ANOTHER STUDY OF WOMAN

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated by

 Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell

 DEDICATION

 To Leon Gozlan as a Token of Literary Good-fellowship. 

 ANOTHER STUDY OF WOMAN

At Paris there are almost always two separate parties going on atevery ball and rout. First, an official party, composed of the personsinvited, a fashionable and much-bored circle. Each one grimaces forhis neighbor's eye; most of the younger women are there for one persononly; when each woman has assured herself that for that one she is thehandsomest woman in the room, and that the opinion is perhaps sharedby a few others, a few insignificant phrases are exchanged, as: "Doyou think of going away soon to La Crampade?" "How well Madame dePortenduere sang!" "Who is that little woman with such a load ofdiamonds?" Or, after firing off some smart epigrams, which givetransient pleasure, and leave wounds that rankle long, the groups thinout, the mere lookers on go away, and the waxlights burn down to thesconces. 

The mistress of the house then waylays a few artists, amusing peopleor intimate friends, saying, "Do not go yet; we will have a snuglittle supper. " These collect in some small room. The second, the realparty, now begins; a party where, as of old, every one can hear whatis said, conversation is general, each one is bound to be witty and tocontribute to the amusement of all. Everything is made to tell, honestlaughter takes the place of the gloom which in company saddens theprettiest faces. In short, where the rout ends pleasure begins. 

The Rout, a cold display of luxury, a review of self-conceits in fulldress, is one of those English inventions which tend to _mechanize_other nations. England seems bent on seeing the whole world as dull asitself, and dull in the same way. So this second party is, in someFrench houses, a happy protest on the part of the old spirit of ourlight-hearted people. Only, unfortunately, so few houses protest; andthe reason is a simple one. If we no longer have many suppersnowadays, it is because never, under any rule, have there been fewermen placed, established, and successful than under the reign of LouisPhilippe, when the Revolution began again, lawfully. Everybody is onthe march some whither, or trotting at the heels of Fortune. Time hasbecome the costliest commodity, so no one can afford the lavishextravagance of going home to-morrow morning and getting up late. Hence, there is no second soiree now but at the houses of women richenough to entertain, and since July 1830 such women may be counted inParis. 

In spite of the covert opposition of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, twoor three women, among them Madame d'Espard and Mademoiselle desTouches, have not chosen to give up the share of influence theyexercised in Paris, and have not closed their houses. 

The salon of Mademoiselle des Touches is noted in Paris as being thelast refuge where the old French wit has found a home, with itsreserved depths, its myriad subtle byways, and its exquisitepoliteness. You will there still find grace of manner notwithstandingthe conventionalities of courtesy, perfect freedom of talknotwithstanding the reserve which is natural to persons of breeding, and, above all, a liberal flow of ideas. No one there thinks ofkeeping his thought for a play; and no one regards a story as materialfor a book. In short, the hideous skeleton of literature at bay neverstalks there, on the prowl for a clever sally or an interestingsubject. 

The memory of one of these evenings especially dwells with me, less byreason of a confidence in which the illustrious de Marsay opened upone of the deepest recesses of woman's heart, than on account of thereflections to which his narrative gave rise, as to the changes thathave taken place in the French woman since the fateful revolution ofJuly. 

On that evening chance had brought together several persons, whoseindisputable merits have won them European reputations. This is not apiece of flattery addressed to France, for there were a good manyforeigners present. And, indeed, the men who most shone were not themost famous. Ingenious repartee, acute remarks, admirable banter, pictures sketched with brilliant precision, all sparkled and flowedwithout elaboration, were poured out without disdain, but withouteffort, and were exquisitely expressed and delicately appreciated. Themen of the world especially were conspicuous for their really artisticgrace and spirit. 

Elsewhere in Europe you will find elegant manners, cordiality, genialfellowship, and knowledge; but only in Paris, in this drawing-room, and those to which I have alluded, does the particular wit aboundwhich gives an agreeable and changeful unity to all these socialqualities, an indescribable river-like flow which makes this profusionof ideas, of definitions, of anecdotes, of historical incidents, meander with ease. Paris, the capital of taste, alone possesses thescience which makes conversation a tourney in which each type of witis condensed into a shaft, each speaker utters his phrase and castshis experience in a word, in which every one finds amusement, relaxation, and exercise. Here, then, alone, will you exchange ideas;here you need not, like the dolphin in the fable, carry a monkey onyour shoulders; here you will be understood, and will not risk stakingyour gold pieces against base metal. 

Here, again, secrets neatly betrayed, and talk, light or deep, playand eddy, changing their aspect and hue at every phrase. Eagercriticism and crisp anecdotes lead on from one to the next. All eyesare listening, a gesture asks a question, and an expressive look givesthe answer. In short, and in a word, everything is wit and mind. 

The phenomenon of speech, which, when duly studied and well handled, is the power of the actor and the story-teller, had never socompletely bewitched me. Nor was I alone under the influence of itsspell; we all spent a delightful evening. The conversation had driftedinto anecdote, and brought out in its rushing course some curiousconfessions, several portraits, and a thousand follies, which makethis enchanting improvisation impossible to record; still, by settingthese things down in all their natural freshness and abruptness, theirelusive divarications, you may perhaps feel the charm of a real Frenchevening, taken at the moment when the most engaging familiarity makeseach one forget his own interests, his personal conceit, or, if youlike, his pretensions. 

At about two in the morning, as supper ended, no one was left sittinground the table but intimate friends, proved by intercourse of fifteenyears, and some persons of great taste and good breeding, who knew theworld. By tacit agreement, perfectly carried out, at supper every onerenounced his pretensions to importance. Perfect equality set thetone. But indeed there was no one present who was not very proud ofbeing himself. 

Mademoiselle des Touches always insists on her guests remaining attable till they leave, having frequently remarked the change which amove produces in the spirit of a party. Between the dining-room andthe drawing-room the charm is destroyed. According to Sterne, theideas of an author after shaving are different from those he hadbefore. If Sterne is right, may it not be boldly asserted that theframe of mind of a party at table is not the same as that of the samepersons returned to the drawing-room? The atmosphere is not heady, theeye no longer contemplates the brilliant disorder of the dessert, lostare the happy effects of that laxness of mood, that benevolence whichcomes over us while we remain in the humor peculiar to the well-filledman, settled comfortably on one of the springy chairs which are madein these days. Perhaps we are not more ready to talk face to face withthe dessert and in the society of good wine, during the delightfulinterval when every one may sit with an elbow on the table and hishead resting on his hand. Not only does every one like to talk then, but also to listen. Digestion, which is almost always attent, isloquacious or silent, as characters differ. Then every one finds hisopportunity. 

Was not this preamble necessary to make you know the charm of thenarrative, by which a celebrated man, now dead, depicted the innocentjesuistry of women, painting it with the subtlety peculiar to personswho have seen much of the world, and which makes statesmen suchdelightful storytellers when, like Prince Talleyrand and PrinceMetternich, they vouchsafe to tell a story?

De Marsay, prime minister for some six months, had already givenproofs of superior capabilities. Those who had known him long were notindeed surprised to see him display all the talents and variousaptitudes of a statesman; still it might yet be a question whether hewould prove to be a solid politician, or had merely been moulded inthe fire of circumstance. This question had just been asked by a manwhom he had made a prefet, a man of wit and observation, who had for along time been a journalist, and who admired de Marsay withoutinfusing into his admiration that dash of acrid criticism by which, inParis, one superior man excuses himself from admiring another. 

"Was there ever, " said he, "in your former life, any event, anythought or wish which told you what your vocation was?" asked EmileBlondet; "for we all, like Newton, have our apple, which falls andleads us to the spot where our faculties develop----"

"Yes, " said de Marsay; "I will tell you about it. "

Pretty women, political dandies, artists, old men, de Marsay'sintimate friends, --all settled themselves comfortably, each in hisfavorite attitude, to look at the Minister. Need it be said that theservants had left, that the doors were shut, and the curtains drawnover them? The silence was so complete that the murmurs of thecoachmen's voices could be heard from the courtyard, and the pawingand champing made by horses when asking to be taken back to theirstable. 

"The statesman, my friends, exists by one single quality, " said theMinister, playing with his gold and mother-of-pearl dessert knife. "Towit: the power of always being master of himself; of profiting more orless, under all circumstances, by every event, however fortuitous; inshort, of having within himself a cold and disinterested other self, who looks on as a spectator at all the changes of life, noting ourpassions and our sentiments, and whispering to us in every case thejudgment of a sort of moral ready-reckoner. "

"That explains why a statesman is so rare a thing in France, " said oldLord Dudley. 

"From a sentimental point of view, this is horrible, " the Ministerwent on. "Hence, when such a phenomenon is seen in a young man--Richelieu, who, when warned overnight by a letter of Concini's peril, slept till midday, when his benefactor was killed at ten o'clock--orsay Pitt, or Napoleon, he was a monster. I became such a monster at avery early age, thanks to a woman. "

"I fancied, " said Madame de Montcornet with a smile, "that morepoliticians were undone by us than we could make. "

"The monster of which I speak is a monster just because he withstandsyou, " replied de Marsay, with a little ironical bow. 

