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The Magic Skin-Part43_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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vainly tried to pierce her heart, and now thought to find a rapid

death by strangling herself with her shawl.



"If I die, he will live," she said, trying to tighten the knot that

she had made.



In her struggle with death her hair hung loose, her shoulders were

bare, her clothing was disordered, her eyes were bathed in tears, her



face was flushed and drawn with the horror of despair; yet as her

exceeding beauty met Raphael's intoxicated eyes, his delirium grew. He



sprang towards her like a bird of prey, tore away the shawl, and tried

to take her in his arms.



The dying man sought for words to express the wish that was consuming

his strength; but no sounds would come except the choking death-rattle



in his chest. Each breath he drew sounded hollower than the last, and

seemed to come from his very entrails. At the last moment, no longer



able to utter a sound, he set his teeth in Pauline's breast. Jonathan

appeared, terrified by the cries he had heard, and tried to tear away



the dead body from the grasp of the girl who was crouching with it in

a corner.



"What do you want?" she asked. "He is mine, I have killed him. Did I

not foresee how it would be?"



EPILOGUE

"And what became of Pauline?"



"Pauline? Ah! Do you sometimes spend a pleasant winter evening by your

own fireside, and give yourself up luxuriously to memories of love or



youth, while you watch the glow of the fire where the logs of oak are

burning? Here, the fire outlines a sort of chessboard in red squares,



there it has a sheen like velvet; little blue flames start up and

flicker and play about in the glowing depths of the brasier. A



mysterious artist comes and adapts that flame to his own ends; by a

secret of his own he draws a visionary face in the midst of those



flaming violet and crimson hues, a face with unimaginable delicate

outlines, a fleetingapparition which no chance will ever bring back



again. It is a woman's face, her hair is blown back by the wind, her

features speak of a rapture of delight; she breathes fire in the midst



of the fire. She smiles, she dies, you will never see her any more.

Farewell, flower of the flame! Farewell, essenceincomplete and



unforeseen, come too early or too late to make the spark of some

glorious diamond."



"But, Pauline?"

"You do not see, then? I will begin again. Make way! make way! She



comes, she is here, the queen of illusions, a woman fleeting as a

kiss, a woman bright as lightning, issuing in a blaze like lightning



from the sky, a being uncreated, of spirit and love alone. She has

wrapped her shadowy form in flame, or perhaps the flame betokens that



she exists but for a moment. The pure outlines of her shape tell you

that she comes from heaven. Is she not radiant as an angel? Can you



not hear the beating of her wings in space? She sinks down beside you

more lightly than a bird, and you are entranced by her awful eyes;



there is a magical power in her light breathing that draws your lips

to hers; she flies and you follow; you feel the earth beneath you no



longer. If you could but once touch that form of snow with your eager,

deluded hands, once twine the golden hair round your fingers, place



one kiss on those shining eyes! There is an intoxicating vapor around,

and the spell of a siren music is upon you. Every nerve in you is



quivering; you are filled with pain and longing. O joy for which there

is no name! You have touched the woman's lips, and you are awakened at



once by a horrible pang. Oh! ah! yes, you have struck your head

against the corner of the bedpost, you have been clasping its brown



mahogany sides, and chilly gilt ornaments; embracing a piece of metal,

a brazen Cupid."



"But how about Pauline, sir?"

"What, again? Listen. One lovely morning at Tours a young man, who



held the hand of a pretty woman in his, went on board the Ville

d'Angers. Thus united they both looked and wondered long at a white



form that rose elusively out of the mists above the broad waters of

the Loire, like some child of the sun and the river, or some freak of



air and cloud. This translucent form was a sylph or a naiad by turns;

she hovered in the air like a word that haunts the memory, which seeks



in vain to grasp it; she glided among the islands, she nodded her head

here and there among the tall poplar trees; then she grew to a giant's



height; she shook out the countless folds of her drapery to the light;

she shot light from the aureole that the sun had litten about her






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