The Chouans. Honore de Balzac

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СКАЧАТЬ looked with a shudder at the iron stove on which they often “warmed” (“chauffaient”) the feet of those they suspected. The fat landlady held a knife in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other, and gazed at her husband with a stupefied air. Even the scullion puzzled himself to know the reason of their speechless terror. Francine’s curiosity was naturally excited by this silent scene, the principal actor of which was visible to all, though departed. The girl was gratified at the evident power of the Chouan, and though by nature too simple and humble for the tricks of a lady’s maid, she was also far too anxious to penetrate the mystery not to profit by her advantages on this occasion.

      “Mademoiselle accepts your proposal,” she said to the landlord, who jumped as if suddenly awakened by her words.

      “What proposal?” he asked with genuine surprise.

      “What proposal?” asked Corentin, entering the kitchen.

      “What proposal?” asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, returning to it.

      “What proposal?” asked a fourth individual on the lower step of the staircase, who now sprang lightly into the kitchen.

      “Why, the breakfast with your persons of distinction,” replied Francine, impatiently.

      “Distinction!” said the ringing and ironical voice of the person who had just come down the stairway. “My good fellow, that strikes me as a very poor inn joke; but if it’s the company of this young female citizen that you want to give us, we should be fools to refuse it. In my mother’s absence, I accept,” he added, striking the astonished innkeeper on the shoulder.

      The charming heedlessness of youth disguised the haughty insolence of the words, which drew the attention of every one present to the new-comer. The landlord at once assumed the countenance of Pilate washing his hands of the blood of that just man; he slid back two steps to reach his wife’s ear, and whispered, “You are witness, if any harm comes of it, that it is not my fault. But, anyhow,” he added, in a voice that was lower still, “go and tell Monsieur Marche-a-Terre what has happened.”

      The traveller, who was a young man of medium height, wore a dark blue coat and high black gaiters coming above the knee and over the breeches, which were also of blue cloth. This simple uniform, without epaulets, was that of the pupils of the Ecole Polytechnique. Beneath this plain attire Mademoiselle de Verneuil could distinguish at a glance the elegant shape and nameless something that tells of natural nobility. The face of the young man, which was rather ordinary at first sight, soon attracted the eye by the conformation of certain features which revealed a soul capable of great things. A bronzed skin, curly fair hair, sparkling blue eyes, a delicate nose, motions full of ease, all disclosed a life guided by noble sentiments and trained to the habit of command. But the most characteristic signs of his nature were in the chin, which was dented like that of Bonaparte, and in the lower lip, which joined the upper one with a graceful curve, like that of an acanthus leaf on the capital of a Corinthian column. Nature had given to these two features of his face an irresistible charm.

      “This young man has singular distinction if he is really a republican,” thought Mademoiselle de Verneuil.

      To see all this at a glance, to brighten at the thought of pleasing, to bend her head softly and smile coquettishly and cast a soft look able to revive a heart that was dead to love, to veil her long black eyes with lids whose curving lashes made shadows on her cheeks, to choose the melodious tones of her voice and give a penetrating charm to the formal words, “Monsieur, we are very much obliged to you,” – all this charming by-play took less time than it has taken to describe it. After this, Mademoiselle de Verneuil, addressing the landlord, asked to be shown to a room, saw the staircase, and disappeared with Francine, leaving the stranger to discover whether her reply was intended as an acceptance or a refusal.

      “Who is that woman?” asked the Polytechnique student, in an airy manner, of the landlord, who still stood motionless and bewildered.

      “That’s the female citizen Verneuil,” replied Corentin, sharply, looking jealously at the questioner; “a ci-devant; what is she to you?”

      The stranger, who was humming a revolutionary tune, turned his head haughtily towards Corentin. The two young men looked at each other for a moment like cocks about to fight, and the glance they exchanged gave birth to a hatred which lasted forever. The blue eye of the young soldier was as frank and honest as the green eye of the other man was false and malicious; the manners of the one had native grandeur, those of the other were insinuating; one was eager in his advance, the other deprecating; one commanded respect, the other sought it.

      “Is the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr here?” said a peasant, entering the kitchen at that moment.

      “What do you want of him?” said the young man, coming forward.

      The peasant made a low bow and gave him a letter, which the young cadet read and threw into the fire; then he nodded his head and the man withdrew.

      “No doubt you’ve come from Paris, citizen?” said Corentin, approaching the stranger with a certain ease of manner, and a pliant, affable air which seemed intolerable to the citizen du Gua.

      “Yes,” he replied, shortly.

      “I suppose you have been graduated into some grade of the artillery?”

      “No, citizen, into the navy.”

      “Ah! then you are going to Brest?” said Corentin, interrogatively.

      But the young sailor turned lightly on the heels of his shoes without deigning to reply, and presently disappointed all the expectations which Mademoiselle de Verneuil had based on the charm of his appearance. He applied himself to ordering his breakfast with the eagerness of a boy, questioned the cook and the landlady about their receipts, wondered at provincial customs like a Parisian just out of his shell, made as many objections as any fine lady, and showed the more lack of mind and character because his face and manner had seemed to promise them. Corentin smiled with pity when he saw the face he made on tasting the best cider of Normandy.

      “Heu!” he cried; “how can you swallow such stuff as that? It is meat and drink both. I don’t wonder the Republic distrusts a province where they knock their harvest from trees with poles, and shoot travellers from the ditches. Pray don’t put such medicine as that on the table; give us some good Bordeaux, white and red. And above all, do see if there is a good fire upstairs. These country-people are so backward in civilization!” he added. “Alas!” he sighed, “there is but one Paris in the world; what a pity it is I can’t transport it to sea! Heavens! spoil-sauce!” he suddenly cried out to the cook; “what makes you put vinegar in that fricassee when you have lemons? And, madame,” he added, “you gave me such coarse sheets I couldn’t close my eyes all night.” Then he began to twirl a huge cane, executing with a silly sort of care a variety of evolutions, the greater or less precision and agility of which were considered proofs of a young man’s standing in the class of the Incroyables, so-called.

      “And it is with such dandies as that,” said Corentin to the landlord confidentially, watching his face, “that the Republic expects to improve her navy!”

      “That man,” said the young sailor to the landlady, in a low voice, “is a spy of Fouche’s. He has ‘police’ stamped on his face, and I’ll swear that spot he has got on his chin is Paris mud. Well, set a thief to catch – ”

      Just then a lady to whom the young sailor turned with every sign of outward respect, entered the kitchen of the inn.

      “My dear mamma,” he said. “I am glad you’ve come. I have recruited some guests in your absence.”

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