"If this is a love-story, " the Baronne de Nucingen interposed, "Irequest that it may not be interrupted by any reflections. "

"Reflection is so antipathetic to it!" cried Joseph Bridau. 

"I was seventeen, " de Marsay went on; "the Restoration was beingconsolidated; my old friends know how impetuous and fervid I was then. I was in love for the first time, and I was--I may say so now--one ofthe handsomest young fellows in Paris. I had youth and good looks, twoadvantages due to good fortune, but of which we are all as proud as ofa conquest. I must be silent as to the rest. --Like all youths, I wasin love with a woman six years older than myself. No one of you here, "said he, looking carefully round the table, "can suspect her name orrecognize her. Ronquerolles alone, at the time, ever guessed mysecret. He had kept it well, but I should have feared his smile. However, he is gone, " said the Minister, looking round. 

"He would not stay to supper, " said Madame de Nucingen. 

"For six months, possessed by my passion, " de Marsay went on, "butincapable of suspecting that it had overmastered me, I had abandonedmyself to that rapturous idolatry which is at once the triumph and thefrail joy of the young. I treasured _her_ old gloves; I drank aninfusion of the flowers _she_ had worn; I got out of bed at night togo and gaze at _her_ window. All my blood rushed to my heart when Iinhaled the perfume she used. I was miles away from knowing that womanis a stove with a marble casing. "

"Oh! spare us your terrible verdicts, " cried Madame de Montcornet witha smile. 

"I believe I should have crushed with my scorn the philosopher whofirst uttered this terrible but profoundly true thought, " said deMarsay. "You are all far too keen-sighted for me to say any more onthat point. These few words will remind you of your own follies. 

"A great lady if ever there was one, a widow without children--oh! allwas perfect--my idol would shut herself up to mark my linen with herhair; in short, she responded to my madness by her own. And how can wefail to believe in passion when it has the guarantee of madness?

"We each devoted all our minds to concealing a love so perfect and sobeautiful from the eyes of the world; and we succeeded. And what charmwe found in our escapades! Of her I will say nothing. She wasperfection then, and to this day is considered one of the mostbeautiful women in Paris; but at that time a man would have endureddeath to win one of her glances. She had been left with an amount offortune sufficient for a woman who had loved and was adored; but theRestoration, to which she owed renewed lustre, made it seem inadequatein comparison with her name. In my position I was so fatuous as neverto dream of a suspicion. Though my jealousy would have been of ahundred and twenty Othello-power, that terrible passion slumbered inme as gold in the nugget. I would have ordered my servant to thrash meif I had been so base as ever to doubt the purity of that angel--sofragile and so strong, so fair, so artless, pure, spotless, and whoseblue eyes allowed my gaze to sound it to the very depths of her heartwith adorable submissiveness. Never was there the slightest hesitancyin her attitude, her look, or word; always white and fresh, and readyfor the Beloved like the Oriental Lily of the 'Song of Songs!' Ah! myfriends!" sadly exclaimed the Minister, grown young again, "a man musthit his head very hard on the marble to dispel that poem!"

This cry of nature, finding an echo in the listeners, spurred thecuriosity he had excited in them with so much skill. 

"Every morning, riding Sultan--the fine horse you sent me fromEngland, " de Marsay went on, addressing Lord Dudley, "I rode past heropen carriage, the horses' pace being intentionally reduced to a walk, and read the order of the day signaled to me by the flowers of herbouquet in case we were unable to exchange a few words. Though we saweach other almost every evening in society, and she wrote to me everyday, to deceive the curious and mislead the observant we had adopted ascheme of conduct: never to look at each other; to avoid meeting; tospeak ill of each other. Self-admiration, swagger, or playing thedisdained swain, --all these old manoeuvres are not to compare oneither part with a false passion professed for an indifferent personand an air of indifference towards the true idol. If two lovers willonly play that game, the world will always be deceived; but then theymust be very secure of each other. 

"Her stalking-horse was a man in high favor, a courtier, cold andsanctimonious, whom she never received at her own house. This littlecomedy was performed for the benefit of simpletons and drawing-roomcircles, who laughed at it. Marriage was never spoken of between us;six years' difference of age might give her pause; she knew nothing ofmy fortune, of which, on principle, I have always kept the secret. I, on my part, fascinated by her wit and manners, by the extent of herknowledge and her experience of the world, would have married herwithout a thought. At the same time, her reserve charmed me. If shehad been the first to speak of marriage in a certain tone, I mightperhaps have noted it as vulgar in that accomplished soul. 

"Six months, full and perfect--a diamond of the purest water! That hasbeen my portion of love in this base world. 

"One morning, attacked by the feverish stiffness which marks thebeginning of a cold, I wrote her a line to put off one of those secretfestivals which are buried under the roofs of Paris like pearls in thesea. No sooner was the letter sent than remorse seized me: she willnot believe that I am ill! thought I. She was wont to affect jealousyand suspiciousness. --When jealousy is genuine, " said de Marsay, interrupting himself, "it is the visible sign of an unique passion. "

"Why?" asked the Princesse de Cadignan eagerly. 

"Unique and true love, " said de Marsay, "produces a sort of corporealapathy attuned to the contemplation into which one falls. Then themind complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies, turns them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is asdelightful as it is distressing. "

A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt thetruth of this remark. 

"Besides, " de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happyhour? Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if shelearns that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here andcompromising herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, andcarried it myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The riverlay between us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitabledistance of her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him tohave the note sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea ofdriving past her door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not bychance receive the two letters together. At the moment when I arrivedit was two o'clock; the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose?--That of the stalking-horse!

"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, theexhausted orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of publicbusiness, I still feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood aboutmy diaphragm. At the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriagewas still in the courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter'shands. At last, at half-past three, the carriage drove out. I couldobserve my rival's expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but hewas in love, and no doubt there was business in hand. 

"I went to keep my appointment; the queen of my heart met me; I sawher calm, pure, serene. And here I must confess that I have alwaysthought that Othello was not only stupid, but showed very bad taste. Only a man who is half a Negro could behave so: indeed Shakespearefelt this when he called his play 'The Moor of Venice. ' The sight ofthe woman we love is such a balm to the heart that it must dispelanguish, doubt, and sorrow. All my rage vanished. I could smile again. Hence this cheerfulness, which at my age now would be the mostatrocious dissimulation, was the result of my youth and my love. Myjealousy once buried, I had the power of observation. My ailingcondition was evident; the horrible doubts that had fermented in meincreased it. At last I found an opening for putting in these words:'You have had no one with you this morning?' making a pretext of theuneasiness I had felt in the fear lest she should have disposed of hertime after receiving my first note. --'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'only a mancould have such ideas! As if I could think of anything but yoursuffering. Till the moment when I received your second note I couldthink only of how I could contrive to see you. '--'And you werealone?'--'Alone, ' said she, looking at me with a face of innocence soperfect that it must have been his distrust of such a look as thatwhich made the Moor kill Desdemona. As she lived alone in the house, the word was a fearful lie. One single lie destroys the absoluteconfidence which to some souls is the very foundation of happiness. 

"To explain to you what passed in me at that moment it must be assumedthat we have an internal self of which the exterior _I_ is but thehusk; that this self, as brilliant as light, is as fragile as a shade--well, that beautiful self was in me thenceforth for ever shrouded incrape. Yes; I felt a cold and fleshless hand cast over me thewinding-sheet of experience, dooming me to the eternal mourning intowhich the first betrayal plunges the soul. As I cast my eyes down thatshe might not observe my dizziness, this proud thought somewhatrestored my strength: 'If she is deceiving you, she is unworthy of you!'

"I ascribed my sudden reddening and the tears which started to my eyesto an attack of pain, and the sweet creature insisted on driving mehome with the blinds of the cab drawn. On the way she was full of asolicitude and tenderness that might have deceived the Moor of Venicewhom I have taken as a standard of comparison. Indeed, if that greatchild were to hesitate two seconds longer, every intelligent spectatorfeels that he would ask Desdemona's forgiveness. Thus, killing thewoman is the act of a boy. --She wept as we parted, so much was shedistressed at being unable to nurse me herself. She wished she were myvalet, in whose happiness she found a cause of envy, and all this wasas elegantly expressed, oh! as Clarissa might have written in herhappiness. There is always a precious ape in the prettiest and mostangelic woman!"

At these words all the women looked down, as if hurt by this brutaltruth so brutally stated. 

"I will say nothing of the night, nor of the week I spent, " de Marsaywent on. "I discovered that I was a statesman. "

It was so well said that we all uttered an admiring exclamation. 

"As I thought over the really cruel vengeance to be taken on a woman, "said de Marsay, continuing his story, "with infernal ingenuity--for, as we had loved each other, some terrible and irreparable revengeswere possible--I despised myself, I felt how common I was, Iinsensibly formulated a horrible code--that of Indulgence. In takingvengeance on a woman, do we not in fact admit that there is but onefor us, that we cannot do without her? And, then, is revenge the wayto win her back? If she is not indispensable, if there are other womenin the world, why not grant her the right to change which we assume?

