“Your conscience, my friend, strikes me as nothing more nor less than a dread2 of losing the pleasures of vanity, and some very real advantages and habits by sacrificing the affections of Madame de Chaulieu; for, if you were sure of succeeding with Modeste, you would renounce15 without the slightest compunction the wilted16 aftermath of a passion that has been mown and well-raked for the last eight years. If you simply mean that you are afraid of displeasing17 your protectress, should she find out the object of your stay here, I believe you. To renounce the duchess and yet not succeed at the Chalet is too heavy a risk. You take the anxiety of this alternative for remorse18.”
“You have no comprehension of feelings,” said the poet, irritably19, like a man who hears truth when he expects a compliment.
“That is what a bigamist should tell the jury,” retorted La Briere, laughing.
This epigram made another disagreeable impression on Canalis. He began to think La Briere too witty20 and too free for a secretary.
The arrival of an elegant caleche, driven by a coachman in the Canalis livery, made the more excitement at the Chalet because the two suitors were expected, and all the personages of this history were assembled to receive them, except the duke and Butscha.
“Which is the poet?” asked Madame Latournelle of Dumay in the embrasure of a window, where she stationed herself as soon as she heard the wheels.
“The one who walks like a drum-major,” answered the lieutenant21.
“Ah!” said the notary22’s wife, examining Canalis, who was swinging his body like a man who knows he is being looked at. The fault lay with the great lady who flattered him incessantly23 and spoiled him — as all women older than their adorers invariably spoil and flatter them; Canalis in his moral being was a sort of Narcissus. When a woman of a certain age wishes to attach a man forever, she begins by deifying his defects, so as to cut off all possibility of rivalry24; for a rival is never, at the first approach, aware of the super-fine flattery to which the man is accustomed. Coxcombs are the product of this feminine manoeuvre25, when they are not fops by nature. Canalis, taken young by the handsome duchess, vindicated26 his affectations to his own mind by telling himself that they pleased that “grande dame,” whose taste was law. Such shades of character may be excessively faint, but it is improper27 for the historian not to point them out. For instance, Melchior possessed28 a talent for reading which was greatly admired, and much injudicious praise had given him a habit of exaggeration, which neither poets nor actors are willing to check, and which made people say of him (always through De Marsay) that he no longer declaimed, he bellowed29 his verses; lengthening30 the sounds that he might listen to himself. In the slang of the green-room, Canalis “dragged the time.” He was fond of exchanging glances with his hearers, throwing himself into postures31 of self-complacency and practising those tricks of demeanor32 which actors call “balancoires,”— the picturesque33 phrase of an artistic34 people. Canalis had his imitators, and was in fact the head of a school of his kind. This habit of declamatory chanting slightly affected35 his conversation, as we have seen in his interview with Dumay. The moment the mind becomes finical the manners follow suit, and the great poet ended by studying his demeanor, inventing attitudes, looking furtively36 at himself in mirrors, and suiting his discourse37 to the particular pose which he happened to have taken up. He was so preoccupied38 with the effect he wished to produce, that a practical joke, Blondet, had bet once or twice, and won the wager39, that he could nonplus40 him at any moment by merely looking fixedly42 at his hair, or his boots, or the tails of his coats.
