“You will do us the pleasure, I hope, to remain at Rosembray,” said the severe duchess to the young officer.
While giving ear to every scandal, the devout6 lady shut her eyes to the derelictions of her guests who had been carefully selected by the duke; indeed, it is surprising how much these excellent women will tolerate under pretence7 of bringing the lost sheep back to the fold by their indulgence.
“We reckoned without our constitutional government,” said the grand equerry; “and Rosembray, Madame la duchesse, will lose a great honor.”
“We shall be more at our ease,” said a tall thin old man, about seventy-five years of age, dressed in blue cloth, and wearing his hunting-cap by permission of the ladies. This personage, who closely resembled the Duc de Bourbon, was no less than the Prince de Cadignan, Master of the Hunt, and one of the last of the great French lords. Just as La Briere was endeavoring to slip behind the sofa and obtain a moment’s intercourse8 with Modeste, a man of thirty-eight, short, fat, and very common in appearance, entered the room.
“My son, the Prince de Loudon,” said the Duchesse de Verneuil to Modeste, who could not restrain the expression of amazement9 that overspread her young face on seeing the man who bore the historical name that the hero of La Vendee had rendered famous by his bravery and the martyrdom of his death.
“Gaspard,” said the duchess, calling her son to her. The young prince came at once, and his mother continued, motioning to Modeste, “Mademoiselle de La Bastie, my friend.”
The heir presumptive, whose marriage with Desplein’s only daughter had lately been arranged, bowed to the young girl without seeming struck, as his father had been, with her beauty. Modeste was thus enabled to compare the youth of today with the old age of a past epoch10; for the old Prince de Cadignan had already said a few words which made her feel that he rendered as true a homage11 to womanhood as to royalty12. The Duc de Rhetore, the eldest13 son of the Duchesse de Chaulieu, chiefly remarkable14 for manners that were equally impertinent and free and easy, bowed to Modeste rather cavalierly. The reason of this contrast between the fathers and the sons is to be found, probably, in the fact that young men no longer feel themselves great beings, as their forefathers15 did, and they dispense16 with the duties of greatness, knowing well that they are now but the shadow of it. The fathers retain the inherent politeness of their vanished grandeur17, like the mountain-tops still gilded18 by the sun when all is twilight19 in the valley.
Ernest was at last able to slip a word into Modeste’s ear, and she rose immediately.
“My dear,” said the duchesse, thinking she was going to dress, and pulling a bell-rope, “they shall show you your apartment.”
Ernest accompanied Modeste to the foot of the grand staircase, presenting the request of the luckless poet, and endeavoring to touch her feelings by describing Melchior’s agony.
“You see, he loves — he is a captive who thought he could break his chain.”
“Love in such a rapid seeker after fortune!” retorted Modeste.
“Mademoiselle, you are at the entrance of life; you do not know its defiles20. The inconsistencies of a man who falls under the dominion21 of a woman much older than himself should be forgiven, for he is really not accountable. Think how many sacrifices Canalis has made to her. He has sown too much seed of that kind to resign the harvest; the duchess represents to him ten years of devotion and happiness. You made him forget all that, and unfortunately, he has more vanity than pride; he did not reflect on what he was losing until he met Madame Chaulieu here today. If you really understood him, you would help him. He is a child, always mismanaging his life. You call him a seeker after fortune, but he seeks very badly; like all poets, he is a victim of sensations; he is childish, easily dazzled like a child by anything that shines, and pursuing its glitter. He used to love horses and pictures, and he craved22 fame — well, he sold his pictures to buy armor and old furniture of the Renaissance23 and Louis XV.; just now he is seeking political power. Admit that his hobbies are noble things.”
“You have said enough,” replied Modeste; “come,” she added, seeing her father, whom she called with a motion of her head to give her his arm; “come with me, and I will give you that scrap24 of paper; you shall carry it to the great man and assure him of my condescension25 to his wishes, but on one condition — you must thank him in my name for the pleasure I have taken in seeing one of the finest of the German plays performed in my honor. I have learned that Goethe’s masterpiece is neither Faust nor Egmont —” and then, as Ernest looked at the malicious26 girl with a puzzled air, she added: “It is Torquato Tasso! Tell Monsieur de Canalis to re-read it,” she added smiling; “I particularly desire that you will repeat to your friend word for word what I say; for it is not an epigram, it is the justification27 of his conduct — with this trifling28 difference, that he will, I trust, become more and more reasonable, thanks to the folly29 of his Eleonore.”
The duchess’s head-woman conducted Modeste and her father to their apartment, where Francoise Cochet had already put everything in order, and the choice elegance30 of which astounded31 the colonel, more especially after he heard from Francoise that there were thirty other apartments in the chateau32 decorated with the same taste.
“This is what I call a proper country-house,” said Modeste.
“The Comte de La Bastie must build you one like it,” replied her father.
“Here, monsieur,” said Modeste, giving the bit of paper to Ernest; “carry it to our friend and put him out of his misery33.”
The word our friend struck the young man’s heart. He looked at Modeste to see if there was anything real in the community of interests which she seemed to admit, and she, understanding perfectly34 what his look meant, added, “Come, go at once, your friend is waiting.”
La Briere colored excessively, and left the room in a state of doubt and anxiety less endurable than despair. The path that approaches happiness is, to the true lover, like the narrow way which Catholic poetry has called the entrance to Paradise — expressing thus a dark and gloomy passage, echoing with the last cries of earthly anguish35.
