Array The griffin classics - The Collected Works of Honore de Balzac

fruit. My sense of duty is aroused, and you, on your side, will

have learned something of Society. Turn your thoughts to real

life; throw the enthusiasms you have culled from literature into

the virtues of your sex.

Adieu, mademoiselle. Do me the honor to grant me your esteem.

Having seen you, or one whom I believe to be you, I have known

that your letter was simply natural; a flower so lovely turns to

the sun — of poetry. Yes, love poetry as you love flowers, music,

the grandeur of the sea, the beauties of nature; love them as an

adornment of the soul, but remember what I have had the honor of

telling you as to the nature of poets. Be cautious not to marry,

as you say, a dunce, but seek the partner whom God has made for

you. There are souls, believe me, who are fit to appreciate you,

and to make you happy. If I were rich, if you were poor, I would

lay my heart and my fortunes at your feet; for I believe your soul

to be full of riches and of loyalty; to you I could confide my

life and my honor in absolute security.

Once more, adieu, adieu, fairest daughter of Eve the fair.

The reading of this letter, swallowed like a drop of water in the desert, lifted the mountain which weighed heavily on Modeste’s heart: then she saw the mistake she had made in arranging her plan, and repaired it by giving Francoise some envelopes directed to herself, in which the maid could put the letters which came from Paris and drop them again into the box. Modeste resolved to receive the postman herself on the steps of the Chalet at the hour when he made his delivery.

As to the feelings that this reply, in which the noble heart of poor La Briere beat beneath the brilliant phantom of Canalis, excited in Modeste, they were as multifarious and confused as the waves which rushed to die along the shore while with her eyes fixed on the wide ocean she gave herself up to the joy of having (if we dare say so) harpooned an angelic soul in the Parisian Gulf, of having divined that hearts of price might still be found in harmony with genius, and, above all, for having followed the magic voice of intuition.

A vast interest was now about to animate her life. The wires of her cage were broken: the bolts and bars of the pretty Chalet — where were they? Her thoughts took wings.

“Oh, father!” she cried, looking out to the horizon. “Come back and make us rich and happy.”

The answer which Ernest de La Briere received some five days later will tell the reader more than any elaborate disquisition of ours.

CHAPTER IX. THE POWER OF THE UNSEEN

To Monsieur de Canalis:

My friend, — Suffer me to give you that name, — you have delighted

me; I would not have you other than you are in this letter, the

first — oh, may it not be the last! Who but a poet could have

excused and understood a young girl so delicately?

I wish to speak with the sincerity that dictated the first lines

of your letter. And first, let me say that most fortunately you do

not know me. I can joyfully assure you than I am neither that

hideous Mademoiselle Vilquin nor the very noble and withered

Mademoiselle d’Herouville who floats between twenty and forty

years of age, unable to decide on a satisfactory date. The

Cardinal d’Herouville flourished in the history of the Church at

least a century before the cardinal of whom we boast as our only

family glory, — for I take no account of lieutenant-generals, and

abbes who write trumpery little verses.

Moreover, I do not live in the magnificent villa Vilquin; there is

not in my veins, thank God, the ten-millionth of a drop of that

chilly blood which flows behind a counter. I come on one side from

Germany, on the other from the south of France; my mind has a

Teutonic love of reverie, my blood the vivacity of Provence. I am

noble on my father’s and on my mother’s side. On my mother’s I

derive from every page of the Almanach de Gotha. In short, my

precautions are well taken. It is not in any man’s power, nor even

in the power of the law, to unmask my incognito. I shall remain

veiled, unknown.

As to my person and as to my “belongings,” as the Normans say,

make yourself easy. I am at least as handsome as the little girl

(ignorantly happy) on whom your eyes chanced to light during your

visit to Havre; and I do not call myself poverty-stricken,

although ten sons of peers may not accompany me on my walks. I

have seen the humiliating comedy of the heiress sought for her

millions played on my account. In short, make no attempt, even on

a wager, to reach me. Alas! though free as air, I am watched and

guarded, — by myself, in the first place, and secondly, by people

of nerve and courage who would not hesitate to put a knife in your

heart if you tried to penetrate my retreat. I do not say this to

excite your courage or stimulate your curiosity; I believe I have

no need of such incentives to interest you and attach you to me.

I will now reply to the second edition, considerably enlarged, of

your first sermon.

Will you have a confession? I said to myself when I saw you so

distrustful, and mistaking me for Corinne (whose improvisations

bore me dreadfully), that in all probability dozes of Muses had

already led you, rashly curious, into their valleys, and begged

you to taste the fruits of their boarding-school Parnassus. Oh!

you are perfectly safe with me, my friend; I may love poetry, but

I have no little verses in my pocket-book, and my stockings are,

and will remain, immaculately white. You shall not be pestered

with the “Flowers of my Heart” in one or more volumes. And,

finally, should it ever happen that I say to you the word “Come!”

you will not find — you know it now — an old maid, no, nor a poor

and ugly one.

Ah! my friend, if you only knew how I regret that you came to

Havre! You have lowered the charm of what you call my romance. God

alone knew the treasure I was reserving for the man noble enough,

and trusting enough, and perspicacious enough to come — having

faith in my letters, having penetrated step by step into the

depths of my heart — to come to our first meeting with the

simplicity of a child: for that was what I dreamed to be the

innocence of a man of genius. And now you have spoiled my

treasure! But I forgive you; you live in Paris and, as you say,

there is always a man within a poet.

Because I tell you this will you think me some little girl who

cultivates a garden-full of illusions? You, who are witty and

wise, have you not guessed that when Mademoiselle d’Este received

your pedantic lesson she said to herself: “No, dear poet, my first

letter was not the pebble which a vagabond child flings about the

highway to frighten the owner of the adjacent fruit-trees, but a

net carefully and prudently thrown by a fisherman seated on a rock

above the sea, hoping and expecting a miraculous draught.”

All that you say so beautifully about the family has my approval.

The man who is able to please me, and of whom I believe myself

worthy, will have my heart and my life, — with the consent of my

parents, for I will neither grieve them, nor take them unawares:

happily, I am certain of reigning over them; and, besides, they

are wholly without prejudice. Indeed, in every way, I feel myself

protected against any delusions in my dream. I have built the

fortress with my own hands, and I have let it be fortified by the

boundless devotion of those who watch over me as if I were a