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The Purse-Part3_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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the measure of the time? This coat, which the young men of the



present day may conceive to be fabulous, was neither civil nor

military, and might pass for civil or military by turns. Fleurs-



de-lis were embroidered on the lapels of the back skirts. The

gilt buttons also bore fleurs-de-lis; on the shoulders a pair of



straps cried out for useless epaulettes; these military

appendages were there like a petition without a recommendation.



This old gentleman's coat was of dark blue cloth, and the

buttonhole had blossomed into many colored ribbons. He, no doubt,



always carried his hat in his hand--a three cornered cocked hat,

with a gold cord--for the snowy wings of his powdered hair showed



not a trace of its pressure. He might have been taken for not

more than fifty years of age, and seemed to enjoy robust health.



While wearing the frank and loyal expression of the old emigres,

his countenance also hinted at the easy habits of a libertine, at



the light and reckless passions of the Musketeers formerly so

famous in the annals of gallantry. His gestures, his attitude,



and his manner proclaimed that he had no intention of correcting

himself of his royalism, of his religion, or of his love affairs.



A really fantastic figure came in behind this specimen of "Louis

XIV.'s light infantry"--a nickname given by the Bonapartists to



these venerable survivors of the Monarchy. To do it justice it

ought to be made the principal object in the picture, and it is



but an accessory. Imagine a lean, dry man, dressed like the

former, but seeming to be only his reflection, or his shadow, if



you will. The coat, new on the first, on the second was old; the

powder in his hair looked less white, the gold of the fleurs-de-



lis less bright, the shoulder straps more hopeless and dog's

eared; his intellect seemed more feeble, his life nearer the



fatal term than in the former. In short, he realized Rivarol's

witticism on Champcenetz, "He is the moonlight of me." He was



simply his double, a paler and poorer double, for there was

between them all the difference that lies between the first and



last impressions of a lithograph.

This speechless old man was a mystery to the painter, and always



remained a mystery. The Chevalier, for he was a Chevalier, did

not speak, nobody spoke to him. Was he a friend, a poor relation,



a man who followed at the old gallant's heels as a lady companion

does at an old lady's? Did he fill a place midway between a dog,



a parrot, and a friend? Had he saved his patron's fortune, or

only his life? Was he the Trim to another Captain Toby?



Elsewhere, as at the Baronne de Rouville's, he always piqued

curiosity without satisfying it. Who, after the Restoration,



could remember the attachment which, before the Revolution, had

bound this man to his friend's wife, dead now these twenty year?



The leader, who appeared the least dilapidated of these wrecks,

came gallantly up to Madame de Rouville, kissed her hand, and sat



down by her. The other bowed and placed himself not far from his

model, at a distance represented by two chairs. Adelaide came



behind the old gentleman's armchair and leaned her elbows on the

back, unconsciously imitating the attitude given to Dido's sister



by Guerin in his famous picture.

Though the gentleman's familiarity was that of a father, his



freedom seemed at the moment to annoy the young girl.

"What, are you sulky with me?" he said.



Then he shot at Schinner one of those side-looks full of

shrewdness and cunning, diplomatic looks, whose expression



betrays the discreetuneasiness, the politecuriosity of well-

bred people, and seems to ask, when they see a stranger, "Is he



one of us?"

"This is our neighbor," said the old lady, pointing to Hippolyte.






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