraces  down  to  a  meadow  bordering  the  Indre. 
Though  this  meadow  is  divided  by  a  lane  from  the  lowest 
terrace  shaded  by  a  row  of  ailantus  and  acacia  trees,  it  looks 
like  part  of  the  grounds,  for  the  lane  is  sunk  between  the 
terrace  on  one  side  and  a  thick  hedge  on  the  other.  The 
slope  between  the  house  and  the  river  is  taken  advantage  of 
to  avoid  the  inconvenience  of  being  so  near  the  water  with- 
out losing  the  pretty  effect.  Under  the  dwelling-house  are 
the  stables,  coach-houses,  "storerooms,  and  kitchens,  with 
doors  under  archways. 


268  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  roof  is  pleasingly  curved  at  the  angles,  the  dormer 
windows  have  carved  mullions,  and  finials  of  lead  over  the 
gables.  The  slates,  neglected  no  doubt  during  the  Revolu- 
tion, are  covered  with  the  rust-colored  and  orange-clinging 
lichens  that  grow  on  houses  facing  the  south.  The  glass 
door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  has  above  it  a  little  campanile  on 
which  may  be  seen  the  achievement  of  the  Blamont-Chauvrys : 
Quarterly  gules,  a  pale  vair  between  two  hands  proper,  and 
or,  two  lances  sable  in  chevron.  The  motto,  See,  but  touch 
not,  struck  me  strangely.  The  supporters,  a  griffin  and  a 
dragon  chained  or,  had  a  good  effect  in  sculpture.  The 
Revolution  had  damaged  the  ducal  coronet  and  the  crest,  a 
palm  branch  vert  fruited  or.  Senart,  Secretary  to  the  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety,  was  Bailiff  of  Sadie*  till  1781,  which 
accounts  for  this  destruction. 

The  decorative  character  gives  an  elegant  appearance  to 
this  country-house,  as  delicately  finished  as  a  flower,  and 
hardly  seeming  to  weigh  on  the  ground.  Seen  from  the  val- 
ley, the  ground-floor  looks  as  if  it  were  the  first  floor;  but 
on  the  side  toward  the  courtyard  it  is  on  the  same  level  as 
a  wide  path  ending  in  a  lawn  graced  with  raised  flower-beds. 
To  right  and  left  vineyards,  orchards,  and  some  arable  land 
dotted  with  walnut-trees  slope  away  steeply,  surrounding  the 
house  with  verdure  down  to  the  brink  of  the  river,  which  is 
bordered  on  this  side  with  clumps  of  trees  whose  various  tints 
of  green  have  been  grouped  by  the  hand  of  Nature. 

As  I  mounted  the  winding  road  to  Clochegourde,  I  ad- 
mired these  well-assorted  masses,  and  breathed  an  atmosphere 
redolent  of  happiness.  Has  our  moral  nature,  like  physical 
nature,  electric  discharges  and  swift  changes  of  temperature  ? 
My  heart  throbbed  in  anticipation  of  the  secret  events  which 
were  about  to  transform  it  once  for  all,  as  animals  grow  sport- 
ive before  fine  weather.  This,  the  most  important  day  in  my 
life,  was  not  devoid  of  any  circumstance  that  could  contribute 
to  sanctify  it.  Nature  had  dressed  herself  like  a  maiden  go- 
ing forth  to  meet  her  beloved;  my  soul  had  heard  her  voice 
for  the  first  time,  my  eyes  had  admired  her,  as  fruitful,  as 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  269 

various  as  my  imagination  had  painted  her  in  those  day- 
dreams at  school  of  which  I  have  told  you  something,  but 
too  little  to  explain  their  influence  over  me,  for  they  were  as 
aii  apocalypse  figuratively  predicting  my  life;  every  incident 
of  it,  happy  or  sad,  is  connected  with  them  by  some  whimsi- 
cal image,  by  ties  visible  only  to  the  eye  of  the  soul. 

We  crossed  an  outer  court,  inclosed  by  the  outbuildings 
of  a  rural  habitation — a  granary,  a  winepress,  cow-houses, 
and  stables.  A  servant,  warned  by  the  barking  of  a  watch- 
dog, came  out  to  meet  us,  and  told  us  that  Monsieur  le  Comte, 
who  had  gone  to  Azay  in  the  morning,  would  presently  re- 
turn no  doubt,  and  that  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  at  home. 
My  host  looked  at  me.  I  trembled  to  think  that  he  might 
not  choose  to  call  on  Madame  de  Mortsauf  in  her  husband's 
absence,  but  he  bid  the  servant  to  announce  our  names. 

Driven  by  childish  eagerness,  I  hurried  into  the  long  ante- 
room which  ran  across  the  house. 

"Come  in,  pray,"  said  a  golden  voice. 

Although  Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  spoken  but  one  word 
at  the  ball,  I  recognized  her  voice,  which  sank  into  my  soul, 
and  filled  it  as  a  sunbeam  fills  and  gilds  a  prisoner's  cell. 
Then,  reflecting  that  she  might  recognize  me,  I  longed  to 
fly;  it  was  too  late;  she  appeared  at  the  drawing-room  door, 
and  our  eyes  met.  Which  of  us  reddened  most  deeply  I  do 
not  know.  She  returned  to  her  seat  in  front  of  an  embroid- 
ery frame,  the  servant  having  pushed  forward  two  chairs; 
she  finished  drawing  her  needle  through  as  an  excuse  for  her 
silence,  counted  two  or  three  stitches,  and  then  raised  her 
head,  that  was  at  once  proud  and  gentle,  to  ask  Monsieur 
de  Chessel  to  what  happy  chance  she  owed  the  pleasure  of 
his  visit. 

Though  curious  to  know  the  truth  as  to  my  appearance 
there,  she  did  not  look  at  either  of  us;  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  river;  but  from  the  way  she  listened,  it  might  have 
been  supposed  that  she  had  the  faculty  of  the  blind,  and 
knew  all  the  agitations  of  my  soul  by  the  least  accent  of 
speech.  And  this  was  the  fact. 


270  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

Monsieur  de  Chessel  mentioned  my  name  and  sketched 
my  biography.  I  had  come  to  Tours  some  few  months  since 
with  my  parents,  who  had  brought  me  home  when  the  war 
threatened  Paris.  She  saw  in  me  a  son  of  Touraine,  to 
whom  the  province  was  unknown,  a  young  man  exhausted 
by  excessive  work,  sent  to  Frapesle  to  rest  and  amuse  my- 
self, and  to  whom  he  had  shown  his  estate,  as  it  was  my  first 
visit.  I  had  told  him,  only  on  reaching  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  that  I  had  walked  from  Tours  that  morning;  and  fear- 
ing over-fatigue,  as  my  health  was  feeble,  he  had  ventured 
to  call  at  Clochegourde,  thinking  she  would  allow  me  to  rest 
there.  Monsieur  de  Chessel  spoke  the  exact  truth.  But  a 
genuinely  happy  chance  seems  so  elaborate  an  invention  that 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  was  still  distrustful ;  she  looked  at  me 
with  eyes  so  cold  and  stern  that  I  lowered  mine,  as  much 
from  a  vague  sense  of  humiliation  as  to  hide  the  tears  I  with- 
held from  falling.  The  haughty  lady  saw  that  my  brow  was 
moist  with  sweat;  perhaps,  too,  she  guessed  the  tears,  for 
she  offered  me  any  refreshment  I  might  need  with  a  comfort- 
ing kindness  which  restored  my  powers  of  speech. 

I  blushed  like  a  girl  caught  in  the  wrong,  and  in  a  voice, 
quavering  like  an  old  man's,  I  replied  with  thanks,  but  de- 
clining anything. 

"All  I  wish,"  I  said,  raising  my  eyes,  which  met  hers  for 
the  second  time,  but  for  an  instant  as  short  as  a  lightning- 
flash,  "is  that  you  will  allow  me  to  remain  here;  I  am  so  stiff 
with  fatigue  that  I  cannot  walk." 

"How  can  you  doubt  the  hospitality  of  our  lovely  prov- 
ince?" said  she.  "You  will  perhaps  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  at  dinner  at  Clochegourde?"  she  added  to  her 
neighbor. 

I  flashed  a  look  at  my  friend,  a  look  so  full  of  entreaty 
that  he  beat  about  the  bush  a  little  to  accept  this  invitation, 
which,  by  its  form,  required  a  refusal. 

Though  knowledge  of  the  world  enabled  Monsieur  de 
Chessel  to  distinguish  so  subtle  a  shade,  an  inexperienced 
youth  believes  so  firmly  in  the  identity  of  word  and  thought 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  271 

in  a  handsome  woman  that  I  was  immensely  surprised  when, 
as  we  went  home  in  the  evening,  my  host  said  to  me: 

"I  stayed  because  you  were  dying  to  do  so;  but  if  you 
cannot  patch  matters  up,  I  may  be  in  a  scrape  with  my 
neighbors." 

This  "if  you  cannot  patch  matters  up"  gave  me  matter 
for  thought.  If  Madame  de  Mortsauf  liked  me,  she  could 
not  be  annoyed  with  the  man  who  had  introduced  me  to  her. 
So  Monsieur  de  Chessel  thought  I  might  be  able  to  interest  her 
— was  not  this  enough  to  give  me  the  power?  This  solution 
confirmed  my  hopes  at  a  moment  when  I  needed  such  support. 

"That  is  hardly  possible,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Chessel, 
umy  wife  expects  us." 

"She  has  you  every  day,"  replied  the  Countess,  "and  we 
can  send  her  a  message.  Is  she  alone  ? ' ' 

"She  has  the  Abbe*  de  Quelus  with  her." 

"Very  well  then,"  said  she,  rising  to  ring  the  bell,  "you 
will  dine  with  us." 

This  time  Monsieur  de  Chessel  thought  her  sincere,  and 
gave  me  a  look  of  congratulation. 

As  soon  as  I  was  certain  of  spending  a  whole  evening 
under  this  roof,  I  felt  as  if  eternity  were  mine.  To  many 
an  unhappy  wretch  to-morrow  is  a  word  devoid  of  meaning, 
and  at  this  moment  I  was  one  of  those  who  have  no  belief  in 
to-morrow ;  when  I  had  a  few  hours  to  call  my  own,  I  crowded 
a  lifetime  of  rapture  into  them. 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  then  began  to  talk  of  the  country, 
of  the  crops,  of  the  vines — subjects  to  which  I  was  a  stranger. 
In  the  mistress  of  a  house  this  behavior  argues  want  of  breed- 
ing, or  else  contempt  for  the  person  she  thus  shuts  out  of  the 
conversation,  but  in  the  Countess  it  was  simply  embarrass- 
ment. Though  at  first  I  fancied  she  was  affecting  to  regard 
me  as  a  boy,  and  envied  the  privilege  of  thirty  years,  which 
allowed  Monsieur  de  Chessel  to  entertain  his  fair  neighbor 
with  such  serious  matters,  of  which  I  understood  nothing, 
and  though  I  tormented  myself  by  thinking  that  everything 
was  done  for  him;  within  a  few  months  I  knew  all  that  a 


272  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

woman's  silence  can  mean,  and  how  many  thoughts  are  dis- 
guised by  desultory  conversation. 

I  at  once  tried  to  sit  at  my  ease  in  my  chair ;  then  I  per- 
ceived the  advantage  of  my  position,  and  gave  myself  up  to 
the  delight  of  hearing  the  Countess's  voice.  The  breath  of 
her  soul  lurked  behind  the  procession  of  syllables,  as  sound 
is  divided  in  the  notes  of  a  keyed  flute;  it  died  undulating 
on  the  ear,  whence  it  seemed  to  drive  the  blood.  Her  way 
of  pronouncing  words  ending  in  i  was  like  the  song  of  birds ; 
her  pronunciation  of  ch  was  like  a  caress;  and  the  way  in 
which  she  spoke  the  letter  t  betrayed  a  despotic  heart.  She 
unconsciously  expanded  the  meaning  of  words,  and  led  your 
spirit  away  into  a  supernatural  world.  How  often  have  I 
permitted  a  discussion  to  go  on  which  I  might  have  ended; 
how  often  have  I  allowed  myself  to  be  unjustly  blamed, 
merely  to  hear  that  music  of  the  human  voice,  to  breathe 
the  air  that  came  from  her  lips  so  full  of  her  soul,  to  clasp 
that  spoken  light  with  as  much  ardor  as  I  could  have  thrown 
into  pressing  the  Countess  to  my  heart!  What  a  song,  as  of 
some  joyful  swallow,  when  she  could  laugh ;  but  what  a  ring, 
as  of  a  swan  calling  to  its  fellow-swans,  when  she  spoke  of  her 
sorrows ! 

The  Countess's  inattention  to  me  allowed  me  to  study 
her.  My  eyes  feasted  as  they  gazed  at  the  lovely  speaker; 
they  embraced  her  form,  kissed  her  feet,  played  with  the 
ringlets  of  her  hair.  And  all  the -time  I  was  a  prey  to 
the  terror  which  only  those  can  understand  who  have,  in 
the  course  of  their  lives,  known  the  immeasurable  joys  of  a 
genuine  passion.  I  was  afraid  lest  she  should  detect  my 
gaze  fixed  on  the  spot  between  her  shoulders  which  I  had 
kissed  so  ardently.  My  fear  whetted  the  temptation,  and  I 
yielded  to  it.  I  looked,  my  eye  rent  the  stuff  of  her  dress, 
and  I  saw  a  mole  that  marked  the  top  of  the  pretty  line  be- 
tween her  shoulders,  a  speck  lying  on  milk ;  this,  ever  since 
the  ball,  had  blazed  out  of  the  darkness  in  which  the  sleep 
of  youths  seems  to  float  when  their  imagination  is  ardent  and 
their  life  chaste. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  273 

1  can  sketch  for  you  the  principal  features  which  would 
everywhere  have  attracted  attention  to  the  Countess;  but 
the  most  exact  drawing,  the  warmest  glow  of  color,  would 
express  nothing  of  it.  Her  face  is  one  of  those  of  which  no 
one  could  give  a  true  portrait  but  the  impossible  artist  whose 
hand  can  paint  the  glow  of  inward  fires,  and  render  the  lumi- 
nous essence  which  science  denies,  which  language  has  no 
word  for,  but  which  a  lover  sees.  Her  mass  of  fine  fair 
hair  often  gave  her  headaches,  caused  no  doubt  by  a  sud- 
den rush  of  blood  to  the  head.  Her  rounded  forehead, 
prominent  like  that  of  La  Gioconda,  seemed  to  be  full  of 
unspoken  ideas,  of  suppressed  feelings — flowers  drowned  in 
bitter  waters.  Her  eyes  were  greenish,  with  spots  of  hazel, 
and  always  pale  in  color;  but  when  her  children  were  con- 
cerned, or  if  she  were  betrayed  into  any  vehement  emotion 
of  joy  or  grief,  rare  in  the  life  of  a  resigned  wife,  her  eye 
could  flash  with  a  subtle  flame,  which  seemed  to  have  de- 
rived its  fire  from  the  deepest  springs  of  life,  and  which 
would  no  doubt  dry  them  up;  a  lightning  gleam  that  has 
wrung  tears  from  me  when  she  shed  on  me  her  terrible  dis- 
dain, and  that  she  found  adequate  to  abash  the  boldest  gaze. 

A  Greek  nose  that  Phidias  might  have  chiselled,  joined 
by  a  double  curve  to  lips  of  exquisite  shape,  gave  strength 
to  her  oval  face;  and  her  complexion,  like  a  camellia-petal, 
was  charmingly  tinted  with  tender  rose  in  the  cheeks.  She 
was  not  thin,  but  this  did  not  detract  from  the  grace  of  her 
figure,  nor  from  the  roundness  that  made  every  outline  beau- 
tiful, though  fully  developed.  You  will  at  once  understand 
the  character  of  this  perfection  when  I  tell  you  that  at  the 
junction  with  the  upper  arm  of  the  dazzling  bosom  that  had 
bewitched  me,  there  could  be  no  roll  nor  wrinkle.  Her 
throat,  where  her  head  was  set  on,  showed  none  of  those 
hollows  that  make  some  women's  necks  look  like  tree- 
trunks;  the  muscles  showed  no  cords,  and  every  line  was 
curved  with  a  grace  as  distracting  to  the  eye  as  to  the 
painter's  brush.  A  delicate  down  died  away  on  her 
cheeks,  and  on  the  back  of  her  neck,  catching  the  light 


274  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

with  a  silky  sheen.  Her  ears  were  small  and  shapely — the 
ears  of  a  slave  and  of  a  mother,  she  used  to  say.  Later, 
when  I  dwelt  in  her  heart,  she  would  say,  "Here  comes 

»/   / 

Monsieur  de  Mortsauf, "  and  be  quite  right,  when  I  could 
as  yet  hear  nothing — I,  whose  hearing  is  remarkably  keen. 
Her  arms  were  beautiful;  her  hands,  with  their  turned-up 
finger-tips,  were  long,  and  the  nails  set  into  the  flesh  as  in 
antique  statues. 

I  should  offend  you  by  attributing  greater  beauty  to  a 
flat  figure  than  to  a  full  one,  but  that  you  are  an  exception. 
A  round  figure  is  a  sign  of  strength;  but  women  who  are 
built  so  are  imperious,  wilful,  and  voluptuous  rather  than 
tender.  Women  who  are  flatly  formed  are,  on  the  con- 
trary, self-sacrificing,  full  of  refinement,  and  inclined  to 
melancholy;  they  are  more  thoroughly  women.  A  flat 
figure  is  soft  and  supple;  a  full  one  is  rigid  and  jealous. 
Now  you  know  the  kind  of  shape  she  had.  She  had  the  foot 
of  a  lady;  a  foot  that  walks  little,  is  easily  tired,  and  is  engag- 
ing to  look  upon  when  it  peeps  from  under  the  petticoat. 

Though  she  was  the  mother  of  two  children,  I  have 
never  met  with  any  woman  more  genuinely  maidenly. 
Her  expression  was  so  girlish,  and  at  the  same  time 
amazed  and  dreamy,  that  it  brought  the  eye  back  to  gaze, 
as  a  painter  invites  it  back  to  a  face  in  which  his  genius  has 
embodied  a  world  of  feelings.  Her  visible  qualities  indeed 
can  only  be  expressed  by  comparisons.  Do  you  remember 
the  wild,  austere  fragrance  of  a  heath  we  plucked  on  our 
way  home  from  the  Yilla  Diodati,  a  flower  you  admired  so 
much  for  its  coloring  of  pink  and  black — then  you  will  un- 
derstand how  this  woman  could  be  elegant  though  so  far 
from  the  world,  natural  in  her  expressions,  refining  all  that 
came  to  belong  to  her — pink  and  black.  Her  frame  had  the 
green  tenderness  we  admire  in  leaves  but  just  opened,  her 
mind  had  the  intense  concentration  of  a  savage's,  she  was  a 
child  in  feeling  sobered  by  grief,  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  an  unwedded  soul. 

She  was  charming  without  artifice  in  her  way  of  sitting 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  275 

down,  of  rising,  of  being  silent,  or  of  throwing  out  a  re- 
mark. Habitually  reserved,  and  vigilant  as  the  sentinel  on 
whom  the  safety  of  all  depends,  ever  on  the  watch  for  disas- 
ter, she  sometimes  smiled  in  a  way  that  betrayed  a  laughing 
spirit  buried  under  the  demeanor  required  by  her  mode  of 
life.  Her  womanly  vanity  had  become  a  mystery;  she  in- 
spired romance  instead  of  the  gallant  attentions  which  most 
women  love;  she  revealed  her  genuine  self,  her  living  fire, 
her  blue  dreams,  as  the  sky  shows  between  parting  clouds. 
This  involuntary  self-betrayal  made  a  man  thoughtful,  un- 
less indeed  he  were  conscious  of  an  unshed  tear,  dried  by 
the  fire  of  his  passion. 

The  rareness  of  her  movements,  and  yet  more  of  her 
looks — for  she  never  looked  at  anybody  but  her  children — 
gave  incredible  solemnity  to  all  she  did  and  said,  when  she 
did  or  said  a  thing  with  that  manner  which  a  woman  can 
assume  if  she  is  compromising  her  dignity  by  an  avowal. 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  was,  on  that  day,  wearing  a  cam- 
bric gown  with  fine  pink  stripes,  a  collar  with  a  broad  hem, 
a  black  sash  and  black  boots.  Her  hair  was  simply  twisted 
into  a  knot  and  held  by  a  tortoise-shell  comb. 

There  is  the  promised  sketch.  But  the  constant  emana- 
tion of  her  spirit  on  all  who  were  about  her,  that  nourishing 
element  diffused  in  waves  as  the  sun  diffuses  its  light,  her 
essential  nature,  her  attitude  in  serene  hours,  her  resignation 
-in  a  storm,  all  the  chapces  of  life  which  develop  character, 
depend,  like  atmospheric  changes,  on  unexpected  and  tran- 
sient circumstances  which  have  no  resemblance  to  each 
other  excepting  in  the  background  against  which  they  are 
seen.  This  will  inevitably  be  depicted  as  part  of  the  inci- 
dents of  this  narrative — a  true  domestic  epic,  as  great  in  the 
sight  of  the  wise  as  tragedies  are  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd ;  a 
tale  which  will  interest  you,  both  by  the  part  I  played  in  it 
and  by  its  resemblance  to  that  of  many  a  woman's  destiny. 

Everything  at  Clochegourde  was  characterized  by  En- 
glish neatness.  The  drawing-room  in  which  the  Countess 


276  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

was  sitting  was  panelled  throughout,  and  painted  in  two 
shades  of  stone  color.  On  the  chimney-shelf  stood  a  clock 
in  a  mahogany  case  surmounted  by  a  tazza,  and  flanked  by 
two  large  white-and-gold  china  jars  in  which  stood  two 
Cape  heaths.  On  the  console  was  a  lamp;  in  front  of  the 
fireplace  a  backgammon  board.  Thick  cotton  ropes  looped 
back  the  plain  white  calico  curtains  without  any  trimming. 
Holland  covers,  bound  with  green  galoon,  were  over  all  the 
chairs,  and  the  worsted  work  stretched  on  the  Countess's 
frame  sufficiently  revealed  the  reason  for  so  carefully  hid- 
ing the  furniture.  This  simplicity  was  really  dignified. 
No  room,  of  all  I  have  seen  since,  has  ever  filled  me  with 
such  a  rush  of  pregnant  impressions  as  I  then  felt  crowding 
on  me  in  that  drawing-room  at  Clochegourde — a  room  as 
still  and  remote  as  its  mistress's  life,  and  telling  of  the 
monastic  regularity  of  her  occupations.  Most  of  my  ideas, 
even  my  most  daring  flights  in  science  or  in  politics,  have 
had  their  birth  there,  as  perfumes  emanate  from  flowers; 
and  here  grew  the  unknown  plant  which  shed  its  fertilizing 
power  over  me ;  here  glowed  the  solar  heat  which  developed 
all  that  was  good  and  dried  up  all  that  was  bad  in  me. 

From  the  window  the  view  extended  over  the  valley  from 
the  hill  where  Pont-de-Ruan  lies  scattered,  to  the  chateau  of 
Azay,  and  the  eye  could  follow  the  curves  of  the  opposite 
downs  varied  by  the  turrets  of  Frapesle,  the  church,  village, 
and  manor-house  of  Sache'  towering  above  the  meadow  land. 
The  scene,  in  harmony  with  a  peaceful  existence,  unvaried 
by  any  emotions  but  those  of  family  life,  breathed  peace  into 
the  soul.  If  I  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time  here,  between 
the  Comte  de  Mortsauf  and  her  children,  instead  of  discover- 
ing her  in  the  splendor  of  her  ball  dress,  I  could  not  have 
stolen  that  delirious  kiss,  for  which  at  this  moment  I  felt 
some  remorse,  believing  that  it  might  wreck  the  future 
prospects  of  my  passion!  No,  in  the  gloomy  temper  be- 
gotten of  my  sad  life,  I  should  have  knelt  before  her,  have 
kissed  her  little  boots,  have  dropped  some  tears  on  them, 
and  have  thrown  myself  into  the  Indre. 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  277 

But,  having  breathed  the  jessamine  freshness  of  her  skin 
and  tasted  the  milk  in  that  cup  of  love,  my  soul  was  filled 
with  longing  and  hope  for  human  joys:  I  would  live,  I 
would  wait  for  the  hour  of  fulfilment  as  a  savage  looks  out 
for  the  moment  of  revenge.  I  longed  to  swing  from  the 
branches,  to  rush  among  the  vines,  to  wallow  in  the  Indre; 
my  companions  should  be  the  silence  of  the  night,  the  lan- 
guor of  living,  the  heat  of  the  sun,  that  I  might  eat  at  my 
leisure  the  delicious  apple  I  had  bitten  into.  If  she  had 
asked  me  for  the  singing-flower,  or  the  riches'  buried  by 
Morgan  the  Destroyer,  I  would  have  found  them  for  her 
only  to  obtain  the  real  riches,  the  speechless  blossom  that  I 
longed  for. 

When  I  roused  myself  from  the  dream  into  which  I  had 
been  thrown  by  contemplating  my  idol,  during  which  a  ser- 
vant had  come  in  to  speak  to  her,  I  heard  her  talking  of  the 
Count.  Then  only  did  it  strike  me  that  a  woman  belonged 
to  her  husband.  The  thought  made  my  brain  reel.  I  felt 
a  fierce  but  dreary  curiosity  to  see  the  possessor  of  this 
treasure.  Two  feelings  were  uppermost — hatred  and  fear; 
hatred,  which  recognized  no  obstacle  and  measured  every 
difficulty  without  dread;  fear,  vague  indeed  but  genuine, 
of  the  coming  struggle,  of  its  result,  and,  above  all,  of 
Her.  A  prey  to  indescribable  presentiments,  I  dreaded 
the  handshaking  which  is  so  undignified;  I  had  visions  of 
those  elastic  difficulties  against  which  the  firmest  will  is  bat- 
tered and  blunted;  I  feared  the  power  of  inertia,  which  in 
our  day  deprives  social  life  of  the  moments  of  climax  that 
passionate  souls  crave  for. 

"Here  comes  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,"  said  she. 

I  started  to  my  feet  like  a  frightened  horse.  Though  this 
impulse  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  either  Monsieur  de  Ches- 
sel  or  the  Countess,  I  was  spared  any  speechless  comment,  for 
a  diversion  was  effected  by  a  little  girl,  of  about  six  years  old 
as  I  supposed,  who  came  in  saying: 

"Here  is  my  father." 

"Well,  Madeleine?"  said  her  mother. 


278  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  child  gave  her  hand  to  Monsieur  de  Chessel  when  he 
held  out  his,  and  looked  at  me  fixedly  after  making  an  aston- 
ished little  courtesy. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  her  health?"  said  Monsieur  de 
Chessel  to  the  Countess. 

"She  is  better,"  replied  the  mother,  stroking  the  little 
girl's  hair  as  she  sat  huddled  in  her  lap. 

A  question  from  Monsieur  de  Chessel  taught  me  the  fact 
that  Madeleine  was  nine  years  old;  I  showed  some  surprise 
at  my  mistake,  and  my  astonishment  brought  a  cloud  to  the 
mother's  brow.  My  friend  shot  me  one  of  those  looks  by 
which  men  of  the  world  give  us  a  second  education.  This 
was,  no  doubt,  a  mother's  wound  which  might  not  be  opened 
or  touched.  A  frail  creature,  with  colorless  eyes  and  a  skin 
as  white  as  porcelain  lighted  from  within,  Madeleine  would 
probably  not  have  lived  in  the  air  of  a  town.  Country  air, 
and  the  care  with  which  her  mother  brooded  over  her,  had 
kept  the  flame  alive  in  a  body  as  delicate  as  a  plant  grown  in 
a  hothouse  in  defiance  of  the  severity  of  a  northern  climate. 
Though  she  was  not  at  all  like  her  mother,  she  seemed  to 
have  her  mother's  spirit,  and  that  sustained  her.  Her 
thin,  black  hair,  her  sunken  eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  lean 
arms,  and  narrow  chest  told  of  a  struggle  between  life 
and  death,  an  unceasing  duel  in  which  the  Countess  had 
hitherto  been  victorious.  The  child  made  an  effort  to  be 
gay,  no  doubt  to  spare  her  mother  suffering;  for  now  and 
again,  when  she  was  unobserved,  she  languished  like  a  weep- 
ing willow.  You  might  have  taken  her  for  a  gypsy  child 
suffering  from  hunger,  who  had  begged  her  way  across  coun- 
try, exhausted  but  brave,  and  dressed  for  her  public. 

"Where  did  you  leave  Jacques  ?"  asked  her  mother,  kiss- 
ing her  on  the  white  line  that  parted  her  hair  into  two  bands 
like  a  raven's  wings. 

"He  is  coming  with  my  father." 

The  Count  at  this  moment  came  in,  leading  his  little  boy 
by  the  hand.  Jacques,  the  very  image  of  his  sister,  showed 
the  same  signs  of  weakliness.  Seeing  these  two  fragile  chil- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  279 

dren  by  the  side  of  such  a  magnificently  handsome  mother, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  understand  the  causes  of  the  grief 
which  gave  pathos  to  the  Countess's  brow  and  made  her 
silent  as  to  the  thoughts  which  are  confided  to  God  alone,  but 
which  stamp  terrible  meaning  on  the  forehead.  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf,  as  he  bowed  to  me,  gave  me  a  glance  not  so 
much  of  inquiry  as  of  the  awkward  uneasiness  of  a  man 
whose  distrust  arises  from  his  want  of  practical  observation 
and  analysis. 

After  mentioning  my  name,  and  what  had  brought  me 
thither,  his  wife  gave  him  her  seat  and  left  the  room.  The 
children,  whose  eyes  centred  in  their  mother's  as  if  they 
derived  their  light  from  her,  wanted  to  go  with  her;  she 
said,  "Stay  here,  my  darlings,"  and  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips. 

They  obeyed,  but  they  looked  sad. 

Oh  I  To  hear  that  word  "darling,"  what  task  might  one 
not  have  undertaken  ?  Like  the  children,  I  felt  chilled  when 
she  was  no  longer  there. 

My  name  changed  the  Count's  impulses  with  regard  to 
me.  From  being  cold  and  supercilious,  he  became,  if  not 
affectionate,  at  least  politely  pressing,  showed  me  every  mark 
of  consideration,  and  seemed  happy  to  see  me.  Long  ago 
my  father  had  devoted  himself  to  play  a  noble  but  incon- 
spicuous part  for  our  sovereigns,  full  of  danger,  but  possibly 
useful.  When  all  was  lost,  and  Napoleon  had  climbed  to  the 
highest  pinnacle,  like  many  secret  conspirators,  he  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  peace  of  a  provincial  life  and  quiet  home,  bow- 
ing before  accusations  as  cruel  as  they  were  unmerited — the 
inevitable  reward  of  gamblers  who  stake  all  for  all  or  noth- 
ing, and  collapse  after  having  been  the  pivot  of  the  political 
machine.  I,  knowing  nothing  of  the  fortunes,  the  antece- 
dents, or  the  prospects  of  my  own  family,  was  equally  igno- 
rant of  the  details  of  this  forgotten  history  which  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  remembered.  However,  if  the  antiquity  of  my 
name,  in  his  eyes  the  most  precious  hallmark  a  man  could 
possess,  might  justify  a  reception  which  made  me  blush,  I 


280  BALJAC'S    WORKS 

did  not  know  the  real  reason  till  later.  For  the  moment  the 
sudden  change  put  me  at  mj  ease.  "When  the  two  children 
saw  that  the  conversation  was  fairly  started  among  us  three, 
Madeleine  slipped  her  head  from  under  her  father's  hand, 
looked  at  the  open  door,  and  glided  out  like  an  eel,  followed 
by  Jacques.  They  joined  their  mother,  for  I  heard  them 
talking  and  trotting  about  in  the  distance,  like  the  hum  ot 
bees  round  the  hive  that  is  their  home. 

I  studied  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf,  trying  to  guess  at  his 
character,  but  I  was  so  far  interested  by  some  leading  feat- 
ures to  go  no  further  than  a  superficial  examination  of  his 
countenance.  Though  he  was  no  more  than  five-and-forty, 
he  looked  nearly  sixty,  so  rapidly  had  he  aged  in  the  general 
wreck  which  closed  the  nineteenth  century.  The  fringe  of 
hair,  like  a  monk's,  which  framed  his  bald  head,  ended  over 
his  ears  in  grizzled  locks  on  his  temples.  His  face  had  a 
remote  resemblance  to  that  of  a  white  wolf  with  a  blood- 
stained muzzle,  for  his  nose  was  hot  and  red,  like  that  of  a 
man  whose  constitution  is  undermined,  whose  digestion  is 
weak,  and  his  blood  vitiated  by  early  disease.  His  flat  fore- 
head, too  wide  for  a  face  that  ended  in  a  point,  was  furrowed 
across  at  unequal  distances,  the  result  of  an  open-air  life, 
and  not  of  intellectual  labors,  of  constant  ill-fortune,  and  not 
of  the  effort  to  defy  it.  His  cheek-bones,  high  and  sun- 
burned, while  the  rest  of  his  face  was  sallow,  showed  that 
Ms  frame  was  so  strongly  built  as  to  promise  a  long  life. 

His  bright,  tawny,  hard  eye  fell  on  you  like  winter  sun- 
shine, luminous  without  heat,  restless  without  thought,  dis- 
trustful without  purpose.  His  mouth  was  coarse  and  domi- 
neering, his  chin  long  and  flat. 

He  was  tall  and  thin,  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman  who 
relies  on  a  conventional  standard  of  worth,  who  feels  himself 
superior  to  his  neighbor  by  right,  inferior  in  fact.  The  easy- 
going habits  of  a  country  life  made  him  neglectful  of  his  per- 
son; his  clothes  were  those  of  a  country  proprietor,  regarded 
alike  by  the  peasants  and  by  his  neighbors  as  merely  rep- 
resenting a  landed  estate.  His  brown,  sinewy  hands  showed 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  181 

that  he  never  wore  gloves,  unless  for  riding,  or  on  Sunday 
to  go  to  church.  His  shoes  were  clumsy. 

Although  ten  years  of  exile,  and  ten  of  agricultural  life, 
had  thus  affected  his  appearance,  he  still  bore  traces  of  noble 
birth.  The  most  rancorous  Liberal — a  word  not  then  coined 
— would  at  once  have  discerned  in  him  the  chivalrous  loy- 
alty, the  unfading  convictions  of  a  constant  reader  of  the 
"Quotidienne,"  and  have  admired  him  as  a  religious  man, 
devoted  to  his  party,  frank  as  to  his  political  antipathies, 
incapable  of  being  personally  serviceable  to  his  side,  very 
capable  of  ruining  it,  and  ignorant  of  the  state  of  affairs  hi 
France.  The  Count  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  upright  men 
who  yield  not  a  jot,  and  obstinately  bar  all  progress,  valuable 
to  die  weapon  in  hand  at  the  post  assigned  to  them,  but 
stingy  enough  to  give  their  life  rather  than  their  money. 

During  dinner  I  detected  in  the  hollows  of  his  faded 
cheeks,  and  in  the  glances  he  stole  at  his  children,  the  tracea 
of  certain  importunate  thoughts  which  came  to  die  on  the 
surface.  Who  that  saw  him  could  fail  to  understand  him? 
Who  would  not  have  accused  him  of  having  transmitted  to 
his  children  their  lack  of  vitality  I  But  even  if  he  blamed 
himself,  he  allowed  no  one  else  the  right  of  condemning  him. 
He  was  as  bitter  as  an  authority  consciously  at  fault,  but 
without  sufficient  magnanimity  or  charm  to  make  up  for  the 
quota  of  suffering  he  had  thrown  into  the  scale;  and  that  his 
private  life  must  be  full  of  harshness  could  be  seen  in  his 
hard  features  and  ever- watchful  eyes. 

Thus,  when  his  wife  came  back,  with  the  two  children 
clinging  to  her,  I  apprehended  disaster,  as  when  walking 
over  the  vaults  of  a  cellar  the  foot  has  a  sort  of  sense  of  the 
depths  below.  Looking  at  these  four  persons  together,  look- 
ing at  them,  as  I  did,  each  in  turn,  studying  their  faces  and 
their  attitude  toward  each  other,  thoughts  of  melancholy  fell 
upon  my  heart  as  fine  gray  rain  throws  a  mist  over  a  fair 
landscape  after  a  bright  sunrise. 

When  the  immediate  subject  of  conversation  was  ex- 
hausted, the  Count  again  spoke  of  me,  overlooking  Monsieur 


282  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

de  Chessel,  and  telling  his  wife  various  facts  relating  to  my 
family  which  were  perfectly  unknown  to  me.  He  asked  me 
how  old  I  was.  "When  I  told  him,  the  Countess  repeated 
my  start  of  surprise  at  hearing  the  age  of  her  little  girl.  She 
thought  me  perhaps  about  fourteen.  This,  as  I  afterward 
learned,  was  a  second  tie  that  bound  her  to  me  so  closely. 
I  read  in  her  soul.  Her  motherly  instinct  was  roused,  en- 
lightened by  a  late  sunbeam  which  gave  her  a  hope.  On 
seeing  me  at  past  twenty  so  fragile,  and  yet  so  wiry,  a  voice 
whispered  to  her  perhaps,  "They  will  live!"  She  looked 
at  me  inquisitively,  and  I  felt  at  the  moment  that  much  ice 
was  melted  between  us.  She  seemed  to  have  a  thousand 
questions  to  ask,  but  reserved  them  all. 

"If  you  are  ill  from  overwork,"  said  she,  "the  air  of  our 
valley  will  restore  you." 

"Modern  education  is  fatal  to  children,"  the  Count  said. 
"We  cram  them  with  mathematics,  we  beat  them  with  ham- 
mers of  science,  and  wear  them  out  before  their  time.  You 
must  rest  here,"  he  went  on.  "You  are  crushed  under  the 
avalanche  of  ideas  that  has  been  hurled  down  on  you.  What 
an  age  must  we  look  forward  to  after  all  this  teaching  brought 
down  to  the  meanest  capacity,  unless  we  can  forefend  the  evil 
by  placing  education  once  more  in  the  hands  of  religious 
bodies!" 

This  speech  was  indeed  the  forerunner  of  what  he  said 
one  day  at  an  election  when  refusing  to  vote  for  a  man  whose 
talents  might  have  done  good  service  to  the  royalist  cause : 
"I  never  trust  a  clever  man,"  said  he  to  the  registrar  of 
votes. 

He  now  proposed  to  take  us  round  the  gardens,  and  rose. 

"Monsieur — "  said  the  Countess. 

"Well,  my  dear?"  he  replied,  turning  round  with  a  rough 
haughtiness  that  showed  how  much  he  wished  to  be  master 
in  his  own  house,  and  how  little  he  was  so  at  this  time. 

"Monsieur  walked  from  Tours  this  morning;  Monsieur 
de  Chessel  did  not  know  it,  and  took  him  for  a  walk  in 
Frapesle." 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  283 

"You  were  very  rash,"  said  he  to  me,  "though  at  your 
age — "  and  he  wagged  his  head  in  token  of  regret. 

The  conversation  was  then  resumed.  I  very  soon  found 
out  how  perverse  his  Koyalism  was,  and  what  caution  was 
necessary  to  swim  in  his  waters  without  collisions.  The  ser- 
vant, now  arrayed  in  livery,  announced  dinner.  Monsieur 
de  Chessel  gave  his  arm  to  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  and  the 
Count  gayly  put  his  hand  in  mine  to  go  to  the  dining-room, 
which  was  at  the  opposite  end  to  the  drawing-room,  on  the 
same  floor. 

This  room,  floored  with  white  tiles  made  in  the  country, 
and  wainscoted  waist  high,  was  hung  with  a  satin  paper 
divided  into  large  panels  framed  with  borders  of  fruit  and 
flowers ;  the  window-curtains  were  of  cotton  stuff,  bound  with 
red;  the  sideboards  were  old  Boule  inlay,  and  the  woodwork 
of  the  chairs,  upholstered  with  needlework,  was  of  carved 
oak.  The  table,  though  abundantly  spread,  was  not  luxu- 
rious; there  was  old  family  plate  of  various  dates  and  pat- 
terns, Dresden  china — not  yet  in  fashion  again — octagonal 
water-bottles,  agate -handled  knives,  and  bottle  stands  of 
Chinese  lacquer.  But  there  were  flowers  in  varnished  tubs, 
with  notched  and  gilt  rims.  I  was  delighted  with  these  old- 
fashioned  things,  and  I  thought  the  Reveillon  paper,  with  its 
flowered  border,  superb. 

The  glee  that  filled  all  my  sails  hindered  me  from  dis- 
cerning the  insuperable  obstacles  placed  between  her  and  me 
by  this  imperturbable  life  of  solitude  in  the  country.  I  sat 
by  her,  at  her  right,  I  poured  out  her  wine  and  water.  Yes! 
Unhoped-for  joy!  I  could  touch  her  gown,  I  ate  her  bread. 
Only  three  hours  had  gone  by,  and  my  life  was  mingling  with 
hers !  And  we  were  bound  together  too  by  that  terrible  kiss, 
a  sort  of  secret  which  filled  us  alike  with  shame. 

I  was  defiantly  base;  I  devoted  myself  to  pleasing  the 
Count,  who  met  all  my  civilities  half-way;  I  would  have 
fondled  the  dog,  have  been  subservient  to  the  children's  least 
whim;  I  would  have  brought  them  hoops  or  marbles,  have 
been  their  horse  to  drive;  I  was  only  vexed  that  they  ha«l 


284:  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

not  already  taken  possession  of  me  as  a  thing  of  their  own. 
Love  has  its  intuition  as  genius  has,  and  I  dimly  perceived 
that  his  violence  and  surliness  and  hostility  would  be  the 
ruin  of  my  hopes.  This  dinner  was  to  me  a  time  of  exqui- 
site raptures.  Finding  myself  under  her  roof,  I  forgot  her 
real  coldness,  and  the  indifference  that  lay  beneath  the 
Count's  politeness.  In  love,  as  in  life,  there  is  a  period  of 
full  growth  where  it  is  self-sufficient.  I  made  some  blunder- 
ing answers,  in  keeping  with  the  secret  tumult  of  my  pas- 
sions; but  no  one  could  guess  this,  much  less  she  who  knew 
nothing  of  love.  The  rest  of  the  evening  was  as  a  dream. 

This  beautiful  dream  came  to  an  end  when,  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  in  the  hot  fragrant  night,  I  again  crossed  the 
Indre  amid  the  white  visions  that  hung  over  the  fields  and 
shore  and  hills,  hearing  the  thin,  monotonous  call  on  one 
note,  melancholy  and  incessant,  at  equal  intervals,  uttered 
by  some  tree-frog  of  which  I  know  not  the  scientific  name, 
but  which,  since  that  fateful  day,  I  never  hear  but  with 
extreme  delight. 

Here,  again,  though  rather  late,  I  discerned,  as  elsewhere, 
the  stony  insensibility  against  which  all  my  feelings  had 
hitherto  been  blunted;  I  wondered  whether  it  would  be 
always  thus;  I  believed  myself  to  be  under  some  fatal  influ- 
ence ;  the  gloomy  incidents  of  my  past  life  struggled  with  the 
purely  personal  joys  I  had  just  experienced. 

Before  re-entering  Frapesle,  I  looked  back  at  Cloche- 
gourde  and  saw  below  a  boat,  a  punt  such  as  in  Touraine 
is  called  a  toue,  moored  to  an  ash-tree,  and  rocking  in  the 
stream.  This  boat  belonged  to  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  who 
used  it  for  fishing. 

"Well,"  said  Monsieur  de  Chessel,  when  there  was  no 
danger  of  our  being  overheard,  "I  need  not  ask  you  if  you 
have  found  the  lady  of  the  beautiful  shoulders.  You  may 
be  congratulated  on  the  welcome  you  received  from  Mon- 
sieur de  Mortsauf.  The  deuce !  Why,  you  have  taken  the 
citadel  at  a  blow." 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  285 

This  speech,  followed  up  by  the  remarks  I  before  men- 
tioned, revived  my  downcast  spirit.  I  had  not  spoken  a 
word  since  leaving  Clochegourde,  and  my  host  ascribed  my 
silence  to  happiness. 

"How  so?"  said  I,  with  a  touch  of  irony,  which  might 
have  seemed  to  be  the  outcome  of  restrained  passion. 

"He  never  in  his  life  received  any  one  so  civilly." 

"I  may  confess  that  I  was  myself  astounded  at  his  polite- 
ness," said  I,  feeling  what  bitterness  lay  behind  his  words. 

Though  I  was  too  much  inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  the 
world  to  understand  the  cause  of  Monsieur  de  Chessel's  ani- 
mus, I  was  struck  by  the  tone  which  betrayed  it.  My  host 
was  so  unlucky  as  to  be  named  Durand,  and  he  made  himself 
ridiculous  by  renouncing  his  father's  name — that  of  a  noted 
manufacturer  who  had  made  an  immense  fortune  during  the 
Revolution,  and  whose  wife  was  the  sole  heiress  of  the  Ches- 
sel  family,  an  old  connection  of  lawyers  risen  from  the  citizen 
class  under  Henri  IV.,  like  most  of  the  Paris  magistracy. 

Monsieur  de  Chessel,  ambitious  of  the  highest  flight, 
wished  to  kill  the  primitive  Durand  to  attain  to  the  realms 
he  dreamed  of.  He  first  called  himself  Durand  de  Chessel, 
then  D.  de  Chessel,  then  he  was  Monsieur  de  Chessel.  After 
the  Restoration  he  endowed  an  entail  with  the  title  of  Count 
under  letters -patent  granted  by  Louis  XVIII.  His  children 
culled  the  fruits  of  his  audacity  without  knowing  its  magni- 
tude. A  speech  made  by  a  certain  satirical  prince  long  clung 
to  his  heels:  "Monsieur  de  Chessel  generally  has  something 
of  the  Durand  about  him,"  said  his  Highness.  And  this 
witticism  was  long  a  joy  in  Touraine. 

Parvenus  are  like  monkeys,  and  not  less  dexterous. 
Seen  from  above  we  admire  their  agility  in  climbing;  but 
when  they  have  reached  the  top,  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but 
their  more  shameful  side.  The  wrong  side  of  my  entertainer 
was  made  of  meanness  puffed  up  with  envy.  He  and  a  peer- 
age are  to  this  day  points  that  cannot  meet.  To  be  preten- 
tious and  justify  it  is  the  insolence  of  strength;  but  a  man 
who  is  beneath  the  pretensions  he  owns  to  is  in  a  constantly 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ridiculous  position,  which  affords  a  feast  to  petty  minds. 
Now,  Monsieur  de  Chessel  has  never  walked  in  the  straight 
path  of  a  strong  man;  he  has  twice  been  elected  deputy, 
twice  rejected  of  the  electors;  one  day  Director-General,  the 
next  nothing  at  all,  not  even  Prefet;  and  his  successes  and 
defeats  have  spoiled  his  temper  and  given  him  the  acrid 
greed  of  an  ambitious  failure.  Though  a  fine  fellow,  intel- 
ligent, and  capable  of  high  achievement,  the  spirit  of  envy 
perhaps — which  gives  zest  to  existence  in  Touraine,  where 
the  natives  waste  their  brains  in  jealous  spite — was  fatal  to 
him  in  the  higher  social  spheres,  where  faces  that  frown  at 
others'  fortune  are  rarely  popular,  or  sulky  lips  unready 
to  pay  compliments  but  apt  at  sarcasm.  If  he  had  wished 
for  less,  he  might  perhaps  have  gained  more ;  but  he,  unfor- 
tunately, was  always  proud  enough  to  insist  on  walking 
upright. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit,  Monsieur  de  Chessel  was  in  the 
dawn  of  his  ambition,  Royalism  smiled  on  him.  He  affected 
grand  airs  perhaps,  but  to  me  he  was  the  perfection  of  kind- 
ness. I  liked  him,  too,  for  a  very  simple  reason:  under  his 
roof  I  found  peace  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  The  interest 
he  took  in  me — little  enough  I  dare  say — seemed  to  me,  the 
hapless  outcast  of  my  family,  a  model  of  paternal  affection. 
The  attentions  of  hospitality  formed  such  a  contrast  with  the 
indifference  that  had  hitherto  crushed  me  that  I  showed  child- 
like gratitude  for  being  allowed  to  live  unfettered  and  almost 
petted.  The  owners  of  Frapesle  are  indeed  so  intimately  part 
of  the  dawn  of  my  happiness  that  they  dwell  in  my  mind  with 
the  memories  I  love  to  live  in.  At  a  later  time,  in  the  very 
matter  of  the  King's  letters-patent,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
doing  my  host  some  little  service. 

Monsieur  de  Chessel  spent  his  fortune  with  an  amount  of 
display  that  aggrieved  some  of  his  neighbors;  he  could  buy 
fine  horses  and  smart  carriages ;  his  wife  dressed  handsomely ; 
he  entertained  splendidly;  his  servants  were  more  numerous 
than  the  manners  of  the  country  demand;  he  affected  the 
princely.  The  estate  of  Frapesle  is  vast. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  287 

So,  as  compared  with  his  neighbor,  and  in  the  face  of  all 
this  magnificence,  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf,  reduced  to  the 
family  coach,  which  in  Touraine  is  a  cross  between  a  mail- 
cart  and  a  post-chaise,  compelled  too  by  his  lack  of  fortune 
to  make  Clochegourde  pay,  was  a  Tourangeau,  a  mere  gen- 
tleman farmer,  till  the  day  when  royal  favor  restored  his 
family  to  unhoped-for  dignity.  The  welcome  he  had  ex- 
tended to  me,  the  younger  son  of  an  impoverished  family, 
whose  coat-of-arms  dates  from  the  Crusades,  had  been  calcu- 
lated to  throw  contempt  on  the  wealth,  the  woods,  the  farms 
and  meadows  of  his  neighbor,  a  man  of  no  birth. 

Monsieur  de  Chessel  had  quite  understood  the  Count. 
Indeed,  their  intercourse  had  always  been  polite,  but  with- 
out the  daily  exchange,  the  friendly  intimacy  which  might 
have  existed  between  Clochegourde  and  Frapesle,  two  do- 
mains divided  only  by  the  river,  and  whose  mistresses  could 
signal  to  each  other  from  their  windows. 

Jealousy,  however,  was  not  the  only  reason  for  the  Comte 
de  Mortsauf 's  solitary  life.  His  early  education  had  been  that 
given  to  most  boys  of  good  family — an  insufficient  and  super- 
ficial smattering,  on  which  were  grafted  the  lessons  of  the 
world,  Court  manners,  and  the  exercise  of  High  Court  func- 
tions or  some  position  of  dignity.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  had 
emigrated  just  when  this  second  education  should  have  be- 
gun, and  so  missed  it.  He  was  one  of  those  who  believed 
in  the  early  restoration  of  the  Monarchy  in  France ;  in  this 
conviction  he  had  spent  the  years  of  exile  in  lamentable  idle- 
ness. Then,  when  Condi's  army  was  broken  up,  after  the 
Count's  courage  had  marked  him  as  one  of  its  most  devoted 
soldiers,  he  still  counted  on  returning  ere  long  with  the  white 
standard,  and  never  attempted,  like  many  of  the  e'migre's,  to 
lead  an  industrious  life.  Perhaps  he  could  not  bear  to  re- 
nounce his  name  in  order  to  earn  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of 
the  toil  he  despised. 

His  hopes,  always  held  over  till  the  morrow,  and  a  sense 
of  honor  too,  kept  him  from  engaging  in  the  service  of  a 
foreign  power. 


288  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Suffering  undermined  his  strength.  Long  expeditions 
on  foot  without  sufficient  food,  and  hopes  forever  deceived, 
injured  his  health  and  discouraged  his  spirit.  By  degrees 
his  poverty  became  extreme.  Though  to  some  men  misfor- 
tune is  a  tonic,  there  are  others  to  whom  it  is  destruction, 
and  the  Count  was  one  of  these.  When  I  think  of  this  un- 
happy gentleman  of  Touraine,  wandering  and  sleeping  on 
the  highroads  in  Hungary,  sharing  a  quarter  of  a  sheep  with 
Prince  Esterhazy's  shepherds — from  whom  the  traveller  could 
beg  a  loaf  which  the  gentleman  would  not  have  accepted  from 
their  master,  and  which  he  many  a  time  refused  at  the  hands 
of  the  foes  of  France — I  could  never  harbor  a  bitter  feeling 
against  the  e'migre',  not  even  when  I  saw  him  ridiculous  in 
his  day  of  triumph. 

Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 's  white  hair  had  spoken  to  me  of 
terrible  sufferings,  and  I  sympathize  with  all  exiles  too 
strongly  to  condemn  them.  The  Count's  cheerfulness- 
Frenchman  and  Tourangeau  as  he  was — quite  broke  down; 
he  became  gloomy,  fell  ill,  and  was  nursed  out  of  charity 
in  some  German  asylum.  His  malady  was  inflammation  of 
the  mesentery,  which  often  proves  fatal,  and  which,  if  cured, 
brings  in  its  train  a  capricious  temper,  and  almost  always 
hypochondria.  His  amours,  buried  in  the  most  secret  depths 
of  his  soul,  where  I  alone  ever  unearthed  them,  were  of  a 
debasing  character,  and  not  only  marred  his  life  at  the  time, 
but  ruined  it  for  the  future. 

After  twelve  years'  misery,  he  came  back  to  France, 
whither  Napoleon's  decree  enabled  him  to  return.  When, 
as  he  crossed  the  Ehine  on  foot,  he  saw  the  steeple  of  Stras- 
burg  one  fine  summer  evening,  he  fainted  away. — "  'France I 
France!'  I  cried,  'This  is  France!'  as  a  child  cries  out, 
'Mother!'  when  it  is  hurt,"  he  told  me. 

Born  to  riches,  he  was  now  poor;  born  to  lead  a  regiment 
or  govern  the  State,  he  had  no  authority,  no  prospects ;  born 
healthy  and  robust,  he  came  home  sick  and  worn  out.  Bereft 
of  education  in  a  country  where  men  and  things  had  been 
growing,  without  interest  of  any  kind,  he  found  himself  des- 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  289 

titute  even  of  physical  and  moral  strength.  His  want  of 
fortune  made  his  name  a  burden  to  him.  His  unshaken 
convictions,  his  former  attachment  to  Conde*,  his  woes,  his 
memories,  his  ruined  health,  had  given  him  a  touchy  sus- 
ceptibility, which  was  likely  to  find  small  mercy  in  France, 
the  land  of  banter.  Half  dead,  he  got  as  far  as  le  Maine, 
where,  by  some  accident,  due  perhaps  to  the  civil  war,  the 
revolutionary  government  had  forgotten  to  sell  a  farm  of 
considerable  extent,  which  the  farmer  in  possession  had 
clung  to,  declaring  that  it  was  his  own. 

When  the  Lenoncourt  family,  living  at  Givry,  a  chateau 
not  far  from  this  farm,  heard  that  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf  had 
come  back,  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt  went  to  offer  him  shelter 
at  Givry  till  he  should  have  time  to  arrange  his  residence. 
The  Lenoncourts  were  splendidly  generous  to  the  Count,  who 
recovered  his  strength  through  several  months'  stay  with 
them,  making  every  effort  to  disguise  his  sufferings  during 
this  first  interval  of  peace.  The  Lenoncourts  had  lost  their 
enormous  possessions.  So  far  as  name  was  concerned,  the 
Comte  de  Mortsauf  was  a  suitable  match  for  their  daughter; 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Lenoncourt,  far  from  being  averse  to 
marrying  a  man  of  five-and-thirty,  old  and  ailing  for  his  age, 
seemed  quite  content.  Her  marriage  would  allow  her  to  live 
with  her  aunt,  the  Duchesse  de  Verneuil  (sister  to  the  Prince 
de  Blamont-Chauvry),  who  was  a  second  mother  to  the  girl. 

As  the  intimate  friend  of  the  Duchesse  de  Bourbon,  Ma- 
dame de  Verneuil  was  one  of  a  saintly  circle  whose  soul  was 
Monsieur  de  Saint-Martin,  born  in  Touraine,  and  known  as 
le  Philosophe  inconnu  (the  unrecognized  philosopher).  The 
disciples  of  this  philosopher  practiced  the  virtues  inculcated 
by  the  lofty  speculations  of  mystical  Illuminism.  This  doc- 
trine gives  a  key  to  the  supernal  worlds,  accounts  for  life  by 
a  series  of  transmigrations  through  which  man  makes  his  way 
to  sublime  destinies,  releases  duty  from  its  degradation  by 
the  law,  views  the  woes  of  life  with  the  placid  fortitude  of 
the  Quaker,  and  enjoins  contempt  of  pain,  by  infusing  a 
mysterious  maternal  regard  for  the  angel  within  us  which 

Vol.  4.  (M) 


290  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

we  must  bear  up  to  Heaven.  It  is  Stoicism  looking  for  a 
future  life.  Earnest  prayer  and  pure  love  are  the  elements 
of  this  creed,  which,  born  in  the  Catholicism  of  the  Eoman 
Church,  reverts  to  the  bosom  of  Primitive  Christianity. 

Mademoiselle  de  Lenoncourt  remained  attached,  however, 
to  the  Apostolic  Church,  to  which  her  aunt  was  equally  faith- 
ful. Cruelly  tried  by  the  storms  of  the  .Revolution,  the 
Duchesse  de  Verneuil  had,  toward  the  close  of  her  life,  as- 
sumed a  hue  of  impassioned  piety  which  overflowed  into  the 
soul  of  her  beloved  niece  with  "the  light  of  heavenly  love 
and  the  oil  of  spiritual  joy,"  to  use  the  words  of  Saint-Mar- 
tin. This  man  of  peace  and  virtuous  learning  was  several 
times  the  Countess's  guest  at  Clochegourde  after  her  aunt's 
death;  to  her  he  had  been  a  constant  visitor.  When  staying 
at  Clochegourde,  Saint-Martin  could  superintend  the  printing 
of  his  latest  works  by  Letourney  of  Tours. 

Madame  de  Verneuil,  with  the  inspiration  of  wisdom  that 
comes  to  old  women  who  have  experienced  the  storms  of  life, 
gave  Clochegourde  to  the  young  wife  that  she  might  have 
a  home  of  her  own.  With  the  good  grace  of  old  people — 
which,  when  they  are  gracious,  is  perfection — she  surren- 
dered the  whole  house  to  her  niece,  reserving  only  one  room, 
over  that  she  had  formerly  used,  which  was  taken  by  the 
Countess.  Her  almost  sudden  death  cast  a  shroud  over  the 
joys  of  the  united  household,  and  left  a  permanent  tinge  of 
sadness  on  Clochegourde  as  well  as  on  the  young  wife's  su- 
perstitious soul.  The  early  days  of  her  married  life  in  Tou- 
raine  were  to  the  Countess  the  only  period,  not  indeed  of 
happiness,  but  of  light -heartedness  in  all  her  life. 

After  the  miseries  of  his  life  in  exile,  Monsieur  de  Mort- 
sauf ,  thankful  to  foresee  a  sheltered  existence  in  the  future, 
went  through  a  sort  of  healing  of  the  spirit;  he  inhaled  in 
this  valley  the  intoxicating  fragrance  of  blossoming  hope. 
Being  obliged  to  consider  ways  and  means,  he  threw  himself 
into  agricultural  enterprise,  and  at  first  found  some  delight 
in  it;  but  Jacques'  birth  came  like  a  lightning  stroke,  blight- 
ing the  present  and  the  future ;  the  physician  pronounced  that 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  291 

the  child  could  not  live.  The  Count  carefully  concealed  this 
sentence  of  doom  from  his  wife ;  then  he  himself  consulted  a 
doctor,  and  had  none  but  crushing  answers,  confirmed  as  to 
their  purport  by  Madeleine's  birth. 

These  two  events,  and  a  sort  of  inward  conviction  as  to 
the  inevitable  end,  added  to  the  Count's  ill-health.  His  name 
extinct ;  his  young  wife,  pure  and  blameless  but  unhappy  in 
her  marriage,  doomed  to  the  anxieties  of  motherhood  without 
knowing  its  joys — all  this  humus  of  his  past  life,  filled  with 
the  germs  of  fresh  sufferings,  fell  on  his  heart  and  crowned 
his  misery. 

The  Countess  read  the  past  in  the  present,  and  foresaw 
the  future.  Though  there  is  nothing  so  difficult  as  to  make 
a  man  happy  who  feels  where  he  has  failed,  the  Countess  at- 
tempted the  task  worthy  of  an  angel.  In  one  day  she  became 
a  Stoic.  After  descending  into  the  abyss  whence  she  could 
still  see  the  heavens,  she  devoted  herself,  for  one  man,  to  the 
mission  which  a  Sister  of  Charity  undertakes  for  the  sake  of 
all ;  and  to  reconcile  him  with  himself,  she  forgave  him  what 
he  could  not  forgive  himself.  The  Count  grew  avaricious, 
she  accepted  the  consequent  privations;  he  dreaded  being 
imposed  upon,  as  men  do  whose  knowledge  of  the  world  has 
filled  them  with  repulsions,  and  she  resigned  herself  to  soli- 
tude and  to  his  distrust  of  men  without  a  murmur;  she  used 
all  a  woman's  wiles  to  make  him  wish  for  what  was  right, 
and  he  thus  credited  himself  with  ideas,  and  enjoyed  in  his 
home  the  pleasures  of  superiority  which  he  could  not  have 
known  elsewhere. 

Finally,  having  inured  herself  to  the  path  of  married  life, 
she  determined  never  to  leave  her  home  at  Clochegourde ;  for 
she  perceived  in  her  husband  a  hysterical  nature  whose  eccen- 
tricities, in  a  neighborhood  so  full  of  envy  and  gossip,  might 
be  interpreted  to  the  injury  of  their  children.  Thus  nobody 
had  a  suspicion  of  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 's  incapacity  and 
aberrations;  she  had  clothed  the  ruin  with  a  thick  hanging 
of  ivy.  The  Count's  uncertain  temper,  not  so  much  discon- 
tented as  malcontent,  found  in  his  wife  a  soft  and  soothing 


292  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

bed  on  which  it  might  repose,  its  secret  sufferings  alleviated 
by  cooling  dews. 

This  sketch  is  a  mere  outline  of  the  facts  repeated  by 
Monsieur  de  Chessel  under  the  promptings  of  private  spite. 
His  experience  of  the  world  had  enabled  him  to  unravel 
some  of  the  mysteries  lurking  at  Clochegourde.  But  though 
Madame  de  Mortsauf's  sublime  attitude  might  deceive  the 
world,  it  could  not  cheat  the  alert  wits  of  love. 

When  I  found  myself  alone  in  my  little  bedroom,  an  in- 
tuition of  the  truth  made  me  start  up  in  bed.  I  could  not 
endure  to  be  at  Frapesle  when  I  might  be  gazing  at  the  win- 
dows of  her  room.  I  dressed  myself,  stole  downstairs,  and 
got  out  of  the  house  by  a  side  door  in  a  tower  where  there 
was  a  spiral  stair.  The  fresh  night  air  composed  my  spirit. 
I  crossed  the  Indre  by  the  Moulin-Eouge  bridge,  and  pres- 
ently got  into  the  heaven-sent  little  boat  opposite  Cloche- 
gourde,  where  a  light  shone  in  the  end  window  toward  Azay. 

Here  I  fell  back  on  my  old  dreams,  but  peaceful  now,  and 
soothed  by  the  warbling  of  the  songster  of  lovers'  nights  and 
the  single  note  of  the  reed  warbler.  Ideas  stole  through  my 
brain  like  ghosts,  sweeping  away  the  clouds  which  till  now 
had  darkened  the  future.  My  mind  and  senses  alike  were 
under  the  spell.  With  what  passion  did  my  longing  go  forth 
to  her!  How  many  times  did  I  repeat,  like  a  madman,  "Will 
she  be  mine?" 

If,  during  the  last  few  days,  the  universe  had  expanded 
before  me,  now,  in  one  night,  it  gained  a  centre.  All  my 
will,  all  my  ambitions  were  bound  up  in  her;  I  longed  to  be 
all  I  might  for  her  sake,  and  to  fill  and  heal  her  aching  heart. 
How  lovely  was  that  night  spent  below  her  window,  in  the 
midst  of  murmurous  waters,  plashing  over  the  mill-wheels, 
and  broken  by  the  sound  of  the  clock  at  Sadie*  as  it  told  the 
hours.  In  that  night,  so  full  of  radiance,  when  that  starry 
flower  illumined  my  life,  I  plighted  my  soul  to  her  with  the 
faith  of  the  hapless  Castilian  Knight  whom  we  laugh  at  in 
Cervantes — the  faith  of  the  beginnings  of  love. 

At  the  first  streak  of  dawn  in  the  sky,  the  first  piping 


THE  LILY  OF  THE    VALLEY  293 

bird,  I  fled  to  the  park  of  Frapesle;  no  early  country  yokel 
saw  me,  no  one  suspected  my  escapade,  and  I  slept  till  the 
bell  rang  for  breakfast. 

Notwithstanding  the  heat,  when  breakfast  was  over  I  went 
down  to  the  meadow  to  see  the  Indre  and  its  islets  once  more, 
the  valley  and  its  downs  of  which  I  professed  myself  an  ardent 
admirer;  but,  with  a  swiftness  of  foot  which  might  defy  that 
of  a  runaway  horse,  I  went  back  to  my  boat,  my  willows,  and 
my  Clochegourde.  All  was  still  and  quivering,  as  the  coun- 
try is  at  noon.  The  motionless  foliage  was  darkly  defined 
against  the  blue  sky ;  such  insects  as  live  in  sunshine — green 
dragon-flies  and  iridescent  flies — hovered  round  the  ash-trees 
and  over  the  reeds;  the  herds  chewed  the  cud  in  the  shade, 
the  red  earth  glowed  in  the  vineyards,  and  snakes  wriggled 
over  the  banks.  What  a  change  in  the  landscape  that  I  had 
left  so  cool  and  coy  before  going  to  sleep ! 

On  a  sudden  I  leaped  out  of  the  punt,  and  went  up  the 
road  to  come  down  behind  Clochegourde,  for  I  fancied  I  had 
seen  the  Count  come  out.  I  was  not  mistaken ;  he  was  skirt- 
ing a  hedge,  going  no  doubt  toward  a  gate  opening  on  to  the 
Azay  road  by  the  side  of  the  river. 

"How  are  you  this  morning,  Monsieur  le  Comte?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  pleased  expression.  He  did  not 
often  hear  himself  thus  addressed. 

"Quite  well,"  said  he.  "You  must  be  very  fond  of  the 
country  to  walk  out  in  this  heat?" 

"Was  I  not  sent  here  to  live  in  the  open  air?" 

"Well,  then,  will  you  come  and  see  them  reaping  my 
rye?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  I.  "But  I  am,  I  must  confess  to 
you,  deplorably  ignorant.  I  do  not  know  rye  from  wheat, 
or  a  poplar  from  an  aspen ;  I  know  nothing  of  field-work,  or 
of  the  ways  of  tilling  the  land." 

"Well,  then,  come  along,"  said  he  gleefully,  turning  back 
by  the  hedge.  "Come  by  the  little  upper  gate." 

He  walked  along  inside  the  hedge,  and  I  outside. 


294  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"You  will  never  learn  anything  from  Monsieur  de  Ches- 
sel, "  said  he;  "he  is  much  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  trouble 
himself  beyond  looking  through  his  steward's  accounts." 

So  he  showed  me  his  yards  and  outbuildings,  his  flower- 
garden,  orchards,  and  kitchen-gardens.  Finally,  he  led  me 
along  the  avenue  of  acacias  and  ailantus  on  the  river  bank, 
where,  at  the  further  end,  I  saw  Madame  de  Mortsauf  and 
the  two  children. 

A  woman  looks  charming  under  the  play  of  the  frittered, 
quivering  tracery  of  leaves.  Somewhat  surprised,  no  doubt, 
by  my  early  visit,  she  did  not  move,  knowing  that  we  should 
go  to  her.  The  Count  bid  me  admire  the  view  of  the  valley 
which,  from  thence,  wore  quite  a  different  aspect  from  any  I 
had  seen  from  the  heights.  You  might  have  thought  your- 
self in  a  corner  of  Switzerland.  The  meadow-land,  chan- 
nelled by  the  brooks  that  tumble  into  the  Indre,  stretches 
far  into  the  distance,  and  is  lost  in  mist.  On  the  side  toward 
Montvazon  spreads  a  wide  extent  of  verdure;  everywhere  else 
the  eye  is  checked  by  hills,  clumps  of  trees,  and  rocks. 

We  hastened  our  steps  to  greet  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  who 
suddenly  dropped  the  book  in  which  Madeleine  was  reading, 
and  took  Jacques  on  her  knee,  in  a  fit  of  spasmodic  coughing. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  the  Count,  turning 
pale. 

"He  has  a  relaxed  throat,"  said  the  mother,  who  did  not 
seem  to  see  me;  "it  will  be  nothing." 

She  was  supporting  his  head  and  his  back,  and  from  her 
eyes  shot  two  rays  that  infused  life  into  the  poor  feeble  boy. 

"You  are  extraordinarily  rash,"  said  the  Count  sharply; 
"you  expose  him  to  a  chill  from  the  river,  and  let  him  sit  on 
a  stone  bench!" 

"But,  father,  the  bench  is  burning,"  cried  Madeleine. 

"They  were  stifling  up  above,"  said  the  Countess. 

"Women  will  always  be  in  the  right!"  said  he,  turning 
to  me. 

To  avoid  encouraging  or  offending  him  by  a  look,  I  gazed 
at  Jacques,  who  complained  of  a  pain  in  his  throat,  and  his 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  295 

mother  carried  him  away.  As  she  went,  she  could  hear  hei 
husband  say:  "When  a  mother  has  such  sickly  children, 
she  ought  to  know  how  to  take  care  of  them. ' ' 

Hideously  unjust,  but  his  self-conceit  prompted  him  to 
justify  himself  at  his  wife's  expense. 

The  Countess  flew  on,  up  slopes  and  steps;  she  disap- 
peared through  the  glass  door. 

Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  had  seated  himself  on  the  bench,  his 
head  bent,  lost  in  thought ;  my  position  was  intolerable ;  he 
neither  looked  at  me  nor  spoke.  Good-by  to  the  walk  during 
which  I  meant  to  make  such  way  in  his  good  graces.  I  can- 
not remember  ever  in  my  life  to  have  spent  a  more  horrible 
quarter  of  an  hour.  I  was  bathed  in  perspiration  as  I  con- 
sidered :  ' '  Shall  I  leave  him  ?  Shall  I  stay  ? ' ' 

How  many  gloomy  thoughts  must  have  filled  his  brain  to 
make  him  forget  to  go  and  inquire  how  Jacques  was!  Sud- 
denly he  rose  and  came  up  to  me.  We  turned  together  to 
look  at  the  smiling  scene. 

"We  will  put  off  our  walk  till  another  day,  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  I  said  gently. 

"Nay,  let  us  go,"  said  he.  "I  am,  unfortunately,  used 
to  see  such  attacks — and  I  would  give  my  life  without  a, 
regret  to  save  the  child's." 

"Jacques  is  better  now,  my  dear;  he  is  asleep,"  said  the 
golden  voice.  Madame  de  Mortsauf  appeared  at  the  end  of 
the  walk;  she  had  come  back  without  rancor  or  bitterness, 
and  she  returned  my  bow.  "I  am  pleased  to  see  that  you 
like  Clochegourde, "  she  said  to  me. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  on  horseback  to  fetch  Mon- 
sieur Deslandes,  my  dear?"  said  he,  with  an  evident  desire 
to  win  forgiveness  for  his  injustice. 

"Do  not  be  anxious,"  replied  she.  "Jacques  did  not 
sleep  last  night,  that  is  all.  The  child  is  very  nervous;  he 
had  a  bad  dream,  and  I  spent  the  time  telling  him  stories 
to  send  him  to  sleep  again.  His  cough  is  entirely  nervous. 
T  have  soothed  it  with  a  gam  lozenge,  and  he  has  fallen 
asleep. ' ' 


296  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

"Poor  dear!"  said  he,  taking  her  hand  in  both  his,  and 
looking  at  her  with  moistened  eyes.  "I  knew  nothing  of  it." 

"Why  worry  you  about  trifles?  Go  and  look  at  your 
rye.  You  know  that  if  you  are  not  on  the  spot,  the  farmers 
will  let  gleaners  who  do  not  belong  to  the  place  clear  the 
fields  before  the  sheaves  are  carried." 

"I  am  going  to  take  my  first  lesson  in  farming,  Madame," 
said  I. 

"You  have  come  to  a  good  master,"  replied  she,  looking 
at  the  Count,  whose  lips  were  pursed  into  the  prim  smile  of 
satisfaction  commonly  known  as  la  louche  en  cceur. 

Not  till  two  months  later  did  I  know  that  she  had  spent 
that  night  in  dreadful  anxiety,  fearing  that  her  son  had  the 
croup.  And  I  was  in  the  punt,  softly  lulled  by  dreams  of 
love,  fancying  that  from  her  window  she  might  see  me  ador- 
ing the  light  of  the  taper  which  shone  on  her  brow  furrowed 
by  mortal  fears. 

As  we  reached  the  gate,  the  Count  said  in  a  voice  full  of 
emotion,  "Madame  de  Mortsauf  is  an  angel!" 

The  words  staggered  me.  I  knew  the  family  but  slightly 
as  yet,  and  the  natural  remorse  that  comes  over  a  youthful 
soul  in  such  circumstances  cried  out  to  me : 

"What  right  have  you  to  disturb  this  perfect  peace?" 

The  Count,  enchanted  to  have  for  his  audience  a  youth 
over  whom  he  could  so  cheaply  triumph,  began  talking  of 
the  future  prospects  of  France  under  the  return  of  the  Bour- 
bons. We  chatted  discursively,  and  I  was  greatly  surprised 
at  the  strangely  childish  things  he  said.  He  was  ignorant  of 
facts  as  well  proven  as  geometry;  he  was  suspicious  of  well- 
informed  persons ;  he  had  no  belief  in  superiority ;  he  laughed 
at  progress,  not  perhaps  without  reason ;  and  I  found  in  him 
a  vast  number  of  sensitive  chords  compelling  me  to  take  so 
much  care  not  to  wound  him  that  a  long  conversation  was  a 
labor  to  the  mind.  When  I  had  thus  laid  a  finger  on  his 
failings,  I  felt  my  way  with  as  much  pliancy  as  the  Countess 
showed  in  coaxing  them.  At  a  later  stage  of  my  life  I  should 
undoubtedly  have  fretted  him;  but  I  was  as  timid  as  a  child, 


THE   LILT   OF   THE  VALLEY  297 

and  thinking  that  I  myself  knew  nothing,  or  that  men  of 
experience  knew  everything,  I  was  amazed  at  the  wonders 
worked  at  Clochegourde  by  this  patient  husbandman.  I 
heard  his  plans  with  admiration.  Finally — a  piece  of  invol- 
untary flattery  which  won  me  the  good  gentleman's  affections 
— I  envied  him  this  pretty  estate  so  beautifully  situated,  as 
an  earthly  paradise  far  superior  to  Frapesle. 

"Frapesle,"  said  I,  "is  a  massive  piece  of  plate,  but 
Clochegourde  is  a  casket  of  precious  gems." 

A  speech  he  constantly  repeated,  quoting  me  as  the  author. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "before  we  came  here  it  was  a  wilder- 
ness." 

I  was  all  ears  when  he  talked  of  his  crops  and  nursery 
plantations.  New  to  a  country  life,  I  overwhelmed  him  with 
questions  as  to  the  price  of  things  and  the  processes  of  agri- 
culture, and  he  seemed  delighted  to  have  to  tell  me  so  much. 

"What  on  earth  do  they  teach  you?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

And  that  very  first  day,  on  going  in,  he  said  to  his  wife: 

"Monsieur  Felix  is  a  charming  young  fellow." 

In  the  afternoon  I  wrote  to  my  mother  to  tell  her  I  should 
remain  at  Frapesle,  and  begged  her  to  send  me  clothes  and 
linen. 

Knowing  nothing  of  the  great  revolution  that  was  going 
on,  and  of  the  influence  it  was  to  exert  over  my  destinies, . 
I  supposed  that  I  should  return  to  Paris  to  finish  my  studies, 
and  the  law-schools  would  not  re-open  till  early  in  Novem- 
ber; so  I  had  two  months  and  a  half  before  me. 

During  the  first  days  of  my  stay  I  tried  in  vain  to  attach 
myself  to  the  Count,  and  it  was  a  time  of  painful  shocks. 
I  detected  in  this  man  a  causeless  irritability  and  a  swiftness 
to  act  in  cases  that  were  hopeless  which  frightened  me.  Now 
and  then  there  were  sudden  resuscitations  of  the  brave  gen- 
tleman who  had  fought  so  well  under  Condd,  parabolic  flashes 
of  a  will  which,  in  a  day  of  critical  moment,  might  tear 
through  policy  like  a  bursting  shell,  and  which  in  some 
opportunity  for  resolution  and  courage  may  make  an  Elbde, 
a  Bonchamp,  a  Charette  of  a  man  condemned  to  live  on  his 


298  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

acres.  The  mere  mention  of  certain  possibilities  would  make 
his  nose  quiver  and  his  brow  clear,  while  his  eyes  flashed 
lightnings  that  at  once  died  out.  I  feared  lest  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf ,  if  he  should  read  the  language  of  my  eyes,  might 
kill  me  on  the  spot. 

At  this  period  of  my  life  I  was  only  tender;  will,  which 
affects  a  man  so  strangely,  was  but  just  dawning  in  me.  My 
vehement  longing  had  given  me  a  swiftly  responsive  sensi- 
tiveness that  was  like  a  thrill  of  fear.  I  did  not  tremble  at 
the  prospect  of  a  struggle,  but  I  did  not  want  to  die  till  I  had 
known  the  happiness  of  reciprocated  love.  My  difficulties 
and  my  desires  grew  in  parallel  lines. 

How  can  I  describe  my  feelings  ?  I  was  a  prey  to  heart- 
rending perplexities.  I  hoped  for  a  chance,  I  watched  for 
it;  I  made  friends  with  the  children,  and  won  them  to  love 
me ;  I  tried  to  identify  myself  with  the  interests  of  the  house- 
hold. 

By  degrees  the  Count  was  less  on  his  guard  in  my  pres- 
ence ;  then  I  learned  to  know  his  sudden  changes  of  temper, 
his  fits  of  utter,  causeless  dejection,  his  gusts  of  rebellious- 
ness, his  bitter  and  harsh  complaining,  his  impulses  of  con- 
trolled madness,  his  childish  whining,  his  groans  as  of  a  man 
in  despair,  his  unexpected  rages.  Moral  nature  differs  from 
physical  nature,  inasmuch  as  nothing  in  it  is  final.  The 
intensity  of  effect  is  in  proportion  to  the  character  acted  on, 
or  to  the  ideas  that  may  be  associated  with  an  action.  My 
continuing  at  Clochegourde,  my  whole  future  life  depended 
on  this  fantastic  will. 

I  could  never  express  to  you  the  anguish  that  weighed 
on  my  soul — as  ready  at  that  time  to  expand  as  to  shrink — 
when  on  going  in  I  said  to  myself,  "How  will  he  receive 
me  ?  "  "What  anxious  fears  crushed  my  heart  when  I  descried 
a  storm  lowering  on  that  snow-crowned  brow!  I  was  per- 
petually on  the  alert.  Thus  I  was  a  slave  to  this  man's 
tyranny,  and  my  own  torments  enable  me  to  understand  those 
of  Madame  de  Mortsauf. 

We  began  to  exchange  glances  of  intelligence,  and  my 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  299 

tears  would  sometimes  rise  when  she  repressed  hers.  Thus 
the  Countess  and  I  tested  each  other  through  sorrow.  I  made 
many  discoveries  in  the  course  of  the  first  six  weeks — forty 
days  of  real  annoyance,  of  silent  joys,  of  hopes  now  engulfed 
and  now  rising  to  the  top. 

One  evening  I  found  her  piously  meditative  as  she  looked 
at  a  sunset,  which  crimsoned  the  heights  with  so  voluptuous 
a  blush,  the  valley  spread  below  it  like  a  bed,  that  it  was 
impossible  not  to  understand  the  voice  of  this  eternal  Song 
of  Songs  by  which  Nature  bids  her  creatures  love.  Was  the 
girl  dreaming  of  illusions  now  flown  ?  Was  the  woman  feel- 
ing the  pangs  of  some  secret  comparison  ?  I  fancied  I  saw 
in  her  languid  attitude  a  favorable  opening  for  a  first  avowal. 
I  said  to  her:  "Some  days  are  so  hard  to  live  through." 

"You  have  read  my  mind,"  replied  she.     "But  how?" 

' '  We  have  so  many  points  of  contact, ' '  said  I.  ' ( Are  we 
not  both  of  the  privileged  few,  keen  to  suffer  and  to  enjoy — 
in  whom  every  sensitive  fibre  thrills  in  unison  to  produce  an 
echoing  chord  of  feeling,  and  whose  nervous  system  dwells 
in  constant  harmony  with  the  first  principle  of  things  ?  Such 
beings,  placed  in  a  discordant  medium,  suffer  torture,  just  as 
their  enjoyment  rises  to  ecstasy  when  they  meet  with  ideas, 
sensations,  or  persons  that  they  find  sympathetic. 

"And  for  us  there  is  a  third  condition,  of  which  the  woes 
are  known  only  to  souls  suffering  from  the  same  malady,  and 
endowed  with  brotherly  intelligence.  We  are  capable  of 
having  impressions  that  are  neither  pleasure  nor  pain.  Then 
an  expressive  instrument,  gifted  with  life,  is  stirred  in  a  void 
within  us,  is  impassioned  without  an  object,  gives  forth  sounds 
without  melody,  utters  words  that  die  in  the  silence — a  dread- 
ful contradiction  in  souls  that  rebel  against  the  uselessness 
of  a  vacuum ;  a  terrible  sport  in  which  all  our  power  is  spent 
without  nutrition,  like  blood  from  some  internal  wound.  Our 
emotion  flows  in  torrents,  leaving  us  unutterably  weak,  in  a 
speechless  dejection  for  which  the  confessional  has  no  ear. — 
Have  I  not  expressed  the  sufferings  we  both  are  familiar 
with?" 


500  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

She  shivered,  and  still  gazing  at  the  sunset,  she  replied; 
"How  do  you,  who  are  so  young,  know  these  things ?  Were 
you  once  a  woman?" 

"Ah!"  said  I,  with  some  agitation,  "my  childhood  was 
like  one  long  illness!" 

"I  hear  Madeleine  coughing,"  said  she,  hastily  leaving 
me. 

The  Countess  had  seen  me  constant  in  my  attentions  to 
her,  without  taking  offence,  for  two  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  she  was  as  pure  as  a  child,  and  her  thoughts  never 
wandered  to  evil.  And  then  I  amused  the  Count;  I  was 
food  for  this  lion  without  claws  or  mane.  For  I  had  hit  on 
a  pretext  for  my  visits  which  was  plausible  to  all.  I  could 
not  play  backgammon ;  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  offered  to  teach 
me,  and  I  accepted. 

At  the  moment  when  this  bargain  was  made,  the  Countess 
could  not  help  giving  me  a  pitying  look,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Well,  you  are  rushing  into  the  wolf's  jaws!" 

