serpentine contortion, which he thought distinguished.
Madame de Bargeton was struck by Lucien’s exceptionally good looks, his shy demeanour and his voice. The poet was already poetry incarnate. By means of discreet side-glances the young man studied this woman whose appearance seemed to tally with her reputation. She was wearing, in conformity with the latest fashion, a slashed beret in black velvet, a kind of head-dress reminiscent of the Middle Ages and impressive to a young man because, so to speak, it made a woman more womanly still. From it there escaped a profusion of fairish red hair, golden where the light fell on it and auburn where it curled. The noble lady had the milk-white complexion which atones for the supposed disadvantage of such flaming hair. She had sparkling grey eyes under a white expanse of forehead which was bold in contour though it already showed some lines. The skin circling these eyes had a mother of pearl quality, and on either side of the nose two blueish veins emphasized the whiteness of this delicate surround. Her nose had a Bourbon curve which gave extra animation to her long face: a salient feature suggestive of a regal impetuosity akin to that of the Condés. Her hair did not completely hide her neck. Her dress, negligently crossed, afforded a glimpse of snowy flesh and gave the promise of a perfectly-shaped bosom. With her tapering, carefully-manicured, but rather bony fingers, she amiably beckoned the young poet to take the nearest chair. Monsieur du Châtelet sat down in an armchair. Lucien then perceived that the three of them were alone together.
Madame de Bargeton’s conversation intoxicated the poet.The three hours he spent near her were like a dream one would wish to last for ever. This woman seemed to him to be slim rather than thin, made for love but not in love, and delicate in spite of the strength in her. Her defects, exaggerated by her mannerisms, appealed to him, for young men begin by loving exaggeration, the kind of falsehood to which exalted souls are prone. He did not
notice
that her cheeks had lost their bloom and that there were flushed patches on her cheekbones to which vexations and suffering had imparted a bricklike tinge. What first seized his imagination was the flame of her gaze, her elegant curls shimmering in the light and the gleaming whiteness of her brow: luminous points in which he was caught like a moth in a candle. Also there was too much spiritual sympathy between them for him to appraise her as a woman. The liveliness of her feminine enthusiasm, the vivacity she put into the somewhat outmoded utterances which she had been repeating for so long but which he thought original, fascinated him all the more because he wanted to approve of everything in her. He had brought no poems to read out, but the question did not arise: he had left his poetry behind so that he might have cause to return, while Madame de Bargeton had not mentioned it so that she might persuade him to give a recital another day. Was this not tantamount to an initial understanding between them? Monsieur du Châtelet was displeased at her reception of Lucien. Belatedly, he sensed a rival in this handsome young man, and he escorted him back as far as the first slope turning down from Beaulieu with the idea of bringing his diplomacy into play. Lucien was more than mildly astonished to hear the Director of Taxes boasting of having introduced him and giving him advice on the strength of it.
‘Heaven send that you may be better treated than I have been.’ Thus Monsieur du Châtelet began. People at Court were less impertinent than this coterie of numskulls which inflicted deadly slights and meted out appalling disdain. The Revolution of 1789 would break out afresh if such people did not mend their ways. As for himself, if he still went to that house, it was because he was attracted to Madame de Bargeton, theonly tolerable woman in Angoulême: he had paid court to her for want of occupation
Madame de Bargeton was struck by Lucien’s exceptionally good looks, his shy demeanour and his voice. The poet was already poetry incarnate. By means of discreet side-glances the young man studied this woman whose appearance seemed to tally with her reputation. She was wearing, in conformity with the latest fashion, a slashed beret in black velvet, a kind of head-dress reminiscent of the Middle Ages and impressive to a young man because, so to speak, it made a woman more womanly still. From it there escaped a profusion of fairish red hair, golden where the light fell on it and auburn where it curled. The noble lady had the milk-white complexion which atones for the supposed disadvantage of such flaming hair. She had sparkling grey eyes under a white expanse of forehead which was bold in contour though it already showed some lines. The skin circling these eyes had a mother of pearl quality, and on either side of the nose two blueish veins emphasized the whiteness of this delicate surround. Her nose had a Bourbon curve which gave extra animation to her long face: a salient feature suggestive of a regal impetuosity akin to that of the Condés. Her hair did not completely hide her neck. Her dress, negligently crossed, afforded a glimpse of snowy flesh and gave the promise of a perfectly-shaped bosom. With her tapering, carefully-manicured, but rather bony fingers, she amiably beckoned the young poet to take the nearest chair. Monsieur du Châtelet sat down in an armchair. Lucien then perceived that the three of them were alone together.
Madame de Bargeton’s conversation intoxicated the poet.The three hours he spent near her were like a dream one would wish to last for ever. This woman seemed to him to be slim rather than thin, made for love but not in love, and delicate in spite of the strength in her. Her defects, exaggerated by her mannerisms, appealed to him, for young men begin by loving exaggeration, the kind of falsehood to which exalted souls are prone. He did not
notice
that her cheeks had lost their bloom and that there were flushed patches on her cheekbones to which vexations and suffering had imparted a bricklike tinge. What first seized his imagination was the flame of her gaze, her elegant curls shimmering in the light and the gleaming whiteness of her brow: luminous points in which he was caught like a moth in a candle. Also there was too much spiritual sympathy between them for him to appraise her as a woman. The liveliness of her feminine enthusiasm, the vivacity she put into the somewhat outmoded utterances which she had been repeating for so long but which he thought original, fascinated him all the more because he wanted to approve of everything in her. He had brought no poems to read out, but the question did not arise: he had left his poetry behind so that he might have cause to return, while Madame de Bargeton had not mentioned it so that she might persuade him to give a recital another day. Was this not tantamount to an initial understanding between them? Monsieur du Châtelet was displeased at her reception of Lucien. Belatedly, he sensed a rival in this handsome young man, and he escorted him back as far as the first slope turning down from Beaulieu with the idea of bringing his diplomacy into play. Lucien was more than mildly astonished to hear the Director of Taxes boasting of having introduced him and giving him advice on the strength of it.
‘Heaven send that you may be better treated than I have been.’ Thus Monsieur du Châtelet began. People at Court were less impertinent than this coterie of numskulls which inflicted deadly slights and meted out appalling disdain. The Revolution of 1789 would break out afresh if such people did not mend their ways. As for himself, if he still went to that house, it was because he was attracted to Madame de Bargeton, theonly tolerable woman in Angoulême: he had paid court to her for want of occupation
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