Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  On his way from the Rue de la Clef to the Rue Croix des Petits-Champs the young gentleman divulged the upshot of these meditations (which were certainly in keeping with de Marsay’s advice) to the old doctor.

  “I ought,” he said, “to go into oblivion for three or four years and seek a career. Perhaps I could make myself a name by writing a book on statesmanship or morals, or a treatise on some of the great questions of the day. While I am looking out for a marriage with some young lady who could make me eligible to the Chamber, I will work hard in silence and in obscurity.”

  Studying the young fellow’s face with a keen eye, the doctor saw the serious purpose of a wounded man who was anxious to vindicate himself. He therefore cordially approved of the scheme.

  “My friend,” he said, “if you strip off the skin of the old nobility (which is no longer worn these days) I will undertake, after you have lived for three or four years in a steady and industrious manner, to find you a superior young girl, beautiful, amiable, pious, and possessing from seven to eight hundred thousand francs, who will make you happy and of whom you will have every reason to be proud, — one whose only nobility is that of the heart!”

  “Ah, doctor!” cried the young man, “there is no longer a nobility in these days, — nothing but an aristocracy.”

  “Go and pay your debts of honor and come back here. I shall engage the coupe of the diligence, for my niece is with me,” said the old man.

  That evening, at six o’clock, the three travelers started from the Rue Dauphine. Ursula had put on a veil and did not say a word. Savinien, who once, in a moment of superficial gallantry, had sent her that kiss which invaded and conquered her soul like a love-poem, had completely forgotten the young girl in the hell of his Parisian debts; moreover, his hopeless love for Emilie de Kergarouet hindered him from bestowing a thought on a few glances exchanged with a little country girl. He did not recognize her when the doctor handed her into the coach and then sat down beside her to separate her from the young viscount.

  “I have some bills to give you,” said the doctor to the young man. “I have brought all your papers and documents.”

  “I came very near not getting off,” said Savinien, “for I had to order linen and clothes; the Philistines took all; I return like a true prodigal.”

  However interesting were the subjects of conversation between the young man and the old one, and however witty and clever were certain remarks of the viscount, the young girl continued silent till after dusk, her green veil lowered, and her hands crossed on her shawl.

  “Mademoiselle does not seem to have enjoyed Paris very much,” said Savinien at last, somewhat piqued.

  “I am glad to return to Nemours,” she answered in a trembling voice raising her veil.

  Notwithstanding the dim light Savinien then recognized her by the heavy braids of her hair and the brilliancy of her blue eyes.

  “I, too, leave Paris to bury myself in Nemours without regret now that I meet my charming neighbour again,” he said; “I hope, Monsieur le docteur that you will receive me in your house; I love music, and I remember to have listened to Mademoiselle Ursula’s piano.”

  “I do not know,” replied the doctor gravely, “whether your mother would approve of your visits to an old man whose duty it is to care for this dear child with all the solicitude of a mother.”

  This reserved answer made Savinien reflect, and he then remembered the kisses so thoughtlessly wafted. Night came; the heat was great. Savinien and the doctor went to sleep first. Ursula, whose head was full of projects, did not succumb till midnight. She had taken off her straw-bonnet, and her head, covered with a little embroidered cap, dropped upon her uncle’s shoulder. When they reached Bouron at dawn, Savinien awoke. He then saw Ursula in the slight disarray naturally caused by the jolting of the vehicle; her cap was rumpled and half off; the hair, unbound, had fallen each side of her face, which glowed from the heat of the night; in this situation, dreadful for women to whom dress is a necessary auxiliary, youth and beauty triumphed. The sleep of innocence is always lovely. The half-opened lips showed the pretty teeth; the shawl, unfastened, gave to view, beneath the folds of her muslin gown and without offence to her modesty, the gracefulness of her figure. The purity of the virgin spirit shone on the sleeping countenance all the more plainly because no other expression was there to interfere with it. Old Minoret, who presently woke up, placed his child’s head in the corner of the carriage that she might be more at ease; and she let him do it unconsciously, so deep was her sleep after the many wakeful nights she had spent in thinking of Savinien’s trouble.

