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An Old Maid-Part13_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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guests had meantime assembled for the evening. Mademoiselle Cormon,



from a sense of shamefacedness, dared not look at the terrible

seducer. She seized upon Athanase, and began to lecture him with the



queerest platitudes about royalistpolitics and religious morality.

Not possessing, like the Chevalier de Valois, a snuff-box adorned with



a princess, by the help of which he could stand this torrent of

silliness, the poor poet listened to the words of her whom he loved



with a stupid air, gazing, meanwhile, at her enormous bust, which held

itself before him in that still repose which is the attribute of all



great masses. His love produced in him a sort of intoxication which

changed the shrill voice of the old maid into a soft murmur, and her



flat remarks into witty speeches. Love is a maker of false coin,

continually changing copper pennies into gold-pieces, and sometimes



turning its real gold into copper.

"Well, Athanase, will you promise me?"



This final sentence struck the ear of the absorbed young man like one

of those noises which wake us with a bound.



"What, mademoiselle?"

Mademoiselle Cormon rose hastily, and looked at du Bousquier, who at



that moment resembled the stout god of Fable which the Republic

stamped upon her coins. She walked up to Madame Granson, and said in



her ear:--

"My dear friend, you son is an idiot. That lyceum has ruined him," she



added, remembering the insistence with which the chevalier had spoken

of the evils of education in such schools.



What a catastrophe! Unknown to himself, the luckless Athanase had had

an occasion to fling an ember of his own fire upon the pile of brush



gathered in the heart of the old maid. Had he listened to her, he

might have made her, then and there, perceive his passion; for, in the



agitated state of Mademoiselle Cormon's mind, a single word would have

sufficed. But that stupidabsorption in his own sentiments, which



characterizes young and true love, had ruined him, as a child full of

life sometimes kills itself out of ignorance.



"What have you been saying to Mademoiselle Cormon?" demanded his

mother.



"Nothing."

"Nothing; well, I can explain that," she thought to herself, putting



off till the next day all further reflection on the matter, and

attaching but little importance to Mademoiselle Cormon's words; for



she fully believed that du Bousquier was forever lost in the old

maid's esteem after the revelation of that evening.



Soon the four tables were filled with their sixteen players. Four

persons were playing piquet,--an expensive game, at which the most



money was lost. Monsieur Choisnel, the procureur-du-roi, and two

ladies went into the boudoir for a game at backgammon. The glass



lustres were lighted; and then the flower of Mademoiselle Cormon's

company gathered before the fireplace, on sofas, and around the



tables, and each couple said to her as they arrived,--

"So you are going to-morrow to Prebaudet?"



"Yes, I really must," she replied.

On this occasion the mistress of the house appeared preoccupied.



Madame Granson was the first to perceive the quite unnatural state of

the old maid's mind,--Mademoiselle Cormon was thinking!



"What are you thinking of, cousin?" she said at last, finding her

seated in the boudoir.



"I am thinking," she replied, "of that poor girl. As the president of

the Maternity Society, I will give you fifty francs for her."



"Fifty francs!" cried Madame Granson. "But you have never given as

much as that."



"But, my dear cousin, it is so natural to have children."

That immoral speech coming from the heart of the old maid staggered



the treasurer of the Maternity Society. Du Bousquier had evidently

advanced in the estimation of Mademoiselle Cormon.



"Upon my word," said Madame Granson, "du Bousquier is not only a

monster, he is a villain. When a man has done a wrong like that, he



ought to pay the indemnity. Isn't it his place rather than ours to

look after the girl?--who, to tell you the truth, seems to me rather



questionable; there are plenty of better men in Alencon than that

cynic du Bousquier. A girl must be depraved, indeed, to go after him."



"Cynic! Your son teaches you to talk Latin, my dear, which is wholly

incomprehensible. Certainly I don't wish to excuse Monsieur du






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