"This, of course, applies only to passion; in any other sense it wouldbe socially wrong. Nothing more clearly proves the necessity forindissoluble marriage than the instability of passion. The two sexesmust be chained up, like wild beasts as they are, by inevitable law, deaf and mute. Eliminate revenge, and infidelity in love is nothing. Those who believe that for them there is but one woman in the worldmust be in favor of vengeance, and then there is but one form of it--that of Othello. 

"Mine was different. "

The words produced in each of us the imperceptible movement whichnewspaper writers represent in Parliamentary reports by the words:_great sensation_. 

"Cured of my cold, and of my pure, absolute, divine love, I flungmyself into an adventure, of which the heroine was charming, and of astyle of beauty utterly opposed to that of my deceiving angel. I tookcare not to quarrel with this clever woman, who was so good anactress, for I doubt whether true love can give such gracious delightsas those lavished by such a dexterous fraud. Such refined hypocrisy isas good as virtue. --I am not speaking to you Englishwomen, my lady, "said the Minister, suavely, addressing Lady Barimore, Lord Dudley'sdaughter. "I tried to be the same lover. 

"I wished to have some of my hair worked up for my new angel, and Iwent to a skilled artist who at that time dwelt in the Rue Boucher. The man had a monopoly of capillary keepsakes, and I mention hisaddress for the benefit of those who have not much hair; he has plentyof every kind and every color. After I had explained my order, heshowed me his work. I then saw achievements of patience surpassingthose which the story books ascribe to fairies, or which are executedby prisoners. He brought me up to date as to the caprices and fashionsgoverning the use of hair. 'For the last year, ' said he, 'there hasbeen a rage for marking linen with hair; happily I had a finecollection of hair and skilled needlewomen, '--on hearing this asuspicion flashed upon me; I took out my handkerchief and said, 'Sothis was done in your shop, with false hair?'--He looked at thehandkerchief, and said, 'Ay! that lady was very particular, sheinsisted on verifying the tint of the hair. My wife herself markedthose handkerchiefs. You have there, sir, one of the finest pieces ofwork we have ever executed. ' Before this last ray of light I mighthave believed something--might have taken a woman's word. I left theshop still having faith in pleasure, but where love was concerned Iwas as atheistical as a mathematician. 

"Two months later I was sitting by the side of the ethereal being inher boudoir, on her sofa; I was holding one of her hands--they werevery beautiful--and we scaled the Alps of sentiment, culling theirsweetest flowers, and pulling off the daisy-petals; there is always amoment when one pulls daisies to pieces, even if it is in adrawing-room and there are no daisies. At the intensest moment oftenderness, and when we are most in love, love is so well aware of itsown short duration that we are irresistibly urged to ask, 'Do you loveme? Will you love me always?' I seized the elegiac moment, so warm, soflowery, so full-blown, to lead her to tell her most delightful lies, in the enchanting language of love. Charlotte displayed her choicestallurements: She could not live without me; I was to her the only manin the world; she feared to weary me, because my presence bereft herof all her wits; with me, all her faculties were lost in love; she wasindeed too tender to escape alarms; for the last six months she hadbeen seeking some way to bind me to her eternally, and God alone knewthat secret; in short, I was her god!"

The women who heard de Marsay seemed offended by seeing themselves sowell acted, for he seconded the words by airs, and sidelong attitudes, and mincing grimaces which were quite illusory. 

"At the very moment when I might have believed these adorablefalsehoods, as I still held her right hand in mine, I said to her, 'When are you to marry the Duke?'

"The thrust was so direct, my gaze met hers so boldly, and her handlay so tightly in mine, that her start, slight as it was, could not bedisguised; her eyes fell before mine, and a faint blush colored hercheeks. --'The Duke! What do you mean?' she said, affecting greatastonishment. --'I know everything, ' replied I; 'and in my opinion, youshould delay no longer; he is rich; he is a duke; but he is more thandevout, he is religious! I am sure, therefore, that you have beenfaithful to me, thanks to his scruples. You cannot imagine howurgently necessary it is that you should compromise him with himselfand with God; short of that you will never bring him to the point. '--'Is this a dream?' said she, pushing her hair from her forehead, fifteen years before Malibran, with the gesture which Malibran hasmade so famous. --'Come, do not be childish, my angel, ' said I, tryingto take her hands; but she folded them before her with a littleprudish and indignant mein. --'Marry him, you have my permission, ' saidI, replying to this gesture by using the formal _vous_ instead of_tu_. 'Nay, better, I beg you to do so. '--'But, ' cried she, falling atmy knees, 'there is some horrible mistake; I love no one in the worldbut you; you may demand any proofs you please. '--'Rise, my dear, ' saidI, 'and do me the honor of being truthful. '--'As before God. '--'Do youdoubt my love?'--'No. '--'Nor my fidelity?'--'No. '--'Well, I havecommitted the greatest crime, ' I went on. 'I have doubted your loveand your fidelity. Between two intoxications I looked calmly aboutme. '--'Calmly!' sighed she. 'That is enough, Henri; you no longer loveme. '

"She had at once found, you perceive, a loophole for escape. In sceneslike these an adverb is dangerous. But, happily, curiosity made heradd: 'And what did you see? Have I ever spoken of the Duke exceptingin public? Have you detected in my eyes----?'--'No, ' said I, 'but inhis. And you have eight times made me go to Saint-Thomas d'Aquin tosee you listening to the same mass as he. '--'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'thenI have made you jealous!'--Oh! I only wish I could be!' said I, admiring the pliancy of her quick intelligence, and these acrobaticfeats which can only be successful in the eyes of the blind. 'But bydint of going to church I have become very incredulous. On the day ofmy first cold, and your first treachery, when you thought I was inbed, you received the Duke, and you told me you had seen no one. '--'Doyou know that your conduct is infamous?'--'In what respect? I consideryour marriage to the Duke an excellent arrangement; he gives you agreat name, the only rank that suits you, a brilliant anddistinguished position. You will be one of the queens of Paris. Ishould be doing you a wrong if I placed any obstacle in the way ofthis prospect, this distinguished life, this splendid alliance. Ah!Charlotte, some day you will do me justice by discovering how unlikemy character is to that of other young men. You would have beencompelled to deceive me; yes, you would have found it very difficultto break with me, for he watches you. It is time that we should part, for the Duke is rigidly virtuous. You must turn prude; I advise you todo so. The Duke is vain; he will be proud of his wife. '--'Oh!' criedshe, bursting into tears, 'Henri, if only you had spoken! Yes, if youhad chosen'--it was I who was to blame, you understand--'we would havegone to live all our days in a corner, married, happy, and defied theworld. '--'Well, it is too late now, ' said I, kissing her hands, andputting on a victimized air. --'Good God! But I can undo it all!' saidshe. --'No, you have gone too far with the Duke. I ought indeed to go ajourney to part us more effectually. We should both have reason tofear our own affection----'--'Henri, do you think the Duke has anysuspicions?' I was still 'Henri, ' but the _tu_ was lost for ever. --'Ido not think so, ' I replied, assuming the manner of a friend; 'but beas devout as possible, reconcile yourself to God, for the Duke waitsfor proofs; he hesitates, you must bring him to the point. '

"She rose, and walked twice round the boudoir in real or affectedagitation; then she no doubt found an attitude and a look beseemingthe new state of affairs, for she stopped in front of me, held out herhand, and said in a voice broken by emotion, 'Well, Henri, you areloyal, noble, and a charming man; I shall never forget you. '

"These were admirable tactics. She was bewitching in this transitionof feeling, indispensable to the situation in which she wished toplace herself in regard to me. I fell into the attitude, the manners, and the look of a man so deeply distressed, that I saw her too newlyassumed dignity giving way; she looked at me, took my hand, drew mealong almost, threw me on the sofa, but quite gently, and said after amoment's silence, 'I am dreadfully unhappy, my dear fellow. Do youlove me?'--'Oh! yes. '--'Well, then, what will become of you?'"

At this point the women all looked at each other. 

