The Deputy of Arcis by Honoré de Balzac (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

of policy, but a revolution."

"But what makes you think I want an opening of any kind?"

"What! follow a course without an aim?--a course that leads nowhere? A certain development of a man's faculties not only gives him the right but makes it his duty to seek to govern."

"To watch the governing power is a useful career, and, I may add, a very busy one."

"You can fancy, monsieur," said Rastignac, good-humoredly, "that if Beauvisage were in your place I should not have taken the trouble to argue with him; I may say, however, that he would have made my effort less difficult."

"This meeting, which _chance_ has brought about between us," said Sallenauve, "will have one beneficial result; we understand each other henceforth, and our future meetings will always therefore be courteous--which will not lessen the strength of our convictions."

"Then I must say to the king--for I had his royal commands to--"

Rastignac did not end the sentence in which he was, so to speak, firing his last gun, for the orchestra began to play a quadrille, and Nais, running up, made him a coquettish courtesy, saying,--

"Monsieur le ministre, I am very sorry, but you have taken my partner, and you must give him up. He is down for my eleventh quadrille, and if I miss it my list gets into terrible confusion."

"You permit me, monsieur?" said Sallenauve, laughing. "As you see, I am not a very savage republican." So saying, he followed Nais, who led him along by the hand.

Madame de l'Estorade, comprehending that this fancy of Nais was rather compromising to the dignity of the new deputy, had arranged that several papas and mammas should figure in the same quadrille; and she herself with the Scottish lad danced _vis-a-vis_ to her daughter, who beamed with pride and joy. In the evolutions of the last figure, where Nais had to take her mother's hand, she said, pressing it passionately,--

"Poor mamma! if it hadn't been for _him_, you wouldn't have me now."

This sudden reminder so agitated Madame de l'Estorade, coming as it did unexpectedly, that she was seized with a return of the nervous trembling her daughter's danger had originally caused, and was forced to sit down. Seeing her change color, Sallenauve, Nais, and Madame Octave de Camps ran to her to know if she were ill.

"It is nothing," she answered, addressing Sallenauve; "only that my little girl reminded me suddenly of the utmost obligation we are under to you, monsieur. 'Without _him_,' she said, 'you would not have me.' Ah! monsieur, without your generous courage where would my child be now?"

"Come, come, don't excite yourself," interposed Madame Octave de Camps, observing the convulsive and almost gasping tone of her friend's voice. "It is not reasonable to put yourself in such a state for a child's speech."

"She is better than the rest of us," replied Madame de l'Estorade, taking Nais in her arms.

"Come, mamma, be reasonable," said that young lady.

"She puts nothing in the world," continued Madame de l'Estorade, "before her gratitude to her preserver, whereas her father and I have scarcely shown him any."

"But, madame," said Sallenauve, "you have courteously--"

"Courteously!" interrupted Nais, shaking her pretty head with an air of disapproval; "if any one had saved my daughter, I should be different to him from that."

"Nais," said Madame de Camps, sternly, "children should be silent when their opinion is not asked."

"What is the matter," said Monsieur de l'Estorade, joining the group.

"Nothing," said Madame de Camps; "only a giddiness Renee had in dancing."

"Is it over?"

"Yes, I am quite well again," said Madame de l'Estorade.

"Then come and say good-night to Madame de Rastignac, who is preparing to take leave."

In his eagerness to get to the minister's wife, he forgot to give his own wife his arm. Sallenauve was more thoughtful. As they walked together in the wake of her husband, Madame de l'Estorade said,--

"I saw you talking for a long time with Monsieur de Rastignac; did he practise his well-known seductions upon you?"

"Do you think he succeeded?" replied Sallenauve.

"No; but such attempts to capture are always disagreeable, and I beg you to believe that I was not a party to the plot. I am not so violently ministerial as my husband."

"Nor I as violently revolutionary as they think."

"I trust that these annoying politics, which have already produced a jar between you and Monsieur de l'Estorade, may not disgust you with the idea of being counted among our friends."

"That is an honor, madame, for which I can only be grateful."

"It is not an honor but a pleasure that I hoped you would find in it," said Madame de l'Estorade, quickly. "I say, with Nais, if I had saved the life of a friend's child, I should cease to be ceremonious with her."

So saying, and without listening to his answer, she disengaged her arm quickly from that of Sallenauve, and left him rather astonished at the tone in which she had spoken.

