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Modeste Mignon-Part40_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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the heart by Diane's exclamation,--"She is divine! where in the world

does she come from?"--and with that the bevy flew back to their seats,



resuming their composure, though Eleonore's heart was full of hungry

vipers all clamorous for a meal.



Mademoiselle d'Herouville said in a low voice and with much meaning to

the Duchesse de Verneuil, "Eleonore receives her Melchior very



ungraciously."

"The Duchesse de Maufrigneuse thinks there is a coolness between



them," said Laure de Verneuil, with simplicity.

Charming phrase! so often used in the world of society,--how the north



wind blows through it.

"Why so?" asked Modeste of the pretty young girl who had lately left



the Sacre-Coeur.

"The great poet," said the pious duchess--making a sign to her



daughter to be silent--"left Madame de Chaulieu without a letter for

more than two weeks after he went to Havre, having told her that he



went there for his health--"

Modeste made a hasty movement, which caught the attention of Laure,



Helene, and Mademoiselle d'Herouville.

"--and during that time," continued the devoutduchess, "she was



endeavoring to have him appointed commander of the Legion of honor,

and minister at Baden."



"Oh, that was shameful in Canalis; he owes everything to her,"

exclaimed Mademoiselle d'Herouville.



"Why did not Madame de Chaulieu come to Havre?" asked Modeste of

Helene, innocently.



"My dear," said the Duchesse de Verneuil, "she would let herself be

cut in little pieces without saying a word. Look at her,--she is



regal; her head would smile, like Mary Stuart's, after it was cut off;

in fact, she has some of that blood in her veins."



"Did she not write to him?" asked Modeste.

"Diane tells me," answered the duchess, prompted by a nudge from



Mademoiselle d'Herouville, "that in answer to Canalis's first letter

she made a cutting reply a few days ago."



This explanation made Modeste blush with shame for the man before her;

she longed, not to crush him under her feet, but to revenge herself by



one of those malicious acts that are sharper than a dagger's thrust.

She looked haughtily at the Duchesse de Chaulieu--



"Monsieur Melchior!" she said.

All the women snuffed the air and looked alternately at the duchess,



who was talking in an undertone to Canalis over the embroidery-frame,

and then at the young girl so ill brought up as to disturb a lovers'



meeting,--a think not permissible in any society. Diane de

Maufrigneuse nodded, however, as much as to say, "The child is in the



right of it." All the women ended by smiling at each other; they were

enraged with a woman who was fifty-six years old and still handsome



enough to put her fingers into the treasury and steal the dues of

youth. Melchior looked at Modeste with feverishimpatience, and made



the gesture of a master to a valet, while the duchess lowered her head

with the movement of a lioness disturbed at a meal; her eyes, fastened



on the canvas, emitted red flames in the direction of the poet, which

stabbed like epigrams, for each word revealed to her a triple insult.



"Monsieur Melchior!" said Modeste again in a voice that asserted its

right to be heard.



"What, mademoiselle?" demanded the poet.

Forced to rise, he remained standinghalf-way between the embroidery



frame, which was near a window, and the fireplace where Modeste was

seated with the Duchesse de Verneuil on a sofa. What bitter



reflections came into his ambitious mind, as he caught a glance from

Eleonore. If he obeyed Modeste all was over, and forever, between



himself and his protectress. Not to obey her was to avow his slavery,

to lose the chances of his twenty-five days of base manoeuvring, and



to disregard the plainest laws of decency and civility. The greater

the folly, the more imperatively the duchess exacted it. Modeste's



beauty and money thus pitted against Eleonore's rights and influence

made this hesitation between the man and his honor as terrible to



witness as the peril of a matador in the arena. A man seldom feels




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