Sarrasine By Honore de Balzac Translated by Clara Bell and others DEDICATION To Monsieur Charles Bernard du Grail. SARRASINE I was buried in one of those profound reveries to which everybody, even a frivolous man, is subject in the midst of the most uproariousfestivities. The clock on the Elysee-Bourbon had just struck midnight. Seated in a window recess and concealed behind the undulating folds ofa curtain of watered silk, I was able to contemplate at my leisure thegarden of the mansion at which I was passing the evening. The trees, being partly covered with snow, were outlined indistinctly against thegrayish background formed by a cloudy sky, barely whitened by themoon. Seen through the medium of that strange atmosphere, they bore avague resemblance to spectres carelessly enveloped in their shrouds, agigantic image of the famous _Dance of Death_. Then, turning in theother direction, I could gaze admiringly upon the dance of the living!a magnificent salon, with walls of silver and gold, with gleamingchandeliers, and bright with the light of many candles. There theloveliest, the wealthiest women in Paris, bearers of the proudesttitles, moved hither and thither, fluttered from room to room inswarms, stately and gorgeous, dazzling with diamonds; flowers on theirheads and breasts, in their hair, scattered over their dresses orlying in garlands at their feet. Light quiverings of the body, voluptuous movements, made the laces and gauzes and silks swirl abouttheir graceful figures. Sparkling glances here and there eclipsed thelights and the blaze of the diamonds, and fanned the flame of heartsalready burning too brightly. I detected also significant nods of thehead for lovers and repellent attitudes for husbands. The exclamationof the card-players at every unexpected _coup_, the jingle of gold, mingled with music and the murmur of conversation; and to put thefinishing touch to the vertigo of that multitude, intoxicated by allthe seductions the world can offer, a perfume-laden atmosphere andgeneral exaltation acted upon their over-wrought imaginations. Thus, at my right was the depressing, silent image of death; at my left thedecorous bacchanalia of life; on the one side nature, cold and gloomy, and in mourning garb; on the other side, man on pleasure bent. And, standing on the borderland of those two incongruous pictures, whichrepeated thousands of times in diverse ways, make Paris the mostentertaining and most philosophical city in the world, I played amental _macedoine_[*], half jesting, half funereal. With my left footI kept time to the music, and the other felt as if it were in a tomb. My leg was, in fact, frozen by one of those draughts which congeal onehalf of the body while the other suffers from the intense heat of thesalons--a state of things not unusual at balls. [*] _Macedoine_, in the sense in which it is here used, is a game, or rather a series of games, of cards, each player, when it is his turn to deal, selecting the game to be played. "Monsieur de Lanty has not owned this house very long, has he?" "Oh, yes! It is nearly ten years since the Marechal de Carigliano soldit to him. " "Ah!" "These people must have an enormous fortune. " "They surely must. " "What a magnificent party! It is almost insolent in its splendor. " "Do you imagine they are as rich as Monsieur de Nucingen or Monsieurde Gondreville?" "Why, don't you know?" I leaned forward and recognized the two persons who were talking asmembers of that inquisitive genus which, in Paris, busies itselfexclusively with the _Whys_ and _Hows_. _Where does he come from? Whoare they? What's the matter with him? What has she done?_ They loweredtheir voices and walked away in order to talk more at their ease onsome retired couch. Never was a more promising mine laid open toseekers after mysteries. No one knew from what country the Lantyfamily came, nor to what source--commerce, extortion, piracy, orinheritance--they owed a fortune estimated at several millions. Allthe members of the family spoke Italian, French, Spanish, English, andGerman, with sufficient fluency to lead one to suppose that they hadlived long among those different peoples. Were they gypsies? were theybuccaneers? "Suppose they're the devil himself, " said divers young politicians, "they entertain mighty well. " "The Comte de Lanty may have plundered some _Casbah_ for all I care; Iwould like to marry his daughter!" cried a philosopher. Who would not have married Marianina, a girl of sixteen, whose beautyrealized the fabulous conceptions of Oriental poets! Like the Sultan'sdaughter in the tale of the _Wonderful Lamp_, she should have remainedalways veiled. Her singing obscured the imperfect talents of theMalibrans, the Sontags, and the Fodors, in whom some one dominantquality always mars the perfection of the whole; whereas Marianinacombined in equal degree purity of tone, exquisite feeling, accuracyof time and intonation, science, soul, and delicacy. She was the typeof that hidden poesy, the link which connects all the arts and whichalways eludes those who seek it. Modest, sweet, well-informed, andclever, none could eclipse Marianina unless it was her mother. Have you ever met one of those women whose startling beauty defies theassaults of time, and who seem at thirty-six more desirable than theycould have been fifteen years earlier? Their faces are impassionedsouls; they fairly sparkle; each feature gleams with intelligence;each possesses a brilliancy of its own, especially in the light. Theircaptivating eyes attract or repel, speak or are silent; their gait isartlessly seductive; their voices unfold the melodious treasures ofthe most coquettishly sweet and tender tones. Praise of their beauty, based upon comparisons, flatters the most sensitive self-esteem. Amovement of their eyebrows, the slightest play of the eye, the curlingof the lip, instils a sort of terror in those whose lives andhappiness depend upon their favor. A maiden inexperienced in love andeasily moved by words may allow herself to be seduced; but in dealingwith women of this sort, a man must be able, like M. De Jaucourt, torefrain from crying out when, in hiding him in a closet, the lady'smaid crushes two of his fingers in the crack of a door. To love one ofthese omnipotent sirens is to stake one's life, is it not? And that, perhaps, is why we love them so passionately! Such was the Comtesse deLanty. Filippo, Marianina's brother, inherited, as did his sister, theCountess' marvelous beauty. To tell the whole story in a word, thatyoung man was a living image of Antinous, with somewhat slighterproportions. But how well such a slender and delicate figure accordswith youth, when an olive complexion, heavy eyebrows, and the gleam ofa velvety eye promise virile passions, noble ideas for the future! IfFilippo remained in the hearts of young women as a type of manlybeauty, he likewise remained in the memory of all mothers as the bestmatch in France. The beauty, the great wealth, the intellectual qualities, of these twochildren came entirely from their mother. The Comte de Lanty was ashort, thin, ugly little man, as dismal as a Spaniard, as great a boreas a banker. He was looked upon, however, as a profound politician, perhaps because he rarely laughed, and was always quoting M. DeMetternich or Wellington. This mysterious family had all the attractiveness of a poem by LordByron, whose difficult passages were translated differently by eachperson in fashionable society; a poem that grew more obscure and moresublime from strophe to strophe. The reserve which Monsieur and Madamede Lanty maintained concerning their origin, their past lives, andtheir relations with the four quarters of the globe would not, ofitself, have been for long a subject of wonderment in Paris. In noother country, perhaps, is Vespasian's maxim more thoroughlyunderstood. Here gold pieces, even when stained with blood or mud, betray nothing, and represent everything. Provided that good societyknows the amount of your fortune, you are classed among those figureswhich equal yours, and no one asks to see your credentials, becauseeverybody knows how little they cost. In a city where social problemsare solved by algebraic equations, adventurers have many chances intheir favor. Even if this family were of gypsy extraction, it was sowealthy, so attractive, that fashionable society could well afford tooverlook its little mysteries. But, unfortunately, the enigmaticalhistory of the Lanty family offered a perpetual subject of curiosity, not unlike that aroused by the novels of Anne Radcliffe. People of an observing turn, of the sort who are bent upon finding outwhere you buy your candelabra, or who ask you what rent you pay whenthey are pleased with your apartments, had noticed, from time to time, the appearance of an extraordinary personage at the fetes, concerts, balls, and routs given by the countess. It was a man. The first timethat he was seen in the house was at a concert, when he seemed to havebeen drawn to the salon by Marianina's enchanting voice. "I have been cold for the last minute or two, " said a lady near thedoor to her neighbor. The stranger, who was standing near the speaker, moved away. "This is very strange! now I am warm, " she said, after his departure. "Perhaps you will call me mad, but I cannot help thinking that myneighbor, the gentleman in black who just walked away, was the causeof my feeling cold. " Ere long the exaggeration to which people in society are naturallyinclined, produced