"Though I can still suffer when I recall her perfidy, I still laugh ather expression of entire conviction and sweet satisfaction that I mustdie, or at any rate sink into perpetual melancholy, " de Marsay wenton. "Oh! do not laugh yet!" he said to his listeners; "there is betterto come. I looked at her very tenderly after a pause, and said to her, 'Yes, that is what I have been wondering. '--'Well, what will you do?'--'I asked myself that the day after my cold. '--'And----?' she askedwith eager anxiety. --'And I have made advances to the little lady towhom I was supposed to be attached. '

"Charlotte started up from the sofa like a frightened doe, tremblinglike a leaf, gave me one of those looks in which women forgo all theirdignity, all their modesty, their refinement, and even their grace, the sparkling glitter of a hunted viper's eye when driven into acorner, and said, 'And I have loved this man! I have struggled! Ihave----' On this last thought, which I leave you to guess, she madethe most impressive pause I ever heard. --'Good God!' she cried, 'howunhappy are we women! we never can be loved. To you there is nothingserious in the purest feelings. But never mind; when you cheat us youstill are our dupes!'--'I see that plainly, ' said I, with a strickenair; 'you have far too much wit in your anger for your heart to sufferfrom it. '--This modest epigram increased her rage; she found sometears of vexation. 'You disgust me with the world and with life. ' shesaid; 'you snatch away all my illusions; you deprave my heart. '

"She said to me all that I had a right to say to her, and with asimple effrontery, an artless audacity, which would certainly havenailed any man but me on the spot. --'What is to become of us poorwomen in a state of society such as Louis XVIII. 's charter made it?'--(Imagine how her words had run away with her. )--'Yes, indeed, we areborn to suffer. In matters of passion we are always superior to you, and you are beneath all loyalty. There is no honesty in your hearts. To you love is a game in which you always cheat. '--'My dear, ' said I, 'to take anything serious in society nowadays would be like makingromantic love to an actress. '--'What a shameless betrayal! It wasdeliberately planned!'--'No, only a rational issue. '--'Good-bye, Monsieur de Marsay, ' said she; 'you have deceived me horribly. '--'Surely, ' I replied, taking up a submissive attitude, 'Madame laDuchesse will not remember Charlotte's grievances?'--'Certainly, ' sheanswered bitterly. --'Then, in fact, you hate me?'--She bowed, and Isaid to myself, 'There is something still left!'

"The feeling she had when I parted from her allowed her to believethat she still had something to avenge. Well, my friends, I havecarefully studied the lives of men who have had great success withwomen, but I do not believe that the Marechal de Richelieu, or Lauzun, or Louis de Valois ever effected a more judicious retreat at the firstattempt. As to my mind and heart, they were cast in a mould then andthere, once for all, and the power of control I thus acquired over thethoughtless impulses which make us commit so many follies gained methe admirable presence of mind you all know. "

"How deeply I pity the second!" exclaimed the Baronne de Nucingen. 

A scarcely perceptible smile on de Marsay's pale lips made Delphine deNucingen color. 

"How we do forget!" said the Baron de Nucingen. 

The great banker's simplicity was so extremely droll, that his wife, who was de Marsay's "second, " could not help laughing like every oneelse. 

"You are all ready to condemn the woman, " said Lady Dudley. "Well, Iquite understand that she did not regard her marriage as an act ofinconstancy. Men will never distinguish between constancy andfidelity. --I know the woman whose story Monsieur de Marsay has toldus, and she is one of the last of your truly great ladies. "

"Alas! my lady, you are right, " replied de Marsay. "For very nearlyfifty years we have been looking on at the progressive ruin of allsocial distinctions. We ought to have saved our women from this greatwreck, but the Civil Code has swept its leveling influence over theirheads. However terrible the words, they must be spoken: Duchesses arevanishing, and marquises too! As to the baronesses--I must apologizeto Madame de Nucingen, who will become a countess when her husband ismade a peer of France--baronesses have never succeeded in gettingpeople to take them seriously. "

"Aristocracy begins with the viscountess, " said Blondet with a smile. 

"Countesses will survive, " said de Marsay. "An elegant woman will bemore or less of a countess--a countess of the Empire or of yesterday, a countess of the old block, or, as they say in Italy, a countess bycourtesy. But as to the great lady, she died out with the dignifiedsplendor of the last century, with powder, patches, high-heeledslippers, and stiff bodices with a delta stomacher of bows. Duchessesin these days can pass through a door without any need to widen it fortheir hoops. The Empire saw the last of gowns with trains! I am stillpuzzled to understand how a sovereign who wished to see hisdrawing-room swept by ducal satin and velvet did not make indestructiblelaws. Napoleon never guessed the results of the Code he was so proud of. That man, by creating duchesses, founded the race of our 'ladies' ofto-day--the indirect offspring of his legislation. "

"It was logic, handled as a hammer by boys just out of school and byobscure journalists, which demolished the splendors of the socialstate, " said the Comte de Vandenesse. "In these days every rogue whocan hold his head straight in his collar, cover his manly bosom withhalf an ell of satin by way of a cuirass, display a brow whereapocryphal genius gleams under curling locks, and strut in a pair ofpatent-leather pumps graced by silk socks which cost six francs, screws his eye-glass into one of his eye-sockets by puckering up hischeek, and whether he be an attorney's clerk, a contractor's son, or abanker's bastard, he stares impertinently at the prettiest duchess, appraises her as she walks downstairs, and says to his friend--dressedby Buisson, as we all are, and mounted in patent-leather like any dukehimself--'There, my boy, that is a perfect lady. '"

"You have not known how to form a party, " said Lord Dudley; "it willbe a long time yet before you have a policy. You talk a great deal inFrance about organizing labor, and you have not yet organizedproperty. So this is what happens: Any duke--and even in the time ofLouis XVIII. And Charles X. There were some left who had two hundredthousand francs a year, a magnificent residence, and a sumptuous trainof servants--well, such a duke could live like a great lord. The lastof these great gentlemen in France was the Prince de Talleyrand. --Thisduke leaves four children, two of them girls. Granting that he hasgreat luck in marrying them all well, each of these descendants willhave but sixty or eighty thousand francs a year now; each is thefather or mother of children, and consequently obliged to live withthe strictest economy in a flat on the ground floor or first floor ofa large house. Who knows if they may not even be hunting a fortune?Henceforth the eldest son's wife, a duchess in name only, has nocarriage, no people, no opera-box, no time to herself. She has not herown rooms in the family mansion, nor her fortune, nor her pretty toys;she is buried in trade; she buys socks for her dear little children, nurses them herself, and keeps an eye on her girls, whom she no longersends to school at a convent. Thus your noblest dames have been turnedinto worthy brood-hens. "

"Alas! it is true, " said Joseph Bridau. "In our day we cannot showthose beautiful flowers of womanhood which graced the golden ages ofthe French Monarchy. The great lady's fan is broken. A woman hasnothing now to blush for; she need not slander or whisper, hide herface or reveal it. A fan is of no use now but for fanning herself. When once a thing is no more than what it is, it is too useful to be aform of luxury. "

"Everything in France has aided and abetted the 'perfect lady, '" saidDaniel d'Arthez. "The aristocracy has acknowledged her by retreatingto the recesses of its landed estates, where it has hidden itself todie--emigrating inland before the march of ideas, as of old to foreignlands before that of the masses. The women who could have foundedEuropean _salons_, could have guided opinion and turned it inside outlike a glove, could have ruled the world by ruling the men of art orof intellect who ought to have ruled it, have committed the blunder ofabandoning their ground; they were ashamed of having to fight againstthe citizen class drunk with power, and rushing out on to the stage ofthe world, there to be cut to pieces perhaps by the barbarians who areat its heels. Hence, where the middle class insist on seeingprincesses, these are really only ladylike young women. In these daysprinces can find no great ladies whom they may compromise; they cannoteven confer honor on a woman taken up at random. The Duc de Bourbonwas the last prince to avail himself of this privilege. "

"And God alone knows how dearly he paid for it, " said Lord Dudley. 

"Nowadays princes have lady-like wives, obliged to share theiropera-box with other ladies; royal favor could not raise them higherby a hair's breadth; they glide unremarkable between the waters of thecitizen class and those of the nobility--not altogether noble noraltogether _bourgeoises_, " said the Marquise de Rochegude acridly. 

"The press has fallen heir to the Woman, " exclaimed Rastignac. "She nolonger has the quality of a spoken _feuilleton_--delightful calumniesgraced by elegant language. We read _feuilletons_ written in a dialectwhich changes every three years, society papers about as mirthful asan undertaker's mute, and as light as the lead of their type. Frenchconversation is carried on from one end of the country to the other ina revolutionary jargon, through long columns of type printed in oldmansions where a press groans in the place where formerly elegantcompany used to meet. "

"The knell of the highest society is tolling, " said a Russian Prince. "Do you hear it? And the first stroke is your modern word _lady_. "

"You are right, Prince, " said de Marsay. "The 'perfect lady, ' issuingfrom the ranks of the nobility, or sprouting from the citizen class, and the product of every soil, even of the provinces is the expressionof these times, a last remaining embodiment of good taste, grace, wit, and distinction, all combined, but dwarfed. We shall see no more greatladies in France, but there will be 'ladies' for a long time, electedby public opinion to form an upper chamber of women, and who will beamong the fair sex what a 'gentleman' is in England. "

"And that they call progress!" exclaimed Mademoiselle des Touches. "Ishould like to know where the progress lies?"

"Why, in this, " said Madame de Nucingen. "Formerly a woman might havethe voice of a fish-seller, the walk of a grenadier, the face of animpudent courtesan, her hair too high on her forehead, a large foot, athick hand--she was a great lady in spite of it all; but in thesedays, even if she were a Montmorency--if a Montmorency would ever besuch a creature--she would not be a lady. "

"But what do you mean by a 'perfect lady'?" asked Count Adam Laginski. 