If  I  had  failed  to  understand  this  at  first,  by  the  third  day 
I  knew  to  what  I  had  committed  myself.  My  patience, 
which  as  a  result  of  my  child-life  is  inexhaustible,  was  ma- 
tured during  this  time  of  discipline.  To  the  Count  it  was  a 
real  joy  to  be  cruelly  sarcastic  when  I  failed  to  practice  some 
rule  or  principle  he  had  explained  to  me ;  if  I  paused  to  re- 
flect, he  complained  of  my  slow  play;  if  I  played  quickly, 
he  hated  to  be  hurried ;  if  I  left  blots,  while  taking  advan- 
tage of  it,  he  said  I  was  too  hasty.  It  was  the  despotism 
of  a  schoolmaster,  the  bullying  of  the  cane,  of  which  I  can 
only  give  you  a  notion  by  comparing  myself  to  Epictetus 
made  a  slave  to  a  malicious  child. 

When  we  played  for  money,  his  constant  winnings  gave 
him  mean  and  degrading  joy;  then  a  word  from  his  wife 
made  up  to  me  for  everything,  and  brought  him  back  to  a> 
sense  of  decency  and  politeness.  But  ere  long  I  fell  into  the 
torments  of  a  fiery  furnace  I  had  not  foreseen:  at  this  rate 
my  pocket-money  was  melting. 

Thougk  the  Count  always  remained   between  his  wife 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  301 

and  me  till  I  took  my  leave,  sometimes  at  a  late  hour,  I 
always  hoped  to  find  a  moment  when  I  might  steal  into  her 
heart;  but  in  order  to  attain  that  hour,  watched  for  with  the 
painful  patience  of  a  sportsman,  I  saw  that  I  must  persevere 
in  these  weariful  games,  through  which  I  endured  mental 
misery,  and  which  were  winning  away  all  my  money! 

Many  a  time  had  we  sat  in  silence,  watching  an  effect 
of  the  sun  on  the  meadows,  of  the  clouds  in  a  gray  sky,  the 
blue  misty  hills,  or  the  quivering  moonbeams  on  the  gem-like 
play  of  the  river,  without  uttering  a  word  beyond: 

"What  a  beautiful  night!" 

"Madame,  the  night  is  a  woman." 

"And  what  peace!" 

"Yes;  it  is  impossible  to  be  altogether  unhappy  here." 

At  this  reply  she  returned  to  her  worsted-work.  I  had 
in  fact  understood  the  yearnings  of  her  inmost  self  stirred  by 
an  affection  that  insisted  on  its  rights. 

Without  money  my  evenings  were  at  an  end.  I  wrote 
to  my  mother  to  send  me  some;  my  mother  scolded  me,  and 
would  give  me  none  for  a  week.  To  whom  could  I  apply  ? 
And  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  mel 

Thus  at'  the  very  beginning  of  my  first  great  happiness 
I  again  felt  the  sufferings  which  had  always  pursued  me;  in 
Paris,  at  school,  I  had  evaded  them  by  melancholy  abstinence, 
my  woes  were  only  negative ;  at  Frapesle  they  were  active ;  I 
now  knew  that  longing  to  steal,  those  dreamed-of  crimes  and 
horrible  frenzies  which  blast  the  soul,  and  which  we  are  bound 
to  stifle  or  lose  all  self-respect.  My  remembrance  of  the  mis- 
erable reflections,  the  anguish  inflicted  on  me  by  my  mother's 
parsimony,  have  given  me  that  holy  indulgence  for  young 
men  which  those  must  feel  who,  without  having  fallen,  have 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf  and  sounded  the  abyss.  Though 
my  honesty,  watered  with  cold  sweats,  stood  firm  at  those  mo- 
ments when  the  waters  of  life  part  and  show  the  stony  depths 
of  its  bed,  whenever  human  justice  draws  her  terrible  sword 
on  a  man's  neck,  I  say  to  myself,  "Penal  laws  were  made  by 
those  who  never  knew  want." 


302  BALZAC  '8    WORKS 

In  tliis  dire  extremity  I  found  in  Monsieur  de  Chessel's 
library  a  treatise  on  backgammon,  and  this  I  studied ;  then 
my  host  was  good  enough  to  give  me  a  few  lessons.  Under 
milder  tuition  I  made  some  progress,  and  could  apply  the 
rules  and  calculations  which  I  learned  by  heart.  In  a  few 
days  I  was  able  to  beat  my  master.  But  when  I  won  he 
waxed  furious;  his  eyes  glared  like  a  tiger's,  his  face  twitched, 
his  brows  worked  as  I  never  saw  any  other's  work.  His  frac- 
tiousness  was  like  that  of  a  spoiled  child.  Sometimes  he 
would  fling  the  dice  across  the  room,  rage,  and  stamp,  bite 
the  dice-box,  and  abuse  me.  But  this  violence  had  to  be 
stopped.  As  soon  as  I  could  play  a  good  game,  I  disposed 
of  the  battle  as  I  pleased.  I  arranged  it  so  that  we  should 
come  out  nearly  even  at  the  end,  allowing  him  to  win  at  the 
beginning  of  the  evening,  and  restoring  the  balance  in  the 
later  games. 

The  end  of  the  world  would  have  amazed  the  Count  less 
than  his  pupil's  sudden  proficiency;  but,  in  fact,  he  never 
perceived  it.  The  regular  result  of  our  play  was  a  novelty 
that  bewildered  his  mind. 

"My  poor  brain  is  tired  no  doubt,"  he  would  say.  "You 
always  win  at  the  finish,  because  by  that  time  I  have  ex- 
hausted my  powers. ' ' 

The  Countess,  who  knew  the  game,  detected  my  purpose 
from  the  first,  and  saw  in  it  an  evidence  of  immense  affection. 
These  details  can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  to  whom  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  backgammon  is  known.  How  much  this 
trifle  betrayed!  But  love,  like  God  as  depicted  by  Bossuet, 
regards  the  poor  man's  cup  of  water,  the  struggle  of  the 
soldier  who  dies  inglorious,  as  far  above  the  most  profitable 
victories. 

The  Countess  gave  me  one  of  those  looks  of  silent  grati- 
tude that  overpower  a  youthful  heart :  she  bestowed  on  me 
such  a  glance  as  she  reserved  for  her  children.  From  that 
thrice-blessed  evening  she  always  looked  at  me  when  she 
spoke  to  me. 

I  could  never  find  words  for  my  state  of  mind  when  I 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY 

left.  My  soul  had  absorbed  my  body.  I  weighed  nothing, 
I  did  not  walk — I  floated.  I  felt  within  ine  still  that  look 
that  had  bathed  me  in  glory,  just  as  her  "Good-night,  Mon- 
sieur," had  echoed  in  my  soul  like  the  harmonies  of  the  "O 
filii,  0  filiae!"  of  the  Easter  benediction.  I  was  born  to  new 
life.  I  was  something  to  her,  then  1 

I  slept  in  wrappings  of  purple.  Flames  danced  before  my 
closed  eyes,  chasing  each  other  in  the  dark  like  the  pretty 
bright  sparks  that  run  over  charred  paper.  And  in  my 
dreams  her  voice  seemed  something  tangible — an  atmosphere 
that  lapped  me  in  light  and  fragrance,  a  melody  that  lulled 
my  spirit. 

Next  day  her  welcome  conveyed  the  full  expression  of  the 
feelings  she  bestowed  on  me,  and  thenceforth  I  knew  every 
secret  of  her  tones. 

That  day  was  to  be  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  of  my  life. 
After  dinner  we  went  for  a  walk  on  the  downs,  and  up  to  a 
common  where  nothing  would  grow ;  the  soil  was  strong  and 
dry,  with  no  vegetable  mould.  There  were,  however,  a  few 
oaks,  and  some  bushes  covered  with  sloes;  but  instead  of 
grass,  the  ground  was  carpeted  with  curled  brown  lichen, 
bright  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  slippery  under  foot. 
I  held  Madeleine  by  the  hand  to  keep  her  from  falling,  and 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  gave  Jacques  her  arm.  The  Count, 
who  led  the  way,  suddenly  struck  the  earth  with  his  stick, 
and  turning  round,  exclaimed  in  a  terrible  tone: 

"Such  has  my  life  been! — Oh,  before  I  knew  you,  "he 
added,  with  an  apologetic  glance  at  his  wife.  But  it  was  too 
late,  the  Countess  had  turned  pale.  What  woman  would  not 
have  staggered  under  such  a  blow  ? 

"What  delightful  perfumes  reach  us  here,  and  what  won- 
derful effects  of  light!"  cried  I.  "I  should  like  to  own  this 
common;  I  might  perhaps  find  riches  if  I  dug  into  it;  but 
the  most  certain  advantage- would  be  living  near  you.  But 
who  would  not  pay  highly  for  a  view  so  soothing  to  the  eye 
of  that  winding  river  in  which  the  soul  may  bathe  among 


304  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ash-trees  and  birch.  That  shows  how  tastes  differ!  To  you 
this  spot  of  land  is  a  common;  to  me  it  is  a  paradise." 

She  thanked  me  with  a  look. 

"Rodomontade!"  said  he  in  a  bitter  tone.  Then,  inter- 
rupting himself,  he  said,  "Do  you  hear  the  bells  of  Azay? 
I  can  positively  hear  the  bells." 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  glanced  at  me  with  an  expression 
of  alarm,  Madeleine  clutched  my  hand. 

"Shall  we  go  home  and  play  a  bit?"  said  I.  "The  rattle 
of  the  dice  will  hinder  you  from  hearing  the  bells." 

We  returned  to  Clochegourde,  talking  at  intervals.  When 
we  went  into  the  drawing-room  we  sat  in  indefinable  indeci- 
sion. The  Count  had  sunk  into  an  armchair,  lost  in  thought, 
and  undisturbed  by  his  wife,  who  knew  the  symptoms  of  his 
malady,  and  could  foresee  an  attack.  I  was  not  less  silent. 
She  did  not  bid  me  leave,  perhaps  because  she  thought  that 
a  game  of  backgammon  would  amuse  the  Count  and  scare 
away  this  dreadful  nervous  irritation,  for  its  outbreaks  half 
killed  her. 

Nothing  was  more  difficult  than  to  persuade  the  Count  to 
play  his  game  of  backgammon,  though  he  always  longed  for 
it.  Like  a  mincing  coquette,  he  had  to  be  entreated  and 
urged,  'so  as  not  to  seem  under  any  obligation,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  felt  that  he  was.  If,  at  the  end  of  some  interesting 
conversation,  1  forgot  to  go  through  my  salamelek,  he  was 
sulky,  sharp,  and  offensive,  and  showed  his  annoyance  by 
contradicting  everything  that  was  said.  Then,  warned  by 
his  fractiousness,  I  would  propose  a  game,  and  he  would 
play  the  coquette. 

"It  was  too  late,"  he  would  say,  "and  besides,  I  did  not 
really  care  for  it."  In  short,  no  end  of  airs  and  graces,  like 
a  woman  whose  real  wishes  you  cannot  at  last  be  sure  of.  I 
was  humble,  and  besought  him  to  give  me  practice  in  a  science 
BO  easily  forgotten  for  lack  of  exercise. 

On  this  occasion  I  had  to  affect  the  highest  spirits  to  per- 
suade him  to  play.  He  complained  of  giddiness  that  hindered 
his  calculations,  his  brain  was  crushed  in  a  vise,  he  had  a 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY 

singing  in  his  ears,  he  Was  suffocating,  and  sighed  and  groaned. 
At  last  he  consented  to  come  to  the  table.  Madame  de  Mort- 
sauf  then  left  us  to  put  the  children  to  bed  and  to  read  prayers 
for  the  household.  All  went  well  during  her  absence;  I  con- 
trived that  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  should  win,  and  his  success 
restored  his  good-humor.  The  sudden  transition  from  a  state 
of  depression,  in  which  he  had  given  utterance  to  the  most 
gloomy  anticipations  for  himself,  to  this  joviality  like  that 
of  a  drunken  man,  and  to  crazy,  irrational  mirth,  distressed 
and  terrified  me.  I  had  never  seen  him  so  frankly  and  un- 
mistakably beside  himself.  Our  intimacy  had  borne  fruit; 
he  was  no  longer  on  his  guard  with  me.  Day  by  day  he  tried 
to  involve  me  in  his  tyranny,  and  find  in  me  fresh  food  for 
his  humors — for  it  really  would  seem  that  mental  disorders 
are  living  things  with  appetites  and  instincts,  and  a  craving 
to  extend  the  limits  of  their  dominion  as  a  landowner  seeks 
to  enlarge  his  borders. 

The  Countess  came  down  again,  and  drew  near  the  back- 
gammon table  for  a  better  light  on  her  work,  but  she  sat 
down  to  her  frame  with  ill-disguised  apprehension.  An  un- 
lucky move  which  I  could  not  avoid  changed  the  Count's 
face ;  from  cheerful  it  became  gloomy,  from  purple  it  turned 
yellow,  and  his  eyes  wandered.  Then  came  'another  blow 
which  I  could  neither  foresee  nor  make  good.  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf  threw  a  fatally  bad  number  which  ruined  him.  He 
started  up,  threw  the  table  over  me  and  the  lamp  on  the 
ground,  struck  his  fist  on  the  console,  and  leaped — for  I  can- 
not say  he  walked — up  and  down  the  room.  The  rush  of 
abuse,  oaths,  and  ejaculations  that  he  poured  out  was  enough 
to  make  one  think  that  he  was  possessed,  according  to  medie- 
val belief.  Imagine  my  position. 

"Go  out  into  the  garden,"  said  she,  pressing  my  hand. 

I  went  without  the  Count's  noticing  that  I  was  gone. 

From  the  terrace,  whither  I  slowly  made  my  way,  I  could 
hear  his  loud  tones,  and  groans  coming  from  his  bedroom, 
adjoining  the  dining-room.  Above  the  tempest  I  could  also 
hear  the  voice  of  an  angel,  audible  now  and  then  like  the 


306  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

song  of  the  nightingale  when  the  storm  is  passing  over.  1 
wandered  up  and  down  under  the  acacias  on  that  exquisite 
night  late  in  August,  waiting  for  the  Countess.  She  would 
come;  her  manner  had  promised  it.  For  some  days  an  ex- 
planation had  been  in  the  air  between  us,  and  must  inevita- 
bly come  at  the  first  word  that  should  unseal  the  overfull  well 
in  our  hearts.  "What  bashfulness  retarded  the  hour  of  our 
perfect  understanding?  Perhaps  she  loved,  as  I  did,  the 
thrill,  almost  like  the  stress  of  fear,  which  quenches  emotion 
at  those  moments  when  we  hold  down  the  gushing  overflow 
of  life,  when  we  are  as  shy  of  revealing  our  inmost  soul  as  a 
maiden  bride  of  unveiling  to  the  husband  she  loves.  The 
accumulation  of  our  thoughts  had  magnified  this  first  and 
necessary  confession  on  both  sides. 

An  hour  stole  away.  I  was  sitting  on  the  brick  parapet 
when  the  sound  of  her  footstep,  mingling  with  the  rustle  of 
her  light  dress,  fluttered  the  evening  air.  It  was  one  of  the 
sensations  at  which  the  heart  stands  still. 

"Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  is  asleep,"  said  she.  "When  he 
has  one  of  these  attacks  I  give  him  a  cup  of  tea  made  of 
poppy-heads,  and  the  crisis  is  rare  enough  for  the  simple 
remedy  always  to  take  effect. — Monsieur,"  she  went  on,  with 
a  change  of  tone  to  the  most  persuasive  key,  "an  unfortunate 
accident  has  put  you  in  possession  of  secrets  which  have  hith- 
erto been  carefully  kept;  promise  me  to  bury  in  your  heart 
every  memory  of  this  scene.  Do  this  for  my  sake,  I  beg  of 
you.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  swear  it;  the  simple  Yes  of  a  man 
of  honor  will  amply  satisfy  me. ' ' 

"Need  I  even  say  Yesf"  I  asked.  "Have  we  failed  to 
understand  each  other?" 

"Do  not  form  an  unjust  opinion  of  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 
from  seeing  the  result  of  much  suffering  endured  in  exile, 
she  went  on.     "He  will  have  entirely  forgotten  by  to-morrow 
all  he  said  to  you,  and  you  will  find  him  quite  kind  and  affec- 
tionate." 

"Nay,  Madame,"  said  I,  "you  need  not  justify  the  Count. 
I  will  do  exactly  what  you  will.  I  would  this  instant  throw 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  807 

myself  into  the  Indre  if  I  could  thus  make  a  new  man  of 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  and  give  you  a  life  of  happiness. 
The  only  thing  I  cannot  do  is  to  alter  my  opinion,  nothing 
is  more  essentially  a  part  of  me.  I  would  give  my  life  for 
you;  I  cannot  sacrifice  my  conscience;  I  may  refuse  to  listen 
to  it,  but  can  I  hinder  its  speaking  ?  Now,  in  my  opinion, 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  is — " 

"I  quite  understand  you,"  she  said,  interrupting  me  to 
mitigate  the  idea  of  insanity  by  softening  the  expression. 
"The  Count  is  as  nervous  as  a  lady  with  the  megrims;  but 
it  occurs  only  at  long  intervals,  at  most  once  a  year,  when 
the  heat  is  greatest.  How  much  evil  the  emigration  brought 
in  its  train!  How  many  noble  lives  were  wrecked!  He,  I 
am  sure,  would  have  been  a  distinguished  officer  and  an 
honor  to  his  country — " 

"I  know  it,"  I  replied,  interrupting  in  my  turn,  to  show 
her  that  it  was  vain  to  try  to  deceive  me. 

She  paused  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  brow. 

"Who  has  thus  thrown  you  into  our  midst?  Has  God 
intended  me  to  find  a  help  in  you,  a  living  friendship  to  lean 
upon?"  she  went  on,  firmly  grasping  my  hand.  "For  you 
are  kind  and  generous — " 

She  looked  up  to  heaven  as  if  to  invoke  some  visible  evi- 
dence that  should  confirm  her  secret  hopes;  then  she  bent 
her  eyes  on  me.  Magnetized  by  that  gaze  which  shed  her 
soul  into  mine,  I  failed  in  tact  by  every  rule  of  worldly 
guidance;  but  to  some  souls  is  not  such  precipitancy  a 
magnanimous  haste  to  meet  danger,  an  eagerness  to  pre- 
vent disaster  and  dread  of  a  misfortune  that  may  never 
come ;  is  it  not  more  often  the  abrupt  question  of  heart  to 
heart,  a  blow  struck  to  find  out  whether  they  ring  in  unison  ? 

Many  thoughts  flashed  through  me  like  light,  and  coun- 
selled me  to  wash  out  the  stain  that  soiled  my  innocence 
even  at  the  moment  when  I  hoped  for  full  initiation. 

"Before  going  any  further,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  quavering 
from  my  heartbeats,  audible  in  the  deep  silence,  "allow  me 
to  purify  one  memory  of  the  past — " 


308  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Be  silent,"  said  she  hastily,  and  laying  a  finger  on  my 
lips  for  an  instant.  She  looked  at  me  loftily,  like  a  woman 
who  stands  too  high  for  slander  to  reach  her,  and  said  in  a 
broken  voice,  "I  know  what  you  allude  to — the  first  and 
last  and  only  insult  ever  offered  me !  —Never  speak  of  that 
ball.  Though  as  a  Christian  I  have  forgiven  you,  the 
woman  still  smarts  under  it." 

"Do  not  be  less  merciful  than  God,"  said  I,  my  eyelashes 
retaining  the  tears  that  rose  to  my  eyes. 

"I  have  a  right  to  be  more  severe;  I  am  weaker,"  replied 
she. 

"But  hear  me,"  I  cried,  with  a  sort  of  childish  indigna- 
tion, "even  if  it  be  for  the  first  and  last  and  only  time  in 
your  life." 

"Well,"  said  she,  "speak  then  I  Otherwise  you  will 
fancy  that  I  am  afraid  to  hear  you.'* 

I  felt  that  this  hour  was  unique  in  our  lives,  and  I  told 
her,  in  a  way  to  command  belief,  that  every  woman  at  that 
ball  had  been  as  indifferent  to  me  as  every  other  I  had 
hitherto  seen;  but  that  when  I  saw  her — I  who  had  spent 
my  life  in  study,  whose  spirit  was  so  far  from  bold — I  had 
been  swept  away  by  a  sort  of  frenzy  which  could  only  be 
condemned  by  those  who  had  never  known  it;  that  the 
heart  of  man  had  never  been  so  overflowing  with  such  de- 
sire as  no  living  being  can  resist,  and  which  conquers  all 
things,  even  death — 

"And  scorn?"  said  she,  interrupting  me. 

"What,  you  scorned  me?"  said  I. 

"Talk  no  more  of  these  things,"  said  she. 

"Nay,  let  us  talk  of  them,"  replied  I,  in  the  excitement 
of  superhuman  anguish.  "It  concerns  my  whole  being,  my 
unknown  life;  it  is  a  secret  you  must  hear,  or  else  I  must 
die  of  despair! — And  does  it  not  concern  you  too — you  who, 
without  knowing  it,  are  the  Lady  in  whose  hand  shines  the 
crown  held  out  to  the  conqueror  in  the  lists?" 

I  told  her  the  story  of  my  childhood  and  youth,  not  as  I 
have  related  it  to  you,  calmly  judged  from  a  distance,  but  in 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  809 

the  words  of  a  young  man  whose  wounds  are  still  bleeding. 
My  voice  rang  like  the  axe  of  the  woodman  in  a  forest.  The 
dead  years  fell  crashing  down  before  it,  and  the  long  misery 
that  had  crowned  them  with  leafless  boughs.  In  fevered 
words  I  described  to  her  a  thousand  odious  details  that  I 
have  spared  you.  I  displayed  the  treasury  of  my  splendid 
hopes,  the  virgin  gold  of  my  desires,  a  burning  heart  kept 
hot  under  the  Alps  of  ice  piled  up  through  a  perpetual 
winter.  And  then,  when,  crushed  by  the  burden  of  my 
griefs  uttered  with  the  fire  of  an  Isaiah,  I  waited  for  a 
word  from  the  woman  who  had  heard  me  with  a  downcast 
head,  she  lightened  the  darkness  with  a  look,  and  vivified 
the  worlds  earthly  and  divine  by  one  single  sentence. 

"Our  childhood  was  the  same,"  said  she,  showing  me  a 
face  bright  with  the  halo  of  martyrdom. 

After  a  pause,  during  which  our  souls  were  wedded  by 
the  same  consoling  thought,  "Then  I  was  not  the  only  one 
to  suffer!"  the  Countess  told  me,  in  the  tones  she  kept  for 
her  children,  how  luckless  she  had  been  as  a  girl  when  the 
boys  were  dead.  She  explained  the  difference,  made  by  her 
condition  as  a  girl  always  at  her  mother's  skirt,  between  her 
miseries  and  those  of  a  boy  flung  into  the  world  of  school. 
My  isolation  had  been  paradise  in  comparison  with  the 
grinding  millstone  under  which  her  spirit  was  perennially 
bruised,  until  the  day  when  her  true  mother,  her  devoted 
aunt,  had  saved  her  by  rescuing  her  from  the  torture  of 
which  she  described  the  ever-new  terrors.  It  was  a  course 
of  those  indescribable  goading  pricks  that  are  intolerable  to 
a  nervous  nature  which  can  face  a  direct  thrust,  but  dies 
daily  under  the  sword  of  Damocles — a  generous  impulse 
quashed  by  a  stern  command;  a  kiss  coldly  accepted; 
silence  first  enjoined  and  then  found  fault  with;  tears 
repressed  that  lay  heavy  on  her  heart;  in  short,  all  the 
petty  tyranny  of  convent  discipline  hidden  from  the  eyes 
of  the  world  behind  a  semblance  of  proud  and  sentimental 
motherhood.  Her  mother  was  vain  of  her  and  boasted  of 
her-,  but  she  paid  dearly  afterward  for  the  praise  bestowed 


310  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

only  for  the  glory  of  her  teacher.  "When,  by  dint  of  docil- 
ity and  sweetness,  she  fancied  she  had  softened  her  mother's 
heart,  and  opened  her  own,  the  tyrant  armed  herself  with 
her  confessions.  A  spy  would  have  been  less  cowardly  and 
treacherous. 

All  her  girlish  pleasures  and  festivals  had  cost  her  dear, 
for  she  was  scolded  for  having  enjoyed  them  as  much  as  for 
a  fault.  The  lessons  of  her  admirable  education  had  never 
been  given  with  love,  but  always  with  cruel  irony.  She 
owed  her  mother  no  grudge,  she  only  blamed  herself  for 
loving  her  less  than  she  feared  her.  Perhaps,  the  angel 
thought,  this  severity  had  really  been  necessary.  Had  it 
not  prepared  her  for  her  present  life? 

As  I  listened  to  her,  I  felt  as  though  the  harp  of  Job, 
from  which  I  had  struck  some  wild  chords,  was  now 
touched  by  Christian  fingers,  and  responded  with  the 
chanted  liturgy  of  the  Virgin  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

44 We  dwelt  in  the  same  sphere,"  I  cried,  "before  meeting 
here,  you  coining  from  the  East,  and  I  from  the  West." 

She  shook  her  head  with  desperate  agitation:  "The  East 
is  for  you,  and  the  West  for  me,"  said  she.  "You  will  live 
happy,  I  shall  die  of  grief  I  Men  make  the  conditions  of  their 
life  themselves;  my  lot  is  cast  once  for  all.  No  power  can 
break  the  ponderous  chain  to  which  a  wife  is  bound  by  a 
ring  of  gold,  the  emblem  of  her  purity." 

Feeling  now  that  we  were  twins  of  the  same  nurture,  she 
could  not  conceive  of  semi-confidences  between  sister  souls 
that  had  drunk  of  the  same  spring.  After  the  natural  sigh 
of  a  guileless  heart  opening  for  the  first  time,  she  told  me  the 
etory  of  the  early  days  of  her  married  life,  her  first  disillu- 
sionment, all  the  renewal  of  her  sorrows.  She,  like  me,  had 
gone  through  those  trivial  experiences  which  are  so  great  to 
spirits  whose  limpid  nature  is  shaken  through  and  through 
by  the  slightest  shock,  as  a  stone  flung  into  a  lake  stirs  the 
depths  as  well  as  the  surface. 

When  she  married,  she  had  some  savings,  the  little  treas- 
ure which  represents  the  happy  hours,  the  thousand  trifles  a 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  811 

young  wife  may  wish  for;  one  day  of  dire  need  she  had  gen- 
erously given  the  whole  sum  to  her  husband,  not  telling  him 
that  these  were  not  gold  pieces,  but  remembrances;  he  had 
never  taken  any  account  of  it;  he  did  not  feel  himself  her 
debtor.  Nor  had  she  seen  in  return  for  her  treasure,  sunk 
in  the  sleeping  waters  of  oblivion,  the  moistened  eye  which 
pays  every  debt,  and  is  to  a  generous  soul  like  a  perpetual 
gem  whose  rays  sparkle  in  the  darkest  day. 

And  she  had  gone  on  from  sorrow  to  sorrow.  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  would  forget  to  give  her  money  for  housekeep- 
ing ;  he  woke  up  as  from  a  dream  when  she  asked  for  it,  after 
overcoming  a  woman's  natural  shyness;  never  once  had  he 
spared  her  this  bitter  experience!  Then  what  terrors  had 
beset  her  at  the  moment  when  this  worn-out  man  had  first 
shown  symptoms  of  his  malady !  The  first  outbreak  of  his 
frenzied  rage  had  completely  crushed  her.  "What  miserable 
meditations  must  she  have  known  before  she  understood  that 
her  husband — the  impressive  figure  that  presides  over  a 
woman's  whole  life — was  a  nonentity!  What  anguish  had 
come  on  her  after  the  birth  of  her  two  children!  What  a 
shock  on  seeing  the  scarcely  living  infants !  What  courage 
she  must  have  had  to  say  to  herself,  "I  will  breathe  life  into 
them;  they  shall  be  born  anew  day  by  day!"  And  then  the 
despair  of  finding  an  obstacle  in  the  heart  and  hand  whence 
a  wife  looks  for  help ! 

She  had  seen  this  expanse  of  woes  stretching  before  her, 
a  thorny  wilderness,  after  every  surmounted  difficulty.  From 
the  top  of  each  rock  she  had  discovered  new  deserts  to  cross, 
till  the  day  when  she  really  knew  her  husband,  knew  her 
children's  constitution,  and  the  land  she  was  to  dwell  in; 
till  the  day  when,  like  the  boy  taken  by  Napoleon  from  the 
tender  care  of  home,  she  had  inured  her  feet  to  tramp 
through  mire  and  snow,  inured  her  forehead  to  flying  bul- 
lets, and  broken  herself  entirely  to  the  passive  obedience  of 
a  soldier.  All  these  things,  which  I  abridge  for  you,  she 
related  in  their  gloomy  details,  with  all  their  adjuncts  of 
cruel  incidents,  of  conjugal  defeats,  and  fruitless  efforts. 


312  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"In  short,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "only  a  residence 
here  of  months  would  give  you  a  notion  of  all  the  troubles 
the  improvements  at  Clochegourde  cost  me,  all  the  weary 
coaxing  to  persuade  him  to  do  the  thing  that  is  most  useful 
for  his  interests.  What  childish  malice  possesses  him  when- 
ever anything  1  may  have  advised  is  not  an  immediate  suc- 
cess! How  delighted  he  is  to  proclaim  himself  in  the  right  I 
What  patience  I  need  when  I  hear  continual  complaints  while 
I  am  killing  myself  to  clear  each  hour  of  weeds,  to  perfume 
the  air  he  breathes,  to  strew  sand  and  flowers  on  the  paths 
he  has  beset  with  stones!  My  reward  is  this  dreadful  bur- 
den— 'I  am  dying;  life  is  a  curse  to  me!' 

41  If  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  find  visitors  at  home,  all  is 
forgotten ;  he  is  gracious  and  polite.  Why  cannot  he  be  the 
same  to  his  family?  I  cannot  account  for  this  want  of  loy- 
alty in  a  man  who  is  sometimes  chivalrous.  He  is  capable 
of  going  off  without  a  word,  all  the  way  to  Paris,  to  get  me 
a  dress,  as  he  did  the  other  day  for  that  ball.  Miserly  as  he 
is  in  his  housekeeping,  he  would  be  lavish  for  me  if  I  would 
allow  it.  It  ought  to  be  just  the  other  way;  I  want  nothing, 
and  the  house  expenses  are  heavy.  In  my  anxiety  to  make 
him  happy,  and  forgetting  that  I  might  be  a  mother,  I  per- 
haps gave  him  the  habit  of  regarding  me  as  his  victim, 
whereas  with  a  little  flattery  I  might  still  manage  him  like 
a  child  if  I  would  stoop  to  play  so  mean  a  part !  But  the  in- 
terests of  the  household  make  it  necessary  that  I  should  be 
as  calm  and  austere  as  a  statue  of  Justice;  and  yet  I  too  have 
a  tender  and  effusive  soul.'1 

"But  why,"  said  I,  "do  you  not  avail  yourself  of  lyour 
influence  to  be  the  mistress  and  guide  him?" 

"If  I  alone  were  concerned,  I  could  never  defy  the  stolid 
silence  with  which  for  hours  he  will  oppose  sound  arguments, 
nor  could  I  answer  his  illogical  remarks — the  reasoning  of  a 
child.  I  have  no  courage  against  weakness  or  childishness; 
they. may  hit  me,  and  I  shall  make  no  resistance.  I  might 
mee,t  force  with  force,  but  I  have  no  power  against  those  I 
pity.  If  I  were  required  to  compel  Madeleine  to  do  some- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  813 

tiling  that  would  save  her  life,  we  should  die  together.  Pity 
xes  all  my  fibres  and  weakens  my  sinews.  And  the  vio- 
lent shocks  of  the  past  ten  years  have  undermined  me;  my 
nervous  force  so  often  attacked,  is  sometimes  deliquescent, 
nothing  can  restore  it;  the  strength  that  weathered  those 
storms  is  sometimes  wanting.  Yes,  sometimes  I  am  con- 
quered. 

"For  want  of  rest  and  of  sea-bathing,  which  would  give 
tone  to  my  whole  system,  I  shall  be  worn  out.     Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf  will  kill  me,  and  he  will  die  of  my  death." 
-    "Why  do  you  not  leave  Clochegourde  for  a  few  months? 
Why  should  not  you  and  the  children  go  to  the  sea?" 

"In  the  first  place,  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  would  feel  him- 
self lost  if  I  left  him.  Though  he  will  not  recognize  the  sit- 
uation, he  is  aware  of  his  state.  The  man  and  the  invalid 
are  at  war  in  him,  two  different  natures,  whose  antagonism 
accounts  for  many  eccentricities.  And  indeed  he  has  every 
reason  to  dread  it;  if  I  were  absent,  everything  here  would 
go  wrong.  You  have  seen,  no  doubt,  that  I  am  a  mother 
perpetually  on  the  watch  to  guard  her  brood  against  the 
hawk  that  hovers  over  them;  a  desperate  task,  increased  by 
the  cares  required  by  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  whose  perpet- 
ual cry  is,  'Where  is  Madame?'  But  this  is  nothing.  I 
am  at  the  same  time  Jacques'  tutor  and  Madeleine's  gov- 
erness. This  again  is  nothing.  I  am  steward  and  book> 
keeper.  You  will  some  day  know  the  full  meaning  of  my 
words  when  I  say  that  the  management  of  an  estate  is  here 
the  most  exhausting  toil.  We  have  but  a  small  income  in 
money,  and  our  farms  are  worked  on  a  system  of  half-profits 
which  requires  incessant  superintendence.  We  ourselves 
must  sell  our  corn,  our  beasts,  and  every  kind  of  crop. 
Our  competitors  are  our  own  farmers,  who  agree  with  the 
purchasers  over  their  wine  at  the  tavern,  and  fix  a  price 
after  being  before  us  in  the  market. 

"I  should  tire  you  out  if  I  were  to  tell  you  all  the  thou- 
sand difficulties  of  our  husbandry.     With  all  my  vigilance, 
I  cannot  keep  our  farmers  from  manuring  their  lands  from 
Vol.  4.  (N) 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

our  middens;  I  can  neither  go  to  make  sure  that  our  bailiffs 
do  not  agree  with  them  to  cheat  us  when  the  crops  are 
divided,  nor  can  I  know  the  best  time  to  sell.  And  if  you 
think  how  little  memory  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  can  boast  of, 
and  what  trouble  it  costs  me  to  induce  him  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness, you  will  understand  what  a  load  I  have  to  carry,  and 
the  impossibility  of  setting  it  down  even  for  a  moment.  If 
I  went  away,  we  should  be  ruined.  No  one  would  listen  to 
his  orders;  indeed,  they  are  generally  contradictory;  then 
nobody  is  attached  to  him;  he  finds  fault  too  much,  and  is 
too  despotic;  and,  like  all  weak  natures,  he  is  too  ready 
to  listen  to  his  inferiors,  and  so  fails  to  inspire  the  affection 
that  binds  families  together.  If  I  left  the  house,  not  a  ser- 
vant would  stay  a  week. 

"So  you  see  I  am  as  much  rooted  to  Clochegourde  as 
one  of  the  leaden  finials  is  to  the  roof.  I  have  kept 
nothing  from  you,  Monsieur.  The  neighbors  know  noth- 
ing of  the  secrets  of  Clochegourde;  you  now  know  them  all. 
Say  nothing  of  the  place  but  what  is  kind  and  pleasant, 
and  you  will  earn  my  esteem — my  gratitude,"  she  added  in 
a  softened  tone.  "On  these  conditions  you  can  always  come 
to  Clochegourde — you  will  find  friends  here.*' 

"But  I  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  suffer,"  exclaimed 
I.  "You  alone—" 

"Nay,"  said  she,  with  that  resigned  woman's  smile  that 
might  melt  granite,  "do  not  be  dismayed  by  my  confidences. 
They  show  you  life  as  it  is,  and  not  as  your  fancy  had  led 
you  to  hope.  We  all  have  our  faults  and  our  good  points. 
If  I  had  married  a  spendthrift,  he  would  have  ruined  me. 
If  I  had  been  the  wife  of  some  ardent  and  dissipated  youth, 
he  would  have  been  a  favorite  with  women;  perhaps  he  would 
have  been  unfaithful,  and  I  should  have  died  of  jealousy. — 
I  am  jealous!"  she  exclaimed  in  an  excited  tone  that  rang 
like  the  thunderclap  of  a  passing  storm. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  loves  me  as  much  as  it  is 
in  him  to  love;  all  the  affection  of  which  his  heart  is  capable 
is  poured  out  at  my  feet,  as  the  Magdalen  poured  out  her 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  315 

precious  balm  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour.  Believe  me  when 
I  tell  you  that  a  life  of  love  is  an  exception  to  every  earthly 
law ;  every  flower  fades,  every  great  joy  has  a  bitter  morrow 
—when  it  has  a  morrow.  Real  life  is  a  life  of  sorrow ;  this 
nettle  is  its  fit  image ;  it  has  sprouted  in  the  shade  of  the  ter- 
race, and  grows  green  on  its  stem  without  any  sunshine. 
Here,  as  in  northern  latitudes,  there  are  smiles  in  the  sky, 
rare,  to  be  sure,  but  making  amends  for  many  griefs.  After 
all,  if  a  woman  is  exclusively  a  mother,  is  she  not  tied  by 
sacrifices  rather  than  by  joys?  I  can  draw  down  on  myself 
the  storms  I  see  ready  to  break  on  the  servants  or  on  my  chil- 
dren, and  as  I  thus  conduct  them  I  feel  some  mysterious  and 
secret  strength.  The  resignation  of  one  day  prepares  me  for 
the  next. 

"And  God  does  not  leave  me  hopeless.  Though  I  was 
at  one  time  in  despair  over  my  children's  health,  I  now  see 
that  as  they  grow  up  they  grow  stronger.  And,  after  all, 
our  house  is  improved,  our  fortune  is  amended.  Who  knows 
whether  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 's  old  age  may  not  bring  me 
happiness. 

"Believe  me,  the  human  being  who  can  appear  in  the 
presence  of  the  Great  Judge,  leading  any  comforted  soul  that 
had  been  ready  to  curse  life,  will  have  transformed  his  sor- 
rows into  delight.  If  my  suffering  has  secured  the  happiness 
of  my  family,  is  it  really  suffering  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  replied  I.  "Still,  it  was  necessary  suffering,  as 
mine  has  been,  to  make  me  appreciate  the  fruit  that  has 
ripened  here  among  stones.  And  now  perhaps  we  may  eat 
of  it  together,  perhaps  we  may  admire  its  wonders  I — the  flood 
of  affection  it  can  shed  on  the  soul,  the  sap  which  can  revive 
the  fading  leaves.  Then  life  is  no  longer  a  burden ;  we  have 
cast  it  from  us.  Great  God!  can  you  not  understand?"  I 
went  on,  in  the  mystical  strain  to  which  religious  training 
had  accustomed  us  both.  "See  what  roads  we  have  trodden 
to  meet  at  last !  What  loadstone  guided  us  across  the  ocean 
of  bitter  waters  to  the  fresh  springs  flowing  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  over  sparkling  sands,  between  green  and  flowery 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

banks?  Have  not  we,  like  the  Kings  of  the  East,  followed 
the  same  star  ?  And  we  stand  by  the  manger  where  lies  an 
awakening  Babe — a  divine  Child  who  will  shoot  his  arrows 
at  the  head  of  the  leafless  trees,  who  will  wake  the  world  to 
new  life  for  us  by  his  glad  cries,  who  will  lend  savor  to  life 
by  continual  delights,  and  give  slumbers  by  night  and  con- 
tentment by  day.  Are  we  not  more  than  brother  and  sister  ? 
What  Heaven  has  joined,  put  not  asunder. 

"The  sorrows  of  which  you  speak  are  the  grain  scattered 
freely  abroad  by  the  hand  of  the  sower,  to  bring  forth  a  har- 
vest already  golden  under  the  most  glorious  sun.  Behold 
and  see !  Shall  we  not  go  forth  together  and  gather  it  ear 
by  ear? — What  fervor  is  in  me  that  I  dare  to  speak  to  you 
thus.  Answer  me,  or  I  will  never  cross  the  Indre  again." 

"You  have  spared  me  the  name  of  Love,"  said  she,  inter- 
rupting me  in  a  severe  tone;  "but  you  have  described  a  feel- 
ing of  which  I  know  nothing — which  to  me  is  prohibited. 
You  are  but  a  boy,  and  again  I  forgive  you ;  but  it  is  for  the 
last  time.  Understand,  Monsieur,  my  whole  heart  is  drunk, 
so  to  speak,  with  motherhood.  I  love  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf , 
not  as  a  social  duty,  nor  as  an  investment  to  earn  eternal 
bliss,  but  from  an  irresistible  feeling,  clinging  to  him  by 
every  fibre  of  my  heart.  Was  I  forced  into  this  marriage  ? 
I  chose  it  out  of  sympathy  with  misfortune.  Was  it  not  the 
part  of  woman  to  heal  the  bruises  of  time,  to  comfort  those 
who  had  stood  in  the  breach  and  come  back  wounded? 

.  "How  can  I  tell  you?  I  felt  a  sort  of  selfish  pleasure  in 
seeing  that  you  could  amuse  him.  Is  not  that  purely  moth- 
erly ?  Has  not  my  long  story  shown  you  plainly  that  I  have 
three  children  who  must  never  find  me  wanting,  on  whom  I 
must  shed  a  healing  dew  and  all  the  sunshine  of  my  soul 
without  allowing  the  smallest  particle  to  be  adulterated? 
Do  not  turn  a  mother's  milk. 

"So,  though  the  wife  in  me  is  invulnerable,  never  speak 
to  me  thus  again.  If  you  fail  to  respect  this  simple  prohibi- 
tion, I  warn  you,  the  door  of  this  house  will  be  closed  against 
you  forever.  I  believed  in  pure  friendship,  in  a  voluntary 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  317 

brotherhood  more  stable  than  any  natural  relationship.  I  was 
mistaken!  I  looked  for  a  friend  who  would  not  judge  me, 
a  friend  who  would  listen  to  me  in  those  hours  of  weakness 
when  a  voice  of  reproof  is  murderous,  a  saintly  friend  with 
whom  I  should  have  nothing  to  fear.  Youth  is  magnani- 
mous, incapable  of  falsehood,  self-sacrificing,  and  disinter- 
ested ;  as  I  saw  your  constancy,  I  believed,  I  confess,  in  some 
help  from  Heaven ;  I  believed  I  had  met  a  spirit  that  would 
be  to  me  alone  what  the  priest  is  to  all,  a  heart  into  which. 
I  might  pour  out  my  sorrows  when  they  are  too  many,  and 
utter  my  cries  when  they  insist  on  being  heard,  and  would 
choke  me  if  I  suppressed  them.  In  that  way  my  life,  which 
is  so  precious  to  these  children,  might  be  prolonged  till 
Jacques  is  a  man.  But  this,  perhaps,  is  too  selfish.  Can. 
the  tale  of  Petrarch's  Laura  be  repeated? — I  deceived  myself, 
this  is  not  the  will  of  God.  I  must  die  at  my  post  like  a  sol- 
dier, without  a  friend.  My  confessor  is  stern,  austere — and 
my  aunt  is  dead. ' ' 

Two  large  tears,  sparkling  in  the  moonlight,  dropped  from 
her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks  to  her  chin ;  but  I  held 
out  my  hand  in  time  to  catch  them,  and  drank  them  with 
pious  avidity,  excited  by  her  words,  that  rang  with  those  ten 
years  of  secret  weeping,  of  expended  feeling,  of  incessant 
care,  of  perpetual  alarms — the  loftiest  heroism  of  your  sex. 
She  gazed  at  me  with  a  look  of  mild  amazement. 

"This,"  said  I,  "is  the  first,  holy  communion  of  love. 
Yes ;  I  have  entered  into  your  sorrows,  I  am  one  with  your 
soul,  as  we  become  one  with  Christ  by  drinking  His  sacred 
blood.  To  love  even  without  hope  is  happiness.  What 
woman  on  earth  could  give  me  any  joy  so  great  as  that  of 
having  imbibed  your  tears ! — I  accept  the  bargain  which  must 
no  doubt  bring  me  suffering.  I  am  yours  without  reserve, 
and  will  be  just  whatever  you  wish  me  to  be." 

She  checked  me  by  a  gesture  and  said:  "I  consent  to  the 
compact  if  you  will  never  strain  the  ties  that  bind  us. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "But  the  less  you  grant  me,  the  more. 
sure  must  I  be  that  I  really  possess  it." 


318  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"So  you  begin  by  distrusting  me,"  she  replied,  with 
melancholy  doubtfulness. 

"No,  by  one  pure  delight.  For,  listen,  I  want  a  name 
for  you  which  no  one  ever  calls  you  by;  all  my  own,  like  the 
affection  that  we  give  each  other. ' ' 

"It  is  much  to  ask,"  said  she.  "However,  I  am  less 
ungenerous  than  you  think  me.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  calls 
me  Blanche.  One  person  only,  the  one  I  loved  best,  my 
adorable  aunt,  used  to  call  me  Henriette.  I  will  be  Henrietta 
again  for  you." 

I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  she  yielded  it  with  the 
full  confidence  which  makes  woman  our  superior — a  confi- 
dence that  masters  us.  She  leaned  against  the  brick  parapet 
and  looked  out  over  the  river. 

"Are  you  not  rash,  dear  friend,"  said  she,  "to  rush  with 
one  leap  to  the  goal  of  your  course  ?  You  have  drained  at 
the  first  draught  a  cup  offered  you  in  all  sincerity.  But 
a  true  feeling  knows  no  half  measures ;  it  is  all  or  nothing. — 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"is  above  everything  loyal  and  proud.  You  might  perhaps 
be  tempted  for  my  sake  to  overlook  what  he  said;  if  he  has 
forgotten  it,  I  will  remind  him  of  it  to-morrow.  Stay  away 
from  Clochegourde  for  a  few  days ;  he  will  respect  you  all  the 
more.  On  Sunday  next,  as  we  come  out  of  church,  he  will 
make  the  first  advances.  I  know  him.  He  will  make  up  for 
past  offences,  and  will  like  you  the  better  for  having  treated 
him  as  a  man  responsible  for  his  words  and  deeds. ' ' 

"Five  days  without  seeing  you,  hearing  your  voice." 

"Never  put  such  fervor  into  your  speech  to  me,"  said  she. 

"We  twice  paced  the  terrace  in  silence.  Then,  in  a  tone 
of  command,  which  showed  that  she  had  entered  into  posses- 
sion of  my  soul,  she  said:  "It  is  late;  good-night." 

J  wished  to  kiss  her  hand ;  she  hesitated ;  then  she  gave 
it  me,  saying  in  a  voice  of  entreaty: 

"Never  take  it  unless  I  give  it  you;  leave  me  completely 
free,  or  else  I  shall  be  at  your  bidding,  and  that  must  not  be." 

"Good-by,"  said  I. 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  319 

I  went  out  of  the  little  gate  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
which  she  opened  for  me.  Just  as  she  was  shutting  it,  she 
opened  it  again,  and  held  out  her  hand,  saying: 

"You  have. been  indeed  kind  this  evening.  You  have 
brought  comfort  into  all  my  future  life. — Take  it,  my  friend, 
take  it." 

I  kissed  it  again  and  again,  and  when  I  looked  up  I  saw 
that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  went  up  to  the  terrace  and  looked  after  me  across  the 
meadow.  As  I  went  along  the  road  to  Frapesle,  I  could  still 
see  her  white  dress  in  the  moonlight;  then,  a  few  minutes 
later,  a  light  was  shining  in  her  window. 

"Oh,  my  Henriette!"  thought  I,  "the  purest  love  that 
ever  burned  on  earth  shall  be  yours." 

I  got  home  to  Frapesle,  looking  back  at  every  step.  My 
spirit  was  full  of  indescribable,  ineffable  gladness.  A  glori- 
ous path  at  last  lay  open  to  the  self-devotion  that  swells  every 
youthful  heart,  and  that  in  me  had  so  long  lain  inert.  I  was 
consecrated,  ordained,  like  a  priest  who  at  one  step  starts  on 
a  totally  new  life.  A  simple  "  Yes,  Madame,"  had  pledged 
me  to  preserve  in  my  heart  and  for  myself  alone  an  irresistible 
passion,  and  never  to  trespass  beyond  friendship  to  tempt 
this  woman  little  by  little  to  love.  Every  noble  feeling  awoke 
within  me  with  a  tumult  of  voices. 

Before  finding  myself  cabined  in  a  bedroom,  I  felt  that  I 
must  pause  in  rapture  under  the  blue  vault  spangled  with 
stars,  to  hear  again  in  my  mind's  ear  those  tones  as  of  a 
wounded  dove,  the  simple  accents  of  her  ingenuous  confi- 
dence, and  inhale  with  the  air  the  emanations  of  her  soul 
which  she  must  be  sending  out  to  me.  How  noble  she 
appeared  to  me — the  woman  who  so  utterly  forgot  herself 
in  her  religious  care  for  weak  or  suffering  or  wounded  creat- 
ures, her  devotedness  apart  from  legal  chains.  She  stood 
serene  at  the  stake  of  so.intly  martyrdom!  I  was  gazing  at 
her  face  as  it  appeared  to  me  in  the  darkness,  when  suddenly 
I  fancied  that  I  discerned  in  her  words  a  mystical  significance 
which  made  her  seem  quite  sublime.  Perhaps  she  meant 


320  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

that  I  was  to  be  to  her  what  she  was  to  her  little  world ;  per- 
haps she  intended  to  derive  strength  and  consolation  from 
me  by  thus  raising  me  to  her  sphere,  to  her  level — or  higher? 
The  stars,  so  some  bold  theorists  tell  us,  thus  interchange 
motion  and  light.  This  thought  at  once  lifted  me  to  ethereal 
realms.  I  was  once  more  in  the  heaven  of  my  early  dreams, 
and  I  accounted  for  the  anguish  of  my  childhood  by  the  infi- 
nite beatitude  in  which  I  now  floated. 

Ye  souls  of  genius  extinguished  by  tears,  misprized  hearts, 
Clarissa  Harlowes,  saintly  and  unsung,  outcast  children, 
guiltless  exiles — all  ye  who  entered  life  through  its  desert 
places,  who  have  everywhere  found  cold  faces,  closed  hearts, 
deaf  ears — do  not  bewail  yourselves  I  You  alone  can  know 
the  immensity  of  joy  in  the  moment  when  a  heart  opens  to 
you,  an  ear  listens,  a  look  answers  you.  One  day  wipes  out 
all  the  evil  days.  Past  sorrows,  broodings,  despair,  and 
melancholy — past,  but  not  forgotten — are  so  many  bonds 
by  which  the  soul  clings  to  its  sister  soul.  The  woman, 
beautified  by  our  suppressed  desires,  inherits  our  wasted 
sighs  and  loves;  she  refunds  our  deluded  affections  with 
interest;  she  supplies  a  reason  for  antecedent  griefs,  for  they 
are  the  equivalent  insisted  on  by  Fate  for  the  eternal  joy  she 
bestows  on  the  day  when  souls  are  wed.  The  angels  only 
know  the  new  name  by  which  this  sacred  love  may  be 
called;  just  as  you,  sweet  martyrs,  alone  can  know  what 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  suddenly  become  to  me — hapless 
and  alone. 

This  scene  had  taken  place  one  Tuesday;  I  waited  till 
the  following  Sunday  before  recrossing  the  Indre  in  my 
walks. 

During  these  five  days  great  events  occurred  at  Cloche- 
gourde.  The  Count  was  promoted  to  the  grade  of  Major- 
General,  and  the  Cross  of  Saint-Louis  was  conferred  on  him 
with  a  pension  of  four  thousand  francs.  The  Due  de  Lenon- 
court  Givry  was  made  a  peer  of  France,  two  of  his  forest  do- 
mains were  restored  to  him,  he  had  an  appointment  at  Court, 


THE   LILY   OF    THE    VALLEY  821 

and  his  wife  was  reinstated  in  her  property,  which  had  not 
been  sold,  having  formed  part  of  the  Imperial  Crown  lands. 
Thus  the  Comtesse  de  Mortsauf  had  become  one  of  the  rich- 
est heiresses  in  the  province.  Her  mother  had  come  to  Cloche- 
gourde  to  pay  her  a  hundred  thousand  francs  she  had  saved 
out  of  the  revenues  from  Givry;  this  money,  settled  on  her 
at  her  marriage,  she  had  never  received ;  but  the  Count,  in 
spite  of  his  necessity,  had  never  alluded  to  this.  In  all  that 
concerned  the  outer  circumstances  of  life,  this  man's  conduct 
was  marked  by  disinterested  pride. 

By  adding  this  sum  to  what  he  had  saved,  the  Count  could 
now  purchase  two  adjoining  estates  that  would  bring  in  about 
nine  thousand  francs  a  year.  His  son  was  to  inherit  his  ma- 
ternal grandfather's  peerage ;  and  it  occurred  to  the  Count 
to  entail  on  Jacques  the  landed  property  of  both  families 
without  prejudice  to  Madeleine,  who  with  the  Due  de  Lenon- 
court's  interest,  would,  no  doubt,  marry  well. 

All  these  schemes  and  this  good  fortune  shed  some  balm 
on  the  exile's  wounds. 

The  Duchesse  de  Lenoncourt  at  Clochegourde  was  an 
event  in  the  district.  I  sorrowfully  reflected  what  a  great 
lady  she  was,  and  I  then  discerned  in  her  daughter  that  spirit 
of  caste  which  her  noble  soul  had  hitherto  hidden  from  my 
eyes.  "What  was  I — poor,  and  with  no  hope  for  the  future 
but  in  my  courage  and  my  brains  ?  I  never  thought  of  the 
consequences  of  the  Restoration  either  to  myself  or  to  others. 

On  Sunday,  from  the  side  chapel,  where  I  attended  mass 
with  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Chessel  and  the  Abbe*  Que'lus, 
I  sent  hungry  looks  to  the  chapel  on  the  opposite  side,  where 
the  Duchess  and  her  daughter  were,  the  Count,  and  the  chil- 
dren. The  straw  bonnet  that  hid  my  idol's  face  never  moved, 
and  this  ignoring  of  my  presence  seemed  to  be  a  stronger  tie 
than  all  that  had  passed.  The  noble  Henriette  de  Lenon- 
court, who  was  now  my  beloved  Henriette,  was  absorbed  in 
prayer;  faith  gave  an  indescribable  sentiment  of  prostrate 
dependence  to  her  attitude,  the  feeling  of  a  sacred  statue, 
which  penetrated  my  soul. 


322  BALZAQ'S    WORKS 

As  is  customary  in  village  clmrclies,  Vespers  were  chanted 
some  little  time  after  High  Mass.  As  we  left  the  church  Ma- 
dame de  Chessel  very  naturally  suggested  to  her  neighbors 
that  they  should  spend  the  two  hours'  interval  at  Frapesle 
instead  of  crossing  the  Indre  and  the  valley  twice  in  the  heat. 
The  invitation  was  accepted.  Monsieur  de  Chessel  gave  the 
Duchess  his  arm,  Madame  de  Chessel  took  the  Count's,  and 
I  offered  mine  to  the  Countess.  For  the  first  time  I  felt  that 
light  wrist  resting  by  my  side.  As  we  made  our  way  back 
from  the  church  to  Frapesle  through  the  woods  of  Sache*, 
where  the  dappled  lights,  falling  through  the  leaves,  made 
pretty  patterns  like  chine  silk,  I  went  through  surges  of 
pride  and  thrills  of  feeling  that  gave  me  violent  palpitations. 

"What  ails  you?"  said  she,  after  we  had  gone  a  few  steps 
in  silence,  which  I  dared  not  break;  "your  heart  beats  too 
fast." 

"I  have  heard  of  good  fortune  for  you,"  said  I,  "and, 
like  all  who  love  much,  I  feel  some  vague  fears. — Will  not 
your  greatness  mar  your  friendship  ?" 

"Mine  I"  cried  she.  "For  shame  I  If  you  ever  have 
such  an  idea,  I  shall  not  despise  you,  but  simply  forget  you 
forever." 

I  looked  at  her  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  which  must 
surely  have  been  infectious. 

"  We  get  the  benefit  of  an  edict  which  we  neither  prompted 
nor  asked  for,  and  we  shall  neither  be  beggars  nor  grasping," 
she  went  on.  "Besides,  ae  you  know,  neither  I  nor  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  can  ever  leave  Clochegourde.  By  my  advice  he 
has  declined  the  active  command  he  had  a  right  to  at  the 
Maison  Eouge.  It  is  enough  that  my  father  should  have  an 
appointment.  And  our  compulsory  modesty,"  she  went  on, 
with  a  bitter  smile,  "has  been  to  our  boy's  advantage  already. 
The  King,  on  whom  my  father  is  in  attendance,  has  very  gra- 
ciously promised  to  reserve  for  Jacques  the  favors  we  have 
declined. 

"Jacques'  education,  which  must  now  be  thought  of,  is 
the  subject  of  very  grave  discussion.  He  will  be  the  repre- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  823 

eentative  of  the  two  houses  of  Mortsauf  and  Lenoncourt.  I 
have  no  ambition  but  for  him,  so  this  is  an  added  anxiety. 
Not  only  must  Jacques  be  kept  alive,  but  he  must  also  be 
made  worthy  of  his  name,  and  the  two  necessities  are  antago- 
nistic. Hitherto  I  have  been  able  to  teach  him,  graduating 
his  tasks  to  his  strength ;  but  where  am  I  to  find  a  tutor  who 
would  suit  me  in  this  respect?  And  then,  by  and  by,  to 
what  friend  can  I  look  to  preserve  him  in  that  dreadful  Paris, 
where  everything  is  a  snare  to  the  soul  and  a  peril  to  the 
body? 

"My  friend,"  she  went  on,  in  an  agitated  voice,  "who 
that  looks  at  your  brow  and  eye  can  fail  to  see  in  you  one  of 
the  birds  that  dwell  on  the  heights.  Take  your  flight,  soar 
up,  and  one  day  become  the  guardian  of  our  beloved  child. 
Go  to  Paris;  and  if  your  brother  and  your  father  will  not 
help  you,  our  family,  especially  my  mother,  who  has  a  genius 
for  business,  will  have  great  influence.  Take  the  benefit  of 
it,  and  then  you  will  never  lack  support  or  encouragement 
in  any  career  you  may  choose.  Throw  your  superabundant 
energy  into  ambition — " 

"I  understand,"  said  I,  interrupting  her.  "My  ambition 
is  to  be  my  mistress !  I  do  not  need  that  to  make  me  wholly 
yours.  No ;  I  do  not  choose  to  be  rewarded  for  my  good 
behavior  here  by  favors  there.  I  will  go ;  I  will  grow  up 
alone,  unaided.  I  will  accept  what  you  can  give  me ;  from 
any  one  else  I  will  take  nothing." 

"That  is  childish,"  she  murmured,  but  she  could  not 
disguise  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"Besides,"  I  went  on,  "I  have  pledged  myself.  In  con- 
sidering our  position,  I  have  resolved  to  bind  myself  to  you 
by  ties  which  can  never  be  loosened." 

She  shivered,  and  stood  still  to  look  in  my  face. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  letting  the  other  couples 
who  were  in  front  of  us  go  forward,  and  keeping  the  children 
by  her  side. 

"Well,"  replied  I,  "tell  me  plainly  how  you  would  wish 
me  to  love  you." 


324  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Love  me  as  my  aunt  loved  me;  I  "have  given  you  her 
rights  by  permitting  you  to  call  me  by  the  name  she  had 
chosen  from  my  names." 

"Love  you  without  hope,  with  entire  devotion? — Yes,  I 
will  do  for  you  what  men  do  for  God.  Have  you  not  asked 
it  of  me  ? — I  will  go  into  a  seminary;  I  will  come  out  a  priest, 
and  I  will  educate  Jacques.  Your  Jacques  shall  be  my  sec- 
ond self:  my  political  notions,  my  thoughts,  my  energy,  and 
patience — I  will  give  them  all  to  him.  Thus  I  may  remain 
near  you,  and  no  suspicion  can  fall  on  my  love,  set  in  relig- 
ion like  a  silver  image  in  a  crystal.  You  need  not  fear  any 
of  those  perfervid  outbreaks  which  come  over  a  man,  which 
once  already  proved  too  much  for  me.  I  will  be  burned  in 
the  fire,  and  love  you  with  purified  ardor." 

She  turned  pale,  and  answered  eagerly: 

"Felix,  do  not  fetter  yourself  with  cords  which  some  day 
may  be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  our  happiness.  I  should 
die  of  grief  if  I  were  the  cause  of  such  suicide.  Child,  is  the 
despair  of  love  a  religious  vocation  ?  Wait  to  test  life  before 
you  judge  of  life.  I  desire  it — I  insist.  Marry  neither  the 
Church  nor  a  woman;  do  not  marry  at  all ;  I  forbid  it.  Re- 
main free.  You  are  now  one-and-twenty ;  you  scarcely  know 
what  the  future  may  have  in  store. 

"Good  Heavens!  am  I  mistaken  in  you  ?  But  I  believed 
that  in  two  months  one  might  really  know  some  natures. ' ' 

"What,  then,  is  it  that  you  hope  for?"  I  asked,  with 
lightning  in  my  eyes. 

"My  friend,  accept  my  assistance,  educate  yourself,  make 
a  fortune,  and  you  shall  know. — Well,  then,"  she  added,  as 
if  she  were  betraying  her  secret,  "always  hold  fast  to  Made- 
leine's hand,  which  is  at  this  moment  in  yours." 

She  had  bent  toward  me  to  whisper  these  words,  which 
showed  how  seriously  she  had  thought  of  my  future  prospects. 

"Madeleine?"  cried  I.     "Never!" 

These  two  words  left  us  silent  again  and  greatly  agitated. 
Our  minds  were  tossed  by  such  upheavals  as  leave  indelible 
traces. 


THE   LILY   OF   THE   VALLEY  825 

Just  before  us  was  a  wooden  gate  into  the  park  of  Frapesle 
— I  think  I  can  see  it  now,  with  its  tumble-down  side-posts 
overgrown  with  climbing  plants,  moss,  weeds,  and  brambles. 
Suddenly  an  idea — that  of  the  Count's  death — flashed  like  an 
arrow  through  my  brain,  and  I  said:  "I  understand." 

"That  is  fortunate,"  she  replied,  in  a  tone  which  made 
me  see  that  I  had  suspected  her  of  a  thought  that  could  never 
have  occurred  to  her. 

Her  pure-mindedness  wrung  from  me  a  tear  of  admiration, 
made  bitter  indeed  by  the  selfishness  of  my  passion.  Then, 
with  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  I  thought  that  she  did  not  love 
me  enough  to  wish  for  freedom.  So  long  as  love  shrinks 
from  crime,  it  seems  to  have  a  limit,  and  love  ought  *>  be 
infinite.  I  felt  a  terrible  spasm  at  my  heart. 

"She  does  not  love  me,"  thought  I. 

That  she  might  not  read  my  soul,  I  bent  down  and  ki»wd 
Madeleine's  hair. 

"I  am  afraid  of  your  mother,"  I  said  to  the  Countess,  U 
reopen  the  conversation. 

"So  am  I,"  she  replied,  with  a  childish  gesture.  "Do 
not  forget  to  address  her  as  Madame  la  Duchesse,  and  speak 
to  her  in  the  third  person.  Young  people  of  the  present  day 
have  forgotten  those  polite  formalities;  revive  them;  do  that 
much  for  me.  Besides,  it  is  always  in  good  taste  to  be  re- 
spectful to  a  woman,  whatever  her  age  may  be,  and  to  accept 
social  distinctions  without  hesitancy.  Is  not  the  homage  you 
pay  to  recognized  superiority  a  guarantee  for  what  is  due  to 
yourself  ?  In  society  everything  holds  together.  The  Car- 
dinal de  Eovere  and  Raphael  d'Urbino  were  in  their  time 
two  equally  respected  powers. 

"You  have  drunk  the  milk  of  the  Revolution  in  your 
schools,  and  your  political  ideas  may  show  the  taint;  but  as 
you  get  on  in  life,  you  will  discover  that  ill-defined  notions 
of  liberty  are  inadequate  to  create  the  happiness  of  nations. 
I,  before  considering,  as  a  Lenoncourt,  what  an  aristocracy 
is  or  ought  to  be,  listen  to  my  peasant  common-sense,  which 
shows  me  that  society  exists  only  by  the  hierarchy.  You 


326  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

are  at  a  stage  in  your  life  when  you  must  make  a  wise  choice. 
Stick  to  your  party,  especially,"  she  added,  with  a  laugh, 
"when  it  is  on  the  winning  side." 

I  was  deeply  touched  by  these  words,  in  which  wise  policy 
lurked  below  the  warmth  of  her  affection,  a  union  which  gives 
women  such  powers  of  fascination.  They  all  know  how  to 
lend  the  aspect  of  sentiment  to  the  shrewdest  reasoning. 

Henriette,  in  her  anxiety  to  justify  the  Count's  actions, 
had,  as  it  seemed,  anticipated  the  reflections  which  must 
arise  in  my  mind  when,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  the  results 
of  being  a  courtier.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  a  king  in  his 
domain,  surrounded  with  his  historic  halo,  had  assumed  mag- 
nificent proportions  in  my  eyes,  and  I  own  that  I  was  greatly 
astonished  at  the  distance  he  himself  set  between  the  Duchess 
and  himself  by  his  subservient  manner.  A  slave  even  has 
his  pride;  he  will  only  obey  the  supreme  despot;  I  felt  my- 
self humbled  at  seeing  the  abject  attitude  of  the  man  who 
made  me  tremble  by  overshadowing  my  love.  This  impulse 
of  feeling  revealed  to  me  all  the  torment  of  a  woman  whose 
generous  soul  is  joined  to  that  of  a  man  whose  meanness  she 
has  to  cover  decently  every  day.  Eespect  is  a  barrier  which 
protects  great  and  small  alike ;  each  on  his  part  can  look  the 
other  steadily  in  the  face. 

I  was  deferent  to  the  Duchess  by  reason  of  my  youth ; 
but  where  others  saw  only  the  Duchess,  I  saw  my  Henriette's 
mother,  and  there  was  a  solemnity  in  my  respect. 

We  went  into  the  front  court  of  Frapesle,  and  there 
found  all  the  party.  The  Comte  de  Mortsauf  introduced 
me  to  the  lady  with  much  graciousness,  and  she  examined 
me  with  a  cold,  reserved  manner.  Madame  de  Lenoncourt 
was  then  a  woman  of  fifty-six,  extremely  well  preserved, 
and  with  lordly  manners.  Seeing  her  hard,  blue  eyes,  her 
wrinkled  temples,  her  thin,  ascetic  face,  her  stately  upright 
figure,  her  constant  quiescence,  her  dull  pallor — in  her 
daughter  brilliant  whiteness — I  recognized  her  as  of  the 
same  race  as  my  own  mother,  as  surely  as  a  mineralogist 
recognizes  Swedish  iron.  Her  speech  was  that  of  the  old 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  327 

Court  circles;  she  pronounced  oil  as  at7,  spoke  of  frait  for 
ffvid,  and  of  porteux  for  porteurs.  I  was  neither  servile 
nor  prim,  and  I  behaved  so  nicely  that  as  we  went  to  ves- 
pers the  Countess  said  in  my  ear,  "You  are  perfect." 

The  Count  came  up  to  me,  took  my  hand,  and  said,  "We 
have  not  quarrelled,  Fe*lix?  If  I  was  a  little  hasty,  you  will 
forgive  your  old  comrade.  We  shall  probably  stay  to  dine 
here,  and  we  hope  to  see  you  at  Clochegourde  on  Thursday, 
the  day  before  the  Duchess  leaves  us.  I  am  going  to  Tours 
on  business. — Do  not  neglect  Clochegourde,  my  mother-in- 
law  is  an  acquaintance  I  advise  you  to  cultivate;  her  draw- 
ing-room will  pitch  the  keynote  for  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain.  She  has  the  tradition  of  the  finest  society,  she  is 
immensely  well  informed,  and  knows  the  armorial  bearings 
of  every  gentleman  in  Europe  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest. ' ' 

The  Count's  good  taste,  aided  perhaps  by  the  counsels 
of  his  good  genius,  told  well  in  the  new  circumstances  in 
which  he  was  placed  by  the  triumph  of  his  party.  He  was 
neither  arrogant  nor  offensively  polite;  he  showed  no  affec- 
tation, and  the  Duchess  no  patronizing  airs.  Monsieur  and 
Madame  de  Chessel  gratefully  accepted  the  invitation  to  din- 
ner on  the  following  Thursday. 

The  Duchess  liked  me,  and  her  way  of  looking  at  me 
made  me  understand  that  she  was  studying  me  as  a  man 
of  whom  her  daughter  had  spoken.  On  our  return  from 
church  she  inquired  about  my  family,  and  asked  whether 
the  Vandenesse,  who  was  already  embarked  in  diplomacy, 
were  a  relation  of  mine. 

"He  is  my  brother,"  said  I. 

Then  she  became  almost  affectionate.  She  informed  me 
that  my  grandaunt,  the  old  Marquise  de  Listom&re,  had 
been  a  Grandlieu.  Her  manner  was  polite,  as  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf 's  had  been  on  the  day  when  he  saw  me  for  the 
first  time.  Her  eyes  lost  that  haughty  expression  by  which 
the  princes  of  the  earth  make  you  feel  the  distance  that  di- 
vides you  from  them. 


528  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

I  knew  hardly  anything  of  my  family;  the  Duchess  told 
me  that  my  great-uncle,  an  old  Abbe*  whom  I  did  not  know 
even  by  name,  was  a  member  of  the  Privy  Council ;  that  my 
brother  had  got  promotion;  and  finally,  that,  by  a  clause  in 
the  Charter,  of  which  I  had  heard  nothing,  my  father  was 
restored  to  his  title  of  Marquis. 

"I  am  but  a  chattel,  a  serf  to  Clochegourde,"  said  I  to 
the  Countess  in  an  undertone, 

The  fairy  wand  of  the  Restoration  had  worked  with  a 
rapidity  quite  astounding  to  children  brought  up  under  Im- 
perial rule.  To  me  these  changes  meant  nothing.  Madame 
de  Mortsauf  s  lightest  word  or  merest  gesture  were  the  only 
events  to  which  I  attached  any  importance.  I  knew  nothing 
of  politics,  nor  of  the  ways  of  the  world.  I  had  no  ambition 
but  to  love  Henriette  better  than  Petrarch  loved  Laura.  This 
indifference  made  the  Duchess  look  upon  me  as  a  boy. 

A  great  deal  of  company  came  to  Frapesle,  and  we  were 
thirty  at  dinner.  How  enchanting  for  a  young  man  to  see 
the  woman  he  loves  the  most  beautiful  person  present,  and 
the  object  of  passionate  admiration,  while  he  knows  the  light 
of  those  chastely  modest  eyes  is  for  him  alone,  and  is  famil- 
iar enough  with  every  tone  of  her  voice  to  find  in  her  speech, 
superficially  trivial  or  ironical,  proofs  of  an  ever-present 
thought  of  him,  even  while  his  heart  is  full  of  burning 
jealousy  of  the  amusements  of  her  world! 

The  Count,  delighted  with  the  attentions  paid  him,  was 
almost  young  again;  his  wife  hoped  it  might  work  some 
change  in  him;  I  was  gay  with  Madeleine,  who,  like  all 
children  in  whom  the  body  is  too  frail  for  the  wrestling 
soul,  made  me  laugh  by  her  amazing  remarks,  full  of  sar- 
castic but  never  malignant  wit,  which  spared  no  one.  It 
was  a  lovely  day.  One  word,  one  hope,  born  that  morning 
had  brightened  all  nature,  and,  seeing  me  so  glad,  Henriette 
was  glad  too. 

"This  happiness  falling  across  her  gray  and  cloudy  life 
had  done  her  good,"  she  told  me  next  day. 

Of   course  I  spent  the  morrow  at  Clochegourde;   I  had 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  329 

been  exiled  for  five  days,  and  thirsted  for  life.  The  Count 
had  set  out  for  Tours  at  five  in  the  morning. 

A  serious  matter  of  dispute  had  come  up  between  the 
mother  and  daughter.  The  Duchess  insisted  that  the 
Countess  should  come  to  Paris,  where  she  would  find  her 
a  place  at  Court,  and  where  the  Count,  by  retracting  his 
refusal,  might  fill  a  high  position.  Henriette,  who  was 
regarded  as  a  happy  wife,  would  not  unveil  her  griefs  to 
anybody,  not, even  to  her  mother,  nor  betray  her  husband's 
incapacity.  It  was  to  prevent  her  mother  from  penetrating 
the  secret  of  her  home  life  that  she  had  sent  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf  to  Tours,  where  he  was  to  fight  out  some  ques- 
tions with  the  lawyers.  I  alone,  as  she  had  said,  knew  the 
secrets  of  Clochegourde. 

Having  learned  by  experience  how  effective  the  pure  air 
and  blue  sky  of  this  valley  were  in  soothing  the  irritable 
moods  and  acute  sufferings  of  sickness,  and  how  favorable 
the  life  at  Clochegourde  was  to  her  children's  health,  she 
gave  these  reasons  for  her  refusal,  though  strongly  opposed 
by  the  Duchess — a  domineering  woman  who  felt  humiliated 
rather  than  grieved  by  her  daughter's  far  from  brilliant 
marriage.  Henriette  could  see  that  her  mother  cared  little 
enough  about  Jacques  and  Madeleine,  a  terrible  dis- 
covery ! 

Like  all  mothers  who  have  been  accustomed  to  treat  a 
married  daughter  with  the  same  despotism  as  they  exerted 
over  her  as  a  girl,  the  Duchess  adopted  measures  which  al- 
lowed of  no  reply;  now  she  affected  insinuating  kindness 
to  extract  consent  to  her  views,  and  now  assumed  a  bitter 
iciness  to  gain  by  fear  what  she  could  not  achieve  by  sweet- 
ness; then,  seeing  all  her  efforts  wasted,  she  showed  the 
same  acrid  irony  as  I  had  known  in  my  own  mother.  In 
the  course  of  ten  days  Henriette  went  through  all  the  heart- 
rendings  a  young  wife  must  go  through  to  establish  her  in- 
dependence. You,  who  for  your  happiness  have  the  best  of 
mothers,  can  never  understand  these  things.  To  form  any 
idea  of  this  struggle  between  a  dry,  cold,  calculating,  ambi- 


330  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tious  woman  and  her  daughter  overflowing  with  the  fresh, 
genial  sweetness  that  never  runs  dry,  you  must  imagine  the 
lily  with  which  I  have  compared  the  Countess  crushed  in 
the  wheels  of  a  machine  of  polished  steel.  This  mother  had 
never  had  anything  in  common  with  her  daughter ;  she  could 
not  suspect  any  of  the  real  difficulties  which  compelled  her 
to  forego  every  advantage  from  the  Restoration,  and  to  live 
her  solitary  life.  This  word,  which  she  used  to  convey  her 
suspicions,  opened  a  gulf  between  the  women  which  noth- 
ing could  ever  after  bridge  over. 

Though  families  bury  duly  their  terrible  quarrels,  look 
into  their  life;  you  will  find  in  almost  every  house  some 
wide  incurable  wounds  blighting  natural  feeling;  or  some 
genuine  and  pathetic  passion  which  affinity  of  character 
makes  eternal,  and  which  gives  an  added  shock  to  the  hand 
of  death,  leaving  a  dark  and  ineradicable  bruise;  or  again, 
simmering  hatred,  slowly  petrifying  the  heart,  and  freezing 
up  all  tears  at  the  moment  of  eternal  parting. 

Tortured  yesterday,  tortured  to-day,  stricken  by  every 
one,  even  by  the  two  suffering  little  ones,  who  were  guilt- 
less alike  of  the  ills  they  endured  and  of  those  they  caused, 
how  could  this  sad  soul  help  loving  the  one  person  who 
never  gave  a  blow,  but  who  would  fain  have  hedged  her 
round  with  a  triple  barrier  of  thorns  so  as  to  shelter  her 
from  storms,  from  every  touch,  from  every  pain? 

Though  these  squabbles  distressed  me,  I  was  sometimes 
glad  as  I  felt  that  she  took  refuge  in  my  heart,  for  Henriette 
confided  to  me  her  new  griefs.  I  could  appreciate  her  forti- 
tude in  suffering,  and  the  energy  of  patience  she  could  main- 
tain. Every  day  I  understood  more  perfectly  the  meaning  of 
her  words,  "Love  me  as  my  aunt  loved  me." 

"Hav*e  you  really  no  ambition?"  said  the  Duchess  to  me 
at  dinner  in  a  severe  tone. 

"Madame,'''  replied  I,  with  a  very  serious  mien,  "I  feel 
myself  strong  enough  to  conquer  the  world;  but  I  am  only 
one-and-twenty,  and  I  stand  alone." 

She  looked  at  her  daughter  with  surprise;   she  had  be- 


THE   LILY   OF    THE    VALLEY  831 

lieved  that  in  order  to  keep  me  at  her  side  the  Countess  1  ;id 
snuffed  out  all  my  ambition. 

The  time  while  the  Duchesse  de  Lenoncourt  stayed  at 
Clochegourde  was  one  of  general  discomfort.  The  Countess 
besought  me  to  be  strictly  formal ;  she  was  frightened  at  a 
word  spoken  low;  to  please  her  I  was  obliged  to  saddle 
myself  with  dissimulation. 

The  great  Thursday  came;  it  was  a  festival  of  tiresome 
formality,  one  of  those  days  which  lovers  hate,  when  they 
are  used  to  the  facilities  of  every-day  life,  accustomed  to 
find  their  place  ready  for  them,  and  the  mistress  of  the 
house  wholly  theirs.  Love  has  a  horror  of  everything  but 
itself. 

The  Duchess  returned  to  enjoy  the  pomps  of  the  Court, 
and  all  fell  into  order  at  Clochegourde. 

My  little  skirmish  with  the  Count  had  resulted  in  my 
being  more  firmly  rooted  in  the  house  than  before;  I  could 
come  in  at  any  time  without  giving  rise  to  the  slightest  re- 
mark, and  my  previous  life  led  me  to  spread  myself  like  a 
climbing  plant  in  the  beautiful  soul  which  opened  to  me 
the  enchanted  world  of  sympathetic  feeling.  From  hour  to 
hour,  from  minute  to  minute,  our  brotherly  union,  based 
on  perfect  confidence,  became  more  intimate;  we  were  con- 
firmed in  our  relative  positions:  the  Countess  wrapped  me 
in  her  cherishing  affection,  in  the  white  purity  of  motherly 
love;  while  my  passion,  seraphic  in  her  presence,  when  I 
was  absent  from  her  grew  fierce  and  thirsty,  like  red-hot 
iron.  Thus  I  loved  her  with  a  twofold  love,  which  by 
turns  pierced  me  with  the  myriad  parts  of  desire,  and  then 
lost  them  in  the  sky,  where  they  vanished  in  the  unfath- 
omable ether. 

If  you  ask  me  why,  young  as  I  was,  and  full  of  vehe- 
ment craving,  I  was  satisfied  to  rest  in  the  illusory  hopes 
of  a  Platonic  affection,  I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  yet 
man  enough  to  torment  this  woman,  who  lived  in  perpet- 
ual dread  of  some  disaster  to  her  children,  constantly  ex- 


332  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

pecting  some  outbreak,  some  stormy  change  of  mood  in  her 
husband;  crushed  by  him  when  she  was  not  distressed  by 
some  ailment  in  Jacques  or  Madeleine,  and  sitting  by  the 
bed  of  one  or  the  other  whenever  her  husband  gave  her  a 
little  peace.  The  sound  of  a  too  impassioned  word  shook 
her  being,  a  desire  startled  her;  for  her  I  had  to  be  Love 
enshrined,  strength  in  tenderness;  everything,  in  short, 
that  she  was  for  others. 

And,  then,  I  may  say  to  you,  who  are  so  truly  woman, 
the  situation  had  its  enchanting  quietism,  moments  of 
heavenly  sweetness,  and  of  the  satisfaction  that  follows  on 
tacit  renunciation.  Her  conscientiousness  was  infectious, 
her  self-immolation  for  no  earthly  reward  was  impressive 
by  its  tenacity;  the  living  but  secret  piety  which  held  her 
other  virtues  together  affected  all  about  her  like  spiritual 
incense.  Besides,  I  was  young;  young  enough  to  concen- 
trate my  whole  nature  in  the  kiss  she  so  rarely  allowed  me 
to  press  on  her  hand,  giving  me  only  the  back  of  it,  never 
the  palm — that  being  to  her,  perhaps,  the  border  line  of 
sensuality.  Though  two  souls  never  fused  and  loved  with 
greater  ardor,  never  was  the  flesh  more  bravely  or  victori- 
ously held  in  subjection. 

Later  in  life  I  understood  the  causes  of  my  complete  hap- 
piness. At  that  age  no  self-interest  distracted  my  heart,  no 
ambition  crossed  the  current  of  a  feeling  which,  like  an  un- 
stemmed  torrent,  fed  its  flow  with  everything  it  carried  be- 
fore it.  Yes,  as  we  grow  older  the  woman  is  what  we  love 
in  a  woman ;  whereas  we  love  everything  in  the  first  woman 
we  love — her  children  are  our  cihldren,  her  house,  her  in- 
terests, are  our  own ;  her  grief  is  our  greatest  grief ;  we  love 
her  dress  and  her  belongings,  it  vexes  us  ^rnore  to  see  her 
corn  spilled  than  it  would  to  lose  our  own  money;  we  feel 
ready  to  quarrel  with  a  stranger  who  should  meddle  with 
the  trifles  on  the  c himney -shelf .  This  sanctified  love  makes 
us  live  in  another,  while  afterward,  alas!  we  absorb  that 
other  life  into  our  own,  and  require  the  woman  to  enrich 
our  impoverished  spirit  with  her  youthful  feeling. 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  833 

I  was  ere  long  one  of  the  family,  and  found  here  for  the 
first  time  the  infinite  soothing  which  is  to  an  aching  heart 
what  a  bath  is  to  the  tired  limbs ;  the  soul  is  refreshed  on 
every  side,  anointed  in  its  inmost  folds.  You  cannot  un- 
derstand this:  you  are  a  woman,  and  this  is  the  happiness 
you  give  without  ever  receiving  in  kind.  Only  a  man  can 
know  the  delicate  enjoyment  of  being  the  privileged  friend 
of  the  mistress  of  another  home,  the  secret  pivot  of  her  af- 
fections. The  dogs  cease  to  bark  at  you;  the  servants,  like 
the  dogs,  recognize  the  hidden  passport  you  bear;  the  chil- 
dren, who  have  no  insincerities,  who  know  that  their  share 
will  never  be  smaller,  but  that  you  bring  joy  to  the  light  of 
their  life — the  children  have  a  spirit  of  divination.  To  you 
they  become  kittenish,  with  the  delightful  tyranny  that  they 
keep  for  those  they  adore  and  who  adore  them;  they  are 
shrewdly  knowing,  and  your  guileless  accomplices;  they 
steal  up  on  tiptoe,  smile  in  your  face,  and  silently  leave 
you.  Everything  welcomes  you,  loves  you,  and  smiles 
upon  you.  A  true  passion  is  like  a  beautiful  flower, 
which  it  is  all  the  more  delightful  to  find  when  the  soil 
that  produces  it  is  barren  and  wild. 

