Bernard was right in saying that where there is no more love there is no more life.’ ”
“And the Countess died,” said the Consul, putting away the letters and locking the pocketbook.
“Is the Count still living?” asked the Ambassador, “for since the revolution of July he has disappeared from the political stage.”
“Do you remember, Monsieur de Lora,” said the Consul-General, “having seen me going to the steamboat with—”
“A white-haired man! an old man?” said the painter.
“An old man of forty-five, going in search of health and amusement in Southern Italy. That old man was my poor friend, my patron, passing through Genoa to take leave of me and place his will in my hands. He appoints me his son’s guardian. I had no occasion to tell him of Honorine’s wishes.”
“Does he suspect himself of murder?” said Mademoiselle des Touches to the Baron de l’Hostal.
“He suspects the truth,” replied the Consul, “and that is what is killing him. I remained on board the steam packet that was to take him to Naples till it was out of the roadstead; a small boat brought me back. We sat for some little time taking leave of each other—forever, I fear. God only knows how much we love the confidant of our love when she who inspired it is no more.
“ ‘That man,’ said Octave, ‘holds a charm and wears an aureole.’ The Count went to the prow and looked down on the Mediterranean. It happened to be fine, and, moved no doubt by the spectacle, he spoke these last words: ‘Ought we not, in the interests of human nature, to inquire what is the irresistible power which leads us to sacrifice an exquisite creature to the most fugitive of all pleasures, and in spite of our reason? In my conscience I heard cries. Honorine was not alone in her anguish. And yet I would have it! … I am consumed by remorse. In the Rue Payenne I was dying of the joys I had not; now I shall die in Italy of the joys I have had. … Wherein lay the discord between two natures, equally noble, I dare assert?’ ”
For some minutes profound silence reigned on the terrace.
Then the Consul, turning to the two women, asked, “Was she virtuous?”
Mademoiselle des Touches rose, took the Consul’s arm, went a few steps away, and said to him:
“Are not men wrong too when they come to us and make a young girl a wife while cherishing at the bottom of their heart some angelic image, and comparing us to those unknown rivals, to perfections often borrowed from a remembrance, and always finding us wanting?”
“Mademoiselle, you would be right if marriage were based on passion; and that was the mistake of those two, who will soon be no more. Marriage with heart-deep love on both sides would be Paradise.”
Mademoiselle des Touches turned from the Consul, and was immediately joined by Claude Vignon, who said in her ear:
“A bit of a coxcomb is M. de l’Hostal.”
“No,” replied she, whispering to Claude these words: “for he has not yet guessed that Honorine would have loved him.—Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing the Consul’s wife approaching, “his wife was listening! Unhappy man!”
Eleven was striking by all the clocks, and the guests went home on foot along the seashore.
“Still, that is not life,” said Mademoiselle des Touches. “That woman was one of the rarest, and perhaps the most extraordinary exceptions in intellect—a pearl! Life is made up of various incidents, of pain and pleasure alternately. The Paradise of Dante, that sublime expression of the ideal, that perpetual blue, is to be found only in the soul; to ask it of the facts of life is a luxury against which nature protests every hour. To such souls as those the six feet of a cell, and the kneeling chair are all they need.”
“You are right,” said Léon de Lora; “but good-for-nothing as I may be, I cannot help admiring a woman who is capable, as that one was, of living by the side of a studio, under a painter’s roof, and never coming down, nor seeing the world, nor dipping her feet in the street mud.”
“Such a thing has been known—for a few months,” said Claude Vignon, with deep irony.
“Comtesse Honorine is not unique of her kind,” replied the Ambassador to Mademoiselle des Touches. “A man, nay, and a politician, a bitter writer, was the object of such a passion; and the pistol shot which killed him hit not him alone; the woman who loved lived like a nun ever after.”
“Then there are yet some great souls in this age!” said Camille Maupin, and she stood for some minutes pensively leaning on the balustrade of the quay.
Among all the pupils of the Oratorian school at Vendôme, we are, I think, the only two who have afterwards met in mid-career of a life of letters—we who once were cultivating Philosophy when by rights we should have been minding our De viris. When we met, you were engaged upon your noble works on German philosophy, and I upon this study. So neither of us has missed his vocation; and you, when you see your name here, will feel, no doubt, as much pleasure as he who inscribes his work to you.—Your old schoolfellow,
Gobseck
It was one o’clock in the morning, during the winter of 1829–30, but in the Vicomtesse de Grandlieu’s salon two persons stayed on who did not belong to her family circle. A young and good-looking man heard the clock strike, and took his leave. When the courtyard echoed with the sound of a departing carriage, the Vicomtesse looked up, saw that no one was present save her brother and a friend of the family finishing their game of piquet, and went across to her daughter. The girl, standing by the chimneypiece, apparently examining a transparent fire-screen, was listening to the sounds from the courtyard in a way that justified certain maternal fears.
“Camille,”