  “Poor little girl!” said the doctor to his neighbour, “she sleeps like the child she is.”

  “You must be proud of her,” replied Savinien; “for she seems as good as she is beautiful.”

  “Ah! she is the joy of the house. I could not love her better if she were my own daughter. She will be sixteen on the 5th February. God grant that I may live long enough to marry her to a man who will make her happy. I wanted to take her to the theater in Paris, where she was for the first time, but she refused, the Abbe Chaperon had forbidden it. ‘But,’ I said, ‘when you are married your husband will want you to go there.’ ‘I shall do what my husband wants,’ she answered. ‘If he asks me to do evil and I am weak enough to yield, he will be responsible before God — and so I shall have strength to refuse him, for his own sake.’”

  As the coach entered Nemours, at five in the morning, Ursula woke up, ashamed at her rumpled condition, and confused by the look of admiration which she encountered from Savinien. During the hour it had taken the diligence to come from Bouron to Nemours the young man had fallen in love with Ursula; he had studied the pure candor of her soul, the beauty of that body, the whiteness of the skin, the delicacy of the features; he recalled the charm of the voice which had uttered but one expressive sentence, in which the poor child said all, intending to say nothing. A presentiment suddenly seemed to take hold of him; he saw in Ursula the woman the doctor had pictured to him, framed in gold by the magic words, “Seven or eight hundred thousand francs.”

  “In three of four years she will be twenty, and I shall be twenty-seven,” he thought. “The good doctor talked of probation, work, good conduct! Sly as he is I shall make him tell me the truth.”

  The three neighbours parted in the street in front of their respective homes, and Savinien put a little courting into his eyes as he gave Ursula a parting glance.

  Madame de Portenduere let her son sleep till midday; but the doctor and Ursula, in spite of their fatiguing journey, went to high mass. Savinien’s release and his return in company with the doctor had explained the reason of the latter’s absence to the newsmongers of the town and to the heirs, who were once more assembled in conventicle on the square, just as they were two weeks earlier when the doctor attended his first mass. To the great astonishment of all the groups, Madame de Portenduere, on leaving the church, stopped old Minoret, who offered her his arm and took her home. The old lady asked him to dinner that evening, also asking his niece and assuring him that the abbe would be the only other guest.

  “He must have wished Ursula to see Paris,” said Minoret-Levrault.

  “Pest!” cried Cremiere; “he can’t take a step without that girl!”

  “Something must have happened to make old Portenduere accept his arm,” said Massin.

  “So none of you have guessed that your uncle has sold his Funds and released that little Savinien?” cried Goupil. “He refused Dionis, but he didn’t refuse Madame de Portenduere — Ha, ha! you are all done for. The viscount will propose a marriage-contract instead of a mortgage, and the doctor will make the husband settle on his jewel of a girl the sum he has now paid to secure the alliance.”

  “It is not a bad thing to marry Ursula to Savinien,” said the butcher. “The old lady gives a dinner to-day to Monsieur Minoret. Tiennette came early for a filet.”

  “Well, Dionis, here’s a fine to-do!” said Massin, rushing up
to the notary, who was entering the square.

  “What is? It’s all going right,” returned the notary. “Your uncle has sold his Funds and Madame de Portenduere has sent for me to witness the signing of a mortgage on her property for one hundred thousand francs, lent to her by your uncle.”

  “Yes, but suppose the young people should marry?”

  “That’s as if you said Goupil was to be my successor.”

  “The two things are not so impossible,” said Goupil.

  On returning from mass Madame de Portenduere told Tiennette to inform her son that she wished to see him.