But  if  I  had  the  delights  of  being  thus  naturalized  in  a 
family  where  I  made  relationships  after  my  own  heart,  I  also 
paid  the  penalties.  Hitherto  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  had  con- 
trolled himself  in  my  presence ;  I  had  only  seen  the  general 
outline  of  his  faults;  but  I  now  discerned  their  application 
in  its  fullest  extent,  and  I  saw  how  nobly  charitable  the 
Countess  had  been  in  her  description  of  her  daily  warfare. 
I  felt  all  the  angles  of  his  intolerable  temper;  I  heard  his 
ceaseless  outcries  about  mere  trifles,  his  complaints  of  ail- 
ments of  which  no  sign  was  visible,  his  innate  discontent, 
which  blighted  her  life,  and  the  incessant  craving  to  rule, 
which  would  have  made  him  devour  fresh  victims  every 
year.  When  we  walked  out  in  the  evening,  he  chose  the 
way  we  went;  but  wherever  it  might  be,  he  was  always  bored 
by  it;  when  he  got  home  he  blamed  others  for  his  fatigue — 
it  was  his  wife  who  had  done  it,  by  taking  him  against  his 


834  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

will  the  way  she  wanted  to  go ;  lie  forgot  that  he  had  led  us, 
and  complained  of  being  ruled  by  her  in  every  trifle,  of  never 
being  allowed  to  decide  or  think  for  himself,  of  being  a  mere 
cipher  in  the  house.  If  his  hard  words  fell  on  silent  pa- 
tience, he  got  angry,  feeling  the  limit  to  his  power ;  he  would 
inquire  sharply  whether  religion  did  not  require  wives  to 
submit  to  their  husbands,  and  whether  it  was  decent  to  make 
a  father  contempfible  before  his  children.  He  always  ended 
by  touching  some  sensitive  chord  in  his  wife ;  and  when  he 
had  struck  it,  he  seemed  to  find  particular  pleasure  in  this 
domineering  pettiness. 

Sometimes  he  affected  gloomy  taciturnity  and  morbid 
dejection,  which  frightened  his  wife,  and  led  her  to  lavish 
on  him  the  most  touching  care.  Like  spoiled  children,  who 
exert  their  power  without  a  thought  of  their  mother's  alarms, 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  petted  like  Jacques  or  Madeleine, 
of  whom  he  was  very  jealous.  At  last,  indeed,  I  discovered 
that  in  the  smallest,  as  in  the  most  important  matters,  the 
Count  behaved  to  his  servants,  his  children,  and  his  wife  as 
he  had  to  me  over  the  backgammon. 

On  the  day  when  I  first  understood,  root  and  branch,  those 
miseries  which,  like  forest  creepers,  stifled  and  crushed  the 
movement  and  the  very  breathing  of  this  family,  which  cast 
a  tangle  of  fine  but  infinitely  numerous  threads  about  the 
working  of  the  household,  hindering  every  advance  of  for- 
tune by  hampering  the  most  necessary  steps,  I  was  seized 
with  admiring  awe,  which  subjugated  my  love  and  crushed 
it  down  into  my  heart.  "What  was  I,  good  God !  The  tears 
I  had  swallowed  filled  me  with  a  sort  of  rapturous  intoxica- 
tion; it  was  a  joy  to  me  to  identify  myself  with  this  wife's 
endurance.  Till  then  I  had  submitted  to  the  Count's  tyranny 
as  a  smuggler  pays  his  fines;  thenceforth  I  voluntarily  re- 
ceived the  despot's  blows  to  be  as  close  as  possible  to  Hen- 
riette.  The  Countess  understood,  and  allowed  me  to  take  my 
place  at  her  side,  rewarding  me  by  granting  me  to  share  her 
penance,  as  of  old  the  repentant  apostate,  eager  to  fly  heaven- 
ward with  his  brethren,  won  permission  to  die  on  the  arena. 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  836 

"But  for  you  this  life  would  be  too  much  for  me,"  said 
she  one  night  when  the  Count  had  been  more  annoying, 
more  acrid,  and  more  whimsical  than  usual,  as  flies  are  in 
great  heat. 

He  had  gone  to  bed.  Henriette  and  I  sat  during  part  of 
the  evening  under  the  acacias  basking  in  the  beams  of  sunset, 
the  children  playing  near  us.  Our  words,  mere  infrequent 
exclamations,  expressed  the  sympathetic  feelings  in  which 
we  had  taken  refuge  from  our  common  sufferings.  When 
words  failed  us,  silence  served  us  faithfully ;  our  souls  en- 
tered into  each  other,  so  to  speak,  without  hinderance,  but 
without  the  invitation  of  a  kiss ;  each  enjoying  the  charm  of 
pensive  torpor,  they  floated  together  on  the  ripples  of  the 
same  dream,  dipped  together  in  the  river,  and  came  forth 
like  two  nymphs  as  closely  one  as  even  jealousy  could  wish, 
but  free  from  every  earthly  tie.  We  plunged  into  a  bottom- 
less abyss,  and  came  back  to  the  surface,  our  hands  empty, 
but  asking  each  other  by  a  look,  "Out  of  so  many  days,  shall 
we  ever  have  one  single  day  for  our  own  ? ' ' 

When  rapture  culls  for  us  these  blossoms  without  root, 
why  is  it  that  the  flesh  rebels  ?  In  spite  of  the  enervating 
poetry  of  the  evening,  which  tinged  the  brickwork  of  the 
parapet  with  sober  and  soothing  tones  of  orange ;  in  spite  of 
the  religious  atmosphere,  which  softened  the  shouts  of  the 
children,  leaving  us  at  peace,  longing  ran  in  sparks  of  fire 
through  my  veins  like  the  signal  for  a  blaze  of  rockets.  At 
the  end  of  three  months  I  was  beginning  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  the  lot  appointed  to  me;  and  I  was  softly  fondling 
Henriette 's  hand,  trying  thus  to  expend  a  little  of  the  fever 
that  was  scorching  me. 

Henriette  was  at  once  Madame  de  Mortsauf  again;  a  few 
tears  rose  to  my  eyes,  she  saw  them,  and  gave  me  a  melting 
look,  laying  her  hand  on  my  lips. 

"Understand,"  said  she,  "that  this  costs  me  tears  too. 
The  friendship  that  asks  so  great  a  favor  is  dangerous." 

I  broke  out  in  a  passion  of  reproach,  I  spoke  of  all  I 
suffered,  and  of  the  small  alleviation  I  craved  to  help  me  to 


336  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

endure  it.  I  dared  tell  her  that  at  my  age,  though  the  senses 
were  spiritualized,  the  spirit  had  a  sex;  that  I  could  die — 
but  not  without  having  spoken. 

She  reduced  me  to  silence  with  a  flashing  look  of  pride, 
in  which  I  seemed  to  read  the  Cacique's  reply,  "Am  I  then 
on  a  bed  of  roses?"  Perhaps,  too,  I  was  mistaken.  Ever 
since  the  day  when,  at  the  gate  of  Frapesle,  I  had  wrongly 
ascribed  to  her  the  idea  which  would  build  our  happiness  on 
a  tomb,  I  had  been  ashamed  to  stain  her  soul  by  uttering  a 
wish  tainted  with  mere  criminal  passion. 

Then  she  spoke,  and  in  honeyed  words  told  me  that  she 
could  never  be  wholly  mine,  that  I  ought  to  know  that.  I 
understood,  as  she  spoke  the  words,  that  if  I  submitted, 
I  should  have  dug  a  gulf  between  us.  I  bent  my  head.  She 
went  on,  saying  that  she  had  an  inmost  conviction  that  she 
might  love  a  brother  without  offence  to  God  or  man;  that 
there  is  some  comfort  in  thus  taking  such  an  affection  as  a 
living  image  of  Divine  Love,  which,  according  to  the  good 
Saint-Martin,  is  the  life  of  the  world.  If  I  could  not  be  to 
her  some  such  person  as  her  old  director,  less  than  a  lover 
but  more  than  a  brother,  we  must  meet  no  more.  She  could 
but  die,  offering  up  to  God  this  added  anguish,  though  she 
could  not  endure  it  without  tears  and  torment. 

"I  have  given  you  more  than  I  ought,"  she  said  in  con- 
clusion, "since  there  is  nothing  more  that  you  can  take,  and 
I  am  already  punished." 

I  could  but  soothe  her,  promise  never,  never  to  cause  her 
a  moment's  pain,  and  vow  to  love  her  at  twenty  as  old  men 
love  their  youngest  born. 

Next  morning  I  came  early  to  the  house.  She  had  no 
flowers  to  put  in  the  vases  in  her  gray  drawing-room.  I 
tramped  across  the  fields  and  through  the  vineyards,  hunting 
for  flowers  to  make  her  two  nosegays ;  and  as  I  gathered  them 
one  by  one,  cutting  them  with  long  stems  and  admiring  them, 
it  struck  me  that  there  was  a  harmony  in  their  hues  and  foli- 
age, a  poetry  that  found  its  way  to  the  understanding  by 
fascinating  the  eye,  just  as  musical  phrases  arouse  a  thou- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  837 

sand  associations  in  loved  and  loving  hearts.  If  color  is 
organic  light,  must  it  not  have  its  meaning,  as  vibrations  of 
the  air  have  ?  Helped  by  Jacques  and  Madeleine,  all  three 
of  us  happy  in  contriving  a  surprise  for  our  dear  one,  I  sat 
down  on  the  lower  steps  of  the  terrace  flight,  where  we  spread 
out  our  flowers,  and  set  to  work  to  compose  two  nosegays,  by 
which  I  intended  to  symbolize  a  sentiment. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  fountain  of  flowers,  gushing  up,  as 
it  were,  from  the  vase  and  falling  in  fringed  waves,  and  from 
the  heart  of  it  my  aspirations  rose  as  silver-cupped  lilies  and 
white  roses.  Among  this  cool  mass  twinkled  blue  cornflow- 
ers, forget-me-not,  bugloss — every  blue  flower  whose  hues, 
borrowed  from  the  sky,  blend  so  well  with  white;  for  are 
they  not  two  types  of  innocence — that  which  knows  nothing, 
and  that  which  knows  all — the  mind  of  a  child  and  the  mind 
of  a  martyr  ?  Love  has  its  blazonry,  and  the  Countess  read 
my  meaning.  She  gave  me  one  of  those  piercing  looks  that 
are  like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  man  touched  on  the  tender 
spot ;  she  was  at  once  shy  and  delighted.  What  a  reward  I 
found  in  that  look!  What  encouragement  in  the  thought 
that  I  could  please  her  and  refresh  her  heart! 

So  I  invented  Father  Castel's  theory  as  applied  to  love, 
and  rediscovered  for  her  a  lore  lost  to  Europe  where  flowers 
of  language  take  the  place  of  the  messages  conveyed  in  the 
East  by  color  and  fragrance.  And  it  was  charming  to  ex- 
press my  meaning  through  these  daughters  of  the  sun,  the 
sisters  of  the  blossoms  that  open  under  the  radiance  of  love. 
I  soon  had  an  understanding  with  the  products  of  the  rural 
flora,  just  as  a  man  I  met  at  a  later  time  had  with  bees. 

Twice  a  week,  during  the  remainder  of  my  stay  at  Frapesle, 
I  carried  out  the  long  business  of  this  poetical  structure,  for 
which  I  needed  every  variety  of  grass,  and  I  studied  them 
all  with  care,  less  as  a  botanist  than  as  an  artist,  and  with 
regard  to  their  sentiment  rather  than  their  form.  To  find  a 
flower  where  it  grew  I  often  walked  immense  distances  along 
the  river  bank,  through  the  dells,  to  the  top  of  cliffs,  across 
the  sandhills  and  commons,  gathering  ideas  from  among 
Vol.  4.  (0) 


338  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

clumps  of  heath.  In  these  walks  I  discovered  for  myself 
pleasures  unknown  to  the  student  who  lives  in  meditation, 
to  the  husbandman  engaged  on  some  special  culture,  to  the 
artisan  tied  to  the  town,  to  the  merchant  nailed  to  his  count- 
ing-house, but  known  to  some  foresters,  to  some  woodmen, 
to  some  dreamers. 

Nature  has  certain  effects  of  boundless  meaning,  rising  to 
the  level  of  the  greatest  intellectual  ideas.  Thus,  a  blossom- 
ing heath  covered  with  diamonds  of  dew  that  hang  on  every 
leaf  sparkling  in  the  sun,  a  thing  of  infinite  beauty  for  one 
single  eye  that  may  happen  to  see  it.  Or  a  forest  nook,  shut 
in  by  tumbled  bowlders,  broken  by  willows,  carpeted  with 
moss,  dotted  with  juniper  shrubs — it  scares  you  by  its  wild, 
hurtled,  fearful  aspect,  and  the  cry  of  the  hawk  comes  up 
to  you.  Or  a  scorching  sandy  common  with  no  vegetation ; 
a  stony,  precipitous  plateau,  the  horizon  reminding  you  of 
the  desert — but  there  I  found  an  exquisite  and  lonely  flower, 
a  pulsatilla  waving  its  violet  silk  pennon  in  honor  of  its 
golden  stamens ;  a  pathetic  image  of  my  fair  idol,  alone  in 
her  valley  I  Or,  again,  broad  pools  over  which  nature  flings 
patches  of  greenery,  a  sort  of  transition  between  animal  and 
vegetable  being,  and  in  a  few  days  life  is  there — floating 
plants  and  insects,  like  a  world  in  the  upper  air.  Or  again, 
a  cottage  with  its  cabbage  garden,  its  vineyard,  its  fences, 
overhanging  a  bog,  and  surrounded  by  a  few  meagre  fields 
of  rye — emblematic  of  many  a  humble  life.  Or  a  long  forest 
avenue,  like  the  nave  of  a  cathedral  where  the  pillars  are 
trees,  their  branches  meeting  like  the  groins  of  a  vault,  and 
at  the  end  a  distant  glade  seen  through  the  foliage,  dappled 
with  light  and  shade,  or  glowing  in  the  ruddy  beams  of  sun- 
set like  the  painted  glass  window  of  a  choir,  filled  with  birds 
for  choristers.  Then,  as  you  come  out  of  the  grove,  a  chalky 
fallow  where  full-fed  snakes  wriggle  over  the  hot,  crackling 
moss,  and  vanish  into  their  holes  after  raising  their  graceful, 
proud  heads.  And  over  these  pictures  cast  floods  of  sun- 
shine, rippling  like  a  nourishing  tide,  or  piles  of  gray  cloud 
in  bars  like  the  furrows  on  an  old  man's  brow,  or  the  cool 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  889 

tones  of  a  faintly  yellow  sky  banded  with  pale  light — and 
listen !  You  will  hear  vague  harmonies  in  the  depth  of  be- 
wildering silence. 

During  the  months  of  September  and  October  I  never 
collected  a  nosegay  which  took  me  less  than  three  hours  of 
seeking,  I  was  so  lost  in  admiration — with  the  mild  indolence 
of  a  poet — of  these  transient  allegories  which  represented  to 
me  the  strongest  contrasts  of  human  life,  majestic  scenes  in 
which  my  memory  now  digs  for  treasure.  To  this  day  I 
often  wed  to  such  grand  spectacles  my  remembrance  of  the 
soul  that  then  pervaded  nature.  I  still  see  in  them  my 
Queen,  whose  white  dress  floated  through  the  copse  and 
danced  over  the  lawns,  and  whose  spirit  came  up  to  me  like 
a  promise  of  fruition  from  every  flower-cup  full  of  amorous 
stamens. 

No  declaration,  no  proof  of  unbounded  passion  was  ever 
more  contagious  than  were  these  symphonies  of  flowers,  where- 
in my  cheated  desires  gave  me  such  inspiration  as  Beethoven 
could  express  in  notes;  with  vehement  reaction  on  himself, 
transcendent  heavenward  flights.  "When  she  saw  them  Hen- 
riette  was  no  longer  Madame  dc  Mortsauf.  She  came  back 
to  them  again  and  again;  she  fed  on  them;  she  found  in 
them  all  the  thoughts  I  had  woven  into  them,  when,  to  ac- 
cept the  offering,  she  looked  up  from  her  work-frame  and 
said,  "Dear!  how  lovely  that  isl" 

You  can -imagine  this  enchanting  communication  through 
the  arrangement  of  a  nosegay,  as  you  would  understand  Saadi 
from  a  fragment  of  his  poetry.  Have  you  ever  smelled  in 
the  meadows,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  fragrance  which  fills 
all  creatures  with  the  heady  joy  of  procreation ;  which,  if  you 
are  in  a  boat,  makes  you  dip  your  hands  in  the  water;  which 
makes  you  loosen  your  hair  to  the  breeze,  and  renews  your 
thoughts  like  the  fresh  greenery  on  the  trees  of  the  forest? 
A  small  grass,  the  vernal  Anthoxanthum,  is  one  of  the  chief 
elements  in  this  mysterious  combination.  No  one  can  wear 
it  with  impunity.  If  you  put  a  few  sprays  of  it  in  a  nosegay, 
with  its  shining  variegated  blades  like  a  finely  striped  green- 


340  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and-white  dress,  unaccountable  pulses  will  stir  within  you, 
opening  the  rosebuds  in  your  heart  that  modesty  keeps  closed. 
Imagine,  then,  round  the  wide  edge  of  the  china  jar  a  border 
composed  entirely  of  the  white  tufts  peculiar  to  a  Sedum  that 
grows  in  the  vineyards  of  Touraine,  a  faint  image  of  the 
wished-for  forms,  bowed  like  a  submissive  slave-girl.  From 
this  base  rise  the  tendrils  of  bindweed  with  its  white  funnels, 
bunches  of  pink  rest-harrow  mingled  with  young  shoots  of 
oak  gorgeously  tinted  and  lustrous;  these  all  stand  forward, 
humbly  drooping  like  weeping  willow,  timid  and  suppliant 
like  prayers.  Above,  you  see  the  slender  blossoming  sprays, 
forever  tremulous,  of  quaking  grass  and  its  stream  of  yellow- 
ish anthers ;  the  snowy  tufts  of  feather  grass  from  brook  and 
meadow,  the  green  hair  of  the  barren  brome,  the  frail  agrostis 
• — pale,  purple  hopes  that  crown  our  earliest  dreams,  and  that 
stand  out  against  the  gray-green  background  in  the  light  that 
plays  on  all  these  flowering  grasses.  Above  these,  again, 
there  are  a  few  China  roses,  mingling  with  the  light  tracery 
of  carrot  leaves  with  plumes  of  cotton  grass,  marabout  tufts 
of  meadow-sweet,  umbels  of  wild  parsley,  the  pale  hair  of 
travellers'  joy,  now  in  seed,  the  tiny  crosslets  of  milky-white 
candy-tuft  and  milfoil,  the  loose  sprays  of  rose-and-black 
fumitory,  tendrils  of  the  vine,  twisted  branches  of  the  honey- 
suckle— in  short,  every  form  these  artless  creatures  can  show 
that  is  wildest  and  most  ragged — flamboyant  and  trident; 
spear-shaped,  dentate  leaves,  and  stems  as  knotted  as  desire 
writhing  in  the  depths  of  the  soul.  And  from  the  heart  of 
this  overflowing  torrent  of  love,  a  grand  red  double  poppy 
stands  up  with  bursting  buds,  flaunting  its  burning  flame 
above  starry  jessamine  and  above  the  ceaseless  shower  of 
pollen,  a  cloud  dancing  in  the  air  and  reflecting  the  sun- 
shine in  its  glittering  motes.  Would  not  any  woman, 
who  is  alive  to  the  seductive  perfume  that  lurks  in  the 
Anthoxanthum,  understand  this  mass  of  abject  ideas,  this 
tender  whiteness  broken  by  uncontrollable  impulses,  and 
this  red  fire  of  love  imploring  joys  denied  it  in  the  hun- 
dred struggles  of  an  undying,  unwearied,  and  eternal  pas- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  341 

sion  ?  Set  this  appeal  in  the  sunshine  of  a  window  so  as  to 
do  justice  to  all  its  subtle  details,  its  delicate  contrasts  and 
arabesque  elegance,  that  its  mistress  may  see  perhaps  an  open 
blossom  moist  with  a  tear — she  will  be  very  near  yielding; 
an  angel,  or  the  voice  of  her  children,  alone  will  check  her 
on  the  edge  of  the  abyss. 

What  do  we  offer  up  to  God?  Incense,  light  and  song, 
the  purest  expression  at  our  command.  Well,  then,  was  not 
all  that  we  offer  to  God  dedicated  to  Love  in  this  poem  of 
glowing  flowers,  ever  murmuring  sadly  to  the  heart  while 
encouraging  hidden  raptures,  unconfessed  hopes,  and  illu- 
sions which  flash  and  are  gone  like  shooting  stars  in  a  hot 
night? 

These  neutral  pleasures  were  a  comfort  to  us,  helping  us 
to  cheat  Nature,  exasperated  by  long  study  of  the  beloved 
face  and  by  glances  which  find  enjoyment  in  piercing  to  the 
very  core  of  the  form  they  gaze  on.  To  me — I  dare  not  say 
to  her — these  utterances  were  like  the  rifts  through  which  the 
water  spurts  in  a  solid  dike,  and  which  often  prevent  a  ca- 
tastrophe by  affording  a  necessary  outlet.  Abstinence  brings 
overwhelming  exhaustion  that  finds  succor  in  the  few  crumbs 
dropping  from  the  sky,  which,  from  Dan  to  the  Sahara, 
sheds  manna  on  the  pilgrim.  And  I  have  found  Henriette 
before  one  of  those  nosegays,  her  hands  hanging  loosely,  a 
prey  to  those  stormy  contemplations  when  the  feelings  swell 
the  bosom,  give  light  to  the  brow,  surge  up  in  waves  that 
toss  and  foam  and  leave  us  enervated  by  exhaustion. 

I  have  never  since  gathered  nosegays  for  any  one  I 

When  we  had  invented  this  language  for  our  own  use,  we 
felt  the  sort  of  satisfaction  that  a  slave  finds  in  deceiving  his 
master. 

All  the  rest  of  the  month,  when  I  hurried  up  the  garden, 
I  often  saw  her  face  at  the  window;  and  when  I  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  she  was  sitting  at  her  frame.  If  I  did  not 
arrive  punctually  at  the  time  we  had  agreed  upon,  without 
ever  fixing  an  hour,  I  sometimes  saw  her  white  figure  on  the 


342  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

terrace,  and  when  I  found  her  there,  she  would  say:  "I 
came  to  meet  you  to-day.  Must  we  not  pet  the  youngest 
child?" 

The  dreadful  games  of  backgammon  with  the  Count  had 
come  to  an  end.  His  recent  purchases  required  him  to  be 
constantly  busy,  inspecting,  verifying,  measuring,  and  plan- 
ning; he  had  orders  to  give,  field-work  that  required  the 
master's  eye,  and  matters  to  be  settled  between  him  and  his 
wife.  The  Countess  and  I  frequently  walked  out  to  join  him 
on  his  new  land,  taking  the  two  children,  who  all  the  way 
would  run  after  butterflies,  stag-beetles,  and  crickets,  and 
gather  nosegays,  too — or,  to  be  exact,  sheaves  of  flowers. 

To  walk  with  the  woman  he  loves,  to  have  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  to  pick  her  road  for  her  I  These  infinite  joys  are 
enough  for  a  man's  lifetime.  Their  talk  is  then  so  confiding! 
We  went  alone,  we  came  back  with  the  General — a  little 
mocking  name  we  gave  the  Count  when  he  was  in  a  good 
humor.  This  difference  in  our  order  of  march  tinged  our 
happiness  by  a  contrast  of  which  the  secret  is  known  only  to 
hearts  which  meet  under  difficulties.  On  our  way  home,  this 
felicity — a  look,  a  pressure  of  the  hand — was  checkered  by 
uneasiness.  Our  speech,  freely  uttered  as  we  went,  had  mys- 
terious meanings  as  we  came  back,  when  one  of  us,  after  a 
pause,  found  a  reply  to  some  insidious  inquiry,  or  a  discus- 
sion we  had  begun  was  carried  on  in  the  enigmatic  phrase- 
ology to  which  our  language  lends  itself,  and  which  women 
invent  so  cleverly.  Who  has  not  known  the  pleasure  of  such 
an  understanding,  in  an  unknown  sphere,  as  it  were,  where 
spirits  move  apart  from  the  crowd  and  meet  superior  to  all 
ordinary  laws  ?  Once  a  mad  hope  rose  in  me,  to  be  imme- 
diately crushed,  when,  in  reply  to  the  Count  who  asked  what 
we  were  talking  about,  Henriette  said  something  with  a  double 
meaning,  which  he  took  quite  simply.  This  innocent  jest 
amused  Madeleine,  but  it  brought  a  blush  to  her  mother's 
cheek ;  and,  by  a  stern  look,  she  told  me  that  she  was  capable 
of  withdrawing  her  soul  as  she  had  once  withdrawn  her  hand, 
intending  to  be  always  a  blameless  wife.  But  a  purely  spirit- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  343 

ual  union  has  such  charms,  that  we  did  the  same  again  on  the 
morrow. 

Thus  the  hours,  days,  weeks,  flew  on,  full  of  ever-new 
felicity.  We  had  come  to  the  season  of  the  vintage,  in  Tou- 
rainc  always  a  high  festival.  By  the  end  of  September  the 
sun  is  less  fierce  than  during  harvest,  making  it  safe  to  linger 
in  the  open  air  without  fear  of  sunstroke  or  fatigue.  It  is 
easier,  too,  to  gather  grapes  than  to  reap  corn.  The  fruit 
is  fully  ripe.  The  crops  are  carried,  bread  is  cheaper,  and 
increased  abundance  makes  life  brighter.  Then  the  fears 
that  always  hang  over  the  result  of  the  year's  toil,  in  which 
so  much  money  and  so  much  sweat  are  expended,  are  relieved 
by  filled  granaries  and  cellars  waiting  to  be  filled.  The  vin- 
tage comes  as  a  jovial  dessert  to  the  harvest  feast,  and  the 
sky  always  smiles  on  it  in  Touraine,  where  the  autumn  is 
A  beautiful  season. 

In  that  hospitable  province,  the  vintagers  are  fed  by  the 
owner;  and  as  these  meals  are  the  only  occasions  throughout 
the  year  when  these  poor  laborers  have  substantial  and  well- 
cooked  food,  they  look  forward  to  them  as,  in  patriarchal 
households,  the  children  count  on  anniversary  festivals. 
They  crowd  to  the  estates  where  the  masters  are  known  to  be 
open-handed.  So  every  house  is  full  of  people  and  provis- 
ions. The  winepresses  are  always  at  work.  The  world 
seems  alive  with  the  merry  gang  of  coopers  at  work,  the  carts 
crowded  with  laughing  girls  and  men,  who,  getting  better 
wages  than  at  any  other  time  of  year,  sing  on  every  oppor- 
tunity. Again,  as  another  cause  of  enjoyment,  all  ranks 
mingle — women  and  children,  masters  and  servants,  every  one 
takes  part  in  the  sacred  gathering.  These  various  circum- 
stances may  account  for  the  joviality,  traditional  from  age  to 
age,  which  breaks  forth  in  these  last  fine  days  of  the  year, 
and  of  which  the  remembrance  inspired  Rabelais  of  yore  to 
give  a  Bacchic  form  to  his  great  work. 

Jacques  and  Madeleine,  who  had  always  been  ailing,  had 
never  before  taken  part  in  the  vintage,  nor  had  I,  and  they 
found  childlike  delight  in  seeing  me  a  sharer  in  their  pleas- 


344  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ure.  Their  mother  had  promised  to  come  with  us.  We  had 
been  to  Villaines,  where  the  country  baskets  are  made,  and 
had  ordered  very  nice  ones ;  we  four  were  to  gather  the  fruit 
oil  a  few  rows  left  for  us ;  but  we  all  promised  not  to  eat  too 
many  grapes.  The  Gros  Go  of  the  Touraine  vineyards  is  so 
delicious  eaten  fresh  that  the  finest  table  grapes  are  scorned 
in  comparison.  Jacques  made  me  solemnly  promise  that  I 
would  go  to  see  no  other  vineyards,  but  devote  myself  ex- 
clusively to  the  Clos  of  Clochegourde.  Never  had  these  two 
little  creatures,  usually  so  wan  and  pale,  been  so  bright,  and 
rosy,  and  excited,  and  busy  as  they  were  that  morning. 
They  chattered  for  the  sake  of  chattering,  went  and  came 
and  trotted  about  for  no  visible  reason  but  that,  like  other 
children,  they  had  too  much  vitality  to  work  off;  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  never  seen  them  so  well.  And 
I  was  a  child  with  them,  more  a  child  than  they  were  per- 
haps, for  I  too  hoped  for  my  harvest. 

The  weather  was  glorious ;  we  went  up  to  the  vineyards 
and  spent  half  the  day  there.  How  we  vied  with  each  other 
in  seeking  the  finest  bunches,  in  seeing  which  could  fill  a 
basket  first!  They  ran  to  and  fro  from  the  vines  to  their 
mother,  every  bunch  was  shown  to  her  as  it  was  gathered. 
And  she  laughed  the  hearty  laugh  of  youth  when,  following 
the  little  girl  with  my  basket  full,  I  said,  like  Madeleine, 
"And  look  at  mine,  Mamma." 

"Dear  child,"  she  said  to  me,  "do  not  get  too  hot." 
Then,  stroking  my  hair  and  my  neck,  she  gave  me  a  little 
slap  on  the  cheek,  adding,  "Thou  art  in  a  bath!" 

This  is  the  only  time  I  ever  received  from  her  that  verbal 
caress,  the  lover's  tu.  I  stood  looking  at  the  pretty  hedge- 
rows full  of  red  berries,  of  sloes,  and  blackberries ;  I  listened 
to  the  children  shouting;  I  gazed  at  the  girls  pulling  the 
grapes,  at  the  cart  full  of  vats,  at  the  men  with  baskets  on 
their  backs — I  stamped  every  detail  on  my  memory,  down 
to  the  young  almond-tree  by  which  she  was  standing,  bright, 
flushed,  and  laughing,  under  her  parasol. 

Then  I  set  to  work  to  gather  the  fruit  with  a  steady, 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  345 

wordless  perseverance,  ajid  a  slow,  measured  step  that  left 
my  spirit  free.  I  tasted  the  ineffable  pleasure  of  a  physical 
employment  such  as  carries  life  along,  regulating  the  rush 
of  passion  which,  but  for  this  mechanical  movement,  was 
very  near  a  conflagration.  I  learned  how  much  wisdom 
comes  of  labor,  and  I  understood  monastic  rule. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  days,  the  Count  was  neither 
sullen  nor  vicious.  His  boy  so  well,  the  future  Due  de 
Lenoncourt-Mortsauf,  rosy  and  fair,  and  smeared  with  grape- 
juice,  gladdened  his  heart.  This  being  the  last  day  of  the 
vintage,  the  General  had  promised  his  people  a  dance  in 
the  evening  in  the  field  by  Clochegourde,  in  honor  of  the 
return  of  the  Bourbons;  thus  the  festival  was  to  be  com- 
plete for  everybody.  On  our  way  home,  the  Countess  took 
my  arm ;  she  leaned  on  me  so  as  to  let  my  heart  feel  all  the 
weight  of  her  hand,  like  a  mother  who  longs  to  impart  her 
gladness,  and  said  in  my  ear:  "You  bring  us  good  fortune." 

And  to  me,  knowing  of  her  sleepless  nights,  her  constant 
alarms,  and  her  past  life,  through  which  she  had  indeed  been 
supported  by  the  hand  of  God,  but  in  which  all  had  been 
barren  and  weariful,  these  words,  spoken  in  her  deep,  soft 
voice,  brought  such  joys  as  no  woman  in  the  world  could 
ever  give  me  again. 

"The  monotonous  misery  of  my  days  is  broken,  and  life 
is  bright  with  hope,"  she  added  after  a  pause.  "Oh,  do  not 
desert  me!  Do  not  betray  my  innocent  superstitions!  Be 
my  eldest,  4he  providence  of  the  little  ones. ' ' 

This  is  no  romance,  Natalie;  none  can  discern  the  infinite 
depth  of  such  feelings  who  have  not  in  early  life  sounded  the 
great  lakes  on  whose  shores  we  live.  If  to  many  souls  the 
passions  have  been  as  lava-torrents  flowing  between  parched 
banks,  are  there  not  others  in  which  a  passion  subdued  by 
insurmountable  obstacles  has  filled  the  crater  of  the  volcano 
with  limpid  waters  ? 

We  had  one  more  such  festival.  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
wished  that  her  children  should  learn  something  of  practical 
life,  and  know  by  what  hard  labor  money  must  be  earned; 


346  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

she  had,  therefore,  given  each  certain  revenues  depending  on 
the  chances  of  produce.  Jacques  was  owner  of  the  walnut 
crop,  Madeleine  of  the  chestnuts.  A  few  days  after  we  went 
forth  to  the  chestnut  and  walnut  harvests.  Thrashing  Made- 
leine's chestnut-trees;  hearing  the  nuts  fall,  their  spiny  husks 
making  them  rebound  from  the  dry  velvety  moss  of  the  un- 
fertile soil  on  which  chestnuts  grow ;  seeing  the  solemn  gravity 
of  the  little  girl  as  she  looked  at  the  piles,  calculating  their 
value,  which  meant  for  her  such  pleasures  as  she  could  give 
herself  without  control ;  then  the  congratulations  of  Manette, 
the  children's  maid,  the  only  person  who  ever  filled  the 
Countess's  place  with  them;  the  lesson  to  be  derived  from 
this  little  business,  of  toil  requisite  to  reap  the  humblest  har- 
vest, so  often  imperilled  by  variation  of  climate — all  these 
things  made  up  a  little  drama,  the  children's  ingenuous 
delight  forming  a  charming  contrast  with  the  sober  hues  of 
early  autumn. 

Madeleine  had  a  loft  of  her  own,  where  I  saw  the  brown 
crop  safely  stowed,  sharing  in  her  delight.  I  am  thrilled 
to  this  day  as  I  remember  the  clatter  of  each  basketful  of 
chestnuts  rolling  out  over  the  yellow  chaff  that  formed  the 
flooring.  The  Count  bought  some  for  the  house;  the  farm 
bailiffs,  the  laborers,  every  one  in  the  neighborhood  found 
buyers  from  Mignonne,  a  kindly  name  which  the  peasants  in 
those  parts  are  ready  to  give  even  to  a  stranger,  but  which 
seemed  especially  appropriate  to  Madeleine. 

Jacques  was  not  so  lucky  for  his  walnut  harvest.  It 
rained  several  days;  but  I  comforted  him  by  advising  him 
to  keep  his  nuts  for  a  time  and  sell  them  later.  Monsieur  de 
Chessel  had  told  me  that  the  walnut  crop  had  failed  in  le 
Brehdmont,  in  the  district  round  Amboise,  and  the  country 
about  Youvray.  Nut  oil  is  largely  used  in  Touraine. 
Jacques  would  make  at  least  forty  sous  on  each  tree,  and 
there  were  two  hundred  trees,  so  the  sum  would  be  consider- 
able. He  meant  to  buy  himself  a  saddle  and  bridle  for  a 
pony.  His  wish  led  to  a  general  discussion,  and  his  father 
led  him  to  consider  the  uncertainty  of  such  returns,  and  the 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  847 

need  for  making  a  reserve  fund  for  the  years  when  the  trees 
should  be  bare  of  fruit,  so  as  to  secure  an  average  income. 

I  read  the  Countess's  heart  in  her  silence;  she  was  de- 
lighted to  see  Jacques  listening  to  his  father,  and  the  father 
winning  back  some  of  the  reverence  he  had  forfeited,  and  all 
thanks  to  the  subterfuge  she  had  arranged.  I  told  you  when 
describing  this  woman  that  no  earthly  language  can  ever  do 
justice  to  her  character  and  genius.  While  these  little  scenes 
are  enacted  the  spirit  revels  in  them  with  joy,  but  does  not 
analyze  them;  but  how  clearly  they  afterward  stand  out 
against  the  gloomy  background  of  a  life  of  vicissitude !  They 
shine  like  diamonds,  set  amid  thoughts  of  baser  alloy  and 
regrets  that  melt  into  reminiscences  of  vanished  happiness! 
Why  should  the  names  of  the  two  estates  Monsieur  and 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  lately  purchased,  and  which  gave 
them  so  much  to  do — la  Cassine  and  la  B.he'toriere — touch 
me  far  more  than  the  greatest  names  in  the  Holy  Land  or  in 
Greece  ?  Qui  aime,  le  die,  says  La  Fontaine  (Let  those  who 
love  tell).  Those  names  have  the  talismanic  power  of  the 
starry  words  used  in  sorcery,  they  are  magical  to  me;  they 
call  up  sleeping  images  which  stand  forth  and  speak  to  me; 
they  carry  me  back  to  that  happy  valley ;  they  create  a  sky 
and  landscape.  But  has  not  conjuration  always  been  pos- 
sible in  the  realm  of  the  spiritual  world  ?  So  you  need  not 
wonder  to  find  me  writing  to  you  of  such  familiar  scenes. 
The  smallest  details  of  that  simple  and  almost  homely  life 
were  so  many  ties,  slight  as  they  must  seem,  which  bound 
me  closely  to  the  Countess. 

The  children's  future  prospects  troubled  Madame  de  Mort- 
sauf almost  as  much  as  their  feeble  health.  I  soon  saw  the 
truth  of  what  she  had  told  me  with  regard  to  her  unconfessed 
importance  in  the  business  of  the  property,  which  I  gradually 
understood  as  I  studied  such  facts  about  the  country  as  a 
statesman  ought  to  know.  After  ten  years'  struggles  Ma- 
dame de  Mortsauf  had  at  last  reformed  the  management  of 
the  lands.  She  had  quartered  them — mis  en  quatre — a  term 
used  in  those  parts  for  the  rotation  of  crops,  a  method  of  sow- 


348  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing  wheat  on  the  same  field  only  once  in  four  years,  so  that 
the  land  yields  some  crop  every  year  instead  of  lying  fallow. 
To  overcome  the  pig-headed  resistance  of  the  peasantry,  it 
had  been  necessary  to  cancel  the  old  leases,  to  divide  the 
property  into  four  large  holdings,  and  farm  on  half-profits, 
the  system  peculiar  to  Touraine  and  the  adjacent  provinces. 
The  landowner  provides  the  dwelling  and  outbuildings,  and 
supplies  seed  to  working  farmers,  with  whom  he  agrees  to 
share  the  cost  of  husbandry  and  the  profits.  The  division 
is  undertaken  by  a  metivier,  a  farm  bailiff,  who  is  authorized 
to  take  the  half  due  to  the  proprietor;  and  this  system,  a 
costly  one,  is  complicated  by  the  way  of  keeping  accounts, 
which  leads  to  constant  changes  in  the  estimate  of  the  shares. 

The  Countess  had  persuaded  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  to 
keep  a  fifth  farm,  consisting  of  the  inclosed  lands  round 
Clochegourde,  in  his  own  hands,  partly  to  give  him  occupa- 
tion, but  also  to  demonstrate  to  the  share-farmers  by  the  evi- 
dence of  facts  the  superiority  of  the  new  methods.  Being 
able  here  to  manage  the  crops,  she  had  by  degrees,  with 
womanly  tenacity,  had  two  of  the  farmhouses  rebuilt  on  the 
plan  of  the  farms  in  Artois  and  Flanders.  Her  scheme  was 
self-evident.  She  intended,  when  the  leases  on  half-profits 
should  expire,  to  make  these  two  farms  into  first-class  hold- 
ings, and  let  them  for  rent  in  money  to  active  and  intelligent 
tenants,  so  as  to  simplify  the  returns  to  Clochegourde. 
Dreading  lest  she  should  die  the  first,  she  was  anxious  to 
leave  to  the  Count  an  income  easily  collected,  and  to  the 
children  a  property  which  no  misadventure  could  make 
ruinous. 

By  this  time  the  fruit-trees  planted  ten  years  since  were 
in  full  bearing.  The  hedges  which  guaranteed  the  bound- 
aries against  any  dispute  in  the  future  had  all  grown  up. 
The  poplars  and  elms  were  flourishing.  With  the  recent 
additions,  and  by  introducing  the  new  system  of  culture,  the 
estate  of  Clochegourde,  divided  into  four  large  holdings, 
might  be  made  to  yield  sixteen  thousand  francs  a  year  in 
hard  cash,  at  a  rent  of  four  thousand  francs  for  each  farm; 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  349 

exclusive  of  the  vineyards,  the  two  hundred  acres  of  coppice 
adjoining,  and  the  home  farm.  The  lanes  from  these  farms 
were  all  to  come  into  an  avenue  leading  straight  from  Cloche- 
gourde  to  the  Chinon  road.  The  distance  to  Tours  by  this 
road  was  no  more  than  five  leagues;  farmers  would  certainly 
not  be  lacking,  especially  at  a  time  when  everybody  was 
talking  of  the  Count's  improvements  and  his  success,  and 
the  increased  return  from  his  land. 

She  proposed  to  spend  about  fifteen  thousand  francs  on 
each  of  the  newly-purchased  properties,  to  convert  the  houses 
on  them  into  fine  homesteads  so  as  to  let  them  to  advantage 
after  farming  them  for  a  year  or  two,  while  placing  there  as 
steward  a  man  named  Martineau,  the  most  trustworthy  of  the 
bailiffs,  who  would  presently  be  out  of  place;  for  the  leases 
of  the  four  half-profit  farms  were  about  to  fall  in,  and  the 
moment  was  coming  for  uniting  them  into  two  holdings,  and 
letting  them  for  a  rent  in  money. 

These  very  simple  plans,  complicated  only  by  the  neces- 
sary outlay  of  more  than  thirty  thousand  francs,  were  at  this 
time  the  subject  of  long  discussions  between  her  and  the 
Count — terrible  arguments,  in  which  she  was  emboldened 
only  by  the  thought  of  the  children's  interests.  The  mere 
thought,  "If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,  what  would  become  of 
them?"  made  her  sick  at  heart.  Only  gentle  and  peaceable 
souls,  to  whom  rage  is  impossible,  and  who  long  to  see  the 
peace  they  feel  within  them  reign  around  them,  can  ever 
understand  what  an  effort  such  a  contest  needs,  what  rushes 
of  blood  oppress  the  heart  before  the  struggle  is  faced,  what 
exhaustion  follows  after  a  battle  in  which  nothing  has  been 
won.  Just  now,  when  her  children  were  less  wan,  less 
starveling,  and  more  full  of  life,  for  the  fruitful  season  had 
had  its  effect  on  them;  just  now,  when  she  could  watch  their 
play  with  moistened  eyes,  and  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that 
renewed  her  strength  by  reviving  her  spirits,  the  poor  woman 
was  a  victim  to  the  insulting  thrusts  and  cutting  innuendoes 
of  determined  antagonism.  The  Count,  startled  by  these 
changes,  denied  their  utility  and  their  possibility  with  rigid 


350  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

oppugnancy.  To  all  conclusive  reasoning  he  answered  with 
the  arguments  of  a  child  who  should  doubt  the  heat  of  the 
sun  in  summer.  The  Countess  won  at  last;  the  triumph  of 
common- sense  over  folly  salved  her  wounds,  and  she  forgot 
them. 

On  that  day  she  walked  to  la  Cassine  and  la  Rhe'toriere,  to 
give  orders  for  the  buildings.  The  Count  went  on  in  front 
alone,  the  children  came  between,  and  we  followed  slowly 
behind,  for  she  was  talking  in  the  sweet,  low  voice  which 
made  her  speech  sound  like  tiny  ripples  of  the  sea  murmuring 
on  fine  sand. 

1 '  She  was  sure  of  success, ' '  she  said.  A  rival  service  was 
about  to  start  on  the  road  between  Chinon  and  Tours  under 
the  management  of  an  active  man,  a  cousin  of  Manette's,  and 
he  wanted  to  rent  a  large  farmstead  on  the  highroad.  He 
had  a  large  family;  the  eldest  son  would  drive  the  coach,  the 
second  would  attend  to  the  heavy  carrying  business,  while 
the  father,  settled  at  la  Rabelaye,  a  farm  half-way  on  the 
road,  would  attend  to  the  horses  and  cultivate  the  ground  to 
advantage  with  the  manure  from  the  stables.  She  had  already 
found  a  tenant  for  the  second  farm,  la  Baude,  lying  close  to 
Clochegourde ;  one  of  the  four  half -profit  farmers,  an  honest, 
intelligent,  and  active  man,  who  understood  the  advantages 
of  the  new  system,  had  offered  to  take  it  on  lease.  As  to 
la  Cassine  and  la  Rhetoriere,  the  soil  was  the  best  in  all 
the  countryside ;  when  once  the  houses  were  ready,  and  the 
fields  fairly  started,  they  would  only  have  to  be  advertised 
at  Tours.  Thus,  in  two  years,  the  estate  would  bring  in 
about  twenty-four  thousand  francs  a  year;  la  Gravelotte,  the 
farm  in  le  Maine  recovered  by  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  had 
just  been  let  for  nine  years,  at  seven  thousand  francs  a  year; 
•the  Count's  pension  as  Major-General  was  four  thousand 
francs — if  all  this  could  not  be  said  to  constitute  a  fortune, 
at  any  rate  it  meant  perfect  ease;  and  later,  perhaps,  further 
improvements  might  allow  of  her  going  some  day  to  Paris  to 
uttend  to  Jacques'  education — two  years  hence,  when  the  heir 
presumptive's  health  should  be  stronger. 


THE  LILY  Of    THE    VALLEY  861 

How  tremulously  did  she  speak  the  word  Paris!  And 
I  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  plan;  she  wanted  to  be  as  little 
apart  as  possible  from  her  friend. 

At  these  words  I  caught  fire;  I  told  her  she  little  knew 
me;  that,  without  saying  anything  to  her,  I  had  planned  to 
finish  my  own  education  by  studying  night  and  day  so  as 
to  become  Jacques'  tutor;  for  that  I  could  never  endure  to 
think  of  any  other  young  man  at  home  in  her  house. 

On  this  she  grew  very  serious. 

"No,  Felix, "  said  she.  "This  is  not  to  be,  any  more  than 
your  becoming  a  priest.  Though  you  have  by  that  speech 
touched  my  motherly  heart  to  the  quick,  the  woman  cares  for 
you  too  well  to  allow  you  to  become  a  victim  to  your  fidelity. 
The  reward  of  such  devotion  would  be  that  you  would  be 
irremediably  looked  down  upon,  and  I  could  do  nothing 
to  prevent  it.  No,  no!  Never  let  me  injure  you  in  any 
way.  You,  the  Vicomte  de  Yandenesse,  a  tutor?  You, 
whose  proud  motto  is  *Ne  se  Vend'  (For  no  guerdon).  If 
you  were  Richelieu  himself,  your  life  would  be  marred  for- 
ever. It  would  be  the  greatest  grief  to  your  family.  My 
friend,  you  do  not  know  all  the  insolence  such  a  woman  as 
my  mother  can  throw  into  a  patronizing  glance,  all  the  hu- 
miliation into  one  word,  all  the  scorn  into  a  bowl" 

"  And  so  long  as  you  love  me,  what  do  I  care  for  the  world  ? ' ' 

She  affected  not  to  hear,  and  went  on: 

' '  Though  my  father  is  most  kind,  and  willing  to  give  me 
anything  I  may  ask,  he  would  not  forgive  you  for  having 
put  yourself  into  a  false  position,  and  would  refuse  to  help 
you  on  in  the  world.  I  would  not  see  you  tutor  to  the 
Dauphin!  Take  Society  as  you  find  it,  make  no  blunders 
in  life.  My  friend,  this  offer  prompted  by — " 

"By  love,"  I  put  in. 

"No,  by  charity,"  said  she,  restraining  her  tears;  "this 
crazy  proposition  throws  a  light  on  your  character;  your 
heart  will  be  your  enemy.  I  insist  henceforth  on  my  right 
to  tell  you  certain  truths;  give  my  woman's  eyes  the  care  of 
seeing  for  you  sometimes. 


352  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Yes,  buried  here  in  Clocliegourde,  I  mean  to  look  on 
silent  but  delighted  at  your  advancement.  As  to  a  tutor> 
be  easy  on  that  score ;  we  will  find  some  good  old  Abbe*, 
some  learned  and  venerable  Jesuit,  and  my  father  will  gladly 
pay  the  sum  needed  for  the  education  of  the  boy  who  is  to 
bear  his  name.  Jacques  is  my  pride! — And  he  is  eleven 
years  old,"  she  added  after  a  pause.  "But  he,  like  you, 
looks  younger.  I  thought  you  were  thirteen  when  I  first 
saw  you." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  la  Cassine;  Jacques  and 
Madeleine  and  I  followed  her  about  as  children  follow  their 
mother ;  but  we  were  in  the  way.  I  left  her  for  a  moment, 
and  went  into  the  orchard,  where  the  elder  Martineau,  the 
gamekeeper,  with  his  son  the  bailiff,  was  marking  trees  to  be 
cut  down ;  they  discussed  the  matter  as  eagerly  as  if  it  were 
their  own  concern.  I  saw  by  this  how  much  the  Countess 
was  beloved.  I  expressed  myself  to  this  effect  to  a  day 
laborer  who,  with  one  foot  on  his  spade  and  his  elbow  on  the 
handle,  was  listening  to  the  two  men  learned  in  pomology. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  he,  "she  is  a  good  woman,  and  not 
proud,  like  those  apes  at  Azay,  who  would  leave  us  to  die 
like  dogs  rather  than  give  a  sou  extra  on  a  yard  of  ditching. 
The  day  when  she  leaves  the  place,  the  Virgin  will  cry  over 
it,  and  we  too.  She  knows  what  is  due  to  her,  but  she  knows 
what  hard  times  we  have,  and  considers  us." 

With  what  delight  I  gave  all  my  spare  cash  to  that  man  I 

• 
A  few  days  after  this,  a  pony  was  bought  for  Jacques; 

his  father,  a  capital  horseman,  wished  to  inure  him  very 
gradually  to  the  fatiguing  exercise  of  riding.  The  boy  had 
a  neat  little  outfit  that  he  had  bought  with  the  price  of  his 
walnuts.  The  morning  when  he  had  his  first  lesson,  riding 
with  his  father,  and  followed  by  Madeleine's  shouts  of  glee 
as  she  danced  on  the  lawn  round  which  Jacques  was  trotting, 
was  to  the  Countess  her  first  high  festival  as  a  mother. 
Jacques'  little  collar  had  been  worked  by  her  hands;  he 
had  a  little  sky-blue  cloth  coat,  with  a  varnished  leather  belt 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  863 

round  the  waist,  white  tucked  trousers,  and  a  Scotch  bonnet 
over  his  thick  fair  curls;  he  really  was  charming  to  look 
upon.  All  the  servants  of  the  household  came  out  to  share 
the  family  joy,  and  the  little  heir  smiled  as  he  passed  his 
mother,  without  a  sign  of  fear. 

This  first  act  of  manliness  in  the  child  who  had  so  often 
been  at  death's  door,  the  hope  of  a  happier  future  of  which 
this  ride  seemed  the  promise,  making  him  look  so  bright,  so 
handsome,  so  healthy — what  a  delightful  reward  1  Then  the 
father's  joy,  looking  young  again,  and  smiling  for  the  first 
time  in  many  weeks,  the  satisfaction  that  shone  in  the  eyes 
of  the  assembled  servants,  the  glee  of  the  old  Lenoncourt 
huntsman,  who  had  come  over  from  Tours,  and  who,  seeing 
how  well  the  child  held  his  bridle,  called  out,  "Bravo,  Mon- 
sieur le  Vicomtel" — all  this  was  too  much  for  Madame  de 
Mortsauf ,  and  she  melted  into  tears.  She,  who  was  so  calm 
in  distress,  was  too  weak  to  control  her  joy  as  she  admired 
her  boy  riding  round  and  round  on  the  path  where  she  had 
so  often  mourned  him  by  anticipation  as  she  carried  him  to 
and  fro  in  the  sun. 

She  leaned  on  my  arm  without  reserve,  and  said: 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  never  been  unhappy. —Stay  with  us 
to-day." 

The  lesson  ended,  Jacques  flew  into  his  mother's  arms, 
and  she  clutched  him  to  her  bosom  with  the  vehemence  that 
comes  of  excessive  delight,  kissing  and  fondling  him  again 
and  again.  Madeleine  and  I  went  off  to  make  two  splendid 
nosegays  to  dress  the  dinner-table  in  honor  of  the  young 
horseman. 

When  we  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  the  Countess 
said  to  me: 

"The  fifteenth  of  October  is  indeed  a  high  day  I  Jacques 
has  had  his  first  riding  lesson,  and  I  have  set  the  last  stitch 
in  my  piece  of  work. ' ' 

"Well,  then,  Blanche,"  said  the  Count,  laughing,  "I  will 
pay  you  for  it." 

He  offered  her  his  arm  and  led  her  into  the  inner  court- 


354  'BALZAC'S    WORKS 

yard,  where  she  found  a  carnage,  a  present  from  her  father, 
for  which  the  Count  had  bought  a  pair  of  horses  in  England; 
they  had  arrived  with  those  sent  to  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt. 
The  old  huntsman  had  arranged  all  this  in  the  courtyard  dur- 
ing the  riding  lesson.  We  got  into  the  carriage,  and  went 
off  to  see  the  line  cleared  for  the  avenue  that  was  to  lead 
directly  into  the  Chinon  road,  and  that  was  cut  straight 
through  the  new  property  acquired  by  the  Count.  On  our 
return,  the  Countess  said  to  me,  with  deep  melancholy: 

"I  am  too  happy;  happiness  is  to  me  like  an  illness,  it 
overpowers  me,  and  I  fear  lest  it  should  vanish  like  a  dream. " 

I  was  too  desperately  in  love  not  to  be  jealous,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  give  her !  In  my  fury  I  tried  to  think  of  some 
way  of  dying  for  her. 

She  asked  me  what  thoughts  had  clouded  my  eyes,  and 
I  told  her  frankly ;  she  was  more  touched  than  by  any  gifts, 
and  poured  balm  on  my  spirit  when,  taking  me  out  on  the 
terrace  steps,  she  whispered  to  me: 

"Love  me  as  my  aunt  loved  me — is  not  that  to  give  your 
life  for  me  ?  And  if  I  take  it  so,  is  it  not  to  lay  me  under 
an  obligation  every  hour  of  the  day  ?" 

"It  was  high  time  I  should  finish  my  piece  of  work,"  she 
went  on,  as  we  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  I  kissed 
her  hand  as  a  renewal  of  my  allegiance/  "You  perhaps  do 
not  know,  Felix,  why  I  set  myself  that  long  task. — Men  find 
a  remedy  against  their  troubles  in  the  occupations  of  life ;  the 
bustle  of  business  diverts  their  minds ;  but  we  women  have 
no  support  in  ourselves  to  help  us  to  endure.  In  order  to  be 
able  to  smile  at  my  children  and  my  husband  when  I  was 
possessed  by  gloomy  ideas,  I  felt  the  need  of  keeping  my 
grief  in  check  by  physical  exertion.  I  thus  avoided  the  col- 
lapse that  follows  any  great  effort  of  resolve,  as  well  as  the 
lightning  strokes  of  excitement.  The  action  of  lifting  my 
arm  in  measured  time  lulled  my  brain  and  acted  on  my  spirit 
when  the  storm  was  raging,  giving  it  the  rest  of  ebb  and  flow, 
and  regulating  its  emotions.  I  told  my  secrets  to  the  stitches, 
do  you  see  ? — Well,  as  I  worked  the  last  chair,  I  was  think- 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  865 

ing  too  much  of  you!  Yes,  my  friend,  far  too  much.  What 
you  put  into  your  nosegays  I  imparted  to  my  patterns." 

The  dinner  was  a  cheerful  one.  Jacques,  like  all  children 
to  whom  we  show  kindness,  jumped  upon  me  and  threw  his 
arms  round  my  neck  when  he  saw  the  flowers  I  had  picked 
him  by  way  of  a  crown.  His  mother  pretended  to  be  angry 
at  this  infidelity  to  her,  and  the  dear  child  gave  her  the  posy 
she  affected  to  covet,  you  know  how  sweetly. 

In  the  evening  we  played  backgammon,  I  against  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  and  the  Count  was  charm- 
ing. Finally,  at  nightfall,  they  walked  with  me  as  far  as  the 
turning  to  Frapesle,  in  one  of  those  placid  evenings  when 
the  harmony  of  nature  gives  added  depth  to  our  feelings  in 
proportion  as  it  soothes  their  vividness. 

It  had  been  a  day  by  itself  to  this  hapless  woman,  a  spark 
of  light  that  often  shone  caressingly  on  her  memory  in  days 
of  difficulty. 

For,  indeed,  before  long  the  riding  lessons  became  a  sub- 
ject of  contention.  The  Countess,  not  unreasonably,  was 
afraid  of  the  Count's  hard  speeches  to  his  little  son.  Jacques 
was  already  growing  thinner,  and  dark  rings  came  round  his 
blue  eyes;  to  save  his  mother,  he  would  suffer  in  silence.  I 
suggested  a  remedy  by  advising  him  to  tell  his  father  he  was 
tired  when  the  Count  was  angry,  but  this  was  an  insufficient 
palliative,  so  the  old  huntsman  was  to  teach  him  instead  of 
his  father,  who  would  not  give  up  his  pupil  without  many 
struggles.  Outcries  and  discussions  began  again;  the  Count 
found  a  text  for  his  perpetual  fault-finding  in  the  ingratitude 
of  wives,  and  twenty  times  a  day  he  threw  the  carriage,  the 
horses,  and  the  liveries  in  her  teeth. 

Finally,  one  of  those  disasters  occurred  which  are  a  stalk- 
ing horse  for  such  tempers  and  such  maladies  of  the  brain; 
the  expense  of  the  works  at  la  Cassine  and  la  Rhe*tori&re, 
where  the  walls  and  floors  were  found  to  be  rotten,  amounted 
to  half  as  much  again  as  the  estimate.  A  clumsy  fellow  at 
work  there  came  to  report  this  to  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  in- 
stead of  telling  the  Countess  privately.  This  became  the 


356  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

subject  of  a  quarrel,  begun  mildly,  but  gradually  increasing 
in  bitterness;  and  the  Count's  hypochondria,  which  for 
some  days  had  been  in  abeyance,  now  claimed  arrears  from 
the  unfortunate  Henriette. 

That  morning  I  set  out  from  Frapesle,  after  breakfast,  at 
half-past  ten,  to  make  my  nosegays  at  Clochegourde  with 
Madeleine.  The  little  girl  brought  out  the  two  vases,  set- 
ting them  on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  and  I  wan- 
dered from  the  gardens  to  the  fields,  seeking  the  lovely 
but  rare  flowers  of  autumn.  As  I  returned  from  my  last 
expedition,  I  no  longer  saw  my  little  lieutenant  in  her 
pink  sash  and  frilled  cape,  and  I  heard  a  commotion  in  the 
house. 

"The  General,"  said  Madeleine,  in  tears,  and  with  her 
the  name  was  one  of  aversion  for  her  father,  "the  General 
is  Bcolding  our  mother;  do  go  and  help  her." 

I  flew  up  the  steps  and  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
neither  the  Count  nor  his  wife  saw  or  noticed  me.  Hearing 
the  madman's  noisy  outcries,  I  first  shut  all  the  doors,  and 
then  came  back,  for  I  had  seen  that  Henriette  was  as  white 
as  her  gown. 

"Never  marry,  Felix,"  said  the  Count.  "A  wife  has 
the  devil  for  her  counsellor;  the  best  of  them  would  invent 
evil  if  it  did  not  exist.  They  are  all  brute  beasts." 

Then  I  had  to  listen  to  arguments  without  beginning  and 
without  end.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf ,  recurring  to  his  origi- 
nal refusal,  now  repeated  the  sottish  remarks  of  the  peasants 
who  objected  to  the  new  system.  He  declared  that  if  he  had 
taken  the  management  of  Clochegourde,  they  would  have 
been  twice  as  rich  by  now.  He  worded  his  blasphemies  with 
insulting  violence;  he  swore,  he  rushed  from  pillar  to  post, 
he  moved  and  banged  all  the  furniture,  and  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence  he  would  stop  and  declare  that  his  marrow  was 
on  fire,  or  his  brain  running  away  in  a  stream,  like  his  money. 
His  wife  was  ruining  him!  Wretched  man,  of  the  thirty  odd 
thousand  francs  a  year  he  possessed,  she  had  brought  him 
more  than  twenty  thousand.  The  fortune  of  the  Duke  and 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  857 

Duchess,  bringing  in  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year,  was  entailed 
on  Jacques. 

The  Countess  smiled  haughtily,  and  gazed  out  at  the 
Bky. 

"Yes!"  he  cried;  "you,  Blanche,  are  my  tormentor.  You 
are  killing  me!  You  want  to  be  rid  of  me!  You  are  a  mon- 
ster of  hypocrisy !  And  she  laughs !  Do  you  know  why  she 
can  laugh,  Felix?" 

I  said  nothing,  and  hung  my  head. 

"This  woman,"  he  went  on,  answering  his  own  question, 
"denies  me  all  happiness — she  is  no  more  mine  than  yours, 
and  calls  herself  my  wife!  She  bears  my  name,  but  she  ful- 
fils none  of  the  duties  which  laws,  human  and  divine,  require 
of  her;  she  lies  to  Grod  and  man.  She  exhausts  me  with  long 
walks  that  I  may  leave  her  in  peace ;  I  disgust  her,  she  hates 
me,  she  does  all  she  can  to  live  the  life  of  a  girl.  And  she 
is  driving  me  mad  by  imposing  privations  on  me — for  every- 
thing goes  to  my  poor  head.  She  is  burning  me  at  a  slow 
tire,  and  believes  herself  a  saint — that  woman  takes  the  sacra- 
»nent  every  month!" 

The  Countess  was  by  this  time  weeping  bitterly,  humili- 
ated by  the  disgrace  of  this  man,  to  whom  she  could  only  say 
by  way  of  remonstrance:  "Monsieur!  Monsieur!  Monsieur!" 

Although  the  Count's  words  made  me  blush  for  him  as 
much  as  for  Henriette,  they  moved  me  deeply,  for  they  found 
a  response  in  the  instinct  of  chastity  and  delicacy  which  is, 
so  to  speak,  the  very  material  of  a  first  love. 

"She  lives  a  maiden  at  my  expense  I"  cried  the  Count, 
and  again  his  wife  exclaimed: 

"Monsieur!" 

"What  do  you  mean,"  he  went  on,  uby  your  pertinacious 
Monsieur  ?  Am  not  I  your  master  ?  Must  I  teach  you  to 
know  it?" 

He  went  toward  her,  thrusting  out  his  white,  wolf-like 
face,  that  was  really  hideous,  for  his  yellow  eyes  had  an  ex- 
pression that  made  him  look  like  a  ravenous  animal  coming 
out  of  a  wood.  Henriette  slid  off  her  chair  on  to  the  floor  to 


358  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

avoid  the  blow  which  was  not  struck,  for  she  lost  conscious- 
ness as  she  fell,  completely  broken. 

The  Count  was  like  an  assassin  who  feels  the  blood-jet  of 
his  victim;  he  stood  amazed.  I  raised  the  poor  woman  in 
my  arms,  and  the  Count  allowed  me  to  lift  her  as  if  he  felt 
himself  unworthy  to  carry  her;  but  he  went  first  and  opened 
the  door  of  the  bedroom  next  the  drawing-room,  a  sacred  spot 
I  had  never  entered.  I  set  the  Countess  on  her  feet,  and 
supported  her  with  my  arm  round  her  body,  while  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  took  off  the  upper  coverlet,  the  eiderdown  quilt, 
and  the  bedclothes;  then,  together,  we  laid  her  down  just  as 
she  was.  As  she  recovered  consciousness,  Henriette  signed 
to  us  to  undo  her  waistband;  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  found  a 
pair  of  scissors,  and  cut  through  everything.  I  held  some 
salts  to  her  nose,  and  she  presently  opened  her  eyes.  The 
Count  went  away,  ashamed  rather  than  grieved. 

Two  hours  went  by  in  perfect  silence,  Henriette  holding 
my  hand,  and  pressing  it  without  being  able  to  speak.  Now 
and  again  she  looked  up  to  make  me  understand  that  she 
longed  only  for  peace  without  a  sound;  then  there  was  a 
moment's  truce,  when  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and 
murmured  in  my  ear: 

"Unhappy  man!     If  you  could  but  know — " 

She  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  again.  The  remembrance 
of  past  sufferings,  added  to  her  present  anguish,  brought  on 
again  the  nervous  spasms,  which  I  had  soothed  only  by  the 
magnetism  of  love — its  effects  were  hitherto  unknown  to  me, 
but  I  had  used  it  instinctively.  I  now  supported  her  with 
gentle  and  tender  firmness,  and  she  gave  me  such  looks  as 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 

When  the  convulsive  attack  was  over,  I  smoothed  her 
disordered  hair — the  first  and  only  time  I  ever  touched  it — 
then  again  I  held  her  hand,  and  sat  a  long  time  looking  at 
the  room — a  brown-and-gray  room,  with  a  bed  simply  hung 
with  cotton  chintz,  a  table .  covered  with  an  old-fashioned 
toilet  set,  a  poor  sofa  with  a  stitched  mattress.  What  poetry 
I  found  here!  What  indifference  to  personal  luxury  I  Her 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  859 

only  luxury  was  exquisite  neatness.  The  noble  cell  of  a 
married  nun,  stamped  with  holy  resignation,  where  the  only 
adornments  were  a  crucifix  by  her  bed,  and  over  it  the  por- 
trait of  her  aunt;  then,  on  each  side  of  the  holy-water  shell, 
sketches  of  her  two  children,  done  in  pencil  by  herself,  and 
locks  of  their  hair  when  they  were  babies.  What  a  hermit- 
age for  a  woman  whose  appearance  in  the  world  of  fashion 
would  have  cast  the  loveliest  into  the  shade ! 

Such  was  the  retreat  where  tears  were  so  constantly  shed 
by  this  daughter  of  an  illustrious  race,  at  this  moment 
swamped  in  bitterness,  and  rejecting  the  love  that  might 
have  brought  her  consolation.  A  hidden  and  irremediable 
misfortune !  The  victim  in  tears  for  the  torturer,  the  torturer 
in  tears  for  his  victim. 

When  the  children  and  the  maid  came  in,  I  left  her.  The 
Count  was  waiting  for  me ;  he  already  regarded  me  as  a  me- 
diator between  his  wife  and  himself;  and  he  grasped  my 
hands,  exclaiming,  "Stay  with  us;  stay  with  us,  Felix!" 

"Unluckily,"  said  I,  "Monsieur  de  Chessel  has  com- 
pany; it  would  not  do  for  his  guests  to  wonder  at  the 
reason  for  my  absence;  but  I  will  return  after  dinner." 

He  came  out  with  me  and  walked  to  the  lower  gate  with- 
out saying  a  word ;  then  he  accompanied  me  all  the  way  to 
Frapesle,  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing.  When  there, 
I  said  to  him: 

"In  Heaven's  name,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  leave  the  man- 
agement of  your  house  to  her  if  she  wishes  it,  and  do  not 
torment  her." 

"I  have  not  long  to  live,''  he  replied  seriously;  "she  will 
not  suffer  long  on  my  account;  I  feel  that  my  head  will 
burst." 

He  turned  away  in  a  fit  of  involuntary  egoism. 

After  dinner  I  went  back  to  inquire  for  Madame  de  Mort- 
sauf ,  and  found  her  better  already.  If  these  were  for  her  the 
joys  of  marriage,  if  such  scenes  were  to  be  frequently  repeated, 
how  could  she  live?  What  slow,  unpunished  murder!  I 
had  seen  this  evening  the  indescribable  torture  by  which  the 


360  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Count  racked  his  wife.     Before  what  tribunal  could  such  a 
case  be  brought? 

These  considerations  bewildered  me ;  I  could  say  nothing 
to  Henriette,  but  I  spent  the  night  in  writing  to  her.  Of 
three  or  four  letters  that  I  wrote,  I  have  nothing  left  but 
this  fragment,  which  did  not  satisfy  me;  but  though  it 
seems  to  me  to  express  nothing,  or  to  say  too  much  about 
myself  when  I  ought  only  to  have  thought  of  her,  it  will 
show  you  the  state  of  my  mind. 

To  Madame  de  Mortsauf 

"How  many  things  I  had  to  say  to  you  this  evening 
that  I  had  thought  of  on  the  way  and  forgot  when  I  saw 
you!  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  see  you,  dearest  Henriette,  I  feel 
my  words  out  of  harmony  with  the  reflections  from  your 
soul  that  add  to  your  beauty.  And,  then,  by  your  side,  I 
feel  such  infinite  happiness  that  the  immediate  experience 
effaces  every  memory  of  what  has  gone  before.  I  am  born 
anew  each  time  to  a  larger  life,  like  a  traveller  who,  as  he 
climbs  a  crag,  discovers  a  new  horizon.  In  every  conversa- 
tion with  you  I  add  some  new  treasure  to  my  vast  treasury. 
This,  I  believe,  is  the  secret  of  long  and  indefatigable  at- 
tachments. So  I  can  only  speak  of  you  to  yourself  when  I 
am  away  from  you.  In  your  presence  I  am  too  much 
dazzled  to  see  you,  too  happy  to  analyze  my  happiness, 
too  full  of  you  to  be  myself,  made  too  eloquent  by  you  to 
speak  to  you,  too  eager  to  seize  the  present  to  be  able 
to  remember  the  past.  Understand  this  constant  intoxica- 
tion, and  you  will  forgive  its  aberrations.  When  I  am  with 
you  I  can  only  feel. 

"Nevertheless,  I  will  dare  to  tell  you,  dear  Henriette, 
that  never,  in  all  the  joy  you  have  given  me,  have  I  felt 
any  rapture  to  compare  with  the  delights  that  filled  my  soul 
yesterday  when,  after  the  dreadful  storm,  in  which,  with  su- 
perhuman courage,  you  did  battle  with  evil,  you  came  back 
to  me  alone  in  the  twilight  of  your  room,  whither  the  unfor- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  861 

tunate  scene  had  led  me.  I  alone  was  there  to  know  the 
light  that  can  shine  in  a  woman  when  she  returns  from  the 
gates  of  death  to  the  gates  of  life,  and  the  dawn  of  a  new 
birth  tinges  her  brow.  How  harmonious  was  your  voice! 
How  trivial  words  seemed — even  yours — as  the  vague  rec- 
ollection of  past  suffering  made  itself  heard  in  your  adored 
tones,  mingled  with  the  divine  consolations,  by  which  you 
at  last  reassured  me  as  you  thus  uttered  your  first  thoughts! 
I  knew  that  you  shone  with  every  choicest  human  gift,  but 
yesterday  I  found  a  new  Henriette,  who  would  be  mine  if 
God  should  grant  it.  I  had  a  glimpse  yesterday  of  an  in- 
scrutable being,  free  from  the  bonds  of  the  flesh,  which, 
hinder  us  from  exhaling  the  fire  of  the  soul.  You  were 
lovely  in  your  dejection,  majestic  in  your  weakness. 

'*!  found  something  yesterday  more  beautiful  than  your 
beauty,  something  sweeter  than  your  voice,  a  light  more 
glorious  than  the  light  of  your  eyes,  a  fragrance  for  which 
there  is  no  name — yesterday  your  soul  was  visible  and  tan- 
gible. Oh !  it  was  torment  to  me  that  I  could  not  open  my 
heart  and  take  you  into  it  to  revive  you.  In  short,  I  yes- 
terday got  over  the  respectful  fear  I  have  felt  for  you,  for 
did  not  your  weakness  draw  us  nearer  to  each  other?  I 
learned  the  joy  of  breathing  as  I  breathed  with  you,  when 
the  spasm  left  you  free  to  inhale  our  air.  What  prayers 
flew  up  to  heaven  in  one  moment  I  Since  I  did  not  die  of 
rushing  through  the  space  I  crossed  to  beseech  God  to 
leave  you  to  me  yet  awhile,  it  is  not  possible  to  die  of  joy 
or  of  grief. 

"That  moment  has  left,  buried  in  my  soul,  memories 
which  can  never  rise  to  the  surface  without  bringing  tears 
to  my  eyes;  every  joy  will  make  the  furrow  longer,  every 
grief  will  make  it  deeper.  Yes;  the  fears  that  racked  my 
soul  yesterday  will  remain  a  standard  of  comparison  for  all 
my  sorrows  to  come,  as  the  happiness  you  have  given  me, 
dear  perpetual  first  thought  of  my  life,  will  prevail  over 
every  joy  that  the  hand  of  God  may  ever  vouchsafe  me. 
You  have  made  me  understand  Divine  love,  that  trustful 
"VoL  4.  (P) 


362  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

love  which,  secure  in  its  strength  and  permanency,  knows 
neither  suspicion  nor  jealousy." 

The  deepest  melancholy  gnawed  at  my  heart ;  the  sight  of 
this  home  was  heartbreaking  to  a  youth  so  fresh  and  new  to 
social  emotions — the  sight,  at  the  threshold  of  the  world,  of 
a  bottomless  gulf,  a  dead  sea.  This  hideous  concentration 
of  woes  suggested  infinite  reflections,  and  at  my  very  first 
steps  in  social  life  I  had  found  a  standard  so  immense  that 
any  other  scenes  could  but  look  small  when  measured  by  it. 
My  melancholy  left  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Chessel  to 
suppose  that  my  love  affair  was  luckless,  so  that  I  was 
happy  in  not  injuring  my  noble  Henriette  by  my  passion. 

On  the  following  day,  on  going  into  the  drawing-room,  I 
found  her  alone.  She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  holding 
out  her  hand;  she  said,  "Will  the  friend  always  persist  in 
being  too  tender?"  The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes;  she  got  up, 
and  added  in  a  tone  of  desperate  entreaty,  "Never  write  to 
me  again  in  such  a  strain." 

Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  was  most  friendly.  The  Countess 
had  recovered  her  courage  and  her  serene  brow;  but  her 
pallor  showed  traces  of  yesterday's  trouble  which,  though 
subdued,  was  not  extinct. 

In  the  evening,  as  we  took  a  walk,  the  autumn  leaves 
rustling  under  our  feet,  she  said: 

"Pain  is  infinite,  joy  has  its  limits,"  a  speech  which  re- 
vealed the  extent  of  her  sufferings  by  comparison  with  her 
transient  happiness. 

"Do  not  calumniate  life,"  said  I.  "You  know  nothing 
of  love ;  there  are  delights  which  flame  up  to  the  heavens. ' ' 

"Hush,"  said  she,  "I  do  not  want  to  know  them.  A 
Greenlander  would  die  in  Italy!  I  am  calm  and  happy  in 
your  society,  I  can  tell  you  all  my  thoughts;  do  not  de- 
stroy my  confidence.  Why  should  you  not  have  the  virtue 
of  a  priest  and  the  charms  of  a  free  man  ? ' ' 

"You  could  make  me  swallow  a  cup  of  hemlock,"  said  I, 
laying  her  hand  on  my  heart,  which  was  beating  rapidly. 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  863 

"Again!"  said  she,  withdrawing  her  hand  as  if  she  felt 
some  sudden  pain.  "Do  you  want  to  deprive  me  of  the 
melancholy  joy  of  feeling  my  bleeding  wounds  stanched 
by  a  friend's  hand?  Do  not  add  to  my  miseries;  you  do 
not  yet  know  them  all,  and  the  most  secret  are  the  hardest 
of  all  to  swallow.  If  you  were  a  woman,  you  would  under- 
stand the  distress  and  bitterness  into  which  her  proud  spirit 
is  plunged  when  she  is  the  object  of  attentions  which  make 
up  for  nothing,  and)  are  supposed  to  make  up  for  everything. 
For  a  few  days  now  I  shall  be  courted  and  petted ;  he  will 
want  to  be  forgiven  for  having  put  himself  in  the  wrong. 
I  could  now  gain  assent  to  the  most  unreasonable  desires. 
And  I  am  humiliated  by  this  servility,  by  caresses  which 
will  cease  as  soon  as  he  thinks  I  have  forgotten  everything. 
Is  it  not  a  terrible  condition  of  life  to  owe  the  kindness  of 
one's  tyrant  only  to  his  errors — " 

"To  his  crimes,"  I  eagerly  put  in. 

"Besides,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sad  smile,  "I  do  not 
know  how  to  make  use  of  this  temporary  advantage.  At 
this  moment  I  am  in  the  position  of  a  knight  who  would 
never  strike  a  fallen  foe.  To  see  the  man  I  ought  to  honor 
on  the  ground,  to  raise  him  only  to  receive  fresh  blows,  to 
suffer  more  from  his  fall  than  he  himself  does,  and  consider 
myself  dishonored  by  taking  advantage  of  a  transient  suc- 
cess, even  for  a  useful  end,  to  waste  my  strength,  and  ex- 
haust all  the  resources  of  my  spirit  in  these  ignominious 
struggles,  to  rule  only  at  the  moment  when  I  am  mortally 
wounded? — Death  is  better! 

"If  I  had  no  children,  I  should  let  myself  be  carried 
down  the  stream ;  but  if  it  were  not  for  my  covert  courage, 
what  would  become  of  them  ?  I  must  live  for  them,  how- 
ever terrible  life  may  be. — You  talk  to  me  of  love!  Why, 
my  friend,  only  think  of  the  hell  I  should  fall  into  if  I  gave 
that  man — ruthless,  as  all  weak  men  are — the  right  to  despise 
me?  I  could  not  endure  a  suspicion!  The  purity  of  my  life  is 
my  strength.  Virtue,  my  dear  child,  has  holy  waters  in  which 
we  may  bathe,  and  emerge  born  again  to  the  love  of  God!" 


364  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Listen,  dear  Henriette,  I  have  only  a  week  more  to  stay 
here,  and  I  want — " 

"What,  you  are  leaving  us?"  said  she,  interrupting  me. 

"Well,  I  must  know  what  my  father  has  decided  on  for 
me.  It  is  nearly  three  months — ' ' 

"I  have  not  counted  the  days,"  she  cried,  with  the  vehe- 
mence of  agitation.  Then  she  controlled  herself,  and  added, 
"Let  us  take  a  walk;  we  will  go  to  Frapesle." 

She  called  the  Count  and  the  children,  and  sent  for  a 
shawl;  then,  when  all  were  ready,  she,  so  deliberate  and  so 
calm,  had  a  fit  of  activity  worthy  of  a  Parisian,  and  we  set 
out  for  Frapesle  in  a  body,  to  pay  a  visit  which  the  Coun- 
tess did  not  owe. 

She  made  an  effort  to  talk  to  Madame  de  Chessel,  who, 
fortunately,  was  prolix  in  her  replies.  The  Count  and 
Monsieur  de  Chessel  discussed  business.  I  was  afraid  lest 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  should  boast  of  his  carriage  and 
horses,  but  he  did  not  fail  in  good  taste. 

His  neighbor  inquired  as  to  the  work  he  was  doing  at 
la  Cassine  and  la  Rhe'toriere.  As  I  heard  the  question,  I 
glanced  at  the  Count,  fancying  lie  would  avoid  talking  of  a 
subject  so  full  of  painful  memories  and  so  bitter  for  him; 
but  he  demonstrated  the  importance  of  improving  the 
methods  of  agriculture  in  the  district,  of  building  good 
farmhouses  on  healthy,  well-drained  spots;  in  short,  he 
audaciously  appropriated  his  wife's  ideas.  I  gazed  at  the 
Countess  and  reddened.  This  want  of  delicacy  in  a  man 
who,  under  certain  circumstances,  had  so  much,  this  obliv- 
ion of  that  direful  scene,  this  adoption  of  ideas  against 
which  he  had  rebelled  so  violently,  this  belief  in  himself 
petrified  me. 

When  Monsieur  de  Chessel  asked  him: 

"And  do  you  think  you  will  recover  the  outlay?" 

"And  more!"  he  exclaimed  positively. 

Such  vagaries  can  only  be  explained  by  the  word  insan- 
ity. Henriette,  heavenly  soul,  was  beaming.  Was  not  the 
Count  showing  himself  to  be  a  man  of  sense,  a  good  man- 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  366 

ager,  an  admirable  farmer?  She  stroked  Jacques'  hair  in 
rapture,  delighted  for  herself  and  delighted  for  her  boy. 
What  an  odious  comedy,  what  a  sardonic  farce  1 

At  a  later  time,  when  the  curtain  of  social  life  was  raised 
for  me,  how  many  Mortsaufs  I  saw,  minus  the  flashes  of 
chivalry  and  the  religious  faith  of  this  man.  What  strange 
and  cynical  Power  is  that  which  constantly  mates  the  mad- 
man with  an  angel,  the  man  of  genuine  and  poetic  feelings 
with  a  mean  woman,  a  little  man  with  a  tall  wife,  a  hideous 
dwarf  with  a  superb  and  beautiful  creature;  which  gives  the 
lovely  Juana  a  Captain  Diard — whose  adventures  at  Bor- 
deaux you  already  know;  pairs  Madame  de  Beause"ant  with 
a  d' Ajuda,  Madame  d' Aiglemont  with  her  husband,  the  Mar- 
quis d'Espard  with  his  wife!  I  have,  I  confess,  long  sought 
the  solution  of  this  riddle.  I  have  investigated  many  mys- 
teries, I  have  discovered  the  reasons  for  many  natural  laws, 
the  interpretation  of  a  few  sacred  hieroglyphics,  but  of  this 
I  know  nothing;  I  am  still  studying  it  as  if  it  were  some 
Indian  puzzle  figure,  of  which  the  Brahmins  have  kept  the 
symbolical  purpose  secret.  Here  the  Spirit  of  Evil  is  too 
flagrantly  the  master,  and  I  dare  not  accuse  God.  Irreme- 
diable disaster!  who  takes  pleasure  in  plotting  you?  Can 
it  be  that  Henriette  and  her  unrecognized  philosopher  were 
right?  Does  their  mysticism  contain  the  general  purport  of 
the  human  race? 

The  last  days  I  spent  in  this  district  were  those  of  leafless 
autumn,  darkened  with  clouds  which  sometimes  hid  the  sky 
of  Touraine,  habitually  clear  and  mild  at  that  fine  season  of 
the  year.  On  the  day  before  I  left,  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
took  me  out  on  the  terrace  before  dinner. 

"My  dear  Felix,"  said  she,  after  taking  a  turn  in  silence 
under  the  bare  trees,  "you  are  going  into  the  world,  and  I 
shall  follow  you  there  in  thought.  Those  who  have  suffered 
much  have  lived  long.  Never  suppose  that  lonely  spirits 
know  nothing  of  the  world;  they  see  and  judge  it.  If  I  am 
to  live  in  my  friend's  life,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  uneasy,  either 
in  his  heart  or  in  his  conscience.  In  the  heat  of  the  fray  it 


366  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

is  sometimes  very  difficult  to  remember  all  the  rules,  so  let 
me  give  you  some  motherly  advice,  as  to  a  son. 

"On  the  day  when  you  leave,  dear  child,  I  will  give  you 
a  long  letter  in  which  you  will  read  my  thoughts  as  a  woman 
on  the  world,  on  men,  on  the  way  to  meet  difficulties  in  that 
great  seething  of  interests.  Promise  me  not  to  read  it  till 
you  are  in  Paris.  This  entreaty  is  the  expression  of  one  of 
the  sentimental  fancies  which  are  the  secret  of  a  woman's 
heart;  I  do  not  think  it  is  possible  to  understand  it,  but  per- 
haps we  should  be  sorry  if  it  were  understood.  Leave  me 
these  little  paths  where  a  woman  loves  to  wander  alone. ' ' 

"I  promise,"  said  I,  kissing  her  hands. 

