I FROM A NOVEL BY BALZAC
In one of the last months of the year 1907, at one of those “routs” of the Marquise
d’Espard thronged with the elite of Parisian aristocracy (the most elegant in Europe,
according to M. de Talleyrand, that Roger Bacon of the social organism, who was both
a bishop and Prince of Benevento), de Marsay and Rastignac, Comte Félix de Vandenesse,
the Ducs de Rhétoré and Grandlieu, Comte Adam Laginski, Maître Octave de Camps, and
Lord Dudley, formed a circle around Mme the Princesse de Cadignan, yet without arousing
the jealousy of the Marquise. Isn’t it in fact one of the greatnesses of the mistress
of the house—that Carmelite of worldly success—that she must sacrifice her coquetry,
her pride,her very love, to the necessity of creating a salon in which her rivals will at times
be the most striking ornament? Isn’t she in that respect equivalent to a saint? Doesn’t
she deserve her share, so dearly acquired, in the social paradise? The Marquise—a
young lady from Blamont-Chauvry, related to the Navarreins, the Lenoncourts, and the
Chaulieus—held out to each newcomer the hand that Desplein, the greatest scholar of
our time (without excepting Claude Bernard) who had been the student of Lavater, declared
was the most profoundly mapped he had ever been given to examine. All of a sudden
the door opened to the illustrious novelist Daniel d’Arthez. A physicist of the moral
world who possessed the genius of both Lavoisier and Bichat—the creator of organic
chemistry—would alone be capable of isolating the elements that compose the special
sonority of the footsteps of superior men. Hearing those of d’Arthez resound you would
have trembled. Only a sublime genius or a great criminal could have walked thus. But
isn’t genius a kind of crime against the routine of the past that our time punishes
more severely than crime itself, since scholars die in hospitals bleaker than any
prison?
Athénaïs did not feel any joy at seeing return to her home the lover she hoped to
snatch away from her best friend. Thus she pressed the hand of the Princess while
preserving the impenetrable calm that women of high society possess at the very instant
they are burying a dagger in your heart.
“I am happy for you, my dear friend, that Monsieur d’Arthez has come,” she said to
Mme de Cadignan, “allthe more so since he will be completely surprised; he did not know you would be here.”
“He probably thought he would meet Monsieur de Rubempré here, whose talent he admires,”
Diane replied with an affectionate pout that hid the most biting raillery, since everyone
knew that Mme d’Espard did not forgive Lucien for having abandoned her.
“Oh! my angel,” the Marquise replied with a surprising ease, “we cannot stop people
like that, Lucien will undergo the fate of little d’Esgrignon,” she added, confounding
all those present by the infamy of these words, each one of which was an overwhelming
taunt for the Princess. (See
The Cabinet of Antiquities
.)
“You are speaking of Monsieur de Rubempré,” the Vicomtesse de Beauséant said, who
had not reappeared in society since the death of M. de Nueil and who, out of a habit
peculiar to people who have lived in the country for a long time, eagerly looked forward
to surprising Parisians with a piece of news she had just learned. “You know that
he is engaged to Clotilde de Grandlieu.”
Everyone made a sign to the Vicomtesse to be quiet, since this marriage was still
unknown to Mme de Sérizy, whom it would cast into despair.
“People say it’s true, but it might not be,” the Vicomtesse continued who, without
precisely understanding what sort of gaffe she had committed, regretted she had been
so demonstrative.
“What you say does not astonish me,” she added, “for I was surprised that Clotilde
was in love with someone so unattractive.”
“But on the
In one of the last months of the year 1907, at one of those “routs” of the Marquise
d’Espard thronged with the elite of Parisian aristocracy (the most elegant in Europe,
according to M. de Talleyrand, that Roger Bacon of the social organism, who was both
a bishop and Prince of Benevento), de Marsay and Rastignac, Comte Félix de Vandenesse,
the Ducs de Rhétoré and Grandlieu, Comte Adam Laginski, Maître Octave de Camps, and
Lord Dudley, formed a circle around Mme the Princesse de Cadignan, yet without arousing
the jealousy of the Marquise. Isn’t it in fact one of the greatnesses of the mistress
of the house—that Carmelite of worldly success—that she must sacrifice her coquetry,
her pride,her very love, to the necessity of creating a salon in which her rivals will at times
be the most striking ornament? Isn’t she in that respect equivalent to a saint? Doesn’t
she deserve her share, so dearly acquired, in the social paradise? The Marquise—a
young lady from Blamont-Chauvry, related to the Navarreins, the Lenoncourts, and the
Chaulieus—held out to each newcomer the hand that Desplein, the greatest scholar of
our time (without excepting Claude Bernard) who had been the student of Lavater, declared
was the most profoundly mapped he had ever been given to examine. All of a sudden
the door opened to the illustrious novelist Daniel d’Arthez. A physicist of the moral
world who possessed the genius of both Lavoisier and Bichat—the creator of organic
chemistry—would alone be capable of isolating the elements that compose the special
sonority of the footsteps of superior men. Hearing those of d’Arthez resound you would
have trembled. Only a sublime genius or a great criminal could have walked thus. But
isn’t genius a kind of crime against the routine of the past that our time punishes
more severely than crime itself, since scholars die in hospitals bleaker than any
prison?
Athénaïs did not feel any joy at seeing return to her home the lover she hoped to
snatch away from her best friend. Thus she pressed the hand of the Princess while
preserving the impenetrable calm that women of high society possess at the very instant
they are burying a dagger in your heart.
“I am happy for you, my dear friend, that Monsieur d’Arthez has come,” she said to
Mme de Cadignan, “allthe more so since he will be completely surprised; he did not know you would be here.”
“He probably thought he would meet Monsieur de Rubempré here, whose talent he admires,”
Diane replied with an affectionate pout that hid the most biting raillery, since everyone
knew that Mme d’Espard did not forgive Lucien for having abandoned her.
“Oh! my angel,” the Marquise replied with a surprising ease, “we cannot stop people
like that, Lucien will undergo the fate of little d’Esgrignon,” she added, confounding
all those present by the infamy of these words, each one of which was an overwhelming
taunt for the Princess. (See
The Cabinet of Antiquities
.)
“You are speaking of Monsieur de Rubempré,” the Vicomtesse de Beauséant said, who
had not reappeared in society since the death of M. de Nueil and who, out of a habit
peculiar to people who have lived in the country for a long time, eagerly looked forward
to surprising Parisians with a piece of news she had just learned. “You know that
he is engaged to Clotilde de Grandlieu.”
Everyone made a sign to the Vicomtesse to be quiet, since this marriage was still
unknown to Mme de Sérizy, whom it would cast into despair.
“People say it’s true, but it might not be,” the Vicomtesse continued who, without
precisely understanding what sort of gaffe she had committed, regretted she had been
so demonstrative.
“What you say does not astonish me,” she added, “for I was surprised that Clotilde
was in love with someone so unattractive.”
“But on the
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