to outshine the heroes or the swaggerers to be found in her circle.

When I believed that I had left poverty for ever behind me, I regained
my freedom of mind, humiliated my rivals, and was looked upon as a

very attractive, dazzling, and irresistible sort of man. But acute
folk used to say with regard to me, 'A fellow as clever as that will

keep all his enthusiasms in his brain,' and charitably extolled my
faculties at the expense of my feelings. 'Isn't he lucky, not to be in

love!' they exclaimed. 'If he were, could he be so light-hearted and
animated?' Yet in Foedora's presence I was as dull as love could make

me. When I was alone with her, I had not a word to say, or if I did
speak, I renounced love; and I affectedgaiety but ill, like a

courtier who has a bitter mortification to hide. I tried in every way
to make myself indispensable in her life, and necessary to her vanity

and to her comfort; I was a plaything at her pleasure, a slave always
at her side. And when I had frittered away the day in this way, I went

back to my work at night, securing merely two or three hours' sleep in
the early morning.

"But I had not, like Rastignac, the 'English system' at my finger-
ends, and I very soon saw myself without a penny. I fell at once into

that precarious way of life which industriously hides cold and
miserable depths beneath an elusive surface of luxury; I was a coxcomb

without conquests, a penniless fop, a namelessgallant. The old
sufferings were renewed, but less sharply; no doubt I was growing used

to the painfulcrisis. Very often my sole diet consisted of the scanty
provision of cakes and tea that is offered in drawing-rooms, or one of

the countess' great dinners must sustain me for two whole days. I used
all my time, and exerted every effort and all my powers of

observation, to penetrate the impenetrable character of Foedora.
Alternate hope and despair had swayed my opinions; for me she was

sometimes the tenderest, sometimes the most unfeeling of women. But
these transitions from joy to sadness became unendurable; I sought to

end the horribleconflict within me by extinguishing love. By the
light of warning gleams my soul sometimes recognized the gulfs that

lay between us. The countess confirmed all my fears; I had never yet
detected any tear in her eyes; an affecting scene in a play left her

smiling and unmoved. All her instincts were selfish; she could not
divine another's joy or sorrow. She had made a fool of me, in fact!

"I had rejoiced over a sacrifice to make for her, and almost
humiliated myself in seeking out my kinsman, the Duc de Navarreins, a

selfish man who was ashamed of my poverty, and had injured me too
deeply not to hate me. He received me with the politecoldness that

makes every word and gesture seem an insult; he looked so ill at ease
that I pitied him. I blushed for this pettiness amid grandeur, and

penuriousness surrounded by luxury. He began to talk to me of his
heavy losses in the three per cents, and then I told him the object of

my visit. The change in his manners, hitherto glacial, which now
gradually, became affectionate, disgusted me.

"Well, he called upon the countess, and completely eclipsed me with
her.

"On him Foedora exercised spells and witcheries unheard of; she drew
him into her power, and arranged her whole mysterious business with

him; I was left out, I heard not a word of it; she had made a tool of
me! She did not seem to be aware of my existence while my cousin was

present; she received me less cordially perhaps than when I was first
presented to her. One evening she chose to mortify me before the duke

by a look, a gesture, that it is useless to try to express in words. I
went away with tears in my eyes, planning terrible and outrageous

schemes of vengeance without end.
"I often used to go with her to the theatre. Love utterly absorbed me

as I sat beside her; as I looked at her I used to give myself up to
the pleasure of listening to the music, putting all my soul into the

double joy of love and of hearing every emotion of my heart translated
into musical cadences. It was my passion that filled the air and the

stage, that was triumphant everywhere but with my mistress. Then I
would take Foedora's hand. I used to scan her features and her eyes,

imploring of them some indication that one blended feeling possessed
us both, seeking for the sudden harmony awakened by the power of

music, which makes our souls vibrate in unison; but her hand was
passive, her eyes said nothing.