"Ah!"  said  she,  "but  I  have  another  pledge  to  ask  of 
you ;  but  you  must  promise  beforehand  to  take  it. ' ' 

"Oh,  certainly!"  said  I,  thinking  it  was  some  vow  of 
fidelity. 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  she  said,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "Felix,  never  gamble  in  any  house  whatever;  I 
make  no  exception." 

"I  will  never  play,"  said  I. 

"That  is  well,"  said  she.  "I  have  found  you  a  better 
use  to  make  of  the  time  you  would  spend  at  cards.  You 
will  see  that  while  others  are  certain  to  lose  sooner  or  later, 
you  will  always  win. ' ' 

"How?" 

' '  The  letter  will  tell  you, ' '  she  replied  gayly ,  in  a  way  to 
deprive  her  injunctions  of  the  serious  character  which  are 
given  to  those  of  our  grandmothers. 

The  Countess  talked  to  me  for  about  an  hour,  and  proved 
the  depth  of  her  affection  by  betraying  how  closely  she  had 
studied  me  during  these  three  months.  She  had  entered  into 
the  secret  corners  of  my  heart,  trying  to  infuse  her  own  into 
it;  her  voice  was  modulated  and  convincing,  showing  as 
much  by  the  tone  as  by  her  words  how  many  links  already 
bound  us  to  each  other. 

"If  only  you  could  know,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "with 
what  anxiety  I  shall  follow  you  on  your  way,  with  what  joy 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  367 

if  you  go  straight,  with  what  tears  if  you  bruise  yourself 
against  corners!  Believe  me,  my  affection  is  a  thing  apart; 
it  is  at  once  involuntary  and  deliberately  chosen.  Oh!  I 
long  to  see  you  happy,  powerful,  respected — you  who  will 
be  to  me  as  a  living  dream. ' ' 

She  made  me  weep.  She  was  at  once  mild  and  terrible. 
Her  feelings  were  too  frankly  expressed,  and  too  pure  to 
give  the  smallest  hope  to  a  man  thirsting  for  happiness.  In 
return  for  my  flesh,  left  torn  and  bleeding  in  her  heart,  she 
shed  on  mine  the  unfailing  and  unblemished  light  of  the 
divine  love  that  can  only  satisfy  the  soul.  She  bore  me  up 
to  heights  whither  the  shining  wings  of  the  passion  that  had 
led  me  to  kiss  her  shoulders  could  never  carry  me ;  to  follow 
her  flight  a  man  would  have  needed  to  wear  the  white  pinions 
of  a  seraph. 

"On  every  occasion,"  said  I,  "I  will  think,  'What  would 
my  Henriette  say  ? '  ' 

"Yes,  I  want  to  be  both  the  Star  and  the  Sanctuary,"  said 
she,  alluding  to  my  childhood's  dreams,  and  trying  to  realize 
them,  so  as  to  cheat  my  desires. 

"You  will  be  my  religion,  my  light,  my  all,"  cried  I. 

"No,"  said  she.  "I  can  never  be  the  giver  of  your 
pleasures." 

She  sighed,  and  gave  me  a  smile  of  secret  sorrow,  the 
smile  of  a  slave  in  an  instant  of  revolt. 

From  that  day  forth  she  was  not  merely  a  woman  I  loved 
— she  was  all  I  loved  best.  She  dwelt  in  my  heart  not  as  a 
woman  who  insists  on  a  place  there,  whose  image  is  stamped 
there  by  devotion  or  excess  of  pleasure;  no,  she  had  my 
whole  heart,  and  was  indispensable  to  the  action  of  its 
muscles;  she  became  what  Beatrice  was  to  the  Florentine 
poet,  or  the  spotless  Laura  to  the  Venetian — the  mother  of 
great  thoughts,  the  unknown  cause  of  saving  determinations, 
my  support  for  the  future,  the  light  that  shines  in  darkness 
like  a  lily  among  sombre  shrubs.  Yes,  she  dictated  the  firm 
resolve  that  cut  off  what  was  to  be  burned,  that  reinstated 
what  was  in  danger;  she  endowed  me  with  the  fortitude  of 


368  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  Coligny  to  conquer  the  conquerors,  to  rise  after  defeat,  to 
wear  out  the  stoutest  foe. 

Next  morning,  after  breakfasting  at  Frapesle,  and  taking 
leave  of  the  hosts  who  had  been  so  kind  to  the  selfishness  of 
my  passion,  I  went  to  Clochegourde.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Mortsauf  had  agreed  to  drive  with  me  as  far  as  Tours, 
whence  I  was  to  set  out  for  Paris  that  night.  On  the  way 
the  Countess  was  affectionately  silent;  at  first  she  said  she 
had  a  headache;  then  she  colored  at  the  falsehood,  and  sud- 
denly mitigated  it  by  saying  that  she  could  not  but  regret  to 
see  me  depart.  The  Count  invited  me  to  stay  with  them  if, 
in  the  absence  of  the  Chessels,  I  should  ever  wish  to  see  the 
valley  of  the  Indre  once  more.  "We  parted  heroically,  with 
no  visible  tears ;  but,  like  many  a  sickly  child,  Jacques  had 
a  little  emotional  spasm  which  made  him  cry  a  little ;  while 
Madeleine,  a  woman  already,  clasped  her  mother's  hand. 

"Dear  little  man!"  said  the  Countess,  kissing  Jacques 
passionately. 

When  I  was  left  alone  at  Tours,  after  dinner  I  was  seized 
by  one  of  those  inexplicable  rages  which  only  youth  ever 
goes  through.  I  hired  a  horse,  and  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter 
had  ridden  back  the  whole  distance  from  Tours  to  Pont  de 
Euan.  There,  ashamed  of  letting  my  madness  be  seen,  I 
ran  down  the  road  on  foot,  and  stole  under  the  terrace  on 
tiptoe,  like  a  spy.  The  Countess  was  not  there ;  I  fancied 
she  might  be  ill.  I  had  still  the  key  of  the  little  gate,  and 
I  went  in.  She  was  at  that  very  moment  coming  down  the 
steps  with  her  two  children,  slowly  and  sadly,  to  revel  in 
the  tender  melancholy  of  the  landscape  under  the  setting 
sun. 

"Why,  mother,  here  is  Felix,"  said  Madeleine. 

"Yes,  I  myself,"  I  whispered  low.  "I  asked  myself  why 
I  was  at  Tours  when  I  could  easily  see  you  once  more.  Why 
not  gratify  a  wish  which,  a  week  hence,  will  be  beyond  ful- 
filment?" 

"Then  he  is  not  going  away,"  cried  Jacques,  skipping 
and  jumping. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE  VALLEY 

"Be  quiet,  do,"  said  Madeleine;  "you  will  bring  out  the 
General!" 

4 '  This  is  not  right, ' '  said  the  Countess.    ' '  What  madness !" 

The  words,  spoken  through  tears  in  her  voice,  were  in- 
deed a  payment  of  what  I  may  call  usurious  calculations  in 
love! 

"I  had  forgotten  to  return  you  this  key,"  said  I,  with  a 
smile. 

"Then  are  you  never  coming  back  again  ?"  said  she. 

"Can  we  ever  be  apart  ?"  said  I,  with  a  look  before  which 
her  eyelids  fell  to  veil  the  mute  reply. 

I  went  away  after  a  few  minutes  spent  in  the  exquisite 
blankness  of  souls  strung  to  the  pitch  at  which  excitement 
ends  and  frenzied  ecstasy  begins.  I  went  away,  walking 
slowly,  and  constantly  looking  back.  When  I  gazed  at  the 
valley  for  the  last  time  from  the  top  of  the  down,  I  was 
struck  by  the  contrast  between  its  aspect  now  and  when  I 
first  came  to  it:  was  it  not  then  as  green,  as  glowing,  as  my 
hopes  and  desires  had  sprung  and  glowed?  Now,  initiated 
into  the  dark  and  melancholy  mysteries  of  a  home,  sharing 
the  pangs  of  a  Christian  Niobe,  as  sad  as  she,  my  spirit  over- 
shadowed, I  saw  in  the  landscape,  at  this  moment,  the  hues 
of  my  ideas.  The  fields  were  cleared  of  their  crops,  the 
poplar  leaves  were  falling,  and  those  that  remained  were 
rust-color;  the  vine-canes  were  burned,  the  woods  wore  sol- 
emn tints  of  the  russet  which  kings  of  yore  adopted  for  their 
dress,  disguising  the  purple  of  power  under  the  brown  hues 
of  care.  And,  still  in  harmony  with  my  thoughts,  the  valley 
under  the  dying  yellow  rays  of  the  warm  sun  presented  to 
me  a  living  image  of  my  soul. 

To  part  from  the  woman  we  love  is  a  very  simple  or  a  very 
dreadful  thing,  depending  on  one's  nature;  I  suddenly  felt 
myself  in  an  unknown  land  of  which  I  could  not  speak  the 
language;  I  could  find  nothing  to  cling  to,  as  I  saw  only 
things  to  which  my  soul  was  no  longer  attached.  Then  my 
love  unfolded  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  my  dear  Henriette 


370  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

rose  to  her  full  dignity  in  the  desert  wherein  I  lived  only 
by  memories  of  her.  It  was  an  image  so  piously  worshipped 
that  I  resolved  to  remain  unspotted  in  the  presence  of  my 
secret  divinity,  and  in  fancy  I  robed  myself  in  the  white 
garb  of  a  Levite,  imitating  Petrarch,  who  never  appeared  in 
the  presence  of  Laura  but  in  white  from  head  to  foot. 

With  what  impatience  did  I  look  forward  to  the  first  night 
when  I  should  be  under  my  father's  roof,  and  might  read  the 
letter,  which  I  kept  feeling  during  my  journey,  as  a  miser 
feels  a  sum  in  bank-notes  that  he  is  obliged  to  carry  about 
with  him.  During  the  night  I  kissed  the  paper  on  which 
Henriette  had  expressed  her  will,  where  I  should  find  the 
mysterious  effluvium  of  her  touch,  whence  the  tones  of  her 
voice  would  fall  on  my  absorbed  mental  ear.  I  have  never 
read  her  letters  but  as  I  read  that  first  one,  in  bed,  and  in 
the  deepest  silence.  I  do  not  know  how  otherwise  we  can 
read  the  letters  written  by  a  woman  we  love ;  and  yet  there 
are  men  who  mingle  the  reading  of  such  letters  with  the  busi- 
ness of  daily  life,  taking  them  up  and  putting  them  down 
with  odious  coolness. 

Here,  then,  Natalie,  is  the  exquisite  voice  which  suddenly 
sounded  in  the  stillness  of  the  night;  here  is  the  sublime  fig- 
ure which  rose  before  me,  pointing  out  the  right  road  from 
the  crossways  where  I  now  stood: 

"It  is  happiness,  my  friend,  to  be  obliged  to  collect  the 
scattered  fragments  of  my  experience  to  transmit  it  to  you 
and  arm  you  against  the  perjls  of  the  world  in  which  you 
must  guide  yourself  with  skill.  I  have  felt  the  permitted 
joys  of  motherly  affection  while  thinking  of  you  for  a  few 
nights.  While  writing  this,  a  sentence  at  a  time,  throwing 
myself  forward  into  the  life  you  are  about  to  lead,  I  went 
now  and  again  to  my  window.  Seeing  the  turrets  of  Frapesle 
in  the  moonlight,  I  could  say  to  myself,  'He  is  asleep,  while 
I  am  awake  for  his  sake, '  a  delightful  emotion  reminding  me 
of  the  first  happy  days  of  my  life  when  I  watched  Jacques 
asleep  in  his  cradle,  waiting  for  him  to  wake  to  feed  him  from 
my  bosom.  Did  not  you  come  to  me  as  a  child-man  whose 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  871 

soul  needed  comforting  by  such  precepts  as  you  could  not 
lin.l  to  nourish  it  in  those  dreadful  schools  where  you  en- 
dured so  much,  and  as  we  women  have  the  privilege  of 
affording  you? 

"These  trifles  will  influence  your  success;  they  prepare 
and  consolidate  it.  Will  it  not  be  a  form  of  spiritual  mother- 
hood thus  to  create  the  system  to  which,  as  a  man,  you  must 
refer  the  various  acts  of  life,  a  motherhood  well  understood 
by  the  son  ?  Dear  Fe*lix,  permit  me,  even  if  I  should  make 
some  mistakes,  to  give  our  friendship  the  seal  of  disinter- 
estedness that  will  sanctify  it;  for  in  giving  you  up  to  the 
world,  am  I  not  foregoing  every  claim  on  you?  But  I  love 
you  well  enough  to  sacrifice  my  own  joys  to  your  splendid 
future. 

"For  nearly  four  months  you  have  led  me  to  reflect 
strangely  on  the  laws  and  habits  that  govern  our  time.  The 
conversations  I  have  held  with  my  aunt,  of  which  the  pur- 
port must  be  given  to  you  who  have  taken  her  place;  the 
events  of  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  s  life  as  he  has  related  them 
to  me;  my  father's  dicta,  familiar  as  he  was  with  the  Court; 
the  greatest  and  the  smallest  facts  have  risen  up  in  my  mind 
for  the  benefit  of  the  adopted  son  whom  I  see  now  about  to 
plunge,  almost  alone,  into  the  throng  of  men;  about  to  find 
himself  without  an  adviser  in  a  country  where  many  perish 
by  a  heedless  misuse  of  their  best  qualities,  and  some  suc- 
ceed by  a  clever  use  of  their  bad  ones. 

"Above  all,  reflect  on  the  brief  utterance  of  my  opinion 
on  society  considered  as  a  whole — for  to  you  a  few  words  are 
enough.  Whether  social  communities  had  a  divine  origin, 
or  are  the  invention  of  man,  I  know  not,  nor  do  I  know 
which  way  they  are  going;  one  thing  seems  certain,  and  that 
is:  that  they  exist.  As  soon  as  you  accept  a  social  life  in- 
stead of  isolation,  you  are  bound  to  adhere  to  its  constitu- 
tional conditions,  and  to-morrow  a  sort  of  contract  will  bo 
signed  between  it  and  you. 

"Does  society,  as  now  constituted,  get  more  benefit  out 
of  a  man  than  it  gives?  I  believe  so;  but  if  a  man  finds  ia 


372  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

it  more  burden  than  profit,  or  if  he  purchases  too  dearly  the 
advantages  he  derives  from  it,  these  are  questions  for  the 
legislator  and  not  for  the  individual.  You  ought,  in  my 
opinion,  to  obey  the  general  law  in  all  things,  without  dis- 
puting it,  whether  it  hurts  or  advances  your  interest.  Sim- 
ple as  this  principle  may  appear  to  you,  it  is  not  always  easy 
of  application;  it  is  like  the  sap  which  must  permeate  the 
smallest  capillary  vessels  to  give  life  to  a  tree,  to  preserve  its 
verdure,  develop  its  bloom,  and  elaborate  its  fruit  to  a  mag- 
nificence that  excites  general  admiration.  My  dear,  these 
laws  are  not  all  written  in  a  book;  customs  also  create  laws; 
the  most  important  are  the  least  known;  there  are  neither 
professors,  nor  treatises,  nor  any  school  of  that  law  which 
guides  your  actions,  your  conversation,  your  external  life, 
and  the  way  in  which  you  must  appear  in  the  world  and 
meet  fortune.  If  you  sin  against  these  unwritten  laws,  you 
must  remain  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  community  instead 
of  dominating  it.  Even  though  this  letter  should  be  full  of 
echoes  of  your  own  thoughts,  suffer  me  to  set  before  you  my 
woman's  policy. 

"To  formulate  society  by  a  theory  of  personal  happiness, 
grasped  at  the  cost  of  everybody  else,  is  a  disastrous  doctrine 
which,  strictly  worked  out,  would  lead  a  man  to  believe  that 
everything  he  secretly  appropriates,  without  any  offence  dis- 
cernible by  the  law,  by  society,  or  by  an  individual,  is  fairly 
his  booty  or  his  due.  If  this  were  the  charter,  then  a  clever 
thief  would  be  blameless,  a  wife  faithless  to  her  duties,  but 
undetected,  would  be  happy  and  good;  kill  a  man,  and  so 
long  as  justice  can  find  no  proofs,  if  you  have  thus  won  a 
crown,  like  Macbeth,  you  have  done  well;  your  own  interest 
becomes  the  supreme  law;  the  only  question  is  to  navigate, 
without  witnesses  or  evidence,  among  the  obstacles  which 
law  and  custom  have  placed  between  you  and  your  satisfac- 
tion. To  a  man  who  takes  this  view  of  society,  my  friend, 
the  problem  of  making  a  fortune  is  reduced  to  playing  a  game 
where  the  stakes  are  a  million  or  the  galleys,  a  position  in 
politics  or  disgrace.  And,  indeed,  the  green  cloth  is  not 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  873 

wide  enough  for  all  the  players;  a  sort  of  genius  IB  necessary 
to  calculate  a  coup. 

"I  say  nothing  of  religious  beliefs  or  feelings;  we  are  con- 
cerned merely  with  the  wheels  of  a  machine  of  iron  or  of  gold, 
and  of  the  immediate  results  which  men  look  for. 

"Dear  child  of  my  heart,  if  you  share  my  horror  of  this 
criminal  theory,  society  will  resolve  itself  in  your  eyes,  as  in 
every  healthy  mind,  into  a  theory  of  duty.  Yes,  men  owe 
service  to  each  other  under  a  thousand  different  forms.  In 
my  opinion,  the  duke  or  peer  has  far  greater  duties  to  the 
artisan  or  the  pauper  than  the  artisan  or  the  pauper  has  to 
the  duke.  The  obligations  laid  on  us  are  greater  in  propor- 
tion to  the  benefits  we  derive  from  society,  in  accordance 
with  the  axiom — as  true  in  commerce  as  in  politics — that  the 
burden  of  care  is  always  in  proportion  to  the  profits  accruing. 
Each  one  pays  his  debt  in  his  own  way.  When  our  poor 
farmer  at  la  Khe*toriere  comes  home  to  bed,  tired  out  with 
his  labor,  do  you  think  he  has  not  done  his  duty?  He  has 
undoubtedly  fulfilled  it  better  than  many  a  man  in  a  high 
position.  Hence,  in  contemplating  the  world  in  which  you 
desire  a  place  suitable  to  your  intelligence  and  your  facul- 
ties, you  must  start  with  this  maxim  as  fundamental  prin- 
ciple— Never  allow  yourself  to  do  anything  against  your 
own  conscience,  or  against  the  public  conscience.  Though 
my  insistence  may  seem  to  you  superfluous,  I  beseech  you — 
yes,  your  Henriette  beseeches  you — to  weigh  the  full  sense 
of  these  two  words.  Simple  as  they  may  seem,  they  mean, 
my  dear,  that  uprightness,  honor,  loyalty,  good  breeding  are 
the  surest  and  quickest  roads  to  fortune.  In  this  selfish 
world  there  will  be  plenty  of  people  to  tell  you  that  a  man 
cannot  get  on  by  his  feelings;  that  moral  considerations,  too 
tenaciously  upheld,  hamper  his  progress;  you  will  see  ill- 
bred  men,  boorish  or  incapable  of  taking  stock  of  the  future, 
who  will  crush  a  smaller  man,  be  guilty  of  some  rudeness  to 
an  old  woman,  or  refuse  to  endure  a  few  minutes'  boredom 
from  an  old  man,  saying  they  can  be  of  no  use;  but  later  you 
will  find  these  men  caught  by  the  thorns  they  have  neglected 


S74:  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  break,  and  missing  fortune  by  a  trifle;  while  another,  who 
has  early  trained  himself  to  this  theory  of  duty,  will  meet 
with  no  obstacles.  He  may  reach  the  top  more  slowly,  but 
his  position  will  be  assured,  and  he  will  stand  firm  when 
others  are  tottering  to  a  fall. 

"When  I  add  that  the  application  of  this  principle  de- 
mands, in  the  first  place,  a  knowledge  of  manners,  you  will 
fancy  perhaps  that  my  jurisprudence  smacks  of  the  Court 
and  of  the  teaching  I  brought  from  the  house  of  the  Lenon- 
courts.  My  dear  friend,  I  attach  the  greatest  importance  to 
this  training,  trivial  as  it  may  seem.  The  manners  of  the 
best  company  are  quite  as  indispensable  as  the  varied  and 
extensive  knowledge  you  already  possess;  they  have  often 
taken  its  place!  Some  men,  ignorant  in  fact,  but  gifted  with 
mother- wit,  and  used  to  argue  soundly  from  their  ideas,  have 
attained  to  greatness  which  has  evaded  the  grasp  of  others, 
cneir  superiors.  I  have  watched  you  carefully,  Felix,  to  see 
whether  your  education  with  other  youths  in  various  schools 
had  spoiled  anything  in  you.  I  discerned,  with  great  joy, 
that  you  may  easily  assimilate  what  you  lack — little  enough, 
God  knows  I  In  many  persons,  though  brought  up  in  good 
traditions,  manners  are  merely  superficial ;  for  perfect  polite- 
ness and  noble  manners  come  from  the  heart  and  a  lofty 
sense  of  personal  dignity.  This  is  why,  in  spite  of  their 
training,  some  men  of  birth  are  of  very  bad  style,  while 
others  of  humbler  rank  have  a  natural  good  taste,  and  need 
but  a  few  lessons  to  acquire  the  best  manners  without  clumsy 
imitation.  Take  the  word  of  a  poor  woman  who  will  never 
quit  her  valley — A  noble  tone,  a  gracious  simplicity  stamped 
on  speech,  action,  and  demeanor — nay,  even  on  the  details 
of  a  house — constitute  a  sort  of  personal  poetry,  and  give  an 
irresistible  charm;  judge  then  of  their  effect  when  they  come 
from  the  heart. 

"Politeness,  dear  child,  consists  in  forgetting  yourself  for 
others;  with  many  people  it  is  no  more  than  a  company 
grimace  that  fails  as  soon  as  self-interest  is  rubbed  too  hard 
and  peeps  through;  then  a  great  man  is  ignoble.  But  true 


THE  LILT  OF  THE   VALLEY  876 

politeness — and  on  this  I  insist  in  you,  Felix — implies  a 
Christian  grace;  it  is  the  very  flower  of  charity,  and  consists 
in  really  forgetting  Self.  In  memory  of  flenriette,  do  not 
be  a  fountain  without  water,  have  the  spirit  as  well  as  the 
form.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  finding  yourself  too  often  the  dupe 
of  this  social  virtue;  sooner  or  later  you  will  gather  the  har- 
vest of  so  much  seed  cast  apparently  to  the  winds. 

"My  father  remarked,  long  ago,  that  one  of  the  most 
offensive  things  in  superficial  politeness  is  the  misuse  of 
promises.  When  you  are  asked  to  do  something  that  is  out 
of  your  power,  refuse  pointblank,  and  give  no  false  hopes. 
On  the  other  hand,  give  at  once  whatever  yon  mean  to  grant; 
you  will  thus  be  credited  with  the  grace  of  refusing  as  well 
as  the  grace  of  conferring  a  benefit — twofold  honesty  which 
really  elevates  the  character.  I  am  not  sure  that  we  do  not 
earn  more  ill-will  by  a  hope  deceived  than  goodwill  by  a 
favor  bestowed. 

"Above  all,  my  friend — for  such  little  things  are  all 
within  my  province,  and  I  may  emphasize  the  things  I  feel 
that  I  know — be  neither  confidential,  nor  commonplace,  nor 
over-eager — three  rocks  ahead.  Too  much  confiding  in 
others  diminishes  their  respect,  the  commonplace  is  despised, 
enthusiasm  makes  us  a  prey  to  adventurers.  In  the  first 
place,  dear  child,  do  not  have  more  than  two  or  three  friends 
in  the  whole  course  of  your  life,  and  your  confidence  is  their 
right;  if  you  give  it  to  many,  you  betray  them  to  each  other. 
If  you  find  yourself  more  intimate  with  some  men  than  with 
others,  be  reserved  about  yourself,  as  reserved  as  though 
they  were  some  day  to  be  your  rivals,  your  opponents,  or 
your  enemies;  the  chances  of  life  require  this.  Preserve  an 
attitude  neither  cold  nor  perfervid,  try  to  hit  the  median  line, 
on  which  a  man  may  take  his  stand  without  compromising 
himself.  Believe  me,  a  man  of  heart  is  as  far  from  Philinte's 
feeble  amiability  as  from  Alceste's  harsh  austerity.  The 
genius  of  the  comic  poet  shines  in  the  suggestion  of  a  happy 
medium  apprehended  by  a  high-minded  spectator;  and  cer- 
tainly every  one  will  have  a  leaning  to  the  absurdities  of 


376  BALXAC'S    WORK3 

virtue  rather  than  to  the  sovereign  contempt  that  hides  under 
the  good-nature  of  egoism,  but  they  will  probably  preserve 
themselves  from  either.  As  to  commonplace  civility,  though 
it  may  make  some  simpletons  pronounce  you  to  be  a  charm- 
ing man,  those  who  are  accustomed  to  gauge  and  value  human 
intellects  will  estimate  your  capacity,  and  you  will  soon  be 
neglected,  for  the  commonplace  is  the  resource  of  all  weak 
men.  Now,  weak  men  are  looked  down  upon  by  a  world 
which  regards  its  several  members  merely  as  organs — and 
perhaps  it  is  right:  Nature  crushes  out  every  ineffectual 
creature.  Indeed,  the  kindly  influence  of  women  is  perhaps 
the  outcome  of  'the  pleasure  they  take  in  struggling  with  a 
blind  power,  and  asserting  the  triumph  of  the  heart's  percep- 
tions over  the  brute  strength  of  matter.  But  Society,  a  step- 
mother rather  than  a  mother,  adores  the  children  who  flatter 
her  vanity. 

•'  As  for  zeal,  that  first  sublime  error  of  youth  which  finds 
real  enjoyment  in  expending  its  strength,  and  so  begins  by 
being  its  own  dupe  before  it  is  duped  by  others,  Keep  it  for 
the  sentiments  you  share,  keep  it  for  woman  and  for  God. 
Never  offer  such  treasures  in  the  world's  mart,  nor  in  the 
speculations  of  politics;  they  will  only  give  you  paste  for 
them.  You  surely  must  believe  the  adviser  who  enjoins 
noble  conduct  on  you  in  every  particular,  when  she  implores 
you  not  to  waste  yourself  in  vain;  for,  unfortunately,  men 
will  esteem  you  in  proportion  to  your  usefulness,  taking  no 
account  of  your  real  worth.  To  use  a  figure  of  speech  which 
will  abide  in  your  poetic  mind:  A  cipher,  though  it  be  never 
BO  large,  traced  in  gold  or  written  in  chalk,  will  never  be 
anything  but  a  cipher.  A  man  of  our  day  said:  'Never  show 
zeal !'  Zeal  verges  on  trickery,  it  leads  to  misunderstandings; 
you  would  never  find  a  fervor  to  match  your  own  in  any  one 
above  you;  kings,  like  women,  think  that  everything  is  due 
to  them.  Sad  as  this  principle  may  seem,  it  is  true ;  but  it  need 
not  blight  the  soul.  Place  your  purest  feelings  in  some  inacces- 
sible spot  where  their  flowers  may  be  passionately  admired, 
where  the  artist  may  lovingly  dream  over  the  masterpiece. 


THE  LtLJ    OF  THE   VALLEY  377 

"Duties,  my  friend,  are  not  feelings.  To  do  what  you 
ought  is  not  to  do  what  you  please.  A  man  must  be  ready 
to  die  in  cold  blood  for  his  country,  but  may  give  his  life  for 
a  woman  with  joy. 

"One  of  the  most  important  rules  in  the  science  of  man- 
ners is  almost  absolute  silence  concerning  yourself.  Allow 
yourself,  for  the  amusement  of  it,  some  day  to  talk  about 
yourself  to  some  mere  acquaintances;  tell  them  of  your  ail- 
ments, your  pleasures,  or  your  business,  you  will  see  indiffer- 
ence supervene  on  affected  interest;  then,  when  they  are 
utterly  bored,  if  the  mistress  of  the  house  does  not  politely 
check  you,  every  one  will  find  a  clever  excuse  to  withdraw. 
But  if  you  want  to  collect  about  you  every  man's  sympathies, 
to  be  regarded  as  an  agreeable  and  witty  man,  always  pleas- 
ant, talk  to  them  of  themselves,  find  an  opportunity  for 
bringing  them  to  the  front — even  by  asking  questions  appar- 
ently irrelevant  to  the  individual.  Heads  will  bow,  lips  will 
smile  at  you,  and  when  you  have  left,  every  one  will  sing 
your  praises.  Your  conscience  and  the  voice  of  your  heart 
will  warn  you  of  the  limit  where  the  cowardice  of  flattery 
begins,  where  the  grace  of  conversation  ends. 

"One  word  more  about  talking  in  public.  My  friend, 
youth  is  always  inclined  to  a  certain  hastiness  of  judgment 
which  does  it  honor,  but  which  serves  it  ill.  Hence  the 
silence  which  used  to  be  impressed  on  the  young,  who  went 
through  an  apprenticeship  to  their  betters,  during  which  they 
studied  life;  for,  of  old,  the  nobility  had  their  apprentices  as 
artists  had,  pages  attached  to  the  masters  who  maintained 
them.  In  these  days  young  people  have  a  sort  of  hothouse 
training,  sour  at  that,  which  leads  them  to  iudge  severely 
of  actions,  thoughts,  and  books;  they  cut  rashly,  and  with 
a  new  knife.  Do  not  indulge  in  this  bad  habit.  Your  con- 
demnation would  be  such  censure  as  would  hurt  many  of 
those  about  you,  and  they  would  all  perhaps  be  less  ready 
to  forgive  a  secret  wound  than  an  offence  given  in  public. 
Young  men  are  not  indulgent,  because  they  do  not  know  life 
and  its  difficulties.  An  old  critic  is  kind  and  mild,  a  young 


378  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

critic  is  merciless,  for  he  knows  nothing;  the  other  knows 
all.  And  then  there  is  at  the  back  of  every  human  action  a 
labyrinth  of  determining  causes,  of  which  God  has  reserved 
to  Himself  the  right  of  final  judgment.  Be  severe  only  to 
yourself. 

"Your  fortune  lies  before  you,  but  nobody  in  this  world 
can  make  a  fortune  unaided.  My  father's  house  is  open  to 
you;  visit  there  frequently;  the  connections  you  will  form 
there  will  be  of  use  to  you  in  a  thousand  ways.  But  do  not 
yield  an  inch  of  ground  to  my  mother;  she  crushes  those  who 
bend,  and  admires  the  spirit  of  those  who  resist  her.  She  is 
like  iron  which,  when  hammered,  can  be  welded  with  iron, 
but  by  its  mere  contact  breaks  everything  less  hard  than 
itself.  But  cultivate  my  mother's  acquaintance;  if  she  likes 
you,  she  will  introduce  you  to  houses  where  you  will  pick 
up  the  inevitable  knowledge  of  the  world,  the  art  of  listen- 
ing, speaking,  replying,  coming  in,  and  going  away;  the  tone 
of  speech,  the  indescribable  something,  which  is  not  superi- 
ority any  more  than  the  coat  is  genius,  but  without  which 
the  greatest  talents  are  never  acceptable.  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  I  am  not  deluding  myself  when  I 
picture  you  beforehand  just  what  I  wish  you  to  be — simple 
in  manner,  gentle  in  tone,  proud  without  conceit,  deferent 
to  old  people,  obliging  without  servility,  and,  above  all, \  dis- 
creet. Use  your  wit,  but  not  merely  to  amuse  your  company, 
for  you  must  remember  that  if  your  superiority  irritates  a 
commonplace  man,  he  will  be  silent;  but  he  will  afterward 
speak  of  you  as  'most  amusing,'  a  word  of  scorn.  Your 
superiority  must  always  be  leonine.  Indeed,  do  not  try  to 
please  men.  In  your  intercourse  with  them  I  would  recom- 
mend a  coolness  verging  on  such  a  degree  of  impertinence  as 
cannot  offend  them;  every  man  respects  those  who  look  down 
on  him,  and  such  contempt  will  win  you  the  favor  of  women, 
who  value  you  in  proportion  to  your  indifference  to  men. 
Never  be  familiar  with  persons  in  discredit,  not  even  if  they 
do  not  merit  their  reputation,  for  the  world  exacts  an 
account  alike  of  our  friendships  and  our  aversions;  on  this 


379 

point  let  your  judgment  be  slowly  and  fully  matured,  but 
irrevocable. 

"If  men  to  whom  you  will  have  nothing  to  say  justify 
your  aversion,  your  esteem  will  be  valued ;  and  thus  you 
will  inspire  that  unspoken  respect  which  raises  a  man  above 
his  fellows.  Thus  you  will  be  armed  with  youth  to  attract, 
grace  to  charm,  and  prudence  to  preserve  your  conquests. 
And  all  I  have  said  may  be  summed  up  in  the  old  motto 
'Noblesse  oblige.' 

"Now  apply  these  principles  to  the  policy  of  business. 
You  will  hear  many  men  declare  that  craft  is  the  element  of 
success,  that  the  way  to  push  through  the  crowd  is  by  divid- 
ing it  to  make  room.  My  friend,  these  principles  held  good 
in  the  dark  ages,  when  princes  had  to  use  rival  forces  to  de- 
stroy each  other;  but  in  these  days  everything  is  open  to  the 
day,  and  such  a  system  would  serve  you  very  ill.  You  will 
always  meet  men  face  to  face ;  either  an  honest  gentleman,  or 
a  treacherous  foe,  a  man  whose  weapons  are  calumny,  slan- 
der, and  dishonesty.  Well,  understand  that  against  him 
you  have  no  better  ally  than  himself;  he  is  his  own  enemy; 
you  can  fight  him  with  the  weapons  of  loyalty;  sooner  or 
later  he  will  be  despised.  As  to  the  first,  your  own  frank- 
ness will  conciliate  his  esteem;  and  when  your  interests  are 
reconciled — for  everything  can  be  arranged — he  will  be  of 
service  to  you.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  making  enemies;  woe 
to  him  who  has  none  in  the  world  you  will  move  in !  But 
try  never  to  give  a  handle  to  ridicule  or  discredit.  I  say 
try,  for  in  Paris  a  man  is  not  always  free  to  act ;  he  is  liable 
to  inevitable  circumstances;  you  cannot  escape  mud  from 
the  gutter,  nor  a  falling  tile.  There  are  gutters  in  the 
moral  world,  and  those  who  fall  try  to  splash  nobler  men 
with  the  mud  in  which  they  are  drowning.  But  you  can 
always  command  respect  by  showing  yourself  invariably 
relentless  in  your  final  decision. 

"In  this  conflict  of  ambitions,  and  amid  these  tangled 
difficulties,  always  go  straight  to  the  point;  resolutely  at- 
tack the  question,  and  never  fight  more  than  one  point 


380  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

with  all  your  strength.  You  know  how  Monsieur  de  Mort- 
sauf  hated  Napoleon;  he  persistently  cursed  him,  he  watched 
him  as  the  police  watch  a  criminal,  every  evening  he  called 
out  on  him  for  the  Due  d'Enghien's  death — the  only  dis- 
aster, the  only  death  that  ever  wrung  tears  from  him;  well, 
he  admired  him  as  the  boldest  of  leaders,  and  often  expati- 
ated on  his  tactics.  Cannot  a  similar  strategy  be  applied  in 
the  war  of  interests  ?  It  would  economize  time,  as  Napo- 
leon's economized  men  and  space.  Think  this  over,  for  a 
woman  is  often  mistaken  about  such  things,  judging  only 
by  feeling  and  instinct. 

1 '  On  one  point  I  may  confidently  insist :  all  trickery  and 
craft  is  certain  to  be  detected,  and  does  harm  in  the  end, 
whereas  every  crisis  seems  to  me  less  perilous  when  a  man 
takes  his  stand  on  plain-dealing.  If  I  may  quote  myself  as 
an  example,  I  may  tell  you  that  at  Clochegourde,  forced  by 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 's  temper  to  be  on  my  guard  against 
any  litigation,  and  to  have  every  question  settled  at  once 
by  arbitration,  lest  it  should  become  a  sort  of  illness  to  him 
which  he  would  enjoy  giving  himself  up  to,  I  have  always 
settled  matters  myself  by  going  straight  to  the  point  and 
saying  to  my  opponent,  'Untie  the  knot  or  cut  it.' 

"You  will  often  find  yourself  of  use  to  others,  doing 
them  some  service,  and  getting  small  thanks;  but  do  not 
imitate  those  who  complain,  and  declare  that  they  have 
met  with  nothing  but  ingratitude.  Is  not  that  putting  one's- 
self  on  a  pedestal?  And  is  it  not  rather  silly  to  confess 
one's  scant  knowledge  of  the  world?  And  do  you  do  good 
as  a  usurer  lends  money?  "Will  you  not  do  it  for  its  own 
sake?  Noblesse  oblige!  At  the  same  time,  do  not  render 
men  such  service  as  compels  them  to  be  ungrateful,  for  then 
they  will  become  your  implacable  enemies;  there  is  a  despair 
of  obligation  as  there  is  a  despair  of  ruin,  which  gives  incal- 
culable strength.  On  the  other  hand,  accept  as  little  as  you 
can.  Do  not  become  the  vassal  of  any  living  soul;  depend 
on  yourself  alone. 

"I  can  only  advise,  dear  friend,  as  to  the  minor  matters 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  381 

of  life.  In  the  political  world  everything  has  a  different  as- 
pect, the  rules  that  guide  your  personal  conduct  must  bow 
to  higher  interests.  But  if  you  should  reach  the  sphere  in 
which  great  men  have  their  being,  you,  like  God,  will  be 
sole  judge  of  your  decisions.  You  will  be  more  than  a 
man,  you  will  be  the  embodiment  of  the  law;  you  will  be 
more  than  an  individual,  you  will  represent  the  nation 
incarnate.  But  though  you  will  judge,  you  will  also  be 
judged.  In  later  times  you  will  be  called  to  appear  before 
the  Ages,  and  you  know  history  well  enough  to  appreciate 
what  the  feelings  and  deeds  are  which  lead  to  true  greatness. 

"I  now  come  to  the  serious  point — your  conduct  to 
women.  In  the  drawing-rooms  where  you  will  visit  make 
it  a  law  to  yourself  never  to  squander  yourself  by  indulging 
in  the  trivialities  of  flirtation.  One  of  the  men  of  the  last 
century,  who  was  in  every  way  most  successful,  made  it  a 
practice  never  to  devote  himself  but  to  one  lady  in  an  even- 
ing, and  to  select  those  who  seemed  forlorn.  That  man, 
my  dear  boy,  was  supreme  in  his  day.  He  had  shrewd- 
ly calculated  that  in  due  time  he  would  be  persistently 
praised  by  everybody.  Most  young  men  lose  their  most 
precious  possession,  the  time,  namely,  which  is  needful  for 
making  the  connections  which  are  half  of  social  life.  While 
they  are  intrinsically  attractive  they  would  have  little  to  do 
to  attach  others  to  their  interests;  but  that  springtime  is 
brief — make  the  most  of  it.  Cultivate  the  society  of  influ- 
ential women.  Influential  women  are  old  women ;  they  will 
inform  you  as  to  the  alliances  and  secrets  of  every  family, 
and  show  you  the  cross-roads  that  may  take  you  quickly 
to  the  goal.  They  will  be  really  fond  of  you;  patronage  is 
their  last  passion  when  they  are  not  bigots ;  they  will  be  of 
invaluable  service,  they  will  speak  well  of  you,  and  make 
other  people  want  to  know  you. 

"Avoid  young  women!  Do  not  think  that  there  is  the 
least  personal  animus  in  this  advice.  The  woman  of  fifty 
will  do  everything  for  you,  the  woman  of  twenty,  nothing; 
sne  will  demand  your  whole  life ;  the  elder  woman  will  only 


382  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ask  for  a  moment,  a  little  attention.  Jest  with  young 
women,  take  them  very  lightly,  they  are  incapable  of  a 
serious  thought.  Young  women,  my  dear,  are  selfish, 
petty,  incapable  of  true  friendship;  they  only  love  them- 
selves, and  would  sacrifice  you  for  a  success.  Besides, 
they  will  require  your  full  devotion,  and  your  position  will 
need  the  devotion  of  others — two  irreconcilable  proposi- 
tions. No  young  women  will  understand  your  interests; 
they  will  always  be  thinking  of  themselves,  not  of  you, 
and  do  you  more  harm  by  their  vanity  than  good  by  their 
attachment;  they  will  unhesitatingly  appropriate  your  time; 
they  will  mar  your  fortune,  and  ruin  you  with  the  best  grace 
in  the  world.  If  you  complain,  the  silliest  of  them  all  can 
argue  that  her  glove  is  worth  the  universe,  that  nothing 
can  be  more  glorious  than  her  service.  They  will  all  tell 
you  that  they  can  give  you  happiness,  and  so  make  you 
forget  your  high  destiny.  The  happiness  they  give  is  vari- 
able; your  future  greatness  is  certain. 

"You  do  not  know  with  what  perfidious  art  they  go 
about  to  gratify  their  caprices,  to  make  a  transient  liking 
appear  as  a  passion  begun  on  earth  to  be  eternal  in  heaven. 
When  they  throw  you  over,  they  will  tell  you  that  the 
words,  'I  love  you  no  longer,'  justify  their  desertion,  as 
the  words,  'I  love  you,'  justified  their  love — love  that  is  ir- 
responsible. My  dear,  the  doctrine  is  absurd.  Believe  me, 
true  love  is  eternal,  infinite,  always  the  same;  equable  and 
pure  without  vehement  outbreaks;  it  is  found  under  white 
hairs  when  the  heart  is  still  young.  Nothing  of  the  kind 
is  to  be  found  in  women  of  fashion ;  they  only  act  the  part. 

"This  one  will  interest  you  by  her  sorrows,  and  seem 
the  sweetest  and  least  exacting  of  her  sex;  but  when  she 
has  made  herself  necessary,  she  will  gradually  domineer 
over  you  and  make  you  do  her  bidding;  you  will  wish  to 
be  a  diplomat,  to  go  and  come,  to  study  men,  interests,  and 
foreign  lands. — No,  you  must  stay  in  Paris  or  at  her  coun- 
try-house, she  will  ingeniously  tie  you  to  her  apron- string, 
and  the  more  devoted  you  are  the  less  grateful  will  she  be. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  383 

That  one  will  try  to  engage  you  by  her  submissiveness ;  she 
would  be  your  page  and  follow  you  romantically  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth ;  she  would  compromise  herself  for  your  sake — 
and  hang  like  a  stone  round  your  neck.  Thus  one  day  you 
will  be  drowned,  but  she  will  come  to  the  top. 

"The  least  crafty  of  their  sex  have  endless  snares;  the 
stupidest  triumph  by  exciting  no  suspicions;  the  least  dan- 
gerous of  them  all  would  be  an  audacious  flirt  who  would 
fall  in  love  with  you,  hardly  knowing  why,  who  would  de- 
sert you  without  reason,  and  take  you  up  again  out  of  van- 
ity. But  they  will  all  do  you  a  mischief  sooner  or  later. 
Every  young  woman  who  goes  into  the  world  and  lives  on 
pleasure  and  the  triumphs  of  vanity  is  half  corrupt,  and 
will  corrupt  you. 

"That  is  not  the  chaste,  meditative  being  in  whose  heart 
you  may  reign  forever.  Nay,  the  woman  who  loves  you  will 
dwell  in  solitude,  her  highest  festivals  will  be  your  looks, 
and  she  will  feed  on  your  words.  Then  let  that  woman  be 
all  the  world  to  you,  for  you  are  all  in  all  to  her;  love  her 
truly,  give  her  no  pain,  no  rival,  do  not  torture  her  jeal- 
ousy. To  be  loved,  my  dear,  and  understood  is  the  highest 
happiness,  I  only  wish  that  you  may  know  it;  but  do  not 
compromise  the  first  bloom  of  your  soul;  be  very  sure  of 
the  heart  to  which  you  give  your  affections.  That  woman 
must  never  be  herself,  never  think  of  herself,  but  of  you 
alone;  she  will  never  contradict  you,  she  will  not  listen  to 
her  own  interests;  she  will  scent  danger  for  you  when  you 
do  not  suspect  it,  and  forget  her  own;  if  she  suffers,  she 
will  endure  without  complaining;  she  will  have  no  personal 
vanity,  but  she  will  respect  what  you  love  in  her.  Eeturn 
such  love  with  even  greater  love. 

"And  if  you  should  be  so  happy  as  to  find,  what  your 
poor  friend  here  can  never  have,  an  affection  equally  in- 
spired and  equally  felt,  however  perfect  that  love  may  be, 
remember  still  that  in  a  valley  there  lives  for  you  a  mother 
whose  heart  is  so  deeply  mined  by  the  feeling  with  which 
you  fill  it,  that  you  can  never  reach  the  bottom  of  it. 


384  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

"Yes,  you  can  never  know  the  extent  of  the  affection  I 
bear  you:  for  it  to  show  its  full  extent  you  would  have  had 
to  be  bereft  of  your  noble  intellect;  you  cannot  think  how 
far  my  devotion  would  have  carried  me  then.  Do  you 
doubt  me  when  I  bid  you  avoid  young  women,  who  are 
all  more  or  less  superficial,  sarcastic,  vain,  frivolous,  and 
wasteful,  and  attach  yourself  to  important  dowagers,  full 
of  sense,  as  my  aunt  was,  who  will  do  you  good  service, 
who  will  defend  you  against  secret  calumny  by  quashing  it, 
who  will  speak  of  you  in  terms  you  cannot  use  in  speaking 
of  yourself?  After  all,  am  I  not  generous  when  I  bid  you 
reserve  your  worship  for  the  pure-hearted  angel  to  come  ? 
If  the  words  Noblesse  oblige  include  a  great  part  of  my  first 
injunctions,  my  advice  as  to  your  dealings  with  women  may 
also  be  summed  up  in  this  chivalrous  motto,  'Les  servir 
toutes,  n'en  aimer  qu'une'  (Serve  all,  love  but  one). 

4 '  Your  learning  is  vast ;  your  heart,  preserved  by  suffer- 
ing, is  still  unspotted,  all  is  fair  and  good  in  you:  then 
Witt  I  Your  whole  future  lies  in  this  one  word,  the  watch- 
word of  great  men.  You  will  obey  your  Henriette,  my 
child,  will  you  not,  and  allow  her  still  to  tell  you  what  she 
thinks  of  you  and  your  doings  in  the  world?  I  have  a 
'mind's  eye'  which  can  foresee  the  future  for  you,  as  for 
my  children ;  then  let  me  make  use  of  the  faculty  for  your 
benefit;  it  is  a  mysterious  gift  which  has  brought  peace  into 
my  life;  and  which,  far  from  waning,  grows  stronger  in  soli- 
tude and  silence. 

"In  return,  I  ask  you  to  give  me  a  great  joy;  I  want  to 
see  you  growing  great  among  men  without  having  to  frown 
over  one  of  your  successes;  I  want  you  very  soon  to  raise 
your  fortune  to  a  level  with  your  name,  and  to  be  able  to 
tell  me  that  I  have  contributed  something  more  than  a  wish 
to  your  advancement.  This  secret  co-operation  is  the  only 
pleasure  I  can  allow  myself.  I  can  wait. 

"I  do  not  say  farewell.  We  are  divided,  you  cannot  press 
my  hand  to  your  lips ;  but  you  must  surely  have  understood 
the  place  you  fill  in  the  heart  of  your  HENRIETTE." 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  386 

As  I  finished  reading  this  letter,  I  seemed  to  feel  a  moth- 
erly heart  throbbing  beneath  my  fingers  at  the  moment  when 
I  was  still  frozen  by  my  mother's  stern  reception.  I  could 
guess  why  the  Countess  had  forbidden  me  to  read  this  letter 
so  long  as  I  was  in  Touraine;  she  had  feared,  no  doubt,  to 
see  me  fall  with  my  head  at  her  feet,  and  to  feel  them  wetted 
by  my  tears. 

At  last  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  brother  Charles, 
who  had  hitherto  been  a  stranger  to  me ;  but  he  showed  such 
arrogance  in  our  most  trifling  intercourse  as  held  us  too  far 
apart  for  us  to  care  for  each  other  as  brothers.  All  kindly 
feeling  is  based  on  equality  of  mind,  and  there  was  no  point 
of  contact  between  us.  He  lectured  me  solemnly  on  various 
trivial  details  which  the  mind  or  the  heart  knows  by  instinct; 
he  always  seemed  distrustful  of  me ;  if  my  love  had  not  been 
to  me  as  a  corner-stone,  he  might  have  made  me  awkward 
and  stupid  by  seeming  to  think  that  I  knew  nothing.  He, 
nevertheless,  introduced  me  into  society,  where  my  rusticity 
was  to  be  a  foil  to  his  accomplishment.  But  for  the  woes  of 
my  childhood,  I  might  have  taken  his  patronizing  vanity  for 
brotherly  affection;  but  mental  isolation  produces  the  same 
effects  as  earthly  solitude:  the  silence  allows  us  to  discern 
the  faintest  echo,  and  the  habit  of  relying  on  one's  self  devel- 
ops a  sensitiveness  so  delicate  that  it  vibrates  to  the  lightest 
touch  of  the  affections  that  concern  us. 

Before  knowing  Madame  de  Mortsauf  a  stern  look  hurt 
me,  the  tone  of  a  rough  word  went  to  my  heart;  I  groaned 
over  it,  though  I  knew  nothing  of  the  gentler  life  of  caresses. 
Whereas,  on  my  return  from  Clochegourde,  I  could  draw 
comparisons  which  gave  completeness  to  my  premature  knowl- 
edge. Observation  based  on  mere  suffering  is  incomplete. 
Happiness  has  its  lights  too.  But  I  allowed  myself  to  be 
crushed  under  Charles's  superiority  as  my  elder,  all  the  more 
readily  because  I  was  not  his  dupe. 

I  went  alone  to  the  Duchesse  de  Lenoncourt's  house,  and 
heard  no  mention  made  of  Henri ette;  no  one  but  the  good 

Vol.  4.  (Q) 


386  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

old  Duke,  who  was  simplicity  itself,  ever  spoke  of  her;  but, 
from  the  reception  he  gave  me,  I  guessed  that  his  daughter 
had  secretly  recommended  me. 

Hardly  had  I  begun  to  get  over  the  loutish  surprise  which 
a  first  sight  of  the  great  world  produces  in  every  tyro,  when, 
just  as  I  was  getting  a  glimpse  of  the  resources  it  has  for  am- 
bitious men,  and  thinking  of  the  joy  of  practicing  Henriette's 
axioms  while  recognizing  their  entire  truth,  the  events  of  the 
twentieth  of  March  supervened.  My  brother  accompanied 
the  Court  to  Ghent,  and  I,  by  the  Countess's  advice — for  I 
kept  up  a  correspondence  with  her,  frequent  on  my  side  only 
— I  also  went  thither  with  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt.  His  ha- 
bitual benevolence  became  a  sincere  desire  to  help  me  when 
he  found  that  I  was  devoted  head,  heart,  and  hands  to  the 
Bourbons;  he  presented  me  to  his  Majesty. 

The  courtiers  of  disaster  are  few.  Youth  has  artless  en- 
thusiasms and  disinterested  fidelity;  the  King  was  a  judge 
of  men ;  what  would  have  passed  unnoticed  at  the  Tuileries 
was  conspicuous  at  Ghent,  and  I  was  so  happy  as  to  find 
favor  with  Louis  XVIII. 

A  letter  from  Madame  de  Mortsauf  to  her  father,  brought 
with  some  despatches  by  an  emissary  of  the  Vende'ens,  con- 
tained a  scrap  for  me,  informing  me  that  Jacques  was  ill. 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  in  despair  alike  at  his  son's  frail 
health  and  at  a  second  emigration  of  the  Sovereign,  in  which 
he  had  no  part,  had  added  a  few  lines  that  enabled  me  to 
imagine  my  dear  lady's  situation.  Fretted  by  him,  no  doubt, 
for  spending  all  her  time  by  Jacques'  bedside,  getting  no  rest 
day  or  night,  scorning  such  vexations  but  incapable  of  con- 
trolling herself  when  she  was  expending  herself  wholly  in 
nursing  her  child,  Henriette  must  be  needing  the  support  of 
a  friendship  that  had  made  life  less  burdensome  to  her,  if  it 
were  only  by  amusing  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf.  Several  times 
already  I  had  got  the  Count  out  for  a  walk  when  he  was 
threatening  to  worry  her — an  innocent  trick  of  which  the 
success  had  earned  me  some  of  those  looks  expressing 
passionate  gratitude,  and  in  which  love  reads  a  promise. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  387 

Though  I  was  eager  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  my 
brother  Charles,  recently  sent  to  the  Congress  at  Vienna; 
though,  at  the  risk  of  my  life  even,  I  longed  to  justify 
Henriette's  predictions  and  free  myself  from  being  his  vas- 
sal, my  ambition,  my  desire  for  independence,  my  interests, 
which  bid  me  remain  with  the  King,  all  paled  before  Ma- 
dame de  Mortsauf's  heartstricken  image.  I  decided  on 
leaving  the  Court  at  Ghent,  and  on  going  to  serve  my  true 
sovereign. 

God  rewarded  me.  The  messenger  sent  out  by  the  Ven- 
d^ens  could  not  return  to  France;  the  King  wanted  a  man 
who  would  devote  himself  to  be  the  bearer  of  his  instructions. 
The  Due  de  Lenoncourt  knew  that  his  Majesty  would  not 
overlook  the  man  who  should  undertake  this  perilous  task; 
without  consulting  me,  he  obtained  it  for  me,  and  I  accepted 
it,  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  return  to  Clochegourde  while 
serving  the  good  cause. 

Thus,  after  having  an  audience  of  the  King,  at  one-and- 
twenty,  I  returned  to  France,  where,  either  in  Paris  or  in  la 
Vendde,  I  was  to  be  so  happy  as  to  do  his  Majesty's  bidding. 
By  the  end  of  May,  being  the  object  of  pursuit  to  the  Bona- 
partists  who  were  on  my  track,  I  was  obliged  to  fly;  affecting 
to  make  my  way  homeward,  I  went  on  foot  from  place  to 
place,  from  wood  to  wood,  across  Upper  Vendee,  the  Bocage, 
and  Poitou,  changing  my  route  as  circumstances  required, 

I  thus  reached  Saumur;  from  Saumur  I  went  to  Chinon, 
and  from  Chinon,  in  a  single  night,  I  arrived  in  the  woods 
of  Neuil,  where  I  met  the  Count,  on  horseback,  on  a  com- 
mon; he  took  me  up  behind  him  and  carried  me  home, 
without  our  meeting  a  soul  who  could  recognize  me. 

"Jacques  is  better,"  was  his  first  speech. 

I  explained  to  him  my  position  as  a  diplomatic  infantry- 
man, hunted  like  a  wild  animal,  and  the  gentleman  rose  up  in 
him,  in  arms  to  dispute  with  Chessel  the  risk  of  harboring  me. 

When  I  saw  Clochegourde  I  felt  as  if  the  eight  past 
months  were  but  a  dream.  The  Count  said  to  his  wife  as 
we  entered,  "Guess  who  is  come  with  me! — Fdlix." 


388  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Is  it  possible?"  she  said,  her  arms  hanging  limp,  and 
looking  quite  amazed. 

I  came  in ;  we  stood,  both  immovable,  she  riveted  to  her 
seat,  I  on  the  threshold,  gazing  at  each  other  with  the  fixed 
avidity  of  two  lovers  who  want  to  make  up  in  one  look  for 
lost  time.  But  she,  ashamed  of  her  surprise,  which  laid  her 
heart  bare,  rose,  and  I  went  forward. 

"I  have  prayed  much  for  you,"  said  she,  holding  out  her 
hand  for  me  to  kiss. 

She  asked  for  news  of  her  father;  then,  understanding 
my  fatigue,  she  went  to  arrange  a  room  for  me,  while  the 
Count  had  some  food  brought,  for  I  was  dying  of  hunger. 
My  room  was  over  hers,  that  which  had  been  her  aunt's;  she 
left  me  to  be  taken  to  it  by  the  Count,  after  setting  foot  on 
the  bottom  step  of  the  stairs,  considering  no  doubt  whether 
she  should  show  me  the  way  herself;  I  turned  round,  she 
colored,  wished  me  a  sound  nap,  and  hastily  withdrew. 
When  I  came  down  to  dinner  I  heard  of  the  defeat  at 
Waterloo,  of  Napoleon's  flight,  the  march  of  the  Allies  on 
Paris,  and  the  probable  return  of  the  Bourbons.  To  the 
Count  these  events  were  everything ;  to  us  they  were  nothing. 

Do  you  know  what  the  greatest  news  was  after  I  had 
greeted  the  children,  for  I  will  say  nothing  of  my  alarm  on 
seeing  how  pale  and  thin  the  Countess  was  ?  I  knew  the 
dismay  I  might  produce  by  a  gesture  of  surprise,  and  ex- 
pressed nothing  but  pleasure  at  seeing  her. — The  great  news 
for  us  was,  "You  will  have  some  ice." 

She  had  often  been  annoyed  last  year  because  she  had 
no  water  cold  enough  for  me ;  for,  drinking  nothing  else,  I 
liked  it  iced.  Grod  knows  what  it  had  cost  her  in  importuni- 
ties to  have  an  ice-house  built.  You,  better  than  any  one, 
know  that  love  is  satisfied  with  a  word,  a  look,  a  tone  of 
voice,  an  attention  apparently  most  trifling ;  its  highest  privi- 
lege is  to  be  its  own  evidence.  Well,  this  word,  with  her 
look  and  her  pleasure,  revealed  to  me  the  extent  of  her  sen- 
timents, as  I  had  formerly  shown  her  mine  by  my  conduct 
over  the  backgammon. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  889 

But  there  was  no  end  to  the  artless  proofs  of  her  tender- 
ness. By  the  seventh  day  after  my  arrival  she  was  quite 
herself  again;  she  was  sparkling  with  health,  glee,  and  youth; 
I  found  my  beloved  Lily  more  beautiful,  more  fully  devel- 
oped, just  as  I  found  all  my  heart's  treasures  increased.  Is 
it  not  a  narrow  soul  only,  or  a  vulgar  heart,  which  finds  that 
absence  diminishes  feeling,  effaces  the  impression  of  the  soul, 
and  deteriorates  the  beauty  of  the  person  beloved  ?  To  an 
ardent  imagination,  to  those  beings  in  whom  enthusiasm  flows 
in  their  blood,  dyeing  it  with  a  fresher  purple,  and  in  whom 
passion  takes  on  the  form  of  constancy,  has  not  absence  such 
an  effect  as  the  torments  which  fortified  the  faith  of  early 
Christians  and  made  God  visible  to  them  ?  Are  there  not, 
in  a  heart  full  of  love,  certain  undying  hopes  which  give  a 
higher  value  to  the  image  Ve  desire  by  showing  it  in  glimpses 
tinged  by  the  glow  of  dreams  ?  Can  we  not  feel  such  prompt- 
ings as  lend  the  beauty  of  an  ideal  to  those  adored  features 
by  informing  them  with  thought?  The  past,  remembered 
bit  by  bit,  is  magnified ;  the  future  is  furnished  with  hopes. 
Between  two  hearts  overcharged  with  such  electric  tension, 
the  first  interview  is  then  like  a  beneficent  storm  which  re- 
vives the  earth  and  fertilizes  it,  while  shedding  on  it  the 
flashing  gleams  of  the  lightning.  How  much  exquisite 
pleasure  I  tasted  in  finding  that  in  us  these  thoughts,  these 
experiences  were  reciprocal !  With  what  rapture  did  I  watch 
the  growth  of  happiness  in  Henriette! 

A  woman  who  resuscitates  under  the  eyes  of  the  man  she 
loves  gives  a  greater  proof  of  feeling  perhaps  than  one  who 
dies,  killed  by  a  suspicion,  or  withered  on  the  stem  for  lack 
of  nutrition.  Which  of  the  two  is  the  more  pathetic  I  can- 
not tell.  Madame  de  Mortsauf 's  revival  was  as  natural  as 
the  effect  of  the  month  of  May  on  the  meadows,  or  of  sun- 
shine and  shower  on  drooping  plants.  Like  our  Vale  of 
Love,  Henriette  had  gone  through  her  winter;  like  it,  she 
was  born  anew  with  the  spring. 

Before  dinner  we  went  down  to  our  beloved  terrace.  There, 
as  she  stroked  the  head  of  her  poor  child,  weaker  now  than 


390  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

I  had  ever  seen  him,  while  he  walked  by  her  side  in  silence 
as  though  he  were  sickening  for  some  disease,  she  told  me 
of  the  nights  she  had  spent  by  his  sick-bed.  For  those  three 
months,  she  said,  she  had  lived  exclusively  in  herself;  she 
had  dwelt,  as  it  were,  in  a  gloomy  palace,  dreading  to  enter 
the  rooms  where  lights  were  blazing,  where  banquets  were 
given  that  were  forbidden  to  her ;  she  had  stood  at  the  open 
door  with  one  eye  on  her  child,  and  the  other  on  a  vague 
face,  with  one  ear  listening  to  sorrow,  and  the  other  hearing 
a  voice.  She  spoke  in  poems,  suggested  by  solitude,  such 
as  no  poet  has  ever  written ;  and  all  quite  simply,  without 
knowing  that  there  might  be  the  slightest  trace  of  love  or 
taint  of  voluptuous  thought,  or  of  Oriental  sweetness  like 
a  rose  of  Frangistan.  When  the  Count  joined  us  she  went 
on  in  the  same  tone,  as  a  wife  proucl  of  herself,  who  can  look 
her  husband  boldly  in  the  face,  and  kiss  her  son's  brow 
without  a  blush. 

She  had  prayed  much,  holding  her  clasped  hands  over 
Jacques  for  whole  nights,  witting  that  he  should  not  die. 

"I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  the  sanctuary,"  said  she,  "to 
ask  his  life  of  God. ' ' 

And  she  had  seen  visions ;  she  repeated  them  to  me ;  but 
when  she  presently  said  in  her  angel's  voice  these  wonderful 
words,  "When  I  slept,  my  heart  kept  watch!" — "That  is 
to  say,  you  were  almost  crazy,"  said  the  Count,  interrupt- 
ing her. 

She  was  silenced,  as  if  this  was  the  first  blow  she  had  ever 
had,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  that  for  thirteen  years  this  man 
had  never  failed  to  aim  an  arrow  at  her  heart.  Like  a  glori- 
ous bird,  she  was  stayed  in  her  flight  by  this  clumsy  bullet ; 
she  fell  into  a  mood  of  dull  dejection. 

"Dear  me,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "will  noth- 
ing I  say  ever  find  favor  before  the  bar  of  your  wit  ?  Will 
you  never  have  pity  on  my  weakness,  nor  any  sympathy  with 
my  womanly  fancies  ? ' ' 

She  paused.  This  angel  already  repented  of  having  mur- 
mured, and  sounded  the  past  and  the  future  alike  at  a  glance. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  891 

Could  she  be  understood,  had  she  not  provoked  some  virulent 
retort?  The  blue  veins  throbbed  strongly  in  her  temples; 
she  shed  no  tears,  but  her  green  eyes  lost  their  color;  then 
she  looked  down  to  the  ground  to  avoid  seeing  in  mine  the 
exaggeration  of  her  suffering,  her  own  feelings  guessed  by 
me,  her  soul  cherished  in  mine,  and,  above  all,  the  sympathy, 
crimsoned  by  young  love,  that  was  ready,  like  a  faithful  dog, 
to  fly  at  any  one  who  should  offend  his  mistress  without  meas- 
uring the  force  or  the  dignity  of  the  foe.  At  such  a  moment 
the  airs  of  superiority  assumed  by  the  Count  were  a  thing  to 
see ;  he  fancied  he  had  triumphed  over  his  wife,  and  battered 
her  with  a  hailstorm  of  words,  reiterating  the  same  idea  again 
and  again,  like  the  blows  of  an  axe  repeating  the  same  sound. 

"So  he  is  the  same  as  ever?"  I  said  when  the  Count  left 
us,  called  away  by  the  stableman  who  came  to  fetch  him. 

"Always!"  replied  Jacques. 

"Always  most  kind,  my  boy,"  said  she  to  Jacques,  trying 
to  screen  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  from  the  criticism  of  his  chil- 
dren. "You  see  the  present,  you  know  nothing  of  the  past; 
you  cannot  judge  of  your  father  without  some  injustice;  and 
even  if  you  were  so  unhappy  as  to  see  your  father  in  the 
wrong,  the  honor  of  the  family  would  require  you  to  bury 
such  secrets  in  the  deepest  silence. ' ' 

"How  are  the  improvements  going  on  at  la  Cassine  and 
la  Rhe'toridre  ? "  I  asked,  to  turn  her  mind  from  these  bitter 
reflections. 

"Beyond  my  hopes,"  she  replied.  "The  buildings  being 
finished,  we  found  two  capital  farmers,  who  took  one  at  a  rent 
of  four  thousand  five  hundred  francs,  we  paying  the  taxes, 
and  the  other  at  five  thousand;  the  leases  for  fifteen  years. 
We  have  already  planted  three  thousand  young  trees  on  the 
two  new  farms.  Manette's  cousin  is  delighted  with  la  Rabe- 
laye ;  Martineau  has  la  Baude.  The  return  on  the  four  farms 
is  chiefly  in  hay  and  wood,  and  they  do  not  fatten  the  soil, 
as  some  dishonest  farmers  do,  with  the  manure  intended  for 
the  arable  land.  So  our  efforts  are  crowned  with  complete 
success.  Clochegourde,  apart  from  what  we  call  the  home 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

farm,  from  our  woods  and  the  vineyards,  brings  in  nineteen 
thousand  francs,  and  the  plantations  will  in  time  yield  us  an 
annuity.  I  am  struggling  now  to  get  the  home  farm  placed 
in  the  hands  of  our  keeper,  Martineau,  whose  place  could  be 
filled  by  his  son.  He  offers  a  rental  of  three  thousand  francs 
if  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  will  only  build  him  a  house  at  la 
Commanderie.  We  could  then  clear  the  approach  to  Cloche- 
gourde,  finish  the  proposed  avenue  to  the  Chinon  road,  and 
have  nothing  in  our  own  hands  but  the  wood  and  the  vine- 
yards. If  the  King  returns,  we  shall  have  our  pension  again, 
and  we  shall  accept  it  after  a  few  days'  contest  with  our  wife's 
common-sense!  Thus  Jacques'  fortune  will  be  perfectly  se- 
cure. When  we  have  achieved  this  result,  I  shall  leave  it 
to  Monsieur  to  save  for  Madeleine,  and  the  King  will  endow 
her  too,  as  is  customary.  My  conscience  is  at  peace,  my  task 
is  nearly  done. — And  you?"  she  asked. 

I  explained  my  mission,  and  showed  her  how  wise  and 
fruitful  her  advice  had  been.  Had  she  been  gifted  with 
second-sight  to  foresee  events  so  accurately? 

"Did  I  not  say  so  in  my  letter?"  replied  she.  "But  it 
is  only  for  you  that  I  can  exercise  that  strange  faculty,  of 
which  I  have  spoken  to  no  one  but  Monsieur  de  la  Berge, 
my  director;  he  explains  it  by  divine  intervention.  Often, 
after  any  deep  meditation  to  which  my  fears  for  the  children 
have  given  rise,  my  eyes  used  to  close  to  the  things  of  this 
world  and  awake  to  another  realm.  When  I  saw  Jacques 
and  Madeleine  as  luminous  figures,  they  were  well  for  some 
little  time;  when  I  saw  them  wrapped  in  mist,  they  soon 
after  fell  ill.  As  for  you,  not  only  do  I  always  see  you 
radiant,  but  I  hear  a  soft  voice  telling  me  what  you  ought 
to  do — without  words,  by  spiritual  communication.  By  what 
law  is  it  that  I  can  use  this  marvellous  faculty  only  for  my 
children's  behoof  and  yours?"  she  went  on,  becoming 
thoughtful.  "Is  it  that  God  means  to  be  a  father  to  them?" 
she  added,  after  a  pause. 

4 'Allow  me  to  believe  that  I  obey  you  alone, ' '  said  I. 

She  gave  me  one  of  those  whole-hearted,  gracious  smiles 


I 

THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  393 

which  so  intoxicated  my  soul  that  I  should  not  in  such  a 
moment  have  felt  a  death-blow. 

"As  soon  as  the  King  reaches  Paris,  go  there,  leave 
Clochegourde,"  she  said.  "Degrading  as  it  is  to  sue  for 
place  and  favor,  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  ridiculous  not  to 
be  at  hand  to  accept  them.  There  will  be  great  changes. 
The  King  will  need  capable  and  trustworthy  men;  do  not 
fail  him.  You  will  find  yourself  in  office  while  still  young, 
and  you  will  benefit  by  it;  for  statesmen,  as  for  actors,  there 
is  a  certain  routine  of  business  which  no  genius  can  divine; 
it  must  be  taught.  My  father  learned  that  from  the  Due  de 
Choiseul. — Think  of  me,"  she  added,  after  a  pause;  "let  me 
enjoy  the  pleasures  of  superiority  in  a  soul  that  is  all  my  own. 
Are  you  not  my  son  ? ' ' 

"Your  son?"  I  said  sullenly. 

"Nothing  but  my  son,"  said  she,  mimicking  me.  "And 
is  not  that  a  good  enough  place  to  hold  in  my  heart?" 

The  bell  rang  for  dinner,  she  took  my  arm,  leaning  on  it 
with  evident  pleasure. 

"You  have  grown,"  she  said,  as  we  went  up  the  steps. 
When  we  reached  the  top  she  shook  my  arm  as  if  my  fixed 
gaze  held  her  too  eagerly ;  though  her  eyes  were  downcast, 
she  knew  full  well  that  I  looked  at  her  alone,  and  she  said 
in  her  tone  of  affected  impatience,  so  gracious  and  so  in- 
sinuating: "Come,  let  us  look  at  our  favorite  valley!" 

She  turned,  holding  her  white  silk  parasol  over  our  heads, 
and  clasping  Jacques  closely  to  her  side ;  the  movement  of  her 
head  by  which  she  directed  my  attention  to  the  Indre,  to  the 
punt  and  the  fields,  showed  me  that  since  my  visit  and  our 
walks  together  she  had  made  herself  familiar  with  those  misty 
distances  and  hazy  curves.  Nature  was  the  cloak  that  had 
sheltered  her  thoughts;  she  knew  now  what  the  nightingale 
sobs  over  at  night,  and  what  the  marsh-bird  repeats  in  its 
plaintive  droning  note. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  I  was  present  at  a  scene 
which  touched  me  deeply,  and  which  I  had  never  before 
witnessed,  because  I  had  always  remained  to  play  with  Mon- 


394  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sieur  de  Mortsauf  while  she  went  into  the  dining-room  before 
putting  the  children  to  bed.  A  bell  rang  twice,  and  all  the 
house -servants  appeared. 

"You  are  our  guest;  will  you  submit  to  convent  rule?" 
she  asked,  leading  me  away  by  the  hand  with  the  look  of 
innocent  gayety  that  is  characteristic  of  all  truly  pious 
women. 

The  Count  followed  us.  Masters,  children,  and  servants, 
all  knelt  bareheaded  in  their  accustomed  places.  It  was 
Madeleine's  turn  to  say  prayers;  the  dear  child  did  it  in 
her  thin,  young  voice,  its  artless  tones  clearly  audible  in  the 
harmonious  country  silence,  and  giving  each  phrase  the  holy 
purity  of  innocence,  that  angelic  grace.  It  was  the  most 
touching  prayer  I  ever  heard.  Nature  whispered  a  response 
to  the  child's  words  in  the  myriad  low  rustlings  of  the  even- 
ing hour,  an  accompaniment  as  of  an  organ  softly  played. 

Madeleine  was  on  her  mother's  right  hand,  Jacques  on  the 
left.  The  pretty  curly  heads,  and,  rising  between  them,  the 
mother's  plaits  of  hair;  above  them,  again,  Monsieur  de  Mort- 
sauf's  perfectly  white  hair  and  ivory  yellow  skull,  formed  a 
picture  of  which  the  coloring  seemed  to  repeat  to  the  mind 
the  idea  suggested  by  the  melody  of  prayer:  and  to  fulfil  the 
conditions  of  unity  which  stamp  the  Sublime,  the  devout  lit- 
tle assembly  was  wrapped  in  the  subdued  light  of  sunset,  while 
the  room  was  touched  with  the  red  beams.  The  poetical,  or 
the  superstitious  soul,  could  thus  imagine  that  the  fires  of 
Heaven  were  shed  on  the  faithful  worshippers  kneeling  there 
before  God  without  distinction  of  rank,  all  equals,  as  the 
Church  requires.  My  thoughts  reverted  to  patriarchal  times, 
and  my  fancy  gave  added  dignity  to  the  scene,  itself  so  grand 
in  its  simplicity.  The  children  bid  their  father  good-night,  the 
servants  bowed,  the  Countess  went  away,  each  child  holding  a 
hand,  and  I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  with  the  Count. 

"You  will  have  found  salvation  there  and  perdition  here," 
said  he,  pointing  to  the  backgammon  board. 

The  Countess  joined  us  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  brought 
her  work-frame  to  the  table. 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  395 

"This  is  for  you,"  said  she,  unrolling  the  canvas;  "but 
the  work  has  hung  fire  these  three  months  past.  Between 
that  red  carnation  and  that  rose  my  poor  boy  was  very  ill." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf ;  "do  not  talk 
about  it.  Size-cinq,  Master  King's  messenger." 

When  I  went  to  my  room,  I  sat  motionless  to  hear  her 
moving  about  below.  Though  she  was  calm  and  pure,  I  was 
tormented  by  crazy  ideas  and  intolerable  cravings. 

"Why  could  she  not  be  mine?"  thought  I.  "Perhaps 
she,  like  me,  is  tossed  on  the  whirlwind  of  the  senses?" 

At  one  o'clock  I  crept  downstairs,  treading  without  a 
sound,  and  outside  her  door  I  lay  down;  with  my  ear  to  the 
crack  I  heard  her  soft  and  even  breathing,  like  a  child's. 
When  I  was  quite  chilled,  I  went  up  again  and  to  bed,  where 
I  slept  quietly  till  morning. 

To  what  predestination,  to  what  taint  of  nature  can  I  as- 
cribe the  pleasure  I  find  in  going  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice, 
in  sounding  the  abyss  of  evil,  in  peering  into  its  depths,  shud 
dering  at  the  chill,  and  drawing  back  in  anguish.  That  hour 
at  night  spent  on  the  threshold  of  her  door,  where  I  wept  with 
frenzy,  without  her  ever  knowing  on  the  morrow  that  she  had 
trodden  on  my  tears  and  my  kisses — wept  over  her  virtue, 
ruined  and  respected  by  turns,  cursed  and  then  worshipped 
— that  hour,  a  madness  in  the  eyes  of  many  persons,  was  an 
inspiration  of  the  same  nameless  feeling  that  carries  on  a  sol- 
dier. Men  have  told  me  that  in  such  a  mood  they  have  risked 
their  life,  rushing  in  front  of  a  battery  to  see  whether  they 
would  escape  the  grape-shot,  and  whether  they  would  not 
enjoy  thus  trying  to  leap  the  gulf  of  probabilities,  like  Jean 
Bart  smoking  while  he  sat  on  a  powder  barrel. 

On  the  following  day  I  went  out  and  gathered  two  nose- 
gays; the  Count  admired  them — the  Count,  who  cared  for 
nothing  of  the  kind,  and  for  whom  Champenetz's  jest  seemed 
to  have  been  invented:  "He  builds  dungeons  in  the  air  I" 

I  spent  several  days  at  Clochegourde,  paying  short  calls 
only  at  Frapesle,  where  I  dined,  however,  three  times.  The 


396  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

French  army  took  up  its  quarters  at  Tours.  Though  I  was 
evidently  life  and  health  to  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  she  en- 
treated me  to  get  to  Chateauroux  and  return  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible to  Paris  through  Issoudun  and  Orleans.  I  tried  to  rebel ; 
she  insisted,  saying  that  her  familiar  had  counselled  her:  I 
obeyed.  Our  parting  this  time  was  watered  with  tears;  she 
was  afraid  of  the  captivations  of  the  world  I  was  about  to 
live  in.  Should  I  not  have  to  enter  seriously  into  the  whirl 
of  interests,  of  passions,  of  pleasures,  which  make  Paris  an 
ocean  fraught  with  perils  no  less  to  chaste  affections  than 
to  a  clear  conscience  ?  I  promised  her  that  I  would  write  her 
every  evening  the  events  and  the  thoughts  of  the  day.  At 
this  promise  she  laid  her  weary  head  on  my  shoulder  and 
said :  ' '  Omit  nothing ;  everything  will  interest  me. ' ' 

She  gave  me  letters  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  on  whom 
I  called  the  day  after  my  arrival. 

4 '  You  are  in  luck, ' '  said  the  Duke.  ' '  Dine  here  and  come 
with  me  to  the  palace  this  evening;  your  fortune  is  made. 
The  King  mentioned  your  name  this  morning,  adding,  'He 
is  young,  able,  and  faithful.'  And  the  King  regretted  not 
knowing  whether  you  were  dead  or  alive,  and  whither  the 
course  of  events  had  led  you  after  you  had  so  well  fulfilled 
your  mission." 

That  evening  I  was  a  Master  of  Appeals  to  the  Council  of 
State,  and  was  appointed  to  certain  secret  employment  for  the 
King — a  confidential  post  which  was  to  be  permanent  so  long 
as  he  should  reign,  not  splendid  in  appearance,  but  with  no 
risk  of  overthrow,  and  which  placed  me  at  the  heart  of 
Government,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  foundation  of  all  my 
prosperity. 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  seen  clearly,  and  I  owed  every- 
thing to  her:  power  and  wealth,  happiness  and  knowledge; 
she  guided  and  purified  my  heart,  and  gave  my  purpose  that 
unity  without  which  the  powers  of  youth  are  vainly  frittered 
away.  At  a  later  date  I  had  a  colleague.  Each  of  us  was 
on  service  for  six  months  at  a  time.  We  could  at  need  take 
each  other's  place;  we  had  a  room  in  the  palace,  a  carriage 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  397 

at  our  command,  and  a  handsome  allowance  for  expenses 
when  called  upon  to  travel. 

It  was  a  strange  position!  We  were  the  secret  disciples 
of  a  monarch  to  whose  policy  his  enemies  have  since  done 
signal  justice ;  we  heard  his  judgment  on  all  matters  internal 
and  foreign;  we  had  no  acknowledged  influence,  but  were 
occasionally  consulted,  as  Lafore't  was  consulted  by  Molicre, 
and  we  heard  the  hesitancy  of  long  experience  corrected  by 
the  conscience  of  youth. 

Our  prospects  were  indeed  settled  in  a  way  to  satisfy  our 
ambition.  Besides  my  pay  as  Master  of  Appeals,  paid  out 
of  the  revenue  of  the  Council  of  State,  the  King  gave  me  a 
thousand  francs  a  month  out  of  the  privy  purse,  and  not 
infrequently  made  me  a  present.  Though  the  King  knew 
full  well  that  a  young  man  of  three-and-twenty  could  not 
long  withstand  the  amount  of  work  he  piled  upon  me,  my 
colleague,  now  a  peer  of  France,  was  not  appointed  till  the 
month  of  August,  1817.  A  choice  was  so  difficult,  our 
functions  demanded  such  various  qualities,  that  the  King 
was  long  in  coming  to  a  decision.  He  did  me  the  honor  to 
ask  me  which  of  the  young  men  among  whom  he  was  pre- 
pared to  choose  would  best  suit  me  as  a  companion.  One 
of  the  number  was  a  former  comrade  of  mine  at  the  Lepitre 
boarding-house,  and  I  did  not  name  him. 

The  King  asked  me  why. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  I,  "has  mentioned  men  of  equal 
loyalty,  but  of  different  degrees  of  ability.  I  have  named 
the  man  I  consider  the  most  capable,  feeling  certain  that  we 
shall  always  agree." 

My  judgment  coincided  with  the  King's,  who  was  always 
grateful  for  the  sacrifice  I  had  made.  On  this  occasion  he 
said  to  me,  V  You  will  be  the  first  of  the  two."  And  he  gave 
my  colleague  to  understand  this;  still,  in  return  for  this  ser- 
vice, my  deputy  became  my  friend. 

The  consideration  with  which  I  was  treated  by  the  Due  de 
Lenoncourt  was  the  standard  for  that  shown  me  by  the  rest 
of  the  world.  The  mere  words — "The  King  is  greatly  inter- 


398  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

ested  in  this  young  man;  he  has  a  future  before  him;  the 
King  likes  him" — would  have  sufficed  in  lieu  of  talents;  but 
they  also  added  to  the  kindness  shown  to  a  young  official  the 
indescribable  tribute  that  is  paid  only  to  power. 

Either  at  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt's,  or  at  my  sister's  house 
— married  at  about  this  time  to  our  cousin  the  Marquis  de 
Listomere,  the  son  of  the  old  aunt  I  had  been  wont  to  visit 
in  the  He  Saint-Louis — I  gradually  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  most  influential  persons  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

Henriette  ere  long  threw  me  into  the  heart  of  the  circle 
known  as  the  "Petit- Chateau,"  by  the  good  offices  of  the 
Princesse  de  Blamont-Chauvry,  whose  grandniece  she  was 
by  marriage.  She  wrote  of  me  in  such  glowing  terms  that 
the  Princess  at  once  invited  me  to  call  on  her.  I  was  assid- 
uous, and  was  so  happy  as  to  please  her;  she  became  not  my 
patroness,  but  a  friend  whose  feelings  were  almost  maternal. 
The  old  Princess  set  her  heart  on  making  me  intimate  with 
her  daughter  Madame  d'Espard,  with  the  Duchesse  de  Lan- 
geais,  the  Yicomtesse  de  Beause"ant,  and  the  Duchesse  de 
Maufrigneuse — women  who,  by  turns,  held  the  sceptre  of 
fashion,  and  who  were  all  the  more  gracious  to  me  because  I 
made  no  claims  upon  them,  and  was  always  ready  to  be  of 
service  to  them. 

My  brother  Charles,  far  from  ignoring  me,  thenceforth 
relied  on  my  support;  but  my  rapid  success  was  the  cause 
of  some  secret  jealousy,  which  at  a  later  period  gave  me  much 
annoyance.  My  father  and  mother,  amazed  by  such  unex- 
pected good  fortune,  felt  their  vanity  flattered,  and  at  last 
recognized  me  as  their  son ;  but  as  the  sentiment  was  to  some 
extent  artificial,  not  to  say  acted,  this  revulsion  had  not  much 
effect  on  my  ulcerated  heart.  Besides,  affection  that  is  tainted 
with  selfishness  excites  little  sympathy;  the  heart  abhors 
every  form  of  calculation  and  profit. 