An hour later this illustrious company were all assembled in the salon; some were playing whist, others conversing36; the women had their embroideries37 in hand, and all were waiting the announcement of dinner. The Prince de Cadignan was drawing Monsieur Mignon out upon China, and his campaigns under the empire, and making him talk about the Portendueres, the L’Estorades, and the Maucombes, Provencal families; he blamed him for not seeking service, and assured him that nothing would be easier than to restore him to his rank as colonel of the Guard.
“A man of your birth and your fortune ought not to belong to the present Opposition,” said the prince, smiling.
This society of distinguished38 persons not only pleased Modeste, but it enabled her to acquire, during her stay, a perfection of manners which without this revelation she would have lacked all her life. Show a clock to an embryo39 mechanic, and you reveal to him the whole mechanism40; he thus develops the germs of his faculty41 which lie dormant42 within him. In like manner Modeste had the instinct to appropriate the distinctive43 qualities of Madame de Maufrigneuse and Madame de Chaulieu. For her, the sight of these women was an education; whereas a bourgeois44 would merely have ridiculed46 their ways or made them absurd by clumsy imitation. A well-born, well-educated, and right-minded young woman like Modeste fell naturally into connection with these people, and saw at once the differences that separate the aristocratic world from the bourgeois world, the provinces from the faubourg Saint–Germain; she caught the almost imperceptible shadings; in short, she perceived the grace of the “grande dame” without doubting that she could herself acquire it. She noticed also that her father and La Briere appeared infinitely47 better in this Olympus than Canalis. The great poet, abdicating48 his real and incontestable power, that of the mind, became nothing more than a courtier seeking a ministry49, intriguing50 for an order, and forced to please the whole galaxy51. Ernest de La Briere, without ambitions, was able to be himself; while Melchior became, to use a vulgar expression, a mere45 toady52, and courted the Prince de Loudon, the Duc de Rhetore, the Vicomte de Serizy, or the Duc de Maufrigneuse, like a man not free to assert himself, as did Colonel Mignon, who was justly proud of his campaigns, and of the confidence of the Emperor Napoleon. Modeste took note of the strained efforts of the man of real talent, seeking some witticism53 that should raise a laugh, some clever speech, some compliment with which to flatter these grand personages, whom it was his interest to please. In a word, to Modeste’s eyes the peacock plucked out his tail-feathers.
Toward the middle of the evening the young girl sat down with the grand equerry in a corner of the salon. She led him there purposely to end a suit which she could no longer encourage if she wished to retain her self-respect.
“Monsieur le duc, if you really knew me,” she said, “you would understand how deeply I am touched by your attentions. It is because of the profound respect I feel for your character, and the friendship which a soul like yours inspires in mine, that I cannot endure to wound your self-love. Before your arrival in Havre I loved sincerely, deeply, and forever, one who is worthy54 of being loved, and my affection for whom is still a secret; but I wish you to know — and in saying this I am more sincere than most young girls — that had I not already formed this voluntary attachment55, you would have been my choice, for I recognize your noble and beautiful qualities. A few words which your aunt and sister have said to me as to your intentions lead me to make this frank avowal56. If you think it desirable, a letter from my mother shall recall me, on pretence of her illness, tomorrow morning before the hunt begins. Without your consent I do not choose to be present at a fete which I owe to your kindness, and where, if my secret should escape me, you might feel hurt and defrauded57. You will ask me why I have come here at all. I could not withstand the invitation. Be generous enough not to reproach me for what was almost a necessary curiosity. But this is not the chief, not the most delicate thing I have to say to you. You have firm friends in my father and myself — more so than perhaps you realize; and as my fortune was the first cause that brought you to me, I wish to say — but without intending to use it as a sedative58 to calm the grief which gallantry requires you to testify — that my father has thought over the affair of the marshes59, his friend Dumay thinks your project feasible, and they have already taken steps to form a company. Gobenheim, Dumay, and my father have subscribed60 fifteen hundred thousand francs, and undertake to get the rest from capitalists, who will feel it in their interest to take up the matter. If I have not the honor of becoming the Duchesse d’Herouville, I have almost the certainty of enabling you to choose her, free from all trammels in your choice, and in a higher sphere than mine. Oh! let me finish,” she cried, at a gesture from the duke.
“Judging by my nephew’s emotion,” whispered Mademoiselle d’Herouville to her niece, “it is easy to see you have a sister.”
“Monsieur le duc, all this was settled in my mind the day of our first ride, when I heard you deplore61 your situation. This is what I have wished to say to you. That day determined62 my future life. Though you did not make the conquest of a woman, you have at least gained faithful friends at Ingouville — if you will deign63 to accord us that title.”
This little discourse64, which Modeste had carefully thought over, was said with so much charm of soul that the tears came to the grand equerry’s eyes; he seized her hand and kissed it.
“Stay during the hunt,” he said; “my want of merit has accustomed me to these refusals; but while accepting your friendship and that of the colonel, you must let me satisfy myself by the judgment65 of competent scientific men, that the draining of those marshes will be no risk to the company you speak of, before I agree to the generous offer of your friends. You are a noble girl, and though my heart aches to think I can only be your friend, I will glory in that title, and prove it to you at all times and in all seasons.”
“In that case, Monsieur le duc, let us keep our secret. My choice will not be known, at least I think not, until after my mother’s complete recovery. I should like our first blessing66 to come from her eyes.”
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1
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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2
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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7
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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8
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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11
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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12
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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13
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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14
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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15
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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16
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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17
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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20
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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21
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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22
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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24
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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29
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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30
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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31
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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32
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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33
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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34
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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35
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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36
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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37
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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38
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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40
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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41
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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42
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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43
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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44
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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48
abdicating
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的现在分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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49
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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50
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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51
galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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52
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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53
witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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56
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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57
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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59
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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60
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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61
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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64
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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65
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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66
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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