In seeing Madame de l'Estorade so completely docile to the advice, more clever than prudent, perhaps, of Madame de Camps, the reader, we think, can scarcely be surprised. A certain attraction has been evident for some time on the part of the frigid countess not only to the preserver of her daughter, but to the man who under such romantic and singular circumstances had come before her mind. Carefully considered, Madame de l'Estorade is seen to be far from one of those impassible natures which resist all affectionate emotions except those of the family. With a beauty that was partly Spanish, she had eyes which her friend Louise de Chaulieu declared could ripen peaches. Her coldness was not what physicians call congenital; her temperament was an acquired one. Marrying from _reason_ a man whose mental insufficiency is very apparent, she made herself love him out of pity and a sense of protection. Up to the present time, by means of a certain atrophy of heart, she had succeeded, without one failure, in making Monsieur de l'Estorade perfectly happy. With the same instinct, she had exaggerated the maternal sentiment to an almost inconceivable degree, until in that way she had fairly stifled all the other cravings of her nature. It must be said, however, that the success she had had in accomplishing this hard task was due in a great measure to _the circumstance_ of Louise de Chaulieu. To her that dear mistaken one was like the drunken slave whom the Spartans made a living lesson to their children; and between the two friends a sort of tacit wager was established. Louise having taken the side of romantic passion, Renee held firmly to that of superior reason; and in order to win the game, she had maintained a courage of good sense and wisdom which might have cost her far more to practise without this incentive. At the age she had now reached, and with her long habit of self-control, we can understand how, seeing, as she believed, the approach of a love against which she had preached so vehemently, she should instantly set to work to rebuff it; but a man who did not feel that love, while thinking her ideally beautiful, and who possibly loved elsewhere,--a man who had saved her child from death and asked no recompense, who was grave, serious, and preoccupied in an absorbing enterprise,--why should she still continue to think such a man dangerous? Why not grant to him, without further hesitation, the lukewarm sentiment of friendship?


VI. CURIOSITY THAT CAME WITHIN AN ACE OF BEING FATAL

On returning to Ville d'Avray, Sallenauve was confronted by a singular event. Who does not know how sudden events upset the whole course of our lives, and place us, without our will, in compromising positions?

Sallenauve was not mistaken in feeling serious anxiety as to the mental state of his friend Marie-Gaston.

When that unfortunate man had left the scene of his cruel loss immediately after the death of his wife, he would have done a wiser thing had he then resolved never to revisit it. Nature, providentially ordered, provides that if those whose nearest and dearest are struck by the hand of death accept the decree with the resignation which ought to follow the execution of all necessary law, they will not remain too long under the influence of their grief. Rousseau has said, in his famous letter against suicide: "Sadness, weariness of spirit, regret, despair are not lasting sorrows, rooted forever in the soul; experience will always cast out that feeling of bitterness which makes us at first believe our grief eternal."

But this truth ceases to be true for imprudent and wilful persons, who seek to escape the first anguish of sorrow by flight or some violent distraction. All mental and moral suffering is a species of illness which, taking time for its specific, will gradually wear out, in the long run, of itself. If, on the contrary, it is not allowed to consume itself slowly on the scene of its trouble, if it is fanned into flame by motion or violent remedies, we hinder the action of nature; we deprive ourselves of the blessed relief of comparative forgetfulness, promised to those who will accept their suffering, and so transform it into a chronic affection, the memories of which, though hidden, are none the less true and deep.

If we violently oppose this salutary process, we produce an acute evil, in which the imagination acts upon the heart; and as the latter from its nature is limited, while the former is infinite, it is impossible to calculate the violence of the impressions to which a man may yield himself.

When Marie-Gaston returned to the house at Ville d'Avray, after two years' absence, he fancied that only a tender if melancholy memory awaited him; but not a step could he make without recalling his lost joys and the agony of losing them. The flowers that his wife had loved, the lawns, the trees just budding into greenness under the warm breath of May,--they were here before his eyes; but she who had created this beauteous nature was lying cold in the earth. Amid all the charms and elegances gathered to adorn this nest of their love, there was nothing for the man who rashly returned to that dangerous atmosphere but sounds of lamentation, the moans of a renewed and now ever-living grief. Alarmed himself at the vertigo of sorrow which seized him, Marie-Gaston shrank, as Sallenauve had said, from taking the last step in his ordeal; he had calmly discussed with his friend the details of the mausoleum he wished to raise above the mortal remains of his beloved Louise, but he had not yet brought himself to visit her grave in the village cemetery where he had laid them. There was everything, therefore, to fear from a grief which time had not only not assuaged, but, on the contrary, had increased by duration, until it was sharper and more intolerable than before.

The gates were opened by Philippe, the old servant, who had been constituted by Madame Gaston majordomo of the establishment.

"How is your master?" asked Sallenauve.

"He has gone away, monsieur," replied Philippe.

"Gone away!"

"Yes, monsieur; with that English gentleman whom monsieur left here with him."

"But without a word to me! Do you know where they have gone?"

"After dinner, which went off very well, monsieur suddenly gave orders to pack his travelling-trunk; he did part of it himself. During that time the Englishman, who said he would go into the