“Does she often go to Tours?”
“She never goes there. Yes,” he added, correcting himself, “she went there quite lately, on the occasion when the Duc d’Angoulême passed through, and was very gracious to Monsieur de Mortsauf.”
“It is she!” I cried.
“She! Who?”
“A woman with beautiful shoulders.”
“You will find many women with beautiful shoulders in Touraine,” said he, laughing; “but if you are not tired, we can cross the river and go up to Clochegourde, where you may possibly recognize your fine shoulders.”
I agreed, not without reddening from pleasure and shyness. By about four o’clock we reached the house on which my eyes had so fondly lingered. This little château, which looked well in the landscape, is, in fact, a modest building. It has five windows in front; that at each end of the south front projects by about two yards, giving the effect of wings, and adding to the importance of the house. The middle window serves as the door, whence double steps lead to a garden extending in terraces down to a meadow bordering the Indre. Though this meadow is divided by a lane from the lowest terrace shaded by a row of ailantus and acacia trees, it looks like part of the grounds, for the lane is sunk between the terrace on one side and a thick hedge on the other. The slope between the house and the river is taken advantage of to avoid the inconvenience of being so near the water without losing the pretty effect. Under the dwelling-house are the stables, coach-houses, storerooms, and kitchens, with doors under archways.
The roof is pleasingly curved at the angles, the dormer windows have carved mullions, and finials of lead over the gables. The slates, neglected no doubt during the Revolution, are covered with the rust-colored and orange clinging lichens that grow on houses facing the south. The glass door at the top of the steps has above it a little campanile on which may be seen the achievement of the Blamont-Chauvrys; quarterly gules, a pale vair between two hands proper, and or, two lances sable in chevron. The motto, “See, but touch not,” struck me strangely. The supporters, a griffin and a dragon chained or, had a good effect in sculpture. The Revolution had damaged the ducal coronet and the crest, a palm branch vert fruited or. Senart, Secretary to the Committee of Public Safety, was Bailiff of Saché till 1781, which accounts for this destruction.
The decorative character gives an elegant appearance to this country-house, as delicately finished as a flower, and hardly seeming to weigh on the ground. Seen from the valley, the ground floor looks as if it were the first floor; but on the side towards the courtyard it is on the same level as a wide path ending in a lawn graced with raised flowerbeds. To right and left vineyards, orchards, and some arable land dotted with walnut-trees slope away steeply, surrounding the house with verdure down to the brink of the river, which is bordered on this side with clumps of trees whose various tints of green have been grouped by the hand of Nature.
As I mounted the winding road to Clochegourde, I admired these well-assorted masses, and breathed an atmosphere redolent of happiness. Has our moral nature, like physical nature, electric discharges and swift changes of temperature? My heart throbbed in anticipation of the secret events which were about to transform it once for all, as animals grow sportive before fine weather. This, the most important day in my life, was not devoid of any circumstance that could contribute to sanctify it. Nature had dressed herself like a maiden going forth to meet her beloved; my soul had heard her voice for the first time, my eyes had admired her, as fruitful, as various as my imagination had painted her in those daydreams at school of which I have told you something, but too little to explain their influence over me, for they were as an apocalypse figuratively predicting my life; every incident of it, happy or sad, is connected with them by some whimsical image, by ties visible only to the eye of the soul.
We crossed an outer court, enclosed by the outbuildings of a rural habitation—a granary, a winepress, cow-houses, and stables. A servant, warned by the barking of a watchdog, came out to meet us, and told us that Monsieur le Comte, who had gone to Azay in the morning, would presently return no doubt, and that Madame la Comtesse was at home. My host looked at me. I trembled to think that he might not choose to call on Madame de Mortsauf in her husband’s absence, but he bid the servant to announce our names.
Driven by childish eagerness, I hurried into the long anteroom which ran across the house.
“Come in, pray,” said a golden voice.
Although Madame de Mortsauf had spoken but one word at the ball, I recognized her voice, which sank into my soul, and filled it as a sunbeam fills and gilds a prisoner’s cell. Then, reflecting that she might recognize me, I longed to fly; it was too late; she appeared at the drawing-room door, and our eyes met. Which of us reddened most deeply I do not know. She returned to her seat in front of an embroidery frame, the servant having pushed forward two chairs; she finished drawing her needle through as an excuse for her silence, counted
