The Red Inn

by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To Monsieur le Marquis de Custine.

THE RED INN
In I know not what year a Parisian banker, who had very extensive

commercial relations with Germany, was entertaining at dinner one of
those friends whom men of business often make in the markets of the

world through correspondence; a man hithertopersonally unknown to
him. This friend, the head of a rather important house in Nuremburg,

was a stout worthy German, a man of taste and erudition, above all a
man of pipes, having a fine, broad, Nuremburgian face, with a square

open forehead adorned by a few sparse locks of yellowish hair. He was
the type of the sons of that pure and noble Germany, so fertile in

honorable natures, whose peaceful manners and morals have never been
lost, even after seven invasions.

This stranger laughed with simplicity, listened attentively, and drank
remarkably well, seeming to like champagne as much perhaps as he liked

his straw-colored Johannisburger. His name was Hermann, which is that
of most Germans whom authors bring upon their scene. Like a man who

does nothing frivolously, he was sitting squarely at the banker's
table and eating with that Teutonic appetite so celebrated throughout

Europe, saying, in fact, a conscientiousfarewell to the cookery of
the great Careme.

To do honor to his guest the master of the house had invited a few
intimate friends, capitalists or merchants, and several agreeable and

pretty women, whose pleasant chatter and frank manners were in harmony
with German cordiality. Really, if you could have seen, as I saw, this

joyous gathering of persons who had drawn in their commercial claws,
and were speculating only on the pleasures of life, you would have

found no cause to hate usurious discounts, or to curse bankruptcies.
Mankind can't always be doing evil. Even in the society of pirates one

might find a few sweet hours during which we could fancy their
sinister craft a pleasure-boat rocking on the deep.

"Before we part, Monsieur Hermann will, I trust, tell one more German
story to terrify us?"

These words were said at dessert by a pale fair girl, who had read, no
doubt, the tales of Hoffmann and the novels of Walter Scott. She was

the only daughter of the banker, a charming young creature whose
education was then being finished at the Gymnase, the plays of which

she adored. At this moment the guests were in that happy state of
laziness and silence which follows a delicious dinner, especially if

we have presumed too far on our digestive powers. Leaning back in
their chairs, their wrists lightly resting on the edge of the table,

they were indolently playing with the gilded blades of their dessert-
knives. When a dinner comes to this declining moment some guests will

be seen to play with a pear seed; others roll crumbs of bread between
their fingers and thumbs; lovers trace indistinct letters with

fragments of fruit; misers count the stones on their plate and arrange
them as a manager marshals his supernumeraries at the back of the

stage. These are little gastronomic felicities which Brillat-Savarin,
otherwise so complete an author, overlooked in his book. The footmen

had disappeared. The dessert was like a squadron after a battle: all
the dishes were disabled, pillaged, damaged; several were wandering

around the table, in spite of the efforts of the mistress of the house
to keep them in their places. Some of the persons present were gazing

at pictures of Swiss scenery, symmetrically hung upon the gray-toned
walls of the dining-room. Not a single guest was bored; in fact, I

never yet knew a man who was sad during his digestion of a good
dinner. We like at such moments to remain in quietude, a species of

middle ground between the reverie of a thinker and the comfort of the
ruminating animals; a condition which we may call the material

melancholy of gastronomy.
So the guests now turned spontaneously to the excellent German,

delighted to have a tale to listen to, even though it might prove of
no interest. During this blessed interregnum the voice of a narrator

is always delightful to our languid senses; it increases their
negative happiness. I, a seeker after impressions, admired the faces

about me, enlivened by smiles, beaming in the light of the wax
candles, and somewhat flushed by our late good cheer; their diverse

expressions producing piquant effects seen among the porcelain
baskets, the fruits, the glasses, and the candelabra.

All of a sudden my imagination was caught by the aspect of a guest who
sat directly in front of me. He was a man of mediumheight, rather fat

and smiling, having the air and manner of a stock-broker, and
apparently endowed with a very ordinary mind. Hitherto I had scarcely

noticed him, but now his face, possibly darkened by a change in the
lights, seemed to me to have altered its character; it had certainly

grown ghastly; violet tones were spreading over it; you might have
thought it the cadaverous head of a dying man. Motionless as the

personages painted on a diorama, his stupefied eyes were fixed on the
sparkling facets of a cut-glass stopper, but certainly without

observing them; he seemed to be engulfed in some weird contemplation
of the future or the past. When I had long examined that puzzling face

I began to reflect about it. "Is he ill?" I said to myself. "Has he
drunk too much wine? Is he ruined by a drop in the Funds? Is he

thinking how to cheat his creditors?"
"Look!" I said to my neighbor, pointing out to her the face of the

unknown man, "is that an embryo bankrupt?"
"Oh, no!" she answered, "he would be much gayer." Then, nodding her

head gracefully, she added, "If that man ever ruins himself I'll tell
it in Pekin! He possesses a million in real estate. That's a former

purveyor to the imperial armies; a good sort of man, and rather
original. He married a second time by way of speculation; but for all

that he makes his wife extremely happy. He has a pretty daughter, whom
he refused for many years to recognize; but the death of his son,

unfortunately killed in a duel, has compelled him to take her home,
for he could not otherwise have children. The poor girl has suddenly

become one of the richest heiresses in Paris. The death of his son
threw the poor man into an agony of grief, which sometimes reappears

on the surface."
At that instant the purveyor raised his eyes and rested them upon me;

that glance made me quiver, so full was it of gloomy thought. But
suddenly his face grew lively; he picked up the cut-glass stopper and

put it, with a mechanicalmovement, into a decanter full of water that
was near his plate, and then he turned to Monsieur Hermann and smiled.

After all, that man, now beatified by gastronomical enjoyments, hadn't
probably two ideas in his brain, and was thinking of nothing.

Consequently I felt rather ashamed of wasting my powers of divination
"in anima vili,"--of a doltish financier.

While I was thus making, at a dead loss, these phrenological
observations, the worthy German had lined his nose with a good pinch

of snuff and was now beginning his tale. It would be difficult to
reproduce it in his own language, with his frequent interruptions and

wordy digressions. Therefore, I now write it down in my own way;
leaving out the faults of the Nuremburger, and taking only what his

tale may have had of interest and poesy with the coolness of writers
who forget to put on the title pages of their books: "Translated from

the German."
THOUGHT AND ACT

Toward the end of Venemiaire, year VII., a republican" target="_blank" title="a.共和国的 n.共和论者">republican period which in
the present day corresponds to October 20, 1799, two young men,

leaving Bonn in the early morning, had reached by nightfall the
environs of Andernach, a small town standing on the left bank of the

Rhine a few leagues from Coblentz. At that time the French army,
commanded by Augereau, was manoeuvring before the Austrians, who then

occupied the right bank of the river. The headquarters of the
Republican division was at Coblentz, and one of the demi-brigades

belonging to Augereau's corps was stationed at Andernach.
The two travellers were Frenchmen. At sight of their uniforms, blue

mixed with white and faced with red velvet, their sabres, and above
all their hats covered with a green varnished-cloth and adorned with a

tricolor plume, even the German peasants had recognized army surgeons,
a body of men of science and merit liked, for the most part, not only

in our own army but also in the countries invaded by our troops. At
this period many sons of good families taken from their medical

studies by the recent conscription law due to General Jourdan, had
naturally preferred to continue their studies on the battle-field

rather than be restricted to mere military duty, little in keeping
with their early education and their peaceful destinies. Men of