a large and growing crop of the most amusing ideas, the most curious expressions, the most absurd fables concerning thismysterious individual. Without being precisely a vampire, a ghoul, afictitious man, a sort of Faust or Robin des Bois, he partook of thenature of all these anthropomorphic conceptions, according to thosepersons who were addicted to the fantastic. Occasionally some Germanwould take for realities these ingenious jests of Parisianevil-speaking. The stranger was simply _an old man_. Some young men, who were accustomed to decide the future of Europe every morning in afew fashionable phrases, chose to see in the stranger some greatcriminal, the possessor of enormous wealth. Novelists described the oldman's life and gave some really interesting details of the atrocitiescommitted by him while he was in the service of the Prince of Mysore. Bankers, men of a more positive nature, devised a specious fable. "Bah!" they would say, shrugging their broad shoulders pityingly, "that little old fellow's a _Genoese head_!" "If it is not an impertinent question, monsieur, would you have thekindness to tell me what you mean by a Genoese head?" "I mean, monsieur, that he is a man upon whose life enormous sumsdepend, and whose good health is undoubtedly essential to thecontinuance of this family's income. I remember that I once heard amesmerist, at Madame d'Espard's, undertake to prove by very specioushistorical deductions, that this old man, if put under the magnifyingglass, would turn out to be the famous Balsamo, otherwise calledCagliostro. According to this modern alchemist, the Sicilian hadescaped death, and amused himself making gold for his grandchildren. And the Bailli of Ferette declared that he recognized in thisextraordinary personage the Comte de Saint-Germain. " Such nonsense as this, put forth with the assumption of superiorcleverness, with the air of raillery, which in our day characterize asociety devoid of faith, kept alive vague suspicions concerning theLanty family. At last, by a strange combination of circumstances, themembers of that family justified the conjectures of society byadopting a decidedly mysterious course of conduct with this old man, whose life was, in a certain sense, kept hidden from allinvestigations. If he crossed the threshold of the apartment he was supposed to occupyin the Lanty mansion, his appearance always caused a great sensationin the family. One would have supposed that it was an event of thegreatest importance. Only Filippo, Marianina, Madame de Lanty, and anold servant enjoyed the privilege of assisting the unknown to walk, torise, to sit down. Each one of them kept a close watch on hisslightest movements. It seemed as if he were some enchanted personupon whom the happiness, the life, or the fortune of all depended. Wasit fear or affection? Society could discover no indication whichenabled them to solve this problem. Concealed for months at a time inthe depths of an unknown sanctuary, this familiar spirit suddenlyemerged, furtively as it were, unexpectedly, and appeared in thesalons like the fairies of old, who alighted from their winged dragonsto disturb festivities to which they had not been invited. Only themost experienced observers could divine the anxiety, at such times, ofthe masters of the house, who were peculiarly skilful in concealingtheir feelings. But sometimes, while dancing a quadrille, the tooingenuous Marianina would cast a terrified glance at the old man, whomshe watched closely from the circle of dancers. Or perhaps Filippowould leave his place and glide through the crowd to where he stood, and remain beside him, affectionate and watchful, as if the touch ofman, or the faintest breath, would shatter that extraordinarycreature. The countess would try to draw nearer to him withoutapparently intending to join him; then, assuming a manner and anexpression in which servility and affection, submissiveness andtyranny, were equally noticeable, she would say two or three words, towhich the old man almost always deferred; and he would disappear, led, or I might better say carried away, by her. If Madame de Lanty werenot present, the Count would employ a thousand ruses to reach hisside; but it always seemed as if he found difficulty in inducing himto listen, and he treated him like a spoiled child, whose mothergratifies his whims and at the same time suspects mutiny. Some pryingpersons having ventured to question the Comte de Lanty indiscreetly, that cold and reserved individual seemed not to understand theirquestions. And so, after many attempts, which the circumspection ofall the members of the family rendered fruitless, no one sought todiscover a secret so well guarded. Society spies, triflers, andpoliticians, weary of the strife, ended by ceasing to concernthemselves about the mystery. But at that moment, it may be, there were in those gorgeous salonsphilosophers who said to themselves, as they discussed an ice or asherbet, or placed their empty punch glasses on a tray: "I should not be surprised to learn that these people are knaves. Thatold fellow who keeps out of sight and appears only at the equinoxes orsolstices, looks to me exactly like an assassin. " "Or a bankrupt. " "There's very little difference. To destroy a man's fortune is worsethan to kill the man himself. " "I bet twenty louis, monsieur; there are forty due me. " "Faith, monsieur; there are only thirty left on the cloth. " "Just see what a mixed company there is! One can't play cards inpeace. " "Very true. But it's almost six months since we saw the Spirit. Do youthink he's a living being?" "Well, barely. " These last remarks were made in my neighborhood by persons whom I didnot know, and who passed out of hearing just as I was summarizing inone last thought my reflections, in which black and white, life anddeath, were inextricably mingled. My wandering imagination, like myeyes, contemplated alternately the festivities, which had now reachedthe climax of their splendor, and the gloomy picture presented by thegardens. I have no idea how long I meditated upon those two faces ofthe human medal; but I was suddenly aroused by the stifled laughter ofa young woman. I was stupefied at the picture presented to my eyes. Byvirtue of one of the strangest of nature's freaks, the thought halfdraped in black, which was tossing about in my brain, emerged from itand stood before me personified, living; it had come forth likeMinerva from Jupiter's brain, tall and strong; it was at once ahundred years old and twenty-two; it was alive and dead. Escaped fromhis chamber, like a madman from his cell, the little old man hadevidently crept behind a long line of people who were listeningattentively to Marianina's voice as she finished the cavatina from_Tancred_. He seemed to have come up through the floor, impelled bysome stage mechanism. He stood for a moment motionless and sombre, watching the festivities, a murmur of which had perhaps reached hisears. His almost somnambulistic preoccupation was so concentrated uponthings that, although he was in the midst of many people, he sawnobody. He had taken his place unceremoniously beside one of the mostfascinating women in Paris, a young and graceful dancer, with slenderfigure, a face as fresh as a child's, all pink and white, and sofragile, so transparent, that it seemed that a man's glance must passthrough her as the sun's rays pass through flawless glass. They stoodthere before me, side by side, so close together, that the strangerrubbed against the gauze dress, and the wreaths of flowers, and thehair, slightly crimped, and the floating ends of the sash. I had brought that young woman to Madame de Lanty's ball. As it washer first visit to that house, I forgave her her stifled laugh; but Ihastily made an imperious sign which abashed her and inspired respectfor her neighbor. She sat down beside me. The old man did not chooseto leave the charming creature, to whom he clung capriciously with thesilent and apparently causeless obstinacy to which very old personsare subject, and which makes them resemble children. In order to sitdown beside the young lady he needed a folding-chair. His slightestmovements were marked by the inert heaviness, the stupid hesitancy, which characterize the movements of a paralytic. He sat slowly downupon his chair with great caution, mumbling some unintelligible words. His cracked voice resembled the noise made by a stone falling into awell. The young woman nervously pressed my hand, as if she were tryingto avoid a precipice, and shivered when that man, at whom she happenedto be looking, turned upon her two lifeless, sea-green eyes, whichcould be compared to nothing save tarnished mother-of-pearl. "I am afraid, " she said, putting her lips to my ear. "You can speak, " I replied; "he hears with great difficulty. " "You know him, then?" "Yes. " Thereupon she summoned courage to scrutinize for a moment thatcreature for which no human language has a name, form withoutsubstance, a being without life, or life without action. She was underthe spell of that timid curiosity which impels women to seek perilousexcitement, to gaze at chained tigers and boa-constrictors, shudderingall the while because the barriers between them are so weak. Althoughthe little old man's back was bent like a day-laborer's, it was easyto see that he must formerly have been of medium height. His excessivethinness, the slenderness of his limbs, proved that he had always beenof slight