"She is a modern product, a deplorable triumph of the elective systemas applied to the fair sex, " said the Minister. "Every revolution hasa word of its own which epitomizes and depicts it. "

"You are right, " said the Russian, who had come to make a literaryreputation in Paris. "The explanation of certain words added from timeto time to your beautiful language would make a magnificent history. _Organize_, for instance, is the word of the Empire, and sums upNapoleon completely. "

"But all that does not explain what is meant by a lady!" the youngPole exclaimed, with some impatience. 

"Well, I will tell you, " said Emile Blondet to Count Adam. "One finemorning you go for a saunter in Paris. It is past two, but five hasnot yet struck. You see a woman coming towards you; your first glanceat her is like the preface to a good book, it leads you to expect aworld of elegance and refinement. Like a botanist over hill and dalein his pursuit of plants, among the vulgarities of Paris life you haveat last found a rare flower. This woman is attended by two verydistinguished-looking men, of whom one, at any rate, wears an order;or else a servant out of livery follows her at a distance of tenyards. She displays no gaudy colors, no open-worked stockings, noover-elaborate waist-buckle, no embroidered frills to her drawersfussing round her ankles. You will see that she is shod with prunellashoes, with sandals crossed over extremely fine cotton stockings, orplain gray silk stockings; or perhaps she wears boots of the mostexquisite simplicity. You notice that her gown is made of a neat andinexpensive material, but made in a way that surprises more than onewoman of the middle class; it is almost always a long pelisse, withbows to fasten it, and neatly bound with fine cord or an imperceptiblebraid. The Unknown has a way of her own in wrapping herself in hershawl or mantilla; she knows how to draw it round her from her hips toher neck, outlining a carapace, as it were, which would make anordinary woman look like a turtle, but which in her sets off the mostbeautiful forms while concealing them. How does she do it? This secretshe keeps, though unguarded by any patent. 

"As she walks she gives herself a little concentric and harmonioustwist, which makes her supple or dangerous slenderness writhe underthe stuff, as a snake does under the green gauze of trembling grass. Is it to an angel or a devil that she owes the graceful undulationwhich plays under her long black silk cape, stirs its lace frill, sheds an airy balm, and what I should like to call the breeze of aParisienne? You may recognize over her arms, round her waist, abouther throat, a science of drapery recalling the antique Mnemosyne. 

"Oh! how thoroughly she understands the _cut_ of her gait--forgive theexpression. Study the way she puts her foot forward moulding her skirtwith such a decent preciseness that the passer-by is filled withadmiration, mingled with desire, but subdued by deep respect. When anEnglishwoman attempts this step, she looks like a grenadier marchingforward to attack a redoubt. The women of Paris have a genius forwalking. The municipality really owed them asphalt footwalks. 

"Our Unknown jostles no one. If she wants to pass, she waits withproud humility till some one makes way. The distinction peculiar to awell-bred woman betrays itself, especially in the way she holds hershawl or cloak crossed over her bosom. Even as she walks she has alittle air of serene dignity, like Raphael's Madonnas in their frames. Her aspect, at once quiet and disdainful, makes the most insolentdandy step aside for her. 

"Her bonnet, remarkable for its simplicity, is trimmed with crispribbons; there may be flowers in it, but the cleverest of such womenwear only bows. Feathers demand a carriage; flowers are too showy. Beneath it you see the fresh unworn face of a woman who, withoutconceit, is sure of herself; who looks at nothing, and seeseverything; whose vanity, satiated by being constantly gratified, stamps her face with an indifference which piques your curiosity. Sheknows that she is looked at, she knows that everybody, even women, turn round to see her again. And she threads her way through Parislike a gossamer, spotless and pure. 

"This delightful species affects the hottest latitudes, the cleanestlongitudes of Paris; you will meet her between the 10th and 110thArcade of the Rue de Rivoli; along the line of the Boulevards from theequator of the Passage des Panoramas, where the products of Indiaflourish, where the warmest creations of industry are displayed, tothe Cape of the Madeleine; in the least muddy districts of the citizenquarters, between No. 30 and No. 130 of the Rue du FaubourgSaint-Honore. During the winter, she haunts the terrace of theFeuillants, but not the asphalt pavement that lies parallel. Accordingto the weather, she may be seen flying in the Avenue of theChamps-Elysees, which is bounded on the east by the Place Louis XV. , on the west by the Avenue de Marigny, to the south by the road, to thenorth by the gardens of the Faubourg Saint-Honore. Never is thispretty variety of woman to be seen in the hyperborean regions of theRue Saint-Denis, never in the Kamtschatka of miry, narrow, commercialstreets, never anywhere in bad weather. These flowers of Paris, blooming only in Oriental weather, perfume the highways; and afterfive o'clock fold up like morning-glory flowers. The women you willsee later, looking a little like them, are would-be ladies; while thefair Unknown, your Beatrice of a day, is a 'perfect lady. '

"It is not very easy for a foreigner, my dear Count, to recognize thedifferences by which the observer _emeritus_ distinguishes them--womenare such consummate actresses; but they are glaring in the eyes ofParisians: hooks ill fastened, strings showing loops of rusty-whitetape through a gaping slit in the back, rubbed shoe-leather, ironedbonnet-strings, an over-full skirt, an over-tight waist. You will seea certain effort in the intentional droop of the eyelid. There issomething conventional in the attitude. 

"As to the _bourgeoise_, the citizen womankind, she cannot possibly bemistaken for the spell cast over you by the Unknown. She is bustling, and goes out in all weathers, trots about, comes, goes, gazes, doesnot know whether she will or will not go into a shop. Where the ladyknows just what she wants and what she is doing, the townswoman isundecided, tucks up her skirts to cross a gutter, dragging a child bythe hand, which compels her to look out for the vehicles; she is amother in public, and talks to her daughter; she carries money in herbag, and has open-work stockings on her feet; in winter, she wears aboa over her fur cloak; in summer, a shawl and a scarf; she isaccomplished in the redundancies of dress. 

"You will meet the fair Unknown again at the Italiens, at the Opera, at a ball. She will then appear under such a different aspect that youwould think them two beings devoid of any analogy. The woman hasemerged from those mysterious garments like a butterfly from its silkycocoon. She serves up, like some rare dainty, to your lavished eyes, the forms which her bodice scarcely revealed in the morning. At thetheatre she never mounts higher than the second tier, excepting at theItaliens. You can there watch at your leisure the studieddeliberateness of her movements. The enchanting deceiver plays off allthe little political artifices of her sex so naturally as to excludeall idea of art or premeditation. If she has a royally beautiful hand, the most perspicacious beholder will believe that it is absolutelynecessary that she should twist, or refix, or push aside the ringletor curl she plays with. If she has some dignity of profile, you willbe persuaded that she is giving irony or grace to what she says to herneighbor, sitting in such a position as to produce the magical effectof the 'lost profile, ' so dear to great painters, by which the cheekcatches the high light, the nose is shown in clear outline, thenostrils are transparently rosy, the forehead squarely modeled, theeye has its spangle of fire, but fixed on space, and the whiteroundness of the chin is accentuated by a line of light. If she has apretty foot, she will throw herself on a sofa with the coquettishgrace of a cat in the sunshine, her feet outstretched without yourfeeling that her attitude is anything but the most charming model evergiven to a sculptor by lassitude. 

"Only the perfect lady is quite at her ease in full dress; nothinginconveniences her. You will never see her, like the woman of thecitizen class, pulling up a refractory shoulder-strap, or pushing downa rebellious whalebone, or looking whether her tucker is doing itsoffice of faithful guardian to two treasures of dazzling whiteness, orglancing in the mirrors to see if her head-dress is keeping its place. Her toilet is always in harmony with her character; she had had timeto study herself, to learn what becomes her, for she has long knownwhat does not suit her. You will not find her as you go out; shevanishes before the end of the play. If by chance she is to be seen, calm and stately, on the stairs, she is experiencing some violentemotion; she has to bestow a glance, to receive a promise. Perhaps shegoes down so slowly on purpose to gratify the vanity of a slave whomshe sometimes obeys. If your meeting takes place at a ball or anevening party, you will gather the honey, natural or affected of herinsinuating voice; her empty words will enchant you, and she will knowhow to give them the value of thought by her inimitable bearing. "

"To be such a woman, is it not necessary to be very clever?" asked thePolish Count. 

"It is necessary to have great taste, " replied the Princesse deCadignan. 

"And in France taste is more than cleverness, " said the Russian. 

"This woman's cleverness is the triumph of a purely plastic art, "Blondet went on. "You will not know what she said, but you will befascinated. She will toss her head, or gently shrug her whiteshoulders; she will gild an insignificant speech with a charming poutand smile; or throw a Voltairean epigram into an 'Indeed!' an 'Ah!' a'What then!' A jerk of her head will be her most pertinent form ofquestioning; she will give meaning to the movement by which she twirlsa vinaigrette hanging to her finger by a ring. She gets an artificialgrandeur out of superlative trivialities; she simply drops her handimpressively, letting it fall over the arm of her chair as dewdropshang on the cup of a flower, and all is said--she has pronouncedjudgment beyond appeal, to the apprehension of the most obtuse. Sheknows how to listen to you; she gives you the opportunity of shining, and--I ask your modesty--those moments are rare?"

