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Bargeton went to a ridotto given to the town by a regiment, and fell

in love with an officer of a good family, a sub-lieutenant, to whom



the crafty Napoleon had given a glimpse of the baton of a Marshal of

France. Love, restrained, greater and nobler than the ties that were



made and unmade so easily in those days, was consecrated coldly by the

hands of death. On the battlefield of Wagram a shell shattered the



only record of Mme. de Bargeton's young beauty, a portrait worn on the

heart of the Marquis of Cante-Croix. For long afterwards she wept for



the young soldier, the colonel in his second campaign, for the heart

hot with love and glory that set a letter from Nais above Imperial



favor. The pain of those days cast a veil of sadness over her face, a

shadow that only vanished at the terrible age when a woman first



discovers with dismay that the best years of her life are over, and

she has had no joy of them; when she sees her roses wither, and the



longing for love is revived again with the desire to linger yet for a

little on the last smiles of youth. Her nobler qualities dealt so many



wounds to her soul at the moment when the cold of the provinces seized

upon her. She would have died of grief like the ermine if by chance



she had been sullied by contact with those men whose thoughts are bent

on winning a few sous nightly at cards after a good dinner; pride



saved her from the shabby love intrigues of the provinces. A woman so

much above the level of those about her, forced to decide between the



emptiness of the men whom she meets and the emptiness of her own life,

can make but one choice; marriage and society became a cloister for



Anais. She lived by poetry as the Carmelite lives by religion. All the

famous foreign books published in France for the first time between



1815 and 1821, the great essayists, M. de Bonald and M. de Maistre

(those two eagles of thought)--all the lighter French literature, in



short, that appeared during that sudden outburst of first vigorous

growth might bring delight into her solitary life, but not flexibility



of mind or body. She stood strong and straight like some forest tree,

lightning-blasted but still erect. Her dignity became a stilted



manner, her social supremacy led her into affectation and sentimental

over-refinements; she queened it with her foibles, after the usual



fashion of those who allow their courtiers to adore them.

This was Mme. de Bargeton's past life, a drearychronicle which must



be given if Lucien's position with regard to the lady is to be

comprehensible. Lucien's introduction came about oddly enough. In the



previous winter a newcomer had brought some interest into Mme. de

Bargeton's monotonous life. The place of controller of excise fell



vacant, and M. de Barante appointed a man whose adventurous life was a

sufficient passport to the house of the sovereign lady who had her



share of femininecuriosity.

M. de Chatelet--he began life as plain Sixte Chatelet, but since 1806



had the wit to adopt the particle--M. du Chatelet was one of the

agreeable young men who escaped conscription after conscription by



keeping very close to the Imperial sun. He had begun his career as

private secretary to an Imperial Highness, a post for which he



possessed every qualification. Personable and of a good figure, a

clever billiard-player, a passable amateur actor, he danced well, and



excelled in most physical exercises; he could, moreover, sing a ballad

and applaud a witticism. Supple, envious, never at a loss, there was



nothing that he did not know--nothing that he really knew. He knew

nothing, for instance, of music, but he could sit down to the piano






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