build. He wore black silk breeches which hung about hisfleshless thighs in folds, like a lowered veil. An anatomist wouldinstinctively have recognized the symptoms of consumption in itsadvanced stages, at sight of the tiny legs which served to supportthat strange frame. You would have said that they were a pair ofcross-bones on a gravestone. A feeling of profound horror seized theheart when a close scrutiny revealed the marks made by decrepitudeupon that frail machine. He wore a white waistcoat embroidered with gold, in the old style, andhis linen was of dazzling whiteness. A shirt-frill of English lace, yellow with age, the magnificence of which a queen might have envied, formed a series of yellow ruffles on his breast; but upon him the laceseemed rather a worthless rag than an ornament. In the centre of thefrill a diamond of inestimable value gleamed like a sun. Thatsuperannuated splendor, that display of treasure, of great intrinsicworth, but utterly without taste, served to bring out in still bolderrelief the strange creature's face. The frame was worthy of theportrait. That dark face was full of angles and furrowed deep in everydirection; the chin was furrowed; there were great hollows at thetemples; the eyes were sunken in yellow orbits. The maxillary bones, which his indescribable gauntness caused to protrude, formed deepcavities in the centre of both cheeks. These protuberances, as thelight fell upon them, caused curious effects of light and shadow whichdeprived that face of its last vestige of resemblance to the humancountenance. And then, too, the lapse of years had drawn the fine, yellow skin so close to the bones that it described a multitude ofwrinkles everywhere, either circular like the ripples in the watercaused by a stone which a child throws in, or star-shaped like a paneof glass cracked by a blow; but everywhere very deep, and as closetogether as the leaves of a closed book. We often see more hideous oldmen; but what contributed more than aught else to give to the spectrethat rose before us the aspect of an artificial creation was the redand white paint with which he glistened. The eyebrows shone in thelight with a lustre which disclosed a very well executed bit ofpainting. Luckily for the eye, saddened by such a mass of ruins, hiscorpse-like skull was concealed beneath a light wig, with innumerablecurls which indicated extraordinary pretensions to elegance. Indeed, the feminine coquettishness of this fantastic apparition wasemphatically asserted by the gold ear-rings which hung at his ears, bythe rings containing stones of marvelous beauty which sparkled on hisfingers, like the brilliants in a river of gems around a woman's neck. Lastly, this species of Japanese idol had constantly upon his bluelips, a fixed, unchanging smile, the shadow of an implacable andsneering laugh, like that of a death's head. As silent and motionlessas a statue, he exhaled the musk-like odor of the old dresses which aduchess' heirs exhume from her wardrobe during the inventory. If theold man turned his eyes toward the company, it seemed that themovements of those globes, no longer capable of reflecting a gleam, were accomplished by an almost imperceptible effort; and, when theeyes stopped, he who was watching them was not certain finally thatthey had moved at all. As I saw, beside that human ruin, a young womanwhose bare neck and arms and breast were white as snow; whose figurewas well-rounded and beautiful in its youthful grace; whose hair, charmingly arranged above an alabaster forehead, inspired love; whoseeyes did not receive but gave forth light, who was sweet and fresh, and whose fluffy curls, whose fragrant breath, seemed too heavy, tooharsh, too overpowering for that shadow, for that man of dust--ah! thethought that came into my mind was of death and life, an imaginaryarabesque, a half-hideous chimera, divinely feminine from the waistup. "And yet such marriages are often made in society!" I said to myself. "He smells of the cemetery!" cried the terrified young woman, graspingmy arm as if to make sure of my protection, and moving about in arestless, excited way, which convinced me that she was very muchfrightened. "It's a horrible vision, " she continued; "I cannot stayhere any longer. If I look at him again I shall believe that Deathhimself has come in search of me. But is he alive?" She placed her hand on the phenomenon, with the boldness which womenderive from the violence of their wishes, but a cold sweat burst fromher pores, for, the instant she touched the old man, she heard a crylike the noise made by a rattle. That shrill voice, if indeed it werea voice, escaped from a throat almost entirely dry. It was at oncesucceeded by a convulsive little cough like a child's, of a peculiarresonance. At that sound, Marianina, Filippo, and Madame de Lantylooked toward us, and their glances were like lightning flashes. Theyoung woman wished that she were at the bottom of the Seine. She tookmy arm and pulled me away toward a boudoir. Everybody, men and women, made room for us to pass. Having reached the further end of the suiteof reception-rooms, we entered a small semi-circular cabinet. Mycompanion threw herself on a divan, breathing fast with terror, notknowing where she was. "You are mad, madame, " I said to her. "But, " she rejoined, after a moment's silence, during which I gazed ather in admiration, "is it my fault? Why does Madame de Lanty allowghosts to wander round her house?" "Nonsense, " I replied; "you are doing just what fools do. You mistakea little old man for a spectre. " "Hush, " she retorted, with the imposing, yet mocking, air which allwomen are so well able to assume when they are determined to putthemselves in the right. "Oh! what a sweet boudoir!" she cried, looking about her. "Blue satin hangings always produce an admirableeffect. How cool it is! Ah! the lovely picture!" she added, rising andstanding in front of a magnificently framed painting. We stood for a moment gazing at that marvel of art, which seemed thework of some supernatural brush. The picture represented Adonisstretched out on a lion's skin. The lamp, in an alabaster vase, hanging in the centre of the boudoir, cast upon the canvas a softlight which enabled us to grasp all the beauties of the picture. "Does such a perfect creature exist?" she asked me, after examiningattentively, and not without a sweet smile of satisfaction, theexquisite grace of the outlines, the attitude, the color, the hair, infact everything. "He is too beautiful for a man, " she added, after such a scrutiny asshe would have bestowed upon a rival. Ah! how sharply I felt at that moment those pangs of jealousy in whicha poet had tried in vain to make me believe! the jealousy ofengravings, of pictures, of statues, wherein artists exaggerate humanbeauty, as a result of the doctrine which leads them to idealizeeverything. "It is a portrait, " I replied. "It is a product of Vien's genius. Butthat great painter never saw the original, and your admiration will bemodified somewhat perhaps, when I tell you that this study was madefrom a statue of a woman. " "But who is it?" I hesitated. "I insist upon knowing, " she added earnestly. "I believe, " I said, "that this _Adonis_ represents a--a relative ofMadame de Lanty. " I had the chagrin of seeing that she was lost in contemplation of thatfigure. She sat down in silence, and I seated myself beside her andtook her hand without her noticing it. Forgotten for a portrait! Atthat moment we heard in the silence a woman's footstep and the faintrustling of a dress. We saw the youthful Marianina enter the boudoir, even more resplendent by reason of her grace and her fresh costume;she was walking slowly and leading with motherly care, with adaughter's solicitude, the spectre in human attire, who had driven usfrom the music-room; as she led him, she watched with some anxiety theslow movement of his feeble feet. They walked painfully across theboudoir to a door hidden in the hangings. Marianina knocked softly. Instantly a tall, thin man, a sort of familiar spirit, appeared as ifby magic. Before entrusting the old man to this mysterious guardian, the lovely child, with deep veneration, kissed the ambulatory corpse, and her chaste caress was not without a touch of that gracefulplayfulness, the secret of which only a few privileged women possess. "_Addio, addio!