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

This simple and natural idea filled the lover with fresh remorse; he asked himself whether the proofs of attachment given him by the young girl, the delightful talks, full of the love that had so charmed him, did not deserve at least an inquiry; were not worthy of some justification. Ashamed of having resisted the promptings of his heart for a whole week, and feeling himself almost a criminal in this mental struggle, he called the same evening on Madame de Rouville.

All his suspicions, all his evil thoughts vanished at the sight of the young girl, who had grown pale and thin.

“Good heavens! what is the matter?” he asked her, after greeting the Baroness.

Adelaide made no reply, but she gave him a look of deep melancholy, a sad, dejected look, which pained him.

“You have, no doubt, been working hard,” said the old lady. “You are altered. We are the cause of your seclusion. That portrait had delayed some pictures essential to your reputation.”

Hippolyte was glad to find so good an excuse for his rudeness.

“Yes,” he said, “I have been very busy, but I have been suffering — — ”

At these words Adelaide raised her head, looked at her lover, and her anxious eyes had now no hint of reproach.

“You must have thought us quite indifferent to any good or ill that may befall you?” said the old lady.

“I was wrong,” he replied. “Still, there are forms of pain which we know not how to confide to any one, even to a friendship of older date than that with which you honor me.”

“The sincerity and strength of friendship are not to be measured by time. I have seen old friends who had not a tear to bestow on misfortune,” said the Baroness, nodding sadly.

“But you — what ails you?” the young man asked Adelaide.

“Oh, nothing,” replied the Baroness. “Adelaide has sat up late for some nights to finish some little piece of woman’s work, and would not listen to me when I told her that a day more or less did not matter — — ”

Hippolyte was not listening. As he looked at these two noble, calm faces, he blushed for his suspicions, and ascribed the loss of his purse to some unknown accident.

This was a delicious evening to him, and perhaps to her too. There are some secrets which young souls understand so well. Adelaide could read Hippolyte’s thoughts. Though he could not confess his misdeeds, the painter knew them, and he had come back to his mistress more in love, and more affectionate, trying thus to purchase her tacit forgiveness. Adelaide was enjoying such perfect, such sweet happiness, that she did not think she had paid too dear for it with all the grief that had so cruelly crushed her soul. And yet, this true concord of hearts, this understanding so full of magic charm, was disturbed by a little speech of Madame de Rouville’s.

“Let us have our little game,” she said, “for my old friend Kergarouet will not let me off.”

These words revived all the young painter’s fears; he colored as he looked at Adelaide’s mother, but he saw nothing in her countenance but the expression of the frankest good-nature; no double meaning marred its charm; its keenness was not perifidious, its humor seemed kindly, and no trace of remorse disturbed its equanimity.

He sat down to the card-table. Adelaide took side with the painter, saying that he did not know piquet, and needed a partner.

All through the game Madame de Rouville and her daughter exchanged looks of intelligence, which alarmed Hippolyte all the more because he was winning; but at last a final hand left the lovers in the old lady’s debt.

To feel for some money in his pocket the painter took his hands off the table, and he then saw before him a purse which Adelaide had slipped in front of him without his noticing it; the poor child had the old one in her hand, and, to keep her countenance, was looking into it for the money to pay her mother. The blood rushed to Hippolyte’s heart with such force that he was near fainting.

The new purse, substituted for his own, and which contained his fifteen gold louis, was worked with gilt beads. The rings and tassels bore witness to Adelaide’s good taste, and she had no doubt spent all her little hoard in ornamenting this pretty piece of work. It was impossible to say with greater delicacy that the painter’s gift could only be repaid by some proof of affection.

Hippolyte, overcome with happiness, turned to look at Adelaide and her mother, and saw that they were tremulous with pleasure and delight at their little trick. He felt himself mean, sordid, a fool; he longed to punish himself, to rend his heart. A few tears rose to his eyes; by an irresistible impulse he sprang up, clasped Adelaide in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and stole a kiss; then with the simple heartiness of an artist, “I ask for her for my wife!” he exclaimed, looking at the Baroness.

Adelaide looked at him with half-wrathful eyes, and Madame de Rouville, somewhat astonished, was considering her reply, when the scene was interrupted by a ring at the bell. The old vice-admiral came in, followed by his shadow, and Madame Schinner. Having guessed the cause of the grief her son vainly endeavored to conceal, Hippolyte’s mother had made inquiries among her friends concerning Adelaide. Very justly alarmed by the calumnies which weighed on the young girl, unknown to the Comte de Kergarouet, whose name she learned from the porter’s wife, she went to report them to the vice-admiral; and he, in his rage, declared “he would crop all the scoundrels’ ears for them.”

Then, prompted by his wrath, he went on to explain to Madame Schinner the secret of his losing intentionally at cards, because the Baronne’s pride left him none but these ingenious means of assisting her.

When Madame Schinner had paid her respects to Madame de Rouville, the Baroness looked at the Comte de Kergarouet, at the Chevalier du Halga — the friend of the departed Comtesse de Kergarouet — at Hippolyte, and Adelaide, and said, with the grace that comes from the heart, “So we are a family party this evening.”

PARIS, May 1832

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE CHALET

CHAPTER II. A PORTRAIT FROM LIFE

CHAPTER III. PRELIMINARIES

CHAPTER IV. A SIMPLE STORY

CHAPTER V. THE PROBLEM STILL UNSOLVED

CHAPTER VI. A MAIDEN’S FIRST ROMANCE

CHAPTER VII. A POET OF THE ANGELIC SCHOOL

CHAPTER VIII. BLADE TO BLADE

CHAPTER IX. THE POWER OF THE UNSEEN

CHAPTER X. THE MARRIAGE OF SOULS

CHAPTER XI. WHAT COMES OF CORRESPONDENCE

CHAPTER XII. A DECLARATION OF LOVE, — SET TO MUSIC

CHAPTER XIII. A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF MONSIEUR DE LA BRIERE

CHAPTER XIV. MATTERS GROWN COMPLICATED

CHAPTER XV. A FATHER STEPS IN

CHAPTER XVI. DISENCHANTED

CHAPTER XVII. A THIRD SUITOR

CHAPTER XVIII. A SPLENDID FIRST APPEARANCE

CHAPTER XIX. OF WHICH THE AUTHOR THINKS A GOOD DEAL

CHAPTER XX. THE POET DOES HIS EXERCISES

CHAPTER XXI. MODESTE PLAYS HER PART

CHAPTER XXII. A RIDDLE GUESSED

CHAPTER XXIII. BUTSCHA DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

CHAPTER XXIV. THE POET FEELS THAT HE IS LOVED TOO WELL

CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER

CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE

CHAPTER XXVII. A GIRL’S REVENGE

CHAPTER XXVIII. MODESTE BEHAVES WITH DIGNITY

CHAPTER XXIX. CONCLUSION

DEDICATION

To a Polish Lady.

Daughter of an enslaved land, angel through love, witch through fancy, child by faith, aged by experience, man in brain, woman in heart, giant by hope, mother through sorrows, poet in thy dreams, — to thee belongs this book, in which thy love, thy fancy, thy experience, thy sorrow, thy hope, thy dreams, are the warp through which is shot a woof less brilliant than the poesy of thy soul, whose expression, when it shines upon thy countenance, is, to those who love thee, what the characters of a lost language are to scholars.