These airs and graces, which started in life with a passport of flowery youth, now seemed all the more stale and old because Melchior himself was waning43. Life in the world of fashion is quite as exhausting to men as it is to women, and perhaps the twenty years by which the duchess exceeded her lover’s age, weighed more heavily upon him than upon her; for to the eyes of the world she was always handsome — without rouge44, without wrinkles, and without heart. Alas45! neither men nor women have friends who are friendly enough to warn them of the moment when the fragrance46 of their modesty47 grows stale, when the caressing48 glance is but an echo of the stage, when the expression of the face changes from sentiment to sentimentality, and the artifices49 of the mind show their rusty50 edges. Genius alone renews its skin like a snake; and in the matter of charm, as in everything else, it is only the heart that never grows old. People who have hearts are simple in all their ways. Now Canalis, as we know, had a shrivelled heart. He misused51 the beauty of his glance by giving it, without adequate reason, the fixity that comes to the eyes in meditation52. In short, applause was to him a business, in which he was perpetually on the lookout53 for gain. His style of paying compliments, charming to superficial people, seemed insulting to others of more delicacy54, by its triteness55 and the cool assurance of its cut-and-dried flattery. As a matter of fact, Melchior lied like a courtier. He remarked without blushing to the Duc de Chaulieu, who made no impression whatever when he was obliged to address the Chamber56 as minister of foreign affairs, “Your excellency was truly sublime57!” Many men like Canalis are purged58 of their affectations by the administration of non-success in little doses.
These defects, slight in the gilded59 salons61 of the faubourg Saint–Germain, where every one contributes his or her quota62 of absurdity63, and where these particular forms of exaggerated speech and affected diction — magniloquence, if you please to call it so — are surrounded by excessive luxury and sumptuous64 toilettes, which are to some extent their excuse, were certain to be far more noticed in the provinces, whose own absurdities65 are of a totally different type. Canalis, by nature over-strained and artificial, could not change his form; in fact, he had had time to grow stiff in the mould into which the duchess had poured him; moreover, he was thoroughly66 Parisian, or, if you prefer it, truly French. The Parisian is amazed that everything everywhere is not as it in Paris; the Frenchman, as it is in France. Good taste, on the contrary, demands that we adapt ourselves to the customs of foreigners without losing too much of our own character — as did Alcibiades, that model of a gentleman. True grace is elastic67; it lends itself to circumstances; it is in harmony with all social centres; it wears a robe of simple material in the streets, noticeable only by its cut, in preference to the feathers and flounces of middle-class vulgarity. Now Canalis, instigated68 by a woman who loved herself much more than she loved him, wished to lay down the law and be, everywhere, such as he himself might see fit to be. He believed he carried his own public with him wherever he went — an error shared by several of the great men of Paris.
While the poet made a studied and effective entrance into the salon60 of the Chalet, La Briere slipped in behind him like a person of no account.
“Ha! do I see my soldier?” said Canalis, perceiving Dumay, after addressing a compliment to Madame Mignon, and bowing to the other women. “Your anxieties are relieved, are they not?” he said, offering his hand effusively69; “I comprehend them to their fullest extent after seeing mademoiselle. I spoke70 to you of terrestrial creatures, not of angels.”
All present seemed by their attitudes to ask the meaning of this speech.
“I shall always consider it a triumph,” resumed the poet, observing that everybody wished for an explanation, “to have stirred to mention on of those men of iron whom Napoleon had the eye to find and make the supporting piles on which he tried to build an empire, too colossal71 to be lasting72: for such structures time alone is the cement. But this triumph — why should I be proud of it? — I count for nothing. It was the triumph of ideas over facts. Your battles, my dear Monsieur Dumay, your heroic charges, Monsieur le comte, nay73, war itself was the form in which Napoleon’s idea clothed itself. Of all of these things, what remains74? The sod that covers them knows nothing; harvests come and go without revealing their resting-place; were it not for the historian, the writer, futurity would have no knowledge of those heroic days. Therefore your fifteen years of war are now ideas and nothing more; that which preserves the Empire forever is the poem that the poets make of them. A nation that can win such battles must know how to sing them.”
Canalis paused, to gather by a glance that ran round the circle the tribute of amazement75 which he expected of provincials76.
“You must be aware, monsieur, of the regret I feel at not seeing you,” said Madame Mignon, “since you compensate77 me with the pleasure of hearing you.”
Modeste, determined to think Canalis sublime, sat motionless with amazement; the embroidery78 slipped from her fingers, which held it only by the needleful of thread.