I  wrote  regularly  to  my  dear  Henriette,  who  answered 
me  in  a  letter  or  two  each  month.  Thus  her  spirit  hovered 
over  me,  her  thoughts  traversed  space  and  kept  a  pure  at- 
mosphere about  me.  No  woman  could  attract  me.  The 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  899 

King  knew  of  my  reserve;  in  such  matters  he  was  of  the 
school  of  Louis  XV.,  and  used  to  laugh  and  call  me  "Mad- 
emoiselle de  Vandenesse, "  but  the  propriety  of  my  conduct 
was  very  much  approved  by  him.  I  am  quite  sure  that  tho 
patience  which  had  become  a  habit  during  my  childhood, 
and  yet  more  at  Clochegourde,  did  much  to  win  me  the 
King's  good  graces;  he  was  always  most  kind  to  me.  He 
no  doubt  indulged  a  fancy  for  reading  my  letters,  for  he  was 
not  long  under  any  mistake  as  to  my  blameless  life.  One 
day  when  the  Duke  was  in  attendance  I  was  writing  from 
the  King's  dictation,  and  he,  seeing  the  Duke  come  in, 
looked  mischievously  at  us  both. 

""Well,  that  confounded  fellow  Mortsauf  still  persists  in 
living  on?"  said  he,  in  his  fine  ringing  voice,  to  which  he 
«ould  at  will  give  a  tone  of  biting  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  still,"  replied  the  Duke. 

"But  the  Comtesse  de  Mortsauf  is  an  angel  whom  I  should 
very  much  like  to  see  here,"  the  King  went  on.  "However, 
I  can  do  nothing;  but  perhaps  my  secretary,"  and  he  turned 
to  me,  "may  be  more  fortunate.  You  have  six  months' 
leave.  I  shall  engage  as  your  colleague  the  young  man  of 
whom  we  were  speaking  yesterday.  Enjoy  yourself  at 
Clochegourde,  Master  Cato!"  and  he  smiled  as  he  was 
wheeled  out  of  the  room  in  his  chair. 

I  flew  like  a  swallow  to  Touraine.  For  the  first  time  I 
was  about  to  show  myself  to  the  woman  I  loved,  not  only  as 
rather  less  of  a  simpleton,  but  in  the  paraphernalia  of  a  young 
man  of  fashion  whose  manners  had  been  formed  in  the  po- 
litest circles,  whose  education  had  been  finished  by  the  most 
charming  women,  who  had  at  last  won  the  reward  of  his  suf- 
ferings, and  who  had  made  good  use  of  the  experience  of 
the  fairest  angel  to  whom  Heaven  ever  intrusted  the  care 
of  a  child. 

When  I  had  stayed  at  Clochegourde  at  the  time  of  my 
mission  in  la  Vendee,  I  had  been  in  shooting  dress;  I  wore 
a  jacket  with  tarnished  white  metal  buttons,  finely  striped 
trousers,  leather  gaiters,  and  shoes.  My  long  tramp  and  the 


400  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

thickets  had  served  me  so  ill  that  the  Count  was  obliged  to 
lend  me  some  linen.  This  time,  two  years'  residence  in 
Paris,  the  duty  of  attending  the  King,  the  habits  of  wealth, 
my  now  complete  development,  and  a  youthful  countenance 
which  beamed  with  indescribable  light,  derived  from  the 
serenity  of  a  soul  magnetically  united  to  the  pure  soul  at 
Clochegourde  that  went  forth  to  me — all  had  transfigured 
me ;  I  was  sure  of  myself  without  being  conceited ;  I  was 
deeply  satisfied  at  finding  myself,  young  as  I  was,  at  the  top 
of  the  tree ;  I  had  the  proud  consciousness  of  being  the  secret 
mainstay  of  the  most  adorable  woman  on  earth,  and  her  un- 
confessed  hope. 

I  felt  perhaps  some  stirrings  of  vanity  when  the  postilion's 
whip  cracked  in  the  newly-made  avenue  from  the  Chinon 
road  to  Clochegourde,  and  a  gate  I  had  never  seen  opened 
in  an  inclosing  wall  that  had  been  recently  built.  I  had  not 
written  to  announce  my  arrival  to  the  Countess,  wishing  to 
take  her  by  surprise ;  but  this  was  a  twofold  blunder :  in  the 
first  place,  she  suffered  the  shock  of  a  pleasure  long  wished 
for,  but  regarded  as  impossible,  and  she  also  proved  to  me 
that  elaborate  surprises  are  always  in  bad  taste. 

When  Henriette  beheld  a  young  man  where  she  had  re- 
membered a  boy,  her  eyes  fell  with  a  tragical  droop ;  she 
allowed  me  to  take  her  hand  and  kiss  it  without  showing 
any  of  the  heartfelt  pleasure  which  I  had  been  wont  to  per- 
ceive in  her  sensitive  thrill ;  and  when  she  raised  her  face  to 
look  at  me  again,  I  saw  that  she  was  pale. 

"So  you  do  not  forget  old  friends!"  said  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf,  who  had  neither  altered  nor  grown  older. 

The  two  children  sprang  into  my  arms;  I  saw  in  the 
doorway  the  grave  face  of  the  Abbe  de  Dominis,  Jacques' 
tutor. 

"No,"  said  I  to  the  Count,  "and  henceforth  I  shall  have 
six  months  of  every  year  to  devote  always  to  you. — Why, 
what  is  the  matter?"  I  said  to  the  Countess,  putting  my 
arm  round  her  waist  to  support  her,  in  the  presence  of  all 
her  family. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  401 

"Oh!  leave  me!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  start;  "it  is 
nothing." 

I  read  her  soul,  and  answered  her  secret  thought,  saying, 
"Do  you  no  longer  acknowledge  me  for  your  faithful  slave  ?" 

She  took  my  arm,  turned  away  from  the  Count,  the  chil- 
dren, the  Abb£,  and  all  the  servants  who  had  hurried  out, 
and  led  me  round  the  lawn,  still  within  sight  of  them  all. 
When  we  had  gone  so  far  that  she  thought  she  could  not  be 
heard : 

"Felix,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "forgive  the  alarms  of  a 
woman  who  has  but  one  clew  by  which  to  guide  herself  in 
an  underground  labyrinth,  and  fears  to  find  it  broken.  Tell 
me  once  more  that  I  am  more  than  ever  your  Henriette,  that 
you  will  not  desert  me,  that  nothing  can  dislodge  me,  that 
you  will  always  be  my  faithful  friend.  I  have  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  future — and  you  were  not  there  as  usual,  with 
a  radiant  face  and  eyes  fixed  on  mine ;  you  had  your  back 
tome." 

"Henriette,  dear  idol,  whom  I  worship  more  than  I  do 
God,  Lily,  flower  of  my  life,  how  can  you,  who  are  my  con- 
science, fail  to  know  that  I  am  so  entirely  part  of  your  heart 
that  my  soul  is  here  when  my  body  is  in  Paris  ?  Need  I  tell 
you  that  I  have  travelled  hither  in  seventeen  hours;  that 
every  turn  of  the  wheel  bore  with  it  a  world  of  thought  and 
longing,  which  broke  out  like  a  tempest  the  moment  I  saw 
you-" 

"Tell  me,  tell  me!  I  am  sure  of  myself.  I  can  listen  to 
you  without  sinning.  God  does  not  desire  my  death;  He 
sends  you  to  me  as  He  gives  the  breath  of  life  to  His  creat- 
ures, as  He  sheds  rain  from  the  clouds  on  a  barren  land. 
Speak,  tell  me,  do  you  love  me  with  a  holy  love?" 

"With  a  holy  love." 

"And  forever?" 

"Forever." 

"As  a  "Virgin  Mary,  to  be  left  shrouded  in  her  draperies 
under  her  spotless  crown?" 

"As  a  visible  Yirgin." 


402  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"As  a  sister?" 

"As  a  sister  too  dearly  loved." 

"As  a  mother?" 

1 '  As  a  mother  I  secretly  long  for. ' ' 

"Chivalrously,  without  hope?" 

"Chivalrously,  but  hoping." 

"In  short,  as  if  you  were  still  but  twenty,  and  had  your 
shabby  blue  evening  coat?" 

"Oh,  far  better!  I  love  you  like  that,  but  I  also  love  you 
as — "  She  looked  at  me  in  keen  alarm.  "As  you  loved 
your  aunt." 

"Ah!  I  am  happy;  you  have  relieved  my  fears, "  said 
she,  returning  to  the  others,  who  stood  puzzled  by  our  private 
colloquy. 

"Be  still  a  child  here! — for  you  are  but  a  child.  If  your 
best  policy  is  to  be  a  man  to  the  King,  understand  that  here  it 
is  to  be  a  boy.  As  a  boy  you  will  be  loved.  I  shall  always 
resist  the  powers  of  the  man,  but  what  can  I  deny  a  child  ? 
Nothing;  he  can  ask  nothing  that  I  would  not  grant. — We 
have  told  all  our  secrets, ' '  she  added,  looking  at  the  Count 
with  a  saucy  smile,  in  which  I  saw  her  a  girl  again  in  all  her 
simple  nature.  "I  am  going  in  now  to  dress." 

Never  for  three  years  had  I  known  her  voice  so  thoroughly 
happy.  It  was  the  first  time  I  heard  those  swallowlike  notes, 
that  childlike  tone  of  which  I  have  spoken. 

I  had  brought  a  sportsman's  outfit  for  Jacques,  and  a 
workbox  for  Madeleine — which  her  mother  always  used; 
in  short,  I  had  made  up  for  the  shabbiness  to  which  I  had 
hitherto  been  condemned  by  my  mother's  parsimony.  The 
delight  of  the  two  children  as  they  displayed  their  presents 
to  each  other  seemed  to  annoy  the  Count,  who  was  always 
aggrieved  if  he  were  not  the  centre  of  attentions.  I  gave 
Madeleine  a  -look  of  intelligence,  and  followed  the  Count, 
who  wanted  to  talk  about  himself.  He  led  me  to  the  terrace; 
but  we  paused  on  the  steps  at  each  solemn  fact  he  impressed 
upon  me. 

"My  poor,  dear  Felix,"  said  he,  "you  find  them  all  happy 


THE   LILY   OF    THE    VALLEY  403 

and  in  good  health.  It  is  I  who  give  shadow  to  the  picture. 
I  have  absorbed  their  maladies,  and  I  can  bless  God  for  hav- 
ing inflicted  them  on  me.  I  used  not  to  know  what  ailed 
me;  but  I  know  now — I  have  a  disease  of  the  pylorus;  I 
can  digest  nothing." 

"By  what  good  luck  have  you  become  as  learned  as  a 
professor  of  the  College  of  Physicians?"  said  I,  smiling. 
"Is  your  doctor  so*indiscreet  as  to  tell  you  this  ?" 

"Heaven  preserve  me  from  consulting  doctors!"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  the  look  of  repugnance  that  most  imaginary 
invalids  show  at  the  thought  of  medical  treatment. 

Then  I  had  to  listen  to  a  crazy  harangue,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  was  ridiculously  confidential,  complaining  of  his 
wife,  his  servants,  his  children,  and  his  life,  taking  evident 
delight  in  repeating  his  remarks  of  every  day  to  a  friend 
who,  not  knowing  them,  might  be  startled  by  them,  and  who 
was  obliged  by  politeness  to  seem  interested.  He  must  have 
been  satisfied,  for  I  listened  with  deep  attention,  trying  to 
formulate  this  inconceivable  character,  and  to  guess  what 
new  torments  he  was  inflicting  on  his  wife,  though  she  had 
not  said  so. 

Henriette  herself  put  an  end  to  the  monologue  by  coming 
out  on  to  the  steps.  The  Count  saw  her,  shook  his  head, 
and  added:  "You,  Felix,  listen  to  me;  but  no  one  here  has 
any  pity  for  me. ' ' 

And  he  went  away  as  though  aware  that  he  would  be  in 
the  way  during  my  conversation  with  Henriette,  or  perhaps 
as  a  chivalrous  attention  to  her,  knowing  that  he  would  give 
her  pleasure  by  leaving  us  together.  His  character  was  full 
of  really  inexplicable  contradictions,  for  he  was  jealous,  as 
all  weak  persons  are;  but  his  confidence  in  his  wife's  saint- 
liness  knew  no  bounds ;  perhaps  it  was  the  irritation  to  his 
vanity  caused  by  the  superiority  of  her  lofty  virtue  that  gave 
rise  to  his  constant  antagonism  to  the  Countess's  wishes,  whom 
he  loved  to  defy  as  children  defy  their  mother  and  their  mas- 
ters. Jacques  was  at  his  lessons,  Madeleine  was  dressing ;  thus 
I  had  an  hour  to  walk  alone  with  the  Countess  on  the  terrace. 


404  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Well,  dear  angel,"  said  I,  "so  the  chain  is  heavier  than 
ever,  the  sands  more  scorching,  the  thorns  more  thickly  set  ?" 

"Be  silent,"  said  she,  guessing  what  thoughts  had  been 
suggested  to  me  by  the  Count's  conversation.  "You  are 
here,  and  all  is  forgotten!  I  am  not,  I  have  not  been  un- 
happy." 

She  danced  a  few  light  steps  as  if  to  flutter  her  white 
dress,  to  let  the  breezes  play  with  her  frills  of  snowy  tulle, 
her  loose  sleeves,  her  bright  ribbons,  her  cape,  and  the  airy 
curls  of  her  hair  dressed  d  la  Sevigne;  1  saw  her  for  the 
first  time  really  girlish  and  young,  naturally  gay,  and  as 
ready  for  sport  as  a  child.  I  experienced  both  the  tears  of 
happiness  and  the  delight  a  man  feels  in  giving  pleasure. 

"Sweet  flower  of  humanity,"  cried  I,  "that  my  fancy 
caresses  and  my  spirit  kisses!  Oh,  my  Lily!  still  intact  and 
erect  on  its  stem,  still  white,  proud,  fragrant,  and  alone!" 

' '  That  is  enough,  Monsieur, ' '  she  said,  with  a  smile.  ' '  Talk 
to  me  about  yourself,  and  tell  me  everything. ' ' 

And  then,  under  the  moving  canopy  of  quivering  leaves, 
we  had  a  long  conversation,  full  of  endless  parentheses,  each 
subject  dropped  and  taken  up  again,  in  which  I  initiated  her 
into  my  whole  life  and  all  my  occupations.  I  described  my 
rooms  in  Paris,  for  she  wanted  to  know  everything,  and  I — 
joy  then  not  fully  appreciated! — I  had  nothing  to  conceal. 
As  she  thus  read  all  my  soul,  and  learned  all  the  details  of 
my  life  full  of  overwhelming  toil,  as  she  discerned  the  im- 
portance of  my  functions,  in  which,  but  for  the  strictest 
honesty,  it  would  be  so  easy  to  cheat  and  grow  rich,  and 
which  I  exercised  with  such  fidelity  that  the  King,  as  I  told 
her,  nicknamed  me  Mademoiselle  de  Yandenesse,  she  clasped 
my  hand  and  kissed  it,  leaving  on  it  a  tear  of  joy.  This  sud- 
den inversion  of  our  parts,  this  splendid  praise,  the  swiftly 
expressed  feeling,  even  more  swiftly  understood — "You  are 
indeed  the  master  I  could  have  obeyed,  the  fulfilment  of  my 
dream!" — all  the  avowal  expressed  in  this  action,  whose  very 
humility  was  dignity,  betraying  love  in  a  sphere  far  above 
the  senses;  this  whirl  of  heavenly  emotions  fell  on  my  heart 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY 

an«l  crushed  me.  I  felt  so  small!  I  wished  I  could  die  at 
her  feet. 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed,  "you  women  will  always  outdo  us 
in  every  way.  How  could  you  doubt  me? — for  you  did 
doubt  me  just  now,  Henriette." 

"Not  in  the  present,"  she  replied,  looking  at  me  with  the 
ineffable  sweetness  that  softened  the  light  in  her  eyes  for  me 
alone.  "But  seeing  you  so  handsome,  I  said  to  myself:  Our 
plans  for  Madeleine  will  be  marred  by  some  woman  who  will 
guess  what  treasures  lie  below,  who  will  worship  you,  and 
rob  us  of  our  F61ix,  and  destroy  everything  for  us." 

"Still  Madeleine!"  said  I,  with  an  expression  of  surprise 
which  only  half  distressed  her.  "Is.  it  to  Madeleine  that  I 
remain  faithful  ? ' ' 

We  then  sat  in  silence,  very  provokingly  interrupted  by 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf .  My  heart  was  full,  but  I  had  to  keep 
up  a  conversation  beset  with  difficulties,  in  which  my  truth- 
ful replies  as  to  the  policy  then  carried  out  by  the  King  of- 
fended the  Count's  views,  while  he  insisted  on  my  explain- 
ing his  Majesty's  intentions.  Notwithstanding  my  questions 
as  to  his  horses,  the  state  of  agriculture,  whether  he  was 
satisfied  with  his  five  farms,  if  he  meant  to  fell  the  trees  in 
the  old  avenue,  he  constantly  came  back  to  politics  with  the 
petulance  of  an  old  maid  and  the  pertinacity  of  a  child ;  for 
minds  of  this  type  always  eagerly  turn  to  the  side  where 
light  shines,  they  blunder  up  to  it  again  and  again,  buzzing 
round  but  getting  no  nearer,  exhausting  one's  spirit  as  blue- 
bottle flies  weary  the  ear  by  humming  against  the  window 
pane. 

Henriette  said  nothing.  I,  to  put  an  end  to  a  dialogue 
which  the  warmth  of  youth  might  have  heated  to  a  flame,  re- 
plied in  assenting  monosyllables,  thus  avoiding  a  useless  dis- 
cussion ;  but  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  was  far  too  clear-sighted 
not  to  discern  the  offensive  side  of  my  politeness.  Presently 
he  turned  restive,  vexed  at  being  constantly  agreed  with; 
his  eyebrows  and  the  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  twitched,  his 
tawny  eyes  flashed,  his  bloodshot  nose  turned  redder  than 


406  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ever,  as  on  that  day  when,  for  the  first  time,  I  witnessed 
one  of  his  fits  of  frenzy.  Henriette  gave  me  a  beseeching 
look  to  convey  to  me  that  she  could  not  exert  on  my  behalf 
the  firmness  she  employed  in  justifying  or  defending  the 
children. 

I  then  answered  the  Count,  taking  him  seriously,  and 
managing  him  with  the  greatest  skill. 

"Poor  dear!  poor  dear!"  she  said,  murmuring  the  words 
again  and  again ;  they  fell  on  my  ear  like  a  breath  of  air. 
Then,  when  she  thought  she  could  interfere  with  some  suc- 
cess, she  exclaimed,  interrupting  us:  "Do  you  know,  gentle- 
men, that  you' are  desperately  unamusing!" 

Recalled  by  this  remark  to  the  chivalrous  deference  due 
to  a  woman,  the  Count  ceased  discussing  politics;  it  was  now 
his  turn  to  be  bored  as  we  talked  of  trifles,  and  he  left  us 
free  to  walk  together,  saying  that  perpetually  pacing  up  and 
down  on  the  same  spot  made  him  giddy. 

My  gloomy  conjectures  were  accurate.  The  fair  scenery, 
the  mild  atmosphere,  the  clear  sky,  the  exquisite  poetry  of 
this  valley,  which  for  fifteen  years  had  soothed  the  acutest 
vagaries  of  this  sick  brain,  had  now  lost  their  power.  At  an 
age  when  in  most  men  the  rough  edges  wear  down  and  the 
angles  rub  smooth,  this  old  gentleman's  temper  was  more 
aggressive  than  ever.  For  some  months  now  he  had  been 
contradictory  for  contradiction's  sake,  without  reason,  with- 
out justifying  his  opinions ;  he  asked  the  wherefore  of  every- 
thing, fussed  over  a  delay  or  a  message,  interfered  incessantly 
in  domestic  matters,  and  demanded  an  account  of  the  small- 
est details  of  the  household,  till  he  wore  out  his  wife  and  his 
servants,  leaving  them  no  freedom  of  action.  Formerly  he 
had  not  given  way  to  temper  without  some  plausible  reason, 
now  his  fractiousness  was  incessant.  The  care  of  his  money 
and  the  anxieties  of  husbandry,  with  the  stir  of  a  busy  life, 
had  perhaps  diverted  his  atrabilious  humor  by  giving  his 
anxious  spirit  something  to  work  on,  and  employing  his  ac- 
tive mind;  perhaps  it  was  want  of  occupation  that  now  left 
his  disorder  to  react  upon  itself;  having  nothing  outside  him 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  407 

to  fret  it,  it  took  the  form  of  fixed  ideas ;  the  physical  indi- 
vidual had  become  the  victim  of  the  moral  individual. 

He  was  now  his  own  doctor.  He  compared  medical 
works,  and  believed  he  had  all  the  complaints  of  which  he 
read  the  descriptions ;  then  he  took  the  most  elaborate  pre- 
cautions to  guard  his  health,  always  something  new,  impos- 
sible to  foresee,  more  impossible  to  satisfy..  At  one  time  he 
would  have  no  noise ;  and  when  the  Countess  had  succeeded 
in  establishing  total  silence,  he  would  suddenly  complain  of 
living  in  a  tomb,  and  say  that  there  was  a  medium  between 
making  no  noise  and  the  muteness  of  La  Trappe.  Some- 
times he  affected  absolute  indifference  to  all  earthly  things ; 
then  the  whole  house  breathed  again;  the  children  could 
play,  the  work  of  the  household  was  carried  on  without  any 
fault-finding ;  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  he  would  cry 
out  piteously,  "You  want  to  kill  me! — My  dear,  if  it  con- 
cerned the  children,  you  would  know  by  instinct  what  an- 
noyed them!"  he  would  say  to  his  wife,  adding  to  the 
injustice  of  the  words  by  the  hard,  cold  tone  in  which  he 
spoke  them.  Then  he  was  forever  dressing  and  undressing, 
studying  the  least  variation  of  temperature,  and  never  doing 
anything  without  consulting  the  barometer.  In  spite  of  his 
wife's  motherly  care,  he  never  found  any  food  to  his  liking, 
for  he  declared  that  his  stomach  was  always  out  of  order, 
and  that  painful  digestion  hindered  his  sleeping;  at  the 
same  time,  he  ate,  drank,  digested,  and  slept  in  a  way  that 
the  most  learned  physician  might  have  admired.  His  end- 
less caprices  wore  out  the  household ;  like  all  servants,  they 
were  the  slaves  of  routine,  and  incapable  of  accommodating 
themselves  to  the  exigencies  of  constantly  varying  orders. 
The  Count  would  desire  that  all  the  windows  were  to  be 
left  open,  as  fresh  air  was  indispensable  to  his  health;  a  few 
days  later  the  air  was  too  damp,  or  too  hot,  he  could  not  en- 
dure it;  he  scolded,  he  quarrelled  over  it,  and,  to  be  in  the 
right,  would  deny  his  previous  order.  This  lack  of  memory, 
or  of  honesty,  of  course  gave  him  the  victory  in  every  discus- 
sion when  his  wife  tried  to  prove  that  he  contradicted  himself. 


408  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

A  residence  at  Clochegourde  was  so  unendurable  that  the 
Abbe  de  Dominis,  an  exceedingly  learned  man,  had  fallen 
back  on  the  solution  of  certain  problems,  and  intrenched 
himself  in  affected  absence  of  mind.  The  Countess  no 
longer  hoped  to  be  able  to  keep  the  secret  of  his  fits  of 
mad  fury  within  the  family  circle,  as  of  old.  The  servants 
had  already  witnessed  many  scenes  when  the  prematurely 
old  man's  unreasoning  rage  passed  all  bounds;  they  were 
so  much  attached  to  the  Countess  that  nothing  was  ever  re- 
peated, but  she  lived  in  daily  terror  of  some  outburst  in 
public  of  a  frenzy  which  no  respect  of  persons  could  now 
control.  At  a  later  time  I  heard  terrible  details  of  the 
Count's  behavior  to  his  wife;  instead  of  being  a  help  to 
her,  he  overwhelmed  her  with  gloomy  predictions,  making 
her  responsible  for  future  ills  because  she  refused  to  follow 
the  insane  medical  treatment  he  wished  to  inflict  on  the 
children.  If  the  Countess  went  out  walking  with  Jacques 
and  Madeleine,  her  husband  would  prophesy  of  coming 
storms  in  spite  of  a  clear  sky;  then  if  by  chance  his  pre- 
diction was  justified  by  the  event,  his  conceit  was  so  much 
gratified  as  to  be  indifferent  to  the  harm  done  to  his  chil- 
dren. If  one  of  them  fell  ill,  the  Count  exercised  his  wit 
in  finding  a  cause  for  the  attack  in  the  system  of  nursing 
adopted  by  his  wife,  which  he  would  dispute  in  its  mi- 
nutest details,  always  ending  with  these  brutal  words,  "If 
your  children  are  ill  again,  it  is  all  your  own  doing  1" 

He  carried  this  system  into  the  smallest  points  of  domes- 
tic management,  in  which  he  always  saw  the  worst  side  of 
things,  and  made  himself  "the  devil's  advocate,"  to  quote 
his  old  coachman's  expression.  The  Countess  had  arranged 
that  Jacques  and  Madeleine  should  have  their  meals  at  a  dif- 
ferent hour  from  their  parents,  and  had  thus  preserved  them 
from  the  dreadful  effects  of  the  Count's  malady,  meeting  every 
storm  as  it  broke.  The  children  rarely  saw  their  father. 

By  an  illusion  peculiar  to  selfish  people,  the  Count  had 
no  suspicion  of  the  mischief  he  caused.  In  his  confidential 
conversation  with  me  he  had  indeed  blamed  himself  for  too 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  409 

great  leniency  to  his  family.  Thus  he  wielded  the  knout, 
felling  and  destroying  everything  about  him  as  a  monkey 
it  have  done,  and  after  wounding  his  victim  denied  that 
he  had  ever  touched  her.  I  understood  now  what  had  drawn 
the  lines,  as  fine  as  razor-cuts,  across  the  Countess's  brow;  I 
had  noticed  them  as  soon  as  I  saw  her.  There  is  a  sort  of 
modesty  in  noble  souls  that  keeps  them  from  uttering  their 
sorrows;  they  hide  their  griefs  from  those  they  love,  out  of 
pride  and  a  feeling  of  luxurious  charity.  And  in  spite  of  my 
urgency,  I  did  not  at  once  extract  this  confession  from  Hen- 
riette.  She  feared  to  distress  me;  she  let  things  out,  bit  by 
bit,  with  sudden  blushes;  but  I  was  not  slow  to  guess  the 
aggravated  bitterness  that  her  husband's  want  of  occupation 
had  infused  into  the  domestic  miseries  of  Clochegourde. 

"Henriette,"  said  I  a  few  days  later,  showing  her  that 
I  had  sounded  the  depths  of  her  new  griefs,  "did  not  you 
make  a  mistake  when  you  planned  your  estate  so  completely 
as  to  leave  the  Count  nothing  to  employ  him?" 

"Nay,  dear,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "my  position  is  so 
critical  as  to  need  all  my  attention ;  believe  me,  I  have  stud- 
ied every  alternative — they  are  all  exhausted.  It  is  true, 
worries  increase  every  day.  As  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  and 
1  are  always  together,  I  cannot  diminish  them  by  distribut- 
ing them  to  several  points;  everything  must  bring  the  same 
suffering  on  me.  I  had  thoughts  of  amusing  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf  by  advising  him  to  introduce  the  culture  of  silk- 
worms at  Clochegourde ;  there  are  some  mulberry-trees  here 
already,  survivors  from  that  industry,  once  known  in  Tou- 
raine;  but  I  understood  that  he  would  be  none  the  less 
tyrannical  at  home,  that  all  the  thousand  troubles  of  the 
undertaking  would  fall  upon  me. 

"You  see,  my  observing  friend,"  she  went  on,  "while  a 
man  is  young  his  bad  qualities  are  controlled  by  the  outer 
world,  impeded  in  their  rise  by  the  other  passions;  checked 
by  respect  of  persons;  but  later,  in  retirement,  as  a  man 
grows  old,  little  faults  come  forth,  all  the  more  terrible  be- 
cause they  have  so  long  been  kept  under.  Human  weak- 

Vol.  4.  (R) 


BALZAC'S  WORKS 

ness  is  essentially  cowardly;  it  grants  neither  peace  nor 
truce;  what  has  once  been  surrendered  yesterday  it  insists 
on  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  forever  after;  it  takes  possession 
of  all  that  is  conceded  and  demands  more.  Strength  is  mer- 
ciful; it  yields  to  conviction;  it  is  just  and  peaceable,  while 
the  passions  that  are  born  of  weakness  are  pitiless.  They 
are  never  satisfied  but  when  they  can  behave  like  children, 
who  like  stolen  fruit  better  than  what  they  may  eat  at  table. 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  takes  a  real  pleasure  in  stealing  a  march 
on  me ;  he  who  would  never  deceive  anybody  loves  to  deceive 
me  so  long  as  the  trick  remains  unknown. ' ' 

One  morning,  about  a  month  after  my  arrival,  as  we  came 
out  from  breakfast,  the  Countess  took  my  arm,  hurried  out 
by  a  railed  gate  that  opened  into  the  orchard,  and  dragged 
me  away  to  the  vineyard. 

"Oh!  he  will  kill  me!"  cried  she.  "And  yet  I  must 
live,  if  only  for  the  children's  sake!  Cannot  I  have  a 
single  day's  respite?  Must  I  always  be  stumbling  over 
brambles,  expecting  every  moment  to  fall,  compelled  every 
moment  to  summon  all  my  strength  to  keep  my  balance! 
No  living  creature  can  endure  such  an  expenditure  of  en- 
ergy. If  only  I  knew  the  ground  I  should  be  called  upon 
to  struggle  over,  if  my  endurance  were  a  fixed  quantity,  my 
spirit  would  bend  to  it ;  but  no,  the  attack  comes  every  day 
in  a  new  form  and  finds  me  defenceless ;  my  trouble  is  not 
single,  but  manifold.  Felix,  Felix,  you  could  never  imag- 
ine the  odious  aspect  his  tyranny  has  assumed,  or  the  odious 
measures  suggested  to  him  by  his  medical  books.  Ah !  my 
friend — ' '  she  leaned  her  head  on  my  shoulder  without  fin- 
ishing her  sentence.  "What  is  to  become  of  me;  what  can 
I  do?"  she  went  on,  fighting  with  the  ideas  she  had  not 
uttered.  "How  can  I  contend  with  him?  He  will  kill  me. 
— No,  I  will  kill  myself — only  that  is  a  crime !  Can  I  fly  ? 
There  are  the  children!  Demand  a  separation?  But  how, 
after  fifteen  years  of  married  life,  am  I  to  tell  my  father  that 
I  cannot  live  with  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  when,  if  my  father 


TH&  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  411 

or  my  mother  were  to  come  here,  he  would  be  calm,  well- 
conducted,  polite,  and  witty.  And  besides,  has  a  married 
woman  a  father  and  a  mother?  She  belongs,  body  and 
soul,  to  her  husband.  I  used  to  live  in  peace;  if  not 
happy,  I  found  some  strength  in  my  chaste  isolation.  I 
confess  it,  if  I  am  bereft  of  that  negative  comfort  I  too  shall 
go  mad !  My  objection  is  founded  on  reasons  not  personal  to 
myself.  Is  it  not  wicked  to  bring  poor  little  creatures  into 
the  world,  who  are  doomed  from  birth  to  constant  suffering? 
At  the  same  time,  this  question  of  conduct  is  so  serious  that 
I  cannot  solve  it  unaided:  I  am  judge  and  party  to  the  suit. 
I  will  go  to  Tours  to-morrow,  and  consult  the  Abbe*  Birot- 
teau,  my  new  director — for  my  dear  and  worthy  Abbe*  de  la 
Berge  is  dead,"  she  said  in  a  parenthesis.  "Though  he  was 
stern,  I  shall  always  miss  his  apostolic  firmness;  his  succes- 
sor is  an  angel  of  mildness  who  is  too  easily  touched  to  repri- 
mand me.  However,  what  courage  can  fail  to  find  refresh- 
ment in  religion  ?  What  reason  but  will  gain  strength  from 
the  voice  of  the  Holy  Ghost? 

"Dear  God!"  she  exclaimed,  drying  her  tears  and  look- 
ing up  to  heaven,  "for  what  am  I  thus  punished?  But  we 
must  believe — yes,  Felix,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  my 
arm,  "let  us  believe  that  we  must  pass  through  a  red-hot 
crucible  before  we  can  mount  holy  and  perfect  to  the  higher 
spheres. — Ought  I  to  be  silent?  Does  God  forbid  my  cry- 
ing out  to  a  friend's  heart?  Do  I  love  him  too  well?"  She 
clasped  me  to  her  as  though  she  feared  to  lose  me.  "Who 
will  answer  my  doubts?  My  conscience  does  not  reproach 
me.  The  stars  above  shine  down  on  men;  why  should  not 
the  soul,  that  living  star,  shed  its  fires  over  and  round  a 
friend  when  only  pure  thoughts  go  out  to  him?" 

I  listened  in  silence  to  this  terrible  outcry,  holding  her 
clammy  hand  in  my  own,  which  was  moister  still ;  I  grasped 
it  with  a  force  to  which  Henriette  responded  with  equal 
pressure. 

"You  are  there,  are  you?"  cried  the  Count,  coming  toward 
us  bareheaded. 


412  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Since  my  return  he  had  insisted  on  always  being  the  third 
whenever  we  met,  either  because  he  counted  on  some  amuse- 
ment, or  because  he  suspected  the  Countess  of  telling  me  of 
all  her  sorrows  and  bewailing  herself  to  me ;  or  again,  because 
he  was  jealous  of  a  pleasure  he  did  not  share. 

"How  he  follows  me  about!"  said  she  in  a  tone  of  despair. 
"We  will  go  to  look  at  the  Clos,  and  then  we  shall  avoid 
him.  Stoop  low  behind  the  hedges  and  we  shall  escape." 
We  screened  ourselves  behind  a  thick  hedge,  and  reaching 
the  vineyard  at  a  run,  found  ourselves  far  enough  from  the 
Count  under  an  alley  of  almond-trees. 

"Dear  Henriette,"  said  I,  holding  her  arm  pressed  against 
my  heart,  and  standing  still  to  contemplate  her  in  her  sorrow, 
"you  could  once  steer  me  wisely  through  the  perilous  ways 
of  the  great  world.  Allow  me  now  to  give  you  some  instruc- 
tions to  help  you  to  end  the  single-handed  duel  in  which  you 
must  infallibly  be  defeated,  for  you  and  he  are  not  fighting 
with  equal  weapons.  Struggle  no  longer  against  a  mad- 
man— ' ' 

"Hush!"  she  exclaimed,  keeping  back  the  tears  that  filled 
her  eyes. 

"Listen  to  me,  my  dearest.  After  an  hour  of  his  talk, 
which  I  endure  for  your  sake,  my  mind  is  often  bewildered 
and  my  head  aches;  the  Count  makes  me  doubt  my  very 
senses;  the  same  things  repeated  are  stamped  in  my  brain 
in  spite  of  myself.  A  strongly  marked  monomania  is  not 
infectious;  when  madness  takes  the  form  of  affecting  a  man's 
views  and  hides  itself  behind  perpetual  discussions,  it  may 
act  terribly  on  those  who  live  with  it.  Your  patience  is  sub- 
lime, but  is  it  not  stultifying  ?  For  your  own  sake,  for  your 
children's,  change  your  system  with  the  Count.  Your  ex- 
quisite submissiveness  has  increased  his  egoism;  you  treat 
him  as  a  mother  treats  the  child  she  spoils.  But  now,  if  you 
wish  to  live — and  you  do,"  I  added,  looking  her  in  the  face, 
"exert  all  the  influence  you  have  over  him.  He  loves  and 
he  fears  you — you  know  it ;  make  him  fear  you  more ;  meet 
his  diffused  wilfulness  with  a  narrow,  set  will.  Increase 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  413 

your  power,  just  as  he  has  managed  to  increase  the  conces- 
sions you  have  granted;  imprison  his  infirmities  in  a  narrow 
moral  sphere,  as  a  maniac  is  imprisoned  in  a  cell." 

"Dear  boy,"  said  she,  smiling  bitterly,  "none  but  a  heart- 
less woman  could  play  such  a  part.  I  am  a  mother;  I  should 
make  a  feeble  executioner.  I  can  suffer — yes ;  but  to  make 
others  suffer! — Never,"  she  said,  "not  even  to  attain  some 
great  or  conspicuous  advantage.  Should  I  not  have  to  falsify 
my  feelings,  disguise  my  voice,  set  my  face,  restrain  every 
gesture  ?  .  .  .  Do  not  require  such  lies  of  me.  I  can  stand 
between  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  and  his  children ;  I  can  take 
his  blows  so  that  they  may  fall  on  no  one  else ;  that  is  the 
utmost  I  can  do  to  reconcile  so  many  antagonistic  interests." 

"Let  me  worship  you !  Saint,  thrice  saintly !"  I  exclaimed, 
kneeling  on  one  knee,  kissing  her  dress,  and  wiping  on  it  the 
tears  that  rose  to  my  eyes. — "But  if  he  should  kill  you!" 
said  I. 

She  turned  pale,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven — 

"God's  will  be  done,"  she  replied. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  King  said  to  your  father  when 
speaking  of  you? — 'That  old  wretch  of  a  Mortsauf  still  lives 
on!'" 

"What  is  a  jest  on  the  King's  lips  is  a  crime  here,"  she 
said. 

In  spite  of  our  precautions,  the  Count  had  tracked  us; 
bathed  in  sweat,  he  came  up  with  us  under  a  walnut-tree, 
where  the  Countess  had  paused  to  speak  these  grave  words. 
As  soon  as  I  saw  him,  I  began  to  discuss  the  vintage.  Had 
he  any  unjust  suspicions  ?  I  know  not,  but  he  stood  looking 
at  us  without  saying  a  word,  or  heeding  the  damp  chill  that 
falls  from  a  walnut-tree. 

After  a  few  minutes,  during  which  he  spoke  in  broken 
sentences  of  no  significance,  with  pauses  of  very  great  sig- 
nificance, the  Count  said  he  had  a  sick  headache ;  he  com- 
plained of  it  mildly,  not  claiming  our  pity  nor  describing  his 
indisposition  in  exaggerated  terms.  We  paid  no  heed  to  him. 
When  we  went  in  he  felt  still  worse,  talked  of  going  to  bed, 


414  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  did  so  without  ceremony,  with  a  simplicity  that  was  very 
unusual.  We  took  advantage  of  the  armistice  granted  to  us 
by  his  fit  of  hypochondria,  and  went  down  to  our  beloved 
terrace,  taking  Madeleine  with  us. 

"Let  us  go  out  on  the  river,"  said  the  Countess  after  a 
few  turns;  "we  will  go  to  see  the  fish  caught  by  the  game- 
keeper for  to-day's  supply." 

We  went  out  of  the  little  gate,  found  the  punt,  got  into 
it,  and  slowly  pushed  up  stream.  Like  three  children,  de- 
lighted with  trifles,  we  looked  at  the  flowers  on  the  banks, 
at  the  blue  and  green  dragon-flies,  and  the  Countess  won- 
dered that  she  could  enjoy  such  tranquil  pleasures  in  the 
midst  of  so  much  acute  grief.  But  does  not  the  calm  influ- 
ence of  Nature  moving  on,  indifferent  to  our  struggles,  exert 
a  consoling  charm  ?  The  swirl  of  passion,  with  its  suppressed 
longings,  harmonizes  with  that  of  the  river;  the  flowers,  un- 
forced by  the  hand  of  man,  express  his  most  secret  dreams; 
the  delicious  see-saw  of  a  boat  vaguely  repeats  the  thoughts 
that  float  in  the  brain. 

We  felt  the  lulling  influence  of  this  twofold  poetry.  Our 
words,  strung  to  the  diapason  of  Nature,  were  full  of  mys- 
terious grace,  and  our  eyes  shone  with  brighter  beams,  as 
they  caught  the  light  so  lavishly  shed  by  the  sun  on  the 
scorching  shore.  The  river  was  like  a  road  on  which  we 
flew.  In  short,  disengaged  from  the  mechanical  movement 
exerted  in  walking,  the  mind  took  possession  of  creation. 
And  was  not  the  excited  glee  of  the  little  girl  in  her  freedom 
— so  pretty  in  her  movements,  so  puzzling  in  her  remarks — 
the  living  expression  of  two  souls  set  free,  and  indulging  in 
the  ideal  creation  of  the  being  dreamed  of  by  Plato,  and 
known  to  all  whose  youth  has  been  filled  with  happy  love  ? 

To  give  you  an  idea  of  that  hour,  not  in  its  indescribable 
details,  but  as  a  whole,  I  may  say  that  we  loved  each  other 
in  every  creature,  in  every  object  that  we  saw  about  us;  we 
felt  outside  us  the  happiness  each  longed  for;  it  sank  so 
deeply  into  our  hearts,  that  the  Countess  drew  off  her  gloves 
and  let  her  beautiful  hands  play  in  the  water,  as  if  to  cool 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  415 

some  secret  fires.  Her  eyes  spoke;  but  her  lips,  parted  like 
a  rose  to  the  air,  would  have  closed  on  a  desire.  You  know 
the  harmony  of  deep  notes  in  perfect  concord  with  a  high 
treble ;  it  always  reminds  me  of  the  harmony  of  our  two  souls 
that  day,  never  more  to  be  repeated. 

"Where  do  your  men  fish,"  said  I,  "if  you  can  only  fish 
from  your  own  banks?" 

"Near  the  bridge  at  Euan,"  said  she.  "The  river  is  ours 
now  from  the  bridge  at  Kuan  down  to  Clochegourde.  Mon- 
sieur de  Mortsauf  has  just  bought  forty  acres  of  meadow  with 
the  savings  of  the  last  two  years  and  the  arrears  of  his  pen- 
sion. Does  that  surprise  you?" 

"I? — I  only  wish  the  whole  valley  were  yours!"  I  ex- 
claimed, and  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

We  were  presently  above  Pont  de  Euan,  at  a  spot  where 
tbe  Indre  widens,  and  where  the  men  were  fishing. 

"Well,  Martineau?"  said  she. 

"Oh,  Madame  la  Comtesse,  luck  is  against  us.  We  have 
been  out  three  hours,  working  up  from  the  mill,  and  we 
have  caught  nothing." 

We  landed  to  help  draw  the  net  once  more,  standing,  all 
three  of  us,  in  the  shade  of  a  poplar,  with  silvery  bark,  of  a 
kind  common  on  the  Danube  and  the  Loire,  which  in  spring- 
time sheds  a  silky  white  fluff,  the  wrapper  of  its  catkins. 
The  Countess  had  resumed  her  serene  dignity;  she  repented 
of  having  confessed  her  pangs  to  me,  and  of  crying  out  like 
Job  instead  of  weeping  like  a  Magdalen — a  Magdalen  bereft 
of  lovers,  of  feasts  and  dissipations,  but  not  without  perfume 
and  beauty. 

The  net  was  drawn  at  her  feet,  full  of  fish — tench,  barbel, 
pike,  perch,  and  an  enormous  carp  leaped  upon  the  grass. 

"They  were  sent  on  purpose!"  said  the  keeper. 

The  laborers  stared  open-eyed  with  admiration  of  the 
woman  standing  like  a  fairy  who  had  touched  the  net  with 
her  wand. 

At  this  moment  a  groom  appeared,  riding  at  a  gallop 
across  the  fields,  and  filling  her  with  qualms  of  horror. 


416  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Jacques  was  not  with  us;  and  a  mother's  first  instinct,  as 
Virgil  has  so  poetically  expressed  it,  is  to  clasp  her  children 
to  her  bosom  on  the  slightest  alarm. 

"Jacques!"  she  cried.  "Where  is  Jacques?  What  has 
happened  to  my  boy?" 

She  did  not  love  me;  if  she  had  loved  me,  for  my  suffer- 
ings, too,  she  would  not  have  uttered  this  cry  as  of  a  lioness 
in  despair. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,  Monsieur  le  Comte  is  much  worse." 

She  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  ran  off  with  me,  followed 
by  Madeleine. 

"Come  after  me  slowly,"  said  she,  "that  the  dear  child 
may  not  overheat  herself.  You  see,  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf 's 
walk  in  this  heat  had  put  him  into  a  perspiration,  and  stand- 
ing in  the  shade  of  the  walnut-tree  may  bring  misfortune 
on  us." 

The  words  revealed  her  purity  of  mind.  The  Count's 
death  a  misfortune ! 

She  hurried  on  to  Clochegourde,  went  in  by  a  break  in 
the  wall,  and  crossed  the  vineyard.  I  returned  as  slowly  as 
she  could  wish.  Henriette's  words  had  enlightened  me,  but 
as  the  lightning-flash  which  destroys  the  garnered  harvest. 
During  that  hour  on  the  river  I  had  fancied  that  she  cared 
most  for  me ;  I  now  felt  bitterly  that  her  words  were  perfectly 
sincere.  The  lover  who  is  not  all  in  all  is  nothing.  So  I 
was  alone  in  my  love  with  the  longing  of  a  passion  that 
knows  all  its  wants,  that  feeds  on  anticipation,  on  hoped-for 
kindness,  and  is  satisfied  with  the  joys  of  imagination,  be- 
cause it  confounds  with  them  those  it  looks  for  in  the  future. 
If  Henriette  loved  me,  she  still  knew  nothing  of  the  joys  or 
the  storms  of  love.  She  lived  on  the  feeling  itself,  as  a  saint 
is  the  spouse  of  God. 

I  was  the  object  with  which  her  thoughts  were  bound  up, 
the  sensations  she  misunderstood,  as  a  swarm  of  bees  clings 
to  some  blossoming  bough;  but  I  was  not  the  element  of  life 
to  her,  only  an  adventitious  fact.  A  king  unthroned,  I 
walked  on,  wondering  who  should  restore  me  to  my  king- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  417 

dom.  In  my  crazy  jealousy  I  blamed  myself  for  never  hav- 
ing greatly  dared,  for  not  having  tightened  the  bonds  of  an 
affection — which  now  seemed  to  me  refined  out  of  all  reality 
— by  the  chains  of  self-evident  right  conferred  by  possession. 

The  Count's  indisposition,  caused  probably  by  a  chill 
under  the  walnut-tree,  in  a  few  hours  had  become  serious. 
I  went  off  to  Tours  to  fetch  a  physician  of  note,  Monsieur 
Origet,  whom  I  could  not  bring  back  till  the  evening;  but 
he  spent  the  night  and  the  next  day  at  Clochegourde.  Though 
he  had  sent  the  groom  to  fetch  a  large  number  of  leeches,  he 
thought  immediate  bleeding  necessary,  and  had  no  lancet 
with  him.  I  rushed  off  to  Azay,  in  dreadful  weather;  I 
roused  Monsieur  Deslandes  the  surgeon,  and  made  him  come 
off  with  the  rapidity  of  a  bird.  Ten  minutes  later  the  Count 
would  have  succumbed ;  bleeding  saved  him. 

In  spite  of  this  first  triumph,  the  doctor  pronounced  him 
in  a  dangerously  high  fever,  one  of  those  attacks  which  come 
on  people  who  have  ailed  nothing  for  twenty  years.  The 
Countess  was  overwhelmed;  she  believed  herself  to  be  the 
cause  of  this  disastrous  illness.  Unable  to  thank  me  for  what 
I  did,  she  was  content  to  give  me  an  occasional  smile,  with 
an  expression  that  was  equivalent  to  the  kiss  she  had  pressed 
on  my  hand ;  I  wished  I  could  read  in  it  the  remorse  of  an 
illicit  passion;  but  it  was  an  act  of  contrition,  painful  to  see 
in  so  pure  a  soul,  and  the  expression  of  admiring  affection 
for  him  whom  she  considered  noble,  while  she  accused  her- 
self alone  of  an  imaginary  crime.  She  loved  indeed  as  Laura 
de  Noves  loved  Petrarch,  and  not  as  Francesca  da  Rimini 
loved  Paolo — a  crushing  discovery  for  a  man  who  had 
dreamed  of  the  union  of  these  two  types  of  love.  The 
Countess  was  reclining,  her  frame  exhausted,  her  arms  lying 
limp,  in  a  dirty  armchair  in  that  room  that  reminded  me  of  a 
wild  boar's  den. 

Next  evening,  before  leaving,  the  doctor  told  the  Count- 
ess, who  had  watched  all  night,  that  she  must  send  for  a 
nurse;  the  illness  would  be  long. 

"A  nurse!"  cried  she.     "No,  no.     We  will  nurse  him," 


418  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

she  added,  looking  at  me.  "We  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  save 
him." 

At  these  words,  the  doctor  glanced  at  us  with  an  observ- 
ing eye  full  of  astonishment.  The  expression  of  her  words 
was  enough  to  lead  him  to  suspect  some  crime  that  had  failed 
in  the  execution.  He  promised  to  come  twice  a  week,  sug- 
gested the  treatment  to  be  pursued  by  Monsieur  Deslandes, 
and  described  the  alarming  symptoms  which  might  necessitate 
his  being  fetched  from  Tours. 

To  secure  the  Countess  at  least  one  night's  rest  out  of 
two,  I  proposed  that  she  should  allow  me  to  sit  up  with  the 
Count  in  turns  with  her ;  and  thus,  not  without  difficulty,  I 
persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed  the  third  night.  When  all  was 
still  in  the  house,  during  a  minute  when  the  Count  was  doz- 
ing, I  heard  a  sigh  of  anguish  from  Henriette's  room.  My 
anxiety  was  so  keen  that  I  went  to  see  her;  she  was  on  her 
knees  before  her  prie-Dieu  in  tears  and  accusing  herself: 
"Ah,  God!  if  this  is  the  price  of  a  murmur,"  she  cried,  "I 
will  never  complain  again. ' ' 

4  4  You  have  left  him ! ' '  she  exclaimed  as  she  saw  me. 

"I  heard  you  wailing  and  moaning,  and  I  was  alarmed 
about  you. ' ' 

4 'About  me?     Oh,  I  am  quite  well,"  she  said. 

She  wanted  to  be  sure  that  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  was 
really  asleep.  We  went  down  together,  and  by  the  light  of 
a  lamp  we  looked  at  him.  He  was  weakened  by  loss  of 
blood  rather  than  sleeping;  his  restless  hands  were  trying 
to  pull  the  counterpane  up. 

"They  say  that  is  a  trick  of  the  dying,"  said  she.  "Oh, 
if  he  were  to  die  of  this  illness  brought  on  by  us,  I  would 
never  marry  again;  I  swear  it!"  she  went  on,  solemnly  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  over  the  Count's  head. 

4 'I  have  done  all  I  can  to  save  him,"  said  I. 

"You!  Oh,  you  are  most  good!"  said  she.  "It  is  I — I 
am  the  guilty  one. ' ' 

She  bent  down  over  the  puckered  brow,  wiped  away  the 
moisture  with  her  hair,  and  gave  it  a  sacred  kiss.  But  I 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  419 

noted,  not  without  secret  satisfaction,  that  she  bestowed  this 
caress  as  an  expiation. 

"Blanche — some  drink,"  said  the  Count  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"You  see,  he  only  recognizes  me,"  she  said  as  she  brought 
him  a  glass.  And  by  her  tone  and  her  affectionate  attentions 
to  him,  she  tried  to  heap  insult  on  the  feelings  that  bound 
us,  immolating  them  to  the  sick  man. 

"Henriette,"  said  I,  "go  and  take  some  rest,  I  entreat 
you." 

"Henriette  no  more!"  she^  said,  interrupting  me  with 
imperious  haste. 

"Go  to  bed,  or  you  will  be  ill.  Your  children,  he  him- 
self would  desire  you  to  spare  yourself.  There  are  times 
when  selfishness  is  a  sublime  virtue." 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

And  she  went,  urging  me  to  watch  her  husband,  by 
gestures  that  might  have  seemed  to  indicate  approaching 
delirium  if  the  grace  of  childhood  had  not  mingled  with  the 
passionate  entreaty  of  repentance. 

This  scene,  frightful  as  compared  with  the  usual  state  of 
this  placid  soul,  alarmed  me;  I  feared  the  extravagance  of  her 
conscience.  When  the  doctor  next  came,  I  explained  to  him 
the  scruples,  as  of  a  sacred  ermine,  that  were  tormenting  my 
spotless  Henriette.  This  confidence,  though  very  guarded, 
dispelled  Monsieur  Origet's  suspicions,  and  he  soothed  the 
terrors  of  that  sweet  soul  by  assuring  her  that,  from  whatever 
cause,  the  Count  must  have  had  this  violent  attack,  and  that 
the  chill  he  had  taken  under  the  walnut-tree  had  been  bene- 
ficial rather  than  in j  urious  by  bringing  it  on. 

For  fifty-two  days  the  Count  hovered  between  life  and 
death.  Henriette  and  I  sat  up  with  him  in  turn,  each  for 
twenty-six  nights.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  undoubtedly  owed 
his  recovery  to  our  care,  and  the  scrupulous  exactitude  with 
which  we  carried  out  Monsieur  Origet's  instructions.  Like 
all  philosophical  doctors,  whose  shrewd  observation  justifies 
them  in  doubting  a  noble  action,  even  when  it  is  merely  the 


420  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

secret  fulfilment  of  a  duty,  this  man,  while  noticing  the  ri- 
valry of  heroism  between  me  and  the  Countess,  could  not 
help  watching  us  with  inquisitive  eyes,  so  fearful  was  he  of 
being  cheated  of  his  admiration. 

"In  such  a  case  as  this,"  said  he  on  the  occasion  of  his 
third  visit,  "death  finds  a  ready  auxiliary  in  the  mind  when 
it  is  so  seriously  affected  as  that  of  the  Count.  The  doctor, 
the  nurse,  those  who  are  about  the  patient  hold  his  life  in 
their  hands ;  for  a  single  word,  a  mere  gesture  of  apprehen- 
sion, may  be  as  fatal  as  poison." 

As  he  spoke  thus  Origet  studied  my  face  and  my  expres- 
sion; but  he  read  in  my  eyes  the  sincerity  of  an  honest  soul. 
For  indeed,  throughout  this  cruel  illness,  my  mind  was  never 
once  invaded  by  the  very  slightest  of  those  involuntary  evil 
ideas  which  sometimes  sear  the  most  innocent  conscience. 

For  those  who  contemplate  nature  as  a  whole,  everything 
tends  to  union  by  assimilation.  The  spiritual  world  must 
be  governed  by  an  analogous  principle.  In  a  pure  realm  all 
is  pure.  In  Henriette's  presence  there  was  a  fragrance  as  of 
heaven  itself;  it  seemed  as  though  any  not  irreproachable 
thought  must  alienate  me  from  her  forever.  Hence  she  was 
not  only  my  happiness,  she  was  also  my  virtue.  Finding  us 
always  unfailingly  attentive  and  careful,  the  doctor  put  an 
indescribable  tone  of  pious  pathos  into  his  words  and  man- 
ner, as  if  he  were  thinking:  "These  are  the  real  sufferers; 
they  hide  their  wounds  and  forget  them. ' ' 

By  an  effect  of  contrast  which,  as  this  worthy  man  assured 
us,  is  common  enough  in  such  wrecks  of  manhood,  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  was  patient  and  tractable,  never  complained,  and 
showed  the  most  wonderful  docility — he  who  in  health  could 
not  clo  the  least  thing  without  a  thousand  comments.  The 
secret  of  this  submission  to  medical  treatment,  formerly  so 
scouted,  was  a  covert  dread  of  death,  another  contrast  in  a 
man  of  unblemished  courage.  And  this  fear  may  perhaps 
account  for  various  singular  features  in  the  altered  temper 
he  owed  to  his  misfortunes. 

Shall  I  confess  to  you,  Natalie,  and  will  you  believe  me  ? 


THE  LILY  OF   THE  VALLEY  421 

Those  fifty  days,  and  the  month  that  came  after,  were  the 
golden  days  of  my  life.  In  the  infinite  expanse  of  the  soul 
is  not  love  what,  in  a  broad  valley,  the  river  is  to  which  flow 
all  the  rains,  the  brooks  and  torrents,  into  which  are  borne 
the  trees  and  flowers,  the  gravel  of  its  banks,  and  the  frag- 
ments of  the  higher  rocks;  it  is  fed  alike  by  storms  and  by 
the  slow  tribute  of  rippling  springs.  Yes,  when  we  love, 
everything  feeds  love. 

The  first  great  danger  past,  the  Countess  and  I  became 
accustomed  to  sickness.  In  spite  of  the  confusion  caused  by 
the  constant  care  needed  by  the  Count,  his  room,  which  we 
had  found  in  such  disorder,  was  made  neat  and  pretty.  Ere 
long  we  lived  there  like  two  beings  dropped  on  a  desert 
island;  for  not  only  do  troubles  isolate  us,  but  they  silence 
the  petty  conventionality  of  the  world.  And  then  for  the  sick 
man's  benefit  we  were  forced  into  contact  such  as  no  other 
event  could  have  brought  about.  How  often  did  our  hands 
meet,  horetofore  so  shy,  in  doing  her  husband  -some  service. 
Was  it  not  my  part  to  support  and  help  Henriette  ?  Carried 
away  by  a  duty  that  may  be  compared  with  that  of  a  soldier 
at  an  outpost,  she  woxild  often  forget  to  eat;  then  I  would 
bring  her  food,  sometimes  on  her  knee — a  hasty  meal  neces- 
sitating a  hundred  little  services.  It  was  a  childish  scene  on 
the  brink  of  a  yawning  grave.  She  would  hastily  order  me 
to  prepare  what  might  save  the  Count  some  discomfort,  and 
employ  me  on  a  variety  of  trivial  tasks. 

In  the  early  days,  when  the  imminence  of  danger  stifled 
the  subtle  distinctions  of  ordinary  life,  as  in  the  field  of  bat- 
tle, she  inevitably  neglected  the  reserve  which  every  woman, 
even  the  most  simple-minded,  maintains  in  her  speech,  looks, 
and  behavior  when  she  is  surrounded  by  the  world  or  by  her 
family,  but  which  is  incompatible  with  the  undress  of  inti- 
macy. Would  she  not  come  to  call  me  at  the  chirp  of  awa- 
kening birds  in  a  morning  wrapper  that  sometimes  allowed 
me  a  glimpse  of  the  dazzling  charms  which,  in  my  wild  hopes, 
I  regarded  as  my  own?  Though  always  dignified  and  lofty, 
could  she  not  also  be  familiar?  And,  indeed,  during  the 


422  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

first  few  days,  that  danger  so  completely  eliminated  every 
passionate  meaning  from  the  privacy  of  our  intimate  inter- 
course that  she  thought  of  no  harm;  and  afterward,  when 
reflection  came,  she  felt  perhaps  that  any  change  of  demeanor 
would  imply  an  insult  as  much  to  herself  as  to  me.  We 
found  ourselves  insensibly  familiarized,  half  wed,  as  it  were. 
She  showed  herself  nobly  confiding,  as  sure  of  me  as  of  her- 
self. Thus  I  grew  more  deeply  into  her  heart. 

The  Countess  was  my  Henriette  once  more,  Henriette  con- 
strained to  love  me  yet  more,  as  I  strove  to  be  her  second 
self.  Ere  long,  I  never  had  to  wait  for  her  hand,  which  she 
would  give  me  irresistibly  at  the  least  beseeching  glance; 
and  I  could  study  with  delight  the  outlines  of  her  fine  figure 
without  her  shrinking  from  my  gaze,  during  the  long  hours 
while  we  sat  listening  to  the  patient's  slumbers.  The  slen- 
der joys  we  allowed  ourselves,  the  appealing  looks,  the  words 
spoken  in  a  whisper  not  to  awake  the  Count,  the  hopes  and 
fears  repeated  again  and  again,  in  short,  the  myriad  details 
of  this  fusion  of  two  hearts  so  long  sundered,  stood  out  dis- 
tinctly against  the  sad  gloom  of  the  real  scene  before  us. 
We  read  each  other's  souls  through  and  through  in  the 
course  of  this  long  test,  to  which  the  strongest  affections 
sometimes  succumb,  unable  to  withstand  the  familiarity  of 
every  hour,  and  dropping  away  after  testing  the  unyielding 
cohesion  which  makes  life  so  heavy  or  so  light  a  burden. 

You  know  what  mischief  comes  of  a  master's  long  illness, 
what  disorder  in  his  business ;  there  is  never  time  for  any- 
thing; the  stoppage  put  to  his  life  hampers  the  movement 
of  the  house  and  family.  Though  everything  always  fell  on 
Madame  de  Mortsauf,  the  Count  was  of  use  on  the  estate;  he 
went  to  talk  to  the  farmers,  he  called  on  the  business  agents, 
he  drew  the  rents ;  if  she  was  the  soul,  still  he  was  the  body. 
I  now  appointed  myself  steward  that  she  might  nurse  the 
Count  without  fear  of  ruin  out  of  doors.  She  accepted  every- 
thing without  apologies,  without  thanks.  This  partition  of 
household  cares  was  another  happy  community  of  interests, 
and  the  orders  I  gave  in  her  name.  In  her  room  in  the  evevi- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  423 

ing  we  often  discussed  the  children's  prospects.  These  con- 
versations lent  a  still  further  semblance  of  reality  to  our 
make-believe  married  life.  How  gladly  would  Henriette 
lend  herself  to  my  playing  the  master's  part,  putting  me  in 
his  place  at  table,  sending  me  to  speak  to  the  gamekeeper; 
and  all  with  simple  innocence,  but  not  without  the  secret 
pleasure  which  the  most  virtuous  woman  on  earth  must  feel 
at  finding  a  middle  course  combining  strict  observation  of 
every  law  with  the  satisfaction  of  her  unconfessed  wishes. 
The  Count,  nullilied  by  illness,  was  no  longer  a  weight  on 
his  wife  or  on  the  house ;  and  now  the  Countess  was  herself, 
she  had  a  right  to  attend  to  me  and  make  me  the  object  of 
endless  cares.  What  joy  I  felt  on  discovering  in  her  a 
purpose  of  which  she,  perhaps,  was  but  vaguely  conscious, 
though  it  was  exquisitely  expressed — of  revealing  to  me  all 
the  worth  of  her  person  and  her  character,  of  making  me  feel 
the  change  that  came  over  her  when  she  felt  herself  under- 
stood !  This  blossom,  constantly  curled  up  in  the  cold  atmos- 
phere of  her  home,  unfolded  before  my  eyes  and  for  me  alone; 
she  had  as  much  delight  in  opening  as  I  had  in  looking  on 
with  the  inquisitive  eye  of  love. 

On  the  mornings  when  I  slept  late,  after  sitting  up  all 
night,  Henriette  was  up  before  any  one.  She  preserved  the 
most  perfect  silence;  Jacques  and  Madeleine,  without  need- 
ing to  be  told,  went  away  to  play.  She  would  devise  endless 
wiles  to  lay  my  table  herself,  and  she  would  serve  my  break- 
fast with  such  a  sparkle  of  glee  in  every  movement,  with 
such  a  wild  swallowlike  precision,  with  such  a  color  in  her 
cheeks,  such  quaverings  in  her  voice,  such  a  lynxlike  keen- 
ness of  eye!  Can  such  expansions  of  the  soul  be  described? 
She  was  often  overpowered  by  fatigue ;  but  if  by  chance  at 
one  of  these  moments  I  needed  anything,  she  found  fresh 
strength  for  me,  as  for  her  children;  she  started  up 
active,  busy,  and  glad.  She  loved  to  shed  her  tenderness 
like  sunbeams  through  the  air.  Yes,  Natalie,  some 
women  here  below  enjoy  the  privileges  of  angelic  spirits, 
and,  like  them,  diffuse  the  light  which  Saint-Martin,  the 


424  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

unknown    philosopher,    tells    us    is    intelligent,  melodious 
and  fragrant. 

Henriette,  secure  in  my  reticence,  rejoiced  in  lifting  the 
heavy  curtain  which  hid  the  future  from  us  by  showing  her- 
self to  me  as  two  women:  the  woman  in  bonds  who  had  fasci- 
nated me  in  spite  of  her  asperities;  the  woman  freed,  whose 
sweetness  was  to  seal  my  love  to  eternity.  What  a  differ- 
ence! Madame  de  Mortsauf  was  a  love-bird  transported  into 
cold  Europe,  sadly  drooping  on  its  perch,  mute  and  dying  in 
the  cage  where  it  is  kept  by  some  naturalist ;  Henriette  was 
the  bird  singing  its  Oriental  raptures  in  a  grove  on  the  banks 
of  the  Granges,  and  flying  like  a  living  gem  from  bough  to 
bough  amid  the  rosy  flowers  of  an  ever-blooming  Volkameria. 

Her  beauty  was  renewed,  her  spirit  revived.  These  con- 
stant fireworks  of  gladness  were  a  secret  between  our  two 
souls;  for  to  the  Countess  the  eye  of  the  Abbe*  de  Dominis, 
who  represented  the  world,  was  more  alarming  than  her  hus- 
band's. She,  like  me,  took  pleasure  in  giving  her  words  in- 
genious turns ;  she  hid  her  glee  under  a  jest,  and  veiled  the 
evidences  of  her  affection  under  the  specious  flag  of  gratitude. 

"We  have  put  your  friendship  to  the  severest  tests,  Felix," 
she  would  say  at  dinner.  "We  may  surely  grant  him  such 
liberties  as  we  allow  to  Jacques,  Monsieur  TAbbe*?" 

The  austere  Abbe*  replied  with  the  kindly  smile  of  a 
pious  man  who  reads  hearts  and  finds  them  pure;  indeed, 
he  always  treated  the  Countess  with  the  respect  mingled 
with  adoration  that  we  feel  for  angels. 

Twice  in  those  fifty  days  the  Countess  went  perhaps  across 
the  border  line  that  limited  our  affection;  but  those  two  occa- 
sions were  shrouded  in  a  veil  that  was  not  lifted  till  our  day 
of  supreme  avowals.  One  morning,  in  the  early  days  of 
the  Count's  illness,  just  when  she  was  repenting  of  having 
treated  me  so  severely  by  denying  me  the  harmless  privi- 
leges of  a  chastened  affection,  I  sat  waiting  for  her  to  take 
my  place.  I  was  over-tired,  and  fell  asleep,  my  head  resting 
against  the  wall.  I  awoke  with  a  start,  feeling  my  forehead 
touched  by  something  mysteriously  cool,  that  gave  me  a  sen- 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  426 

satiou  as  if  a  rose  had  lain  on  it.  I  saw  the  Countess  some 
steps  away  from  me,  saying:  "Here  I  am!" 

I  went  away,  but  as  I  wished  her  good-morning,  I  took 
her  hand,  and  felt  that  it  was  moist  and  trembling. 

"Are  you  ailing?"  said  I. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  she  answered.  I  looked  at  her,  col- 
oring with  confusion. 

"I  had  been  dreaming,"  said  I. 

One  evening,  during  the  last  visits  paid  by  Origet,  who 
had  pronounced  the  Count  certainly  convalescent,  I  was  in 
the  garden  with  Jacques  and  Madeleine;  we  were  all  three 
lying  on  the  steps  absorbed  in  a  game  of  spillikins  that  we 
had  contrived  with  splinters  of  straw  and  hooks  made  of 
pins.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  was  asleep.  The  doctor, 
while  waiting  for  his  horse  to  be  put  to,  was  talking  in  a 
low  voice  to  the  Countess  in  the  drawing-room.  Monsieur 
Origet  presently  left  without  my  noticing  his  departure. 
After  seeing  him  off,  Henriette  leaned  against  the  window, 
whence  she  looked  down  on  us  for  a  long  time  though  we 
did  not  know  it.  It  was  one  of  those  hot  evenings  when 
the  sky  turns  to  copper  color,  when  the  country  sends  out 
a  thousand  confused  voices  to  the  echoes.  A  last  gleam  of 
sunshine  lingered  on  the  roofs,  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
scented  the  air,  the  bells  of  the  cattle  being  brought  home 
to  the  byres  came  from  afar.  And  we,  in  sympathy  with 
the  stillness  of  this  calm  hour,  stifled  our  laughter  for  fear 
of  waking  the  Count. 

Suddenly,  above  the  flutter  of  a  gown,  I  heard  the  gut- 
tural gasp  of  a  strongly  suppressed  sob;  I  rushed  into  the 
drawing-room,  I  found  the  Countess  sitting  in  the  window 
recess,  her  handkerchief  to  her  face ;  she  knew  my  step,  and, 
by  an  imperious  gesture,  desired  me  to  leave  her  alone.  I 
went  up  to  her,  heartsick  with  alarm,  and  wanted  to  force 
away  her  handkerchief;  her  face  was  drowned  in  tears. 
She  fled  to  her  own  room,  and  did  not  come  out  till  it  was 
time  for  prayers,  i'or  the  first  time  in  those  fifty  days  I  led 
her  to  the  terrace,  and  asked  her  the  cause  of  her  agitation; 


426  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

l»ut  she  affected  the  most  flippant  cheerfulness,  justifying  it 
by  Origet's  good  news. 

"Henriette,  Henriette,"  said  I,  "you  knew  that  when  I 
found  you  crying.  Between  us  a  lie  is  preposterous.  Why 
would  you  not  allow  me  to  wipe  away  your  tears  ?  Can  they 
have  been  for  me?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  answered,  "that  to  me  this  illness 
has  been  a  respite  from  misery.  Now  that  there  is  noth- 
ing more  to  fear  for  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf ,  I  must  fear  for 
myself." 

She  was  right.  The  Count's  returning  health  was  marked 
by  his  grotesque  moods ;  he  began  to  declare  that  neither  his 
wife,  nor  I,  nor  the  doctor  knew  how  to  treat  him;  we  were 
all  ignorant  of  his  complaint  and  of  his  constitution,  of  his 
Bufferings,  and  of  the  suitable  remedies.  Origet,  infatuated 
by  Heaven  knows  what  quackery,  thought  it  was  a  degener- 
acy of  the  secretions,  while  he  ought  only  to  have  studied  the 
disorder  of  the  pylorus ! 

One  day,  looking  at  us  mischievously,  like  a  man  who  has 
epied  out  or  guessed  something,  he  said  to  his  wife,  with  a 
smile:  "Well,  my  dear,  and  if  I  had  died — you  would  have 
regretted  me,  no  doubt,  but,  confess,  you  would  have  been 
resigned." 

"I  should  have  worn  Court  mourning,  red  and  black," 
she  said,  laughing  to  silence  him. 

It  was  especially  with  regard  to  his  food,  which  the  doc- 
tor had  carefully  limited,  forbidding  that  the  patient's  crav- 
ing should  be  satisfied,  that  we  had  the  most  violent  scenes 
and  outcries,  with  which  nothing  could  be  compared  in  the 
past,  for  the  Count's  temper  was  all  the  more  atrocious  for 
having  been  to  sleep,  so  to  speak.  Fortified  by  the  physi- 
cian's orders  and  the  faithfulness  of  the  servants,  and  con- 
firmed by  me — for  I  saw  in  this  contest  a  way  of  teaching  her 
to  govern  her  husband — the  Countess  was  resolute  in  her  re- 
sistance ;  she  listened  with  a  calm  countenance  to  his  frenzy 
and  scolding;  by  thinking  of  him  as  a  child — as  he  was — she 
accustomed  herself  to  hear  his  abusive  words.  Thus  at  last  I 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  427 

was  so  happy  as  to  see  her  assert  her  authority  oyer  this  dis- 
ordered mind.  The  Count  called  out,  but  he  obeyed;  and  he 
obeyed  all  the  more  after  the  greatest  outcry. 

In  spite  of  the  evidence  of  the  results,  Henriette  would 
often  shed  tears  at  the  sight  of  this  feeble  and  haggard  old 
man,  his  forehead  yellower  than  a  falling  leaf,  his  eyes  dim, 
his  hands  tremulous;  she  would  blame  herself  for  her  stern- 
ness, and  could  seldom  resist  the  delight  she  saw  in  the 
Count's  eyes  when,  as  she  doled  out  his  meals,  she  ex- 
ceeded the  doctor's  restrictions.  She  was  all  the  sweeter 
and  milder  to  him  for  having  been  so  to  me;  still,  there 
were  shades  of  difference  which  filled  my  heart  with  bound- 
less joy.  She  was  not  indefatigable ;  she  knew  when  to  call 
the  servants  to  wait  on  the  Count  if  his  whims  were  too  many 
in  rapid  succession,  and  he  began  to  complain  of  her  misun- 
derstanding him. 

The  Countess  purposed  an  act  of  thanksgiving  to  God  for 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf's  recovery;  she  commanded  a  special 
mass,  and  bade  me  offer  her  my  arm  to  escort  her  to  church. 
I  did  her  bidding ;  but  during  the  service  I  went  to  call  on 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Chessel.  On  my  return  she  tried 
to  scold  me. 

"Henriette,"  said  I,  "I  am  incapable  of  deceit.  I  can 
throw  myself  into  the  water  to  rescue  my  enemy  when  he  is 
drowning,  I  can  lend  him  my  cloak  to  warm  him — in  short, 
I  can  forgive,  but  I  cannot  forget." 

She  said  nothing,  but  pressed  my  arm  to  her  heart. 

"You  are  an  angel;  you  were,  no  doubt,  sincere  in  your 
thanksgiving,"  I  went  on.  "The  mother  of  the  Prince  of 
the  Peace  was  snatched  from  the  hands  of  a  mob  who 
wanted  to  kill  her,  and  when  the  Queen  asked  her,  'What 
did  you  do?' — 'I  prayed  for  them,'  said  she.  Women  are 
all  like  that:  I  am  a  man,  and  necessarily  imperfect. " 

"Do  not  slander  yourself,"  said  she,  shaking  my  arm 
sharply.  "Perhaps  you  are  better  than  I  am." 

"Yes,"  replied  I,  "for  I  would  give  eternity  for  a  single 
day  of  happiness,  while  to  you! — " 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Me!"  she  cried,  with  a  haughty  glance. 

I  was  silent,  and  my  eyes  fell  under  the  lightning  of  her  eyes. 

"Me!"  she  went  on.  "Of  what  me  are  you  speaking? 
There  are  in  me  many  me's.  Those  children,"  and  she 
pointed  to  Jacques  and  Madeleine,  "are  part  of  me. — 
Felix,"  she  said  in  a  heartrending  tone,  "do  you  think  me 
selfish?  Do  you  think  that  I  could  sacrifice  eternity  to 
recompense  him  who  is  sacrificing  this  life, for  me?  The 
thought  is  a  shocking  one ;  it  is  contrary  to  every  sentiment 
of  religion.  Can  a  woman  who  falls  so  low  rise  again  ?  Can 
her  happiness  absolve  her? — You  will  drive  me  soon  to  de- 
cide the  question!  Yes,  I  am  betraying  at  last  a  secret  of 
my  conscience ;  the  idea  has  often  crossed  my  mind,  I  have 
expiated  it  by  bitter  penance ;  it  was  the  cause  of  the  tears 
you  wanted  me  to  account  for  the  other  day — " 

"Are  you  not  attributing  too  great  importance  to  certain 
things  on  which  ordinary  women  set  a  high  value,  and  which 
you  ought  to — ' ' 

"Oh,"  cried  she,  interrupting  me,  "do  you  value  them. 
less?" 

Such  an  argument  put  an  end  to  all  reasoning. 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "I  will  tell  you!— Yes,  I  could  be 
so  mean  as  to  desert  the  poor  old  man  whose  life  is  in  my 
hands.  But,  dear  friend,  those  two  poor,  feeble  little  creat- 
ures you  see  before  us,  Jacques  and  Madeleine — would  not 
they  be  left  with  their  father?  And  do  you  think,  I  ask  you, 
do  you  believe  that  they  could  survive  three  months  under 
that  man's  insensate  tyranny?  If  by  failing  in  my  duty,  I 
alone" — she  smiled  loftily.  "But  should  I  not  be  killing 
my  two  children?  Their  doom  would  be  certain. — Great 
God!"  she  exclaimed,  "how  can  we  talk  of  such  things? 
Go  and  marry,  and  leave  me  to  die." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  such  concentrated  bitterness,  that 
she  stifled  the  outburst  of  my  passion. 

"You  cried  out  up  there,  under  the  walnut-tree.  I  have 
just  cried  out  here,  under  these  alders.  That  is  all.  Hence- 
forth I  am  silent." 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  429 

"Your  generosity  overwhelms  me,"  said  she,  looking  up 
to  heaven. 

We  had  by  this  time  reached  the  terrace,  and  found  the 
Count  seated  there  in  a  chair,  in  the  sunshine.  The  sight 
of  that  sunken  face,  hardly  animated  by  a  faint  smile,  ex- 
tinguished the  flames  that  had  flared  up  from  the  ashes.  I 
leaned  against  the  parapet,  contemplating  the  picture  before 
me :  the  infirm  man  with  his  two  still  delicate  children ;  his 
wife,  pale  with  watching,  and  grown  thin  from  excess  of 
work,  from  the  alarms,  and  perhaps  from  the  joys,  of  these 
two  dreadful  months,  though  at  this  moment  she  was  deeply 
flushed  from  the  emotions  of  the  scene  she  had  gone  through. 
At  the  sight  of  this  suffering  family,  shrouded  under  the 
tremulous  foliage  through  which  fell  the  gray  light  of  a 
dull  autumn  day,  I  felt  the  ties  relax  which  hold  body  and 
soul  together.  I  experienced  for  the  fi-rst  time  that  moral 
revulsion  which,  it -is  said,  the  stoutest  fighters  feel  in  the 
fury  of  the  fray,  a  sort  of  chilling  madness  that  makes  a 
coward  of  the  bravest,  a  bigot  of  a  disbeliever,  which  in- 
duces total  indifference  to  everything,  even  to  the  most 
vital  sentiments — to  honor,  to  love;  for  doubt  robs  us  of 
all  knowledge  of  ourselves,  and  disgusts  us  with  life. 
Poor  nervous  creatures,  who,  by  your  high-strung  organ- 
ization, are  delivered  over  defenceless  to  I  know  not  what 
fatality,  who  shall  be  your  peers  and  judges?  I  understood 
how  the  bold  youth  who  had  erewhile  put  out  a  hand  to 
grasp  the  Marshal's  baton,  who  had  been  no  less  skilled  in 
diplomacy  than  intrepid  as  a  captain,  had  become  the  uncon- 
scious murderer  I  saw  before  me !  Could  my  own  desires, 
at  this  moment  wreathed  with  roses,  bring  me  too  to  such 
an  end?  Appalled  alike  by  the  cause  and  the  effect,  ask- 
ing, like  the  impious,  where  in  all  this  was  Providence,  I 
could  not  restrain  two  tears  that  fell  down  my  cheeks. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear,  good  Felix?"  asked  Madeleine 
in  her  childish  voice. 

Then  Ilenriette  dispelled  those  black  vapors  and  gloom 
by  an  anxious  look,  which  shone  on  my  soul  like  the  sun. 


430  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

At  this  moment  the  old  groom  from  Tours  brought  me  a 
letter,  at  the  sight  of  which.  I  could  not  help  uttering  a  cry 
of  surprise,  and  Madame  de  Mortsauf  trembled  at  my  dis- 
may. I  saw  the  seal  of  the  Cabinet.  The  King  ordered  me 
back.  I  held  the  letter  out  to  her;  she  read  it  in  a  flash. 

"He  is  going  away!"  said  the  Count. 

"What  will  become  of  me?"  she  said  to  me,  for  the  first 
time  contemplating  her  desert  without  sunshine. 

We  paused  in  a  stupefied  frame  of  mind,  which  oppressed 
us  all  equally,  for  we  had  never  before  so  acutely  felt  that 
we  were  all  indispensable  to  each  other.  The  Countess,  as 
she  talked  even  of  the  most  indifferent  matters,  spoke  in  an 
altered  voice,  as  though  the  instrument  had  lost  several 
strings,  and  those  that  remained  were  loosened.  Her  -move- 
ments were  apathetic,  her  looks  had  lost  their  light.  I 
begged  her  to  confide  her  thoughts  to  me. 

"Have  I  any  thoughts?"  said  she. 

She  led  me  away  to  her  room,  made  me  sit  down  on  the 
sofa,  hunted  in  the  drawer  of  her  dressing-table,  and  then, 
kneeling  down  in  front  of  me,  she  said: 

"Here  is  all  the  hair  1  have  lost  these  twelve  months  past; 
take  it — it  is  yours  by  right ;  you  will  some  day  know  how 
and  why." 

I  gently  bent  over  her,  she  did  not  shrink  to  avoid  my 
lips,  and  I  pressed  them  to  her  brow  solemnly,  with  no 
guilty  excitement,  no  inviting  passion.  Did  she  mean  to 
sacrifice  everything?  Or  had  she,  like  me,  only  come  to 
look  over  the  precipice? — If  love  had  prompted  her 
to  abandon  herself,  she  could  not  have  been  so  profoundly 
calm,  have  given  me  that  religious  look,  or  have  said  in 
her  clear  voice:  "You  have  quite  forgiven  me?" 

I  set  out  in  the  evening,  she  accompanied  me  on  the 
road  to  Frapesle,  and  we  stood  under  the  walnut-tree;  I 
pointed  it  out  to  her,  telling  her  how  I  had  first  seen  it, 
four  years  ago. 

"The  valley  was  so  lovely!"  I  exclaimed. 

"And  now?"  she  said  eagerly. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  431 

"Now  you  are  under  the  tree,"  said  I;  "and  the  valley 
is  our  own." 

She  bent  her  head,  and  there  we  parted.  She  got  into 
the  carriage  again  with  Madeleine,  and  I  into  mine,  alone. 

On  my  return  to  Paris,  I  was  fortunately  taken  up  by  a 
press  of  work  which  forcibly  diverted  my  mind,  and  obliged 
me  to  live  apart  from  the  world,  which  forgot  me.  I  corre- 
sponded with  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  to  whom  I  sent  my  jour- 
nal every  week,  and  who  replied  twice  a  month.  It  was  an 
obscure  and  busy  life,  resembling  the  overgrown,  flowery 
nooks,  quite  unknown,  which  I  had  admired  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods  when  composing  fresh  poems  of  flowers  during 
the  last  fortnight. 

All  ye  who  love,  bind  yourselves  by  these  delightful 
duties ;  impose  a  rule  on  yourselves,  to  be  carried  out,  as  the 
Church  does  on  Christians,  for  every  day. 

The  rigorous  observances  created  by  the  Koman  Catholic 
religion  are  a  grand  idea;  they  trace  deeper  and  deeper 
grooves  of  duty  in  the  soul  by  the  repetition  of  acts  which 
encourage  hope  and  fear.  The  feelings  always  flow,  a  living 
stream,  in  these  channels  which  keep  the  current  within 
bounds  and  purify  it,  perpetually  refreshing  the  heart,  and 
fertilizing  life  by  the  abounding  treasures  of  hidden  faith, 
a  divine  spring  multiplying  the  single  thought  of  a  single  love. 

My  passion,  a  relic  of  the  Middle  Ages,  recalling  the  days 
of  chivalry,  became  known,  I  know  not  how;  perhaps  the 
King  and  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt  spoke  of  it.  From  this 
uppermost  sphere,  the  story,  at  once  romantic  and  simple, 
of  a  young  man  piously  devoted  to  a  beautiful  woman  who 
had  no  public,  who  was  so  noble  in  her  solitude,  and  faithful 
without  the  support  of  duty,  no  doubt  became  known  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  I  found  myself  the  object  of 
inconvenient  attention  in  drawing-rooms,  for  an  inconspic- 
uous life  has  advantages  which,  once  tasted,  make  the  parade 
of  a  life  in  public  unendurable.  Just  as  eyes  that  are  accus- 
tomed to  see  none  but  subdued  colors  are  hurt  by  broad  day- 


432  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

light,  so  there  are  minds  averse  from  violent  contrasts.  I  was 
then  one  of  these;  you  may  be  surprised  now  to  hear  it;  but 
have  patience,  the  eccentricities  of  the  Vandenesse  you  know 
will  be  accounted  for. 

