Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  “You rascal!” said Monsieur de Bourbonne, sitting down in the nearest chair; “since when is it the fashion to laugh at uncles who have twenty-six thousand francs a year from solid acres to which we are the sole heir? Let me tell you that in the olden time we stood in awe of such uncles as that. Come, speak up, what fault have you to find with me? Haven’t I played my part as uncle properly? Did I ever require you to respect me? Have I ever refused you money? When did I shut the door in your face on pretence that you had come to look after my health? Haven’t you had the most accommodating and the least domineering uncle that there is in France, — I won’t say Europe, because that might be too presumptuous. You write to me, or you don’t write, — no matter, I live on pledged affection, and I am making you the prettiest estate in all Touraine, the envy of the department. To be sure, I don’t intend to let you have it till the last possible moment, but that’s an excusable little fancy, isn’t it? And what does monsieur himself do? — sells his own property and lives like a lackey! — ”

  “Uncle — ”

  “I’m not talking about uncles, I’m talking nephew. I have a right to your confidence. Come, confess at once; it is much the easiest way; I know that by experience. Have you been gambling? have you lost money at the Bourse? Say, ‘Uncle, I’m a wretch,’ and I’ll hug you. But if you tell me any lies greater than those I used to tell at your age I’ll sell my property, buy an annuity, and go back to the evil ways of my youth — if I can.”

  “Uncle — ”

  “I saw your Madame Firmiani yesterday,” went on the old fellow, kissing the tips of his fingers, which he gathered into a bunch. “She is charming. You have the consent and approbation of your uncle, if that will do you any good. As to the sanction of the Church I suppose that’s useless, and the sacraments cost so much in these days. Come, speak out, have you ruined yourself for her?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Ha! the jade! I’d have wagered it. In my time the women of the court were cleverer at ruining a man than the courtesans of to-day; but this one — I recognized her! — it is a bit of the last century.”

  “Uncle,” said Octave, with a manner that was tender and grave, “you are totally mistaken. Madame Firmiani deserves your esteem, and all the adoration the world gives her.”

  “Youth, youth! always the same!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne. “Well, go on; tell me the same old story. But please remember that my experience in gallantry is not of yesterday.”

  “My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell you nearly all,” said Octave, taking it from an elegant portfolio, her gift, no doubt. “When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you will then know a Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world.”

  “I haven’t my spectacles; read it aloud.”

  Octave began: —

  “‘My beloved — ’”

  “Hey, then you are still intimate with her?” interrupted his uncle.

  “Why yes, of course.”

  “You haven’t parted from her?”

  “Parted!” repeated Octave, “we are married.”

  “Heavens!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, “then why do you live in a garret?”

  “Let me go on.”

  “True — I’m listening.”

  Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could not read without deep emotion.

  “‘My beloved Husband, — You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has

  it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed

  it? — but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I

  cannot deceive you; this may be a misfortune, for it is one of the

  conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay and caressing.

  Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but I would not do it even if the

  happiness with which you have blessed and overpowered me depended

  on it.

  “‘Ah! dearest, how much gratitude there is in my love. I long to

  love you forever, without limit; yes, I desire to be forever proud

  of you. A woman’s glory is in the man she loves. Esteem,

  consideration, honor, must they not be his who receives our all?

  Well, my angel has fallen. Yes, dear, the tale you told me has

  tarnished my past joys. Since then I have felt myself humiliated

  in you, — you whom I thought the most honorable of men, as you are

  the most loving, the most tender. I must indeed have deep

  confidence in your heart, so young and pure, to make you this

  avowal which costs me much. Ah! my dear love, how is it that you,

  knowing your father had unjustly deprived others of their

  property, that YOU can keep it?

  “‘And you told me of this criminal act in a room filled with the

  mute witnesses of our love; and you are a gentleman, and you think

  yourself noble, and I am yours! I try to find excuses for you; I

  do find them in your youth and thoughtlessness. I know there is

  still something of the child about you. Perhaps you have never

  thought seriously of what fortune and integrity are. Oh! how your

  laugh wounded me. Reflect on that ruined family, always in

  distress; poor young girls who have reason to curse you daily; an

  old father saying to himself each night: “We might not now be

  starving if that man’s father had been an honest man — ”‘“

  “Good heavens!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, interrupting his nephew, “surely you have not been such a fool as to tell that woman about your father’s affair with the Bourgneufs? Women know more about wasting a fortune than making one.”

  “They know about integrity. But let me read on, uncle.”

  “‘Octave, no power on earth has authority to change the principles

  of honor. Look into your conscience and ask it by what name you

  are to call the action by which you hold your property.’”

  The nephew looked at the uncle, who lowered his head.

  “‘I will not tell you all the thoughts that assail me; they can be

  reduced to one, — this is it: I cannot respect the man who,

  knowingly, is smirched for a sum of money, whatever the amount may

  be; five francs stolen at play or five times a hundred thousand

  gained by a legal trick are equally dishonoring. I will tell you

  all. I feel myself degraded by the very love which has hitherto

  been all my joy. There rises in my soul a voice which my

  tenderness cannot stifle. Ah! I have wept to feel that I have more

  conscience than love. Were you to commit a crime I would hide you

  in my bosom from human justice, but my devotion could go no

  farther. Love, to a woman, means boundless confidence, united to a

  need of reverencing, of esteeming, the being to whom she belongs.

  I have never conceived of love otherwise than as a fire in which

  all noble feelings are purified still more, — a fire which develops

  them.

  “‘I have but one thing else to say: come to me poor, and my love

  shall be redoubled. If not, renounce it. Should I see you no more,

  I shall know what it means.

  “‘But I do not wish, understand me, that you should make

  restitution because I urge it. Consult your own conscience. An act

  of justice such as that ought not to be a sacrifice made to love.

  I am your wife and not your mistress, and it is less a question of

  pleasing me than of inspiring in my soul a true respect.

  “‘If I am mistaken, if you have ill-explained your father’s

  action, if, in short, you still think your right to the property

  equitable (oh! how I long to persuade myself that you are

  blameles
s), consider and decide by listening to the voice of your

  conscience; act wholly and solely from yourself. A man who loves a

  woman sincerely, as you love me, respects the sanctity of her

  trust in him too deeply to dishonor himself.

  “‘I blame myself now for what I have written; a word might have

  sufficed, and I have preached to you! Scold me; I wish to be

  scolded, — but not much, only a little. Dear, between us two the

  power is yours — you alone should perceive your own faults.’”

  “Well, uncle?” said Octave, whose eyes were full of tears.

  “There’s more in the letter; finish it.”

  “Oh, the rest is only to be read by a lover,” answered Octave, smiling.

  “Yes, right, my boy,” said the old man, gently. “I have had many affairs in my day, but I beg you to believe that I too have loved, ‘et ego in Arcardia.’ But I don’t understand yet why you give lessons in mathematics.”

  “My dear uncle, I am your nephew; isn’t that as good as saying that I had dipped into the capital left me by my father? After I had read this letter a sort of revolution took place within me. I paid my whole arrearage of remorse in one day. I cannot describe to you the state I was in. As I drove in the Bois a voice called to me, ‘That horse is not yours’; when I ate my dinner it was saying, ‘You have stolen this food.’ I was ashamed. The fresher my honesty, the more intense it was. I rushed to Madame Firmiani. Uncle! that day I had pleasures of the heart, enjoyments of the soul, that were far beyond millions. Together we made out the account of what was due to the Bourgneufs, and I condemned myself, against Madame Firmiani’s advice, to pay three per cent interest. But all I had did not suffice to cover the full amount. We were lovers enough for her to offer, and me to accept, her savings — ”

  “What! besides her other virtues does that adorable woman lay by money?” cried his uncle.

  “Don’t laugh at her, uncle; her position has obliged her to be very careful. Her husband went to Greece in 1820 and died there three years later. It has been impossible, up to the present time, to get legal proofs of his death, or obtain the will which he made leaving his whole property to his wife. These papers were either lost or stolen, or have gone astray during the troubles in Greece, — a country where registers are not kept as they are in France, and where we have no consul. Uncertain whether she might not be forced to give up her fortune, she has lived with the utmost prudence. As for me, I wish to acquire property which shall be mine, so as to provide for my wife in case she is forced to lose hers.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me all this? My dear nephew, you might have known that I love you enough to pay all your good debts, the debts of a gentleman. I’ll play the traditional uncle now, and revenge myself!”

  “Ah! uncle, I know your vengeance! but let me get rich by my own industry. If you want to do me a real service, make me an allowance of two or three thousand francs a year, till I see my way to an enterprise for which I shall want capital. At this moment I am so happy that all I desire is just the means of living. I give lessons so that I may not live at the cost of any one. If you only knew the happiness I had in making that restitution! I found the Bourgneufs, after a good deal of trouble, living miserably and in need of everything. The old father was a lottery agent; the two daughters kept his books and took care of the house; the mother was always ill. The daughters are charming girls, but they have been cruelly taught that the world thinks little of beauty without money. What a scene it was! I entered their house the accomplice in a crime; I left it an honest man, who had purged his father’s memory. Uncle, I don’t judge him; there is such excitement, such passion in a lawsuit that even an honorable man may be led astray by them. Lawyers can make the most unjust claims legal; laws have convenient syllogisms to quiet consciences. My visit was a drama. To be Providence itself; actually to fulfil that futile wish, ‘If heaven were to send us twenty thousand francs a year,’ — that silly wish we all make, laughing; to bring opulence to a family sitting by the light of one miserable lamp over a poor turf fire! — no, words cannot describe it. My extreme justice seemed to them unjust. Well! if there is a Paradise my father is happy in it now. As for me, I am loved as no man was ever loved yet. Madame Firmiani gives me more than happiness; she has inspired me with a delicacy of feeling I think I lacked. So I call her my dear conscience, — a love-word which expresses certain secret harmonies within our hearts. I find honesty profitable; I shall get rich in time by myself. I’ve an industrial scheme in my head, and if it succeeds I shall earn millions.”

