In case the noise made by the servants in moving about their attic1 quarters should disturb Octave, Madame de Bonnivet transferred them to a peasant’s house near at hand. It was in what one might call material considerations of this sort that the Marquise’s genius triumphed; she brought an exquisite2 grace to bear upon what she was doing, and was most skilful3 in employing her wealth to enhance her reputation for cleverness.
The core of her little world was composed of people who for the last forty years had never done anything that was not strictly4 conventional, the people who set the fashions and are then surprised at them. These declared that, since Madame de Bonnivet was deliberately5 sacrificing the prospect6 of a visit to her estates in the country, and was going instead to spend the autumn at Andilly, in order to keep her dear friend Madame de Malivert company, it was the bounden duty of every one with a heart in his bosom7 to go out and share her solitude8.
So popular was this solitude that the Marquise was obliged to take rooms in the little village down the hill in order to accommodate all the friends who came crowding to see her. She put in wallpapers and beds. Soon half the houses in the village had been decorated under her guidance and were occupied. It became the correct thing to come out from Paris and keep this admirable Marquise, who was looking after that poor Madame de Malivert, company, and Andilly was as thronged9 with fashion throughout the month of September as any watering-place. This new fashion threatened even to invade the Court. “If we had a score of clever women like Madame de Bonnivet,” some one was heard to say, “we might risk going to live at Versailles.” And M. de Bonnivet’s Blue Riband appeared certain.
Never had Octave been so happy. The Duchesse d’Ancre felt this happiness to be quite natural. “Octave,” she said, “may well regard himself as being in a sense the centre of all this movement to Andilly: in the mornings every one sends to inquire after his health; what could be more flattering at his age? That young man is extremely fortunate,” the Duchesse went on to say. “He is getting to know the whole of Paris, and it will make him more impertinent than ever.” This, however, was not the true reason for Octave’s happiness.
He saw that beloved mother, to whom he had given so much cause for anxiety, perfectly10 happy. She was overjoyed at the brilliant manner in which her son was making his entry into society. Since his triumph, she had begun not to conceal11 from herself that this kind of distinction was too original and too little copied from recognised types not to need the support of the all-powerful influence of fashion. Failing that reinforcement, it would have passed unnoticed.
One of the things that gave Madame de Malivert great pleasure about this time was a conversation that she had with the famous Prince de R———, who came to spend a night at Andilly.
This most outspoken12 of courtiers, whose word moreover was law in society, appeared to be taking notice of Octave. “Have you observed, as I have, Madame,” he said to Madame de Malivert, “that your son never utters a syllable14 of that rehearsed wit which is the curse of our age? He scorns to appear in a drawing-room armed with his tablets, and his wit varies with the feelings that may be aroused in him. That is why the fools are sometimes so cross with him and withhold15 their support. When any one succeeds in interesting the Vicomte de Malivert, his wit appears to spring at once from his heart or from his character, and that character seems to me to be one of the strongest. Don’t you agree with me, Madame, that character is an organ which has grown obsolete16 among the men of today? Your son seems to me to be destined17 to play an exceptional part. He is bound to enjoy the very highest reputation among his contemporaries: he is the most solid, and the most obviously solid man that I know. I should like to see him enter the peerage early in life, or to see you get him made Ma?tre des Requêtes.” “But,” put in Madame de Malivert, almost breathless with the pleasure she felt at the praise of so good a judge, “Octave’s success is anything but general.”
“All the better,” M. de R———— went on with a smile; “it will take the imbeciles of this country three or four years, perhaps, to understand Octave, and you will be able, before any jealousy18 appears, to push him almost to his proper place; I ask one thing only: restrain your son from appearing in print, he is too well born for that sort of thing.”
The Vicomte de Malivert had still a long way to go before he should be worthy19 of the brilliant horoscope that had been drawn20 for him; he had still many prejudices to overcome. His distaste for his fellow men was deeply rooted in his heart; were they prosperous, they filled him with revulsion; wretched, the sight of them was more burdensome still. It was only rarely that he had been able to attempt to cure himself of this distaste by a course of good actions. Had he succeeded in this, his unbounded ambition would have thrust him into their midst and into places where fame is purchased with the most costly21 sacrifices.
At the time of which we are speaking, Octave was far from any thought of a brilliant destiny for himself. Madame de Malivert had had the good sense not to speak to him of the singular future which M. le Prince de R———— predicted for him; it was only with Armance that she ventured to indulge in the blissful discussion of this prophecy.
Armance possessed22 in a supreme23 degree the art of banishing24 from Octave’s mind all the annoyances25 that society caused him. Now that he ventured to confess these to her, she was more and more astonished at the revelation of his singular character. There were still days upon which he would draw the most sinister26 conclusions from the most casual utterances27. There was much talk of him at Andilly. “You are tasting the immediate28 fruits of celebrity,” Armance told him; “people are saying all sorts of foolish things about you. Do you expect a fool, simply because he has the honour to be speaking about you, to find witty29 things to say?” This was a severe test for a man inclined to take offence.
Armance insisted upon his making her a full and immediate report of all the speeches offensive to himself that he might hear uttered in society. She had no difficulty in proving to him that they had been uttered without any reference to himself, or that they contained only that amount of malice30 which every one feels towards every one else.
Octave’s self-esteem had nothing now to keep secret from Armance, and these two young hearts had arrived at that unbounded confidence which is perhaps the most charming thing about love. They could not discuss anything under the sun without secretly comparing the charm of their present taste of mutual31 confidence with the constraint32 by which they had been bound a few months earlier when they spoke13 of the same subjects. And this constraint itself, the memory of which was so strong, and in spite of which they were already, at this period, so happy, was a proof of the old and lasting33 nature of their friendship.
Next day, on reaching Andilly, Octave was not without some hope that Armance would come there also; he announced that he was ill and kept the house. A few davs later, Armance did indeed arrive with Madame de Bonnivet. Octave so arranged that his first outing might take place precisely34 at seven o’clock in the morning. Armance met him in the garden, where he led her up to an orange tree planted beneath his mother’s windows. There, some months earlier, Armance, her heart wrung35 by the strange words that he was addressing to her, had fallen to the ground in a momentary36 faint. She recognised the spot, smiled, and leaned against the tub of the orange tree, shutting her eyes. But for the absence of pallor, she was almost as beautiful as upon the day when she had fainted for love of him. Octave felt keenly aware of the change in their relations. He recognised the little diamond cross which Armance had received from Russia and which was a relic37 of her mother. As a rule it was hidden, it was now brought to light by the movement which Armance made. Octave for a moment lost his senses; he seized her hand, as upon the day when she had fainted, and his lips ventured to brush her cheek. Armance drew herself up quickly and blushed a deep red. She reproached herself bitterly for this flirtation38. “Do you wish to make me angry?” she asked him. “Do you wish to force me never to leave the house without a maid?”
A breach39 that lasted for some days was the immediate result of Octave’s indiscretion. But between two people who felt a perfect attachment40 to one another, occasions for quarrelling were rare: whatever Octave might have occasion to do, before considering whether it would be agreeable to himself, he would seek to discover whether Armance would be able to see in it a fresh proof of his devotion.
In the evening, when they were at opposite ends of the immense drawing-room in which Madame de Bonni-vet assembled all the most remarkable41 and influential42 people in the Paris of the day, if Octave had to answer a question, he would make use of some word which Armance had just employed, and she could see that the pleasure of repeating this word made him oblivious43 of the interest he might otherwise have felt in what he was saying. Without any deliberate intention, there grew up thus for the two of them, amid the most delightful44 and animated45 society, not so much a habit of private conversation as a sort of echo which, without expressing anything distinctly, seemed to speak of a perfect friendship and an unbounded affection.
May we venture to reproach with a trace of stiffness the extreme politeness which the present generation thinks itself to have inherited from that blissful eighteenth century when there was nothing to hate?
In the midst of this advanced civilisation46 which for every one of our actions, however trivial it may be, insists upon furnishing us with a pattern which we must copy or state our case against it, this sentiment of sincere and unbounded devotion comes very near to creating perfect happiness.
