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The Magic Skin-Part32_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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Pauline!----"

He took a pair of compasses and measured the extent of existence that



the morning had cost him.

"I have scarcely enough for two months!" he said.



A cold sweat broke out over him; moved by an ungovernable spasm of

rage, he seized the Magic Skin, exclaiming:



"I am a perfect fool!"

He rushed out of the house and across the garden, and flung the



talisman down a well.

"Vogue la galere," cried he. "The devil take all this nonsense."



So Raphael gave himself up to the happiness of being beloved, and led

with Pauline the life of heart and heart. Difficulties which it would



be somewhat tedious to describe had delayed their marriage, which was

to take place early in March. Each was sure of the other; their



affection had been tried, and happiness had taught them how strong it

was. Never has love made two souls, two natures, so absolutely one.



The more they came to know of each other, the more they loved. On

either side there was the same hesitating delicacy, the same



transports of joy such as angels know; there were no clouds in their

heaven; the will of either was the other's law.



Wealthy as they both were, they had not a caprice which they could not

gratify, and for that reason had no caprices. A refined taste, a



feeling for beauty and poetry, was instinct in the soul of the bride;

her lover's smile was more to her than all the pearls of Ormuz. She



disdained feminine finery; a muslin dress and flowers formed her most

elaborate toilette.



Pauline and Raphael shunned every one else, for solitude was

abundantly beautiful to them. The idlers at the Opera, or at the



Italiens, saw this charming and unconventional pair evening after

evening. Some gossip went the round of the salons at first, but the



harmless lovers were soon forgotten in the course of events which took

place in Paris; their marriage was announced at length to excuse them



in the eyes of the prudish; and as it happened, their servants did not

babble; so their bliss did not draw down upon them any very severe



punishment.

One morning towards the end of February, at the time when the



brightening days bring a belief in the nearness of the joys of spring,

Pauline and Raphael were breakfasting together in a small



conservatory, a kind of drawing-room filled with flowers, on a level

with the garden. The mild rays of the pale winter sunlight, breaking



through the thicket of exotic plants, warmed the air somewhat. The

vivid contrast made by the varieties of foliage, the colors of the



masses of flowering shrubs, the freaks of light and shadow, gladdened

the eyes. While all the rest of Paris still sought warmth from its



melancholy hearth, these two were laughing in a bower of camellias,

lilacs, and blossoming heath. Their happy faces rose above lilies of



the valley, narcissus blooms, and Bengal roses. A mat of plaited

African grass, variegated like a carpet, lay beneath their feet in



this luxurious conservatory. The walls, covered with a green linen

material, bore no traces of damp. The surfaces of the rustic wooden



furniture shone with cleanliness. A kitten, attracted by the odor of

milk, had established itself upon the table; it allowed Pauline to



bedabble it in coffee; she was playing merrily with it, taking away

the cream that she had just allowed the kitten to sniff at, so as to



exercise its patience, and keep up the contest. She burst out laughing

at every antic, and by the comical remarks she constantly made, she



hindered Raphael from perusing the paper; he had dropped it a dozen

times already. This morning picture seemed to overflow with



inexpressible gladness, like everything that is natural and genuine.

Raphael, still pretending to read his paper, furtively watched Pauline



with the cat--his Pauline, in the dressing-gown that hung carelessly

about her; his Pauline, with her hair loose on her shoulders, with a



tiny, white, blue-veined foot peeping out of a velvetslipper. It was

pleasant to see her in this negligent dress; she was delightful as



some fanciful picture by Westall; half-girl, half-woman, as she seemed

to be, or perhaps more of a girl than a woman, there was no alloy in



the happiness she enjoyed, and of love she knew as yet only its first

ecstasy. When Raphael, absorbed in happy musing, had forgotten the



existence of the newspaper, Pauline flew upon it, crumpled it up into

a ball, and threw it out into the garden; the kittensprang after the



rotating object, which spun round and round, as politics are wont to

do. This childish scene recalled Raphael to himself. He would have



gone on reading, and felt for the sheet he no longer possessed. Joyous




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