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The Duchesse de Langeais-Part20_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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pleasant littlenesses. What do you say, Antoinette?"



Woman of the world though she was, the Duchess seemed agitated,

yet she replied in a natural voice that deceived her fair



friend--

"I am sorry to miss him. I took a great interest in him, and



promised to myself to be his sincere friend. I like great

natures, dear friend, ridiculous though you may think it. To



give oneself to a fool is a clear confession, is it not, that one

is governed wholly by one's senses?



Mme de Serizy's "preferences" had always been for commonplace

men; her lover at the moment, the Marquis d'Aiglemont, was a



fine, tall man.

After this, the Countess soon took her departure, you may be sure



Mme de Langeais saw hope in Armand's withdrawal from the world;

she wrote to him at once; it was a humble, gentle letter, surely



it would bring him if he loved her still. She sent her footman

with it next day. On the servant's return, she asked whether he



had given the letter to M. de Montriveau himself, and could not

restrain the movement of joy at the affirmative answer. Armand



was in Paris! He stayed alone in his house; he did not go out

into society! So she was loved! All day long she waited for an



answer that never came. Again and again, when impatience grew

unbearable, Antoinette found reasons for his delay. Armand felt



embarrassed; the reply would come by post; but night came, and

she could not deceive herself any longer. It was a dreadful day,



a day of pain grown sweet, of intolerable heart-throbs, a day

when the heart squanders the very forces of life in riot.



Next day she sent for an answer.

"M. le Marquis sent word that he would call on Mme la



Duchesse," reported Julien.

She fled lest her happiness should be seen in her face, and flung



herself on her couch to devour her first sensations.

"He is coming!"



The thought rent her soul. And, in truth, woe unto those for

whom suspense is not the most horrible time of tempest, while it



increases and multiplies the sweetest joys; for they have nothing

in them of that flame which quickens the images of things, giving



to them a second existence, so that we cling as closely to the

pure essence as to its outward and visiblemanifestation. What



is suspense in love but a constantdrawing upon an unfailing

hope?--a submission to the terrible scourging of passion, while



passion is yet happy, and the disenchantment of reality has not

set in. The constant putting forth of strength and longing,



called suspense, is surely, to the human soul, as fragrance to

the flower that breathes it forth. We soon leave the brilliant,



unsatisfying colours of tulips and coreopsis, but we turn again

and again to drink in the sweetness of orange-blossoms or



volkameria-flowers compared separately, each in its own land, to

a betrothed bride, full of love, made fair by the past and



future.

The Duchess learned the joys of this new life of hers through the



rapture with which she received the scourgings of love. As this

change wrought in her, she saw other destinies before her, and a



better meaning in the things of life. As she hurried to her

dressing-room, she understood what studied adornment and the most



minute attention to her toilet mean when these are undertaken for

love's sake and not for vanity. Even now this making ready



helped her to bear the long time of waiting. A relapse of

intense agitation set in when she was dressed; she passed through



nervous paroxysms brought on by the dreadful power which sets the

whole mind in ferment. Perhaps that power is only a disease,



though the pain of it is sweet. The Duchess was dressed and

waiting at two o clock in the afternoon. At half-past eleven



that night M. de Montriveau had not arrived. To try to give an

idea of the anguish endured by a woman who might be said to be



the spoilt child of civilisation, would be to attempt to say how

many imaginings the heart can condense into one thought. As well



endeavour to measure the forces expended by the soul in a sigh




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