I  found  women  amiably  disposed  toward  me,  and  the 
world  kind. 

After  the  Due  de  Berry's  marriage,  the  Court  became 
splendid  once  more,  the  French  fetes  were  revived.  The 
foreign  occupation  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  prosperity  re- 
turned, amusements  were  possible.  Personages  of  illustrious 
rank  or  considerable  wealth  poured  in  from  every  part  of 
Europe  to  the  capital  of  intelligence,  where  all  the  advantages 
and  the  vices  of  other  countries  were  magnified  and  intensified 
by  French  ingenuity. 

Five  months  after  leaving  Clochegourde,  my  good  angel 
wrote  me  a  letter  in  despair,  telling  me  that  her  boy  had  had 
a  serious  illness,  from  which  he  had  recovered  indeed,  but 
which  had  left  her  in  dread  for  the  future;  the  doctor  had 
spoken  of  care  being  needed  for  his  lungs — a  terrible  verdict 
that  casts  a  black  shadow  on  every  hour  of  a  mother's  life. 
Hardly  had  Henriette  drawn  a  breath  of  relief  as  Jacques 
was  convalescent,  before  his  sister  made  her  anxious,  ^[ade- 
leine,  the  pretty  flower  that  had  done  such  credit  to  her 
mother's  care,  went  through  an  illness  which,  though  not 
serious,  was  a  cause  of  anxiety  in  so  fragile  a  constitution. 

Crushed  already  by  the  fatigues  of  Jacques'  long  sick- 
ness, the  Countess  had  no  courage  to  meet  this  fresh  blow, 
and  the  sight  of  these  two  beloved  beings  made  her  insensible 
to  the  increasing  torment  of  her  husband's  temper.  Storms, 
each  blacker  than  the  last,  and  bringing  with  it  more  stones, 
uprooted  by  their  cruel  surges  the  hopes  that  were  most 
deeply  rooted  in  her  heart.  Weary  of  strife,  she  had  sub- 
mitted altogether  to  the  Count's  tyranny,  for  he  had  regained 
all  his  lost  ground. 

"When  all  my  strength  was  devoted  to  infolding  my 
children,"  she  wrote  to  me,  " could  I  use  it  to  defy  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf,  could  I  defend  myself  against  his  aggressions 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  433 

when  I  was  fighting  with  death?  As  I  make  my  onward 
way,  alone  and  feeble,  between  the  two  young,  melancholy 
creatures  at  iny  side,  I  feel  an  invincible  disgust  of  life. 
"What  blow  can  hurt  me,  or  what  affection  can  I  respond  to, 
when  I  see  Jacques  motionless  on  the  terrace,  life  no  longer 
beaming  in  anything  but  his  beautiful  eyes,  made  larger  by 
emaciation,  as  hollow  as  an  old  man's,  and  where — fatal 
prognostic — his  forward  intelligence  is  contrasted  with  his 
bodily  weakness  ?  When  I  see  at  my  side  my  pretty  Made- 
leine so  lively,  so  fond,  so  brightly  colored,  now  as  pale  as 
the  dead;  her  very  hair  and  eyes  seem  to  me  more  pallid,  she 
looks  at  me  with  languishing  eyes  as  if  she  were  bidding  me 
farewell.  No  food  tempts  her,  or  if  she  has  a  faocy  for  any- 
thing, she  alarms  me  by  her  strange  appetites;  the  innocent 
child,  though  one  with  my  heart,  blushes  as  she  confesses 
to  them. 

"Do  what  I  will,  I  cannot  amuse  my  children;  they  smile 
at  me,  but  the  smile  is  forced  from  them  by  my  playfulness, 
and  is  not  spontaneous ;  they  cry  because  they  cannot  respond 
to  my  fondness.  Illness  has  left  them  completely  run  down, 
even  their  affection.  So  you  may  imagine  how  dismal 
Clochegourde  is.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  reigns  unopposed. 

"Oh,  my  glory,  my  friend!"  she  wrote  to  me  again,  "you 
must  love  me  well  indeed  if  you  can  love  me  still — can  love 
me,  so  paathetic  as  I  am,  so  unresponsive,  so  petrified  by 
grief." 

At  this  juncture,  when  I  felt  myself  more  deeply  appealed 
to  than  ever,  when  I  lived  only  in  her  soul,  on  which  I  strove 
to  shed  the  luminous  breath  of  morning  and  the  hope  of  pur- 
pled evenings,  I  met,  in  the  rooms  of  the  Elyse*e  Bourbon, 
one  of  those  superb  English  ladies  who  are  almost  queens. 
Immensely  wealthy,  the  daughter  of  a  race  unstained  by  any 
mesalliance  since  the  time  of  the  Conquest,  married  to  an  old 
man,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  members  of  the  British 
peerage — all  these  advantages  were  no  more  than  accessories 
adding  to  her  beauty,  her  manners,  her  wit,  a  faceted  lustre 
that  dazzled  before  it  charmed  you.  She  was  the  idol  of  the 

Vol.  4.  (S) 


434  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

day,  and  reigned  all  the  more  despotically  over  Paris  society 
because  she  had  the  qualities  indispensable  to  success,  the 
iron  hand  in  a  velvet  glove  spoken  of  by  Bernadotte. 

You  know  the  curious  individuality  of  the  English — the 
impassable  and  arrogant  Channel,  the  icy  St.  George's  Straits 
that  they  set  between  themselves  and  those  who  have  not 
been  introduced  to  them.  The  human  race  might  be  an  ant- 
heap  on  which  they  tread;  they  recognize  none  of  their 
species  but  those  whom  they  accept ;  they  do  not  understand 
the  language  even  of  the  rest;  those  have  lips  that  move  and 
eyes  that  see,  but  neither  voice  nor  looks  can  reach  so  high ; 
to  them  the  herd  are  as  though  they  were  not.  Thus  the 
English  are  an  image  of  their  island  where  the  law  rules 
everything;  where  in  each  sphere  everything  is  uniform; 
tarhere  the  practice  of  virtue  seems  to  be  the  inevitable  work- 
ing of  wheels  that  move  at  fixed  hours. 

These  fortifications  of  polished  steel  built  up  round  an 
Englishwoman,  caged  by  golden  wires  into  her  home,  where 
her  feeding  trough  and  drinking  cup,  her  perches  and  her 
food  are  all  perfection,  lend  her  irresistible  attractions.  Never 
did  a  nation  more  elaborately  scheme  for  the  hypocrisy  of  a 
married  woman  by  placing  her  always  midway  between  social 
life  and  death.  For  her  there  is  no  compromise  between 
shame  and  honor;  the  fall  is  utter,  or  there  is  no  slip;  it  is 
all  or  nothing — the  To  be  or  not  to  be  of  Hamlet.  This  alter- 
native, combined  with  the  habits  of  disdain  to  which  manners 
accustom  her,  makes  an  Englishwoman  a  creature  apart  in 
the  world.  She  is  but  a  poor  creature,  virtuous  perforce,  and 
ready  to  abandon  herself,  condemned  to  perpetual  falsehood 
buried  in  her  soul;  but  she  is  enchanting  in  form,  because 
the  race  has  thrown  everything  into  form.  Hence  the  beau- 
ties peculiar  to  the  women  of  that  country:  the  exaltation 
of  an  affection  in  which  life  is  compulsorily  summed  up, 
their  extravagant  care  of  their  person,  the  refinement  of  their 
love — so  elegantly  expressed  in  the  famous  scene  in  "Borneo 
and  Juliet,"  in  which  Shakespeare  has  with  one  touch  de- 
picted the  Englishwoman. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  435 

To  you,  who  envy  them  BO  many  things,  what  can  I  say 
that  you  do  not  know  about  these  fair  sirens,  apparently 
impenetrable  but  so  quickly  known,  who  believe  that  love 
is  enough  for  love,  and  who  taint  their  pleasures  with  satiety 
by  never  varying  them,  whose  soul  has  but  one  note,  whose 
voice  but  one  word — an  ocean  of  love,  in  which,  if  a  man 
has  not  bathed,  he  will  forever  remain  ignorant  of  one  form 
of  poetic  sensuality,  just  as  a  man  who  has  never  seen  the  sea 
must  always  lack  certain  chords  to  his  lyre? 

You  know  the  purport  of  these  words.  My  acquaintance 
with  Lady  Dudley  was  notorious.  At  an  age  when  the  senses 
exert  their  greatest  power  over  our  decisions,  and  in  a  man 
whose  fires  had  been  so  violently  suppressed,  the  image  of 
the  saint  who  was  enduring  her  long  martyrdom  at  Cloche- 
gourde  shone  so  brightly  that  he  could  resist  every  fascina- 
tion. This  fidelity  was  the  distinction  that  won  me  Lady 
Arabella's  attention.  My  obstinacy  increased  her  passion. 
What  she  longed  for,  like  many  Englishwomen,  was  some- 
thing conspicuous  and  extraordinary.  She  craved  for  spice, 
for  pepper  to  feed  her  heart  on,  as  English  epicures  insist  on 
pungent  condiments  to  revive  their  palate.  The  lethargy 
produced  in  these  women's  lives  by  unfailing  perfection  in 
everything  about  them,  and  methodical  regularity  of  habit, 
reacts  in  a  worship  of  the  romantic  and  difficult.  I  was 
incapable  of  gauging  this  character.  The  more  I  retired  into 
cold  disdain,  the  more  eager  was  Lady  Dudley.  This  con- 
test, of  which  she  boasted,  excited  some  curiosity  in  certain 
drawing-rooms,  and  this  was  the  first-fruits  of  satisfaction 
which  made  her  feel  it  incumbent  on  her  to  triumph.  Ah ! 
I  should  have  been  saved  if  only  some  friend  had  repeated 
the  odious  speech  she  had  uttered  concerning  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  and  me: 

"I  am  sick,"  said  she,  "of  this  turtle-dove  sighing!" 

Though  I  have  no  wish  to  justify  my  crime,  I  must  point 
out  to  you,  Natalie,  that  a  man  has  less  chances  of  resisting 
a  woman  than  you  women  have  of  evading  our  pursuit.  Our 
manners  forbid  to  our  sex  those  tactics  of  stern  repression 


436  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

which  in  you  are  baits  to  tempt  the  lover,  and  which  indeed 
propriety  requires  of  you.  In  us,  on  the  contrary,  some 
jurisprudence  of  masculine  coxcombry  treats  reserve  as 
ridiculous ;  we  leave  you  the  monopoly  of  modesty  to  secure 
to  you  the  privilege  of  conferring  favors;  but  reverse  the 
parts,  and  a  man  is  crushed  by  satire.  Protected  as  I  was 
by  my  passion,  I  was  not  at  an  age  to  be  insensible  to  the 
threefold  attractions  of  pride,  devotion,  and  beauty.  When 
Lady  Arabella  laid  at  my  feet  the  homage  paid  to  her  at  a 
ball  of  which  she  was  the  queen,  when  she  watched  my  eye 
to  read  whether  I  admired  her  dress,  and  thrilled  with  pleas- 
ure when  she  pleased  me,  I  was  agitated  by  her  agitation. 
She  stood  on  ground,  too,  whence  I  could  not  fly;  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  refuse  certain  invitations  in  the  diplo- 
matic circle ;  her  rank  opened  every  house  to  her ;  and  with 
the  ingenuity  which  women  can  display  to  obtain  the  thing 
they  wish  for,  she  contrived  at  table  that  the  mistress  of  the 
house  should  seat  me  next  to  her. 

Then  she  would  murmur  in  my  ear: 

"If  I  were  loved  as  Madame  de  Mortsauf  is,  I  would 
sacrifice  everything  to  you."  She  proposed  the  humblest 
conditions  with  a  smile,  she  promised  uncompromising  reti- 
cence, or  besought  me  to  allow  her  only  to  love  me.  She 
spoke  these  words  to  me  one  day,  satisfying  alike  the  ca- 
pitulation of  a  timid  conscience  and  the  unbridled  cravings 
of  youth:  "Your  friend  forever,  and  your  mistress  when 
you  please!" 

Finally  she  resolved  to  make  my  sense  of  honor  the  means 
to  my  ruin;  she  bribed  my  man-servant;  and  pne  evening, 
after  a  party  where  she  had  shone  with  such  beauty  that  she 
was  sure  of  having  captivated  me,  I  found  her  in  my  rooms. 
This  scandal  was  heard  of  in  England,  where  the  aristocracy 
were  in  as  much  consternation  as  heaven  at  the  fall  of  its 
highest  angel.  Lady  Dudley  came  down  from  her  clouds  in 
the  British  empyrean,  kept  nothing  but  her  own  fortune,  and 
tried  by  self-sacrifice  to  eclipse  the  woman  whose  virtue  had 
led  to  this  celebrated  scandal.  Lady  Arabella,  like  the 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  437 

Devil  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Temple,  took  pleasure  in  show- 
ing me  the  richest  kingdoms  of  her  ardent  world. 

Eead  my  confession,  I  beseech  you,  with  indulgence.  It 
deals  with  one  of  the  most  interesting  problems  of  human 
life,  with  a  crisis  through  which  the  greater  portion  of  man- 
kind must  pass,  and  which  I  long  to  account  for,  if  it  were 
only  to  light  a  beacon  on  the  reef.  This  beautiful  English 
lady,  so  slender,  so  fragile,  this  milk-white  woman  so  crushed, 
so  breakable,  so  meek,  with  her  refined  brow  crowned  with 
such  soft  tan-brown  hair — this  creature  whose  brilliancy  seems 
but  a  transient  phosphorescence  has  a  frame  of  iron.  No 
horse,  however  fiery,  can  defy  her  sinewy  wrist,  her  hand 
that  seems  so  weak,  and  that  nothing  can  tire.  She  has  the 
foot  of  the  roe,  a  small,  wiry,  muscular  foot  of  indescribable 
beauty  of  form.  Her  strength  fears  no  rivalry ;  no  man  can 
keep  up  with  her  on  horseback;  she  would  win  a  steeple- 
chase riding  a  centaur ;  she  shoots  stags,  and  does  it  without 
checking  her  horse.  Her  frame  knows  not  perspiration ;  it 
radiates  a  glow  in  the  air,  and  lives  in  water,  or  it  would 
perish. 

Her  passion  is  quite  African ;  her  demands  are  a  tornado 
like  the  sand-spouts  of  the  desert — the  desert  whose  burning 
vastness  is  to  be  seen  in  her  eyes,  the  desert  all  azure  and 
love,  with  its  unchanging  sky  and  its  cool,  starlit  nights. 

What  a  contrast  to  Clochegourde!  The  East  and  the 
West;  one  attracting  to  herself  the  smallest  atoms  of  moist- 
ure to  nourish  her;  the  other  exhaling  her  soul,  enveloping 
all  who  were  faithful  to  her  in  a  luminous  atmosphere.  This 
one  eager  and  slight;  the  other  calm  and  solid. 

Tell  me,  have  you  ever  duly  considered  the  general  bear- 
ing of  English  habits?  Are  they  not  the  apotheosis  of  mat- 
ter, a  definite,  premeditated,  and  skilfully  adapted  Epicurean- 
ism  ?  Whatever  she  may  do  or  say,  England  is  materialist 
— unconsciously  perhaps.  She  has  religious  and  moral  pre- 
tensions from  which  the  divine  spirituality,  the  soul  of  Ca- 
tholicism, is  absent;  its  fruitful  grace  can  never  be  replaced 
by  any  hypocrisy,  however  well  acted.  She  possesses  in  the 


438  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

highest  degree  the  science  of  life,  which  adds  a  grace  to  the 
smallest  details  of  materialism:  which  makes  your  slipper 
the  most  exquisite  slipper  in  the  world;  which  gives  your 
linen  an  indescribable  fragrance ;  which  lines  and  perfumes 
your  drawers  with  cedar;  which  pours  out  at  a  fixed  hour  a 
delicious  cup  of  tea,  scientifically  infused;  which  ^banishes 
dust,  and  nails  down  carpets  from  the  very  doorstep  to  the 
inmost  nook  of  the  house;  which  washes  the  cellar  walls, 
polishes  the  door  knocker,  gives  elasticity  to  the  springs  of 
a  carriage ;  which  turns  all  matter  into  a  nutritious  pulp,  a 
comfortable,  lustrous,  and  cleanly  medium  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  soul  expires  in  enjoyment,  and  which  produces  a 
terrible  monotony  of  ease ;  which  results  in  a  life  uncrossed 
and  devoid  of  initiative;  which,  in  one  word,  makes  a  ma- 
chine of  you. 

Thus  I  came  suddenly,  in  the  heart  of  this  English  luxury, 
on  a  woman  perhaps  unique  of  her  sex,  who  entangled  me  in 
the  meshes  of  that  love  born  anew  from  its  death,  whose 
prodigality  I  met  with  severe  austerity — that  love  which  has 
overpowering  charms  and  an  electricity  of  its  own,  which 
often  leads  you  to  heaven  through  the  ivory  gates  of  its  half- 
slumbers,  or  carries  you  up  mounted  behind  its  winged  shoul- 
ders. A  horribly  graceless  love  that  laughs  at  the  corpses  of 
those  it  has  slain;  love  devoid  of  memory,  a  cruel  love,  like 
English  politics,  and  to  which  almost  every  man  succumbs. 

You  understand  the  problem  now.  Man  is  composed  of 
matter  and  spirit.  In  him  the  animal  nature  culminates  and 
the  angel  begins.  Hence  the  conflict  we  all  have  felt  between 
a  future  destiny  of  which  we  have  presentiments,  and  the 
memories  of  our  original  instincts  from  which  we  are  not 
wholly  detached — the  love  of  the  flesh  and  the  love  that  is 
divine.  One  man  amalgamates  the  two  in  one;  another  ab- 
stains. This  one  seeks  the  whole  sex  through,  to  satisfy  his 
anterior  appetites;  that  one  idealizes  it  in  a  single  woman, 
who  to  him  epitomizes  the  universe.  Some  hover  undecided 
between  the  raptures  of  matter  and  those  of  the  spirit ;  others 
spiritualize  the  flesh  and  ask  of  it  what  it  can  never  give. 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  439 

If,  considering  these  general  features  of  love,  you  take  into 
account  the  repulsions  and  the  affinities  which,  being  the 
outcome  of  diversity  of  constitution,  presently  break  the 
bonds  between  those  who  have  not  tested  each  other;  if  you 
add  to  this  the  errors  resulting  from  the  hopes  of  those  who 
live  more  especially  by  the  mind,  by  the  heart,  or  by  action 
— who  think,  or  feel,  or  act — and  whose  vocation  is  cheated 
or  misprized  in  an  association  of  two  human  beings,  each 
equally  complex,  you  will  be  largely  indulgent  to  some  mis- 
fortunes to  which  society  is  pitiless. 

"Well,  Lady  Arabella  satisfies  the  instincts,  the  organs,  the 
appetites,  the  vices,  and  the  virtues  of  the  subtle  matter  of 
which  we  are  compounded ;  she  was  the  mistress  of  my  body. 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  was  the  wife  of  my  soul.  The  love  the 
mistress  could  satisfy  has  its  limits;  matter  is  finite,  its  prop- 
erties have  recognized  forces,  it  is  liable  to  inevitable  satura- 
tion ;  I  often  felt  an  indescribable  void  in  Paris  with  Lady 
Dudley.  Infinity  is  the  realm  of  the  heart;  love  unbounded 
was  at  Clochegourde.  I  was  passionately  in  love  with  Lady 
Arabella,  and  certainly,  though  the  animal  in  her  was  su- 
preme, she  had  also  a  superior  intelligence;  her  ironical  con- 
versation embraced  everything. 

But  I  worshipped  Henriette.  If  at  night  I  wept  with  joy, 
in  the  morning  I  wept  with  remorse.  There  are  some  women 
shrewd  enough  to  conceal  their  jealousy  under  angelic  sweet- 
ness; these  are  women  who,  like  Lady  Dudley,  are  past 
thirty.  Women  then  know  how  to  feel  and  calculate  both 
at  once;  they  squeeze  out  the  juice  of  the  present  and  yet 
think  of  the  future;  they  can  stifle  their  often  quite  justifi- 
able groans  with  the  determination  of  a  hunter  who  does  not 
feel  a  wound  as  he  rides  in  pursuit  of  the  bugle  call. 

Without  ever  speaking  of  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  Arabella 
tried  to  kill  her  in  my  soul,  where  she  constantly  found  her, 
and  her  own  passion  flamed  higher  under  the  breath  of  this 
ineradicable  love.  To  triumph,  if  possible,  by  comparisons 
to  her  own  advantage,  she  would  never  be  suspicious,  nor 
provoking,  nor  curious,  as  most  young  women  are ;  but,  like 


440  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  lioness  that  has  carried  her  prey  in  her  mouth  and  brought 
it  to  her  den  to  devour,  she  took  care  that  nothing  should 
disturb  her  happiness,  and  watched  me  like  an  unsubdued 
conquest.  I  wrote  to  Henriette  under  her  very  eyes,  she 
never  read  a  single  line,  she  never  made  the  least  attempt  to 
know  the  address  on  my  letters.  I  was  perfectly  free.  She 
seemed  to  have  said  to  herself,  "If  I  lose,  I  shall  blame  no 
one  but  myself." 

And  she  trusted  proudly  to  a  love  so  devoted  that  she 
would  have  laid  down  her  life  without  hesitation  if  I  had 
asked  it  of  her.  In  fact,  she  made  me  believe  that  if  I 
should  abandon  her  she  would  at  once  kill  herself. 

It  was  a  thing  to  hear  when  she  sang  the  praises  of  the 
Indian  custom  for  widows  to  burn  themselves  on  their  hus- 
band's funeral  pyre. 

"Though  in  India  the  practice  is  a  distinction  reserved 
to  the  higher  castes,  and  is  consequently  little  appreciated 
by  Europeans,  who  are  incapable  of  perceiving  the  proud 
dignity  of  the  privilege,  you  must  confess,"  she  would  say 
to  me,  "that  in  the  dead  level  of  our  modern  manners  the 
aristocracy  cannot  resume  its  place  unless  by  exceptional 
feelings  ?  How  can  I  show  the  middle  class  that  the  blood 
flowing  in  my  veins  is  not  the  same  as  theirs,  if  not  in  dying 
in  another  way  than  they  die  ?  "Women  of  no  birth  can  have 
diamonds,  silks,  horses,  even  coats-of-arms,  which  ought  to 
be  ours  alone,  for  a  name  can  be  purchased! — But  to  love, 
unabashed,  in  opposition  to  the  law,  to  die  for  the  idol  she 
has  chosen,  and  make  a  shroud  of  the  sheets  off  her  bed  to 
bring  earth  and  heaven  into  subjection  to  a  man,  and  thus 
rob  the  Almighty  of  His  right  to  make  a  god,  never  to  be 
false  to  him,  not  even  for  virtue's  sake — for  to  refuse  him 
anything  in  the  name  of  duty  is  to  abandon  one's  self  to 
something  that  is  not  he — whether  it  be  another  man  or  a 
mere  idea,  it  is  a  betrayal ! — These  are  the  heights  to  which 
vulgar  women  cannot  rise ;  they  know  only  two  roads — the 
highway  of  virtue  or  the  miry  path  of  the  courtesan." 

She  argued,  you  see,  from  pride;   she  flattered  all  my 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  441 

vanities  by  deifying  them;  she  set  me  so  high  that  she  could 
only  reach  to  my  knees;  all  the  fascinations  of  her  mind 
found  expression  in  her  slave-like  attitude  and  absolute  sub- 
mission. She  would  remain  a  whole  day  lounging  at  my  feet 
in  silence,  gazing  at  me,  waiting  on  my  pleasure  like  a  seraglio 
slave.  What  words  can  describe  the  first  six  months  when 
I  gave  myself  up  to  the  enervating  joys  of  an  affection  full 
of  raptures  varied  by  the  knowledge  of  experience  that  was 
concealed  under  the  vehemence  of  passion.  Such  joys,  a 
revelation  of  the  poetry  of  the  senses,  constitute  the  strong 
link  that  binds  young  men  to  women  older  than  themselves ; 
but  this  link  is  the  convict's  chain;  it  leaves  an  indelible  scar, 
implanting  a  premature  distaste  for  fresh  and  innocent  love 
rich  in  blossom  only,  which  cannot  serve  us  with  alcohol  in 
curiously  chased  golden  cups,  enriched  with  precious  stones, 
sparkling  with  inexhaustible  fires. 

When  I  tasted  the  enjoyments  of  which  I  had  dreamed, 
knowing  nothing  of  them,  which  I  had  expressed  in  my  nose- 
gays, and  which  the  union  of  souls  makes  a  thousand  times 
more  intense,  I  found  no  lack  of  paradoxes  to  justify  myself 
in  my  own  eyes  for  the  readiness  with  which  I  slaked  my 
thirst  at  this  elegant  cup.  Often  when  I  felt  lost  in  immeas- 
urable lassitude,  my  soul,  freed  rrom  my  body,  flew  far  from 
earth,  and  I  fancied  that  such  pleasures  were  a  means  of  an- 
nihilating matter  and  freeing  the  spirit  for  its  sublimest  flights. 
Not  infrequently  Lady  Dudley,  like  many  another  woman, 
took  advantage  of  the  excitement  superinduced  by  excessive 
happiness  to  bind  me  by  solemn  vows;  and  she  could  even 
tempt  me  into  blaspheming  the  angel  at  Clochegourde. 

Being  a  traitor,  I  became  a  cheat.  I  wrote  to  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  as  though  I  were  still  the  boy  in  the  ill-made  blue 
coat  of  whom  she  was  so  fond;  but,  I  own,  her  gift  of  second- 
sight  appalled  me  when  I  thought  of  the  disaster  any  indis- 
cretion might  bring  on  the  charming  castle  of  my  hopes. 
Often  in  the  midst  of  my  happiness  a  sudden  pang  froze  me; 
I  heard  the  name  of  Henriette  spoken  by  a  voice  from  on  high, 
like  the  "Cain,  where  is  Abel?"  of  the  Scripture  narrative. 


442  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

My  letters  remained  unanswered.  I  was  in  mortal  anx- 
iety, and  wanted  to  set  out  for  Cloehegourde.  Arabella 
raised  no  obstacles,  but  she  spoke  as  a  matter  of  course  of 
going  with  me  to  Touraine.  Her  fancy,  spurred  by  diffi- 
culty, her  presentiments,  justified  by  more  happiness  than 
she  had  hoped  for,  had  given  birth  in  her  to  a  real  affection, 
which  she  now  meant  should  be  unique.  Her  womanly  wit 
showed  her  that  this  journey  might  be  made  a  means  of  de- 
taching me  completely  from  Madame  de  Mortsauf;  and  I, 
blinded  by  alarm  and  misled  by  genuine  guilelessness,  did 
not  see  the  snare  in  which  I  was  to  be  caught. 

Lady  Dudley  proposed  the  fullest  concessions,  and  antici- 
pated every  objection.  She  agreed  to  remain  in  the  country 
near  Tours,  unknown,  disguised,  never  to  go  out  by  daylight, 
and  to  choose  for  our  meetings  an  hour  of  the  night  when  no 
one  could  recognize  us. 

I  started  on  horseback  from  Tours  for  Clochegourde.  I 
had  my  reasons  for  this ;  I  needed  a  horse  for  my  nocturnal 
expeditions,  and  I  had  an  Arab,  sent  to  the  Marchioness  by 
Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  which  I  had  taken  in  exchange  for 
the  famous  picture  by  Eembrandt  now  hanging  in  her  draw- 
ing-room in  London,  after  it  had  come  into  my  hands  in  so 
singular  a  way. 

I  took  the  road  I  had  gone  on  foot  six  years  before,  and 
paused  under  the  walnut-tree.  From  thence  I  saw  Madame 
de  Mortsauf,  in  a  white  dress,  on  the  terrace.  I  flew  toward 
her  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was 
below  the  wall,  traversing  the  distance  in  a  direct  line,  as  if 
I  were  riding  a  steeplechase.  She  heard  the  prodigious  leaps 
of  the  Swallow  of  the  Desert ;  and  when  I  pulled  up  sharp  at 
the  corner  of  the  terrace,  she  said,  "Ah!  Here  you  are!" 

These  four  words  struck  me  dumb.  Then  she  knew  of 
my  adventure!  Who  had  told  her  of  it? — Her  mother, 
whose  odious  letter  she  subsequently  showed  me.  The  in- 
difference of  that  weak  voice,  formerly  so  full  of  vitality — the 
dead,  colorless  tone  confessed  a  mature  sorrow  and  breathed, 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  443 

as  it  were,  a  perfume  of  flowers  cut  off  beyond  all  recovery. 
The  tempest  of  my  infidelity,  like  the  floods  of  the  Loire  that 
bury  the  land  past  redemption  in  sand,  had  passed  over  her 
soul  and  made  a  desert  where  rich  meadows  had  been  green. 
I  led  my  horse  in  by  the  side  gate;  he  knelt  down  on  the 
grass  at  my  command;  and  the  Countess,  who  had  come 
forward  with  a  slow  step,  exclaimed,  "What  a  beautiful 
creature!" 

She  stood  with  her  arms  crossed  that  I  might  not  take  her 
hand,  and  I  understood  her  intention. 

"I  will  go  and  tell  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,"  said  she,  and 
turned  away. 

I  remained  standing,  quite  confounded,  letting  her  go, 
watching  her — noble,  deliberate,  and  proud  as  ever;  whiter 
than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  her  brow  stamped  with  the  yellow 
seal  of  the  bitterest  melancholy,  and  hanging  her  head  like 
a  lily  weighed  down  by  too  much  rain. 

" flenriette ! "  I  cried,  with  the  passion  of  a  man  who  feels 
himself  dying. 

She  did  not  turn  round,  she  did  not  pause ;  she  scorned 
to  tell  me  that  she  had  taken  back  that  name,  that  she  would 
no  longer  answer  to  it;  she  walked  on.  In  that  terrible  val- 
ley where  millions  of  men  must  be  lying  turned  to  dust,  while 
their  soul  now  animates  the  surface  of  the  globe,  I  may  find 
myself  very  small  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  closely  packed 
under  the  luminous  dignities  who  shall  light  it  up  with  their 
glory;  but  even  there  I  shall  be  less  utterly  crushed  than  I 
was  as  I  gazed  at  that  white  figure  going  up,  up — as  an  un- 
deviating  flood  mounts  the  streets  of  a  town — up  to  Cloche- 
gourde,  her  home,  the  glory  and  the  martyrdom  of  this 
Christian  Dido  I 

I  cursed  Arabella  in  one  word  that  would  have  killed  her 
had  she  heard  it — and  she  had  given  up  everything  for  me, 
as  we  leave  all  for  God  I  I  stood  lost  in  an  ocean  of  thought, 
seeing  endless  pain  on  every  side  of  me. 

Then  I  saw  them  all  coming  down;  Jacques  running  with 
the  impetuosity  of  his  age;  Madeleine,  a  gazelle  with  pathetic 


444  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

eyes,  followed  with  her  mother.  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  came 
toward  me  with  open  arms,  clasped  me  to  him,  and  kissed  me 
on  both  cheeks,  saying,  "Felix,  I  have  heard — I  owed  my 
life  to  you!" 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  stood  with  her  back  to  us,  under 
pretence  of  showing  the  horse  to  Madeleine,  who  was  amazed. 

"The  devil!"  cried  the  Count  in  a  fury,  "that  is  a  woman 
all  over! — They  are  looking  at  your  horse." 

Madeleine  turned  and  came  to  me.  I  kissed  her  hand, 
looking  at  the  Countess,  who  reddened. 

"Madeleine  seems  much  better,"  said  I. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  replied  the  Countess,  kissing  her 
forehead. 

"Yes,  for  the  moment  they  are  all  well,"  said  the  Count. 
"I  alone,  my  dear  Felix,  am  a  wreck,  like  an  old  tower  about 
to  fall." 

"The  General  still  suffers  from  his  black  dragons,  it  would 
seem,"  said  I,  looking  at  Madame  de  Mortsauf. 

"We  all  have  our  blue  devils,"  she  replied.  "That,  I 
think,  is  the  English  word?" 

We  went  up  to  the  house,  all  walking  together,  all  feel- 
ing that  something  serious  had  happened.  She  had  no  wish 
to  be  alone  with  me ;  in  short,  I  was  a  visitor. 

"By  the  way,  what  about  your  horse?"  said  the  Count, 
when  we  went  out. 

"You  see,"  retorted  the  Countess,  "I  was  wrong  to  think 
about  it,  and  equally  wrong  not  to  think  about  it. ' ' 

"Why,  yes,"  said  he;  "there  is  a  time  for  everything." 

"I  will  go  to  him,"  said  I,  finding  this  cold  reception 
unendurable.  "I  alone  can  unsaddle  him  and  put  him  up 
properly.  My  groom  is  coming  from  Chinon  by  coach,  and 
he  will  rub  him  down. ' ' 

"Is  the  groom  from  England  too?"  said  she. 

"They  are  only  made  there,"  replied  the  Count,  becom- 
ing cheerful  as  he  saw  his  wife  depressed. 

His  wife's  coolness  was  an  opportunity  for  tacit  opposi- 
tion; he  loaded  me  with  kindness.  I  learned  what  a  burden 


THE  LILY  OF   THE  VALLEY  445 

a  husband's  friendship  can  be.  Do  not  suppose  that  it  IB 
when  the  wife  lavishes  an  affection  of  which  he  seems  to  be 
robbed  that  her  husband's  attentions  are  overpowering  to  a 
noble  soul  I  No.  It  is  when  that  love  has  fled  that  they  are 
odious  and  unendurable.  A  friendly  understanding,  which 
is  the  indispensable  condition  of  such  attachments,  is  then 
seen  as  a  mere  means ;  it  then  is  a  burden,  and  as  horrible  as 
all  means  are  when  no  longer  justified  by  the  ends. 

"My  dear  Felix,"  said  the  Count,  taking  my  hands,  and 
pressing  them  affectionately,  "you  must  forgive  Madame  de 
Mortsauf.  Women  must  be  fractious,  their  weakness  is  their 
excuse ;  they  cannot  possibly  have  the  equable  temper  which 
gives  us  strength  of  character.  She  has  the  greatest  regard 
for  you.  I  know  it;  but — " 

While  the  Count  was  speaking,  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
moved  gradually  away  from  us  so  as  to  leave  us  together. 

"Felix,"  said  he  in  an  undertone,  as  he  looked  at  his 
wife  returning  to  the  house  with  her  two  children,  "I  cannot 
think  what  has  been  going  on  in  Madame  de  Mortsauf's 
mind,  but  within  the  last  six  weeks  her  temper  has  com- 
pletely altered.  She  who  used  to  be  so  gentle,  so  devoted, 
has  become  incredibly  sulky." 

Manette  afterward  told  me  that  the  Countess  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  dejection  which  left  her  insensible  to  the 
Count's  aggravations.  Finding  no  tender  spot  into  which 
to  thrust  his  darts,  the  man  had  become  as  fidgety  as  a  boy 
when  the  insect  he  is  torturing  ceases  to  wriggle.  At  this 
moment  he  needed  a  confidant,  as  an  executioner  needs  a 
mate. 

"Try  to  question  Madame  de  Mortsauf,"  he  went  on  after 
a  pause.  "A  woman  always  has  secrets  from  her  husband, 
but  to  you  she  will  perhaps  confide  the  secret  of  her  trouble. 
If  it  should  cost  me  half  my  remaining  days  of  life,  and  half 
my  fortune,  I  would  sacrifice  everything  to  make  her  happy. 
She  is  so  indispensable  to  my  existence.  If  in  my  old  age 
I  should  miss  that  angel  from  my  side,  I  should  be  the  most 
miserable  of  men !  I  would  hope  to  die  easy.  Tell  her  she 


446  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

will  not  have  to  put  up  with  me  for  long.  I,  Felix,  my  poor 
friend — I  am  going  fast;  I  know  it.  I  hide  the  dreadful 
truth  from  all  the  world ;  why  distress  them  before  the  time  ? 
Still  the  pylorus,  my  good  friend.  I  have  at  last  mastered 
the  causes  of  the  malady:  my  sensitive  feelings  are  killing 
me.  In  fact,  all  our  emotions  converge  on  the  gastric 
centres — ' ' 

"So  that  people  of  strong  feeling  die  of  indigestion," 
said  I  with  a  smile. 

"Do  not  laugh,  Felix;  nothing  is  truer.  Too  great  a 
grief  overexcites  the  great  sympathetic  nerve.  This  exces- 
sive sensibility  keeps  up  a  constant  irritation  of  the  mucous 
membrane  of  the  stomach.  If  this  condition  continues,  it 
leads  to  disturbance  of  the  digestive  functions,  at  first  im- 
perceptible ;  the  secretions  are  vitiated,  the  appetite  is  mor- 
bid, and  digestion  becomes  uncertain;  ere  long  acute  suffer- 
ing supervenes,  worse  and  more  frequent  every  day.  Finally 
the  organic  mischief  reaches  a  climax;  it  is  as  though  some 
poison  were  lurking  in  every  bowl.  The  mucous  membrane 
thickens,  the  valve  of  the  pylorus  hardens,  and  a  scirrhus 
forms  there  of  which  the  patient  must  die.  Well,  that  is  my 
case,  my  dear  boy.  The  induration  is  progressing;  nothing 
can  stop  it.  Look  at  my  straw-colored  skin,  my  dry,  bright 
eye,  my  excessive  emaciation?  I  am  withering  up.  What 
can  you  expect  ?  I  brought  the  germ  of  the  complaint  in 
me  from  exile :  I  went  through  so  much  at  that  time. 

"And  my  marriage,  which  might  have  repaired  the  mis- 
chief done  during  the  emigration,  far  from  soothing  my  ulcer- 
ated soul,  only  reopened  the  wound.  What  have  I  found 
here  ?  Eternal  alarms  on  account  of  my  children,  domestic 
trials,  a  fortune  to  be  patched  up,  economy  which  entailed  a 
thousand  privations  I  had  to  inflict  on  my  wife,  while  I  was 
the  first  to  suffer  from  them. 

"And,  above  all,  to  you  alone  can  I  confide  the  secret — 
this  is  my  greatest  trouble.  Though  Blanche  is  an  angel, 
she  does  not  understand  me ;  she  knows  nothing  of  my  suf- 
ferings, she  only  frets  them.  I  forgive  her.  It  is  a  terrible 


THE  LILY  OF  THE    VALLEY  447 

thing  to  say,  my  friend,  but  a  less  virtuous  woman  would 
have  made  me  happier  by  little  soothing  ways  which  never 
occur  to  Blanche,  for  she  is  as  great  a  simpleton  as  a  baby ! 
Add  to  this  that  the  servants  do  nothing  but  plague  me. 
They  are  perfect  owls  I  I  speak  French,  and  they  hear  Greek. 

"When  our  fortune  was  somewhat  amended  by  hook  and 
by  crook,  when  I  began  to  be  less  worried,  the  mischief  was 
done;  I  had  reached  the  stage  of  morbid  appetite.  Then  I 
had  that  bad  illness  which  Origet  so  entirely  misunderstood. 
In  short,  at  this  moment  I  have  not  six  months  to  live." 

I  listened  to  the  Count  in  terror.  On  seeing  the  Countess, 
the  glitter  of  her  hard  eyes  and  the  straw-colored  complexion 
of  her  brow  had  struck  me.  I  now  dragged  the  Count  back 
to  the  house,  as  I  pretended  to  listen  to  his  complaining,  in- 
terspersed with  medical  dissertations,  but  I  was  thinking  only 
of  Henriette,  and  was  bent  on  studying  her. 

I  found  the  Countess  in  the  drawing-room;  she  was  list- 
ening to  a  lesson  in  mathematics  that  the  Abbe*  de  Dominis 
was  giving  to  Jacques,  while  she  showed  Madeleine  a  stitch 
in  tapestry.  Formerly  she  would  have  found  means,  on  the 
day  of  my  arrival,  to  put  off  such  occupations,  and  devote 
herself  to  me;  but  my  love  was  so  deep  and  true  that  I 
buried  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  the  sorrow  I  felt  at  the 
contrast  between  the  past  and  present ;  for  I  could  see  that 
terrible  yellow  tinge  on  her  heavenly  face,  like  the  reflection 
of  a  divine  light  which  Italian  painters  have  given  to  the 
faces  of  their  female  saints.  I  felt  in  my  soul  the  cold  blast 
of  death.  When  the  blaze  of  her  eyes  fell  on  me,  bereft  now 
of  the  liquid  moisture  in  which  her  looks  had  floated,  I  shud- 
dered; and  I  then  observed  certain  changes  due  to  grief 
which  I  had  not  noticed  out  of  doors.  The  fine  lines  which, 
when  I  had  last  seen  her,  were  but  faintly  traced  on  her  fore- 
head, were  now  deep  furrows;  her  temples,  bluely  veined, 
were  dry  and  hollow ;  her  eyes  were  sunk  under  reddened 
brows  and  had  dark  circles  round  them ;  she  had  the  look  of 
fruit  on  which  bruises  are  beginning  to  show,  and  which  has 
turned  prematurely  yellow  from  the  ravages  of  a  worm  within. 


448  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

And  was  it  not  I,  whose  sole  ambition  it  had  been  to  pour 
happiness  in  a  full  tide  into  her  soul,  who  had  shed  bitter- 
ness into  the  spring  whence  her  life  derived  strength  and  her 
courage  refreshment  ? 

I  sat  down  by  her,  and  said  in  a  voice  tearful  with  re- 
pentance :  "Is  your  health  satisfactory  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  looking  straight  into  my  eyes.  "Here 
is  my  health,"  and  she  pointed  to  Madeleine  and  Jacques. 

Madeleine,  who  had  come  out  victorious  from  her  struggle 
with  nature,  at  fifteen  was  a  woman;  she  had  grown,  the  tint 
of  a  China  rose  bloomed  in  her  dark  cheeks;  she  had  lost 
the  light  heedlessness  of  a  child  that  looks  everything  in  the 
face,  and  had  begun  to  cast  down  her  eyes.  Her  movements, 
like  her  mother's,  were  rare  and  sober;  her  figure  slight,  and 
the  charms  of  her  bust  already  filling  out.  A  woman's  van- 
ity had  smoothed  her  fine  black  hair,  parted  into  bands  on 
her  Spanish-looking  brow.  She  had  a  look  of  the  pretty 
medieval  busts,  so  refined  in  outline,  so  slender  in  mold,  that 
the  eye  that  lingers  on  them  fears  lest  it  should  break  them ; 
but  health,  the  fruit  that  had  ripened  after  so  much  care,  had 
given  her  cheek  the  velvety  texture  of  the  peach,  and  a  silky 
down  on  her  neck  which  caught  the  light — as  it  did  in  her 
mother. 

She  would  live!  God  had  written  it,  sweet  bud  of  the 
loveliest  of  human  blossoms,  on  the  long  lashes  of  your  eye- 
lids, on  the  slope  of  your  shoulders,  which  promised  to  be 
as  beautiful  as  your  mother's  had  been! 

This  nut-brown  maiden,  with  the  growth  of  a  poplar,  was 
a  contrast  indeed  to  Jacques,  a  fragile  youth  of  seventeen, 
whose  head  looked  too  large,  for  his  brow  had  expanded  so 
rapidly  as  to  give  rise  to  alarms,  whose  fevered,  weary  eyes 
were  in  keeping  with  a  deep  sonorous  voice.  The  throat 
gave  out  too  great  a  volume  of  sound,  just  as  the  eye  be- 
trayed too  much  thought.  Here  Henriette's  intellect,  soul, 
and  heart  were  consuming  with  eager  fires  a  too  frail  body ; 
for  Jacques  had  the  milk-white  complexion  touched  with  the 
burning  flush  that  is  seen  in  young  English  girls  marked  by 


THE  LJLY  OF   THE    VALLEY  449 

the  scourge  to  be  felled  within  a  limited  time— delusive 
health! 

Following  a  gesture  by  which  Henriette,  after  pointing  to 
Madeleine,  made  me  look  at  Jacques,  tracing  geometrical  fig- 
ures and  algebraical  sums  on  a  blackboard  before  the  Abbe*, 
I  was  startled  at  this  glimpse  of  death  hidden  under  roses, 
and  respected  the  unhappy  mother's  mistake. 

"When  I  see  them  so  well,  joy  silences  all  my  griefs,  as, 
indeed,  they  are  silent  and  vanish  when  I  see  those  two  ill. — 
My  friend,"  said  she,  her  eyes  beaming  with  motherly  pleas- 
ure, "if  other  affections  desert  us,  those  that  find  their  reward 
here — duties  fulfilled  and  crowned  with  success — make  up  for 
defeat  endured  elsewhere.  Jacques,  like  you,  will  be  a  highly 
cultivated  man,  full  of  virtuous  learning;  like  you,  he  will 
be  an  honor  to  his  country — which  he  may  help  to  govern 
perhaps,  guided  by  you,  who  will  hold  so  high  a  place — but 
I  will  try  to  make  him  faithful  to  his  first  affections.  Made- 
leine, dear  creature,  has  already  an  exquisite  heart.  She  is 
as  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  highest  Alpine  summit;  she  will 
have  the  devotedness  and  the  sweet  intelligence  of  woman; 
she  is  proud,  she  will  be  worthy  of  the  Lenoncourts! 

"The  mother,  once  so  distraught,  is  now  very  happy — 
happy  in  an  infinite  and  unmixed  happiness;  yes,  my  life  is 
full,  my  life  is  rich.  As  you  see,  God  has  given  me  joys 
that  unfold  from  permitted  affection,  has  infused  bitterness 
into  those  to  which  I  was  being  tempted  by  a  dangerous 
attachment." 

"Well  done!"  cried  the  Abbe*  gleefully.  "Monsieur  le 
Vicomte  knows  as  much  as  I  do — " 

Jacques,  as  he  finished  the  demonstration,  coughed  a 
little. 

"That  is  enough  for  to-day,  my  dear  Abbe","  said  the 
Countess  in  some  agitation.  "Above  all,  no  chemistry  les- 
son! Go  out  riding,  Jacques,"  she  added,  kissing  her  son 
with  the  justifiable  rapture  of  a  mother's  caress,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  me  as  if  to  insult  my  remembrances.  "Go,  dear, 
and  be  prudent." 


450  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"But  you  have  not  answered  my  question,"  said  I,  as 
she  followed  Jacques  with  a  long  look.  "Do  you  suffer  any 
pain?" 

"Yes,  sometimes,  in  my  chest.  If  I  were  in  Paris  I 
could  rise  to  the  honors  of  gastritis,  the  fashionable  com- 
plaint." 

"My  mother  suffers  a  great  deal,  and  often,"  replied 
Madeleine. 

1 '  So  my  health  really  interests  you  ? ' '  said  she  to  me. 

Madeleine,  astonished  at  the  deep  irony  with  which  the 
words  were  spoken,  looked  at  us  by  turns;  my  eyes  were 
counting  the  pink  flowers  on  the  cushions  of  the  gray  and 
green  furniture  in  the  room. 

"The  situation  is  intolerable!"  I  said  in  her  ear. 

"Is  it  of  my  making?"  she  asked.  "My  dear  boy," 
she  said  aloud,  affecting  the  cruel  cheerfulness  with  which 
women  give  lightness  to  revenge,  "do  you  know  nothing  of 
modern  history?  Are  not  France  and  England  always 
foes?  Why,  Madeleine  knows  that;  she  knows  that  they 
are  divided  by  a  vast  sea,  a  cold  sea,  a  stormy  sea. ' ' 

The  vases  on  the  chimney  had  been  replaced  by  cande- 
labra, no  doubt  to  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure  of  filling  them 
with  flowers;  I  found  them  at  a  later  day  in  her  room. 
When  my  servant  arrived,  I  went  out  to  give  my  orders; 
he  had  brought  me  a  few  things  that  I  wished  to  carry  up 
to  my  room. 

"Fe"lix,"  said  the  Countess,  "make  no  mistake!  My 
aunt's  old  room  is  Madeleine's  now.  Yours  is  over  the 
Count's." 

"*  Guilty  as  I  was,  I  had  a  heart,  and  all  these  speeches 
were  poniard  thrusts  coldly  directed  to  the  tenderest  spots, 
which  they  seemed  chosen  to  hit.  Mental  suffering  is  not  a 
fixed  quantity;  it  is  in  proportion  to  the  sensitiveness  of  the 
soul,  and  the  Countess  had  bitterly  gone  through  the  whole 
scale  of  anguish;  but  for  this  very  reason  the  best  woman 
will  always  be  cruel  in  proportion  to  what. her  kindness  has 
been.  I  looked  at  her,  but  she  kept  her  head  down. 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  451 

I  went  up  to  my  new  room,  which  was  pretty — white  and 
green.  There  I  melted  into  tears.  Henriette  heard  me;  she 
came  in,  bringing  me  a  bunch  of  flowers. 

"Henriette,"  said  I,  "have  you  come  to  such  a  point  that 
you  cannot  forgive  the  most  excusable  fault?" 

"Never  call  me  Henriette,"  she  said.  "She  has  ceased 
to  exist,  poor  woman ;  but  you  will  always  find  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  an  attached  friend  who  will  listen  to  you  and  care 
for  you.  Fdlix,  we  will  talk  later.  If  you  still  have  an  af- 
fection for  me  let  me  get  accustomed  to  see  you,  and  as  soon 
as  words  are  a  less  heartrending  effort,  as  soon  as  I  have  re- 
covered a  little  courage — then,  and  not  till  then.  You  see 
the  valley?"  and  she  pointed  to  the  river.  "It  hurts  me — 
but  I  love  it  still." 

"Oh,  perish  England  and  all  its  women!  I  shall  send  in 
my  resignation  to  the  King.  I  will  die  here,  forgiven!" 

"No,  no;  love  her — love  that  woman!  Henriette  is  no 
more;  this  is  no  jest,  as  you  will  see!" 

She  left  the  room;  the  tone  of  her  last  speech  showed  how 
deeply  she  was  wounded. 

I  hurried  after  her ;  I  stopped  her,  saying : 

"Then  you  no  longer  love  me?" 

"You  have  pained  me  more  than  all  the  others  put  to- 
gether. To-day  I  am  suffering  less,  and  I  love  you  less: 
but  it  is  only  in  England  that  they  say,  'Neither  never,  nor 
forever.' — Here  we  only  say,  'forever.'  Be  good;  do  not 
add  to  my  pain ;  and  if  you  too  are  hurt,  remember  that  I 
can  still  live  on." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  which  I  had  taken;  it  was  cold, 
inert  but  clammy,  and  she  was  off  like  an  arrow  along  the 
passage  where  this  really  tragical  scene  had  taken  place. 

In  the  course  of  dinner  the  Count  had  a  torture  in  store 
for  me  of  which  I  had  not  dreamed. 

"Then  the  Marchioness  of  Dudley  is  not  in  Paris?"  he 
said. 

I  colored  crimson  and  replied,  "No." 

"She  is  not  at  Tours,"  he  went  on. 


452  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

\ 

"She  is  not  divorced;  she  may  go  to  England.  Her  hus- 
band would  be  delighted  if  she  would  return  to  him,"  I  said 
excitedly. 

"Has  she  any  children?"  asked  Madame  de  Mortsauf  in 
a  husky  voice. 

"Two  sons,"  said  I. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"In  England  with  their  father." 

"Now,  Felix,  be  candid.  Is  she  as  lovely  as  people 
say?" 

"Can  you  ask  him  such  a  question,"  cried  the  Countess. 
"Is  not  the  woman  a  man  loves  always  the  most  beautiful  of 
her  sex  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  always,"  I  replied  with  emphasis,  and  a  flashing 
look  that  she  could  not  meet. 

"You  are  in  luck,"  the  Count  went  on.  "Yes,  you  are  a 
lucky  rascal!  Ah!  when  I  was  young  my  head  would  have 
been  turned  by  such  a  conquest — "  I 

"That  is  enough!"  said  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  glancing 
from  Madeleine  to  her  father. 

"I  am  not  a  boy,"  said  the  Count,  who  loved  to  think 
himself  young  again. 

After  dinner  the  Countess  led  the  way  down  to  the  ter- 
race, and  when  we  were  there  she  exclaimed: 

"What,  there  are  women  who  can  sacrifice  their  children 
for  a  man!  Fortune  and  the  world,  yes — I  understand  that; 
eternity  perhaps !  But  her  children !  To  give  up  her  chil- 
dren!" 

"Yes,  and  such  women  would  be  glad  to  have  more  to 
sacrifice;  they  give  everything — " 

To  the  Countess  the  world  seemed  to  be  upside  down; 
her  ideas  were  in  confusion.  Startled  by  the  magnitude  of 
this  idea,  suspecting  that  happiness  might  justify  this  immo- 
lation, hearing  within  her  the  outcries  of  the  rebellious  flesh, 
she  stood  aghast,  gazing  at  her  spoiled  life.  Yes,  she  went 
through  a  minute  of  agonizing  doubts.  Bat  she  came  out 
great  and  saintly,  holding  her  head  high. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  453 

"Love  her  truly,  Fdlix;  love  that  woman,"  she  said  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "She  will  be  my  happier  sister.  I  for- 
give her  the  ill  she  has  done  me  if  she  can  give  you  what 
you  could  never  have  found  here,  what  you  could  never 
find  in  me.  You  are  right;  I  never  told  you  that  I  could 
love  you  as  you  of  the  world  love — and  I  never  did  love 
you  so. — Still,  if  she  is  not  a  true  mother,  how  can  she 
love?" 

"Dear  saint,"  said  I,  "I  should  have  to  be  much  less 
agitated  than  I  now  am  to  explain  to  you  how  victoriously 
you  soar  above  her  head;  that  she  is  a  creature  of  earth, 
the  daughter  of  a  fallen  race,  while  you  are  the  daughter 
of  heaven,  the  angel  of  my  adoration;  that  you  have  my 
heart  and  she  has  only  my  body. — She  knows  it;  she  is  in 
despair  over  it,  and  she  would  change  places  with  you  even 
if  the  cruelest  martyrdom  were  the  price  of  the  exchange. 

"But  all  this  is  past  remedy.  Yours  are  my  soul,  my 
thoughts,  my  purest  love,  yours  are  my  youth  and  my  old 
age;  hers  are  the  desires  and  raptures  of  transient  passion. 
You  will  fill  my  memory  in  all  its  extent;  she  will  be  ut- 
terly forgotten. ' ' 

"Tell  me,  tell  me — oh,  tell  me  this,  my  dear  I"  She  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  melted  into  tears.  "Then  virtue, 
Felix,  a  saintly  life,  motherly  love,  are  not  a  mere  blunder. 
Oh,  pour  that  balm  on  my  sorrows!  Kepeat  those  words 
which  restore  me  to  the  bliss  for  which  I  hoped  to  strive 
in  equal  flight  with  you!  Bless  me  with  a  sacred  word, 
a  look,  and  I  can  forgive  you  the  misery  I  have  endured 
these  two  months  past." 

"Henriette,  there  are  mysteries  in  a  man's  life  of  which 
you  know  nothing.  "When  I  met  you,  I  was  at  an  age 
when  sentiment  can  smother  the  cravings  of  our  nature; 
still,  several  scenes,  of  which  the  memory  will  warm  me  in 
the  hour  of  death,  must  have  shown  you  that  I  had  almost 
outlived  that  stage,  and  it  was  your  unfailing  triumph  that 
you  could  prolong  its  mute  delights.  Love  without  posses- 
sion is  upheld  by  the  very  exasperation  of  hope ;  but  a  mo- 


454  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ment  comes  when  every  feeling  is  pure  suffering  to  us  who 
are  not  in  any  respect  like  you.  A  power  is  ours  which  we 
cannot  abdicate,  or  we  are  not  men.  The  heart,  bereft  of 
the  nourishment  it  needs,  feeds  on  itself  and  sinks  into  ex- 
haustion, which  is  not  death  but  which  leads  to  it.  Nature 
cannot  be  persistently  cheated;  at  the  least  accident  it  as- 
serts itself  with  a  vehemence  akin  to  madness. 

"No,  I  did  not  love,  I  thirsted  in  the  desert!" 

"In  the  desert!"  she  bitterly  echoed,  pointing  to  the  val- 
ley. "And  how  he  argues,"  she  went  on;  "what  subtle 
distinctions.  Believers  have  not  so  much  wit!" 

"Henriette,"  said  I,  "do  not  let  us  quarrel  for  the  sake 
of  a  few  over-bold  expressions.  My  soul  has  never  wa- 
vered, but  I  was  no  longer  master  of  my  senses.  That 
woman  knows  that  you  are  the  only  one  I  love.  She 
plays  a  secondary  part  in  my  life;  she  knows  it,  and  is  re- 
signed. I  have  a  right  to  desert  her  as  we  desert  a  cour- 
tesan. ' ' 

"What  then?" 

"She  says  she  shall  kill  herself,"  said  I,  thinking  that  this 
resolution  would  startle  Henriette. 

But  as  she  heard  me,  she  gave  one  of  those  scornful  smiles 
that  are  even  more  expressive  than  the  ideas  they  represent. 
"My  dearest  Conscience,"  I  went  on,  "if  you  gave  me  credit 
for  my  resistance,  and  for  the  temptations  that  led  to  my  ruin, 
you  would  understand  this  fated — ' ' 

"Yes,  fated!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  believed  in  you  too 
completely.  I  fancied  you  would  never  lack  the  virtue  a 
priest  can  practice,  and — Monsieur  de  Mortsauf !"  she  added, 
with  satirical  emphasis. 

"It  is  all  over,"  she  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "I  owe 
much  to  you,  my  friend;  you  have  extinguished  the  light 
of  earthly  life  in  me.  The  hardest  part  of  the  road  is  past; 
I  am  growing  old,  I  am  often  ailing,  almost  invalided.  I 
could  never  be  the  glittering  fairy,  showering  favors  on 
you.  Be  faithful  to  Lady  Arabella.— And  Madeleine, 
whom  I  was  bringing  up  so  well  for  you,  whose  will  she 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  455 

be?  Poor  Madeleine,  poor  Madeleine!"  she  repeated,  like 
a  sorrowful  burden.  "If  you  could  have  heard  her  say, 
'Mother,  you  are  not  nice  to  Felix.'  Sweet  creature!" 

She  looked  at  me  in  the  mild  rays  of  the  setting  sun  that 
slanted  through  the  foliage;  and,  filled  with  some  mysteri- 
ous pity  for  the  ruins  of  us  both,  she  looked  back  on  our 
chastened  past,  giving  herself  up  to  reminiscences  that  were 
mutual.  We  took  up  the  thread  of  our  memories,  our  eyes 
went  from  the  valley  to  the  vineyard,  from  the  windows  of 
Clochegourde  to  Frapesle,  filling  our  day-dream  with  the 
perfumes  of  our  nosegays,  the  romance  of  our  hopes.  It 
was  her  last  piece  of  self-indulgence,  enjoyed  with  the 
guilelessness  of  a  Christian  soul.  The  scene,  to  us  so  full 
of  meaning,  had  plunged  us  both  into  melancholy.  She 
believed  my  words,  and  felt  herself  in  the  heaven  where  I 
had  placed  her. 

"My  friend,1'  said  she,  "I  submit  to  God,  for  His  hand 
is  in  all  this." 

It  was  not  till  later  that  I  understood  all  the  deep  mean- 
ing of  this  speech. 

We  slowly  went  back  by  the  terraces.  She  took  my  arm 
and  leaned  on  me,  resigned,  bleeding,  but  having  bound  up 
her  wounds. 

"This  is  human  life,"  said  she.  "What  had  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  done  to  deserve  his  fate?  All  this  proves  the 
existence  of  another  world.  Woe  to  those  who  complain 
of  walking  in  the  narrow  way. ' ' 

She  went  on  to  estimate  the  value  of  life,  to  contemplate 
it  so  profoundly  in  its  various  aspects,  that  her  calm  balance 
showed  me  what  disgust  had  come  over  her  of  everything 
here  below.  As  we  reached  the  top  steps  she  took  her  hand 
from  my  arm,  and  said  these  last  words:  "Since  God  has 
given  us  the  faculty  and  love  of  happiness,  must  He  not 
take  care  of  those  innocent  souls  that  have  known  nothing 
but  affliction  on  earth?  Either  this  is  so,  or  there  is  no 
God,  and  our  life  is  but  a  cruel  jest." 

With  these  words  she  hastily  went  indoors,  and  I  found 


456  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

her  presently  lying  on  the  sofa,  stricken  as  though  she  had 
heard  the  Voice  which  confounded  Saint  Paul. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  I. 

"I  no  longer  know  what  virtue  means,"  said  she.  "I 
have  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  my  own." 

We  both  remained  petrified,  listening  to  the  echo  of  these 
words  as  to  a  stone  flung  into  a  chasm. 

"If  I  have  been  mistaken  in  my  life,  it  is  she  who  is  right 
— she/11  added  Madame  de  Mortsauf. 

Thus  her  last  indulgence  had  led  to  this  last  struggle. 

When  the  Count  came  in,  she,  who  never  complained, 
said  she  felt  ill;  I  implored  her  to  define  her  pain,  but  she 
refused  to  say  more,  and  went  to  bed,  leaving  me  a  victim 
to  remorse,  one  regret  leading  to  another. 

Madeleine  went  with  her  mother,  and  on  the  following 
day  I  heard  from  her  that  the  Countess  had  had  an  attack 
of  sickness,  brought  on,  as  she  said,  by  the  violent  agitation 
she  had  gone  through.  And  so  I,  who  would  have  given  my 
life  for  her,  was  killing  her. 

"My  dear  Count,"  said  I  to  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  who 
insisted  on  my  playing  backgammon,  "I  think  the  Countess 
is  very  seriously  ill;  there  is  yet  time  to  save  her.  Send  for 
Origet,  and  entreat  her  to  follow  his  orders — " 

"Origet!  Who  killed  me!"  cried  he,  interrupting  me. 
"No,  no.  I  will  consult  Charbonneau." 

All  through  that  week,  especially  during  the  first  day  or 
two,  everything  was  torture  to  me,  an  incipient  paralysis 
of  the  heart,  wounded  vanity,  a  wounded  soul.  Until  one 
has  been  the  centre  of  everything,  of  every  look  and  sigh, 
the  vital  principle,  the  focus  from  which  others  derived  their 
light,  one  cannot  know  how  horrible  a  void  can  be.  The 
same  things  were  there,  but  the  spirit  that  animated  them 
was  extinct,  like  a  flame  that  is  blown  out.  I  understood 
now  the  frightful  necessity  lovers  feel  never  to  meet  again 
when  love  is  dead.  Think  what  it  is  to  be  nobody  where 
one  has  reigned  supreme,  to  find  the  cold  silence  of  death 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  457 

where  the  glad  days  of  life  had  glowed.  Such  comparisons 
are  crushing.  I  soon  began  even  to  regret  the  miserable 
ignorance  of  every  joy  that  had  blighted  my  youth.  My 
despair  was  so  overpowering,  indeed,  that  the  Countess  was 
touched,  I  believe. 

One  day,  after  dinner,  when  we  were  all  walking  by  the 
river,  I  made  a  final  effort  to  gain  forgiveness.  I  begged 
Jacques  to  take  his  sister  a  little  way  in  front;  I  left  the 
Count  to  himself,  and  taking  Madame  Mortsauf  down  to 
the  punt: 

"flenriette,"  said  I,  "one  word  of  mercy,  or  I  will  throw 
myself  into  the  Indre !  I  fell,  it  is  true ;  but  am  I  not  like 
a  dog  in  my  devoted  attachment?  I  come  back  as  he  does, 
like  him  full  of  shame;  if  he  does  wrong  he  is  punished,  but 
he  adores  the  hand  that  hits  him;  scourge  me,  but  give  me 
back  your  heart." 

"Poor  boy,"  said  she.  "Are  you  not  as  much  as  ever 
my  son?" 

She  took  my  arm  and  slowly  rejoined  Jacques  and  Made- 
leine, with  whom  she  went  homeward,  leaving  me  to  the 
Count,  who  began  to  talk  politics  d  propos  to  his  neighbors. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  said  I;  "you  are  bareheaded,  and  the 
evening  dew  may  do  you  some  harm." 

"You  can  pity  me — you,  my  dear  Felix!"  replied  he, 
misapprehending  my  intentions.  "My  wife  never  will  com- 
fort me — on  principle  perhaps." 

Never  of  old  would  she  have  left  me  alone  with  her  hus- 
band; now  I  had  to  find  excuses  for  being  with  her.  She 
was  with  the  children  explaining  the  rules  of  backgammon 
to  Jacques. 

"There,"  said  the  Count,  always  jealous  of  the  affection 
she  gave  to  her  two  children;  "there,  il  is  for  them  that  I  am 
persistently  neglected.  Husbands,  my  dear  Felix,  go  to  the 
wall ;  the  most  virtuous  woman  on  earth  finds  a  way  of  satis- 
fying her  craving  to  steal  the  affection  due  to  her  husband." 

She  still  caressed  the  children,  making  no  reply. 

' '  Jacques, ' '  said  he,  ' '  come  here. ' ' 

Vol.  4.  (T) 


458  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Jacques  made  some  difficulty. 

"Your  father  wants  you — go,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother, 
pushing  him. 

"They  love  me  by  order,"  said  the  old  man,  who  some- 
times perceived  the  position. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  stroking  Madeleine's  smooth  bands 
of  hair  again  and  again,  "do  not  be  unjust  to  us  hapless 
wives;  life  is  not  always  easy  to  bear,  and  perhaps  a  mother's 
children  are  her  virtues ! ' ' 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Count,  who  was  pleased  to  be  logical, 
"what  you  say  amounts  to  this:  that,  but  for  their  children, 
women  would  have  no  virtue,  but  would  leave  their  husbands 
in  the  lurch. ' ' 

The  Countess  rose  hastily,  and  went  out  on  to  the  steps 
with  Madeleine. 

"Such  is  marriage,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  Count.  "Do 
you  mean  to  imply  by  walking  out  of  the  room  that  I  am 
talking  nonsense?"  he  cried,  taking  Jacques'  hand  and  fol- 
lowing his  wife,  to  whom  he  spoke  with  flashing  looks  of 
fury. 

"Not  at  all,  Monsieur,  but  you  frightened  me.  Your 
remark  wounded  me  terribly,"  she  went  on  in  a  hollow 
voice,  with  the  glance  of  a  criminal  at  me.  "If  virtue  does 
not  consist  in  self-sacrifice  for  one's  children  and  one's 
husband,  what  is  virtue?" 

"Self-sa-cri-fice!"  -echoed  the  Count,  rapping  out  each 
syllable  like  a  blow  on  his  victim's  heart.  "What  is  it  that 
you  sacrifice  to  your  children?  "What  do  you  sacrifice  to 
me?  Whom?  What?  Answer — will  you  answer ?  What 
is  going  on  then?  What  do  you  mean,?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "would  you  be  content  to  be  loved 
for  God's  sake,  or  to  know  that  your  wife  was  virtuous  for 
virtue's  sake?" 

"Madame  is  right,"  said  I,  speaking  in  a  tone  of  emotion 
that  rang  in  the  two  hearts  into  which  I  cast  my  hopes  for- 
ever ruined,  and  which  I  stilled  by  the  expression  of  the 
greatest  grief  of  all,  its  hollow  cry  extinguishing  the  quarrel, 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  469 

as  all  is  silence  when  a  lion  roars.  "Yes,  the  noblest  privi- 
lege conferred  on  us  by  reason,  is  that  we  may  dedicate  our 
virtues  to  those  beings  whose  happiness  is  of  our  making, 
and  whom  we  make  happy  not  out  of  self-interest  or  sense 
of  duty,  but  from  involuntary  and  inexhaustible  affection." 

A  tear  glistened  in  Henriette's  eye. 

"And,  my  dear  Count,  if  by  chance  a  woman  were  invol- 
untarily subjugated  by  some  feeling  alien  to  those  imposed 
on  her  by  society,  you  must  confess  that  the  more  irresistible 
that  feeling  the  more  virtuous  would  she  be  in  stifling  it — in 
sacrificing  herself  to  her  children  and  her  husband. 

"This  theory,  however,  is  not  applicable  to  me,  since 
I  unfortunately  am  an  example  to  the  contrary;  nor  to  you, 
whom  it  can  never  concern. ' ' 

A  burning  but  clammy  hand  was  laid  on  mine,  and  rested 
there,  in  silence. 

"You  have  a  noble  soul,  Felix,"  said  the  Count,  putting 
his  arm  not  ungraciously  round  his  wife's  waist,  and  drawing 
her  to  him,  as  he  said:  "Forgive  me,  my  dear — a  poor  invalid 
who  longs  to  be  loved  more,  no  doubt,  than  he  deserves." 

"Some  hearts  are  all  generosity,"  said  she,  leaning  her 
head  on  the  Count's  shoulder,  and  he  took  the  speech  for 
himself. 

The  mistake  caused  some  strange  revulsion  in  the  Count- 
ess. She  shuddered,  her  comb  fell  out,  her  hair  fell  down, 
and  she  turned  pale;  her  husband,  who  was  supporting  her, 
gave  a  deep  groan  as  he  saw  her  faint  away.  He  took  her 
up  as  he  might  have  taken  his  daughter,  and  carried  her  on 
to  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room,  where  we  stood  beside  her. 
Henriette  kept  my  hand  in  hers  as  if  to  say  that  we  alone 
knew  the  secret  of  this  scene,  apparently  so  simple,  but  so 
terribly  heartrending  for  her. 

"I  was  wrong,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  at  a  moment  when 
the  Count  had  gone  to  fetch  a  glass  of  orange-flower  water. 
"A  thousand  times  wrong  in  treating  you  so  as  to  drive  you 
to  despair,  when  I  ought  to  have  admitted  you  to  mercy. 
My  dear,  you  are  adorably  kind;  I  alone  can  know  how 


460  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

kind. — Yes,  I  know,  some  forms  of  kindness  are  irtspired  by 
passion.  Men  have  many  ways  of  being  kind — from  disdain, 
from  impulse,  from  self-interest,  from  indolence  of  temper; 
but  you,  my  friend,  have  been  simply,  absolutely  kind." 

"If  so,"  said  I,  "remember  that  all  that  is  great  in  me 
comes  from  you.  Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  wholly  what 
you  have  made  me  ?  " 

"Such  a  speech  is  enough  for  a  woman's  happiness,"  she 
answered,  just  as  the  Count  came  in.  "I  am  better,"  said 
she,  rising.  "I  want  some  fresh  air." 

We  all  went  down  to  the  terrace,  now  scented  by  the 
acacias  still  in  bloom.  She  had  taken  my  right  arm  and 
pressed  it  to  her  heart,  thus  expressing  her  painful  thoughts; 
but,  to  use  her  own  words,  it  was  a  pain  she  loved.  She 
wished,  no  doubt,  to  be  alone  with  me;  but  her  imagination, 
unpracticed  in  woman's  wiles,  suggested  no  reason  for  dis- 
missing the  children  and  her  husband;  so  we  talked  of  in- 
different matters  while  she  racked  her  brain  trying  to  find 
a  moment  when  she  could  at  last  pour  out  her  heart  into  m.ine. 

"It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  took  a  drive,"  said  she  at 
length,  seeing  the  evening  so  fine.  "Will  you  give  the 
orders,  Monsieur,  that  I  may  make  a  little  round  ? ' ' 

She  knew  that  no  explanation  was  possible  before  prayer- 
time,  and  feared  that  the  Count  would  want  a  game  of  back- 
gammon. She  might  indeed  come  oat  here  again,  on  this 
sheltered  terrace,  after  the  Count  was  gone  to  bed ;  but  per- 
haps she  was  afraid  to  linger  under  these  boughs  through 
which  the  light  fell  with  such  a  voluptuous  play,  or  to  walk 
by  the  parapet  whence  our  eyes  could  trace  the  course  of  the 
Indre  through  the  meadows.  Just  as  a  cathedral,  with  its 
gloomy  and  silent  vault,  suggests  prayer,  so  does  foliage 
spangled  by  moonlight,  perfumed  with  piercing  scents,  and 
alive  with  the  mysterious  sounds  of  spring,  stir  every  fibre 
and  relax  the  will.  The  country,  which  calms  an  old  man's 
passions,  fires  those  of  youthful  hearts — and  we  knew  it. 

Two  peals  of  a  bell  called  us  to  prayers.  The  Countess 
started. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  461 

"My  dear  Henriette,  what  ails  you?" 

"Henriette  is  no  more,"  said  she.  "Do  not  call  her  back 
to  life  again;  she  was  exacting  and  capricious.  Now  you 
have  a  friend  whose  virtue  is  confirmed  by  the  words  which 
Heaven  must  have  dictated  to  you.  We  will  speak  of  this 
later.  Let  us  be  punctual  for  prayers.  It  is  my  turn  to  read 
them  to-day. ' ' 

When  the  Countess  used  the  words  in  which  she  besought 
God  to  preserve  us  against  all  the  adversities  of  life,  she  gave 
them  an  emphasis  which  I  was  not  alone  in  noticing;  she 
seemed  to  have  used  her  gift  of  second-sight  to  discern  the 
dreadful  agitation  she  was  fated  to  go  through  in  consequence 
of  my  clumsiness  in  forgetting  my  agreement  with  Arabella. 

"We  have  time  to  play  three  hits  while  the  horses  are 
put  in,"  said  the  Count,  leading  me  off  to  the  drawing-room. 
"Then  you  will  drive  with  my  wife.  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

Like  all  our  games,  this  one  was  stormy.  From  her  own 
room  or  Madeleine's  the  Countess  could  hear  her  husband's 
voice. 

"You  make  a  strange  misuse  of  hospitality,"  she  said  to 
her  husband  when  she  came  back  to  the  room. 

I  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment;  I  could  not  get  used 
to  her  sternness;  in  former  times  she  would  never  have 
tried  to  shield  me  from  the  Count's  tyranny;  she  had  liked 
to  see  me  sharing  her  penalties  and  enduring  them  patiently 
for  love  of  her. 

"I  would  give  my  life,"  said  I  in  her  ear,  "to  hear  you 
murmur  once  more — Poor  dear,  poor  dear!'11 

She  looked  down,  recalling  the  occasion  to  which  I 
alluded;  her  eyes  turned  on  me  with  a  sidelong  glance,  and 
expressed  the  joy  of  a  woman  who  sees  the  most  fugitive 
accents  of  her  heart  more  highly  prized  than  the  deepest 
delights  of  any  other  love. 

Then,  as  ever  when  she  had  done  me  such  an  injustice, 
I  f orgi*  «re  her,  feeling  that  she  understood  me.  The  Count 
was  losing;  he  said  he  was  tired,  to  break  off  the  game,  and 
we  went  to  walk  round  the  lawn  while  waiting  for  the  car- 


462  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

/ 

riage..  No  sooner  had  lie  left  us  than  my  face  beamed  so 
vividly  with  gladness  that  the  Countess  questioned  me  by  ft 
look  of  surprise  and  inquiry. 

"Henriette  still  lives,"  I  said;  "I  still  am  loved!  You 
wound  me  with  too  evident  intention  to  break  my  heart;  I 
may  yet  be  happy. ' ' 

"There  was  but  a  shred  of  the  woman  left,"  she  said  in 
terror,  "and  you  at  this  moment  have  it  in  your  grasp.  God 
be  praised !  He  gives  me  the  strength  to  endure  the  martyr- 
dom I  have  deserved. — Yes,  I  still  love;  I  was  near  falling; 
the  Englishwoman  throws  a  light  into  the  gulf." 

We  got  into  the  carriage,  and  the  coachman  waited  for 
orders. 

"Go  by  the  avenue  to  the  Chinon  road,  and  come  home 
by  the  Landes  de  Charlemagne  and  the  Sadie*  road." 

"What  is  to-day?"  I  asked  too  eagerly. 

"Saturday." 

"Then  do  not  drive  that  way,  Madame;  on  Saturday 
evenings  the  road  is  crowded  with  noisy  bumpkins  going 
to  Tours,  and  we  shall  meet  their  carts." 

"Do  as  I  say,"  said  the  Countess  to  the  coachman. 

We  knew  each  other  too  well,  and  every  inflection  of 
tone,  endless  as  they  were,  to  disguise  the  most  trifling  feel- 
ing. Henriette  had  understood  everything. 

"You  did  not  think  of  the  country  bumpkins  when  you 
chose  this  evening,"  said  she,  with  a  faint  tinge  of  irony. 
"Lady  .Dudley  is  at  Tours.  Tell  no  falsehoods;  she  is  wait- 
ing for  you  near  here. — What  day  is  it — bumpkins — carts!" 
she  went  on.  "Did  you  ever  make  such  remarks  when  we 
used  to  go  out  together  ? ' ' 

"They  prove  that  I  have  forgotten  all  about  Cloche- 
gourde,  ' '  I  said  simply. 

' '  She  is  waiting  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"At  what  hour?" 

"Between  eleven  and  midnight." 

"Where?" 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  463 

"OntheLandes." 

"Do  not  deceive  me. — Not  under  the  walnut-tree?" 

"OntheLandes." 

"We  will  be  there,"  said  she.     "I  shall  see  her." 

On  hearing  these  words  I  regarded  my  fate  as  definitely 
settled.  I  determined  to  marry  Lady  Dudley  and  so  put  an 
end  to  the  dreadful  conflict  which  really  threatened  to  ex- 
haust my  nerves,  and  to  destroy  by  such  constant  friction  the 
delicate  pleasures  which  are  like  the  bloom  on  a  fruit.  My 
savage  silence  wounded  the  Countess,  whose  magnanimity 
was  not  yet  fully  known  to  me. 

"Do  not  be  provoked  with  me,  dear,"  said  she  in  her 
golden  tones.  "This  is  my  penance.  You  will  never  find 
such  love  as  lies  here,"  and  she  placed  her  hand  on  her 
heart.  "Did  I  not  confess  to  you  that  the  Marchioness  of 
Dudley  has  saved  me?  The  stain  is  hers;  I  do  not  envy 
her.  Mine  is  the  glorious  love  of  the  angels! — Since  you 
came  I  have  travelled  over  a  vast  extent  of  country;  I  have 
pronounced  judgment  on  life.  Uplift  the  soul  and  you  rend 
it;  the  higher  you  rise  the  less  sympathy  you  find;  instead 
of  suffering  in  the  valley  you  suffer  in  the  air,  like  an  eagle 
soaring  up  and  bearing  in  his  heart  an  arrow  shot  by  some 
clumsy  shepherd.  I  know  now  that  heaven  and  earth  are 
incompatible.  Yes,  and  for  those  who  can  dwell  in  the 
celestial  zone  God  alone  is  possible.  Then  our  soul  must 
be  detached  from  al1  things  earthly. 

"We  must  love  our  friends  as  we  love  our  children — for 
their  sake,  not  for  our  own.  We  are  ourselves  the  source 
of  our  woes  and  griefs.  My  heart  will  rise  higher  than  the 
eagle  soars ;  there  is  a  love  which  will  never  fail  me. 

"As  to  living  the  life  of  this  earth,  it  hinders  us  too  much, 
by  making  the  selfishness  of  the  senses  predominate  over  the 
spirituality  of  the  angel  that  is  in  us.  The  joys  we  get  from 
passion  are  horribly  stormy,  and  paid  for  by  enervating  fears 
that  break  the  springs  of  the  soul. 

"I  have  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  sea  where  these  tempests 
roar,  I  have  seen  them  too  near;  they  have  caught  me  in  their 


464  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

clouds ;  the  wave  did  not  always  break  at  my  feet,  I  have  felt 
its  rough  embrace  freezing  my  heart;  I  must  retire  to  the 
heights,  I  should  perish  on  the  strand  of  that  vast  ocean.  In 
you,  as  in  all  who  have  brought  me  sorrow,  I  see  a  guardian 
of  my  virtue.  My  life  has  been  mingled  with  anguish,  hap- 
pily in  proportion  to  my  strength,  and  has  been  there  pre- 
served pure  from  evil  passions,  finding  no  beguiling  repose, 
but  always  ready  for  God. 

"Our  attachment  was  the  insane  attempt,  the  hopeless 
effort,  of  two  guileless  children  who  tried  to  satisfy  at  once 
their  own  hearts,  man  and  God. — Folly,  Felix! — Ah!"  she 
asked,  after  a  pause.  "What  does  that  woman  call  you?" 

"Ame'de'e,"  said  I.  "Felix  is  another  creature,  who  can 
never  be  known  to  any  one  but  you. ' ' 

1 '  Henriette  dies  hard, ' '  said  she,  with  a  faint,  pious  smile. 
"But  she  will  die,"  she  went  on,  "in  the  first  effort  of  the 
humble  Christian,  the  proud  mother,  the  woman  whose 
virtues,  tottering  yesterday,  are  confirmed  to-day. 

"What  can  I  say? — Yes,  yes;  my  life  has  been  uniform 
in  its  greatest  as  in  its  least  circumstances.  The  heart  to 
which  the  first  rootlets  of  affection  ought  to  have  attached 
themselves — my  mother's  heart — was  closed  to  me,  in  spite 
of  my  persistently  seeking  a  cranny  into  which  I  could  steal. 
I  was  a  girl,  the  last  child  after  the  death  of  three  boys,  and  I 
vainly  strove  to  fill  their  place  in  my  parents'  affections; 
I  could  not  heal  the  woiind  inflicted  on  the  family  pride. 
When,  having  got  through  that  melancholy  childhood,  I 
knew  my  adorable  aunt,  death  soon  snatched  her  from  me. 
Monsieur  de  Mortsauf,  to  whom  I  devoted  my  life,  struck  me 
persistently  without  respite — without  knowing  it,  poor  man! 
His  love  is  full  of  the  artless  selfishness  of  our  chil'dren's  love. 
He  knows  nothing  of  the  pangs  he  causes  me ;  he  is  always 
forgiven. 

"My  children,  my  darling  children,  flesh  of  my  flesh  in 
all  their  sufferings,  soul  of  my  soul  in  their  characters,  like 
me  in  nature,  in  their  innocent  joys — were  not  those  children 
given  to  me  to  show  how  much  strength  and  patience  there  is 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  465 

in  mothers?  Oh,  yes,  my  children  are  my  virtues!  You 
know  whether  I  have  been  scourged  by  them,  through  them, 
nisspite  of  them.  To  be  a  mother  was  to  me  to  purchase  the 
right  of  perpetual  suffering. 

"When  Hagar  cried  in  the  desert  an  angel  made  a  fount 
of  pure  water  spring  for  that  too  well-beloved  slave.  But 
when  the  limpid  brook  to  which  you  desired  to  lead  me,  do 
you  remember?  flowed  round  Clochegourde,  for  me  it  ran 
with  bitter  waters.  Yes,  you  have  brought  incredible  suffer- 
ing on  me.  God  will  no  doubt  forgive  one  who  has  known 
affection  only  through  suffering. 

