The Best Works of Balzac. Оноре де Бальзак

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СКАЧАТЬ either a theft or an error. Charles was so completely out of his element in this abode, and so far from the vast chateau and the sumptuous life with which his fancy had endowed his uncle, that as he looked at Madame des Grassins he perceived a dim likeness to Parisian faces. He gracefully responded to the species of invitation addressed to him, and began very naturally a conversation, in which Madame des Grassins gradually lowered her voice so as to bring it into harmony with the nature of the confidences she was making. With her, as with Charles, there was the need of conference; so after a few moments spent in coquettish phrases and a little serious jesting, the clever provincial said, thinking herself unheard by the others, who were discussing the sale of wines which at that season filled the heads of every one in Saumur,—

      “Monsieur if you will do us the honor to come and see us, you will give as much pleasure to my husband as to myself. Our salon is the only one in Saumur where you will find the higher business circles mingling with the nobility. We belong to both societies, who meet at our house simply because they find it amusing. My husband—I say it with pride—is as much valued by the one class as by the other. We will try to relieve the monotony of your visit here. If you stay all the time with Monsieur Grandet, good heavens! what will become of you? Your uncle is a sordid miser who thinks of nothing but his vines; your aunt is a pious soul who can’t put two ideas together; and your cousin is a little fool, without education, perfectly common, no fortune, who will spend her life in darning towels.”

      “She is really very nice, this woman,” thought Charles Grandet as he duly responded to Madame des Grassins’ coquetries.

      “It seems to me, wife, that you are taking possession of monsieur,” said the stout banker, laughing.

      On this remark the notary and the president said a few words that were more or less significant; but the abbe, looking at them slyly, brought their thoughts to a focus by taking a pinch of snuff and saying as he handed round his snuff-box: “Who can do the honors of Saumur for monsieur so well as madame?”

      “Ah! what do you mean by that, monsieur l’abbe?” demanded Monsieur des Grassins.

      “I mean it in the best possible sense for you, for madame, for the town of Saumur, and for monsieur,” said the wily old man, turning to Charles.

      The Abbe Cruchot had guessed the conversation between Charles and Madame des Grassins without seeming to pay attention to it.

      “Monsieur,” said Adolphe to Charles with an air which he tried to make free and easy, “I don’t know whether you remember me, but I had the honor of dancing as your vis-a-vis at a ball given by the Baron de Nucingen, and—”

      “Perfectly; I remember perfectly, monsieur,” answered Charles, pleased to find himself the object of general attention.

      “Monsieur is your son?” he said to Madame des Grassins.

      The abbe looked at her maliciously.

      “Yes, monsieur,” she answered.

      “Then you were very young when you were in Paris?” said Charles, addressing Adolphe.

      “You must know, monsieur,” said the abbe, “that we send them to Babylon as soon as they are weaned.”

      Madame des Grassins examined the abbe with a glance of extreme penetration.

      “It is only in the provinces,” he continued, “that you will find women of thirty and more years as fresh as madame, here, with a son about to take his degree. I almost fancy myself back in the days when the young men stood on chairs in the ball-room to see you dance, madame,” said the abbe, turning to his female adversary. “To me, your triumphs are but of yesterday—”

      “The old rogue!” thought Madame Grassins; “can he have guessed my intentions?”

      “It seems that I shall have a good deal of success in Saumur,” thought Charles as he unbuttoned his great-coat, put a hand into his waistcoat, and cast a glance into the far distance, to imitate the attitude which Chantrey has given to Lord Byron.

      The inattention of Pere Grandet, or, to speak more truly, the preoccupation of mind into which the reading of the letter had plunged him, did not escape the vigilance of the notary and the president, who tried to guess the contents of the letter by the almost imperceptible motions of the miser’s face, which was then under the full light of the candle. He maintained the habitual calm of his features with evident difficulty; we may, in fact, picture to ourselves the countenance such a man endeavored to preserve as he read the fatal letter which here follows:—

      My Brother,—It is almost twenty-three years since we have seen

       each other. My marriage was the occasion of our last interview,

       after which we parted, and both of us were happy. Assuredly I

       could not then foresee that you would one day be the prop of the

       family whose prosperity you then predicted.

       When you hold this letter within your hands I shall be no longer

       living. In the position I now hold I cannot survive the disgrace

       of bankruptcy. I have waited on the edge of the gulf until the

       last moment, hoping to save myself. The end has come, I must sink

       into it. The double bankruptcies of my broker and of Roguin, my

       notary, have carried off my last resources and left me nothing. I

       have the bitterness of owing nearly four millions, with assets not

       more than twenty-five per cent in value to pay them. The wines in

       my warehouses suffer from the fall in prices caused by the

       abundance and quality of your vintage. In three days Paris will

       cry out: “Monsieur Grandet was a knave!” and I, an honest man,

       shall be lying in my winding-sheet of infamy. I deprive my son of

       a good name, which I have stained, and the fortune of his mother,

       which I have lost. He knows nothing of all this,—my unfortunate

       child whom I idolize! We parted tenderly. He was ignorant,

       happily, that the last beatings of my heart were spent in that

       farewell. Will he not some day curse me? My brother, my brother!

       the curses of our children are horrible; they can appeal against

       ours, but theirs are irrevocable. Grandet, you are my elder

       brother, you owe me your protection; act for me so that Charles

       may cast no bitter words upon my grave! My brother, if I were

       writing with my blood, with my tears, no greater anguish could I

       put into this letter,—nor as great, for then I should weep, I

       should bleed, I should die, I should suffer no more, but now I

       suffer and look at СКАЧАТЬ