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The Purse-Part4_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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sometimes at eleven o'clock, on quitting the house, the painter

still had visits to pay, and was to be seen in the most brilliant



drawing-rooms of Paris. This mode of life, she assured him, was

bad for his health; then, with the intenseconviction to which



the accent, the emphasis and the look of one we love lend so much

weight, she asserted that a man who was obliged to expend his



time and the charms of his wit on several women at once could not

be the object of any very warm affection. Thus the painter was



led, as much by the tyranny of his passion as by the exactions of

a girl in love, to live exclusively in the little apartment where



everything attracted him.

And never was there a purer or more ardent love. On both sides



the same trustfulness, the same delicacy, gave their passion

increase without the aid of those sacrifices by which many



persons try to prove their affection. Between these two there was

such a constantinterchange of sweet emotion that they knew not



which gave or received the most.

A spontaneousaffinity made the union of their souls a close one.



The progress of this true feeling was so rapid that two months

after the accident to which the painter owed the happiness of



knowing Adelaide, their lives were one life. From early morning

the young girl, hearing footsteps overhead, could say to herself,



"He is there." When Hippolyte went home to his mother at the

dinner hour he never failed to look in on his neighbors, and in



the evening he flew there at the accustomed hour with a lover's

punctuality. Thus the most tyrannical woman or the most ambitious



in the matter of love could not have found the smallest fault

with the young painter. And Adelaide tasted of unmixed and



unbounded happiness as she saw the fullest realization of the

ideal of which, at her age, it is so natural to dream.



The old gentleman now came more rarely; Hippolyte, who had been

jealous, had taken his place at the green table, and shared his



constant ill-luck at cards. And sometimes, in the midst of his

happiness, as he considered Madame de Rouville's disastrous



position--for he had had more than one proof of her extreme

poverty--an importunate thought would haunt him. Several times he



had said to himself as he went home, "Strange! twenty francs

every evening?" and he dared not confess to himself his odious



suspicions.

He spent two months over the portrait, and when it was finished,



varnished, and framed, he looked upon it as one of his best

works. Madame la Baronne de Rouville had never spoken of it



again. Was this from indifference or pride? The painter would not

allow himself to account for this silence. He joyfully plotted



with Adelaide to hang the picture in its place when Madame de

Rouville should be out. So one day, during the walk her mother



usually took in the Tuileries, Adelaide for the first time went

up to Hippolyte's studio, on the pretext of seeing the portrait



in the good light in which it had been painted. She stood

speechless and motionless, but in ecstatic contemplation, in



which all a woman's feelings were merged. For are they not all

comprehended in boundlessadmiration for the man she loves? When



the painter, uneasy at her silence, leaned forward to look at

her, she held out her hand, unable to speak a word, but two tears



fell from her eyes. Hippolyte took her hand and covered it with

kisses; for a minute they looked at each other in silence, both



longing to confess their love, and not daring. The painter kept

her hand in his, and the same glow, the same throb, told them



that their hearts were both beating wildly. The young girl, too

greatly agitated, gently drew away from Hippolyte, and said, with



a look of the utmostsimplicity:

"You will make my mother very happy."



"What, only your mother?" he asked.




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