"Still,  though  the  acutest  anguish  I  have  known  has  been 
brought  upon  me  by  you,  perhaps  I  deserved  it.  God  is  not 
unjust.  Yes,  Fdlix,  a  kiss  given  by  stealth  is  perhaps  a 
crime ;  and  perhaps  I  have  paid  thus  dearly  for  the  steps  I 
have  taken  to  get  ahead  of  my  husband  and  children  when 
walking  out  in  the  evening,  so  as  to  be  alone  with  memories 
and  thoughts  which  were  not  given  to  them,  since,  while 
walking  on  in  front,  my  soul  was  wedded  to  another!  When 
the  inmost  self  shrinks  and  shrivels,  to  fill  only  the  spot 
offered  to  an  embrace,  that  is  perhaps  a  heinous  crime! 
When  a  wife  stoops  that  her  husband's  kiss  may  fall  on 
her  hair,  so  as  to  be  entirely  neutral,  it  is  a  crime!  It  is 
a  crime  to  count  on  a  future  built  up  on  death,  a  crime  to 
dream  of  a  future  of  motherhood  without  terrors,  of  beauti- 
ful children  playing  in  the  evening  with  a  father  worshipped 
by  all,  under  the  softened  gaze  of  a  happy  mother.  Ah,  I 
have  sinned,  I  have  sinned  greatly!  I  have  even  found 
pleasure  in  the  penance  inflicted  by  the  Church,  which  in- 
sufficiently atoned  for  these  faults  to  which  the  priest  was 
surely  too  indulgent.  But  God,  no  doubt,  has  set  retribu- 
tion in  the  very  heart  of  the  sin  itself,  by  making  him  for 
whom  it  was  committed  the  instrument  of  His  vengeance! 
Giving  you  my  hair — was  not  that  a  promise?  Why  did  I 
love  to  wear  white  ?  I  fancied  myself  more  like  your  Lily ; 
did  not  you  see  me  for  the  first  time  in  a  white  dress  ?  Alas  I 
And  I  have  loved  my  children  the  less,  for  every  ardent 


466  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

affection  is  stolen  from  those  that  are  due.  So  you  see, 
Felix,  all  suffering  has  a  meaning. — Strike  me,  strike  me 
harder  than  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  and  my  children  could. 

"That  woman  is  an  instrument  of  God's  wrath;  I  can  meet 
her  without  hatred.  I  will  smile  on  her;  I  must  love  her  or 
I  am  neither  a  Christian,  a  wife,  nor  a  mother.  If,  as  you 
say,  I  have  helped  to  preserve  your  heart  from  the  contact 
of  what  might  have  soiled  it,  the  Englishwoman  cannot  hate 
me.  A  woman  must  love  the  mother  of  the  man  she  loves; 
and  I  am  your  mother. 

"What  did  I  look  for  in  your  heart?  The  place  left 
empty  by  Madame  de  Vandenesse.  Oh,  yes;  for  you  have 
always  complained  of  my  coldness!  Yes,  I  am  indeed  no 
more  than  your  mother.  Forgive  me  for  all  I  said  to  you 
when  you  arrived,  for  a  mother  ought  to  rejoice  to  know  that 
her  son  is  so  much  loved. ' ' 

She  leaned  her  head  on  my  bosom  and  repeated:  "For- 
give, forgive!" 

The  accent  of  her  voice  was  new  to  me.  It  was  not  her 
girlish  voice  with  its  gleeful  intonation ;  nor  her  wifely  voice 
with  its  imperative  fall ;  nor  the  sighing  of  a  grieving  mother. 
It  was  a  heartrending  voice,  a  new  tone  for  new  sorrows. 

"As  for  you,  Felix,"  she  went  on,  with  more  animation, 
"you  are  the  friend  who  can  do  no  wrong.  You  have  lost 
nothing  in  my  heart;  do  not  blame  yourself,  feel  not  the 
slightest  remorse.  Was  it  not  the  height  of  selfishness  to 
ask  you  to  sacrifice  to  an  impossible  future  the  most  stu- 
pendous pleasure,  since  a  woman  can  abandon  her  children 
for  its  sake,  abdicate  her  rank,  and  renounce  eternity !  How 
often  have  I  seen  you  my  superior!  You  were  lofty  and 
noble,  I  was  mean  and  sinful! 

"Well,  well,  all  is  said.  I  can  never  be  anything  to  you 
but  a  far-away  light,  high  up,  sparkling,  cold,  but  unchang- 
ing. Only,  Felix,  do  not  let  me  be  alone,  in  loving  the 
brother  I  have  chosen.  Love  me  too.  A  sister's  love  has 
no  bitter  morrow,  no  perverse  moods.  You  need  never  be 
untrue  to  the  indulgent  soul  that  will  live  in  your  beautiful 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  467 

life,  will  never  fail  to  weep  over  your  sorrows,  and  be  glad 
over  your  joys,  that  will  love  the  women  who  make  you 
happy,  and  be  indignant  if  you  are  betrayed.  I  have  never 
had  a  brother  to  love  so.  Be  magnanimous  enough  to  cast 
off  all  pride,  and  solve  all  the  difficulties  of  our  attachment, 
hitherto  so  ill-defined  and  stormy,  by  this  sweet  and  holy 
affection.  I  can  still  live  on  those  terms.  I  will  be  the  first 
to  shake  hands  with  Lady  Dudley." 

She  shed  no  tears,  alas !  as  she  spoke  these  words  full  of 
bitter  experience,  while,  by  snatching  away  the  last  veil  that 
hid  her  soul  and  her  sufferings  from  me,  they  showed  me  by 
how  many  links  she  was  bound  to  me,  and  what  strong  chains 
I  had  broken  through. 

We  were  in  such  a  delirium  of  agitation  that  we  did  not 
observe  that  it  was  raining  in  torrents. 

"Will  Madame  la  Comtesse  take  shelter  here  for  a  few 
minutes  ?"  said  the  coachman,  pointing  to  the  principal  inn 
of  Ballan. 

She  nodded  consent,  and  we  sat  for  about  half  an  hour 
under  the  archway  of  the  entrance,  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  the  people  of  the  inn,  who  wondered  why  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  was  driving  about  the  country  at  eleven  o'clock 
at  night. 

Was  she  going  to  Tours  ?     Or  on  her  way  back  ? 

When  the  storm  was  over,  and  the  rain  had  settled  into 
what  is  called  in  Touraine  a  brouee,  a  heavy  mist  which  did 
not  hinder  the  moon  from  silvering  the  upper  strata  as  they 
were  swept  swiftly  past  by  the  higher  currents  of  wind,  the 
coachman  went  out  and  turned  homeward,  to  my  great  joy. 

"Go  the  way  I  told  you,"  said  the  Countess  gently. 

So  we  took  the  road  to  the  Landes  de  Charlemagne,  and 
there  the  rain  began  again.  Half-way  across  the  sandy  com- 
mon I  heard  Lady  Arabella's  pet  dog  barking.  A  horse 
suddenly  dashed  out  from  under  a  clump  of  oaks,  crossed 
the  road  at  a  bound,  leaped  the  ditch  made  by  the  owners  to 
show  the  boundary  of  each  plot  where  the  soil  was  consid- 


468  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

ered  worth  cultivating,  and  Lady  Dudley  pulled  up  on  the 
common  to  see  the  carriage  pass. 

"What  joy  thus  to  wait  for  one's  child  when  it  is  not  a 
sin!"  said  Henriette. 

The  dog's  barking  had  told  Lady  Dudley  that  I  was  in 
the  carriage ;  she  thought,  no  doubt,  that  I  had  come  to  fetch 
her  in  it,  in  consequence  of  the  bad  weather.  When  we 
reached  the  spot  where  the  Marchioness  was  waiting,  she  flew 
along  the  road  with  the  skill  in  horsemanship  for  which  she 
is  noted,  and  which  Henriette  admired  as  a  marvel.  Ara- 
bella, by  way  of  a  pet  name,  called  me  only  by  the  last  syl- 
lable of  Ame'de'e,  pronouncing  it  in  the  English  fashion,  and 
on  her  lips  the  cry  had  a  charm  worthy  of  avfairy.  She  knew 
that  I  alone  should  understand  her  when  she  called  "My 
Dee." 

"It  is  he,  Madame,"  answered  the  Countess,  looking,  in 
the  clear  moonlight,  at  the  whimsical  personage  whose  eager 
face  was  strangely  framed  in  long  locks  out  of  curl. 

You  know  how  swiftly  women  take  stock  of  each  other. 
The  Englishwoman  recognized  her  rival,  and  was  arrogantly 
English:  she  comprehended  us  in  one  flash  of  English  scorn, 
and  vanished  on  the  heath  with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow. 

"Back  to  Clochegourde — fast,"  cried  the  Countess,  to 
whom  this  ruthless  glance  was  like  an  axe  at  her  heart. 

The  coachman  went  back  by  the  Chinon  road,  which  was 
better  than  that  by  Sadie*.  When  the  carriage  was  on  the 
skirts  of  the  common  again  we  heard  the  mad  gallop  of 
Arabella's  horse  and  her  dog's  footsteps.  They  were  all 
three  hurrying  round  the  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the 
heath. 

"She  is  going  away;  you  have  lost  her  foreverl"  said 
Henriette. 

"Well,"  replied  I,  "let  her  go.  She  will  not  cost  me  a 
regret." 

"Oh,  poor  woman!"  cried  the  Countess,  with  compassion- 
ate horror.  "But  where  is  she  going  ? ' ' 

"To  La  Grenadiere,  a  little  house  near  Saint-Cyr,"  said  I. 


THE   LILY   Of    THE    VALLEY  469 

"And  she  is  going  alone,"  said  Henriette,  in  a  tone  which 
told  me  that  all  women  make  common  cause  in  love,  and 
never  desert  each  other. 

As  we  turned  into  the  Clochegourde  avenue,  Arabella's 
dog  barked  gleefully  and  ran  on  in  front  of  the  carriage. 

"She  is  here  before  us!"  cried  the  Countess.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  she  added:  "I  never  saw  a  finer  woman.  What  a 
hand!  "What  a  figure!  Her  complexion  shames  the  lily, 
and  her  eyes  flash  like  diamonds.  But  she  rides  too  well; 
she  must  love  to  exert  her  strength ;  I  fancy  she  is  energetic 
and  violent;  then,  too,  she  seems  to  me  too  defiant  of  con- 
ventionality, a  woman  who  recognizes  no  law  is  apt  to  listen 
only  to  her  own  caprice.  Those  who  are  so  anxious  to  shine, 
to  be  always  moving,  have  not  the  gift  of  constancy.  To  my 
notions  love  needs  greater  quietude;  I  picture  it  to  myself  as 
an  immense  lake  where  the  sounding-line  finds  no  bottom, 
where  the  tempests  may  indeed  be  wild,  but  rare,  and  re- 
stricted within  impassable  bounds — where  two  beings  dwell 
on  an  island  of  flowers,  far  from  the  world  whose  luxury  and 
display  would  repel  them. 

"But  love  must  take  the  stamp  of  character.  I  am  per- 
haps mistaken.  If  the  elements  of  nature  yield  to  the  mold 
impressed  by  climate,  why  should  it  not  be  so  with  the  feel- 
ings of  individuals  ?  Feelings,  which  as  a  whole  obey  a  gen- 
eral law,  no  doubt  differ  in  expression  only.  Each  soul  has 
its  own  modes.  The  Marchioness  is  a  powerful  woman 
who  traverses  distances  and  acts  with  the  vigor  of  a  man; 
jailer,  warders,  and  executioner  must  be  killed  to  deliver 
her  lover.  Whereas  certain  women  know  no  better  than  to 
love  with  all  their  soul ;  in  danger  they  kneel  down,  pray, 
and  die. 

"Which  of  the  two  do  you  prefer?  That  is  the  whole 
question.  Yes,  the  Marchioness  loves  you ;  she  sacrifices  so 
much  for  you !  It  is  she  perhaps  who  will  love  on  when  you 
have  ceased  to  love  her." 

"Permit  me,  dear  angel,  to  echo  the  question  you  asked 
the  other  day:  How  do  you  know  these  things?" 


470  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

"Each  form  of  suffering  brings  its  lesson,  and  I  have 
suffered  in  so  many  ways  that  my  knowledge  is  vast. ' ' 

My  servant  had  heard  the  order  given,  and  expecting  that 
we  should  return  by  the  terraces,  he  held  my  horse  in  readi- 
ness, in  the  avenue.  Arabella's  dog  had  scented  the  horse, 
and  his  mistress,  led  by  very  legitimate  curiosity,  had  fol- 
lowed it  through  the  wood  where  she,  no  doubt,  had  been 
lurking. 

"Gro  and  make  your  peace,"  said  Henriette,  smiling,  with 
no  trace  of  melancholy.  ' '  Tell  her  how  much  she  is  mistaken 
as  to  my  intentions.  I  wanted  to  show  her  all  the  value  of 
the  prize  that  has  fallen  to  her ;  my  heart  has  none  but  kindly 
feelings  toward  her,  above  all,  neither  anger  nor  scorn.  Ex- 
plain to  her  that  I  am  her  sister,  and  not  her  rival. ' ' 

"I  will  not  go!"  cried  I. 

"Have  you  never  experienced,"  said  she,  with  the  flash- 
ing pride  of  a  martyr,  "that  certain  forms  of  consideration 
may  be  an  insult.  Gro — go ! ' ' 

I  went  to  join  Lady  Dudley  and  find  out  what  humor  she 
was  in.  "If  only  she  might  be  angry  and  throw  me  over," 
thought  I,  "I  would  return  to  Clochegourde. " 

The  dog  led  me  to  an  oak  tree  from  whence  the  Marchion- 
ess flew  off,  shouting  to  me,  "Away,  away!" 

I  had  no  choice  but  to  follow  her  to  Saint- Cyr,  which  we 
reached  at  midnight. 

"The  lady  is  in  excellent  health,"  said  Arabella,  as  she 
dismounted. 

Only  those  who  have  known  her  can  conceive  of  the  sar- 
casm implied  in  this  observation  dryly  flung  at  me  in  a  tone 
that  was  meant  to  convey:  "I  should  have  died!" 

"I  forbid  you  to  cast  any  of  your  three-barbed  witticisms 
at  Madame  de  Mortsauf , ' '  I  replied. 

"And  does  it  offend  your  Grace  when  I  remark  on  the 
perfect  health  enjoyed  by  one  so  dear  to  your  precious  heart? 
French  women,  it  is  said,  hate  even  their  lovers'  dogs;  but  in 
England  we  love  everything  that  is  dear  to  our  sovereign  lord, 
we  hate  what  they  hate,  for  we  live  in  their  very  skin.  Allow 


THE  LILY    OF   THE    VALLEY  471 

me  then  to  be  as  fond  of  that  lady  as  you  are.  Only,  dear 
"boy,"  said  she,  throwing  her  arms  round  me,  all  wet  from  the 
rain,  "if  you  were  faithless  to  me,  I  should  neither  stand  up, 
nor  lie  down,  nor  ride  in  a  carriage  with  men-servants;  neither 
drive  through  the  Landes  de  Charlemagne,  nor  over  the  heaths 
of  any  country  in  the  world,  nor  be  in  my  bed,  nor  under  the 
roof  of  my  fathers.  7  should  be  no  more. 

' '  I  was  born  in  Lancashire,  where  women  can  die  of  love. 
To  have  owned  you,  and  give  you  up  ?  I  will  give  you  up 
to  no  power  in  the  world,  not  even  to  death,  for  I  would  go 
with  you!1' 

She  took  me  into  her  room,  where  comfort  already  made 
its  presence  felt. 

"Love  her,  my  dear,"  said  I  warmly,  "for  she  loves  you, 
and  not  ironically  but  sincerely." 

"Sincerely,  child?"  she  said,  loosening  her  riding-habit. 

With  a  lover's  vanity,  I  tried  to  make  this  arrogant 
creature  understand  the  sublimity  of  Henriette's  character. 
"While  the  maid,  who  did  not  know  a  word  of  French,  was 
dressing  her  hair,  I  tried  to  describe  Madame  de  Mortsauf, 
sketching  her  life,  and  repeating  the  generous  thoughts  sug- 
gested to  her  by  a  crisis  in  which  all  women  are  petty  and 
spiteful.  Though  Arabella  affected  to  pay  not  the  slightest 
attention,  she  did  not  lose  a  word. 

"I  am  delighted,"  said  she  when  we  were  alone,  "to  know 
of  your  taste  for  this  style  of  Christian  conversation;  there  is 
on  my  estate  a  curate  who  has  not  his  match  in  composing 
sermons,  our  laborers  can  understand  them,  so  well  is  his 
prose  adapted  to  his  audience.  I  will  write  to-morrow  to  my 
father  to  despatch  this  worthy  by  steamer,  and  you  shall  find 
him  in  Paris.  When  once  you  have  heard  him,  you  will 
never  want  to  listen  to  any  one  else,  all  the  more  so  because 
he,  too,  enjoys  perfect  health.  His  moralizing  will  give  you 
none  of  those  shocks  that  end  in  tears;  it  flows  without  tur- 
moil, like  a  limpid  brook,  and  secures  delightful  slumbers. 
Every  evening,  if  you  like,  you  can  satisfy  your  craving  for 
sermons  while  digesting  your  dinner. 


472  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"English  moralizing,  my  dear  boy,  is  as  superior  to  that 
of  Tours  as  our  cutlery,  our  plate,  and  our  horses  are  superior 
to  your  knives  and  your  animals.  Do  me  the  favor  of  hear- 
ing my  curate — promise  me.  I  am  but  a  woman,  my  dearest; 
I  know  how  to  love,  how  to  die  for  you,  if  you  like;  but  I 
have  not  studied  at  Eton,  nor  at  Oxford,  nor  at  Edinburgh; 
I  am  neither  Doctor  nor  Reverend;  I  cannot  moralize  for 
you,  I  am  quite  unfit  for  it,  and  should  be  to  the  last  degree 
clumsy  if  I  attempted  it. 

"I  do  not  complain  of  your  taste;  you  might  have  far 
more  degraded  tastes  than  this,  and  I  would  try  to  accommo- 
date myself  to  them ;  for  I  intend  that  you  should  find  with 
me  everything  you  like  best — the  pleasures  of  love,  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  the  pleasures  of  church-going — good 
claret  and  the  Christian  virtues.  Would  you  like  to  see 
me  in  a  hair-shirt  this  evening?  That  woman  is  happy 
indeed  to  be  able  to  supply  you  with  moralities !  In  what 
university  do  French  women  take  their  degree?  Poor 
me!  I  have  nothing  to  give  you  but  myself,  I  am  only 
a  slave — " 

"Then  why  did  you  fly  when  I  wanted  to  bring  you 
together?" 

"Are  you  mad,  my  Dee?  I  would  travel  from  Paris  to 
Rome  disguised  as  your  footman,  I  would  do  the  most  pre- 
posterous things  for  you;  but  how  could  I  stop  to  talk  on 
the  highroad  to  a  woman  who  has  not  been  introduced  to  me, 
and  who  was  ready  with  a  sermon  under  three  heads  ?  I  can 
talk  to  peasants.  I  would  ask  a  workman  to  share  his  loaf 
with  me  if  I  were  hungry,  I  would  give  him  a  few  guineas, 
and  it  would  be  all  in  order;  but  as  to  stopping  a  chaise, 
as  highwaymen  do  in  England — that  is  not  included  in  my 
code  of  honor. 

"My  poor  boy,  all  you  know  is  how  to  love;  and  you  do 
not  know  how  to  live!  Besides,  my  angel,  I  am  not  yet 
made  exactly  in  your  image.  I  have  no  taste  for  moralities. 
However,  to  please  you,  I  am  capable  of  the  greatest  efforts. 
Come,  say  no  more,  I  will  set  to  work,  I  will  try  to  preach. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  473 

I  will  never  allow  myself  to  caress  yon  without  throwing  in 
a  text  from  the  Bible." 

She  exerted  all  her  power — used  it,  abused  it,  till  she  saw 
in  my  eyes  the  ardent  look  that  always  came  into  them  when 
she  began  her  enchantments.  She  triumphed  completely, 
and  I  submissively  agreed  to  set  above  the  vain  subtleties  of 
the  Catholic  Church  the  magnanimity  of  the  woman  who 
wrecks  herself  renounces  all  future  hope,  and  makes  love 
her  sole  virtue. 

"Does  she  love  herself  better  than  she  loves  you?"  said 
she.  "Does  she  prefer  to  you  something  which  is  not  you? 
How  can  a  woman  attach  any  importance  to  anything  in  her- 
self beyond  that  with  which  you  honor  it?  No  woman,  how- 
ever great  a  moralist  she  may  be,  can  be  the  equal  of  a  man. 
Walk  over  us,  kill  us,  never  let  us  encumber  your  life.  Our 
part  is  to  die,  yours  to  live  great  and  supreme.  In  your  hand 
is  the  poniard ;  we  have  only  to  love  and  f orgi  /e.  Does  the 
sun  care  about  the  midges  that  live  in  his  beams,  by  his 
glow  ?  They  exist  as  long  as  they  can,  and  when  he  disap- 
pears they  die — ' ' 

"Or  fly  away,"  I  put  in. 

"Or  fly  away,"  she  replied,  with  an  indifference  that 
would  have  spurred  any  man  determined  to  use  the  strange 
power  she  attributed  to  us.  "Do  you  think  it  worthy  of  a 
woman  to  stuff  a  man  with  bread  buttered  with  virtue,  to  con- 
vince him  that  love  and  religion  are  incompatible  ?  Am  I 
then  an  infidel  ?  A  woman  may  yield  or  refuse;  but  to  refuse 
and  preach  is  to  inflict  a  double  penalty,  which  is  against  the 
law  of  every  land.  Now  here  you  will  have  nothing  but 
delicious  sandwiches  prepared  by  the  hand  of  your  humble 
servant  Arabella,  whose  whole  morality  consists  in  inventing 
caresses  such  as  no  man  has  ever  known,  and  which  are  sug- 
gested by  the  angels. ' ' 

I  know  nothing  so  undoing  as  such  banter  in  the  hands 
of  an  Englishwoman ;  she  throws  into  it  the  eloquent  gravity, 
the  pompous  air  of  conviction  under  which  the  English  cover 
the  lofty  imbecilities  of  their  prejudiced  views.  French 


474  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

irony  is  like  lace  with,  which  women  dress  out  the  pleasure 
they  give  and  the  disputes  they  invent;  it  is  a  trimming,  and 
as  graceful  as  their  dress.  But  English  "fun"  is  an  acid  so 
corrosive  to  those  on  whom  it  falls  that  it  leaves  them  skele- 
tons, picked  and  cleaned.  A  witty  Englishwoman's  tongue 
is  like  a  tiger's,  which  strips  off  the  flesh  to  the  very  bone, 
and  all  in  play;  mockery,  that  all-powerful  weapon  of  the 
devil's,  leaves  a  deadly  poison  in  the  wounds  it  reopens  at 
will. 

That  night  Arabella  chose  to  exert  her  power  like  the 
Grand  Turk,  who,  to  show  his  skill,  amuses  himself  with 
decapitating  innocent  persons. 

"My  angel,"  said  she,  when  she  had  soothed  me  to  the 
dozing  condition  in  which  everything  is  forgotten  but  a  sense 
of  happiness,  "I  have  been  moralizing  too — I  myself!  I  was 
wondering  whether  I  am  committing  a  crime  in  loving  you, 
whether  I  was  violating  divine  laws,  and  I  decided  that  noth- 
ing could  be  more  pious  or  more  natural.  Why  should  God 
create  some  beings  more  beautiful  than  others  unless  to  show 
us  that  they  are  to  be  adored?  The  crime  would  be  not  to 
love  you,  for  are  you  not  an  angel  ?  That  lady  insults  you 
by  classing  you  with  other  men;  the  rules  of  morality  do  not 
apply  to  you;  God  has  set  you  above  them.  Is  not  loving 
you  rising  to  be  nearer  to  Him  ?  Can  He  be  wroth  with  a 
poor  woman  for  longing  for  things  divine  ?  Your  large  and 
radiant  heart  is  so  like  the  sky  that  I  mistake  it,  as  midges 
come  to  burn  themselves  in  the  lights  at  a  festival!  Are 
they  to  be  punished  for  their  mistake  ?  Indeed,  is  it  a  mis- 
take ?  Is  it  not  too  fervent  a  worship  of  light  ?  They  perish 
from  too  much  piety — if,  indeed,  flinging  one's  self  into  the 
arms  we  love  can  be  called  perishing ! 

"I  am  weak  enough  to  love  you  while  that  woman  is 
strong  enough  to  remain  in  her  chapel !  Do  not  frown  on  me. 
You  think  1  condemn  her?  No,  child!  I  delight  in  her 
morality,  since  it  has  led  her  to  leave  you  free,  and  so  allowed 
me  to  win  you  and  to  keep  you  forever — for  you  are  mine 
forever,  are  you  not  ? ' ' 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  475 

"Yes." 

"For  ever  and  ever?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  grant  me  a  favor,  my  Sultan.  I  alone  have  dis- 
cerned all  your  value.  She,  you  say,  cultivates  the  land? 
I  leave  that  to  the  farmers;  I  would  rather  cultivate  your 
heart." 

I  have  tried  to  recall  all  this  chatter  to  give  you  a  clear 
idea  of  this  woman,  to  justify  all  I  have  said  about  her,  and 
to  give  you  a  clew  to  the  catastrophe.  But  how  am  I  to  de- 
scribe the  accompaniment  to  the  sweet  words  you  know  so 
well — conceits  only  to  be  compared  to  the  most  extravagant 
fictions  of  our  dreams;  inventions  sometimes  reminding  me 
of  my  nosegays;  grace  united  to  strength,  tenderness  and 
languid  softness  contrasting  with  volcanic  eruptions  of  pas- 
sions; the  most  elaborate  modulations  of  music  applied  to  the 
harmony  of  our  delight,  the  most  insinuating  words  graced 
with  charming  ideas,  everything  most  poetical  that  wit  can 
add  to  the  pleasures  of  sense.  She  aimed  at  destroying  the 
impression  left  on  my  heart  by  Henriette's  chaste  reserve,  by 
the  flashes  of  her  own  impetuous  passion.  The  Marchioness 
had  seen  the  Countess  quite  as  well  as  Madame  de  Mortsauf 
had  seen  her.  They  had  judged  each  other  clearly.  The 
elaborate  attack  planned  by  Arabella  showed  how  great  her 
fears  had  been,  and  her  secret  admiration  for  her  rival. 

In  the  morning  I  found  her  with  eyes  full  of  tears;  she 
had  not  slept. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  I. 

"I  am  afraid  my  excess  of  love  may  militate  against  me," 
paid  she.  "I  give  you  all;  she,  cleverer  than  I,  still  has 
something  for  you  to  desire.  If  you  prefer  her,  think  no 
more  of  me;  I  will  not  bore  you  with  my  sufferings,  my 
remorse,  my  sorrows — no,  I  will  go  to  die  far  away  from  you, 
like  a  plant  far  from  the  life-giving  sun." 

She  extracted  from  me  such  protestations  as  filled  her 
with  joy.  What  is  to  be  said  to  a  woman  who  weeps  in  the 
morning?  A  hard  word  then  seems  brutal.  If  she  has  not 


476  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

been  denied  ove*  night,  we  must  need  tell  lies  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  the  code  of  man  makes  such  falsehood  a  duty. 

"Well,  then,  I  am  happy,"  said  she,  wiping  away  her 
tears.  "Gro  back  to  her;  I  do  not  wish  to  owe  you  to  the 
vehemence  of  my  love,  but  to  your  own  free  will.  If  you 
come  back  again  I  shall  believe  that  you  love  me  as  much 
as  I  love  you,  which  I  had  always  thought  impossible." 

She  managed  to  persuade  me  to  return  to  Clochegourde. 
How  false  the  situation  in  which  I  should  then  find  myself 
was  not  to  be  imagined  by  a  man  gorged  with  raptures.  If  I 
had  refused  to  go  to  Clochegourde,  Lady  Arabella  would 
have  won  the  day  at  Henriette's  expense.  Arabella  would 
then  carry  me  off  to  Paris.  Still,  to  go  thither  was  to  insult 
Madame  de  Mortsauf .  In  that  case  I  should  come  back  more 
certainly  than  ever  to  Arabella. 

Has  any  woman  forgiveness  for  such  crimes  of  treason? 
Short  of  being  an  angel  come  down  from  heaven  rather  than 
a  purified  spirit  about  to  attain  to  it,  a  loving  woman  would 
see  her  lover  suffer  any  agony  sooner  than  see  him  made 
happy  by  another.  The  more  she  loves,  the  more  she  will 
be  hurt. 

Thus  regarded  from  both  sides,  my  position,  when  I  had 
once  left  Clochegourde  to  go  to  La  Grenadiere,  was  as  fatal 
to  my  first  true  love  as  it  was  profitable  to  my  chance  passion. 
The  Marchioness  had  foreseen  it  all  with  deep  calculation. 
She  confessed  later  that  if  Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  not  met 
her  on  the  heath  she  had  intended  to  commit  me  by  hanging 
about  Clochegourde. 

The  instant  I  saw  the  Countess,  whom  I  found  pale  and 
stricken,  like  a  person  who  has  endured  intolerable  insom- 
nia, I  exercised — not  the  tact — but  the  instinct  which  en- 
ables a  still  young  and  generous  heart  to  appreciate  the  full 
bearing  of  actions  that  are  criminal  in  the  jurisprudence  of 
noble  souls  though  indifferent  in  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar. 
Suddenly,  as  a  child,  that  has  gone  down  a  steep  while 
playing  and  plucking  flowers,  sees,  in  terror,  that  he  can- 


THE  LILY   OF   THE  VALLEY  477 

not  go  up  it  again,  discerns  no  human  ground  but  at  an 
immeasurable  distance,  feels  himself  alone  in  the  dark,  and 
hears  savage  howls,  I  perceived  that  a  whole  world  lay  be- 
tween us.  A  loud  cry  went  up  in  our  souls,  an  echo,  as  it 
were,  of  the  funereal  Consummatum  est  which  is  pronounced 
in  church  on  Good  Friday,  at  the  hour  when  the  Saviour 
died — a  dreadful  scene  which  freezes  those  young  souls  in 
which  religion  is  their  first  love.  Every  illusion  Henrietta 
had  known  had  died  under  one  blow;  her  heart  had  gone 
through  its  passion.  She  whom  pleasure  had  never  in- 
volved in  its  deadening  coils — could  she  suspect  the  joys 
of  happy  lovers,  that  she  refused  to  look  at  me?  for  she 
would  not  shed  on  my  gaze  the  light  which  for  six  years 
had  irradiated  my  life.  She  knew,  then,  that  the  source  of 
the  beams  that  shone  from  our  eyes  lay  in  our  souls,  for 
which  they  were  as  a  pathway,  leading  from  one  to  the 
other,  so  that  they  might  visit,  become  one,  separate,  and 
play — like  two  confiding  girls  who  have  no  secrets  from 
each  other.  I  was  bitterly  conscious  of  the  sin  of  bringing 
under  this  roof,  where  caresses  were  unknown,  a  face  on 
which  the  wings  of  enjoyment  had  shed  their  sparkling 
dust. 

If,  the  day  before,  I  had  left  Lady  Dudley  to  go  home 
alone;  if  I  had  come  back  to  Clochegourde,  where  Henri- 
ette  perhaps  expected  me;  perhaps — well,  perhaps  Madame 
de  Mortsauf  would  not  have  behaved  so  strictly  as  my  sis- 
ter. She  gave  all  her  civilities  the  solemnity  of  exagger- 
ated emphasis;  she  played  her  part  to  excess  so  as  not  to 
forget  it.  During  breakfast  she  paid  me  a  thousand  little 
attentions,  humiliating  attentions;  she  made  much  of  me 
like  a  sick  man  to  be  pitied. 

"You  were  out  betimes,"  said  the  Count;  "you  must 
have  a  fine  appetite,  you  whose  digestion  is  not  ruined." 

This  speech,  which  failed  to  bring  the  smile  of  a  wily 
sister  to  the  Countess's  lips,  put  the  crowning  touch  to  the 
impossibility  of  my  position.  I  could  not  be  at  Cloche- 
gourde  by  day  and  at  Saint-Cyr  by  night.  Arabella  had 


4T8  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

counted  on  my  sense  of  delicacy  and  Madame  de  Mortsauf 's 
magnanimity. 

All  through  that  long  day  I  felt  the  difficulty  of  becom- 
ing the  friend  of  a  woman  one  has  long  desired.  This  tran- 
sition, simple  enough  when  years  have  led  up  to  it,  in  youth 
is  a  distemper.  I  was  ashamed,  I  cursed  all  pleasure,  I 
wished  that  Madame  de  Mortsauf  would  demand  my  blood! 
I  could  not  tear  her  rival  to  pieces  before  her  eyes;  she 
avoided  mentioning  her,  and  to  speak  ill  of  Arabella  was  a 
baseness  which  would  have  incurred  the  contempt  of  Hen- 
riette,  herself  noble  and  lofty  to  the  inmost  core.  After 
five  years  of  exquisite  intimacy  we  did  not  know  what  to 
talk  about;  our  words  did  not  express  our  thoughts;  we 
hid  gnawing  pangs,  we  to  whom  suffering  had  hitherto 
been  a  faithful  interpreter.  Henriette  affected  a  cheerful 
air  on  my  behalf  and  her  own ;  but  she  was  sad.  Though 
she  called  herself  my  sister  on  every  opportunity,  and 
though  she  was  a  woman,  she  could  find  no  subject  to 
keep  up  the  conversation,  and  we  sat  for  the  most  part  in 
awkward  silence.  She  added  to  my  mental  torment  by 
affecting  to  think  herself  Lady  Arabella's  only  victim. 

"I  am  suffering  more  than  you  are,"  said  I,  at  a  moment 
when  the  sister  spoke  in  a  tone  of  very  feminine  irony. 

"How  can  that  be?"  said  she,  in  the  haughty  voice  a 
woman  can  put  on  when  her  feelings  are  underestimated. 

"I  have  done  all  the  wrong." 

Then  there  was  a  moment  when  the  Countess  assumed  a 
cold  indifference  that  was  too  much  for  me.  I  determined 
to  go. 

That  evening,  on  the  terrace,  I  took  leave  of  all  the 
family  together.  They  followed  me  to  the  lawn  where  my 
horse  waited,  pawing  the  ground.  They  stood  out  of  the 
way.  When  I  had  taken  the  bridle,  the  Countess  came 
up  to  me. 

"Come,  we  will  walk  down  the  avenue  alone,"  said  she. 

I  gave  her  my  arm,  and  we  went  out  through  the  court- 
yards, walking  slowly  as  if  lingering  over  the  sensation  of 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  479 

moving  together;  we  thus  reached  a  clump  of  trees  that 
screened  a  corner  of  the  outer  inclosure. 

"Good-by,  my  friend,"  said  she,  stopping  and  throwing 
her  arms  round  my  neck  with  her  head  on  my  heart. 
"Good-by,  we  shall  see  each  other  no  more.  God  has 
given  me  the  melancholy  power  of  looking  into  the 
future.  Do  you  remember  the  panic  that  came  over  me 
that  day  when  you  came  back  so  handsome,  so  youthful ; 
and  when  I  saw  you  turn  to  quit  me,  just  as  to-day  you  are 
leaving  Clochegourde  for  La  Grenadiere  ?  Well,  last  night 
I  was  once  more  enabled  to  look  forward  to  our  destinies. 
My  friend,  we  are  speaking  to  each  other  for  the  last  time. 
I  can  hardly  say  a  few  words  to  you  even  now,  for  not  all 
of  me  speaks;  death  has  already  stricken  something  within 
me.  You  will  have  robbed  my  children  of  their  mother — 
take  her  place !  You  can !  Jacques  and  Madeleine  love  you 
already  as  though  you  had  made  them  suffer!" 

"Die!"  cried  I  in  alarm,  as  I  looked  at  the  dry  flame  in 
her  glittering  eyes,  of  which  I  can  only  give  an  idea  to  those 
whose  dear  ones  have  never  been  attacked  by  the  dreadful 
malady  by  comparing  her  eyes  with  balls  of  tarnished  silver. 
"Die!  Henriette,  I  command  you  to  live.  You  used  to  re- 
quire vows  of  me — now  I,  to-day,  require  one  of  you :  swear 
to  me  that  you  will  consult  Origet  and  do  exactly  what  he 
tells  you." 

"Then  would  you  contend  against  the  loving  mercy  of 
God?"  said  she,  interrupting  me  with  a  cry  of  despair,  in- 
dignant at  being  misunderstood. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me  enough  to  obey  me  blindly  in 
everything,  as  that  miserable  lady  does?" 

"Yes,  yes;  whatever  you  wish,"  said  she,  urged  by  a 
jealousy  which  made  her  overleap  in  that  instant  the  dis- 
tance she  had  till  now  preserved. 

"I  stay  here,"  said  I,  kissing  her  eyes. 

Startled  by  this  capitulation  she  escaped  from  my  em- 
brace and  went  to  lean  against  a  tree.  Then  she  turned 
homeward,  walking  very  fast  without  turning  her  head;  I 


480  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

followed  her,  she  was  praying  and  weeping.  When  we 
reached  the  lawn  I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  respect- 
fully. This  unlooked-for  surrender  touched  her  heart. 

"Yours,  come  what  may,"  said  I.  "I  love  you  as  your 
aunt  loved  you. ' ' 

She  started  and  wrung  my  hand. 

"One  look,"  said  I,  "only  one  of  your  old  looks!"  And 
feeling  my  whole  soul  enlightened  by  the  flashing  glance 
she  gave  me,  I  cried,  "The  woman  who  gives  herself 
wholly  gives  me  less  of  life  and  spirit  than  I  have  now 
received!  Henriette,  you  are  the  best  beloved — the  only 
love." 

"I  will  live,"  said  she,  "but  you,  too,  must  get  well." 

That  gaze  had  effaced  the  impression  of  Arabella's  sar- 
casms. Thus  was  I  the  plaything  of  the  two  irreconcilable 
passions  1  have  described  to  you,  and  of  which  I  felt  the 
alternating  influence.  I  loved  an  angel  and  a  demon:  two 
women  equally  lovely;  one  graced  with  all  the  virtues  we 
torture  out  of  hatred  of  our  own  defects,  the  other  with  all 
the  vices  we  deify  out  of  selfishness.  As  I  rode  down  the 
avenue,  turning  round  again  and  again  to  see  Madame  de 
Mortsauf  leaning  against  a  tree,  her  children  standing  by 
her  and  waving  their  handkerchiefs,  I  detected  in  my  soul 
an  impulse  of  pride  at  knowing  myself  to  be  the  arbiter  of 
two  such  noble  destinies,  the  glory,  on  such  different 
grounds,  of  two  superior  women,  and  at  having  inspired 
such  passions  that  either  of  them  would  die  if  I  failed 
her. 

This  brief  but  fatuous  dream  was  severely  punished,  be- 
lieve me.  Some  demon  prompted  me  to  wait  with  Arabella 
till  a  fit  of  despair  or  the  Count's  death  should  throw  Hen- 
riette into  my  arms,  since  Henriette  still  loved  me:  her  se- 
verity, her  tears,  her  remorse,  her  Christian  resignation, 
were  the  eloquent  symptoms  of  a  feeling  which  could  no 
more  be  effaced  from  her  heart  than  from  my  own.  As  1 
slowly  walked  my  horse  along  the  pretty  avenue,  making 
these  reflections,  I  was  not  five -and -twenty,  I  was  fifty. 


THE  LILY   OF  THE    VALLEY  481 

Does  not  a  young  man,  even  more  than  a  woman,  leap  in 
a  moment  from  thirty  to  sixty  ? 

Though  I  could  drive  away  these  evil  thoughts  with  a 
breath,  they  haunted  me,  I  must  confess.  Their  source, 
perhaps,  was  at  the  Tuileries  behind  the  panels  of  the  royal 
cabinet.  Who  could  come  unharmed  under  the  tainting  in- 
fluence of  Louis  XVIII.,  who  was  wont  to  say  that  a  man 
knows  nothing  of  true  passion  till  he  is  past  maturity,  since 
passion  is  never  splendid  and  frenzied  till  there  is  some  loss 
of  power,  and  each  pleasure  is  like  the  gambler's  last  stake? 

When  I  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue  I  looked  round 
once  more,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  back  again, 
on  seeing  Henriette  still  standing  there  alone.  I  flew  to  bid 
her  a  last  adieu,  bathed  in  tears  of  expiation  of  which  she 
knew  not  the  secret.  Sincere  tears,  shed,  though  I  knew  it 
not,  on  the  sweet  love  that  was  forever  past,  on  the  virgin 
emotions,  the  flowers  of  life  that  can  never  bloom  again. 
Later  in  life  a  man  can  no  longer  give,  he  only  receives; 
what  he  loves  in  his  mistress  is  himself;  whereas  in  youth 
he  loves  her  in  himself.  Later,  he  inoculates  the  woman 
who  loves  him,  with  his  tastes,  perhaps  with  his  vices; 
whereas,  in  the  early  days,  the  woman  he  loves  imparts 
her  virtues,  her  refinement,  invites  him  to  what  is  beauti- 
ful by  her  smile,  and  shows  him  what  devotion  means  by 
her  example. 

Alas  for  the  man  who  has  not  had  his  Henriette  1  Alas 
for  him  who  has  not  met  a  Lady  Dudley  1  If  he  marries,  the 
second  will  fail  to  retain  his  wife,  the  first  may  perhaps  be 
deserted  by  his  mistress;  happy  is  he  who  finds  both  in  one 
woman;  happy,  Natalie,  is  the  man  you  love! 

On  our  return  to  Paris,  Arabella  and  I  became  more  inti- 
mate ;  by  small  degrees  we  insensibly  abrogated  the  laws  of 
propriety  to  which  I  had  subjected  myself — laws  whose  ob- 
servance often  leads  the  world  to  overlook  the  false  position 
to  which  Lady  Dudley  had  committed  herself.  The  world, 
which  dearly  loves  to  get  behind  the  curtain  of  things,  ac- 

Vol.  4.  (U) 


482  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

cepts  them  as  soon  as  it  knows  the  hidden  secret.  Lovers 
who  are  obliged  to  live  in  the  world  of  fashion  are  always 
wrong  to  "break  down  the  barriers  insisted  on  by  the  com- 
mon law  of  drawing-rooms,  wrong  not  to  obey  implicitly  all 
the  conventions  demanded  by  good  manners;  more  for  their 
own  sake  than  for  that  of  others.  Distances  to  be  traversed, 
superficial  respect  to  be  maintained,  comedies  to  be  played 
out,  mystery  to  be  kept  up — all  the  strategy  of  a  happy 
love-affair  fills  up  life,  revives  desire,  and  preserves  the 
heart  from  the  lassitude  of  habit.  But  a  first  passion,  like 
a  young  man,  is  by  nature  profligate,  and  cuts  down  its  tim- 
ber recklessly,  instead  of  economizing  its  resources. 

Arabella  scorned  such  commonplace  ideas,  and  submitted 
to  them  only  to  please  me.  Like  the  destroyer  who  marks 
his  prey  beforehand  to  secure  it,  she  hoped  to  compromise 
me  in  the  eyes  of  all  Paris  so  as  to  attach  me  to  her  per- 
manently. She  displayed  every  coquettish  art  to  keep  me 
at  the  house,  for  she  was  not  satisfied  with  the  elegant  scan- 
dal which,  for  lack  of  evidence,  countenanced  nothing  more 
than  whisperings  behind  a  fan.  Seeing  her  so  anxious  to 
commit  an  imprudence  which  must  definitely  certify  her  po- 
sition, how  could  I  do  otherwise  than  believe  in  her  love? 

Once  involved  in  the  beguilements  of  an  illicit  union  I 
fell  a  prey  to  despair,  for  I  saw  my  life  cut  out  in  antago- 
nism to  received  ideas  and  to  Henriette's  injunctions.  I 
lived,  then,  in  the  sort  of  frenzy  which  comes  over  a  con- 
sumptive man,  when,  conscious  of  his  approaching  end,  he 
will  not  allow  his  breathing  to  be  sounded.  There  was  one 
corner  of  my  heart  I  could  not  look  into  without  anguish;  a 
spirit  of  vengeance  was  constantly  suggesting  ideas  on  which 
I  dared  not  dwell. 

My  letters  to  Henriette  painted  this  mental  disorder,  and 
caused  her  infinite  pain. 

"At  the  cost  of  so  much  lost  treasure  she  had  hoped  I 
should  at  least  be  happy,"  said  she,  in  the  only  reply  I  ever 
received. 

And  I  was  not  happy!     Dear  Natalie,  happiness  can  only 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  483 

be  positive;  it  cannot  endure  comparisons.  My  first  ardor 
expended,  I  could  not  help  comparing  these  two  women,  a 
contrast  I  had  not  yet  been  capable  of  studying.  In  fact, 
any  great  passion  lies  so  heavily  on  our  whole  nature  that, 
in  the  first  instance,  it  levels  all  angels  and  fills  up  the  ruts 
of  habit  which  represent  our  good  or  evil  qualities.  But 
later,  in  lovers  who  are  thoroughly  accustomed  to  each  other, 
the  features  of  their  moral  physiognomy  reappear;  they  judge 
each  other  calmly,  and  not  infrequently  in  the  course  of  this 
reaction  of  character  on  passion,  antipathies  are  discovered 
which  lead  to  the  separations  regarded  by  superficial  minds 
as  evidence  of  the  inconstancy  of  the  human  heart. 

This  stage  had  begun  for  us.  Less  dazzled  by  her  fasci- 
nations, and  taking  my  pleasures  retail,  so  to  speak,  I,  half 
involuntarily  perhaps,  took  stock  of  Lady  Dudley  to  her  die- 
advantage. 

In  the  first  place,  I  found  her  lacking  in  the  mother- wit 
which  distinguishes  the  Frenchwoman  from  all  others,  and 
makes  her  the  most  delightful  to  love,  as  men  have  owned 
who  have  had  opportunities  for  judging  of  the  women  of 
many  lands.  When  a  Frenchwoman  loves  she  is  metamor- 
phosed; her  much-talked-of  vanity  is  devoted  to  beautifying 
her  love;  she  sacrifices  her  dangerous  conceit  and  throws  all 
her  pretentiousness  into  the  art  of  loving.  She  weds  her 
lover's  interests,  his  hatreds,  his  friendships;  in  one  day  she 
masters  the  experienced  shrewdness  of  a  man  of  business; 
she  studies  the  law,  she  understands  the  machinery  of  credit 
and  can  seduce  a  banker's  counting-house ;  reckless  and  prodi- 
gal, she  will  not  make  a  single  blunder  or  waste  a  single  louis. 
She  is  at  once  mother,  housekeeper,  and  physician,  and  to 
every  fresh  phase  she  gives  a  grace  of  delight  that  betrays 
infinite  love  in  the  most  trifling  details.  She  combines  the 
special  qualities  which  charm  us  in  the  women  of  various 
countries,  giving  unity  to  the  compound  by  wit,  the  growth 
of  France,  which  vivifies,  sanctions,  and  justifies  everything, 
lends  variety,  and  redeems  the  monotony  of  a  sentiment  based 
on  the  present  tense  of  a  single  verb. 


484  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  Frenchwoman  loves  once  for  all,  without  pause  or 
fatigue,  at  all  hours,  in  public  or  alone ;  in  public  she  finds 
a  tone  that  argues  to  one  ear  only,  her  very  silence  speaks, 
and  her  eyes  appeal  to  you  without  looking  up ;  if  speech 
and  looks  are  alike  prohibited  she  can  use  the  sand  under 
her  feet  to  trace  a  thought  in ;  alone  she  expresses  her  passion 
even  in  her  sleep,  in  short,  she  bends  the  world  to  her  love. 

The  Englishwoman,  on  the  contrary,  bends  her  love  to 
the  world.  Accustomed,  by  eduoaii"DC  10  preserve  the  icy 
manners,  the  egotistic  British  mien  of  which  I  have  told 
you,  she  opens  and  shuts  her  heart  with  the  readiness  of 
English-made  machinery.  She  has  an  impenetrable  mask 
which  she  takes  on  and  off  with  phlegmatic  coolness;  as 
impassioned  as  an  Italian  when  no  eye  can  see,  she  turns 
coldly  dignified  as  soon  as  the  world  looks  on.  Then  the 
nhan  she  loves  best  on  earth  doubts  his  power  as  he  meets 
the  utterly  passive  countenance,  the  calm  intonation,  the 
perfect  freedom  of  expression  that  an  Englishwoman  assumes 
as  she  comes  out  of  her  boudoir.  At  such  a  moment  dissimu- 
lation becomes  indifference;  the  Englishwoman  has  forgotten 
everything.  Certainly,  a  woman  who  can  throw  off  her  love 
like  a  garment  makes  one  think  that  she  may  change. 

What  storms  toss  the  surges  of  the  heart  when  they  are 
stirred  by  wounded  self-love,  as  we  see  a  woman  taking  up 
her  love,  laying  it  down  and  returning  to  it,  like  a  piece  of 
needlework!  Such  women  are  too  thoroughly  mistresses  of 
themselves  to  be  wholly  yours;  they  allow  the  world  too 
much  influence  for  your  sovereignty  to  be  undivided.  In 
cases  when  a  Frenchwoman  comforts  the  sufferer  by  a  look, 
or  betrays  her  annoyance  at  intrusion  by  some  lively  jest, 
the  Englishwoman's  silence  is  complete:  it  frets  the  soul  and 
irritates  the  brain.  These  women  are  so  accustomed  to  reign 
wherever  they  may  be  that,  to  most  of  them,  the  omnipotence 
of  fashion  dominates  even  their  pleasures. 

Those  who  are  excessive  in  prudery  should  be  excessive 
in  love;  Englishwomen  are  so;  they  throw  everything  into 
form,  but  the  love  of  form  does  not,  in  them,  produce  a  feel- 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  486 

ing  for  art;  they  may  say  what  they  will,  Protestantism  and 
Catholicism  account  for  the  differences  which  give  to  a  French- 
woman's  spirit  so  great  a  superiority  over  the  reasoned,  cal- 
culating love  of  Englishwomen.  Protestantism  is  sceptical, 
it  examines  and  kills  belief ;  it  is  the  death  of  art  and  of  love. 
Where  the  world  rules  the  people  of  the  world  must  obey; 
but  those  who  know  what  passion  means  flee  away ;  to  them 
it  is  intolerable. 

You  may  understand,  then,  how  much  my  self-respect 
was  wounded  by  discovering  that  Lady  Dudley  would  not 
live  without  the  world,  and  that  these  British  transitions 
were  habitual  with  her.  They  were  not  a  necessity  imposed 
on  her  by  the  world ;  no,  she  naturally  showed  herself  under 
two  aspects  adverse  to  each  other;  when  she  loved  it  was 
with  intoxication;  no  woman  of  any  nationality  could  be 
compared  with  her,  she  was  as  good  as  a  whole  seraglio; 
but  then  a  curtain  fell  on  this  fairy  display,  and  shut  out 
even  the  remembrance  of  it.  She  would  respond  neither  to 
a  look  nor  a  smile ;  she  was  neither  mistress  nor  slave ;  she 
behaved  like  an  ambassadress  compelled  to  be  precise  in  her 
phrases  and  demeanor,  she  put  me  out  of  patience  with  her 
calmness,  outraged  my  heart  by  her  primness ;  she  thus  stored 
up  her  love  till  it  was  required,  instead  of  raising  it  to  the 
ideal  by  enthusiasm.  In  which  of  the  two  women  was  I  to 
believe  ? 

I  felt  by  a  myriad  pin-pricks  the  infinite  difference  that 
divided  Henriette  from  Arabella.  When  Madame  de  Mort- 
sauf  left  me  for  a  few  minutes  she  seemed  to  charge  the  air 
with  the  care  of  speaking  of  her ;  as  she  went  away  the  sweep 
of  her  gown  appealed  to  my  eyes,  as  its  rippling  rustle  came 
to  my  ear  when  she  came  back ;  there  was  infinite  tenderness 
in  the  way  her  eyelids  unfolded  when  she  looked  down;  her 
voice,  her  musical  voice,  was  a  continual  caress;  her  speech 
bore  witness  to  an  ever-present  thought;  she  was  always  the 
same.  She  did  not  divide  her  soul  between  two  atmospheres, 
one  burning  and  the  other  icy;  in  short,  Madame  de  Mort- 
sauf  kept  her  wit  and  the  bloom  of  her  intelligence  to  express 


486  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

her  feelings,  she  made  herself  fascinating  to  her  children  and 
to  me  by  the  ideas  she  uttered.  Arabella's  wit  did  not  serve 
her  to  make  life  pleasant,  she  did  not  exert  it  for  my  benefit, 
it  existed  only  by  and  for  the  world:  it  was  purely  satirical, 
she  loved  to  rend  and  bite,  not  for  the  fun  of  it,  but  to  gratify 
a  craving.  Madame  de  Mortsauf  would  have  hidden  her  hap- 
piness from  every  eye ;  Lady  Arabella  wanted  to  show  hers 
to  all  Paris,  and  yet  with  horrible  dissimulation  she  main- 
tained the  proprieties  even  while  riding  with  me  in  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne. 

This  mixture  of  ostentation  and  dignity,  of  love  and  cold- 
ness, was  constantly  chafing  my  soul  that  was  at  once  virgin 
and  impassioned,  and  as  I  was  incapable  of  thus  rushing  from 
one  mood  to  another  my  temper  suffered ;  I  was  throbbing 
with  love  when  she  relapsed  into  conventional  prudery. 
When  I  ventured  to  complain,  not  without  the  greatest  def- 
erence, she  turned  her  three-barbed  tongue  on  me,  mingling 
the  rodomontade  of  adoration  with  the  English  wit  I  have 
tried  to  describe.  As  soon  as  she  found  herself  in  antago- 
nism to  me  she  made  a  sport  of  wounding  my  heart,  and  hu- 
miliating my  mind,  and  molded  me  like  dough.  To  my 
remarks  as  to  a  medium  to  be  observed  in  all  things,  she 
retorted  by  caricaturing  my  ideas,  and  carrying  them  to  ex- 
tremes. If  I  reproached  her  for  her  conduct  she  would  ask 
me  if  I  wanted  her  to  embrace  me  under  the  eyes  of  all  Paris 
— at  the  Italian  opera — and  she  took  the  matter  so  seriously 
that  I,  knowing  her  mania  for  making  herself  talked  about, 
quaked  lest  she  should  fulfil  her  words. 

In  spite  of  her  real  passion,  I  never  felt  in  her  anything 
sacred,  reserved,  .and  deep,  as  in  Henriette;  she  was  as  in- 
satiable as  a  sandy  soil.  Madame  de  Mortsauf  was  always 
composed;  she  felt  my  soul  in  an  accent  or  a  glance,  while 
the  Marchioness  was  never  overpowered  by  a  look,  by  a 
pressure  of  the  hand,  or  a  murmured  word.  Nay,  more,  the 
happiness  of  yesterday  was  as  nothing  on  the  morrow.  No 
proof  of  love  ever  surprised  her;  she  had  such  a  craving  for 
excitement,  turmoil,  and  show,  that  nothing,  I  imagine,  came 


THE  LILY  OP   THE    VALLEY  487 

up  to  her  ideal  in  these  points ;  hence  her  frenzied  excesses 
of  passion ;  it  was  for  her  own  sake,  not  for  mine,  that  she 
indulged  her  extravagant  fancies. 

Madame  de  Mortsauf 's  letter,  the  beacon  that  still  shone 
on  my  path,  and  showed  how  the  most  virtuous  wife  can 
obey  her  genius  as  a  Frenchwoman  by  proving  her  perpetual 
vigilance,  her  unfailing  comprehension  of  all  my  vicissitudes 
— that  letter  must  have  enlightened  you  as  to  the  care  with 
which  Henriette  kept  watch  over  my  material  interests,  my 
political  connections,  my  moral  conquests,  and  her  intimate 
interest  in  my  life  in  all  permitted  ways. 

On  all  these  points  Lady  Dudley  affected  the  reserve  of 
a  mere  acquaintance.  She  never  inquired  as  to  my  doings, 
nor  my  aversions  or  friendships  with  men.  Lavish  for  her- 
self, without  being  generous,  she  decidedly  made  too  little 
distinction  between  interest  and  love;  whereas,  without  hav- 
ing tested  her,  I  knew  that,  to  spare  me  a  regret,  Henriette 
would  have  found  for  me  what  she  would  never  have  sought 
for  herself.  In  one  of  those  catastrophes  which  may  befall 
the  highest  and  the  wealthiest — history  has  many  instances — 
I  should  have  taken  counsel  of  Henriette,  but  I  would  have 
been  dragged  to  prison  rather  than  say  a  word  to  Lady 
Dudley. 

So  far  the  contrast  is  based  on  feelings,  but  it  was  equally 
great  with  regard  to  externals.  In  France  luxury  is  the 
expression  of  the  man,  the  reproduction  of  his  ideas,  of  his 
personal  poetry;  it  represents  the  character,  and,  between 
lovers,  gives  value  to  the  most  trifling  attentions  by  drawing 
out  the  ruling  idea  of  the  one  we  love;  but  English  luxury, 
which  had  bewitched  me  by  its  selectness  and  refinement, 
was  as  mechanical  as  the  rest.  Lady  Dudley  infused  nothing 
of  herself  into  it;  it  was  the  work  of  her  servants — bought, 
paid  for.  The  thousand  comforting  attentions  at  Cloche- 
gourde  were  in  Arabella's  eyes  the  concern  of  the  servants; 
each  had  his  duty  and  special  function.  The  choice  of  good 
footmen  was  her  steward's  business,  just  as  if  they  were 
horses.  This  woman  felt  no  attachment  to  those  about  her; 


488  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  death  of  the  best  of  them  would  not  have  affected  her; 
another,  equally  well  trained,  was  to  be  had  for  money.  As 
to  her  fellows,  I  never  saw  a  tear  in  her  eye  for  the  woes  of 
others;  indeed,  there  was  a  frank  selfishness  about  her  which 
it  was  impossible  not  to  laugh  at. 

The  crimson  robe  of  a  great  lady  covered  this  iron  soul. 
The  exquisite  dlmee  who,  in  the  evening,  lounged  on  her  rugs 
and  rang  all  the  tinkling  bells  of  amorous  folly,  could  quickly 
reconcile  a  young  man  to  the  hard  and  unfeeling  English- 
woman; indeed,  it  was  only  step  by  step  that  I  discerned  the 
volcanic  rock  on  which  I  was  wasting  my  labors,  since  it 
could  never  yield  a  harvest. 

Madame  de  Mortsauf  had  read  this  nature  at  a  glance  in 
their  brief  meeting ;  I  remembered  her  prophetic  words.  Hen- 
riette  was  right  throughout:  Arabella's  love  was  becoming 
intolerable.  I  have  since  noticed  that  women  who  ride  well 
are  never  tender;  like  the  Amazons  they  have  lost  a  breast, 
and  their  hearts  are  petrified  in  one  spot,  I  know  not  which. 

Just  when  I  was  beginning  to  feel  the  weight  of  this  yoke, 
when  weariness  was  stealing  over  me,  body  and  soul,  when 
I  understood  how  great  a  sanctity  true  feeling  can  give  to 
love,  and  when  the  memories  of  Clochegourde  were  too  much 
for  me  as,  in  spite  of  the  distance,  I  smelled  the  perfume  of  its 
roses,  heard  the  song  of  its  nightingales — at  the  moment  when 
I  first  perceived  the  stony  bed  of  the  torrent  under  its  dimin- 
ished flood,  I  had  a  blow  which  still  echoes  in  my  life,  for  it 
is  repeated  every  hour. 

I  was  writing  in  the  King's  private  room;  he  was  to  go 
out  at  four  o'clock;  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt  was  in  waiting. 
As  he  came  into  the  room  the  King  asked  for  news  of  the 
Countess.  I  looked  up  hastily  with  a  too  significant  gesture, 
and  the  King,  startled  by  my  eagerness,  gave  me  the  look 
which  commonly  introduced  the  stern  words  he  could  speak 
on  occasion. 

"Sir,  my  poor  daughter  is  dying,"  replied  the  Duke. 

"Will  your  Majesty  condescend  to  grant  me  leave  of  ab- 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  489 

eence  ?"  said  I,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  risking  an  out- 
burst of  wrath. 

"Fly,  my  lord!"  replied  he,  smiling  at  the  irony  he  had 
infused  into  the  words,  and  letting  me  off  a  reprimand  in 
honor  of  his  own  wit. 

The  Duke,  more  a  courtier  than  a  father,  asked  for  no 
leave,  but  got  into  the  carriage  with  the  King.  I  went  off, 
without  saying  good-by  to  Lady  Dudley,  who  by  good  luck 
was  not  at  home,  and  for  whom  I  left  a  note  saying  that  I  was 
called  away  on  the  King's  service.  At  La  Croix  de  Berny 
I  met  his  Majesty  returning  from  Verrieres.  As  he  accepted 
a  bouquet  which  he  dropped  at  his  feet,  the  King  gave  me  a 
look  full  of  the  royal  irony  that  is  so  crushingly  piercing,  and 
which  was  as  much  as  to  say:  "If  you  mean  to  become  a  some- 
body in  political  life,  come  back.  Do  not  amuse  yourself 
with  interviewing  the  dead!' 

The  Duke  waved  me  a  melancholy  signal  with  his  hand. 

The  two  gorgeous  coaches,  drawn  by  eight  horses,  the 
Colonels  in  gold  lace,  the  mounted  escort,  and  the  clouds  of 
dust  whirled  swiftly  past  to  cries  of  "Vive  le  roi!"  And 
to  me  it  was  as  though  the  Court  had  trampled  the  body  of 
Madame  de  Mortsauf  under  foot,  with  the  indifference  of  nat- 
ure herself  to  human  disaster.  Though  he  was  an  excellent 
good  fellow,  the  Duke,  I  make  no  doubt,  went  off  to  play 
whist  with  MONSIEUR  after  the  King  had  retired.  As  to  the 
Duchess,  it  was  she,  and  she  alone,  who  long  since  had  dealt 
her  daughter  the  first  death-blow  by  telling  her  about  Lady 
Dudley. 

My  hasty  journey  was  like  a  dream,  but  it  was  the  dream 
of  the  ruined  gambler;  I  was  in  despair  at  having  had  no 
news.  Had  her  confessor  carried  severity  to  the  point  of  for- 
bidding my  entering  Clochegourde  ?  I  accused  Madeleine, 
Jacques,  the  Abbe"  de  Dominis,  everybody,  even  to  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf. 

After  passing  Tours,  as  I  turned  off  to  the  bridges  of 
Saint-Sauveur,  to  go  down  the  road  that  leads  to  Poncher 
between  poplars — those  poplars  I  had  admired  when  I  set  out 


490  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

in  search  of  my  unknown  fair — I  met  Monsieur  Origet.  He 
guessed  that  I  was  going  to  Clochegourde,  I  guessed  that 
he  was  coming  from  it;  we  stopped  our  chaises  and  got  out, 
I  to  ask  news  and  he  to  give  it. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "how  is  Madame  de  Mortsauf ?" 

"I  doubt  if  you  will  find  her  alive,"  said  he.  "She  is 
enduring  a  terrible  death  from  inanition:  When  she  sent  for 
me,  in  the  month  of  June  last,  no  medical  power  could  con- 
trol the  malady ;  she  had  all  the  symptoms  which  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  must  have  described  to  you,  since  he  fancied  he 
was  suffering  from  them.  The  Countess  was  no  longer  at  the 
stage  of  a  transient  attack  due  to  an  internal  disorder  which 
medicine  can  deal  with,  and  which  may  lead  to  an  improved 
condition,  nor  was  she  suffering  from  a  beginning  of  acute 
illness  which  may  be  cured  in  time;  her  disease  had  already 
reached  a  point  at  which  our  art  is  useless;  it  is  the  incurable 
result  of  some  sorrow,  as  a  mortal  wound  is  the  result  of  a 
poniard  thrust.  The  malady  is  produced  by  the  torpor  of  an 
organ  as  indispensable  to  life  as  the  action  of  the  heart.  Grief 
had  done  the  work  of  the  dagger.  Be  under  no  mistake. 
What  Madame  de  Mortsauf  is  dying  of  is  some  unconfessed 
sorrow." 

"Unconfessed?"  said  I.  "Her  children  have  not  been 
ill?" 

"No,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  meaning.  "And  since 
she  has  been  so  seriously  ill,  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  has  left 
her  in  peace. — I  can  be  of  no  further  use ;  Monsieur  Deslandes 
from  Azay  can  do  everything.  There  is  no  remedy,  and  her 
sufferings  are  terrible.  Eich,  young,  handsome — and  she  is 
dying  aged  and  pinched  by  hunger,  for  she  will  die  of  starva- 
tion. For  the  last  forty  days  the  stomach  is  closed  as  it  were, 
and  rejects  every  kind  of  food  in  whatever  form  it  is  given." 

Monsieur  Origet  pressed  the  hand  I  offered  him;  he  had 
almost  asked  for  it,  by  a  respectful  movement. 

"Courage,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

The  words  expressed  compassion  for  the  sorrow  he  sup- 
posed me  to  share  equally  with  him ;  he  had  no  suspicion  of 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  491 

the  poisoned  dart  they  bore,  like  an  arrow  piercing  my  heart. 
I  hastily  got  into  my  carriage  again,  promising  the  postilion 
a  handsome  reward  if  he  made  good  haste. 

In  spite  of  my  impatience,  I  fancied  I  had  made  the  jour- 
ney in  only  a  few  minutes,  so  much  was  I  absorbed  by  the 
bitter  reflections  that  crowded  on  my  soul.  "She  is  dying 
of  grief — and  yet  her  children  are  well !  Then  I  am  the  cause 
of  her  death !"  My  threatening  conscience  underwent  one  of 
those  examinations  which  echo  through  life,  and  sometimes 
beyond  it.  How  feeble,  how  impotent  is  human  justice !  It 
punishes  none  but  visible  crimes.  Why  death  and  disgrace 
to  the  assassin  who  kills  with  a  single  blow,  who  generally 
com«s  upon  you  in  your  sleep  and  leaves  you  to  sleep  forever, 
or  who  strikes  you  unexpectedly  and  spares  you  the  agony  of 
death?  Why  a  happy  life  and  the  world's  respect  for  the 
murderer  who  pours  venom  drop  by  drop  into  the  soul  and 
undermines  the  body  to  destroy  it?  How  many  assassins 
go  unpunished !  What  deference  for  superior  lives !  What 
an  acquittal  for  the  homicide  caused  by  moral  persecution! 

Some  unknown  and  avenging  hand  suddenly  lifted  the 
painted  curtain  that  veils  society.  I  saw  a  number  of  such 
victims,  as  well  known  to  you  as  to  me. — Madame  de  Beau- 
se"ant,  who  had  set  out,  dying,  for  Normandy  a  few  days 
before  my  departure;  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais  compromised! 
Lady  Brandon  gone  to  Touraine  to  die  in  the  humble  dwell- 
ing where  Lady  Dudley  had  just  spent  a  fortnight — killed — 
by  what  terrible  disaster  you  know.  Our  age  is  full  of  events 
of  the  kind.  Who  does  not  know  the  story  of  the  poor  young 
wife  who  poisoned  herself,  overcome  by  such  jealousy  as 
perhaps  was  killing  Madame  de  Mortsauf?  Who  has  not 
shuddered  at  the  fate  of  the  charming  girl  dying,  like  a 
flower  cankered  by  a  gadfly,  after  two  years  of  married  life, 
the  victim  of  her  guileless  ignorance,  the  victim  of  a  wretch 
with  whom  Eonquerolles,  Montriveau,  and  de  Marsay  shake 
hands  because  he  helps  them  in  their  political  schemes  ?  Has 
not  Madame  d'Aiglemont  been  on  the  verge  of  the  grave? 
Would  she  be  alive  now  but  for  my  brother's  care? 


492  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Science  is  the  world's  accomplice  in  these  crimes,  for 
which  there  is  no  tribunal.  No  one,  it  would  seem,  ever 
dies  of  grief,  or  despair,  or  love,  or  hidden  poverty,  or  hopes 
fruitlessly  cherished,  perpetually  uprooted  and  replanted! 
The  new  nomenclature  has  ingenious  words  that  account  for 
everything:  gastritis,  pericarditis,  the  thousand  feminine 
ailments,  of  which  the  names  are  spoken  in  a  whisper,  are 
mere  passports  to  the  coffin  on  which  hypocritical  tears  are 
shed,  to  be  soon  wiped  away  by  the  lawyer. 

Is  there  behind  all  this  woe  some  law  of  which  we  know 
nothing?  Must  the  man  who  lives  to  a  hundred  ruthlessly 
strew  the  ground  with  the  dead  and  see  everything  destroyed 
that  he  may  live,  just  as  the  millionnaire  absorbs  the  efforts 
of  a  thousand  minor  industries?  Is  there  a  strong  and 
venomous  type  of  life  which  is  fed  on  these  sweet  and  gentle 
creatures?  Good  God!  Was  I  then  one  of  that  race  of 
tigers  ?  Remorse  clawed  at  my  heart  with  burning  fingers, 
and  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks  as  I  turned  into  the  avenue  to 
Clochegourde,  on  a  damp  October  morning  that  brought  the 
dead  leaves  down  from  the  poplars  planted  under  Henriette's 
directions — that  avenue  where  I  had  seen  her  wave  her  hand- 
kerchief as  though  to  call  me  back. 

Was  she  still  alive  ?  Might  I  yet  feel  her  two  white  hands 
laid  on  my  prostrate  head  ?  In  that  moment  I  paid  the  price 
of  every  pleasure  Arabella  had  given  me,  and  I  thought  them 
dearly  bought!  I  swore  never  to  see  her  again,  and  took  an 
aversion  for  England.  Though  Lady  Dudley  is  a  distinct 
variety  of  the  species,  I  involved  every  Englishwoman  in  the 
black  cerecloth  of  my  condemnation. 

On  entering  the  grounds  I  had  another  shock.  I  found 
Madeleine,  Jacques,  and  the  Abbe*  de  Dominis  all  kneeling 
at  the  foot  of  a  wooden  cross  that  stood  on  the  corner  of  a 
plot  of  ground  which  had  been  included  in  the  park  at  the 
time  when  the  gate  was  erected.  Neither  the  Count  nor 
the  Countess  had  wished  to  remove  it.  I  sprang  out  of  the 
chaise,  went  up  to  them  bathed  in  tears,  my  heart  wrung  at 
the  sight  of  these  two  young  things  and  the  solemn  priest 


TI1K   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY 

beseeching  God.  The  old  huntsman  was  there,  too,  standing 
bareheaded  a  few  paces  away. 

"Well,  Monsieur?"  said  I  to  the  Abbe*  as  I  kissed  Made- 
leine and  Jacques  on  the  brow;  but  they  gave  me  a  cold 
glance  and  did  not  interrupt  their  prayers. 

The  Abbe*  rose,  I  took  his  arm  to  lean  on  him,  asking 
him:  "Is  she  still  living?"  He  bent  his  head  mildly  and 
sadly. 

"Speak,  I  entreat  you,  in  the  name  of  Our  Saviour's  Pas- 
sion !  Why  are  you  praying  at  the  foot  of  this  cross ?  Why 
are  you  here  and  not  with  her?  Why  are  the  children  out 
in  this  cold  morning  ?  Tell  me  everything,  that  I  may  not 
blander  fatally  in  my  ignorance." 

"For  some  days  past  Madame  la  Comtesse  will  only  see 
her  children  at  fixed  hours. — Monsieur,"  he  went  on  after 
a  pause,  "you  may  perhaps  have  to  wait  some  hours  before 
you  can  see  Madame  de  Mortsauf:  she  is  terribly  altered! 
But  it  will  be  well  to  prepare  her  for  the  interview;  you 
might  cause  her  some  increase  of  suffering — as  to  death,  it 
would  be  a  mercy!" 

I  pressed  the  holy  man's  hand ;  his  look  and  voice  touched 
a  wound  without  reopening  it. 

"We  are  all  praying  for  her  here,"  he  went  on,  "for  she, 
so  saintly,  so  resigned,  so  fit  to  die,  has  for  the  last  few  days 
had  a  secret  horror  of  death ;  she  looks  at  us  who  are  full  of 
life  with  eyes  in  which,  for  the  first  time,  there  is  an  expres- 
sion of  gloom  and  envy.  Her  delusions  are,  I  think,  not  so 
much  the  result  of  a  fear  of  dying  as  of  a  sort  of  inward  intoxi- 
cation— the  faded  flowers  of  her  youth  rotting  as  they  wither. 
Yes,  the  angel  of  evil  is  struggling  with  Heaven  for  that 
beautiful  soul.  Madame  is  going  through  her  agony  in  the 
garden ;  her  tears  mingle  with  the  white  roses  that  crowned 
her  head  as  a  daughter  of  Jephtha,  though  married,  and  that 
have  fallen  one  by  one. 

"Wait  a  little  while;  do  not  let  her  see  you  yet;  you  will 
bring  in  the  glitter  of  the  Court,  she  will  see  in  your  face  a 
reflection  of  worldly  enjoyments,  and  you  will  add  to  her 


494  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

regrets.  Have  pity  on  a  weakness  which  God  Himself  for- 
gave to  His  Son  made  man.  Though  what  merit  indeed 
should  we  have  in  triumphing  where  there  was  no  adversary  ? 
Allow  us,  her  director  and  myself,  two  old  men  whose  ruins 
cannot  offend  her  sight,  to  prepare  her  for  this  unlooked-for 
interview,  and  emotions  which  the  Abbe*  Birotteau  had  de- 
sired her  to  forego.  But  there  is  in  the  things  of  this  world 
an  invisible  warp  of  celestial  causation  which  a  religious  eye 
can  discern,  and,  since  you  have  come  here,  you  have  per- 
haps been  guided  by  one  of  the  stars  which  shine  in  the 
moral  sphere  and  lead  to  the  tomb  as  they  did  to  the  manger. ' ' 

And  then  he  told  me,  with  the  unctuous  eloquence  that 
falls  on  the  spirit  like  dew,  that  for  the  last  six  months  the 
Countess's  sufferings  had  increased  every  day,  in  spite  of  all 
Origet  could  do  for  her.  The  doctor  had  come  to  Cloche- 
gourde  every  evening  for  two  months,  striving  to  snatch  this 
prey  from  death,  for  the  Countess  had  said  to  him:  "Save 
me!" 

"But  to  cure  the  body  the  heart  must  be  cured!"  the  old 
physician  had  one  day  exclaimed. 

"As  the  malady  increased  the  gentle  creature's  words 
became  bitter,"  the  Abbe*  de  Dominis  went  on.  "She  cries 
out  to  earth  to  keep  her,  rather  than  to  God  to  take  her;  then 
she  repents  of  murmuring  against  the  decrees  of  the  Most 
High.  These  alternations  rend  her  heart,  and  make  the  con- 
flict terrible  between  body  and  soul.  Often  it  is  the  body 
that  conquers. 

"  'You  have  cost  me  dear!'  she  said  one  day  to  Madeleine 
and  Jacques,  sending  them  away  from  her  bedside.  But  in 
the  next  breath,  called  back  to  God  by  seeing  me,  she  spoke 
these  angelic  words  to  Mademoiselle  Madeleine:  'The  happi- 
ness of  others  becomes  the  joy  of  those  who  can  no  longer 
be  happy. '  And  her  accent  was  so  pathetic  that  I  felt  my 
own  eyes  moisten.  She  falls  indeed,  but  each  time  she  rises 
again  nearer  to  Heaven." 

Struck  by  the  successive  messages  sent  to  me  by  fate,  all 
leading  up,  in  this  vast  concert  of  woe,  through  mournful 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  496 

modulations,  to  the  funereal  thema,  the  great  cry  of  dying 
love,  I  exclaimed:  "Then  you  do  believe  that  this  beautiful 
lily,  cut  off  in  its  prime,  will  bloom  again  in  Heaven?" 

"You  left  her  as  a  flower,"  he  replied,  "but  you  will  find 
her  burned,  purified  in  the  fire  of  sorrow,  as  pure  as  a  dia- 
mond still  lying  hidden  in  rubbish.  Yes,  that  brilliant  spirit, 
that  angelical  star,  will  emerge  glorified  from  the  clouds  about 
it,  to  pass  into  the  realms  of  light." 

Just  as  I  pressed  the  hand  of  this  apostolic  man,  my  heart 
overpowered  with  gratitude,  the  Count's  perfectly  white  head 
was  seen  outside  the  house,  and  he  flew  to  meet  me  with  a 
gesture  of  great  surprise. 

"She  was  right!  Here  he  is.  'Felix,  Felix,  Felix!— 
Felix  is  come!'  Madame  de  Mortsauf  cried  out. — My  dear  fel- 
low," he  added,  with  looks  distraught  by  terror,  "death  is 
here.  Why  did  it  not  take  an  old  lunatic  like  me,  whom 
it  had  already  laid  hands  on?" 

I  walked  on  to  the  house,  summoning  all  my  courage; 
but  on  the  threshold  of  the  long  corridor  through  the  house, 
from  the  lawn  to  the  terrace  steps,  I  was  met  by  the  Abbd 
Birotteau. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  begs  you  will  not  go  to  her  yet," 
said  he. 

Looking  round  me  I  saw  the  servants  coming  and  going, 
all  very  busy,  dizzy  with  grief,  and  evidently  startled  by  the 
orders  delivered  to  them  through  Manette. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  Count,  irritated  by  this 
bustle,  not  only  from  a  dread  of  the  terrible  end,  but  as  a 
consequence  of  his  naturally  petulant  temper. 

"A  sick  woman's  caprice,"  replied  the  Abbe*.  "Madame 
la  Comtesse  does  not  choose  to  receive  Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
in  the  state  she  is  in.  She  talks  of  dressing. — Why  contra- 
dict her?" 

Manette  went  to  call  Madeleine,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
we  saw  her  come  out  again  from  her  mother's  room.  As  wo 
walked,  all  five  of  us — Jacques  and  his  father,  the  two  Abbe's 
and  I — in  perfect  silence  along  the  front  to  the  lawn,  we  went 


496  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

beyond  the  house.  I  looked  by  turns  at  Montvazon  and  at 
Azay,  contemplating  the  yellowing  valley,  in  mourning  as  it 
seemed,  and  responding,  as  it  ever  did,  to  the  feelings  that 
agitated  me. 

I  suddenly  saw  the  dear  "Mignonne"  running  to  seek 
autumn  flowers,  gathering  them  to  compose  a  nosegay,  no 
doubt;  and  thinking  of  all  that  was  conveyed  by  this  re- 
flection of  my  loving  attentions,  a  strange,  indescribable 
sensation  came  over  me,  I  tottered,  my  eyes  grew  dim,  and 
the  two  priests  between  whom  I  was  walking  carried  me  to 
the  low  parapet  of  a  terrace  where  I  sat  for  some  time, 
broken  as  it  were,  but  without  entirely  losing  conscious- 
ness. 

"Poor  Felix!"  said  the  Count.  "She  said  you  were  not 
to  be  written  to;  she  knows  how  much  you  love  her!" 

Though  prepared  to  suffer,  I  had  found  myself  too  weak 
to  bear  a  contemplation  which  summed  up  all  my  happy 
memories.  "There,"  thought  I  to  myself,  "there  lies  the 
heath,  as  dry  as  a  skeleton,  in  the  gray  daylight,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  there  used  to  be  one  lonely  flowering  shrub 
which,  in  my  walks  of  old,  I  could  never  admire  without  a 
Bhudder  of  ill-omen,  for  it  was  the  emblem  of  this  dreadful 
day!" 

Everything  was  dejected  about  the  little  mansion,  for- 
merly so  lively,  so  busy.  Everything  mourned,  every- 
thing spoke  of  despair  and  neglect.  The  paths  were  but 
half  raked,  work  begun  had  been  left  unfinished,  the  labor- 
ers stood  idly  gazing  at  the  house.  Though  the  vintage 
was  being  gathered,  there  was  no  noise,  no  chatter  of 
tongues.  The  vineyards  seemed  deserted,  so  profound 
was  the  silence. 

We  walked  on,  grief  repressing  commonplace  words, 
but  listening  to  the  Count,  the  only  one  of  us  who  could 
talk.  Having  said  the  things  which  his  mechanical  affec- 
tion for  his  wife  dictated,  from  sheer  habit  and  tendency  of 
mind,  he  began  finding  fault  with  the  Countess.  His  wife 
had  never  chosen  to  take  any  care  of  herself  nor  to  listen 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  497 

when  he  gave  her  good  counsel;  he  had  discerned  the  first 
svmptoms  of  her  illness,  for  he  had  studied  them,  in  himself, 
hr  had  physicked  and  cured  himself  with  no  aid  but  that  of 
&  strictly  regulated  diet  and  the  avoidance  of  any  strong 
emotion.  He  could  perfectly  well  have  cured  the  Count- 
ess,  but  a  husband  cannot  take  on  himself  such  a  responsi- 
bility, especially  when  he  is  so  unhappy  as  to  find  his  ex- 
perience treated  with  contempt.  In  spite  of  all  he  could 
say,  the  Countess  had  called  in  Origet  for  her  adviser— 
Origet,  who  had  so  mismanaged  him,  and  was  killing  his 
wife!  If  the  cause  of  this  disease  was  excess  of  troubles, 
he  certainly  had  been  in  a  condition  to  develop  it,  but  what 
troubles  could  his  wife  have  had?  The  Countess  was  quite 
happy,  she  had  nothing  to  grieve  or  annoy  her.  Their  for- 
tune was  assured,  thanks  to  his  care  and  his  good  manage- 
ment; he  allowed  Madame  de  Mortsauf  to  reign  supreme  at 
Clochegourde;  their  children — well  brought  up,  and  in  good 
health — caused  them  no  further  anxiety;  what  then  could 
have  brought  on  the  malady? 

And  he  mixed  up  the  expression  of  his  despair  with  the 
silliest  accusations.  Then,  presently,  recalled  by  some  re- 
miniscence to  the  admiration  the  noble  creature  deserved, 
tears  started  to  his  eyes  so  long  since  dried  up. 

Madeleine  came  to  tell  me  that  her  mother  was  ready  to 
see  me.  The  Abbe*  Birotteau  came  with  me.  The  grave 
little  girl  remained  with  her  father,  saying  that  her  mother 
wished  to  see  me  alone,  making  it  her  excuse  that  the  pres- 
ence of  several  persons  was  too  fatiguing.  The  solemnity 
of  the  moment  gave  me  that  strange  sense  of  being  hot 
within  and  cold  on  the  surface  that  is  so  overwhelming  on 
some  great  occasions  in  life.  The  Abbe*  Birotteau,  one  of 
the  men  whom  God  has  marked  for  His  own  by  clothing 
them  in  gentleness  and  simplicity,  and  endowing  them  with 
patience  and  mercy,  drew  me  aside. 

"Monsieur,"  he  sakl,  "you  must  know  that  I  have  done 
all  that  was  humanly  possible  to  hinder  this  meeting  between 


498  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

you.  The  salvation  of  that  saint  required  it.  I  thought 
only  of  her,  not  of  you.  Now  that  you  are  going  once 
more  to  see  her,  whose  door  ought  to  be  held  against  you 
by  angels,  I  must  inform  you  that  I  intend  to  be  present  to 
protect  her  against  you,  and  perhaps  against  herself!  Re- 
spect her  feeble  state.  I  ask  you  to  be  merciful,  not  as  a 
priest,  but  as  a  humble  friend  of  whom  you  knew  not,  and 
who  would  fain  save  you  from  remorse. 

"Our  poor  invalid  is  dying  literally  of  hunger  and  thirst. 
Since  the  morning  she  has  been  suffering  from  the  feverish 
irritability  that  precedes  that  dreadful  end,  and  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  sorely  she  regrets  leaving  life.  The  outcries  of  her 
rebellious  flesh  are  buried  in  my  heart  where  they  wound 
still  tender  echoes;  but  Monsieur  de  Dominis  and  I  have 
assumed  this  religious  duty  so  as  to  conceal  the  spectacle 
of  her  mental  agony  from  the  noble  family  which  has  lost 
its  morning  and  its  evening  star.  For  her  husband,  her 
children,  her  servants,  all  ask,  'Where  is  she?'  so  greatly 
is  she  changed. 