"When the fire that burned in me glowed too fiercely from the face I
turned upon her, she met it with that studied smile of hers, the

conventional expression that sits on the lips of every portrait in
every exhibition. She was not listening to the music. The divine pages

of Rossini, Cimarosa, or Zingarelli called up no emotion, gave no
voice to any poetry in her life; her soul was a desert.

"Foedora presented herself as a drama before a drama. Her lorgnette
traveled restlessly" target="_blank" title="ad.不安定地；烦躁地">restlessly over the boxes; she was restless too beneath the

apparent calm; fashion tyrannized over her; her box, her bonnet, her
carriage, her own personality absorbed her entirely. My merciless

knowledge thoroughly tore away all my illusions. If good breeding
consists in self-forgetfulness and consideration for others, in

constantly showing gentleness in voice and bearing, in pleasing
others, and in making them content in themselves, all traces of her

plebeian origin were not yet obliterated in Foedora, in spite of her
cleverness. Her self-forgetfulness was a sham, her manners were not

innate but painfully acquired, her politeness was rather subservient.
And yet for those she singled out, her honeyed words expressed natural

kindness, her pretentious exaggeration was exalted enthusiasm. I alone
had scrutinized her grimacings, and stripped away the thin rind that

sufficed to conceal her real nature from the world; her trickery no
longer deceived me; I had sounded the depths of that feline nature. I

blushed for her when some donkey or other flattered and complimented
her. And yet I loved her through it all! I hoped that her snows would

melt with the warmth of a poet's love. If I could only have made her
feel all the greatness that lies in devotion, then I should have seen

her perfected, she would have been an angel. I loved her as a man, a
lover, and an artist; if it had been necessary not to love her so that

I might win her, some cool-headed coxcomb, some self-possessed
calculator would perhaps have had an advantage over me. She was so

vain and sophisticated, that the language of vanity would appeal to
her; she would have allowed herself to be taken in the toils of an

intrigue; a hard, cold nature would have gained a complete ascendency
over her. Keen grief had pierced me to my very soul, as she

unconsciously revealed her absolute love of self. I seemed to see her
as she one day would be, alone in the world, with no one to whom she

could stretch her hand, with no friendly eyes for her own to meet and
rest upon. I was bold enough to set this before her one evening; I

painted in vivid colors her lonely, sad, deserted old age. Her comment
on this prospect of so terrible a revenge of thwarted nature was

horrible.
" 'I shall always have money,' she said; 'and with money we can always

inspire such sentiments as are necessary for our comfort in those
about us.'

"I went away confounded by the arguments of luxury, by the reasoning
of this woman of the world in which she lived; and blamed myself for

my infatuated idolatry. I myself had not loved Pauline because she was
poor; and had not the wealthy Foedora a right to repulse Raphael?

Conscience is our unerring judge until we finally stifle it. A
specious voice said within me, 'Foedora is neither attracted to nor

repulses any one; she has her liberty, but once upon a time she sold
herself to the Russian count, her husband or her lover, for gold. But

temptation is certain to enter into her life. Wait till that moment
comes!' She lived remote from humanity, in a sphere apart, in a hell

or a heaven of her own; she was neither frail nor virtuous. This
feminine enigma in embroideries and cashmeres had brought into play

every emotion of the human heart in me--pride, ambition, love,
curiosity.

"There was a craze just then for praising a play at a little Boulevard
theatre, prompted perhaps by a wish to appear original that besets us

all, or due to some freak of fashion. The countess showed some signs
of a wish to see the floured face of the actor who had so delighted

several people of taste, and I obtained the honor of taking her to a
first presentation of some wretched farce or other. A box scarcely

cost five francs, but I had not a brass farthing. I was but half-way
through the volume of Memoirs; I dared not beg for assistance of

Finot, and Rastignac, my providence, was away. These constant
perplexities were the bane of my life.

"We had once come out of the theatre when it was raining heavily,
Foedora had called a cab for me before I could escape from her show of

concern; she would not admit any of my excuses--my liking for wet