_" she said, with the sweetest inflection of her youngvoice. She added to the last syllable a wonderfully executed trill, in a verylow tone, as if to depict the overflowing affection of her heart by apoetic expression. The old man, suddenly arrested by some memory, remained on the threshold of that secret retreat. In the profoundsilence we heard the sigh that came forth form his breast; he removedthe most beautiful of the rings with which his skeleton fingers wereladen, and placed it in Marianina's bosom. The young madcap laughed, plucked out the ring, slipped it on one of her fingers over her glove, and ran hastily back toward the salon, where the orchestra were, atthat moment, beginning the prelude of a contra-dance. She spied us. "Ah! were you here?" she said, blushing. After a searching glance at us as if to question us, she ran away toher partner with the careless petulance of her years. "What does this mean?" queried my young partner. "Is he her husband? Ibelieve I am dreaming. Where am I?" "You!" I retorted, "you, madame, who are easily excited, and who, understanding so well the most imperceptible emotions, are able tocultivate in a man's heart the most delicate of sentiments, withoutcrushing it, without shattering it at the very outset, you who havecompassion for the tortures of the heart, and who, with the wit of theParisian, combine a passionate temperament worthy of Spain orItaly----" She realized that my words were heavily charged with bitter irony;and, thereupon, without seeming to notice it, she interrupted me tosay: "Oh! you describe me to suit your own taste. A strange kind oftyranny! You wish me not to be _myself_!" "Oh! I wish nothing, " I cried, alarmed by the severity of her manner. "At all events, it is true, is it not, that you like to hear storiesof the fierce passions, kindled in our heart by the enchanting womenof the South?" "Yes. And then?" "Why, I will come to your house about nine o'clock to-morrow evening, and elucidate this mystery for you. " "No, " she replied, with a pout; "I wish it done now. " "You have not yet given me the right to obey you when you say, 'I wishit. '" "At this moment, " she said, with an exhibition of coquetry of the sortthat drives men to despair, "I have a most violent desire to know thissecret. To-morrow it may be that I will not listen to you. " She smiled and we parted, she still as proud and as cruel, I asridiculous, as ever. She had the audacity to waltz with a youngaide-de-camp, and I was by turns angry, sulky, admiring, loving, and jealous. "Until to-morrow, " she said to me, as she left the ball about twoo'clock in the morning. "I won't go, " I thought. "I give up. You are a thousand times morecapricious, more fanciful, than--my imagination. " The next evening we were seated in front of a bright fire in a daintylittle salon, she on a couch, I on cushions almost at her feet, looking up into her face. The street was silent. The lamp shed a softlight. It was one of those evenings which delight the soul, one ofthose moments which are never forgotten, one of those hours passed inpeace and longing, whose charm is always in later years a source ofregret, even when we are happier. What can efface the deep imprint ofthe first solicitations of love? "Go on, " she said. "I am listening. " "But I dare not begin. There are passages in the story which aredangerous to the narrator. If I become excited, you will make me holdmy peace. " "Speak. " "I obey. "Ernest-Jean Sarrasine was the only son of a prosecuting attorney ofFranche-Comte, " I began after a pause. "His father had, by faithfulwork, amassed a fortune which yielded an income of six to eightthousand francs, then considered a colossal fortune for an attorney inthe provinces. Old Maitre Sarrasine, having but one child, determinedto give him a thorough education; he hoped to make a magistrate ofhim, and to live long enough to see, in his old age, the grandson ofMathieu Sarrasine, a ploughman in the Saint-Die country, seated on thelilies, and dozing through the sessions for the greater glory of theParliament; but Heaven had not that joy in store for the attorney. Young Sarrasine, entrusted to the care of the Jesuits at an early age, gave indications of an extraordinarily unruly disposition. His was thechildhood of a man of talent. He would not study except as hisinclination led him, often rebelled, and sometimes remained for wholehours at a time buried in tangled meditations, engaged now in watchinghis comrades at play, now in forming mental pictures of Homer'sheroes. And, when he did choose to amuse himself, he displayedextraordinary ardor in his games. Whenever there was a contest of anysort between a comrade and himself, it rarely ended without bloodshed. If he were the weaker, he would use his teeth. Active and passive byturns, either lacking in aptitude, or too intelligent, his abnormaltemperament caused him to distrust his masters as much as hisschoolmates. Instead of learning the elements of the Greek language, he drew a picture of the reverend father who was interpreting apassage of Thucydides, sketched the teacher of mathematics, theprefect, the assistants, the man who administered punishment, andsmeared all the walls with shapeless figures. Instead of singing thepraises of the Lord in the chapel, he amused himself, during theservices, by notching a bench; or, when he had stolen a piece of wood, he would carve the figure of some saint. If he had no wood or stone orpencil, he worked out his ideas with bread. Whether he copied thefigures in the pictures which adorned the choir, or improvised, healways left at this seat rough sketches, whose obscene character drovethe young fathers to despair; and the evil-tongued alleged that theJesuits smiled at them. At last, if we are to believe collegetraditions, he was expelled because, while awaiting his turn to go tothe confessional one Good Friday, he carved a figure of the Christfrom a stick of wood. The impiety evidenced by that figure was tooflagrant not to draw down chastisement on the artist. He had actuallyhad the hardihood to place that decidedly cynical image on the top ofthe tabernacle! "Sarrasine came to Paris to seek a refuge against the threats of afather's malediction. Having one of those strong wills which know noobstacles, he obeyed the behests of his genius and enteredBouchardon's studio. He worked all day and went about at night beggingfor subsistence. Bouchardon, marveling at the young artist'sintelligence and rapid progress, soon divined his pupil's destitutecondition; he assisted him, became attached to him, and treated himlike his own child. Then, when Sarrasine's genius stood revealed inone of those works wherein future talent contends with theeffervescence of youth, the generous Bouchardon tried to restore himto the old attorney's good graces. The paternal wrath subsided in faceof the famous sculptor's authority. All Besancon congratulated itselfon having brought forth a future great man. In the first outburst ofdelight due to his flattered vanity, the miserly attorney supplied hisson with the means to appear to advantage in society. The long andlaborious study demanded by the sculptor's profession subdued for along time Sarrasine's impetuous temperament and unruly genius. Bouchardon, foreseeing how violently the passions would some day ragein that youthful heart, as highly tempered perhaps as Michelangelo's, smothered its vehemence with constant toil. He succeeded inrestraining within reasonable bounds Sarrasine's extraordinaryimpetuosity, by forbidding him to work, by proposing diversions whenhe saw that he was on the point of plunging into dissipation. But withthat passionate nature, gentleness was always the most powerful of allweapons, and the master did not acquire great influence over his pupiluntil he had aroused his gratitude by fatherly kindness. "At the age of twenty-two Sarrasine was forcibly removed from thesalutary influence which Bouchardon exercised over his morals and hishabits. He paid the penalty of his genius by winning the prize forsculpture founded by the Marquis de Marigny, Madame de Pompadour'sbrother, who did so much for art. Diderot praised Bouchardon's pupil'sstatue as a masterpiece. Not without profound sorrow did the king'ssculptor witness the departure for Italy of a young man whose profoundignorance of the things of life he had, as a matter of principle, refrained from enlightening. Sarrasine was Bouchardon's guest for sixyears. Fanatically devoted to his art, as Canova was at a later day, he rose at dawn and went to the studio, there to remain until night, and lived with his muse alone. If he went to the Comedie-Francaise, hewas dragged thither by his master. He was so bored at MadameGeoffrin's, and in the fashionable society to which Bouchardon triedto introduce him, that he preferred to remain alone, and held alooffrom the pleasures of that licentious age. He had no other mistressesthan sculpture and Clotilde, one of the celebrities of the Opera. Eventhat intrigue was of brief duration. Sarrasine was decidedly ugly, always badly dressed, and naturally so independent, so irregular inhis private life, that the illustrious nymph, dreading somecatastrophe, soon remitted the sculptor to love of the arts. SophieArnould made some witty remark on the subject. She was surprised, Ithink, that her colleague was able to triumph over statues. "Sarrasine started for Italy in 1758. On the journey his ardentimagination took fire beneath a sky of copper and at the sight of themarvelous monuments with which the fatherland of the arts is strewn. He admired the statues, the frescoes, the pictures; and, fired with aspirit of emulation, he went on to Rome, burning to inscribe his namebetween the names of Michelangelo and Bouchardon. At first, therefore, he divided his time between his studio work and examination of theworks of art which abound in Rome. He had already passed a fortnightin the ecstatic state into which all youthful imaginations fall at thesight of the queen of ruins, when he happened one evening to enter theArgentina theatre, in front of which there was an enormous crowd. Heinquired the reasons for the presence of so great a throng, and everyone answered by two names: "'Zambinella! Jomelli!' "He entered and took a seat in the pit, crowded between twounconscionably stout _abbati_; but luckily he was quite near thestage. The curtain rose. For the first time in his life he heard themusic whose charms Monsieur Jean-Jacques Rousseau had extolled soeloquently at one of Baron d'Holbach's evening parties. The youngsculptor's senses