contrary, no one is of your opinion, Claire,” the Princess cried out,
pointing out the Comtesse de Sérizy who was listening.
These words were all the more lost on the Vicomtesse since she was completely unaware
of the relationship between Mme de Sérizy and Lucien.
“Unattractive,” she tried to correct herself, “unattractive … at least for a
young
woman!”
“Picture it to yourself,” d’Arthez cried out before he had even given his coat to
Paddy, the famous tiger to the late Beaudenord (see
The Secrets of the Princesse de Cadignan
), who was standing in front of him with that immobility which was the specialty of
the domestic staffs of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, “yes, just picture it,” the great
man repeated with that enthusiasm of thinkers that seems ridiculous amidst the profound
dissimulation of high society.
“What is it? What should we picture to ourselves,” de Marsay asked ironically, giving
Félix de Vandenesse and Prince Galathione that ambiguous look, a veritable privilege
of those who had lived for a long time in intimacy with MADAME.
“Alvays goot!” the Baron de Nucingen gushed with the frightful vulgarity of parvenus
who think that with the help of the coarsest sayings they can put on airs and mimic
people like Maxime de Trailles or de Marsay; “unt you haf a goot hott; you are de
true brotector of de boor, in de Deppities.”
(The famous financier had special reasons to bear a grudge against d’Arthez who hadn’t
given him enoughsupport, when Esther’s former lover had sought in vain to have his wife, née Goriot,
admitted to the home of Diane de Maufrigneuse).
“Kvik, kvik, sire, mein happiness vill be complete if you find me vorthy of knowing
egzakly vat it is I should himagine?”
“Nothing,” d’Arthez replied appropriately, “I am speaking to the Marquise.”
That was said in such a perfidiously epigrammatic tone that Paul Morand, one of our
more impertinent embassy secretaries, murmured, “He is stronger than we!” The Baron,
sensing he had been trifled with, felt his blood run cold. Mme Firmiani sweated in
her slippers, masterpieces of Polish industry. D’Arthez pretended he didn’t notice
the comedy that had just played out, of a kind that only Parisian life can offer so
profoundly (which explains why the provinces have always provided France with so few
men of State) and without pausing at the beautiful Négrepelisse, turning toward Mme
de Sérizy with that terrifying sang-froid that can triumph over the greatest obstacles
(and for lofty souls are there any like those of the heart?):
“Madame, they have just discovered the secret of making diamonds.”
“Dis bizness is eine grreat dreasure,” the Baron exclaimed, dazzled.
“But I thought they always made them,” Léontine naively replied.
Mme de Cadignan, as a woman of taste, took care not to say a word, whereas bourgeois
ladies would havelaunched into a conversation where they would have inanely flaunted their knowledge
of chemistry. But Mme de Sérizy had still not finished that phrase that revealed an
incredible ignorance, when Diane, lavishing her whole attention on the Countess, assumed
a sublime look. Only Raphael might have been capable of painting it. And indeed, if
he had succeeded, he would have given us a counterpart to his famous
Fornarina
, the most prominent of his canvases, the only one that places him above Andrea del
Sarto in the esteem of connoisseurs.
To understand the drama that is about to unfold, and to which the scene we have just
related may serve as prologue, a few words of explanation are necessary. At the end
of the year 1905, a fearful tension reigned in the relationships between France and
Germany. Either because Wilhelm II was actually planning to declare war on France,
or because he just wanted to give that impression in order to break our alliance with
England, the German ambassador received the order
pointing out the Comtesse de Sérizy who was listening.
These words were all the more lost on the Vicomtesse since she was completely unaware
of the relationship between Mme de Sérizy and Lucien.
“Unattractive,” she tried to correct herself, “unattractive … at least for a
young
woman!”
“Picture it to yourself,” d’Arthez cried out before he had even given his coat to
Paddy, the famous tiger to the late Beaudenord (see
The Secrets of the Princesse de Cadignan
), who was standing in front of him with that immobility which was the specialty of
the domestic staffs of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, “yes, just picture it,” the great
man repeated with that enthusiasm of thinkers that seems ridiculous amidst the profound
dissimulation of high society.
“What is it? What should we picture to ourselves,” de Marsay asked ironically, giving
Félix de Vandenesse and Prince Galathione that ambiguous look, a veritable privilege
of those who had lived for a long time in intimacy with MADAME.
“Alvays goot!” the Baron de Nucingen gushed with the frightful vulgarity of parvenus
who think that with the help of the coarsest sayings they can put on airs and mimic
people like Maxime de Trailles or de Marsay; “unt you haf a goot hott; you are de
true brotector of de boor, in de Deppities.”
(The famous financier had special reasons to bear a grudge against d’Arthez who hadn’t
given him enoughsupport, when Esther’s former lover had sought in vain to have his wife, née Goriot,
admitted to the home of Diane de Maufrigneuse).
“Kvik, kvik, sire, mein happiness vill be complete if you find me vorthy of knowing
egzakly vat it is I should himagine?”
“Nothing,” d’Arthez replied appropriately, “I am speaking to the Marquise.”
That was said in such a perfidiously epigrammatic tone that Paul Morand, one of our
more impertinent embassy secretaries, murmured, “He is stronger than we!” The Baron,
sensing he had been trifled with, felt his blood run cold. Mme Firmiani sweated in
her slippers, masterpieces of Polish industry. D’Arthez pretended he didn’t notice
the comedy that had just played out, of a kind that only Parisian life can offer so
profoundly (which explains why the provinces have always provided France with so few
men of State) and without pausing at the beautiful Négrepelisse, turning toward Mme
de Sérizy with that terrifying sang-froid that can triumph over the greatest obstacles
(and for lofty souls are there any like those of the heart?):
“Madame, they have just discovered the secret of making diamonds.”
“Dis bizness is eine grreat dreasure,” the Baron exclaimed, dazzled.
“But I thought they always made them,” Léontine naively replied.
Mme de Cadignan, as a woman of taste, took care not to say a word, whereas bourgeois
ladies would havelaunched into a conversation where they would have inanely flaunted their knowledge
of chemistry. But Mme de Sérizy had still not finished that phrase that revealed an
incredible ignorance, when Diane, lavishing her whole attention on the Countess, assumed
a sublime look. Only Raphael might have been capable of painting it. And indeed, if
he had succeeded, he would have given us a counterpart to his famous
Fornarina
, the most prominent of his canvases, the only one that places him above Andrea del
Sarto in the esteem of connoisseurs.
To understand the drama that is about to unfold, and to which the scene we have just
related may serve as prologue, a few words of explanation are necessary. At the end
of the year 1905, a fearful tension reigned in the relationships between France and
Germany. Either because Wilhelm II was actually planning to declare war on France,
or because he just wanted to give that impression in order to break our alliance with
England, the German ambassador received the order
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