The Best Works of Balzac. Оноре де Бальзак

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      “Oh, I’ve noticed your manoeuvring. Simple and truthful as you are, you have learned a little cunning from me. You are beginning to hold questioning in horror; and right enough, too, for of all the known ways of getting at a secret, questions are, to my mind, the silliest.”

      “Well,” said Francine, “since nothing escapes you, you must admit, Marie, that your conduct would excite the curiosity of a saint. Yesterday without a penny, to-day your hands are full of gold; at Mortagne they give you the mail-coach which was pillaged and the driver killed, with government troops to protect you, and you are followed by a man whom I regard as your evil genius.”

      “Who? Corentin?” said the young lady, accenting the words by two inflections of her voice expressive of contempt, a sentiment which appeared in the gesture with which she waved her hand towards the rider. “Listen, Francine,” she said. “Do you remember Patriot, the monkey I taught to imitate Danton?”

      “Yes, mademoiselle.”

      “Well, were you afraid of him?”

      “He was chained.”

      “And Corentin is muzzled, my dear.”

      “We used to play with Patriot by the hour,” said Francine,—“I know that; but he always ended by serving us some bad trick.” So saying, Francine threw herself hastily back close to her mistress, whose hands she caught and kissed in a coaxing way; saying in a tone of deep affection: “You know what I mean, Marie, but you will not answer me. How can you, after all that sadness which did so grieve me—oh, indeed it grieved me!—how can you, in twenty-four hours, change about and become so gay? you, who talked of suicide! Why have you changed? I have a right to ask these questions of your soul—it is mine, my claim to it is before that of others, for you will never be better loved than you are by me. Speak, mademoiselle.”

      “Why, Francine, don’t you see all around you the secret of my good spirits? Look at the yellowing tufts of those distant tree-tops; not one is like another. As we look at them from this distance don’t they seem like an old bit of tapestry? See the hedges from behind which the Chouans may spring upon us at any moment. When I look at that gorse I fancy I can see the muzzles of their guns. Every time the road is shady under the trees I fancy I shall hear firing, and then my heart beats and a new sensation comes over me. It is neither the shuddering of fear nor an emotion of pleasure; no, it is better than either, it is the stirring of everything within me—it is life! Why shouldn’t I be gay when a little excitement is dropped into my monotonous existence?”

      “Ah! you are telling me nothing, cruel girl! Holy Virgin!” added Francine, raising her eyes in distress to heaven; “to whom will she confess herself if she denies the truth to me?”

      “Francine,” said the lady, in a grave tone, “I can’t explain to you my present enterprise; it is horrible.”

      “Why do wrong when you know it to be wrong?”

      “How can I help it? I catch myself thinking as if I were fifty, and acting as if I were still fifteen. You have always been my better self, my poor Francine, but in this affair I must stifle conscience. And,” she added after a pause, “I cannot. Therefore, how can you expect me to take a confessor as stern as you?” and she patted the girl’s hand.

      “When did I ever blame your actions?” cried Francine. “Evil is so mixed with good in your nature. Yes, Saint Anne of Auray, to whom I pray to save you, will absolve you for all you do. And, Marie, am I not here beside you, without so much as knowing where you go?” and she kissed her hands with effusion.

      “But,” replied Marie, “you may yet desert me, if your conscience—”

      “Hush, hush, mademoiselle,” cried Francine, with a hurt expression. “But surely you will tell me—”

      “Nothing!” said the young lady, in a resolute voice. “Only—and I wish you to know it—I hate this enterprise even more than I hate him whose gilded tongue induced me to undertake it. I will be rank and own to you that I would never have yielded to their wishes if I had not foreseen, in this ignoble farce, a mingling of love and danger which tempted me. I cannot bear to leave this empty world without at least attempting to gather the flowers that it owes me,—whether I perish in the attempt or not. But remember, for the honor of my memory, that had I ever been a happy woman, the sight of their great knife, ready to fall upon my neck, would not have driven me to accept a part in this tragedy—for it is a tragedy. But now,” she said, with a gesture of disgust, “if it were countermanded, I should instantly fling myself into the Sarthe. It would not be destroying life, for I have never lived.”

      “Oh, Saint Anne of Auray, forgive her!”

      “What are you so afraid of? You know very well that the dull round of domestic life gives no opportunity for my passions. That would be bad in most women, I admit; but my soul is made of a higher sensibility and can bear great tests. I might have been, perhaps, a gentle being like you. Why, why have I risen above or sunk beneath the level of my sex? Ah! the wife of Bonaparte is a happy woman! Yes, I shall die young, for I am gay, as you say,—gay at this pleasure-party, where there is blood to drink, as that poor Danton used to say. There, there, forget what I am saying; it is the woman of fifty who speaks. Thank God! the girl of fifteen is still within me.”

      The young country-girl shuddered. She alone knew the fiery, impetuous nature of her mistress. She alone was initiated into the mysteries of a soul rich with enthusiasm, into the secret emotions of a being who, up to this time, had seen life pass her like a shadow she could not grasp, eager as she was to do so. After sowing broadcast with full hands and harvesting nothing, this woman was still virgin in soul, but irritated by a multitude of baffled desires. Weary of a struggle without an adversary, she had reached in her despair to the point of preferring good to evil, if it came in the form of enjoyment; evil to good, if it offered her some poetic emotion; misery to mediocrity, as something nobler and higher; the gloomy and mysterious future of present death to a life without hopes or even without sufferings. Never in any heart was so much powder heaped ready for the spark, never were so many riches for love to feed on; no daughter of Eve was ever moulded, with a greater mixture of gold in her clay. Francine, like an angel of earth, watched over this being whose perfections she adored, believing that she obeyed a celestial mandate in striving to bring that spirit back among the choir of seraphim whence it was banished for the sin of pride.

      “There is the clock-tower of Alencon,” said the horseman, riding up to the carriage.

      “I see it,” replied the young lady, in a cold tone.

      “Ah, well,” he said, turning away with all the signs of servile submission, in spite of his disappointment.

      “Go faster,” said the lady to the postilion. “There is no longer any danger; go at a fast trot, or even a gallop, if you can; we are almost into Alencon.”

      As the carriage passed the commandant, she called out to him, in a sweet voice:—

      “We will meet at the inn, commandant. Come and see me.”

      “Yes, yes,” growled the commandant. “‘The inn’! ‘Come and see me’! Is that how you speak to an officer in command of the army?” and he shook his fist at the carriage, which was now rolling rapidly along the road.

      “Don’t be vexed, commandant, she has got your rank as general up her sleeve,” said Corentin, laughing, as he endeavored to put his horse into a gallop to overtake the carriage.

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