were lubricated, so to speak, by Jomelli'sharmonious strains. The languorous peculiarities of those skilfullyblended Italian voices plunged him in an ecstasy of delight. He satthere, mute and motionless, not even conscious of the crowding of thetwo priests. His soul poured out through his ears and his eyes. Heseemed to be listening with every one of his pores. Suddenly awhirlwind of applause greeted the appearance of the prima donna. Shecame forward coquettishly to the footlights and curtsied to theaudience with infinite grace. The brilliant light, the enthusiasm of avast multitude, the illusion of the stage, the glamour of a costumewhich was most attractive for the time, all conspired in that woman'sfavor. Sarrasine cried aloud with pleasure. He saw before him at thatmoment the ideal beauty whose perfections he had hitherto sought hereand there in nature, taking from one model, often of humble rank, therounded outline of a shapely leg, from another the contour of thebreast; from another her white shoulders; stealing the neck of thatyoung girl, the hands of this woman, and the polished knees of yonderchild, but never able to find beneath the cold skies of Paris the richand satisfying creations of ancient Greece. La Zambinella displayed inher single person, intensely alive and delicate beyond words, allthose exquisite proportions of the female form which he had soardently longed to behold, and of which a sculptor is the most severeand at the same time the most passionate judge. She had an expressivemouth, eyes instinct with love, flesh of dazzling whiteness. And addto these details, which would have filled a painter's soul withrapture, all the marvelous charms of the Venuses worshiped and copiedby the chisel of the Greeks. The artist did not tire of admiring theinimitable grace with which the arms were attached to the body, thewonderful roundness of the throat, the graceful curves described bythe eyebrows and the nose, and the perfect oval of the face, thepurity of its clean-cut lines, and the effect of the thick, droopinglashes which bordered the large and voluptuous eyelids. She was morethan a woman; she was a masterpiece! In that unhoped-for creationthere was love enough to enrapture all mankind, and beautiescalculated to satisfy the most exacting critic. "Sarrasine devoured with his eyes what seemed to him Pygmalion'sstatue descended from its pedestal. When La Zambinella sang, he wasbeside himself. He was cold; then suddenly he felt a fire burning inthe secret depths of his being, in what, for lack of a better word, wecall the heart. He did not applaud, he said nothing; he felt a madimpulse, a sort of frenzy of the sort that seizes us only at the agewhen there is a something indefinably terrible and infernal in ourdesires. Sarrasine longed to rush upon the stage and seize that woman. His strength, increased a hundredfold by a moral depression impossibleto describe, --for such phenomena take place in a sphere inaccessibleto human observation, --insisted upon manifesting itself withdeplorable violence. Looking at him, you would have said that he was acold, dull man. Renown, science, future, life, prizes, all vanished. "'To win her love or die!' Such was the sentence Sarrasine pronouncedupon himself. "He was so completely intoxicated that he no longer saw theatre, audience, or actors, no longer heard the music. Nay, more, there wasno space between him and La Zambinella; he possessed her; his eyes, fixed steadfastly upon her, took possession of her. An almostdiabolical power enabled him to feel the breath of that voice, toinhale the fragrant powder with which her hair was covered, to see theslightest inequalities of her face, to count the blue veins whichthreaded their way beneath the satiny skin. And that fresh, briskvoice of silvery _timbre_, flexible as a thread to which the faintestbreath of air gives form, which it rolls and unrolls, tangles andblows away, that voice attacked his heart so fiercely that he morethan once uttered an involuntary exclamation, extorted by theconvulsive ecstasy too rarely evoked by human passions. He was soonobliged to leave the theatre. His trembling legs almost refused tobear him. He was prostrated, weak, like a nervous man who has givenway to a terrible burst of anger. He had had such exquisite pleasure, or perhaps had suffered so, that his life had flowed away like waterfrom an overturned vessel. He felt a void within him, a sense ofgoneness like the utter lack of strength which discourages aconvalescent just recovering from a serious sickness. Overwhelmed byinexplicable melancholy, he sat down on the steps of a church. There, with his back resting against a pillar, he lost himself in a fit ofmeditation as confused as a dream. Passion had dealt him a crushingblow. On his return to his apartments he was seized by one of thoseparoxysms of activity which reveal to us the presence of newprinciples in our existence. A prey to that first fever of love whichresembles pain as much as pleasure, he sought to defeat his impatienceand his frenzy by sketching La Zambinella from memory. It was a sortof material meditation. Upon one leaf La Zambinella appeared in thatpose, apparently calm and cold, affected by Raphael, Georgione, andall the great painters. On another, she was coyly turning her head asshe finished a roulade, and seemed to be listening to herself. Sarrasine drew his mistress in all poses: he drew her unveiled, seated, standing, reclining, chaste, and amorous--interpreting, thanksto the delirious activity of his pencil, all the fanciful ideas whichbeset our imagination when our thoughts are completely engrossed by amistress. But his frantic thoughts outran his pencil. He met LaZambinella, spoke to her, entreated her, exhausted a thousand years oflife and happiness with her, placing her in all imaginable situations, trying the future with her, so to speak. The next day he sent hisservant to hire a box near the stage for the whole season. Then, likeall young men of powerful feelings, he exaggerated the difficulties ofhis undertaking, and gave his passion, for its first pasturage, thejoy of being able to admire his mistress without obstacle. The goldenage of love, during which we enjoy our own sentiments, and in which weare almost as happy by ourselves, was not likely to last long withSarrasine. However, events surprised him when he was still under thespell of that springtime hallucination, as naive as it was voluptuous. In a week he lived a whole lifetime, occupied through the day inmolding the clay with which he succeeded in copying La Zambinella, notwithstanding the veils, the skirts, the waists, and the bows ofribbon which concealed her from him. In the evening, installed at anearly hour in his box, alone, reclining on a sofa, he made forhimself, like a Turk drunk with opium, a happiness as fruitful, aslavish, as he wished. First of all, he familiarized himself graduallywith the too intense emotions which his mistress' singing caused him;then he taught his eyes to look at her, and was finally able tocontemplate her at his leisure without fearing an explosion ofconcealed frenzy, like that which had seized him the first day. Hispassion became more profound as it became more tranquil. But theunsociable sculptor would not allow his solitude, peopled as it waswith images, adorned with the fanciful creations of hope, and full ofhappiness, to be disturbed by his comrades. His love was so intenseand so ingenuous, that he had to undergo the innocent scruples withwhich we are assailed when we love for the first time. As he began torealize that he would soon be required to bestir himself, to intrigue, to ask where La Zambinella lived, to ascertain whether she had amother, an uncle, a guardian, a family, --in a word, as he reflectedupon the methods of seeing her, of speaking to her, he felt that hisheart was so swollen with such ambitious ideas, that he postponedthose cares until the following day, as happy in his physicalsufferings as in his intellectual pleasures. " "But, " said Madame de Rochefide, interrupting me, "I see nothing ofMarianina or her little old man in all this. " "You see nothing but him!" I cried, as vexed as an author for whomsome one has spoiled the effect of a _coup de theatre_. "For some days, " I resumed after a pause, "Sarrasine had been sofaithful in attendance in his box, and his glances expressed suchpassionate love, that his passion for La Zambinella's voice would havebeen the town-talk of Paris, if the episode had happened here; but inItaly, madame, every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoyment, with all his own passions, with a heartfelt interest which precludesall thought of espionage with opera-glasses. However, the sculptor'sfrantic admiration could not long escape the notice of the performers, male and female. One evening the Frenchman noticed that they werelaughing at him in the wings. It is hard to say what violent measureshe might have resorted to, had not La Zambinella come on the stage. She cast at Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often saymore than women intend. That glance was a complete revelation initself. Sarrasine was beloved! "'If it is a mere caprice, ' he thought, already accusing his mistressof too great ardor, 'she does not know the sort of domination to whichshe is about to become subject. Her caprice will last, I trust, aslong as my life. ' "At that moment, three light taps on the door of his box attracted theartist's attention. He opened the door. An old woman entered with anair of mystery. "'Young man, ' she said, 'if you wish to be happy, be prudent. Wrapyourself in a cloak, pull a broad-brimmed hat over your eyes, and beon the Rue du Corso, in front of the Hotel d'Espagne, about teno'clock to-night. ' "'I will be there, ' he replied, putting two louis in the duenna'swrinkled hand. "He rushed from his box, after a sign of intelligence to LaZambinella, who lowered her voluptuous eyelids modestly, like a womanoverjoyed to be understood at last. Then he hurried home, in order toborrow from his wardrobe all the charms it could loan him. As he leftthe theatre, a stranger grasped his arm. "'Beware, Signor Frenchman, ' he said in his ear. 