“Modeste, this is Monsieur Ernest de La Briere. Monsieur Ernest, my daughter,” said the count, thinking the secretary too much in the background.
The young girl bowed coldly, giving Ernest a glance that was meant to prove to every one present that she saw him for the first time.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” she said without blushing; “the great admiration79 I feel for the greatest of our poets is, in the eyes of my friends, a sufficient excuse for seeing only him.”
The pure, fresh voice, with accents like that of Mademoiselle Mars, charmed the poor secretary, already dazzled by Modeste’s beauty, and in his sudden surprise he answered by a phrase that would have been sublime, had it been true.
“He is my friend,” he said.
“Ah, then you do pardon me,” she replied.
“He is more than a friend,” cried Canalis taking Ernest by the shoulder and leaning upon it like Alexander on Hephaestion, “we love each other as though we were brothers —”
Madame Latournelle cut short the poet’s speech by pointing to Ernest and saying aloud to her husband, “Surely that is the gentleman we saw at church.”
“Why not?” said Charles Mignon, quickly, observing that Ernest reddened.
Modeste coldly took up her embroidery.
“Madame may be right; I have been twice in Havre lately,” replied La Briere, sitting down by Dumay.
Canalis, charmed with Modeste’s beauty, mistook the admiration she expressed, and flattered himself he had succeeded in producing his desired effects.
“I should think a man without heart, if he had no devoted80 friend near him,” said Modeste, to pick up the conversation interrupted by Madame Latournelle’s awkwardness.
“Mademoiselle, Ernest’s devotion makes me almost think myself worth something,” said Canalis; “for my dear Pylades is full of talent; he was the right hand of the greatest minister we have had since the peace. Though he holds a fine position, he is good enough to be my tutor in the science of politics; he teaches me to conduct affairs and feeds me with his experience, when all the while he might aspire81 to a much better situation. Oh! he is worth far more than I.” At a gesture from Modeste he continued gracefully82: “Yes, the poetry that I express he carries in his heart; and if I speak thus openly before him it is because he has the modesty of a nun83.”
“Enough, oh, enough!” cried La Briere, who hardly knew which way to look. “My dear Canalis, you remind me of a mother who is seeking to marry off her daughter.”
“How is it, monsieur,” said Charles Mignon, addressing Canalis, “that you can even think of becoming a political character?”
“It is abdication,” said Modeste, “for a poet; politics are the resource of matter-of-fact men.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, the rostrum is today the greatest theatre of the world; it has succeeded the tournaments of chivalry84, it is now the meeting-place for all intellects, just as the army has been the rallying-point of courage.”
Canalis stuck spurs into his charger and talked for ten minutes on political life: “Poetry was but a preface to the statesman.” “To-day the orator85 has become a sublime reasoner, the shepherd of ideas.” “A poet may point the way to nations or individuals, but can he ever cease to be himself?” He quoted Chateaubriand and declared that he would one day be greater on the political side than on the literary. “The forum86 of France was to be the pharos of humanity.” “Oral battles supplanted87 fields of battle: there were sessions of the Chamber finer than any Austerlitz, and orators88 were seen to be as lofty as generals; they spent their lives, their courage, their strength, as freely as those who went to war.” “Speech was surely one of the most prodigal89 outlets90 of the vital fluid that man had ever known,” etc.
This improvisation91 of modern commonplaces, clothed in sonorous92 phrases and newly invented words, and intended to prove that the Comte de Canalis was becoming one of the glories of the French government, made a deep impression upon the notary and Gobenheim, and upon Madame Latournelle and Madame Mignon. Modeste looked as though she were at the theatre, in an attitude of enthusiasm for an actor — very much like that of Ernest toward herself; for though the secretary knew all these high-sounding phrases by heart, he listened through the eyes, as it were, of the young girl, and grew more and more madly in love with her. To this true lover, Modeste was eclipsing all the Modestes he had created as he read her letters and answered them.
This visit, the length of which was predetermined by Canalis, careful not to allow his admirers a chance to get surfeited93, ended by an invitation to dinner on the following Monday.
“We shall not be at the Chalet,” said the Comte de La Bastie. “Dumay will have sole possession of it. I return to the villa94, having bought it back under a deed of redemption within six months, which I have today signed with Monsieur Vilquin.”
“I hope,” said Dumay, “that Vilquin will not be able to return to you the sum you have just lent him, and that the villa will remain yours.”
“It is an abode95 in keeping with your fortune,” said Canalis.
“You mean the fortune that I am supposed to have,” replied Charles Mignon, hastily.
“It would be too sad,” said Canalis, turning to Modeste with a charming little bow, “if this Madonna were not framed in a manner worthy of her divine perfections.”
That was the only thing Canalis said to Modeste. He affected not to look at her, and behaved like a man to whom all idea of marriage was interdicted96.
“Ah! my dear Madame Mignon,” cried the notary’s wife, as soon as the gravel97 was heard to grit98 under the feet of the Parisians, “what an intellect!”
“Is he rich? — that is the question,” said Gobenheim.
Modeste was at the window, not losing a single movement of the great poet, and paying no attention to his companion. When Monsieur Mignon returned to the salon, and Modeste, having received a last bow from the two friends as the carriage turned, went back to her seat, a weighty discussion took place, such as provincials invariably hold over Parisians after a first interview. Gobenheim repeated his phrase, “Is he rich?” as a chorus to the songs of praise sung by Madame Latournelle, Modeste, and her mother.
“Rich!” exclaimed Modeste; “what can that signify! Do you not see that Monsieur de Canalis is one of those men who are destined99 for the highest places in the State. He has more than fortune; he possesses that which gives fortune.”
“He will be minister or ambassador,” said Monsieur Mignon.
“That won’t hinder tax-payers from having to pay the costs of his funeral,” remarked the notary.
“How so?” asked Charles Mignon.
“He strikes me as a man who will waste all the fortunes with whose gifts Mademoiselle Modeste so liberally endows him,” answered Latournelle.
“Modeste can’t avoid being liberal to a poet who called her a Madonna,” said Dumay, sneering100, and faithful to the repulsion with which Canalis had originally inspired him.
Gobenheim arranged the whist-table with all the more persistency101 because, since the return of Monsieur Mignon, Latournelle and Dumay had allowed themselves to play for ten sous points.
“Well, my little darling,” said the father to the daughter in the embrasure of a window. “Admit that papa thinks of everything. If you send your orders this evening to your former dressmaker in Paris, and all your other furnishing people, you shall show yourself eight days hence in all the splendor102 of an heiress. Meantime we will install ourselves in the villa. You already have a pretty horse, now order a habit; you owe that amount of civility to the grand equerry.”
“All the more because there will be a number of us to ride,” said Modeste, who was recovering the colors of health.
“The secretary did not say much,” remarked Madame Mignon.
“A little fool,” said Madame Latournelle; “the poet has an attentive103 word for everybody. He thanked Monsieur Latournelle for his help in choosing the house; and said he must have taken counsel with a woman of good taste. But the other looked as gloomy as a Spaniard, and kept his eyes fixed41 on Modeste as though he would like to swallow her whole. If he had even looked at me I should have been afraid of him.”
“He had a pleasant voice,” said Madame Mignon.
“No doubt he came to Havre to inquire about the Mignons in the interests of his friend the poet,” said Modeste, looking furtively at her father. “It was certainly he whom we saw in church.”
Madame Dumay and Monsieur and Madame Latournelle, accepted this as the natural explanation of Ernest’s journey.
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1
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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maladroitness
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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nonplus
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| v.使困窘；使狼狈 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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43
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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44
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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45
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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46
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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47
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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49
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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50
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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51
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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52
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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53
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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54
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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55
triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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56
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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57
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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58
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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59
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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63
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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70
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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100
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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101
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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102
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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103
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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