  The little house had three bedrooms on the first floor. That of Madame de Portenduere and that of her late husband were separated by a large dressing-room lighted by a skylight, and connected by a little antechamber which opened on the staircase. The window of the other room, occupied by Savinien, looked, like that of his late father, on the street. The staircase went up at the back of the house, leaving room for a little study lighted by a small round window opening on the court. Madame de Portenduere’s bedroom, the gloomiest in the house, also looked into the court; but the widow spent all her time in the salon on the ground floor, which communicated by a passage with the kitchen built at the end of the court, so that this salon was made to answer the double purpose of drawing-room and dining-room combined.

  The bedroom of the late Monsieur de Portenduere remained as he had left it on the day of his death; there was no change except that he was absent. Madame de Portenduere had made the bed herself; laying upon it the uniform of a naval captain, his sword, cordon, orders, and hat. The gold snuff-box from which her late husband had taken snuff for the last time was on the table, with his prayer-book, his watch, and the cup from which he drank. His white hair, arranged in one curled lock and framed, hung above a crucifix and the holy water in the alcove. All the little ornaments he had worn, his journals, his furniture, his Dutch spittoon, his spy-glass hanging by the mantel, were all there. The widow had stopped the hands of the clock at the hour of his death, to which they always pointed. The room still smelt of the powder and the tobacco of the deceased. The hearth was as he left it. To her, entering there, he was again visible in the many articles which told of his daily habits. His tall cane with its gold head was where he had last placed it, with his buckskin gloves close by. On a table against the wall stood a gold vase, of coarse workmanship but worth three thousand francs, a gift from Havana, which city, at the time of the American War of Independence, he had protected from an attack by the British, bringing his convoy safe into port after an engagement with superior forces. To recompense this service the King of Spain had made him a knight of his order; the same event gave him a right to the next promotion to the rank of vice-admiral, and he also received the red ribbing. He then married his wife, who had a fortune of about two hundred thousand francs. But the Revolution hindered his promotion, and Monsieur de Portenduere emigrated.

  “Where is my mother?” said Savinien to Tiennette.

  “She is waiting for you in your father’s room,” said the old Breton woman.

  Savinien could not repress a shudder. He knew his mother’s rigid principles, her worship of honor, her loyalty, her faith in nobility, and he foresaw a scene. He went up to the assault with his heart beating and his face rather pale. In the dim light which filtered through the blinds he saw his mother dressed in black, and with an air of solemnity in keeping with that funereal room.

  “Monsieur le vicomte,” she said when she saw him, rising and taking his hand to lead him to his father’s bed, “there died your father, — a man of honor; he died without reproach from his own conscience. His spirit is there. Surely he groaned in heaven when he saw his son degraded by imprisonment for debt. Under the old monarchy that stain could have been spared you by obtaining a lettre de cachet and shutting you up for a few days in a military prison. — But you are here; you stand before your father, who hears you. You know all that you did before you were sent to that ignoble prison. Will you swear to me before your father’s shade, and in presence of God who sees all, that you have done no dishonorable act; that your debts are the result of youthful folly, and that your honor is untarnished? If your blameless father were there, sitting in that armchair, and asking an explanation of your conduct, could he embrace you after having heard it?”

  “Yes, mother,” replied the young man, with grave respect.

  She opened her arms and pressed him to her heart, shedding a few tears.

  “Let us forget it all, my son,” she said; “it is only a little less money. I shall pray God to let us recover it. As you are indeed worthy of your name, kiss me — for I have suffered much.”

  “I swear, mother,” he said, laying his hand upon the bed, “to give you no further unhappiness of that kind, and to do all I can to repair these first faults.”

  “Come and breakfast, my child,” she said, turning to leave the room.

  CHAPTER XII. OBSTACLES TO YOUNG LOVE

  In 1829 the old noblesse had recovered as to manners and customs something of the prestige it had irrevocably lost in politics. Moreover, the sentiment which governs parents and grandparents in all that relates to matrimonial conventions is an imperishable sentiment, closely allied to the very existence of civilized societies and springing from the spirit of family. It rules in Geneva as in Vienna and in Nemours, where, as we have seen, Zelie Minoret refused her consent to a possible marriage of her son with the daughter of a bastard. Still, all social laws have their exceptions. Savinien thought he might bend his mother’s pride before the inborn nobility of Ursula. The struggle began at once. As soon as they were seated at table his mother told him of the horrible letters, as she called them, which the Kergarouets and the Portendueres had written her.