'This is a matter oflife and death. Cardinal Cicognara is her protector, and he is notrifler. ' "If a demon had placed the deep pit of hell between Sarrasine and LaZambinella, he would have crossed it with one stride at that moment. Like the horses of the immortal gods described by Homer, thesculptor's love had traversed vast spaces in a twinkling. "'If death awaited me on leaving the house, I would go the morequickly, ' he replied. "'_Poverino!_' cried the stranger, as he disappeared. "To talk of danger to a man in love is to sell him pleasure. Sarrasine's valet had never seen his master so painstaking in thematter of dress. His finest sword, a gift from Bouchardon, thebow-knot Clotilde gave him, his coat with gold braid, his waistcoatof cloth of silver, his gold snuff-box, his valuable watch, everything was taken from its place, and he arrayed himself like amaiden about to appear before her first lover. At the appointed hour, drunk with love and boiling over with hope, Sarrasine, his noseburied in his cloak, hurried to the rendezvous appointed by the oldwoman. She was waiting. "'You are very late, ' she said. 'Come. ' "She led the Frenchman through several narrow streets and stopped infront of a palace of attractive appearance. She knocked; the dooropened. She led Sarrasine through a labyrinth of stairways, galleries, and apartments which were lighted only by uncertain gleams ofmoonlight, and soon reached a door through the cracks of which stole abright light, and from which came the joyous sound of several voices. Sarrasine was suddenly blinded when, at a word from the old woman, hewas admitted to that mysterious apartment and found himself in a salonas brilliantly lighted as it was sumptuously furnished; in the centrestood a bountifully supplied table, laden with inviolable bottles, with laughing decanters whose red facets sparkled merrily. Herecognized the singers from the theatre, male and female, mingled withcharming women, all ready to begin an artists' spree and waiting onlyfor him. Sarrasine restrained a feeling of displeasure and put a goodface on the matter. He had hoped for a dimly lighted chamber, hismistress leaning over a brazier, a jealous rival within two steps, death and love, confidences exchanged in low tones, heart to heart, hazardous kisses, and faces so near together that La Zambinella's hairwould have touched caressingly his desire-laden brow, burning withhappiness. "'_Vive la folie!_' he cried. '_Signori e belle donne_, you willallow me to postpone my revenge and bear witness to my gratitude forthe welcome you offer a poor sculptor. ' "After receiving congratulations not lacking in warmth from most ofthose present, whom he knew by sight, he tried to approach the couchon which La Zambinella was nonchalantly reclining. Ah! how his heartbeat when he spied a tiny foot in one of those slippers which--if youwill allow me to say so, madame--formerly imparted to a woman's feetsuch a coquettish, voluptuous look that I cannot conceive how mencould resist them. Tightly fitting white stockings with green clocks, short skirts, and the pointed, high-heeled slippers of Louis XV. 'stime contributed somewhat, I fancy, to the demoralization of Europeand the clergy. " "Somewhat!" exclaimed the marchioness. "Have you read nothing, pray?" "La Zambinella, " I continued, smiling, "had boldly crossed her legs, and as she prattled swung the upper one, a duchess' attitude very wellsuited to her capricious type of beauty, overflowing with a certainattractive suppleness. She had laid aside her stage costume, and worea waist which outlined a slender figure, displayed to the bestadvantage by a _panier_ and a satin dress embroidered with blueflowers. Her breast, whose treasures were concealed by a coquettisharrangement of lace, was of a gleaming white. Her hair was dressedalmost like Madame du Barry's; her face, although overshadowed by alarge cap, seemed only the daintier therefor, and the powder was verybecoming to her. She smiled graciously at the sculptor. Sarrasine, disgusted beyond measure at finding himself unable to speak to herwithout witnesses, courteously seated himself beside her, anddiscoursed of music, extolling her prodigious talent; but his voicetrembled with love and fear and hope. "'What do you fear?' queried Vitagliani, the most celebrated singerin the troupe. 'Go on, you have no rival here to fear. ' "After he had said this the tenor smiled silently. The lips of all theguests repeated that smile, in which there was a lurking expression ofmalice likely to escape a lover. The publicity of his love was like asudden dagger-thrust in Sarrasine's heart. Although possessed of acertain strength of character, and although nothing that might happencould subdue the violence of his passion, it had not before occurredto him that La Zambinella was almost a courtesan, and that he couldnot hope to enjoy at one and the same time the pure delights whichwould make a maiden's love so sweet, and the passionate transportswith which one must purchase the perilous favors of an actress. Hereflected and resigned himself to his fate. The supper was served. Sarrasine and La Zambinella seated themselves side by side withoutceremony. During the first half of the feast the artists exercisedsome restraint, and the sculptor was able to converse with the singer. He found that she was very bright and quick-witted; but she wasamazingly ignorant and seemed weak and superstitious. The delicacy ofher organs was reproduced in her understanding. When Vitagliani openedthe first bottle of champagne, Sarrasine read in his neighbor's eyes ashrinking dread of the report caused by the release of the gas. Theinvoluntary shudder of that thoroughly feminine temperament wasinterpreted by the amorous artist as indicating extreme delicacy offeeling. This weakness delighted the Frenchman. There is so much ofthe element of protection in a man's love! "'You may make use of my power as a shield!' "Is not that sentence written at the root of all declarations of love?Sarrasine, who was too passionately in love to make fine speeches tothe fair Italian, was, like all lovers, grave, jovial, meditative, byturns. Although he seemed to listen to the guests, he did not hear aword that they said, he was so wrapped up in the pleasure of sittingby her side, of touching her hand, of waiting on her. He was swimmingin a sea of concealed joy. Despite the eloquence of divers glancesthey exchanged, he was amazed at La Zambinella's continued reservetoward him. She had begun, it is true, by touching his foot with hersand stimulating his passion with the mischievous pleasure of a womanwho is free and in love; but she had suddenly enveloped herself inmaidenly modesty, after she had heard Sarrasine relate an incidentwhich illustrated the extreme violence of his temper. When the supperbecame a debauch, the guests began to sing, inspired by the Peraltaand the Pedro-Ximenes. There were fascinating duets, Calabrianballads, Spanish _sequidillas_, and Neapolitan _canzonettes_. Drunkenness was in all eyes, in the music, in the hearts and voices ofthe guests. There was a sudden overflow of bewitching vivacity, ofcordial unconstraint, of Italian good nature, of which no words canconvey an idea to those who know only the evening parties of Paris, the routs of London, or the clubs of Vienna. Jests and words of loveflew from side to side like bullets in a battle, amid laughter, impieties, invocations to the Blessed Virgin or the _Bambino_. One manlay on a sofa and fell asleep. A young woman listened to adeclaration, unconscious that she was spilling Xeres wine on thetablecloth. Amid all this confusion La Zambinella, as ifterror-stricken, seemed lost in thought. She refused to drink, but ateperhaps a little too much; but gluttony is attractive in women, it issaid. Sarrasine, admiring his mistress' modesty, indulged in seriousreflections concerning the future. "'She desires to be married, I presume, ' he said to himself. "Thereupon he abandoned himself to blissful anticipations of marriagewith her. It seemed to him that his whole life would be too short toexhaust the living spring of happiness which he found in the depths ofhis heart. Vitagliani, who sat on his other side, filled his glass sooften that, about three in the morning, Sarrasine, while notabsolutely drunk, was powerless to resist his delirious passion. In amoment of frenzy he seized the woman and carried her to a sort ofboudoir which opened from the salon, and toward which he had more thanonce turned his eyes. The Italian was armed with a dagger. "'If you come hear me, ' she said, 'I shall be compelled to plungethis blade into your heart. Go! you would despise me. I have conceivedtoo great a respect for your character to abandon