"When  she  sees  you  her  laments  will  begin  afresh.  Put 
from  you  the  thoughts  of  the  man  of  the  world,  forget  all  the 
vanities  of  the  heart,  be  to  her  the  advocate  of  Heaven  and 
not  of  the  world.  Do  not  suffer  that  saint  to  die  in  a  moment 
of  doubt,  her  last  accents  words  of  despair!" 

I  made  no  reply.  My  silence  filled  the  poor  priest  with 
consternation.  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  walked,  and  yet  I  was  no 
longer  on  the  earth.  The  one  thought,  "What  can  have 
happened  ?  In  what  state  shall  I  find  her  that  everybody 
takes  such  elaborate  precautions?"  gave  rise  to  apprehen- 
sions all  the  more  torturing  because  they  were  undefined. 
That  thought  summed  up  every  possible  sorrow. 

We  reached  the  door  of  her  room,  and  the  anxious  priest 
opened  it.  I  then  saw  Henriette,  dressed  in  white,  reclining 
on  her  little  sofa  in  front  of  the  fireplace ;  on  the  chimney- 
shelf  were  two  vases  filled  with  flowers;  there  were  more 
flowers  on  a  table  in  front  of  the  "window. — The  Abbess 
face,  amazed  at  this  unexpectedly  festal  sight,  and  at  the 


THE   LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  499 

change  in  the  room  so  suddenly  restored  to  its  original 
order,  showed  me  that  the  dying  woman  had  banished  all 
the  odious  apparatus  that  surrounds  a  bed  of  sickness. 
She  had  exerted  the  last  strength  of  a  dying  fever  to  dress 
her  disordered  room  for  the  worthy  reception  of  him  whom 
she  loved  at  this  moment  above  all  else. 

Her  haggard  face,  under  a  voluminous  lace  wrapper,  had 
the  greenish  pallor  of  magnolia  flowers  when  they  first  open, 
and  looked  like  the  first  outline  for  a  portrait  of  a  head  we 
love  sketched  in  chalk  on  yellow-white  canvas ;  but  to  un- 
derstand how  deeply  the  vulture's  talons  clutched  at  my 
heart,  picture  this  sketch  with  the  eyes  finished  and  full  of 
life— hollow  eyes,  glittering  with  unwonted  light  in  a  color- 
less face.  She  no  longer  had  the  calm  supremacy  which 
she  had  derived  from  constant  victory  over  her  griefs. 
Her  brow,  the  only  part  of  her  face  that  had  preserved  its 
fine  proportions,  expressed  the  aggressive  audacity  of  sup- 
pressed craving  and  threats.  In  spite  of  the  waxen  hues  of 
her  drawn  face,  internal  fires  flashed  forth  with  an  effluence 
that  resembled  the  quivering  atmosphere  over  the  fields  on 
a  hot  day.  Her  hollow  temples,  her  sunken  cheeks,  showed 
the  bony  structure  of  the  face,  and  her  white  lips  wore  a 
smile  that  vaguely  resembled  the  grin  of  a  skull.  Her 
gown,  crossed  over  her  bosom,  betrayed  how  thin  she  had 
grown.  The  expression  of  her  face  plainly  showed  that 
she  knew  how  much  she  was  changed,  and  that  it  had 
brought  her  to  despair.  She  was  no  longer  the  sportive 
Henriette,  nor  the  sublime  and  saintly  Madame  de  Mort- 
eauf;  but  the  nameless  thing  that  Bossuet  speaks  of, 
struggling  against  annihilation,  urged  by  hunger  and 
cheated  appetites  to  a  self-centred  battle  of  life  and 
death. 

I  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took  her  hand  to  kiss  it;  it 
was  burning  and  dry.  She  read  my  pained  surprise  in  the 
very  effort  I  made  to  conceal  it.  Her  discolored  lips  were 
stretched  over  her  ravenous  teeth  in  an  attempt  at  one  of 
those  forced  smiles  under  which  we  disguise  alike  irony  and 


500  BALZACTS    WORKS 

vengeance,  the  anticipation  of  pleasure,  ecstasy  of  soul,  or 
the  fury  of  disappointment. 

"It  is  death,  my  poor  Felix,"  she  said;  "and  death  does 
not  charm  you!  Hideous  death — death  which  every  creat- 
ure, even  the  boldest  lover,  holds  in  horror.  Love  ceases 
here!  I  knew  it  full  well.  Lady  Dudley  will  never  see 
you  shocked  by  such  a  change.  Oh !  why  have  I  so  longed 
for  you,  Felix?  And  at  last  you  are  here — and  I  reward 
your  devotion  by  the  horrible  spectacle  which  made  the 
Comte  de  Ranee*  turn  Trappist;  I,  who  hoped  to  dwell  in 
your  remembrance  beautiful,  noble,  like  an  immortal  Lily, 
I  destroy  all  your  illusions.  True  love  makes  no  calculations. 

"But  do  not  fly:  stay.  Monsieur  Origet  thought  me 
much  better  this  morning;  1  shall  live  again — be  renewed 
under  your  eyes.  And  then,  when  I  shall  have  recovered 
my  strength  a  little,  when  I  can  take  some  food,  I  shall 
grow  handsome  again.  I  am  but  five-and-thirty ;  I  may 
have  some  years  of  beauty  yet.  Happiness  renews  youth, 
and  I  mean  to  be  happy.  I  have  made  the  most  delightful 
plans.  We  will  leave  them  all  at  Clochegourde  and  go  to 
Italy  together." 

Tears  rose  to  my  eyes ;  I  turned  away  to  the  table,  as  if 
to  admire  the  flowers;  the  Abb£  hastily  came  up  to  me  and 
leaned  over  the  nosegay:  "No  tears,"  said  he  in  a  whisper. 

"What,  Henriette,  have  you  ceased  to  love  our  dear  val- 
ley ? ' '  said  I,  as  an  excuse  for  my  sudden  movement. 

"No,"  she  said,  touching  my  forehead  with  her  lips  with 
coaxing  softness;  "but  without  you  it  is  fatal  to  me — with- 
out thee  (sans  tot),"  she  corrected  herself,  touching  my  ear 
with  her  hot  lips  to  breathe  the  two  words  like  a  sigh. 

I  was  dismayed  by  this  crazy  caress,  which  gave  weight 
to  the  terrible  hints  of  the  two  priests.  My  first  surprise 
passed  off;  but  though  I  could  now  exercise  my  reason, 
my  will  was  not  strong  enough  to  restrain  the  nervous  ex- 
citement that  tormented  me  during  this  scene.  I  listened 
without  replying,  or  rather  I  replied  by  a  fixed  smile  and 
nods  of  assent,  merely  not  to  contradict  her,  as  a  mother 


THE   LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  501 

treats  her  child.  After  being  startled  by  the  change  in  her 
person,  I  perceived  that  the  woman  who  had  once  been  so 
dignified  in  her  loftiness,  had  now  in  her  attitude,  her 
voice,  her  manners,  her  looks,  and  her  ideas,  the  artless 
simplicity  of  a  child,  the  ingenuous  grace,  the  restless 
movements,  the  absolute  indifference  to  everything  that 
is  not  itself  or  the  object  of  its  desire,  which,  in  a  child, 
cry  out  for  protection. 

Is  it  always  thus  with  the  dying  ?  Do  they  cast  off  every 
social  disguise,  as  a  child  has  not  yet  assumed  them  ?  Or 
was  it  that  the  Countess,  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  while  re- 
jecting every  human  emotion  but  love,  expressed  its  sweet 
innocence  after  the  manner  of  Chloe? 

"You  will  bring  me  health  as  you  used  to  do,  FeUix," 
said  she,  "and  my  valley  will  be  good  to  me  again.  How 
can  I  help  eating  anything  you  give  me?  You  are  such  a 
good  nurse!  And  besides,  you  are  so  rich  in  health  and 
strength  that  life  is  contagious  from  you. 

"My  dear,  prove  to  me  that  I  am  not  to  die,  and  to  die 
disappointed.  They  think  that  I  suffer  most  from  thirst. 
Oh,  yes,  I  am  very  thirsty,  my  dear.  It  hurts  me  dread- 
fully to  see  the  waters  of  the  Indre;  but  my  heart  suffers 
a  more  burning  thirst.  I  thirsted  for  you,"  she  said  in 
a  smothered  voice,  taking  my  hands  in  her  burning  hands 
and  drawing  me  toward  her  to  speak  the  words  in  my  ear. 
"My  agony  was  that  I  could  not  see  you.  Did  you  not  bid 
me  live  ? — I  will  live !  I  will  ride — I,  too,  I  will  know  every- 
thing— Paris,  festivities,  pleasures!" 

Oh,  Natalie!  this  dreadful  outcry,  which  the  materialism 
of  the  senses  makes  so  cold  at  a  distance,  made  our  ears  tingle 
— the  old  priest's  and  mine;  the  tones  of  that  beautiful  voice 
represented  the  struggles  of  a  whole  life,  the  anguish  of  a  true 
love  always  balked. 

The  Countess  stood  up  with  an  impatient  effort,  like  a 
child  that  wants  a  toy.  When  the  confessor  saw  his  peni- 
tent in  this  mood,  the  poor  man  fell  on  his  knees,  clasped 
his  hands,  and  began  to  pray. 


502  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

"Yes,  I  will  live!"  she  cried,  making  me  stand  too,  and 
leaning  on  me;  "live  on  realities  and  not  on  lies.  My  whole 
life  has  been  one  of  lies;  I  have  been  counting  them  over 
these  last  days.  Is  it  possible  that  I  should  die,  I  who  have 
not  lived?  I  who  have  never  been  to  meet  any  one  on  a 
heath?"  She  paused,  seemed  to  listen,  and  smelled  some- 
thing through  the  very  walls. 

"Felix,  the  vintagers  are  going  to  dinner,  and  I,  the 
mistress,  am  starving,"  she  said  in  a  childish  tone.  "It  is 
the  same  with  love;  they  are  happy!" 

"Kyrie  eleison!"  said  the  poor  Abbe*,  who,  with  clasped 
hands  and  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  was  repeating  litanies. 

She  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  clasping  me  with  ve- 
hemence as  she  said: 

"You  shall  escape  me  no  more!  I  mean  to  be  loved,  I 
will  be  as  mad  as  Lady  Dudley,  I  will  learn  English  to  say 
My  Dee  very  prettily."  She  gave  me  a  little  nod,  as  she  had 
been  wont  to  do  when  leaving  me,  to  assure  me  that  she 
would  return  immediately.  "We  will  dine  together,"  said 
she.  "I  will  go  and  tell  Manette — "  But  she  stopped, 
overcome  by  weakness,  and  I  laid  her,  dressed  as  she  was, 
on  her  bed. 

1 '  Once  before  you  carried  me  just  so, ' '  she  said,  opening 
her  eyes. 

She  was  very  light,  but  very  hot;  as  I  held  her  I  felt  her 
whole  body  burning.  Monsieur  Deslandes  came  in,  and  was 
astonished  to  find  the  room  dressed  out;  on  seeing  me  he 
understood  everything. 

"We  suffer  much  "before  we  die,  Monsieur,"  said  she  in 
a  husky  voice. 

He  eat  down,  felt  her  pulse,  rose  hastily,  spoke  a  few 
words  to  the  priest  in  an  undertone,  and  left  the  room;  I 
followed  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked  him. 

"To  spare  her  intolerable  torments,"  said  he.  "Who 
could  have  conceived  of  so  much  vitality?  We  cannot 
understand  how  she  is  still  living.  This  is  the  forty- 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  503 

second  day  that  the  Countess  has  neither  eaten,  drunk, 
nor  slept." 

Monsieur  Deslandes  sent  for  Manette.  The  Abbe"  led  me 
Into  the  gardens. 

"Let  us  leave  the  doctor  free,"  said  he.  "With  Manette 's 
help  he  will  wrap  her  in  opium. — Well,  you  have  heard  her," 
he  said,  "if  indeed  it  is  she  who  yields  to  these  mad  im- 
pulses— " 

"No,"  said  I,  "it  is  she  no  more." 

I  was  stupefied  with  grief.  As  I  walked  on,  every  detail 
of  this  brief  scene  gained  importance.  I  hastily  went  out  of 
the  little  gate  of  the  lower  terrace  and  seated  myself  in  the 
punt,  where  I  ensconced  myself  to  be  left  alone  with  my 
thoughts.  I  tried  to  tear  myself  away  from  the  power  by 
which  I  lived;  a  torture  like  that  by  which  the  Tartars  were 
wont  to  punish  adultery  by  wedging  a  limb  of  the  guilty 
person  into  a  cleft  block,  and  giving  him  a  knife  wherewith 
to  free  himself  if  he  did  not  wish  to  starve;  a  fearful  penance 
through  which  my  soul  was  passing,  since  I  had  to  amputate 
its  nobler  half.  My  life,  too,  was  a  failure ! 

Despair  suggested  strange  ideas.  Now,  I  would  die  with 
her;  again,  I  would  cloister  myself  at  La  Meilleraye  where 
the  Trappists  had  just  established  a  retreat.  My  clouded 
eyes  no  longer  saw  external  objects.  I  gazed  at  the  windows 
of  the  room  where  Henriette  lay  suffering,  fancying  I  saw  the 
light  that  burned-  there  that  night  when  I  had  dedicated  my- 
self to  her.  Ought  I  not  to  have  obeyed  the  simple  rule 
of  life  she  had  laid  down  for  me,  preserving  myself  hers  in 
the  toil  of  business  ?  Had  she  not  enjoined  on  me  to  become 
a  great  man,  so  as  to  preserve  myself  from  the  base  and 
degrading  passions  to  which  I  had  given  way  like  every 
other  man?  Was  not  chastity  a  sublime  distinction  which 
I  had  failed  to  keep?  Love,  as  Arabella  conceived  of  it, 
suddenly  filled  me  with  disgust. 

Just  as  I  raised  my  stricken  head,  wondering  whence 
henceforth  I  was  to  derive  light  and  hope,  a  slight  rustle 
disturbed  the  air;  I  looked  toward  the  terrace  and  saw  Made- 


504  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

leine  slowly  walking  there,  alone.  While  I  made  my  way 
up  to  the  terrace,  intending  to  ask  the  dear  child  the  reason 
of  the  cold  look  she  had  given  me  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 
she  had  seated  herself  on  the  bench;  as  she  saw  me  coming 
she  rose,  affecting  not  to  have  perceived  me,  so  as  not  to  be 
alone  with  me;  her  step  was  rapid  and  significant.  She  hated 
me.  She  was  flying  from  her  mother's  murderer.  Eeturn- 
ing  to  the  house  up  the  flight  of  steps  I  saw  Madeleine 
standing  motionless,  listening  to  my  approach.  Jacques 
was  sitting  on  a  step,  and  his  attitude  was  expressive  of  the 
same  insensibility  as  had  struck  me  when  we  were  walking 
together,  leaving  me  possessed  by  such  ideas  as  we  bury  in 
a  corner  of  the  soul  to  return  to  and  examine  later,  at  leisure. 
I  have  observed  that  all  those  who  are  doomed  to  die  young 
are  calmly  indifferent  to  burials. 

I  wanted  to  question  this  melancholy  soul.  Had  Made- 
leine kept  her  thoughts  to  herself,  or  had  she  communicated 
her  hatred  to  Jacques? 

"You  know,"  said  I,  to  open  a  conversation,  "that  you 
have  in  me  a  most  devoted  brother." 

"Your  friendship  is  worthless  to  me,"  said  he.  "I  shall 
follow  my  mother,"  and  he  gave  me  a  fierce  look  of  suffering. 

"Jacques!"  I  cried,  "you,  too?" 

He  coughed  and  turned  away;  then  when  he  came  back 
he  hastily  showed  me  his  bloodstained  handkerchief. 

"You  understand?"  he  said. 

Thus  each  had  a  secret.  As  I  afterward  saw,  the  brother 
and  sister  avoided  each  other.  Henriette  gone,  everything 
at  Clochegourde  was  falling  into  ruin. 

"Madame  is  asleep,"  Manette  came  to  tell  us,  happy  to 
see  the  Countess  reprieved  from  pain. 

In  such  fearful  moments,  though  everybody  knows  the 
inevitable  end,  true  affection  goes  crazy  and  clings  to  the 
smallest  joys.  The  minutes  are  ages  which  we  would  gladly 
make  ages  of  ease.  We  wish  that  the  sufferer  might  sleep 
in  roses,  we  would  take  their  pain  if  we  could;  we  long  that 
the  last  sigh  should  be  unconsciously  breathed. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  505 

"Monsieur  Deslandes  had  the  flowers  removed;  they  were 
too  much  for  Madame's  nerves,"  said  Manette. 

So  it  was  the  flowers  that  had  made  her  delirious;  she 
was  not  guilty.  The  loves  of  earthly  creatures,  the  joys  of 
f  ruitf  ulness,  the  yearnings  of  plants  had  intoxicated  her  with 
their  fragrance,  and  had  no  doubt  revived  the  thoughts  of 
happy  love  that  had  slumbered  within  her  from  her  youth. 

"Come,  Monsieur  Felix,"  said  Manette,  "come  and  look 
at  Madame ;  she  is  as  lovely  as  an  angel. ' ' 

I  went  back  to  the  dying  woman's  room  just  as  the  setting 
sun  was  gilding  the  gabled  roofs  of  the  Chateau  of  Azay. 
All  was  still  and  clear.  A  softened  light  fell  upon  the  bed 
where  Henriette  lay  lapped  in  opium.  At  this  moment  the 
body  was,  so  to  speak,  annihilated;  the  soul  alone  was  seen 
in  the  face,  as  serene  as  a  bright  sky  after  a  storm.  Blanche 
and  Henriette — the  two  beautiful  aspects  of  the  same  woman 
— appeared  before  me,  all  the  more  beautiful  because  my 
memory,  my  mind,  my  imagination,  helping  nature,  restored 
the  perfection  of  each  feature,  to  which  the  spirit  triumphant 
lent  fitful  lights,  coming  and  going  as  she  breathed. 

The  two  priests  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  Count  stood 
thunderstruck,  recognizing  the  banners  of  death  floating  above 
that  adored  head.  I  took  a  seat  on  the  sofa  she  had  been, 
occupying.  Then  we  four  exchanged  glances  in  which  our 
admiration  of  her  heavenly  beauty  mingled  with  tears  of  regret. 

The  gleam  of  intelligence  announced  the  return  of  God 
to  one  of  his  loveliest  tabernacles.  The  Abbe*  de  Dominis 
and  I  communicated  our  mutual  feelings  by  signs.  Yes,  the 
angels  kept  guard  over  Henriette !  Yes,  their  swords  flashed 
above  that  noble  brow,  where  we  now  saw  the  august  stamp 
of  virtue  which  of  old  had  made  the  soul  visible,  as  it  were, 
holding  communion  with  the  spirits  of  its  own  sphere.  The 
lines  of  her  face  were  purified,  every  feature  grew  grander 
and  more  majestic  under  the  invisible  censers  of  the  seraphim 
that  watched  over  her.  The  green  hues  of  physical  torment 
gave  way  to  the  perfect  whiteness,  the  dead,  cold  pallor  of 
approaching  death. 
Vol.  4  V 


506  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Jacques  and  Madeleine  came  in;  Madeleine  gave  us  all 
a  thrill  by  the  adoring  impulse  which  made  her  fall  on  her 
knees  by  the  bed,  clasp  her  hands  and  utter  the  inspired 
exclamation:  "At  last!  This  is  my  mother!"  Jacques  was 
smiling:  he  knew  he  was  following  his  mother  whither  she 
was  going. 

"She  is  reaching  the  haven!"  said  the  Abbe*  Birotteau. 

The  Abbe*  de  Dominis  looked  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  star  would  rise  effulgent?" 

Madeleine  kept  her  eyes  riveted  on  her  mother,  breathing 
with  her  breath,  echoing  her  faint  sighs,  the  last  thread  that 
held  her  to  life,  we  counting  them  with  dread  lest  it  should 
break  at  each  effort.  Like  an  angel  at  the  gates  of  the  sanc- 
tuary the  young  girl  was  at  once  eager  and  calm,  strong  and 
prostrate. 

At  this  moment  the  Angelus  rang  out  from  the  village 
belfry;  the  waves  of  mellowed  air  brought  up  the  sound  in 
gusts,  announcing  that  at  this  hour  all  Christendom  was 
repeating  the  words  spoken  by  the  angel  to  the  woman  who 
made  reparation  for  the  sins  of  her  sex.  This  evening  the 
"Ave  Maria"  came  to  us  as  a  greeting  from  Heaven.  The 
prophecy  was  so  sure,  the  event  so  near,  that  we  melted  into 
tears. 

The  murmurous  sounds  of  the  evening — a  melodious 
breeze  in  the  leaves,  the  last  twitter  of  the  birds,  the  buzz 
and  hum  of  insects,  the  voice  of  waters,  the  plaintive  cry  of 
the  tree-frog — all  the  land  was  taking  leave  of  the  loveliest 
lily  of  this  valley  and  her  simple,  rural  life.  The  religious 
poetry  of  the  scene,  added  to  all  this  natural  poetry,  so  well 
expressed  a  chant  of  departure  that  our  sobs  began  again. 

Though  the  bedroom  door  was  open,  we  were  so  lost  in 
this  terrible  contemplation ,  trying  to  stamp  on  our  minds  the 
memory  of  it,  forever,  that  we  did  not  observe  all  the  ser- 
vants of  the  house  kneeling  in  a  group  outside  and  putting 
up  fervent  prayers.  All  these  poor  souls,  accustomed  to 
hope,  had  thought  they  should  still  keep  their  mistress,  and 
these  unmistakable  signs  overwhelmed  them.  At  a  sign 


THE  LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  607 

from  the  Abbe*  Birotteau  the  old  huntsman  went  to  fetch  the 
Curd  of  Sache.  The  doctor,  standing  by  the  bed,  as  calm 
as  science,  holding  his  patient's  torpid  hand,  had  signed  to 
the  confessor  to  express  that  this  sleep  was  the  last  hour 
of  ease  that  was  given  to  the  recalled  angel.  The  moment 
had  come  for  administering  the  last  sacraments  of  the  Church. 

At  nine  o'clock  she  gently  awoke  and  looked  at  us  in  mild 
surprise;  we  saw  our  idol  in  all  the  beauty  of  her  best  days. 

"Mother,  you  are  too  beautiful  to  die,  life  and  health  are 
coming  back  to  youl"  cried  Madeleine. 

"My  dear  daughter,  I  shall  live — but  in  you,'*  said  she, 
with  a  smile. 

Then  came  heartrending  farewells  from  the  mother  to  the 
children,  and  from  the  children  to  the  mother.  Monsieur  de 
Mortsauf  kissed  his  wife  piously  on  the  brow.  The  Countess 
flushed  as  she  saw  me. 

"Dear  Fdlix,"  said  she,  "this  is,  I  believe,  the  only  grief 
I  shall  ever  have  given  you!  But  forget  all  I  may  have  said 
to  you,  poor  crazed  thing  as  I  was !"  She  held  out  her  hand; 
I  took  it  to  kiss,  and  she  said  with  a  smile  of  virtue — "As  of 
old,  Fdlix?" 

We  all  left  the  room,  and  remained  in  the  drawing-room 
while  the  sick  woman  made  her  last  confession.  I  sat  down 
next  to  Madeleine.  In  the  presence  of  them  all,  she  could 
not  avoid  me  without  being  rude;  but,  as  her  mother  used, 
she  looked  at  no  one,  and  kept  silence  without  once  raising 
her  eyes  to  mine. 

"Dear  Madeleine,"  said  1  in  a  low  voice,  "what  grievance 
have  you  against  me?  Why  such  coldness  when,  in  the 
presence  of  death,  we  ought  to  be  friends?" 

"I  fancy  I  can  hear  what  my  mother  is  saying  at  this  mo- 
ment," replied  she,  putting  on  the  expression  that  Ingres  had 
given  to  his  "Mother  of  God,"  the  mourning  Virgin  preparing 
to  protect  the  World  in  which  her  Son  is  about  to  perish. 

"Then  you  condemn  me  at  the  moment  when  your  mother 
is  absolving  me,  supposing  me  to  be  guilty." 

"You,  and  always  you!"    She  spoke  with  unreasoning 


508  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

hatred,  like  that  of  a  Corsican,  as  implacable  as  all  judgments 
are  that  are  pronounced  by  those  who,  not  knowing  life, 
admit  no  extenuation  of  the  sins  committed  against  the  laws 
of  the  heart. 

An  hour  passed  in  utter  silence.  The  Abbe  Birotteau 
came  in  after  hearing  the  Comtesse  de  Mortsauf's  general 
confession,  and  we  all  went  into  her  room  again.  Henri ette, 
in  obedience  to  one  of  the  ideas  that  occur  to  noble  souls,  all 
sisters  in  purpose,  had  been  robed  in  a  long  garment  that  was 
to  serve  as  her  winding-sheet.  "We  found  her  sitting  up  in 
bed,  beautiful  with  expiation  and  hope;  I  saw  in  the  fire- 
place the  black  ashes  of  my  letters  which  had  just  been 
burned;  a  sacrifice  she  would  not  make,  the  confessor  told 
me,  till  she  was  at  the  point  of  death.  She  smiled  at  us  all — 
her  old  smile.  Her  eyes,  moist  with  tears,  were,  we  saw, 
finally  unsealed;  she  already  saw  the  celestial  joys  of  the 
promised  land. 

"Dear  Felix,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  and  press- 
ing mine.  "Stay.  You  must  be  present  at  one  of  the  clos- 
ing scenes  of  my  life,  which  will  not  be  one  of  the  least 
painful  of  all,  but  in  which  you  are  intimately  concerned. ' ' 

She  made  a  sign,  and  the  door  was  shut.  By  her  desire 
the  Count  sat  down;  the  Abbe*  Birotteau  and  I  remained 
standing.  With  Manette's  assistance  the  Countess  got  up 
and  knelt  down  before  the  astonished  Count,  insisting  on  re- 
maining there.  Then,  when  Manette  had  left  the  room,  she 
raised  her  head,  which  she  had  bent,  resting  it  on  his  knees. 

"Though  I  have  always  been  a  faithful  wife  to  you,"  said 
she  in  a  broken  voice,  "I  have  perhaps,  Monsieur,  failed  in 
my  duties.  I  have  prayed  to  God  to  give  me  strength  to  ask 
your  forgiveness  of  my  faults.  I  have  perhaps  devoted  to 
the  cares  of  a  friendship  outside  my  home,  attentions  more 
affectionate  than  I  owed  even  to  you.  Perhaps  I  have  an- 
noyed you  by  the  comparisons  you  may  have  drawn  between 
those  cares,  those  thoughts,  and  such  as  I  have  given  to  you. 
I  have  known,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "a  great  friend- 
ship, which  no  one,  not  even  he  who  was  its  object,  ever 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  609 

wholly  knew.  Though  I  have  been  virtuous  by  all  human 
law,  a  blameless  wife  to  you,  thoughts — voluntary  or  invol- 
untary— have  found  their  way  into  my  mind,  and  I  fear  I 
may  have  cherished  them  too  gladly.  But  as  I  have  al- 
ways loved  you  truly,  and  have  been  your  obedient  wife, 
as  the  clouds  passing  across  the  sky  have  never  darkened 
its  clearness,  you  behold  me  craving  your  blessing  with  an 
unsullied  brow.  I  can  die  without  a  bitter  pang  if  I  may 
hear  from  your  lips  one  loving  word  for  your  Blanche,  the 
mother  of  your  children,  and  if  you  will  forgive  all  these 
things,  which  she  did  not  forgive  herself  till  she  had  re- 
ceived the  absolution  of  the  tribunal  to  which  we  all  bow." 

"Blanche,  Blanche,"  cried  the  old  man,  suddenly  bursting 
into  tears  over  his  wife's  head,  "do  you  want  to  kill  me?" 

He  raised  her  in  his  arms  with  unwonted  strength,  and 
clasping  her  to  him,  "Have  I  no  forgiveness  to  ask?"  he 
went  on.  "Have  I  not  often  been  harsh?  Are  you  not 
magnifying  a  child's  scruples?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  she.  "But  be  tender,  my  dear,  to  the 
weakness  of  the  dying;  soothe  my  soul.  When  you  are  in 
the  hour  of  death  you  will  remember  that  I  blessed  you  as 
we  parted. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  leave  to  our  friend  here  this 
pledge  of  deep  regard?"  said  she,  pointing  to  a  letter  on 
the  chimney-shelf.  "He  is  now  my  adopted  son,  nothing 
more.  The  heart,  my  dear  Count,  has  its  bequests  to  make; 
my  last  words  are  to  impress  on  our  dear  Fe"lix  certain  duties 
to  be  carried  out;  I  do  not  think  I  have  expected  too  much 
of  him — grant  that  I  may  not  have  expected  too  much  of  you 
in  allowing  myself  to  bequeath  to  him  a  few  thoughts.  I  am 
still  a  woman,"  she  said,  bowing  her  head  with  sweet  melan- 
choly; "after  being  forgiven,  I  ask  a  favor.^-Read  it,  but  not 
till  after  my  death,"  she  added,  handing  me  the  mysterious 
manuscript. 

The  Count  saw  his  wife  turn  paler;  he  lifted  her,  and  him- 
self carried  her  to  the  bed,  where  we  gathered  round  her. 

"Felix,"  said  she,  "I  may  have  done  you  some  wrong.     I 


510  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

may  often  have  given  you  pain  "by  leading  you  to  hope  for 
joys  I  dared  not  give;  but  is  it  not  to  my  courage  as  a  wife 
and  as  a  mother  that  I  owe  the  comfort  of  dying  reconciled 
to  you  all  ?  So  you  too  will  forgive  me,  you  who  have  so 
often  accused  me,  and  whose  injustice  was  a  pleasure  to  me." 

The  Abbe*  Birotteau  put  his  finger  to  his  lips.  At  this 
hint  the  dying  woman  bowed  her  head ;  weakness  was  too 
much  for  her;  she  waved  her  hands  to  express  that  the 
priest,  the  children,  and  the  servants  were  to  be  admitted; 
then,  with  a  commanding  gesture  to  me,  she  pointed  to  the 
Count,  quite  crushed,  and  her  children  as  they  entered.  The 
sight  of  that  father,  whose  insanity  none  knew  save  herself 
and  me,  the  guardian  now  of  these  delicate  creatures,  in- 
spired her  with  mute  entreaties  which  fell  on  my  soul  like 
sacred  fire.  Before  receiving  extreme  unction  she  begged 
pardon  of  her  servants  for  being  sometimes  rough  with 
them,  she  asked  their  prayers,  and  commended  each  sep- 
arately to  the  Count.  She  nobly  confessed  that,  during  the 
past  few  months,  she  had  uttered  complaints  little  worthy 
of  a  Christian,  which  might  have  scandalized  her  depend- 
ants. She  had  been  cold  to  her  children,  and  had  given 
way  to  unseemly  sentiments ;  but  she  ascribed  to  her  intol- 
erable sufferings  this  want  of  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 

Finally,  she  publicly  thanked  the  Abbe*  Birotteau,  with 
touching  and  heartful  effusiveness,  for  having  shown  her 
the  vanity  of  all  earthly  things. 

When  she  ceased  speaking  all  began  to  pray,  and  the 
Cure'  of  Sadie*  administered  the  Viaticum.  A  few  minutes 
later  her  breathing  became  difficult,  a  cloud  dimmed  her 
eyes,  though  she  presently  opened  them  again  to  give  me 
a  last  look,  and  she  died  in  the  presence  of  us  all,  hearing 
perhaps  the  chorus  of  our  sobs. 

At  the  moment  when  she  breathed  her  last  sigh — the  last 
pang  of  a  life  that  was  one  long  pain — I  felt  myself  struck  by 
a  blow  which  paralyzed  all  my  faculties. 

The  Count  and  I  remained  by  the  bed  of  death  all  night, 
with  the  two  Abbe's  and  the  Curd,  watching  the  dead  by  the 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  511 

light  of  the  tapers,  as  she  lay  on  the  mattress,  calm  now, 
where  she  had  suffered  so  much. 

This  was  my  first  personal  knowledge  of  death.  I  sat  the 
whole  night  through,  my  eyes  fixed  on  Henriette,  fascinated 
by  the  pure  expression  given  by  the  stilling  of  every  tempest, 
by  the  pallor  of  the  face  in  which  I  still  read  numberless  affec- 
tions, which  could  no  longer  respond  to  my  love. 

What  majesty  there  is  in  that  silence  and  coldness!  How 
many  reflections  do  they  utter !  What  beauty  in  that  perfect 
repose,  what  command  in  that  motionless  sleep !  All  the  past 
is  there,  and  the  future  has  begun.  Ah !  I  loved  her  as  well 
in  death  as  I  had  in  life. 

In  the  morning  the  Count  went  to  bed,  the  three  weary 
priests  fell  asleep  at  that  hour  of  exhaustion,  so  well  known 
to  all  who  have  watched  through  a  night.  And  then,  alone 
with  her,  I  could,  unseen,  kiss  her  brow  with  all  the  love  she 
had  never  allowed  me  to  express. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  in  a  cool  autumn  morning,  we 
followed  the  Countess  to  her  last  home.  She  was  borne  to 
the  grave  by  the  old  huntsman,  the  two  Martineaus,  and 
Manette's  husband.  We  went  down  the  road  I  had  so  glee- 
fully come  up  on  the  day  when  I  returned  to  her.  We 
crossed  the  valley  of  the  Indre  to  reach  the  little  graveyard 
of  Sadie" — a  humble  village  cemetery,  lying  at  the  back  of 
the  church  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  where  she  had  desired  to 
be  buried,  out  of  Christian  humility,  with  a  plain  cross  of 
black  wood,  like  a  poor  laboring  woman,  as  she  had  said. 

When,  from  the  middle  of  the  valley,  I  caught  sight  of 
the  village  church  and  the  graveyard,  I  was  seized  with  a 
convulsive  shudder.  Alas!  we  each  have  a  Golgotha  in 
our  life,  where  we  leave  our  first  three  and  thirty  years,  re- 
ceiving then  a  spear-thrust  in  our  heart,  and  feeling  on  our 
head  a  crown  of  thorns  in  the  place  of  the  crown  of  roses: 
this  hill  was  to  me  the  Mount  of  Expiation. 

We  were  followed  by  an  immense  crowd  that  had  col- 
lected to  express  the  regrets  of  the  whole  valley,  where  she 


512  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

had  silently  buried  endless  acts  of  benevolence.  "We  knew 
from  Manette,  whom  she  trusted  entirely,  that  she  econo- 
mized in  dress  to  help  the  poor  when  her  savings  were  in- 
sufficient. Naked  children  had  been  clothed,  baby-linen 
supplied,  mothers  rescued,  sacks  of  corn  bought  of  the 
millers  in  winter  for  helpless  old  men,  a  cow  bestowed  on 
a  poverty-stricken  household;  in  short,  all  the  good  works 
of  a  Christian,  a  mother,  a  lady  bountiful;  and  sums  of 
money  given  to  help  loving  couples  to  marry,  or  to  provide 
substitutes  for  young  men  drawn  by  the  conscription,  touch- 
ing gifts  from  the  loving  soul  that  had  said:  "The  happiness 
of  others  becomes  the  joy  of  those  who  can  no  longer  be 
happy." 

These  facts,  talked  over  every  evening  for  the  last  three 
days,  had  brought  together  a  vast  throng.  I  followed  the 
bier  with  Jacques  and  the  two  Abbe's.  According  to  cus- 
tom neither  Madeleine  nor  the  Count  was  present;  they  re- 
mained alone  at  Clochegourde.  Manette  insisted  on  coming. 

"Poor  Madame!  poor  Madame  I  she  is  happy  nowl"  I 
heard  many  times  spoken  through  sobs. 

At  the  moment  when  the  procession  turned  off  from  the 
road  to  the  mills  there  was  a  unanimous  groan,  mingled 
with  weeping  that  was  enough  to  make  one  think  that  the 
valley  had  lost  its  soul. 

The  church  was  full  of  people.  After  the  service  we 
went  to  the  cemetery  where  she  was  to  be  buried  close  to 
the  cross.  When  I  heard  the  stones  and  gravel  rattle  on 
the  coffin  my  strength  failed  me.  I  had  to  ask  the  Marti- 
neaus  to  support  me,  and  they  led  me  half  dead  to  the 
Chateau  of  Sachet  there  the  owners  politely  offered  me 
shelter,  which  I  accepted.  I  confess  I  could  not  endure 
to  return  to  Clochegourde;  I  would  not  go  to  Frapesle 
whence  I  could  see  Henri ette's  home.  Here  I  was  near  her. 

I  spent  some  days  in  a  room  whose  windows  overlooked 
the  tranquil  and  solitary  coombe  of  which  I  have  spoken; 
it  is  a  deep  ravine  in  the  hills,  overgrown  with  secular  oaks, 
and  down  it  a  torrent  rushes  in  heavy  rains.  The  scene 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  513 

was  suited  to  the  severe  and  solemn  meditations  to  which 
I  gave  myself  up. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  following  that  fatal  night,  I  had 
seen  how  intrusive  my  presence  at  Clochegourde  would  be. 
The  Count  had  given  way  to  violent  feelings  at  Henriette's 
death;  still,  the  dreadful  event  was  expected,  and  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  there  was  a  prepared  calmness  verging 
on  indifference.  I  had  more  than  once  seen  this,  and  when 
the  Countess  had  given  me  the  letter  I  dared  not  open,  when 
she  spoke  of  her  affection  for  me,  this  man,  suspicious  as  he 
was,  had  not  given  me  the  fulminating  glance  I  had  expected. 
He  had  ascribed  his  wife's  words  to  the  excessive  delicacy  of 
her  conscience,  which  he  knew  to  be  so  pure. 

This  selfish  insensibility  was  but  natural.  The  souls  of 
these  two  beings  had  been  no  more  wedded  than  their  bodies, 
they  had  never  had  that  incessant  intimacy  which  renews  feel- 
ing ;  they  had  no  communion  of  griefs  or  joys,  those  close  ties 
which,  when  they  are  broken,  leave  us  sore  at  so  many  points, 
because  they  are  one  with  every  fibre,  because  they  are  rooted 
in  every  fold  of  the  heart,  while  soothing  the  soul  which  sanc- 
tions every  such  tie. 

Madeleine's  hostility  closed  Clochegourde  to  me.  This 
stern  young  thing  was  not  inclined  to  come  to  terms  with 
her  aversion,  over  her  mother's  grave;  and  I  should  have 
been  dreadfully  uncomfortable  between  the  Count,  who 
would  have  talked  of  himself,  and  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  who  would  have  made  no  secret  of  her  invincible 
dislike.  And  to  live  on  such  terms  there — where  of  old 
the  very  flowers  had  caressed  me,  where  the  terrace  steps 
were  eloquent,  where  all  my  memories  lent  poetry  to  the 
balconies,  the  parapets,  the  balustrades  and  terraces,  to 
the  trees,  and  to  every  point  of  view;  to  be  hated  where 
all  had  been  love!  I  could  not  endure  the  thought.  So 
my  mind  was  made  up  from  the  first.  This  then,  alas !  was 
the  end  of  the  strongest  love  that  ever  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
man.  In  the  eyes  of  strangers  my  conduct  would  seem 
blameworthy,  but  it  had  the  sanction  of  my  conscience. 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

This  is  the  outcome  of  the  finest  sentiments,  the  greatest 
dramas  of  youth.  We  all  set  forth  one  fine  morning,  as 
I  had  started  from  Tours  for  Clochegourde,  annexing  the 
world,  our  heart  craving  for  love;  then,  when  our  treasure 
has  been  through  the  crucible,  when  we  have  mixed  with 
men,  and  known  events,  it  all  seems  unaccountably  small, 
we  find  so  little  gold  among  the  ashes.  Such  is  life — life  in 
its  reality! — a  great  deal  of  aspiration,  a  small  result. 

I  meditated  on  myself  at  great  length,  wondering  what  I 
could  do  after  a  blow  that  had  cut  down  all  my  flowers. — 
I  determined  to  rush  into  politics  and  science,  by  the  tor- 
tuous paths  of  ambition,  to  cut  women  out  of  my  life  en- 
tirely, and  be  a  statesman — cold,  passionless,  faithful  to  the 
saint  I  had  loved.  My  thoughts  went  far  away,  out  of  sight, 
while  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  glorious  background  of  gold- 
en oaks  with  their  sombre  heads  and  feet  of  bronze. — I  asked 
myself  whether  Henriette's  virtue  had  not  been  mere  igno- 
rance, whether  I  were  really  guilty  of  her  death.  I  struggled 
against  the  burden  of  remorse.  At  last,  one  limpid  autumn 
day,  under  one  of  heaven's  latest  smiles,  so  lovely  in  Tou- 
raine,  I  read  the  letter  which,  by  her  instructions,  I  was 
not  to  open  before  her  death — and  I  read  as  follows: 

"Madame  de  Mortsauf  to  the  Vicomte  Felix  de  Vandenesse 

"Felix,  friend  too  much  beloved,  I  must  now  open  my 
heart  to  you,  less  to  tell  you  how  well  I  love  you  than  to 
show  you  the  extent  of  your  obligations,  by  revealing  the 
depth  and  severity  of  the  wounds  you  have  made  in  it.  At 
this  moment,  when  I  am  dropping,  exhausted  by  the  fatigues 
of  the  journey,  worn  out  by  the  strokes  I  have  received  in 
the  fight,  the  woman,  happily,  is  dead,  the  mother  alone 
survives.  You  will  see,  my  dear,  how  you  were  the  first 
cause  of  my  woes.  Though  I  afterward  submitted,  not  un- 
willingly, to  your  blows,  I  am  now  dying  of  a  last  wound 
inflicted  by  you ;  but  there  is  exquisite  delight  in  feeling 
one's  self  crushed  by  the  man  one  loves. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  515 

"Before  long  my  sufferings  will,  no  doubt,  rob  me  of 
my  strength,  so  I  take  advantage  of  the  last  gleam  of  intel- 
ligence to  implore  you,  once  more,  to  fill  the  place  toward 
my  children  of  the  heart  you  have  robbed  them  of.  If  I 
loved  you  less,  I  should  lay  this  charge  on  you  authorita- 
tively, but  I  would  rather  leave  you  to  assume  it  out  of 
saintly  repentance,  and  also  as  a  perpetuation  of  your  love 
for  me.  Has  not  our  love  been  always  mingled  with  re- 
pentant reflections  and  expiatory  fears  ?  And  we  love  each 
other  still,  I  know  it. 

"Your  fault  is  fatal,  not  so  much  through  your  own  act 
as  through  the  importance  I  have  given  it  in  my  own  heart. 
Bid  I  not  tell  you  that  I  was  jealous — jealous  unto  death  ? 
Well,  I  am  dying.  Yet,  be  comforted.  We  have  satisfied 
human  law.  The  Church,  through  one  of  its  purest  speak- 
ers, has  assured  me  that  God  will  show  mercy  to  those  who 
have  sacrificed  their  natural  weakness  to  the  commandments. 
So  let  me,  my  beloved,  tell  you  all,  for  I  would  not  keep  a 
single  thought  from  you.  What  I  shall  confess  to  God  in 
my  last  hour,  you  too  must  know  who  are  the  king  of  my 
heart,  as  He  is  the  King  of  Heaven. 

"Until  the  ball  given  to  the  Due  d'Angoul&ne,  the  only 
one  I  ever  went  to,  marriage  had  left  me  in  the  perfect  igno- 
rance which  gives  a  maiden's  soul  its  angelic  beauty.  I  was, 
indeed,  a  mother,  but  love  had  given  me  none  of  its  per- 
mitted pleasures.  How  was  it  that  this  happened  ?  I  know 
not;  nor  do  I  know  by  what  law  everything  in  me  was 
changed  in  an  instant.  Do  you  still  remember  your  kisses  ? 
They  mastered  my  life,  they  burned  into  my  soul.  The  fire 
in  your  blood  awoke  the  fire  in  mine;  your  youth  became 
one  with  my  youth;  your  longing  entered  into  my  heart. 
When  I  stood  up  so  proudly,  I  felt  a  sensation  for  which  I 
know  no  word  in  any  language,  for  children  have  found  no 
word  to  express  the  marriage  of  their  eyes  to  the  light,  or 
the  kiss  of  life  on  their  lips.  Yes,  it  was  indeed  the  sound 
that  first  roused  the  echo,  the  light  flashing  in  darkness,  the 
impulse  given  to  the  universe — at  least,  it  was  as  instantane- 


516  BALZACTS  WORKS 

ous  as  all  these;  but  far  more  beautiful,  for  it  was  life  to  a 
soul !  I  understood  that  there  was  in  the  world  something 
I  had  never  known,  a  power  more  glorious  than  thought; 
that  it  was  all  thought,  all  power,  a  whole  future  in  a  com- 
mon emotion.  I  was  now  no  more  than  half  a  mother.  This 
thunderbolt,  falling  on  my  heart,  fired  the  desires  that  slept 
there  unknown  to  me ;  I  suddenly  understood  what  my  aunt 
had  meant  when  she  used  to  say,  'Poor  Henriette!' 

1 '  On  my  return  to  Clochegourde,  the  spring-time,  the  first 
leaves,  the  scent  of  flowers,  the  pretty  fleecy  clouds,  the  Indre, 
the  sky,  all  spoke  to  me  in  a  tongue  I  had  never  yet  under- 
stood, and  which  restored  to  my  soul  some  of  the  impetus 
you  had  given  to  my  senses.  If  you  have  forgotten  those 
terrible  kisses,  I  have  never  been  able  to  efface  them  from 
my  memory:  I  am  dying  of  them! 

"Yes,  every  time  I  have  seen  you  since,  you  have  revived 
the  impression;  I  have  thrilled  from  head  to  foot  when  I  saw 
you,  from  the  mere  presentiment  of  your  coming.  Neither 
time  nor  my  firm  determination  has  been  able  to  quench  this 
insistent  rapture.  I  involuntarily  wondered,  What  then  must 
pleasure  be  ?  Our  exchange  of  glances,  your  respectful  kisses 
on  my  hands,  my  arm  resting  in  yours,  your  voice  in  its  ten- 
der tones,  in  short,  the  veriest  trifles  disturbed  me  so  violently 
that  a  cloud  almost  always  darkened  my  sight,  and  the  hum 
of  my  rebellious  blood  sang  in  my  ears.  Oh !  if  in  those  mo- 
ments when  I  was  colder  to  you  than  ever,  you  had  taken  me 
in  your  arms,  I  should  have  died  of  happiness.  Sometimes 
I  have  longed  that  you  might  be  over-bold — but  prayer  soon 
drove  out  that  evil  thought.  Your  name  spoken  by  my  chil- 
dren filled  my  heart  with  hotter  blood  which  mounted  in  a 
flush  to  my  face,  and  I  would  lay  snares  for  poor  little  Made- 
leine, to  make  her  mention  it,  so  dearly  did  I  love  the  surge 
of  that  emotion. 

"How  can  I  tell  you  all?  Your  writing  had  its  charms; 
I  gazed  at  your  letters  as  we  study  a  portrait.  And  if,  from 
that  first  day  you  had  such  a  fateful  power  over  me,  you  may 
imagine,  my  friend,  that  it  must  have  become  infinite  when 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  617 

you  allowed  me  to  read  to  the  bottom  of  your  soul.  What 
ecstasy  was  mine  when  I  found  you  so  pure,  so  perfectly 
true,  gifted  with  such  great  qualities,  capable  of  such  great 
things,  and  already  so  sorely  tried!  A  man  and  a  child, 
timid  and  brave!  What  joy  it  was  to  find  that  we  had  been 
dedicated  to  a  common  suffering ! 

"From  that  evening  when  we  confided  in  each  other,  to 
lose  you  was  death  to  me;  I  kept  you  near  me  out  of  selfish- 
ness. I  was  deeply  touched  to  find  that  Monsieur  de  la  Bcrge 
was  certain  that  I  should  die  of  your  absence;  he  then  had 
read  my  heart.  He  decided  that  I  was  indispensable  to  my 
children  and  to  the  Count;  he  desired  me  not  to  forbid  you 
the  house,  for  I  promised  him  to  remain  pure  in  deed  and 
thought.  'Thought  is  involuntary,'  said  he,  'but  it  may  be 
guarded  in  the  midst  of  torments.'  'If  I  think,'  said  I,  'all 
will  be  lost;  save  me  from  myself!  He  must  stay  near  me, 
but  I  must  remain  virtuous — help  me!' 

"The  good  old  man,  though  most  severe,  was  indulgent 
to  my  honest  purpose:  'You  can  love  him  as  a  son,  and  look 
forward  to  his  marrying  your  daughter,'  said  he. 

"I  bravely  took  up  a  life  of  endurance  that  I  might  not 
lose  you,  and  suffered  gladly  when  I  was  sure  that  we  were 
called  to  bear  the  same  burden.  Ah,  God!  I  remained  neu- 
tral, faithful  to  my  husband,  and  never  allowing  you,  Fe*lix, 
to  take  a  step  in  your  dominion.  The  frenzy  of  my  passions 
reacted  on  my  faculties.  I  regarded  the  trials  inflicted  on 
me  by  Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  as  expiations,  and  endured 
them  with  pride  to  outrage  my  guilty  wishes.  Of  old  I  had 
been  prone  to  discontent,  but  after  you  came  to  be  near  us  I 
recovered  some  spirit,  which  was  a  satisfaction  to  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf.  But  for  the  strength  you  lent  me  I  should  long 
ago  have  sunk  under  the  inward  life  I  have  told  you  of.  Yes, 
you  have  counted  for  much  in  the  doing  of  my  duty.  It  is 
the  same  with  regard  to  the  children;  I  felt  I  had  robbed 
them  of  something,  and  I  feared  I  could  never  do  enough 
for  them.  Henceforth  my  life  was  one  continued  anguish 
that  I  cherished.  Feeling  myself  less  a  mother,  less  a  faith- 


518  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

ful  wife,  remorse  made  its  abode  in  my  heart,  and  for  fear 
of  failing  in  my  duties  I  constantly  overdid  them.  Hence, 
to  save  myself,  I  set  Madeleine  between  us,  intending  you 
for  each  other,  and  thus  raising  a  barrier  between  you  and 
me.  An  unavailing  barrier!  Nothing  could  repress  the 
stress  of  feeling  you  gave  me.  Absent  or  present  your 
power  was  the  same.  I  loved  Madeleine  more  than  Jacques, 
because  Madeleine  was  to  be  yours. 

"Still,  I  could  not  yield  to  my  daughter  without  a  strug- 
gle; I  told  myself  that  I  was  but  twenty-eight  when  I  first 
met  you,  and  that  you  were  nearly  twenty-two.  I  abridged 
distances,  I  allowed  myself  to  indulge  false  hopes.  Oh,  my 
dear  Felix,  I  make  this  confession  to  spare  you  some  remorse ; 
partly,  perhaps,  to  show  you  that  I  was  not  insensible,  that 
our  sufferings  in  love  were  cruelly  equalized,  and  that  Ara- 
bella was  in  nothing  my  superior.  I  too  was  one  of  those 
daughters  of  the  fallen  race  whom  men  love  so  well. 

"There  was  a  time  when  the  conflict  was  so  fearful  that 
I  wept  all  the  night,  and  night  after  night;  my  hair  fell  out 
— you  have  that  hair !  You  remember  Monsieur  de  Mort- 
sauf's  illness.  Your  magnanimity  at  that  time,  far  from 
raising  me,  made  me  fall  lower.  Alas!  there  was  a  time 
when  I  longed  to  throw  myself  into  your  arms  as  the  reward 
of  so  much  heroism;  but  that  madness  was  brief.  I  laid  it 
at  the  footstool  of  God  during  that  Mass  which  you  refused 
to  attend.  Then  Jacques'  illness  and  Madeleine's  ill  health 
seemed  to  me  as  threats  from  (rod,  who  was  trying  thus  to 
recall  the  erring  sheep.  And  your  love  for  that  English- 
woman, natural  as  it  was,  revealed  to  me  secrets  of  which  I 
knew  nothing;  I  loved  you  more  than  I  knew  I  did.  I  lost 
sight  of  Madeleine. 

"The  constant  agitations  of  this  storm-tossed  life,  the 
efforts  I  made  to  subdue  myself  with  no  help  but  that  of 
religion,  have  laid  the  seeds  of  the  disease  I  am  dying  of. 
That  dreadful  blow  brought  on  attacks  of  which  I  would  say 
nothing.  I  saw  in  death  the  only  possible  conclusion  to  this 
unrevealed  tragedy. 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  619 

*'I  lived  a  whole  life  of  passion,  jealousy,  fury,  during  the 
two  months  between  the  news  given  me  by  my  mother  of  your 
connection  with  Lady  Dudley  and  your  arrival  here.  I  wanted 
to  go  to  Paris,  I  thirsted  for  murder,  I  longed  for  the  death  of 
that  woman,  I  was  insensible  to  the  affection  of  my  children. 
Prayer,  which  until  then  had  been  a  balm  to  me,  had  no  further 
effect  on  my  spirit.  Jealousy  made  the  breach  through  which 
death  entered  in.  Still,  I  maintained  a  placid  front;  yes,  that 
time  of  conflict  was  a  secret  between  God  and  me. 

"When  I  was  quite  sure  that  I  was  as  much  loved  by  you 
as  you  were  by  me,  and  that  it  was  nature  only  and  not  your 
heart  that  had  made  you  faithless,  I  longed  to  live — but  it 
was  too  late.  God  had  taken  me  under  His  protection,  in 
pity  no  doubt  for  a  being  true  to  herself,  true  to  Him,  whose 
sufferings  had  so  constantly  brought  her  to  the  gates  of  the 
sanctuary.  My  best-beloved,  God  has  judged  me,  Monsieur 
de  Mortsauf  will  no  doubt  forgive  me,  but  you — will  you  be 
merciful  ?  Will  you  listen  to  the  voice  which  at  this  moment 
reaches  you  from  my  tomb  ?  Will  you  make  good  the  disas- 
ters for  which  we  both  are  responsible — you,  perhaps,  less 
than  I  ?  You  know  what  I  would  ask  of  you.  Be  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Mortsauf  what  a  Sister  of  Charity  is  to  a  sick  man: 
listen  to  him,  love  him — no  one  will  love  him.  Stand  be- 
tween him  and  his  children  as  I  have  always  done. 

' '  The  task  will  not  be  a  long  one.  Jacques  will  soon  leave 
home  to  live  in  Paris  with  his  grandfather,  and  you  have 
promised  to  guide  him  among  the  rocks  of  the  world.  As 
to  Madeleine,  she  will  marry;  would  that  she  might  some 
day  accept  you!  She  is  all  myself,  and  she  is  also  strong 
in  the  will  that  I  lack,  in  the  energy  needed  in  the  com- 
panion of  a  man  whose  career  must  carry  him  through  the 
storms  of  political  life;  she  is  clever  and  clear-sighted.  If 
your  destinies  were  united  she  would  be  happier  than  her 
mother  has  been.  By  acquiring  a  right  to  carry  on  my  work 
at  Clochegourde  you  would  wipe  out  such  errors  as  have  been 
insufficiently  atoned  for,  though  forgiven  in  Heaven  and  on 
earth,  for  he  is  generous  and  will  forgive. 


520  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"lam  still  egotistical,  you  see;  but  is  not  that  a  proof 
of  overweening  love  ?  I  want  you  to  love  me  in  those  that 
belong  to  me.  Never  having  been  yours  by  right,  I  bequeath 
to  you  my  cares  and  duties.  If  you  will  not  marry  Made- 
leine, at  least  you  will  secure  the  repose  of  my  soul  by  mak- 
ing Monsieur  de  Mortsauf  as  happy  as  it  is  possible  for  him 
to  be. 

"Farewell,  dear  son  of  my  heart;  this  is  a  perfectly  ra- 
tional leave-taking,  still  full  of  life;  the  adieux  of  a  soul  on 
which  you  have  bestowed  joys  so  great  that  you  should  feel 
no  remorse  over  the  catastrophe  they  have  led  to.  And  I 
say  this  as  I  remember  that  you  love  me;  for  I  am  going  to 
the  home  of  rest,  a  victim  to  duty,  and — which  makes  me 
shudder — I  cannot  go  without  a  regret!  (rod  knows  better 
than  I  can  whether  I  have  obeyed  His  holy  laws  in  the  spirit. 
I  have  often  stumbled,  no  doubt,  but  I  never  fell,  and  the 
most  pressing  cause  of  my  errors  lay  in  the  temptations  that 
surrounded  me.  The  Lord  will  see  me,  quaking  quite  as 
much  as  though  I  had  yielded. 

"Once  more  farewell — such  a  farewell  as  I  yesterday  bade 
our  beloved  valley,  in  whose  lap  I  shall  soon  be  lying,  and 
to  which  you  will  often  come,  will  you  not  ? 

"HENRIETTE." 

I  sat,  sunk  in  a  gulf  of  meditations  as  I  here  saw  the  un- 
known depths  of  her  life  lighted  up  by  this  last  flash.  The 
clouds  of  my  selfishness  vanished.  So  she  had  suffered  as 
much  as  I — more,  since  she  was  dead.  She  had  believed 
that  everybody  else  must  be  kind  to  her  friend;  her  love 
had  so  effectually  blinded  her  that  she  had  never  suspected 
her  daughter's  animosity.  This  last  proof  of  her  affection 
was  a  painful  thing:  poor  Henriette  wanted  to  give  me 
Clochegourde  and  her  daughter! 

Natalie,  since  the  dreadful  day  when,  for  the  first  time, 
I  entered  a  graveyard,  following  the  remains  of  that  noble 
creature,  whom  you  now  know,  the  sun  has  been  less  warm 
and  bright,  the  night  has  been  blacker,  action  has  been  less 


THE  LILY  OF   THE   VALLEY  621 

prompt  with  me,  thought  a  greater  burden.  We  lay  many 
to  rest  under  the  earth,  but  some  of  them,  especially  dear, 
have  our  heart  for  their  winding-sheet,  their  memory  is  per- 
petually one  with  its  throbs;  we  think  of  them  as  we  breathe; 
they  dwell  in  us  by  a  beautiful  law  of  metempsychosis  pe- 
culiar to  love.  There  is  a  soul  within  my  soul.  When  I 
do  any  good  thing,  when  I  speak  a  noble  word,  it  is  that 
soul  which  speaks  and  acts ;  all  that  is  good  in  me  emanates 
from  that  tomb  as  from  a  lily  whose  scent  embalms  the  air. 
Mockery,  evil  speaking,  all  you  blame  in  me,  is  myself. 

And  now,  when  a  cloud  dims  my  eyes  and  they  look  up 
to  Heaven  after  long  resting  on  the  earth,  when  my  lips  make 
no  response  to  your  words  or  your  kindness,  do  not  hence- 
forth ask  me,  "What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

Dear  Natalie,  I  had  ceased  writing  for  some  little  time; 
these  reminiscences  had  agitated  me  too  painfully.  I  must 
now  relate  the  events  that  followed  on  this  misfortune.  They 
can  be  told  in  a  few  words.  When  a  life  consists  only  of  ac- 
tion and  stir  it  is  soon  recorded ;  but  when  it  is  spent  in  the 
loftiest  regions  of  the  soul  the  story  must  be  diffuse. 

Henriette's  letter  showed  me  one  bright  star  of  hope.  In 
this  tremendous  shipwreck  I  saw  an  island  I  might  reach. — 
To  live  at  Clochegourde  with  Madeleine,  and  devote  my  life 
to  her  was  a  lot  to  satisfy  all  the  ideas  that  tossed  my  soul; 
but  I  must  first  learn  Madeleine's  true  opinions.  I  had  to 
take  leave  of  the  Count;  I  went  to  Clochegourde  to  call  on 
him,  and  met  him  on  the  terrace.  There  we  walked  together 
for  some  time. 

At  first  he  spoke  of  his  wife  as  a  man  who  understood  the 
extent  of  his  loss,  and  all  the  ruin  it  had  wrought  in  his  home 
life.  But  after  that  first  cry  of  sorrow,  he  was  evidently  more 
anxious  about  the  future  than  about  the  present.  He  was 
afraid  of  his  daughter,  who  was  not,  he  said,  so  gentle  as  her 
mother,  Madeleine's  firm  temper  and  a  tinge  of  something 
heroical,  mingling  in  her  with  her  mother's  gracious  nature, 
terrified  the  old  man,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  Henriette's 
tender  kindness;  he  foresaw  meeting  a  will  which  nothing 


522  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

could  bend.  Still,  what  comforted  him  in  his  loss  was  the 
certainty  of  joining  his  wife  ere  long;  the  agitations  and 
grief  of  the  last  few  days  had  increased  his  malady  and 
brought  on  his  old  pains ;  the  conflict  he  foresaw  between  his 
authority  as  the  father,  and  his  daughter's  as  the  mistress,  of 
the  house,  would  fill  his  last  days  with  bitterness,  for  in  cases 
where  he  could  contend  with  his  wife  he  would  have  to  give 
way  to  his  child.  Then  his  son  would  go  away,  his  daughter 
would  marry — what  sort  of  son-in-law  should  he  have  ? 

In  the  course  of  an  hour,  while  he  talked  of  nothing  but 
himself,  claiming  my  friendship  for  his  wife's  sake,  I  clearly 
saw  before  me  the  grandiose  figure  of  the  emigr^  one  of  the 
most  impressive  types  of  our  century.  In  appearance  he  was 
frail  and  broken,  but  life  still  clung  to  him  by  reason  of  his 
simple  habits  and  agricultural  occupations. 

At  this  moment,  when  I  write,  he  still  lives. 

Though  Madeleine  could  see  us  pacing  the  terrace,  she 
did  not  come  down;  she  came  out  to  the  steps  and  went  in 
again  several  times,  to  mark  her  disdain  of  me.  I  seized  a 
moment  when  she  had  come  out,  to  beg  the  Count  to  go  up 
to  the  house;  I  wanted  to  speak  to  Madeleine,  and  I  made 
a  pretext  of  a  last  request  left  by  the  Countess ;  I  had  no 
other  way  of  seeing  her,  and  the  Count  went  to  fetch  her, 
and  left  us  together  on  the  terrace. 

"Dear  Madeleine,"  said  I,  "I  must  speak  a  word  with 
you.  Was  it  not  here  that  your  mother  used  to  listen  to  me 
when  she  had  less  to  blame  me  for  than  the  circumstances  of 
her  life  ?  My  life  and  happiness  are,  as  you  know,  bound 
up  with  this  spot,  and  you  banish  me  by  the  coldness  you 
have  assumed  instead  of  the  brotherly  regard  which  used  to 
unite  us,  and  which  death  has  made  closer  by  a  common  sor- 
row. Dear  Madeleine,  for  you  I  would  this  instant  give  my 
life  without  any  hope  of  reward,  without  your  knowing  it 
even,  for  so  truly  do  we  love  the  children  of  the  women  who 
have  been  good  to  us  in  their  lifetime — you  know  nothing 
of  the  scheme  which  your  adored  mother  had  cherished  for 
Hie  last  seven  years,  and  which  may  perhaps  affect  your 


THE   LILY   OF   THE    VALLEY  623 

views — but  I  will  take  no  advantage  of  that!  All  I  beseech 
of  you  is  that  you  will  not  deprive  me  of  the  right  of  coming 
to  breathe  the  air  on  this  terrace,  and  to  wait  till  time  has 
modified  your  ideas  of  social  life.  At  this  moment  I  would 
not  shock  them  for  the  world.  I  respect  the  grief  that  mis- 
leads you,  for  it  deprives  me  too  of  the  power  of  judging 
fairly  of  the  position  in  which  I  find  myself.  The  saint  who 
is  now  watching  over  us  will  approve  of  the  reserve  I  main- 
tain when  I  only  ask  you  to  remain  neutral,  as  between  your 
own  feelings  and  me. 

"I  love  you  too  truly,  in  spite  of  the  aversion  you  show  for 
me,  to  lay  a  proposal  before  the  Count,  which  he  would  hail 
with  eager  satisfaction.  Be  free.  But  by  and  by,  consider  that 
you  will  never  know  anybody  in  the  world  so  well  as  you  know 
me,  that  no  man  can  bear  in  his  heart  feelings  more  devoted — " 

So  far  Madeleine  had  listened  with  downcast  eyes,  but  she 
stopped  me  with  a  gesture. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  agitation, 
"I,  too,  know  all  your  mind.  But  I  can  never  change  in 
feeling  toward  you,  and  I  would  rather  drown  myself  in  the 
Indre  than  unite  myself  with  you.  Of  myself  I  will  not 
speak,  but  if  my  mother's  name  can  still  influence  you,  in  her 
name  I  beg  you  never  to  come  to  Clochegourde  so  long  as  I 
am  here.  The  mere  sight  of  you  occasions  me  such  distress 
as  I  cannot  describe,  and  I  shall  never  get  over  it." 

She  bowed  to  me  with  much  dignity,  and  went  up  to  the 
house,  never  looking  back ;  as  rigid  as  her  mother  had  been 
once,  and  once  only,  and  quite  pitiless.  The  girl's  clear 
sight  had,  though  only  of  late,  seen  to  the  bottom  of  her 
mother's  heart,  and  her  hatred  of  the  man  who  seemed  to 
her  so  fatal  was  increased  perhaps  by  some  regret  at  her  own 
innocent  complicity. 

Here  was  an  impassable  gulf.  Madeleine  hated  me  with- 
out choosing  to  ascertain  whether  I  was  the  cause  or  the 
victim  of  her  griefs;  and  she  would,  I  dare  say,  have  hated 
both  her  mother  and  me  if  we  had  been  happy.  So  this  fair 
castle  of  promised  happiness  was  in  ruins. 


524  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

I  alone  was  ever  to  know  the  whole  life  of  this  noble 
unknown  woman,  I  alone  was  in  the  secret  of  her  feelings. 
I  alone  had  studied  her  soul  in  its  complete  grandeur. 
Neither  her  mother,  nor  her  father,  nor  her  husband,  nor 
her  children  had  understood  her. 

It  is  a  strange  thing!  I  can  turn  over  that  pile  of  ashes, 
and  take  pleasure  in  spreading  them  before  you;  we  may  all 
find  among  them  something  of  what  has  been  dearest  to  us. 
How  many  families  have  their  Henriette !  How  many  noble 
creatures  depart  from  earth  without  having  met  with  an 
intelligent  friend  to  tell  their  story,  and  to  sound  their  hearts, 
and  measure  their  depth  and  height!  This  is  human  life  in 
its  stern  reality ;  and  often  mothers  know  no  more  of  their 
children  than  the  children  know  of  them.  And  it  is  the  same 
with  married  couples,  lovers,  brothers  and  sisters.  Could  I 
foresee  that  the  day  would  come  when,  over  my  father's  grave, 
I  should  go  to  law  with  Charles  de  Vandenesse,  the  brother 
to  whose  advancement  I  had  so  largely  contributed  ?  Good 
Heavens!  How  much  may  be  learned  from  the  simplest  tale! 

When  Madeleine  had  disappeared  into  the  house  I  came 
away  heartbroken,  took  leave  of  my  hospitable  friends,  and 
set  out  for  Paris  along  the  right  bank  of  the  Indre — the  road 
by  which  I  had  come  down  the  valley  for  the  first  time.  I 
was  sad  enough  as  I  rode  through  the  village  of  Pont  de 
Kuan.  And  yet  I  was  now  rich ;  political  life  smiled  upon 
me;  I  was  no  longer  the  weary  wayfarer  of  1814.  Then  my 
heart  had  been  full  of  desires,  now  my  eyes  were  full  of  tears ; 
then  I  had  to  fill  up  my  life,  now  I  felt  it  a  desert..  I  was 
still  quite  young — nine-and-twenty — and  my  heart  was 
crushed.  A  few  years  had  been  enough  to  rob  the  land- 
scape of  its  pristine  glory,  and  to  disgust  me  with  life.  You 
may  conceive  then  of  my  emotion  when,  on  looking  back,  I 
discerned  Madeleine  on  the  terrace. 

Wholly  possessed  by  absorbing  sorrow,  I  never  thought 
of  the  end  of  my  journey.  Lady  Dudley  was  far  from  my 
mind,  when  I  found  that  I  had  unconsciously  entered  her 
courtyard.  The  blunder  once  made,  I  could  but  act  it  out. 


THE   LILY  OF    THE    VALLEY  625 

My  habits  in  the  house  were  quite  marital;  I  went  up- 
stairs, gloomy  in  anticipation  of  a  vexatious  rupture.  If  you 
have  ever  understood  the  character  of  Lady  Dudley  you  can 
imagine  how  disconcerted  I  felt  when  her  butler  showed  me, 
as  I  was,  in  travelling  dress,  into  a  drawing-room  where  she 
sat  splendidly  dressed  with  a  party  of  five  visitors.  Lord 
Dudley,  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  of  English  statesmen, 
was  standing  in  front  of  the  fire — elderly,  starch,  arrogant, 
cold,  with  the  satirical  expression  he  must  wear  in  the  House; 
he  smiled  on  hearing  my  name.  With  their  mother  were 
Arabella's  two  boys,  astonishingly  like  de  Marsay,  one  of 
the  nobleman's  natural  sons,  who  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  by 
the  Marchioness. 

Arabella,  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  assumed  a  lofty  air,  and 
stared  at  my  travelling  cap  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of 
inquiring  what  had  brought  me  to  see  her.  She  looked  at 
me  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  might  have  done  at  some  coun- 
try squire  just  introduced  to  her.  As  to  our  intimacy,  our 
eternal  passion,  her  vows  that  she  must  die  if  I  ever  ceased 
to  love  her — all  the  phantasmagoria  of  Armida — it  had  van- 
ished like  a  dream.  I  had  never  held  her  hand,  I  was  a 
stranger,  she  did  not  know  me ! 

I  was  startled,  in  spite  of  the  diplomatic  coolness  I  was 
beginning  to  acquire;  and  any  man  in  my  place  would  have 
been  no  less  so.  De  Marsay  smiled  as  he  looked  at  his  boots, 
examining  them  with  obvious  significancy. 

I  made  up  my  mind  at  once.  From  any  other  woman 
I  would  have  submissively  accepted  my  discomfiture;  but 
enraged  at  finding  this  heroine,  who  was  to  die  of  love,  alive 
and  well,  after  laughing  to  scorn  the  woman  who  had  died, 
I  determined  to  meet  insolence  with  insolence.  She  knew  of 
Lady  Brandon's  wreck;  to  remind  her  of  it  would  be  to  stab 
her  to  the  heart,  even  if  it  should  turn  the  edge  of  the  dagger. 

"Madame,"  said  I,  "you  will  forgive  me  for  coming  to 
you  in  so  cavalier  a  manner,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  this 
instant  arrived  from  Touraine,  and  that  Lady  Brandon  gave 
me  a  message  for  you  which  allows  of  no  delay.  I  feared  I 


526  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

might  find  that  you  had  started  for  Lancashire  j  but  since 
you  are  not  leaving  Paris,  I  await  your  orders  at  the  hour 
when  you  will  condescend  to  receive  me. ' ' 

She  bowed,  and  I  left  the  room. 

From  that  day  I  have  never  seen  her  excepting  in  com- 
pany, where  we  exchange  friendly  bows,  with  sometimes  a 
repartee.  I  rally  her  about  the  inconsolable  women  of  Lan- 
cashire, and  she  retorts  about  the  Frenchwomen  who  do  credit 
to  their  broken  hearts  by  attacks  of  dyspepsia.  Thanks  to 
her  good  offices  I  have  a  mortal  foe  in  de  Marsay,  whom  she 
makes  much  of ;  and  I,  in  return,  say  she  has  married  father 
and  son. 

Thus  my  disaster  was  complete. 

I  took  up  the  plan  of  life  I  had  decided  on  during  my 
retirement  at  Sadie*.  I  threw  myself  into  hard  work,  I  took 
up  science,  literature,  and  politics.  On  the  accession  of 
Charles  X. ,  who  abolished  the  post  I  had  filled  under  the  late 
King,  I  made  diplomacy  my  career.  From  that  hour  I  vowed 
never  to  pay  any  attention  to  a  woman,  however  beautiful, 
witty,  or  affectionate  she  might  be.  This  conduct  was  a  won- 
derful success.  I  gained  incredible  peace  of  mind,  great  pow- 
ers of  work,  and  I  learned  that  women  waste  men's  lives  and 
think  they  have  indemnified  them  by  a  few  gracious  words. 

However,  all  my  fine  resolutions  have  come  to  nothing — 
you  know  how  and  why. 

Dearest  Natalie,  in  relating  my  whole  life  without  reserve 
or  concealment,  as  I  should  to  myself,  in  confessing  to  you 
feelings  in  which  you  had  no  part,  I  may  perhaps  have  vexed 
some  tender  spot  of  your  jealous  and  sensitive  heart.  But 
what  would  infuriate  a  vulgar  woman  will  be,  to  you,  I  am 
sure,  a  fresh  reason  for  loving  me.  The  noblest  women  have 
a  sublime  part  to  play  toward  suffering  and  aching  souls,  that 
of  the  Sister  of  Mercy  who  dresses  their  wounds,  of  the  mother 
who  forgives  her  children.  Nor  are  artists  and  poets  the  only 
sufferers.  Men  who  live  for  their  country,  for  the  future  of 
nations,  as  they  widen  the  circle  of  their  passions  and  their 
thoughts,  often  find  themselves  in  cruel  solitude.  They  long 


THE   LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  627 

to  feel  that  by  their  side  is  some  pure  and  devoted  love. 
Believe  me,  they  will  know  its  greatness  and  its  value. 

To-morrow  I  shall  knovr  whether  I  have  made  a  mistake 
in  loving  you. 

To  Monsieur  le  Comte  Felix  de  Vandenesse 

"Dear  Count,  you  received,  as  you  tell  me,  a  letter  from 
poor  Madame  de  Mortsauf  which  has  been  of  some  use  in 
guiding  you  through  the  world,  a  letter  to  which  you  owe 
your  high  fortunes.  Allow  me  to  finish  your  education. 

"I  implore  you  to  divest  yourself  of  an  odious  habit.  Do 
not  imitate  certain  widows  who  are  always  talking  of  their 
first  husband  and  throwing  the  virtues  of  the  dear  departed 
in  the  teeth  of  the  second.  I,  dear  Count,  am  a  French- 
woman ;  I  should  wish  to  marry  the  whole  of  the  man  I  loved ; 
now  I  really  cannot  marry  Madame  de  Mortsauf. 

"After  reading  your  narrative  with  the  attention  it  de- 
serves— and  you  know  what  interest  I  feel  in  you — it  strikes 
me  that  you  must  have  bored  Lady  Dudley  very  considerably 
by  holding  up  to  her  Madame  de  Mortsauf 's  perfections,  while 
deeply  wounding  the  Countess  by  expatiating  on  the  various 
resources  of  English  love-making.  You  have  now  failed  in 
tact  toward  me,  a  poor  creature  who  can  boast  of  no  merit  but 
that  of  having  attracted  your  liking;  you  have  implied  that 
I  do  not  love  you  as  much  as  either  Henriette  or  Arabella.  I 
confess  my  deficiencies.  I  know  them;  but  why  make  me 
feel  them  so  cruelly? 

"Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  pity? — The  fourth  woman  you 
may  love.  She  will  inevitably  be  required  to  hold  her  own 
against  three  predecessors ;  so,  in  your  interest  as  much  as  in 
hers,  I  must  warn  you  against  the  perils  of  your  memory. 

"I  renounce  the  laborious  honor  of  loving  you.  I  should 
jequire  too  many  Catholic  or  Anglican  virtues,  and  I  have 
no  taste  for  fighting  ghosts.  The  virtues  of  the  Virgin  of 
Clochegourde  would  reduce  the  most  self-confident  woman 
to  despair;  and  your  dashing  horsewoman  discourages  the 


528  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

boldest  dreams  of  happiness.  Do  what  she  may,  no  woman 
can  hope  to  give  you  satisfaction  in  proportion  to  her  ambi- 
tion. Neither  heart  nor  senses  can  ever  triumph  oyer  your 
reminiscences.  You  have  forgotten  that  we  often  ride  out 
together.  I  have  not  succeeded  in  warming  up  the  sun  that 
was  chilled  by  your  Henriette's  decease;  you  would  shiver 
by  my  side. 

"My  friend — for  you  will  always  be  my  friend — beware 
of  repeating  these  confidences  which  strip  your  disenchant- 
ment bare,  dishearten  love,  and  compel  a  woman  to  doubt 
her  powers.  Love,  my  dear  friend,  lives  on  mutual  trust- 
fulness. The  woman  who,  before  she  says  a  word  or  mounts 
her  horse,  stops  to  ask  herself  whether  a  heavenly  Henriette 
did  not  speak  better,  or  a  horsewoman  like  Arabella  did  not 
display  more  grace,  that  woman,  take  my  word  for  it,  will 
have  a  trembling  tongue  and  knees. 

"You  made  me  wish  that  I  might  receive  some  of  your 
intoxicating  nosegays — but  you  say  you  will  make  no  more. 
Thus  it  is  with  a  hundred  things  you  no  longer  dare  do,  with 
thoughts  and  enjoyments  which  can  never  again  be  yours. 
No  woman,  be  very  sure,  would  choose  to  dwell  in  your 
heart  elbowing  the  corpse  you  cherish  there. 

"You  beseech  me  to  love  you  out  of  Christian  charity.  I 
could,  I  own,  do  much  out  of  charity — everything  but  love. 

"You  are  sometimes  dull  and  tiresome;  you  dignify  your 
gloom  by  the  name  of  melancholy,  well  and  good ;  but  it  is 
intolerable,  and  fills  the  woman  who  loves  you  with  cruel 
anxieties.  I  have  come  across  that  saint's  tomb  too  often 
standing  between  us;  I  have  reflected,  and  I  have  concluded 
that  I  have  no  wish  to  die  like  her.  If  you  exasperated  Lady 
Dudley,  a  woman  of  the  first  distinction,  I,  who  have  not  her 
furious  passions,  fear  I  should  even  sooner  grow  cold. 

"Put  love  out  of  the  question  as  between  you  and  me, 
since  you  no  longer  find  happiness  but  with  the  dead,  and 
let  us  be  friends;  I  am  willing. 

"Why,  my  dear  Count,  you  began  by  loving  an  adorable 
woman,  a  perfect  mistress,  who  undertook  to  make  your  for- 


THE  LILY  OF   THE    VALLEY  629 

tune,  who  procured  you  a  peerage,  who  loved  you  to  distrac- 
tion— and  you  made  her  die  of  grief!  Why,  nothing  can  be 
more  monstrous.  Among  the  most  ardent  and  the  most  luck- 
less youths  who  drag  their  ambitions  over  the  pavements  of 
Paris,  is  there  one  who  would  not  have  behaved  himself  for 
ten  years  to  obtain  half  the  favors  which  you  failed  to  recog- 
nize? When  a  man  is  so  beloved,  what  more  does  he  want? 

4 'Poor  woman!  she  suffered  much;  and  you,  when  you 
have  made  a  few  sentimental  speeches,  think  you  have  paid 
your  debt  over  her  bier.  This,  no  doubt,  is  the  prize  that 
awaits  my  affection  for  you.  Thank  you,  dear  Count,  but 
I  desire  no  rival  on  either  side  of  the  grave. 

"When  a  man  has  such  a  crime  on  his  conscience,  the 
least  he  can  do  is  not  to  tell! 

"I  asked  you  a  foolish  question;  it  was  in  my  part  as  a 
woman,  a  daughter  of  Eve.  It  was  your  part  to  calculate 
the  results  of  the  answer.  You  ought  to  have  deceived  me; 
I  should  have  thanked  you  for  it  later.  Have  you  under- 
stood wherein  lies  the  merit  of  men  who  are  liked  by 
women?  Do  you  not  perceive  how  magnanimous  they  are 
when  they  swear  that  they  have  never  loved  before,  that 
this  is  their  first  love?  Your  programme  is  impossible. 
Lady  Dudley  and  Madame  de  Mortsauf  in  one!  Why,  my 
dear  friend,  you  might  as  well  try  to  combine  fire  and  water. 
Do  you  know  nothing  of  women?  They  are  as  they  are; 
they  must  have  the  defects  of  their  qualities. 

"You  met  Lady  Dudley  too  soon  to  appreciate  her,  and 
the  evil  you  say  of  her  seems  to  me  the  revenge  of  your 
wounded  vanity ;  you  understood  Madame  de  Mortsauf  too 
late;  you  punished  each  for  not  being  the  other;  what  then 
would  become  of  me,  being  neither  one  nor  the  other? 

"I  like  you  well  enough  to  have  reflected  very  seriously 
on  your  future  prospects.  Your  look,  as  of  the  Knight  of 
the  Rueful  Countenance,  has  always  interested  me,  and  I 
believe  in  the  constancy  of  melancholy  men,  but  I  did  not 
know  that  you  had  begun  your  career  in  the  world  by  kill- 
ing the  loveliest  and  most  virtuous  of  women.  Well,  I 
Vol.  4  W 


530  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

have  been  considering  what  remains  for  you  to  do;  I  have 
thought  it  out.  I  think  you  had  better  marry  some  Mrs. 
Shandy,  who  will  know  nothing  of  love  or  passion,  who 
will  never  trouble  her  head  about  Lady  Dudley  or  Madame 
de  Mortsauf ,  nor  about  those  spells  of  dulness  which  you 
call  melancholy — when  you  are  as  amusing  as  a  rainy  day 
— and  who  will  be  the  worthy  Sister  of  Charity  you  long  for. 

"As  to  love — thrilling  at  a  word,  knowing  how  to  wait 
for  happiness,  how  to  give  and  take  it,  feeling  the  myriad 
storms  of  passion,  making  common  cause  with  the  little 
vanities  of  the  woman  you  love — my  dear  Count,  give  it 
up.  You  have  followed  the  advice  of  your  good  angel  too 
exactly;  you  have  avoided  young  women  so  eifectually  that 
you  know  nothing  about  them.  Madame  de  Mortsauf  was 
wise  in  getting  you  to  a  front  place  at  once;  every  woman 
would  have  been  against  you,  and  you  would  never  have 
got  one.  It  is  too  late  now  to  begin  your  training,  and  to 
learn  to  say  the  things  we  like  to  hear,  to  be  noble  at  appro- 
priate moments,  to  worship  our  triviality  when  we  have  a 
fancy  to  be  trivial.  We  are  not  such  simpletons  as  you  think 
us.  When  we  love,  we  set  the  man  of  our  choice  above  all 
else.  Anything  that  shakes  our  faith  in  our  own  supremacy 
shakes  our  love.  By  flattering  us,  you  flatter  yourselves. 

"If  you  want  to  live  in  the  world  and  mingle  on  equal 
terms  with  women,  conceal  with  care  all  you  have  told  me; 
they  do  not  care  to  strew  the  flowers  of  their  affections  on 
stones,  or  lavish  their  caresses  to  heal  a  wounded  heart. 
Every  woman  will  at  once  discern  the  shallowness  of  your 
heart,  and  you  will  be  constantly  more  "unhappy.  Very  few 
will  be  frank  enough  to  tell  you  what  I  have  told  you,  or 
good-natured  enough  to  dismiss  you  without  rancor  and 
offer  you  their  friendship,  as  she  now  does  who  still  re- 
mains your  sincere  friend. 

"NATALIE  DE  MANERVILLE." 

PARIS,  October,  1835, 


2161        Balzac,  Honore*  de 

Honor£  de  Balzac  in  twenty- 
g          five  volumes.'    v.8 


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