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

It was the custom of Monsieur and Madame Latournelle to dine at the Chalet every Sunday when they brought back Modeste after vespers. So, as soon as the invalid felt a little better, they started for Ingouville, accompanied by Butscha. Once at home, the happy Modeste forgot her pretended illness and her disguise, and dressed herself charmingly, humming as she came down to dinner, —

“Nought is sleeping — Heart! awaking,

Lift thine incense to the skies.”

Butscha shuddered slightly when he caught sight of her, so changed did she seem to him. The wings of love were fastened to her shoulders; she had the air of a nymph, a Psyche; her cheeks glowed with the divine color of happiness.

“Who wrote the words to which you have put that pretty music?” asked her mother.

“Canalis, mamma,” she answered, flushing rosy red from her throat to her forehead.

“Canalis!” cried the dwarf, to whom the inflections of the girl’s voice and her blush told the only thing of which he was still ignorant. “He, that great poet, does he write songs?”

“They are only simple verses,” she said, “which I have ventured to set to German airs.”

“No, no,” interrupted Madame Mignon, “the music is your own, my daughter.”

Modeste, feeling that she grew more and more crimson, went off into the garden, calling Butscha after her.

“You can do me a great service,” she said. “Dumay is keeping a secret from my mother and me as to the fortune which my father is bringing back with him; and I want to know what it is. Did not Dumay send papa when he first went away over five hundred thousand francs? Yes. Well, papa is not the kind of man to stay away four years and only double his capital. It seems he is coming back on a ship of his own, and Dumay’s share amounts to almost six hundred thousand francs.”

“There is no need to question Dumay,” said Butscha. “Your father lost, as you know, about four millions when he went away, and he has doubtless recovered them. He would of course give Dumay ten per cent of his profits; the worthy man admitted the other day how much it was, and my master and I think that in that case the colonel’s fortune must amount to six or seven millions — ”

“Oh, papa!” cried Modeste, crossing her hands on her breast and looking up to heaven, “twice you have given me life!”

“Ah, mademoiselle!” said Butscha, “you love a poet. That kind of man is more or less of a Narcissus. Will he know how to love you? A phrase-maker, always busy in fitting words together, must be a bore. Mademoiselle, a poet is no more poetry than a seed is a flower.”

“Butscha, I never saw so handsome a man.”

“Beauty is a veil which often serves to hide imperfections.”

“He has the most angelic heart of heaven — ”

“I pray God you may be right,” said the dwarf, clasping his hands, “ — and happy! That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean Butscha. I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the sciences.”

“Why?”

“Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign to make me their tutor. But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice. Let me take up this matter; let me look into the life and habits of this man, — find out if he is kind, or bad-tempered, or gentle, if he commands the respect which you merit in a husband, if he is able to love utterly, preferring you to everything, even his own talent — ”

“What does that signify if I love him?”

“Ah, true!” cried the dwarf.

At that instant Madame Mignon was saying to her friends, —

“My daughter saw the man she loves this morning.”

“Then it must have been that sulphur waistcoat which puzzled you so, Latournelle,” said his wife. “The young man had a pretty white rose in his buttonhole.”

“Ah!” sighed the mother, “the sign of recognition.”

“And he also wore the ribbon of an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a charming young man. But we are all deceiving ourselves; Modeste never raised her veil, and her clothes were huddled on like a beggar-woman’s — ”

“And she said she was ill,” cried the notary; “but she has taken off her mufflings and is just as well as she ever was.”

“It is incomprehensible!” said Dumay.

“Not at all,” said the notary; “it is now as clear as day.”

“My child,” said Madame Mignon to Modeste, as she came into the room, followed by Butscha, “did you see a well-dressed young man at church this morning, with a white rose in his button-hole?”

“I saw him,” said Butscha quickly, perceiving by everybody’s strained attention that Modeste was likely to fall into a trap. “It was Grindot, the famous architect, with whom the town is in treaty for the restoration of the church. He has just come from Paris, and I met him this morning examining the exterior as I was on my way to Sainte-Adresse.”

“Oh, an architect, was he? he puzzled me,” said Modeste, for whom Butscha had thus gained time to recover herself.

Dumay looked askance at Butscha. Modeste, fully warned, recovered her impenetrable composure. Dumay’s distrust was now thoroughly aroused, and he resolved to go the mayor’s office early in the morning and ascertain if the architect had really been in Havre the previous day. Butscha, on the other hand, was equally determined to go to Paris and find out something about Canalis.

Gobenheim came to play whist, and by his presence subdued and compressed all this fermentation of feelings. Modeste awaited her mother’s bedtime with impatience. She intended to write, but never did so except at night. Here is the letter which love dictated to her while all the world was sleeping: —

To Monsieur de Canalis, — Ah! my friend, my well-beloved! What

atrocious falsehoods those portraits in the shop-windows are! And

I, who made that horrible lithograph my joy! — I am humbled at the

thought of loving one so handsome. No; it is impossible that those

Parisian women are so stupid as not to have seen their dreams

fulfilled in you. You neglected! you unloved! I do not believe a

word of all that you have written me about your lonely and obscure

life, your hunger for an idol, — sought in vain until now. You have

been too well loved, monsieur; your brow, white and smooth as a

magnolia leaf, reveals it; and it is I who must be neglected, — for

who am I? Ah! why have you called me to life? I felt for a moment

as though the heavy burden of the flesh was leaving me; my soul

had broken the crystal which held it captive; it pervaded my whole

being; the cold silence of material things had ceased; all things

in nature had a voice and spoke to me. The old church was

luminous. It’s arched roof, brilliant with gold and azure like

those of an Italian cathedral, sparkled above my head. Melodies

such as the angels sang to martyrs, quieting their pains, sounded

from the organ. The rough pavements of Havre seemed to my feet a

flowery mead; the sea spoke to me with a voice of sympathy, like

an old friend whom I had never truly understood. I saw clearly how

the roses in my garden had long adored me and bidden me love; they

lifted their heads and smiled as I came back from church. I heard

your name, “Melchior,” chiming in the flower-bells; I saw it

written on the clouds. Yes, yes, I live, I am living, thanks to

thee, — my poet, more beautiful than that cold, conventional Lord

Byron, with a face as dull as the English climate. One glance of

thine, thine Orient glance, pierced through my double veil and

sent thy blood to my heart, and from thence to my head and feet.

Ah! that is not the life our mother gave us. A hurt to thee would