myself to you thus. I do not choose to destroy the sentiment with which you honor me. ' "'Ah!' said Sarrasine, 'to stimulate a passion is a poor way toextinguish it! Are you already so corrupt that, being old in heart, you act like a young prostitute who inflames the emotions in which shetrades?' "'Why, this is Friday, ' she replied, alarmed by the Frenchman'sviolence. "Sarrasine, who was not piously inclined, began to laugh. LaZambinella gave a bound like a young deer, and darted into the salon. When Sarrasine appeared, running after her, he was welcomed by a roarof infernal laughter. He saw La Zambinella swooning on a sofa. She wasvery pale, as if exhausted by the extraordinary effort she had made. Although Sarrasine knew but little Italian, he understood his mistresswhen she said to Vitagliani in a low voice: "'But he will kill me!' "This strange scene abashed the sculptor. His reason returned. Hestood still for a moment; then he recovered his speech, sat downbeside his mistress, and assured her of his profound respect. He foundstrength to hold his passion in check while talking to her in the mostexalted strain; and, to describe his love, he displayed all thetreasures of eloquence--that sorcerer, that friendly interpreter, whomwomen rarely refuse to believe. When the first rays of dawn surprisedthe boon companions, some woman suggested that they go to Frascati. One and all welcomed with loud applause the idea of passing the day atVilla Ludovisi. Vitagliani went down to hire carriages. Sarrasine hadthe good fortune to drive La Zambinella in a phaeton. When they hadleft Rome behind, the merriment of the party, repressed for a momentby the battle they had all been fighting against drowsiness, suddenlyawoke. All, men and women alike, seemed accustomed to that strangelife, that constant round of pleasures, that artistic energy, whichmakes of life one never ending _fete_, where laughter reigns, unchecked by fear of the future. The sculptor's companion was the onlyone who seemed out of spirits. "'Are you ill?' Sarrasine asked her. 'Would you prefer to go home?' "'I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipation, ' she replied. 'I have to be very careful; but I feel so happy with you! Except foryou, I should not have remained to this supper; a night like thistakes away all my freshness. ' "'You are so delicate!' rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in rapture at thecharming creature's dainty features. "'Dissipation ruins my voice. ' "'Now that we are alone, ' cried the artist, 'and that you no longerhave reason to fear the effervescence of my passion, tell me that youlove me. ' "'Why?' said she; 'for what good purpose? You think me pretty. Butyou are a Frenchman, and your fancy will pass away. Ah! you would notlove me as I should like to be loved. ' "'How?' "'Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I abhor men even more, perhaps than I hate women. I need to take refuge in friendship. Theworld is a desert to me. I am an accursed creature, doomed tounderstand happiness, to feel it, to desire it, and like many, manyothers, compelled to see it always fly from me. Remember, signor, thatI have not deceived you. I forbid you to love me. I can be a devotedfriend to you, for I admire your strength of will and your character. I need a brother, a protector. Be both of these to me, but nothingmore. ' "'And not love you!' cried Sarrasine; 'but you are my life, myhappiness, dear angel!' "'If I should say a word, you would spurn me with horror. ' "'Coquette! nothing can frighten me. Tell me that you will cost me mywhole future, that I shall die two months hence, that I shall bedamned for having kissed you but once----' "And he kissed her, despite La Zambinella's efforts to avoid thatpassionate caress. "'Tell me that you are a demon, that I must give you my fortune, myname, all my renown! Would you have me cease to be a sculptor? Speak. ' "'Suppose I were not a woman?' queried La Zambinella, timidly, in asweet, silvery voice. "'A merry jest!' cried Sarrasine. 'Think you that you can deceive anartist's eye? Have I not, for ten days past, admired, examined, devoured, thy perfections? None but a woman can have this soft andbeautifully rounded arm, these graceful outlines. Ah! you seekcompliments!' "She smiled sadly, and murmured: "'Fatal beauty!' "She raised her eyes to the sky. At that moment, there was in her eyesan indefinable expression of horror, so startling, so intense, thatSarrasine shuddered. "'Signor Frenchman, ' she continued, 'forget forever a moment'smadness. I esteem you, but as for love, do not ask me for that; thatsentiment is suffocated in my heart. I have no heart!' she cried, weeping bitterly. 'The stage on which you saw me, the applause, themusic, the renown to which I am condemned--those are my life; I haveno other. A few hours hence you will no longer look upon me with thesame eyes, the woman you love will be dead. ' "The sculptor did not reply. He was seized with a dull rage whichcontracted his heart. He could do nothing but gaze at thatextraordinary woman, with inflamed, burning eyes. That feeble voice, La Zambinella's attitude, manners, and gestures, instinct withdejection, melancholy, and discouragement, reawakened in his soul allthe treasures of passion. Each word was a spur. At that moment, theyarrived at Frascati. When the artist held out his arms to help hismistress to alight, he felt that she trembled from head to foot. "'What is the matter? You would kill me, ' he cried, seeing that sheturned pale, 'if you should suffer the slightest pain of which I am, even innocently, the cause. ' "'A snake!' she said, pointing to a reptile which was gliding alongthe edge of a ditch. 'I am afraid of the disgusting creatures. ' "Sarrasine crushed the snake's head with a blow of his foot. "'How could you dare to do it?' said La Zambinella, gazing at thedead reptile with visible terror. "'Aha!' said the artist, with a smile, 'would you venture to say nowthat you are not a woman?' "They joined their companions and walked through the woods of VillaLudovisi, which at that time belonged to Cardinal Cicognara. Themorning passed all too swiftly for the amorous sculptor, but it wascrowded with incidents which laid bare to him the coquetry, theweakness, the daintiness, of that pliant, inert soul. She was a truewoman with her sudden terrors, her unreasoning caprices, herinstinctive worries, her causeless audacity, her bravado, and herfascinating delicacy of feeling. At one time, as the merry littleparty of singers ventured out into the open country, they saw at somedistance a number of men armed to the teeth, whose costume was by nomeans reassuring. At the words, 'Those are brigands!' they allquickened their pace in order to reach the shelter of the wallenclosing the cardinal's villa. At that critical moment Sarrasine sawfrom La Zambinella's manner that she no longer had strength to walk;he took her in his arms and carried her for some distance, running. When he was within call of a vineyard near by, he set his mistressdown. "'Tell me, ' he said, 'why it is that this extreme weakness which inanother woman would be hideous, would disgust me, so that theslightest indication of it would be enough to destroy my love, --why isit that in you it pleases me, fascinates me? Oh, how I love you!' hecontinued. 'All your faults, your frights, your petty foibles, add anindescribable charm to your character. I feel that I should detest aSappho, a strong, courageous woman, overflowing with energy andpassion. O sweet and fragile creature! how couldst thou be otherwise?That angel's voice, that refined voice, would have been an anachronismcoming from any other breast than thine. ' "'I can give you no hope, ' she said. 'Cease to speak thus to me, forpeople would make sport of you. It is impossible for me to shut thedoor of the theatre to you; but if you love me, or if you are wise, you will come there no more. Listen to me, monsieur, ' she continued ina grave voice. "'Oh, hush!' said the excited artist. 'Obstacles inflame the love inmy heart. ' "La Zambinella maintained a graceful and modest attitude; but she heldher peace, as if a terrible thought had suddenly revealed somecatastrophe. When it was time to return to Rome she entered a berlinwith four seats, bidding the sculptor, with a cruelly imperious air, to return alone in the phaeton. On the road, Sarrasine determined tocarry off La Zambinella. He passed the whole day forming plans, eachmore extravagant than the last. At nightfall, as he was going out toinquire of somebody where his mistress lived, he met one of hisfellow-artists at the door. "'My dear fellow, ' he said, I am sent by our ambassador to invite youto come to the embassy this evening. He gives a magnificent concert, and when I tell you that La Zambinella will be there--' "'Zambinella!' cried Sarrasine, thrown into delirium by that name; 'Iam mad with love of her. ' "'You are like everybody else, ' replied his comrade. "'But if you are friends of mine, you and Vien and Lauterbourg andAllegrain, you will lend me your assistance for a _coup de main_, after the entertainment, will you not?' asked Sarrasine. "'There's no cardinal to be killed? no--?' "'No, no!' said Sarrasine, 'I ask nothing of you that men of honormay not do. ' "In a few moments the sculptor laid all his plans to assure thesuccess of his enterprise. He was one of the last to arrive at theambassador's, but he went thither in a traveling carriage drawn byfour stout horses and driven by one of the most skilful _vetturini_in Rome. The ambassador's palace was full of people; not withoutdifficulty did the sculptor, whom nobody knew, make his way to thesalon where La Zambinella was singing at that moment. "'It must be in deference to all the cardinals, bishops, and _abbes_who are here, ' said Sarrasine, 'that _she_ is dressed as a man, that_she_ has curly hair which _she_ wears in a bag, and that _she_ has asword at her side?' "'She! what she?' rejoined the old nobleman whom Sarrasine addressed. "'La Zambinella. ' "'La Zambinella!' echoed the Roman prince. 