Armance never found herself alone with her cousin save in the garden, beneath the windows of the mansion47, the ground floor of which was occupied, or in Madame de Malivert’s bedroom and in her presence. But this room was very large, and often the frail48 state of Madame de Malivert’s health obliged her to lie down for a little; she would then ask her children (for thus it was that she always spoke of them) to go over to the bay of the window overlooking the garden, so as not to disturb her rest with the sound of their voices. This tranquil49, entirely50 intimate life in the morning hours gave place in the evening to the life of the highest society.
In addition to the people staying in the village, many carriages would come out from Paris, returning after supper. These cloudless days passed rapidly. It never occurred to either of these two young hearts to admit that they were enjoying one of the rarest forms of happiness that is to be met with here below; on the contrary they supposed that they had still many unsatisfied desires. Having no experience of life, they did not see that these fortunate moments could only be of very brief duration. At most, this happiness, wholly sentimental51 and deriving52 nothing from vanity or ambition, might have survived in the bosom of some poor family who never saw any strangers. But they were living in society, they were but twenty years old, they were spending all their time together, and, what was the height of imprudence, they let it be guessed that they were happy, and had an air of caring singularly little what society might think. It was bound to have its revenge.
Armance gave no thought to this peril53. The only thing that troubled her from time to time was the necessity of renewing her private vow54 never to accept her cousin’s hand, whatever might happen. Madame de Malivert, for her part, was quite calm; she had not the least doubt that her son’s present way of life was bringing about an event for which she passionately55 longed.
Notwithstanding the happy days with which Armance was filling the life of Octave, in her absence there were darker moments in which he pondered the destiny in store for him, and he arrived at the following conclusion: “The most favourable56 impression of myself reigns57 in Armance’s heart. I might confess to her the strangest things about myself, and, so far from despising me, or taking a horror of me, she would pity me.”
Octave told his friend that in his boyhood he had had a passion for stealing. Armance was appalled58 by the terrible details into which his imagination was pleased to enter as to the lamentable59 consequences of this strange weakness. This admission overturned her whole existence; she sank into a profound abstraction for which she was scolded; but, before a week had passed since this strange confession60, she was pitying Octave and more tender to him, were that possible, than ever before. “He needs my consolation,” she told herself, “to make him pardon himself.”
Octave, assured by this experience of the unbounded devotion of her whom he loved, and no longer having to conceal his dark thoughts, became far more affable in society; before the confession of his love, induced by the approach of death, he had been an extremely witty and remarkable, rather than an affable young man; he appealed especially to serious people. These thought they could detect in him the every-day side of a man destined to do great things. The idea of duty was too much in evidence in his manner, and went the length at times of giving him an English expression. His misanthropy was interpreted as pride and ill-humour by the older element of society, and shunned61 the effort to conquer it. Had he been a peer at this date, he would have won a reputation.
It is the want of the hard school of misfortune that often mars the perfection of the young men who were created to be the most charming. In a day, Octave had been formed by the lessons of that terrible master. It may be said that, at the period of which we are speaking, nothing was wanting to the personal beauty of the young Vicomte, or to the brilliant existence which he enjoyed in society. His praises were sung there without ceasing by Mesdames d’Aumale and de Bonnivet and by the older men.
Madame d’Aumale was justified62 in saying that he was the most attractive man she had ever met, “for he never bores one,” was her foolish explanation. “Until I knew him, I had never even dreamed of such a recommendation, and the great thing, after all, is to be amused.” “And I,” thought Armance as she listened to this artless speech, “I refuse this man who is so welcome everywhere else the permission to clasp my hand; it is a duty,” she went on, with a sigh, “and never shall I fail to observe it.” There were evenings on which Octave indulged in the supreme happiness of not talking, and of watching the spectacle of Armance, as presented before his eyes. These moments did not pass unobserved, either by Madame d’Aumale, vexed63 that any one should neglect to provide her with amusement, or by Armance, delighted to see the man she adored occupied exclusively with herself.
The list of promotions64 in the Order of the Holy Spirit appeared to have been delayed; it was a question of Madame de Bonnivet’s departure for the old castle situated65 in the heart of Poitou, which had given its name to the family. A new personage was to join the expedition, namely, M. le Chevalier de Bonnivet, the youngest of the sons that the Marquis had had by a former marriage.
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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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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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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promotions
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| 促进( promotion的名词复数 )； 提升； 推广； 宣传 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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