The candid simplicity of the young Pole, to whom Blondet spoke, madeall the party shout with laughter. 

"Now, you will not talk for half-an-hour with a _bourgeoise_ withouther alluding to her husband in one way or another, " Blondet went onwith unperturbed gravity; "whereas, even if you know that your lady ismarried, she will have the delicacy to conceal her husband soeffectually that it will need the enterprise of Christopher Columbusto discover him. Often you will fail in the attempt single-handed. Ifyou have had no opportunity of inquiring, towards the end of theevening you detect her gazing fixedly at a middle-aged man wearing adecoration, who bows and goes out. She has ordered her carriage, andgoes. 

"You are not the rose, but you have been with the rose, and you go tobed under the golden canopy of a delicious dream, which will lastperhaps after Sleep, with his heavy finger, has opened the ivory gatesof the temple of dreams. 

"The lady, when she is at home, sees no one before four; she is shrewdenough always to keep you waiting. In her house you will findeverything in good taste; her luxury is for hourly use, and dulyrenewed; you will see nothing under glass shades, no rags of wrappingshanging about, and looking like a pantry. You will find the staircasewarmed. Flowers on all sides will charm your sight--flowers, the onlygift she accepts, and those only from certain people, for nosegayslive but a day; they give pleasure, and must be replaced; to her theyare, as in the East, a symbol and a promise. The costly toys offashion lie about, but not so as to suggest a museum or a curiosityshop. You will find her sitting by the fire in a low chair, from whichshe will not rise to greet you. Her talk will not now be what it wasat the ball; there she was our creditor; in her own home she owes youthe pleasure of her wit. These are the shades of which the lady is amarvelous mistress. What she likes in you is a man to swell hercircle, an object for the cares and attentions which such women arenow happy to bestow. Therefore, to attract you to her drawing-room, she will be bewitchingly charming. This especially is where you feelhow isolated women are nowadays, and why they want a little world oftheir own, to which they may seem a constellation. Conversation isimpossible without generalities. "

"Yes, " said de Marsay, "you have truly hit the fault of our age. Theepigram--a volume in a word--no longer strikes, as it did in theeighteenth century, at persons or at things, but at squalid events, and it dies in a day. "

"Hence, " said Blondet, "the intelligence of the lady, if she has any, consists in casting doubts on everything. Here lies the greatdifference between two women; the townswoman is certainly virtuous;the lady does not know yet whether she is, or whether she always willbe; she hesitates and struggles where the other refuses point-blankand falls full length. This hesitancy in everything is one of the lastgraces left to her by our horrible times. She rarely goes to church, but she will talk to you of religion; and if you have the good tasteto affect Free-thought, she will try to convert you, for you will haveopened the way for the stereotyped phrases, the head-shaking andgestures understood by all these women: 'For shame! I thought you hadtoo much sense to attack religion. Society is tottering, and youdeprive it of its support. Why, religion at this moment means you andme; it is property, and the future of our children! Ah! let us not beselfish! Individualism is the disease of the age, and religion is theonly remedy; it unites families which your laws put asunder, ' and soforth. Then she plunges into some neo-Christian speech sprinkled withpolitical notions which is neither Catholic nor Protestant--but moral?Oh! deuced moral!--in which you may recognize a fag end of everymaterial woven by modern doctrines, at loggerheads together. "

The women could not help laughing at the airs by which Blondetillustrated his satire. 

"This explanation, dear Count Adam, " said Blondet, turning to thePole, "will have proved to you that the 'perfect lady' represents theintellectual no less than the political muddle, just as she issurrounded by the showy and not very lasting products of an industrywhich is always aiming at destroying its work in order to replace itby something else. When you leave her you say to yourself: Shecertainly has superior ideas! And you believe it all the more becauseshe will have sounded your heart with a delicate touch, and have askedyou your secrets; she affects ignorance, to learn everything; thereare some things she never knows, not even when she knows them. Youalone will be uneasy, you will know nothing of the state of her heart. The great ladies of old flaunted their love-affairs, with newspapersand advertisements; in these days the lady has her little passionneatly ruled like a sheet of music with its crotchets and quavers andminims, its rests, its pauses, its sharps to sign the key. A mere weakwomen, she is anxious not to compromise her love, or her husband, orthe future of her children. Name, position, and fortune are no longerflags so respected as to protect all kinds of merchandise on board. The whole aristocracy no longer advances in a body to screen the lady. She has not, like the great lady of the past, the demeanor of loftyantagonism; she can crush nothing under foot, it is she who would becrushed. Thus she is apt at Jesuitical _mezzo termine_, she is acreature of equivocal compromises, of guarded proprieties, ofanonymous passions steered between two reef-bound shores. She is asmuch afraid of her servants as an Englishwoman who lives in dread of atrial in the divorce-court. This woman--so free at a ball, soattractive out walking--is a slave at home; she is never independentbut in perfect privacy, or theoretically. She must preserve herself inher position as a lady. This is her task. 

"For in our day a woman repudiated by her husband, reduced to a meagreallowance, with no carriage, no luxury, no opera-box, none of thedivine accessories of the toilet, is no longer a wife, a maid, or atownswoman; she is adrift, and becomes a chattel. The Carmelites willnot receive a married woman; it would be bigamy. Would her lover stillhave anything to say to her? That is the question. Thus your perfectlady may perhaps give occasion to calumny, never to slander. "

"It is all so horribly true, " said the Princesse de Cadignan. 

"And so, " said Blondet, "our 'perfect lady' lives between Englishhypocrisy and the delightful frankness of the eighteenth century--abastard system, symptomatic of an age in which nothing that grows upis at all like the thing that has vanished, in which transition leadsnowhere, everything is a matter of degree; all the great figuresshrink into the background, and distinction is purely personal. I amfully convinced that it is impossible for a woman, even if she wereborn close to a throne, to acquire before the age of five-and-twentythe encyclopaedic knowledge of trifles, the practice of manoeuvring, the important small things, the musical tones and harmony of coloring, the angelic bedevilments and innocent cunning, the speech and thesilence, the seriousness and the banter, the wit and the obtuseness, the diplomacy and the ignorance which make up the perfect lady. "

"And where, in accordance with the sketch you have drawn, " saidMademoiselle des Touches to Emile Blondet, "would you class the femaleauthor? Is she a perfect lady, a woman _comme il faut_?"

"When she has no genius, she is a woman _comme il n'en faut pas_, "Blondet replied, emphasizing the words with a stolen glance, whichmight make them seem praise frankly addressed to Camille Maupin. "Thisepigram is not mine, but Napoleon's, " he added. 

"You need not owe Napoleon any grudge on that score, " said Canalis, with an emphatic tone and gesture. "It was one of his weaknesses to bejealous of literary genius--for he had his mean points. Who will everexplain, depict, or understand Napoleon? A man represented with hisarms folded, and who did everything, who was the greatest force everknown, the most concentrated, the most mordant, the most acid of allforces; a singular genius who carried armed civilization in everydirection without fixing it anywhere; a man who could do everythingbecause he willed everything; a prodigious phenomenon of will, conquering an illness by a battle, and yet doomed to die of disease inbed after living in the midst of ball and bullets; a man with a codeand a sword in his brain, word and deed; a clear-sighted spirit thatforesaw everything but his own fall; a capricious politician whorisked men by handfuls out of economy, and who spared three heads--those of Talleyrand, of Pozzo de Borgo, and of Metternich, diplomatists whose death would have saved the French Empire, and whoseemed to him of greater weight than thousands of soldiers; a man towhom nature, as a rare privilege, had given a heart in a frame ofbronze; mirthful and kind at midnight amid women, and next morningmanipulating Europe as a young girl might amuse herself by splashingwater in her bath! Hypocritical and generous; loving tawdriness andsimplicity; devoid of taste, but protecting the arts; and in spite ofthese antitheses, really great in everything by instinct or bytemperament; Caesar at five-and-twenty, Cromwell at thirty; and then, like my grocer buried in Pere Lachaise, a good husband and a goodfather. In short, he improvised public works, empires, kings, codes, verses, a romance--and all with more range than precision. Did he notaim at making all Europe France? And after making us weigh on theearth in such a way as to change the laws of gravitation, he left uspoorer than on the day when he first laid hands on us; while he, whohad taken an empire by his name, lost his name on the frontier of hisempire in a sea of blood and soldiers. A man all thought and allaction, who comprehended Desaix and Fouche. "

"All despotism and all justice at the right moments. The true king!"said de Marsay. 

"Ah! vat a pleashre it is to dichest vile you talk, " said Baron deNucingen. 