  “Ah! my boy, you have your mother’s soul,” said the old man, his eyes filling at the thought of his sister.

  Just then, in spite of the distance between Octave’s garret and the street, the young man heard the sound of a carriage.

  “There she is!” he cried; “I know her horses by the way they are pulled up.”

  A few moments more, and Madame Firmiani entered the room.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of annoyance at seeing Monsieur de Bourbonne. “But our uncle is not in the way,” she added quickly, smiling; “I came to humbly entreat my husband to accept my fortune. The Austrian Embassy has just sent me a document which proves the death of Monsieur Firmiani, also the will, which his valet was keeping safely to put into my own hands. Octave, you can accept it all; you are richer than I, for you have treasures here” (laying her hand upon his heart) “to which none but God can add.” Then, unable to support her happiness, she laid her head upon her husband’s breast.

  “My dear niece,” said the old man, “in my day we made love; in yours, you love. You women are all that is best in humanity; you are not even guilty of your faults, for they come through us.”

  STUDY OF A WOMAN

  Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

  This 1830 short story features the responsible and conservative Marquise de Listomere, who goes to confession and communion regularly as she waits for her dull husband to progress in the ranks under Louis XVIII. The story also introduces the character Eugene de Rastignac, who falls for the Marquise and inadvertently sends her a love letter, with humorous consequences.

  An original illustration

  DEDICATION

  To the Marquis Jean-Charles di Negro.

  STUDY OF A WOMAN

  The Marquise de Listomere is one of those young women who have been brought up in the spirit of the Restoration. She has principles, she fasts, takes the sacrament, and goes to balls and operas very elegantly dressed; her confessor permits her to combine the mundane with sanctity. Always in conformity with the Church and with the world, she presents a living image of the present day, which seems to have taken the word “legality” for its motto. The conduct of the marquise shows precisely enough religious devotion to attain under a new Maintenon to the gloomy piety of the last days of Louis XIV., and enough worldliness to adopt the habits of gallantry of the first years of that reign, should it ever be revived. At the present moment she is strictly virtuous from policy, possibly from inclination. Married for the last seven years to the Marquis de Listomere, one of those deputies who expect a peerage, she may also consider that such conduct will promote the ambitions of her family. Some women are reserving their opinion of her until the moment when Monsieur de Listomere becomes a peer of France, when she herself will be thirty-six years of age, — a period of life when most women discover that they are the dupes of social laws.

  The marquis is a rather insignificant man. He stands well at court; his good qualities are as negative as his defects; the former can no more make him a reputation for virtue than the latter can give him the sort of glamor cast by vice. As deputy, he never speaks, but he votes RIGHT. He behaves in his own home as he does in the Chamber. Consequently, he is held to be one of the best husbands in France. Though not susceptible of lively interest, he never scolds, unless, to be sure, he is kept waiting. His friends have named him “dull weather,” — aptly
enough, for there is neither clear light nor total darkness about him. He is like all the ministers who have succeeded one another in France since the Charter. A woman with principles could not have fallen into better hands. It is certainly a great thing for a virtuous woman to have married a man incapable of follies.

  Occasionally some fops have been sufficiently impertinent to press the hand of the marquise while dancing with her. They gained nothing in return but contemptuous glances; all were made to feel the shock of that insulting indifference which, like a spring frost, destroys the germs of flattering hopes. Beaux, wits, and fops, men whose sentiments are fed by sucking their canes, those of a great name, or a great fame, those of the highest or the lowest rank in her own world, they all blanch before her. She has conquered the right to converse as long and as often as she chooses with the men who seem to her agreeable, without being entered on the tablets of gossip. Certain coquettish women are capable of following a plan of this kind for seven years in order to gratify their fancies later; but to suppose any such reservations in the Marquise de Listomere would be to calumniate her.

  I have had the happiness of knowing this phoenix. She talks well; I know how to listen; consequently I please her, and I go to her parties. That, in fact, was the object of my ambition.

  Neither plain nor pretty, Madame de Listomere has white teeth, a dazzling skin, and very red lips; she is tall and well-made; her foot is small and slender, and she does not put it forth; her eyes, far from being dulled like those of so many Parisian women, have a gentle glow which becomes quite magical if, by chance, she is animated. A soul is then divined behind that rather indefinite form. If she takes an interest in the conversation she displays a grace which is otherwise buried beneath the precautions of cold demeanor, and then she is charming. She does not seek success, but she obtains it. We find that for which we do not seek: that saying is so often true that some day it will be turned into a proverb. It is, in fact, the moral of this adventure, which I should not allow myself to tell if it were not echoing at the present moment through all the salons of Paris.