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Two Poets-Part9_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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One evening when Lucien came in, he found Mme. de Bargeton looking at

a portrait, which she promptly put away. He wished to see it, and to



quiet the despair of a first fit of jealousy" target="_blank" title="n.妒忌；猜忌">jealousy Louise showed him Cante-

Croix's picture, and told with tears the piteous story of a love so



stainless, so cruelly cut short. Was she experimenting with herself?

Was she trying a first unfaithfulness to the memory of the dead? Or



had she taken it into her head to raise up a rival to Lucien in the

portrait? Lucien was too much of a boy to analyze his lady-love; he



gave way to unfeigned despair when she opened the campaign by

entrenching herself behind the more or less skilfully devised scruples



which women raise to have them battered down. When a woman begins to

talk about her duty, regard for appearances or religion, the



objections she raises are so many redoubts which she loves to have

carried by storm. But on the guileless Lucien these coquetries were



thrown away; he would have advanced of his own accord.

"_I_ shall not die for you, I will live for you," he cried audaciously



one evening; he meant to have no more of M. de Cante-Croix, and gave

Louise a glance which told plainly that a crisis was at hand.



Startled at the progress of this new love in herself and her poet,

Louise demanded some verses promised for the first page of her album,



looking for a pretext for a quarrel in his tardiness. But what became

of her when she read the following stanzas, which, naturally, she



considered finer than the finest work of Canalis, the poet of the

aristocracy?--



The magic brush, light flying flights of song--

To these, but not to these alone, belong



My pages fair;

Often to me, my mistress' pencil steals



To tell the secret gladness that she feels,

The hidden care.



And when her fingers, slowlier at the last,

Of a rich Future, now become the Past,



Seek count of me,

Oh Love, when swift, thick-coming memories rise,



I pray of Thee.

May they bring visions fair as cloudless skies



Of happy voyage o'er a summer sea!

"Was it really I who inspired those lines?" she asked.



The doubt suggested by coquetry to a woman who amused herself by

playing with fire brought tears to Lucien's eyes; but her first kiss



upon his forehead calmed the storm. Decidedly Lucien was a great man,

and she meant to form him; she thought of teaching him Italian and



German and perfecting his manners. That would be pretext sufficient

for having him constantly with her under the very eyes of her tiresome



courtiers. What an interest in her life! She took up music again for

her poet's sake, and revealed the world of sound to him, playing grand



fragments of Beethoven till she sent him into ecstasy; and, happy in

his delight, turned to the half-swooning poet.



"Is not such happiness as this enough?" she asked hypocritically; and

poor Lucien was stupid enough to answer, "Yes."



In the previous week things had reached such a point, that Louise had

judged it expedient to ask Lucien to dine with M. de Bargeton as a



third. But in spite of this precaution, the whole town knew the state

of affairs; and so extraordinary did it appear, that no one would



believe the truth. The outcry was terrific. Some were of the opinion

that society was on the eve of cataclysm. "See what comes of Liberal



doctrines!" cried others.

Then it was that the jealous du Chatelet discovered that Madame



Charlotte, the monthly nurse, was no other than Mme. Chardon, "the

mother of the Chateaubriand of L'Houmeau," as he put it. The remark



passed muster as a joke. Mme. de Chandour was the first to hurry to

Mme. de Bargeton.



"Nais, dear," she said, "do you know what everybody is talking about

in Angouleme? This little rhymster's mother is the Madame Charlotte






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