'Are you jesting? Whencehave you come? Did a woman ever appear in a Roman theatre? And do younot know what sort of creatures play female parts within the domainsof the Pope? It was I, monsieur, who endowed Zambinella with hisvoice. I paid all the knave's expenses, even his teacher in singing. And he has so little gratitude for the service I have done him that hehas never been willing to step inside my house. And yet, if he makeshis fortune, he will owe it all to me. ' "Prince Chigi might have talked on forever, Sarrasine did not listento him. A ghastly truth had found its way into his mind. He wasstricken as if by a thunderbolt. He stood like a statue, his eyesfastened on the singer. His flaming glance exerted a sort of magneticinfluence on Zambinella, for he turned his eyes at last in Sarrasine'sdirection, and his divine voice faltered. He trembled! An involuntarymurmur escaped the audience, which he held fast as if fastened to hislips; and that completely disconcerted him; he stopped in the middleof the aria he was singing and sat down. Cardinal Cicognara, who hadwatched from the corner of his eye the direction of his _protege's_glance, saw the Frenchman; he leaned toward one of his ecclesiasticalaides-de-camp, and apparently asked the sculptor's name. When he hadobtained the reply he desired he scrutinized the artist with greatattention and gave orders to an _abbe_, who instantly disappeared. Meanwhile Zambinella, having recovered his self-possession, resumedthe aria he had so capriciously broken off; but he sang badly, andrefused, despite all the persistent appeals showered upon him, to singanything else. It was the first time he had exhibited that humorsometyranny, which, at a later date, contributed no less to his celebritythan his talent and his vast fortune, which was said to be due to hisbeauty as much as to his voice. "'It's a woman, ' said Sarrasine, thinking that no one could overhearhim. 'There's some secret intrigue beneath all this. CardinalCicognara is hoodwinking the Pope and the whole city of Rome!' "The sculptor at once left the salon, assembled his friends, and layin wait in the courtyard of the palace. When Zambinella was assured ofSarrasine's departure he seemed to recover his tranquillity in somemeasure. About midnight after wandering through the salons like a manlooking for an enemy, the _musico_ left the party. As he passedthrough the palace gate he was seized by men who deftly gagged himwith a handkerchief and placed him in the carriage hired by Sarrasine. Frozen with terror, Zambinella lay back in a corner, not daring tomove a muscle. He saw before him the terrible face of the artist, whomaintained a deathlike silence. The journey was a short one. Zambinella, kidnaped by Sarrasine, soon found himself in a dark, barestudio. He sat, half dead, upon a chair, hardly daring to glance at astatue of a woman, in which he recognized his own features. He did notutter a word, but his teeth were chattering; he was paralyzed withfear. Sarrasine was striding up and down the studio. Suddenly hehalted in front of Zambinella. "'Tell me the truth, ' he said, in a changed and hollow voice. 'Areyou not a woman? Cardinal Cicognara----' "Zambinella fell on his knees, and replied only by hanging his head. "'Ah! you are a woman!' cried the artist in a frenzy; 'for even a--' "He did not finish the sentence. "'No, ' he continued, 'even _he_ could not be so utterly base. ' "'Oh, do not kill me!' cried Zambinella, bursting into tears. 'Iconsented to deceive you only to gratify my comrades, who wanted anopportunity to laugh. ' "'Laugh!' echoed the sculptor, in a voice in which there was a ringof infernal ferocity. 'Laugh! laugh! You dared to make sport of aman's passion--you?' "'Oh, mercy!' cried Zambinella. "'I ought to kill you!' shouted Sarrasine, drawing his sword in anoutburst of rage. 'But, ' he continued, with cold disdain, 'if Isearched your whole being with this blade, should I find there anysentiment to blot out, anything with which to satisfy my thirst forvengeance? You are nothing! If you were a man or a woman, I would killyou, but--' "Sarrasine made a gesture of disgust, and turned his face away;thereupon he noticed the statue. "'And that is a delusion!' he cried. "Then, turning to Zambinella once more, he continued: "'A woman's heart was to me a place of refuge, a fatherland. Have yousisters who resemble you? No. Then die! But no, you shall live. Toleave you your life is to doom you to a fate worse than death. Iregret neither my blood nor my life, but my future and the fortune ofmy heart. Your weak hand has overturned my happiness. What hope can Iextort from you in place of all those you have destroyed? You havebrought me down to your level. _To love, to be loved!_ are henceforthmeaningless words to me, as to you. I shall never cease to think ofthat imaginary woman when I see a real woman. ' "He pointed to the statue with a gesture of despair. "'I shall always have in my memory a divine harpy who will bury hertalons in all my manly sentiments, and who will stamp all other womenwith a seal of imperfection. Monster! you, who can give life tonothing, have swept all women off the face of the earth. ' "Sarrasine seated himself in front of the terrified singer. Two greattears came from his dry eyes, rolled down his swarthy cheeks, and fellto the floor--two tears of rage, two scalding, burning tears. "'An end of love! I am dead to all pleasure, to all human emotions!' "As he spoke, he seized a hammer and hurled it at the statue with suchexcessive force that he missed it. He thought that he had destroyedthat monument of his madness, and thereupon he drew his sword again, and raised it to kill the singer. Zambinella uttered shriek aftershriek. Three men burst into the studio at that moment, and thesculptor fell, pieced by three daggers. "'From Cardinal Cicognara, ' said one of the men. "'A benefaction worthy of a Christian, ' retorted the Frenchman, as hebreathed his last. "These ominous emissaries told Zambinella of the anxiety of hispatron, who was waiting at the door in a closed carriage in order totake him away as soon as he was set at liberty. " "But, " said Madame de Rochefide, "what connection is there betweenthis story and the little old man we saw at the Lantys'?" "Madame, Cardinal Cicognara took possession of Zambinella's statue andhad it reproduced in marble; it is in the Albani Museum to-day. In1794 the Lanty family discovered it there, and asked Vien to copy it. The portrait which showed you Zambinella at twenty, a moment after youhad seen him as a centenarian, afterward figured in Girodet's_Endymion_; you yourself recognized the type in _Adonis_. " "But this Zambinella, male or female--" "Must be, madame, Marianina's maternal great uncle. You can conceivenow Madame de Lanty's interest in concealing the source of a fortunewhich comes--" "Enough!" said she, with an imperious gesture. We remained for a moment in the most profound silence. "Well?" I said at last. "Ah!" she cried, rising and pacing the floor. She came and looked me in the face, and said in an altered voice: "You have disgusted me with life and passion for a long time to come. Leaving monstrosities aside, are not all human sentiments dissolvedthus, by ghastly disillusionment? Children torture mothers by theirbad conduct, or their lack of affection. Wives are betrayed. Mistresses are cast aside, abandoned. Talk of friendship! Is theresuch a thing! I would turn pious to-morrow if I did not know that Ican remain like the inaccessible summit of a cliff amid the tempestsof life. If the future of the Christian is an illusion too, at allevents it is not destroyed until after death. Leave me to myself. " "Ah!" said I, "you know how to punish. " "Am I in the wrong?" "Yes, " I replied, with a sort of desperate courage. "By finishing thisstory, which is well known in Italy, I can give you an excellent ideaof the progress made by the civilization of the present day. There arenone of those wretched creatures now. " "Paris, " said she, "is an exceedingly hospitable place; it welcomesone and all, fortunes stained with shame, and fortunes stained withblood. Crime and infamy have a right of asylum here; virtue alone iswithout altars. But pure hearts have a fatherland in heaven! No onewill have known me! I am proud of it. " And the marchioness was lost in thought. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Carigliano, Marechal, Duc de At the Sign of the Cat and Racket Father Goriot Lanty, Comte de The Member for Arcis Lanty, Comtesse de The Member for Arcis Lanty, Marianina de The Member for Arcis Lanty, Filippo de The Member for Arcis Rochefide, Marquise de Beatrix The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve A Prince of Bohemia Sarrasine, Ernest-Jean The Member for Arcis Vien, Joseph-Marie The Member for Arcis Zambinella The Member for Arcis