"But do you suppose that the treat we are giving you is a common one?"asked Joseph Bridau. "If you had to pay for the charms of conversationas you do for those of dancing or of music, your fortune would beinadequate! There is no second performance of the same flash of wit. "

"And are we really so much deteriorated as these gentlemen think?"said the Princesse de Cadignan, addressing the women with a smile atonce sceptical and ironical. "Because, in these days, under a regimewhich makes everything small, you prefer small dishes, small rooms, small pictures, small articles, small newspapers, small books, doesthat prove that women too have grown smaller? Why should the humanheart change because you change your coat? In all ages the passionsremain the same. I know cases of beautiful devotion, of sublimesufferings, which lack the publicity--the glory, if you choose--whichformerly gave lustre to the errors of some women. But though one maynot have saved a King of France, one is not the less an Agnes Sorel. Do you believe that our dear Marquise d'Espard is not the peer ofMadame Doublet, or Madame du Deffant, in whose rooms so much evil wasspoken and done? Is not Taglioni a match for Camargo? or Malibran theequal of Saint-Huberti? Are not our poets superior to those of theeighteenth century? If at this moment, through the fault of theGrocers who govern us, we have not a style of our own, had not theEmpire its distinguishing stamp as the age of Louis XV. Had, and wasnot its splendor fabulous? Have the sciences lost anything?"

"I am quite of your opinion, madame; the women of this age are trulygreat, " replied the Comte de Vandenesse. "When posterity shall havefollowed us, will not Madame Recamier appear in proportions as fine asthose of the most beautiful women of the past? We have made so muchhistory that historians will be lacking. The age of Louis XIV. Had butone Madame de Sevigne; we have a thousand now in Paris who certainlywrite better than she did, and who do not publish their letters. Whether the Frenchwoman be called 'perfect lady, ' or great lady, shewill always be _the_ woman among women. 

"Emile Blondet has given us a picture of the fascinations of a womanof the day; but, at need, this creature who bridles or shows off, whochirps out the ideas of Mr. This and Mr. That, would be heroic. And itmust be said, your faults, mesdames, are all the more poetical, because they must always and under all circumstances be surrounded bygreater perils. I have seen much of the world, I have studied itperhaps too late; but in cases where the illegality of your feelingsmight be excused, I have always observed the effects of I know notwhat chance--which you may call Providence--inevitably overwhelmingsuch as we consider light women. "

"I hope, " said Madame de Vandenesse, "that we can be great in otherways----"

"Oh, let the Comte de Vandenesse preach to us!" exclaimed Madame deSerizy. 

"With all the more reason because he has preached a great deal byexample, " said the Baronne de Nucingen. 

"On my honor!" said General de Montriveau, "in all the dramas--a wordyou are very fond of, " he said, looking at Blondet--"in which thefinger of God has been visible, the most frightful I ever knew wasvery near being by my act----"

"Well, tell us all about it!" cried Lady Barimore; "I love toshudder!"

"It is the taste of a virtuous woman, " replied de Marsay, looking atLord Dudley's lovely daughter. 

"During the campaign of 1812, " General de Montriveau began, "I was theinvoluntary cause of a terrible disaster which may be of use to you, Doctor Bianchon, " turning to me, "since, while devoting yourself tothe human body, you concern yourself a good deal with the mind; it maytend to solve some of the problems of the will. 

"I was going through my second campaign; I enjoyed danger, and laughedat everything, like the young and foolish lieutenant of artillery thatI was. When we reached the Beresina, the army had, as you know, lostall discipline, and had forgotten military obedience. It was a medleyof men of all nations, instinctively making their way from north tosouth. The soldiers would drive a general in rags and bare-foot awayfrom their fire if he brought neither wood nor victuals. After thepassage of this famous river disorder did not diminish. I had comequietly and alone, without food, out of the marshes of Zembin, and waswandering in search of a house where I might be taken in. Finding noneor driven away from those I came across, happily towards evening Iperceived a wretched little Polish farm, of which nothing can give youany idea unless you have seen the wooden houses of Lower Normandy, orthe poorest farm-buildings of la Beauce. These dwellings consist of asingle room, with one end divided off by a wooden partition, thesmaller division serving as a store-room for forage. 

"In the darkness of twilight I could just see a faint smoke risingabove this house. Hoping to find there some comrades morecompassionate than those I had hitherto addressed, I boldly walked asfar as the farm. On going in, I found the table laid. Severalofficers, and with them a woman--a common sight enough--were eatingpotatoes, some horseflesh broiled over the charcoal, and some frozenbeetroots. I recognized among the company two or three artillerycaptains of the regiment in which I had first served. I was welcomedwith a shout of acclamation, which would have amazed me greatly on theother side of the Beresina; but at this moment the cold was lessintense; my fellow-officers were resting, they were warm, they hadfood, and the room, strewn with trusses of straw, gave the promise ofa delightful night. We did not ask for so much in those days. Mycomrades could be philanthropists _gratis_--one of the commonest waysof being philanthropic. I sat down to eat on one of the bundles ofstraw. 

"At the end of the table, by the side of the door opening into thesmaller room full of straw and hay, sat my old colonel, one of themost extraordinary men I ever saw among all the mixed collection ofmen it has been my lot to meet. He was an Italian. Now, whenever humannature is truly fine in the lands of the South, it is really sublime. I do not know whether you have ever observed the extreme fairness ofItalians when they are fair. It is exquisite, especially under anartificial light. When I read the fantastical portrait of ColonelOudet sketched by Charles Nodier, I found my own sensations in everyone of his elegant phrases. Italian, then, as were most of theofficers of his regiment, which had, in fact, been borrowed by theEmperor from Eugene's army, my colonel was a tall man, at least eightor nine inches above the standard, and was admirably proportioned--alittle stout perhaps, but prodigiously powerful, active, andclean-limbed as a greyhound. His black hair in abundant curls showedup his complexion, as white as a woman's; he had small hands, ashapely foot, a pleasant mouth, and an aquiline nose delicatelyformed, of which the tip used to become naturally pinched and whitewhenever he was angry, as happened often. His irascibility was so farbeyond belief that I will tell you nothing about it; you will have theopportunity of judging of it. No one could be calm in his presence. Ialone, perhaps, was not afraid of him; he had indeed taken such asingular fancy to me that he thought everything I did right. When hewas in a rage his brow was knit and the muscles of the middle of hisforehead set in a delta, or, to be more explicit, in Redgauntlet'shorseshoe. This mark was, perhaps, even more terrifying than themagnetic flashes of his blue eyes. His whole frame quivered, and hisstrength, great as it was in his normal state, became almost unbounded. 

"He spoke with a strong guttural roll. His voice, at least as powerfulas that of Charles Nordier's Oudet, threw an incredible fulness oftone into the syllable or the consonant in which this burr wassounded. Though this faulty pronunciation was at times a grace, whencommanding his men, or when he was excited, you cannot imagine, unlessyou had heard it, what force was expressed by this accent, which atParis is so common. When the Colonel was quiescent, his blue eyes wereangelically sweet, and his smooth brow had a most charming expression. On parade, or with the army of Italy, not a man could compare withhim. Indeed, d'Orsay himself, the handsome d'Orsay, was eclipsed byour colonel on the occasion of the last review held by Napoleon beforethe invasion of Russia. 

"Everything was in contrasts in this exceptional man. Passion lives oncontrast. Hence you need not ask whether he exerted over women theirresistible influences to which our nature yields"--and the generallooked at the Princesse de Cadignan--"as vitreous matter is mouldedunder the pipe of the glass-blower; still, by a singular fatality--anobserver might perhaps explain the phenomenon--the Colonel was not alady-killer, or was indifferent to such successes. 

"To give you an idea of his violence, I will tell you in a few wordswhat I once saw him do in a paroxysm of fury. We were dragging ourguns up a very narrow road, bordered by a somewhat high slope on oneside, and by thickets on the other. When we were half-way up we metanother regiment of artillery, its colonel marching at the head. Thiscolonel wanted to make the captain who was at the head of our foremostbattery back down again. The captain, of course, refused; but thecolonel of the other regiment signed to his foremost battery toadvance, and in spite of the care the driver took to keep among thescrub, the wheel of the first gun struck our captain's right leg andbroke it, throwing him over on the near side of his horse. All thiswas the work of a moment. Our Colonel, who was but a little way off, guessed that there was a quarrel; he galloped up, riding among theguns at the risk of falling with his horse's four feet in the air, andreached the spot, face to face with the other colonel, at the verymoment when the captain fell, calling out 'Help!' No, our Italiancolonel was no longer human! Foam like the froth of champagne rose tohis lips; he roared inarticulately like a lion. Incapable of utteringa word, or even a cry, he made a terrific signal to his antagonist, pointing to the wood and drawing his sword. The two colonels wentaside. In two seconds we saw our Colonel's opponent stretched on theground, his skull split in two. The soldiers of his regiment backed--yes, by heaven, and pretty quickly too. 

"The captain, who had been so nearly crushed, and who lay yelping inthe puddle where the gun carriage had thrown him, had an Italian wife, a beautiful Sicilian of Messina, who was not indifferent to ourColonel. This circumstance had aggravated his rage. He was pledged toprotect the husband, bound to defend him as he would have defended thewoman herself. 

