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

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was afraid to stay longer; she was satisfied with having heard the

opening of the garret door, and departed noiselessly.



"Fear nothing," said the painter to the officer. "Mademoiselle is the

daughter of a most faithful friend of the Emperor, the Baron di



Piombo."

The young soldier retained no doubts as to Ginevra's patriotism as



soon as he saw her.

"You are wounded," she said.



"Oh! it is nothing, mademoiselle," he replied; "the wound is healing."

Just at this moment the loud cries of the vendors of newspapers came



up from the street: "Condemned to death!" They all trembled, and the

soldier was the first to hear a name that turned him pale.



"Labedoyere!" he cried, falling on a stool.

They looked at each other in silence. Drops gathered on the livid



forehead of the young man; he seized the black tufts of his hair in

one hand with a gesture of despair, and rested his elbow on Ginevra's



easel.

"After all," he said, rising abruptly, "Labedoyere and I knew what we



were doing. We were certain of the fate that awaited us, whether from

triumph or defeat. He dies for the Cause, and here am I, hiding



myself!"

He rushed toward the door of the studio; but, quicker than he, Ginevra



reached it, and barred his way.

"Can you restore the Emperor?" she said. "Do you expect to raise that



giant who could not maintain himself?"

"But what can I do?" said the young man, addressing the two friends



whom chance had sent to him. "I have not a relation in the world.

Labedoyere was my protector and my friend; without him, I am alone.



To-morrow I myself may be condemned; my only fortune was my pay. I

spent my last penny to come here and try to snatch Labedoyere from his



fate; death is, therefore, a necessity for me. When a man decides to

die he ought to know how to sell his life to the executioner. I was



thinking just now that the life of an honest man is worth that of two

traitors, and the blow of a dagger well placed may give immortality."



This spasm of despair alarmed the painter, and even Ginevra, whose own

nature comprehended that of the young man. She admired his handsome



face and his delightful voice, the sweetness of which was scarcely

lessened by its tones of fury. Then, all of a sudden, she poured a



balm upon the wounds of the unfortunate man:--

"Monsieur," she said, "as for your pecuniary distress, permit me to



offer you my savings. My father is rich; I am his only child; he loves

me, and I am sure he will never blame me. Have no scruple in accepting



my offer; our property is derived from the Emperor; we do not own a

penny that is not the result of his munificence. Is it not gratitude



to him to assist his faithful soldiers? Take the sums you need as

indifferently as I offer them. It is only money!" she added, in a tone



of contempt. "Now, as for friends,--those you shall have."

She raised her head proudly, and her eyes shone with dazzling



brilliancy.

"The head which falls to-morrow before a dozen muskets will save



yours," she went on. "Wait till the storm is over; you can then escape

and take service in foreign countries if you are not forgotten here;



or in the French army, if you are."

In the comfort that women give there is always a delicacy which has



something maternal, foreseeing, and complete about it. But when the

words of hope and peace are said with grace of gesture and that



eloquence of tone which comes from the heart, and when, above all, the

benefactress is beautiful, a young man does not resist. The prisoner



breathed in love through all his senses. A rosy tinge colored his

white cheeks; his eyes lost something of the sadness that dulled them,



and he said, in a peculiar tone of voice:--

"You are an angle of goodness-- But Labedoyere!" he added. "Oh,



Labedoyere!"

At this cry they all three looked at one another in silence, each



comprehending the others' thoughts. No longer friends of twenty

minutes only, they were friends of twenty years.



"Dear friend," said Servin, "can you save him?"

"I can avenge him."



Ginevra quivered. Though the stranger was handsome, his appearance had

not influenced her; the soft pity in a woman's heart for miseries that



are not ignoble had stifled in Ginevra all other emotions; but to hear

a cry of vengeance, to find in that proscribed being an Italian soul,



devotion to Napoleon, Corsican generosity!--ah! that was, indeed, too




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