Vendetta

by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To Puttinati, Milanese Sculptor.

VENDETTA
CHAPTER I

PROLOGUE
In the year 1800, toward the close of October, a foreigner,

accompanied by a woman and a little girl, was standing for a long time
in front of the palace of the Tuileries, near the ruins of a house

recently pulled down, at the point where in our day the wing begins
which was intended to unite the chateau of Catherine de Medici with

the Louvre of the Valois.
The man stood there with folded arms and a bowed head, which he

sometimes raised to look alternately at the consular palace and at his
wife, who was sitting near him on a stone. Though the woman seemed

wholly occupied with the little girl of nine or ten years of age,
whose long black hair she amused herself by handling, she lost not a

single glance of those her companion cast on her. Some sentiment other
than love united these two beings, and inspired with mutual anxiety

their movements and their thoughts. Misery is, perhaps, the most
powerful of all ties.

The stranger had one of those broad, serious heads, covered with thick
hair, which we see so frequently in the pictures of the Caracci. The

jet black of the hair was streaked with white. Though noble and proud,
his features had a hardness which spoiled them. In spite of his

evident strength, and his straight, erect figure, he looked to be over
sixty years of age. His dilapidated clothes were those of a foreign

country. Though the faded and once beautiful face of the wife betrayed
the deepest sadness, she forced herself to smile, assuming a calm

countenance whenever her husband looked at her.
The little girl was standing, though signs of weariness were on the

youthful face, which was tanned by the sun. She had an Italian cast of
countenance and bearing, large black eyes beneath their well arched

brows, a native nobleness, and candid grace. More than one of those
who passed them felt strongly moved by the mere aspect of this group,

who made no effort to conceal a despair which seemed as deep as the
expression of it was simple. But the flow of this fugitive sympathy,

characteristic of Parisians, was dried immediately; for as soon as the
stranger saw himself the object of attention, he looked at his

observer with so savage an air that the boldest lounger hurried his
step as though he had trod upon a serpent.

After standing for some time undecided, the tall stranger suddenly
passed his hand across his face to brush away, as it were, the

thoughts that were ploughing furrows in it. He must have taken some
desperate resolution. Casting a glance upon his wife and daughter, he

drew a dagger from his breast and gave it to his companion, saying in
Italian:--

"I will see if the Bonapartes remember us."
Then he walked with a slow, determined step toward the entrance of the

palace, where he was, naturally, stopped by a soldier of the consular
guard, with whom he was not permitted a long discussion. Seeing this

man's obstinatedetermination, the sentinel presented his bayonet in
the form of an ultimatum. Chance willed that the guard was changed at

that moment, and the corporal very obligingly pointed out to the
stranger the spot where the commander of the post was standing.

"Let Bonaparte know that Bartolomeo di Piombo wishes to speak with
him," said the Italian to the captain on duty.

In vain the officer represented to Bartolomeo that he could not see
the First Consul without having previously requested an audience in

writing; the Italian insisted that the soldier should go to Bonaparte.
The officer stated the rules of the post, and refused to comply with

the order of this singularvisitor. Bartolomeo frowned heavily,
casting a terrible look at the captain, as if he made him responsible

for the misfortunes that this refusal might occasion. Then he kept
silence, folded his arms tightly across his breast, and took up his

station under the portico which serves as an avenue of communication
between the garden and the court-yard of the Tuileries. Persons who

will things intensely are very apt to be helped by chance. At the
moment when Bartolomeo di Piombo seated himself on one of the stone

posts which was near the entrance, a carriage drew up, from which
Lucien Bonaparte, minister of the interior, issued.

"Ah, Loucian, it is lucky for me I have met you!" cried the stranger.
These words, said in the Corsican patois, stopped Lucien at the moment

when he was springing under the portico. He looked at his compatriot,
and recognized him. At the first word that Bartolomeo said in his ear,

he took the Corsican away with him.
Murat, Lannes, and Rapp were at that moment in the cabinet of the

First Consul. As Lucien entered, followed by a man so singular in
appearance as Piombo, the conversation ceased. Lucien took Napoleon by

the arm and led him into the recess of a window. After exchanging a
few words with his brother, the First Consul made a sign with his

hand, which Murat and Lannes obeyed by retiring. Rapp pretended not to
have seen it, in order to remain where he was. Bonaparte then spoke to

him sharply, and the aide-de-camp, with evident unwillingness, left
the room. The First Consul, who listened for Rapp's step in the

adjoining salon, opened the door suddenly, and found his aide-de-camp
close to the wall of the cabinet.

"Do you choose not to understand me?" said the First Consul. "I wish
to be alone with my compatriot."

"A Corsican!" replied the aide-de-camp. "I distrust those fellows too
much to--"

The First Consul could not restrain a smile as he pushed his faithful
officer by the shoulders.

"Well, what has brought you here, my poor Bartolomeo?" said Napoleon.
"To ask asylum and protection from you, if you are a true Corsican,"

replied Bartolomeo, roughly.
"What ill fortune drove you from the island? You were the richest, the

most--"
"I have killed all the Portas," replied the Corsican, in a deep voice,

frowning heavily.
The First Consul took two steps backward in surprise.

"Do you mean to betray me?" cried Bartolomeo, with a darkling look at
Bonaparte. "Do you know that there are still four Piombos in Corsica?"

Lucien took an arm of his compatriot and shook it.
"Did you come here to threaten the savior of France?" he said.

Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who kept silence. Then he looked at
Piombo and said:--

"Why did you kill the Portas?"
"We had made friends," replied the man; "the Barbantis reconciled us.

The day after we had drunk together to drown our quarrels, I left home
because I had business at Bastia. The Portas remained in my house, and

set fire to my vineyard at Longone. They killed my son Gregorio. My
daughter Ginevra and my wife, having taken the sacrament that morning,

escaped; the Virgin protected them. When I returned I found no house;
my feet were in its ashes as I searched for it. Suddenly they struck

against the body of Gregorio; I recognized him in the moonlight. 'The
Portas have dealt me this blow,' I said; and, forthwith, I went to the

woods, and there I called together all the men whom I had ever served,
--do you hear me, Bonaparte?--and we marched to the vineyard of the

Portas. We got there at five in the morning; at seven they were all
before God. Giacomo declares that Eliza Vanni saved a child, Luigi.

But I myself bound him to his bed before setting fire to the house. I
have left the island with my wife and child without being able to

discover whether, indeed, Luigi Porta is alive."
Bonaparte looked with curiosity at Bartolomeo, but without surprise.

"How many were there?" asked Lucien.
"Seven," replied Piombo. "All of them were your persecutors in the

olden times."