"Now, in the hovel beyond Zembin, where I was so well received, thiscaptain was sitting opposite to me, and his wife was at the other endof the table, facing the Colonel. This Sicilian was a little womannamed Rosina, very dark, but with all the fire of the Southern sun inher black almond-shaped eyes. At this moment she was deplorably thin;her face was covered with dust, like fruit exposed to the drought of ahighroad. Scarcely clothed in rags, exhausted by marches, her hair indisorder, and clinging together under a piece of a shawl tied closeover her head, still she had the graces of a woman; her movements wereengaging, her small rose mouth and white teeth, the outline of herfeatures and figure, charms which misery, cold, and neglect had notaltogether defaced, still suggested love to any man who could think ofa woman. Rosina had one of those frames which are fragile inappearance, but wiry and full of spring. Her husband, a gentleman ofPiedmont, had a face expressive of ironical simplicity, if it isallowable to ally the two words. Brave and well informed, he seemed toknow nothing of the connections which had subsisted between his wifeand the Colonel for three years past. I ascribed this unconcern toItalian manners, or to some domestic secret; yet there was in theman's countenance one feature which always filled me with involuntarydistrust. His under lip, which was thin and very restless, turned downat the corners instead of turning up, and this, as I thought, betrayeda streak of cruelty in a character which seemed so phlegmatic andindolent. 

"As you may suppose the conversation was not very sparkling when Iwent in. My weary comrades ate in silence; of course, they asked mesome questions, and we related our misadventures, mingled withreflections on the campaign, the generals, their mistakes, theRussians, and the cold. A minute after my arrival the colonel, havingfinished his meagre meal, wiped his moustache, bid us good-night, shota black look at the Italian woman, saying, 'Rosina?' and then, withoutwaiting for a reply, went into the little barn full of hay, to bed. The meaning of the Colonel's utterance was self-evident. The youngwife replied by an indescribable gesture, expressing all the annoyanceshe could not feel at seeing her thralldom thus flaunted without humandecency, and the offence to her dignity as a woman, and to herhusband. But there was, too, in the rigid setting of her features andthe tight knitting of her brows a sort of presentiment; perhaps sheforesaw her fate. Rosina remained quietly in her place. 

"A minute later, and apparently when the Colonel was snug in his couchof straw or hay, he repeated, 'Rosina?'

"The tone of this second call was even more brutally questioning thanthe first. The Colonel's strong burr, and the length which the Italianlanguage allows to be given to vowels and the final syllable, concentrated all the man's despotism, impatience, and strength ofwill. Rosina turned pale, but she rose, passed behind us, and went tothe Colonel. 

"All the party sat in utter silence; I, unluckily, after looking atthem all, began to laugh, and then they all laughed too. --'_Tu ridi?_--you laugh?' said the husband. 

"'On my honor, old comrade, ' said I, becoming serious again, 'Iconfess that I was wrong; I ask your pardon a thousand times, and ifyou are not satisfied by my apologies I am ready to give yousatisfaction. '

"'Oh! it is not you who are wrong, it is I!' he replied coldly. 

"Thereupon we all lay down in the room, and before long all were soundasleep. 

"Next morning each one, without rousing his neighbor or seekingcompanionship, set out again on his way, with that selfishness whichmade our rout one of the most horrible dramas of self-seeking, melancholy, and horror which ever was enacted under heaven. Nevertheless, at about seven or eight hundred paces from our shelterwe, most of us, met again and walked on together, like geese led inflocks by a child's wilful tyranny. The same necessity urged us all. 

"Having reached a knoll where we could still see the farmhouse wherewe had spent the night, we heard sounds resembling the roar of lionsin the desert, the bellowing of bulls--no, it was a noise which can becompared to no known cry. And yet, mingling with this horrible andominous roar, we could hear a woman's feeble scream. We all lookedround, seized by I know not what impulse of terror; we no longer sawthe house, but a huge bonfire. The farmhouse had been barricaded, andwas in flames. Swirls of smoke borne on the wind brought us hoarsecries and an indescribable pungent smell. A few yards behind, thecaptain was quietly approaching to join our caravan; we gazed at himin silence, for no one dared question him; but he, understanding ourcuriosity, pointed to his breast with the forefinger of his righthand, and, waving the left in the direction of the fire, he said, '_Son'io_. '

"We all walked on without saying a word to him. "

"There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep, " said deMarsay. 

"It would be frightful to let us leave with this horrible picture inour memory, " said Madame de Montcornet. "I shall dream of it----"

"And what was the punishment of Monsieur de Marsay's 'First'?" saidLord Dudley, smiling. 

"When the English are in jest, their foils have the buttons on, " saidBlondet. 

"Monsieur Bianchon can tell us, for he saw her dying, " replied deMarsay, turning to me. 

"Yes, " said I; "and her end was one of the most beautiful I ever saw. The Duke and I had spent the night by the dying woman's pillow;pulmonary consumption, in the last stage, left no hope; she had takenthe sacrament the day before. The Duke had fallen asleep. The Duchess, waking at about four in the morning, signed to me in the most touchingway, with a friendly smile, to bid me leave him to rest, and shemeanwhile was about to die. She had become incredibly thin, but herface had preserved its really sublime outline and features. Her pallormade her skin look like porcelain with a light within. Her bright eyesand color contrasted with this languidly elegant complexion, and hercountenance was full of expressive calm. She seemed to pity the Duke, and the feeling had its origin in a lofty tenderness which, as deathapproached, seemed to know no bounds. The silence was absolute. Theroom, softly lighted by a lamp, looked like every sickroom at the hourof death. 

"At this moment the clock struck. The Duke awoke, and was in despairat having fallen asleep. I did not see the gesture of impatience bywhich he manifested the regret he felt at having lost sight of hiswife for a few of the last minutes vouchsafed to him; but it is quitecertain that any one but the dying woman might have misunderstood it. A busy statesman, always thinking of the interests of France, the Dukehad a thousand odd ways on the surface, such as often lead to a man ofgenius being mistaken for a madman, and of which the explanation liesin the exquisiteness and exacting needs of their intellect. He came toseat himself in an armchair by his wife's side, and looked fixedly ather. The dying woman put her hand out a little way, took her husband'sand clasped it feebly; and in a low but agitated voice she said, 'Mypoor dear, who is left to understand you now?' Then she died, lookingat him. "

"The stories the doctor tells us, " said the Comte de Vandenesse, "always leave a deep impression. "

"But a sweet one, " said Mademoiselle des Touches, rising. 

PARIS, June 1839-42. 

 ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country ParsonIn addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: La Grande Breteche

Blondet, Emile Jealousies of a Country Town A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Firm of Nucingen The Peasantry

Blondet, Virginie (Madame Montcornet) Jealousies of a Country Town The Secrets of a Princess The Peasantry A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Member for Arcis A Daughter of Eve

Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Pierre Grassou Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis

Canalis, Constant-Cyr-Melchior, Baron de Letters of Two Brides A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Modeste Mignon The Magic Skin A Start in Life Beatrix The Unconscious Humorists The Member for Arcis

Dudley, Lord The Lily of the Valley The Thirteen A Man of Business A Daughter of Eve

Espard, Jeanne-Clementine-Athenais de Blamont-Chauvry, Marquise d' The Commission in Lunacy A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides The Gondreville Mystery The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve Beatrix

Laginski, Comte Adam Mitgislas The Imaginary Mistress Cousin Betty

Marsay, Henri de The Thirteen The Unconscious Humorists The Lily of the Valley Father Goriot Jealousies of a Country Town Ursule Mirouet A Marriage Settlement Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Letters of Two Brides The Ball at Sceaux Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve

Maufrigneuse, Duchesse de The Secrets of a Princess Modeste Mignon Jealousies of a Country Town The Muse of the Department Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides The Gondreville Mystery The Member for Arcis

Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de The Thirteen Father Goriot Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Pierrette The Member for Arcis

Nucingen, Baron Frederic de The Firm of Nucingen Father Goriot Pierrette Cesar Birotteau Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Secrets of a Princess A Man of Business Cousin Betty The Muse of the Department The Unconscious Humorists

Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de Father Goriot The Thirteen Eugenie Grandet Cesar Birotteau Melmoth Reconciled Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Commission in Lunacy Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon The Firm of Nucingen A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis

Portenduere, Vicomtesse Savinien de Ursule Mirouet Beatrix

Rastignac, Eugene de Father Goriot A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Ball at Sceaux The Commission in Lunacy A Study of Woman The Magic Skin The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Gondreville Mystery The Firm of Nucingen Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis The Unconscious Humorists

Ronquerolles, Marquis de The Imaginary Mistress The Peasantry Ursule Mirouet A Woman of Thirty The Thirteen The Member for Arcis

Serizy, Comtesse de A Start in Life The Thirteen Ursule Mirouet A Woman of Thirty Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

 The Imaginary Mistress

Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix The Muse of the Department

Vandenesse, Comte Felix de The Lily of the Valley Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Cesar Birotteau Letters of Two Brides A Start in Life The Marriage Settlement The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve