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The Vicar of Tours-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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At first, the only furniture the poor canon could put in was a bed, a

table, a few chairs, and the books he possessed. The apartment was



like a beautiful woman in rags. But two or three years later, an old

lady having left the Abbe Chapeloud two thousand francs, he spent that



sum on the purchase of an oak bookcase, the relic of a chateau pulled

down by the Bande Noire, the carving of which deserved the admiration



of all artists. The abbe made the purchase less because it was very

cheap than because the dimensions of the bookcase exactly fitted the



space it was to fill in his gallery. His savings enabled him to

renovate the whole gallery, which up to this time had been neglected



and shabby. The floor was carefully waxed, the ceiling whitened, the

wood-work painted to resemble the grain and knots of oak. A long table



in ebony and two cabinets by Boulle completed the decoration, and gave

to this gallery a certain air that was full of character. In the



course of two years the liberality of devout persons, and legacies,

though small ones, from pious penitents, filled the shelves of the



bookcase, till then half empty. Moreover, Chapeloud's uncle, an old

Oratorian, had left him his collection in folio of the Fathers of the



Church, and several other important works that were precious to a

priest.



Birotteau, more and more surprised by the successive improvements of

the gallery, once so bare, came by degrees to a condition of



involuntary envy. He wished he could possess that apartment, so

thoroughly in keeping with the gravity of ecclestiastical life. The



passion increased from day to day. Working, sometimes for days

together, in this retreat, the vicar could appreciate the silence and



the peace that reigned there. During the following year the Abbe

Chapeloud turned a small room into an oratory, which his pious friends



took pleasure in beautifying. Still later, another lady gave the canon

a set of furniture for his bedroom, the covering of which she had



embroidered under the eyes of the worthy man without his ever

suspecting its destination. The bedroom then had the same effect upon



the vicar that the gallery had long had; it dazzled him. Lastly, about

three years before the Abbe Chapeloud's death, he completed the



comfort of his apartment by decorating the salon. Though the furniture

was plainly covered in red Utrecht velvet, it fascinated Birotteau.



From the day when the canon's friend first laid eyes on the red damask

curtains, the mahogany furniture, the Aubusson carpet which adorned



the vast room, then lately painted, his envy of Chapeloud's apartment

became a monomania hidden within his breast. To live there, to sleep



in that bed with the silk curtains where the canon slept, to have all

Chapeloud's comforts about him, would be, Birotteau felt, complete



happiness; he saw nothing beyond it. All the envy, all the ambition

which the things of this world give birth to in the hearts of other



men concentrated themelves for Birotteau in the deep and secret

longing he felt for an apartment like that which the Abbe Chapeloud



had created for himself. When his friend fell ill he went to him out

of true affection; but all the same, when he first heard of his



illness, and when he sat by his bed to keep him company, there arose

in the depths of his consciousness, in spite of himself, a crowd of



thoughts the simple formula of which was always, "If Chapeloud dies I

can have this apartment." And yet--Birotteau having an excellent



heart, contracted ideas, and a limited mind--he did not go so far as

to think of means by which to make his friend bequeath to him the



library and the furniture.

The Abbe Chapeloud, an amiable, indulgent egoist, fathomed his



friend's desires--not a difficult thing to do--and forgave them; which

may seem less easy to a priest; but it must be remembered that the



vicar, whose friendship was faithful, did not fail to take a daily

walk with his friend along their usual path in the Mail de Tours,



never once depriving him of an instant of the time devoted for over

twenty years to that exercise. Birotteau, who regarded his secret






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