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The Collection of Antiquities-Part11_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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"It is the best way of keeping the money safe," said he; "I am twice

enchanted to have won it yesterday from my honored father, Milord



Dudley."

Such French grace completely fascinated d'Esgrignon; he took it for



friendship; and as to the money, punctually forgot to pay his debts

with it, and spent it on his pleasures. The fact was that de Marsay



was looking on with an unspeakable pleasure while young d'Esgrignon

"got out of his depth," in dandy's idiom; it pleased de Marsay in all



sorts of fondling ways to lay an arm on the lad's shoulder; by and by

he should feel its weight, and disappear the sooner. For de Marsay was



jealous; the Duchess flaunted her love affair; she was not at home to

other visitors when d'Esgrignon was with her. And besides, de Marsay



was one of those savage humorists who delight in mischief, as Turkish

women in the bath. So when he had carried off the prize, and bets were



settled at the tavern where they breakfasted, and a bottle or two of

good wine had appeared, de Marsay turned to d'Esgrignon with a laugh:



"Those bills that you are worrying over are not yours, I am sure."

"Eh! if they weren't, why should he worry himself?" asked Rastignac.



"And whose should they be?" d'Esgrignon inquired.

"Then you do not know the Duchess' position?" queried de Marsay, as he



sprang into the saddle.

"No," said d'Esgrignon, his curiosity aroused.



"Well, dear fellow, it is like this," returned de Marsay--"thirty

thousand francs to Victorine, eighteen thousand francs to Houbigaut,



lesser amounts to Herbault, Nattier, Nourtier, and those Latour

people,--altogether a hundred thousand francs."



"An angel!" cried d'Esgrignon, with eyes uplifted to heaven.

"This is the bill for her wings," Rastignac cried facetiously.



"She owes all that, my dear boy," continued de Marsay, "precisely

because she is an angel. But we have all seen angels in this



position," he added, glancing at Rastignac; "there is this about women

that is sublime: they understand nothing of money; they do not meddle



with it, it is no affair of theirs; they are invited guests at the

'banquet of life,' as some poet or other said that came to an end in



the workhouse."

"How do you know this when I do not?" d'Esgrignon artlessly returned.



"You are sure to be the last to know it, just as she is sure to be the

last to hear that you are in debt."



"I thought she had a hundred thousand livres a year," said

d'Esgrignon.



"Her husband," replied de Marsay, "lives apart from her. He stays with

his regiment and practises economy, for he has one or two little debts



of his own as well, has our dear Duke. Where do you come from? Just

learn to do as we do and keep our friends' accounts for them. Mlle.



Diane (I fell in love with her for the name's sake), Mlle. Diane

d'Uxelles brought her husband sixty thousand livres of income; for the



last eight years she has lived as if she had two hundred thousand. It

is perfectly plain that at this moment her lands are mortgaged up to



their full value; some fine morning the crash must come, and the angel

will be put to flight by--must it be said?--by sheriff's officers that



have the effrontery to lay hands on an angel just as they might take

hold of one of us."



"Poor angel!"

"Lord! it costs a great deal to dwell in a Parisian heaven; you must



whiten your wings and your complexion every morning," said Rastignac.

Now as the thought of confessing his debts to his beloved Diane had



passed through d'Esgrignon's mind, something like a shudder ran

through him when he remembered that he still owed sixty thousand



francs, to say nothing of bills to come for another ten thousand. He

went back melancholy enough. His friends remarked his ill-disguised



preoccupation, and spoke of it among themselves at dinner.

"Young d'Esgrignon is getting out of his depth. He is not up to Paris.



He will blow his brains out. A little fool!" and so on and so on.

D'Esgrignon, however, promptly took comfort. His servant brought him



two letters. The first was from Chesnel. A letter from Chesnel smacked

of the stale grumbling faithfulness of honesty and its consecrated



formulas. With all respect he put it aside till the evening. But the

second letter he read with unspeakable pleasure. In Ciceronian






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