  “There is no such thing as family in these days, mother,” replied Savinien, “nothing but individuals! The nobles are no longer a compact body. No one asks or cares whether I am a Portenduere, or brave, or a statesmen; all they ask now-a-days is, ‘What taxes does he pay?’”

  “But the king?” asked the old lady.

  “The king is caught between the two Chambers like a man between his wife and his mistress. So I shall have to marry some rich girl without regard to family, — the daughter of a peasant if she has a million and is sufficiently well brought-up — that is to say, if she has been taught in school.”

  “Oh! there’s no need to talk of that,” said the old lady.

  Savinien frowned as he heard the words. He knew the granite will, called Breton obstinacy, that distinguished his mother, and he resolved to know at once her opinion on this delicate matter.

  “So,” he went on, “if I loved a young girl, — take for instance your neighbour’s godchild, little Ursula, — would you oppose my marriage?”

  “Yes, as long as I live,” she replied; “and after my death you would be responsible for the honor and the blood of the Kergarouets and the Portendueres.”

  “Would you let me die of hunger and despair for the chimera of nobility, which has no reality to-day unless it has the lustre of great wealth?”

  “You could serve France and put faith in God.”

  “Would you postpone my happiness till after your death?”

  “It would be horrible if you took it then, — that is all I have to say.”

  “Louis XIV. came very near marrying the niece of Mazarin, a parvenu.”

  “Mazarin himself opposed it.”

  “Remember the widow Scarron.”

  “She was a d’Aubigne. Besides, the marriage was in secret. But I am very old, my son,” she said, shaking her head. “When I am no more you can, as you say, marry whom you please.”

  Savinien both loved and respected his mother; but he instantly, though silently, set himself in opposition to her with an obstinacy equal to her own, resolving to have no other wife than Ursula, to whom this opposition gave, as often happens in similar circumstances, the value of a forbidden thing.

  When, after vespers, the doctor
, with Ursula, who was dressed in pink and white, entered the cold, stiff salon, the girl was seized with nervous trembling, as though she had entered the presence of the queen of France and had a favor to beg of her. Since her confession to the doctor this little house had assumed the proportions of a palace in her eyes, and the old lady herself the social value which a duchess of the Middle Ages might have had to the daughter of a serf. Never had Ursula measured as she did at that moment the distance which separated Vicomte de Portenduere from the daughter of a regimental musician, a former opera-singer and the natural son of an organist.

  “What is the matter, my dear?” said the old lady, making the girl sit down beside her.

  “Madame, I am confused by the honor you have done me — ”

  “My little girl,” said Madame de Portenduere, in her sharpest tone. “I know how fond your uncle is of you, and I wished to be agreeable to him, for he has brought back my prodigal son.”

  “But, my dear mother,” said Savinien cut to the heart by seeing the color fly into Ursula’s face as she struggled to keep back her tears, “even if we were under no obligations to Monsieur le Chevalier Minoret, I think we should always be most grateful for the pleasure Mademoiselle has given us by accepting your invitation.”

  The young man pressed the doctor’s hand in a significant manner, adding: “I see you wear, monsieur, the order of Saint-Michel, the oldest order in France, and one which confers nobility.”

  Ursula’s extreme beauty, to which her almost hopeless love gave a depth which great painters have sometimes conveyed in pictures where the soul is brought into strong relief, had struck Madame de Portenduere suddenly, and made her suspect that the doctor’s apparent generosity masked an ambitious scheme. She had made the speech to which Savinien replied with the intention of wounding the doctor in that which was dearest to him; and she succeeded, though the old man could hardly restrain a smile as he heard himself styled a “chevalier,” amused to observe how the eagerness of a lover did not shrink from absurdity.