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The Duchesse de Langeais-Part2_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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but a threefold expression of the same fact, of that craving for

expansion which stirs in every noble soul. And these three forms



of poetryascend to God, in whom all passion on earth finds its

end. Wherefore the holy human trinity finds a place amid the



infinite glories of God; of God, whom we always represent

surrounded with the fires of love and seistrons of gold--music



and light and harmony. Is not He the Cause and the End of all

our strivings?



The French General guessed rightly that here in the desert, on

this bare rock in the sea, the nun had seized upon music as an



outpouring of the passion that still consumed her. Was this her

manner of offering up her love as a sacrifice to God? Or was it



Love exultant in triumph over God? The questions were hard to

answer. But one thing at least the General could not mistake--in



this heart, dead to the world, the fire of passion burned as

fiercely as in his own.



Vespers over, he went back to the alcalde with whom he was

staying. In the all-absorbing joy which comes in such full



measure when a satisfaction sought long and painfully is attained

at last, he could see nothing beyond this--he was still loved!



In her heart love had grown in loneliness, even as his love had

grown stronger as he surmounted one barrier after another which



this woman had set between them! The glow of soul came to its

natural end. There followed a longing to see her again, to



contend with God for her, to snatch her away--a rash scheme,

which appealed to a daring nature. He went to bed, when the meal



was over, to avoid questions; to be alone and think at his ease;

and he lay absorbed by deep thought till day broke.



He rose only to go to mass. He went to the church and knelt

close to the screen, with his foreheadtouching the curtain; he



would have torn a hole in it if he had been alone, but his host

had come with him out of politeness, and the least imprudence



might compromise the whole future of his love, and ruin the new

hopes.



The organ sounded, but it was another player, and not the nun of

the last two days whose hands touched the keys. It was all



colourless and cold for the General. Was the woman he loved

prostrated by emotion which wellnigh overcame a strong man's



heart? Had she so fully realised and shared an unchanged,

longed-for love, that now she lay dying on her bed in her cell?



While innumerable thoughts of this kind perplexed his mind, the

voice of the woman he worshipped rang out close beside him; he



knew its clear resonant soprano. It was her voice, with that

faint tremor in it which gave it all the charm that shyness and



diffidence gives to a young girl; her voice, distinct from the

mass of singing as a prima donna's in the chorus of a finale. It



was like a golden or silver thread in dark frieze.

It was she! There could be no mistake. Parisienne now as ever,



she had not laid coquetry aside when she threw off worldly

adornments for the veil and the Carmelite's coarse serge. She



who had affirmed her love last evening in the praise sent up to

God, seemed now to say to her lover, "Yes, it is I. I am here.



My love is unchanged, but I am beyond the reach of love. You

will hear my voice, my soul shall enfold you, and I shall abide



here under the brown shroud in the choir from which no power on

earth can tear me. You shall never see me more!"



"It is she indeed!" the General said to himself, raising his




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