on contrast. Hence you need not ask whether he exerted over women the
irresistible influences to which our nature yields”—and the general
looked at the Princesse de Cadignan—“as vitreous matter is moulded under
the pipe of the glass-blower; still, by a singular fatality—an observer
might perhaps explain the phenomenon—the Colonel was not a lady-killer,
or was indifferent to such successes.
“To give you an idea of his violence, I will tell you in a few words
what I once saw him do in a paroxysm of fury. We were dragging our guns
up a very narrow road, bordered by a somewhat high slope on one side,
and by thickets on the other. When we were half-way up we met another
regiment of artillery, its colonel marching at the head. This colonel
wanted to make the captain who was at the head of our foremost battery
back down again. The captain, of course, refused; but the colonel of the
other regiment signed to his foremost battery to advance, and in spite
of the care the driver took to keep among the scrub, the wheel of the
first gun struck our captain’s right leg and broke it, throwing him over
on the near side of his horse. All this was the work of a moment. Our
Colonel, who was but a little way off, guessed that there was a quarrel;
he galloped up, riding among the guns at the risk of falling with his
horse’s four feet in the air, and reached the spot, face to face with
the other colonel, at the very moment when the captain fell, calling out
‘Help!’ No, our Italian colonel was no longer human! Foam like the froth
of champagne rose to his lips; he roared inarticulately like a lion.
Incapable of uttering a word, or even a cry, he made a terrific signal
to his antagonist, pointing to the wood and drawing his sword. The
two colonels went aside. In two seconds we saw our Colonel’s opponent
stretched on the ground, his skull split in two. The soldiers of his
regiment backed—yes, by heaven, and pretty quickly too.
“The captain, who had been so nearly crushed, and who lay yelping in
the puddle where the gun carriage had thrown him, had an Italian wife,
a beautiful Sicilian of Messina, who was not indifferent to our Colonel.
This circumstance had aggravated his rage. He was pledged to protect
the husband, bound to defend him as he would have defended the woman
herself.
“Now, in the hovel beyond Zembin, where I was so well received, this
captain was sitting opposite to me, and his wife was at the other end
of the table, facing the Colonel. This Sicilian was a little woman named
Rosina, very dark, but with all the fire of the Southern sun in her
black almond-shaped eyes. At this moment she was deplorably thin; her
face was covered with dust, like fruit exposed to the drought of a
highroad. Scarcely clothed in rags, exhausted by marches, her hair in
disorder, and clinging together under a piece of a shawl tied close
over her head, still she had the graces of a woman; her movements were
engaging, her small rose mouth and white teeth, the outline of her
features and figure, charms which misery, cold, and neglect had not
altogether defaced, still suggested love to any man who could think of
a woman. Rosina had one of those frames which are fragile in appearance,
but wiry and full of spring. Her husband, a gentleman of Piedmont, had
a face expressive of ironical simplicity, if it is allowable to ally
the two words. Brave and well informed, he seemed to know nothing of
the connections which had subsisted between his wife and the Colonel for
three years past. I ascribed this unconcern to Italian manners, or to
some domestic secret; yet there was in the man’s countenance one feature
which always filled me with involuntary distrust. His under lip, which
was thin and very restless, turned down at the corners instead of
turning up, and this, as I thought, betrayed a streak of cruelty in a
character which seemed so phlegmatic and indolent.
“As you may suppose the conversation was not very sparkling when I went
in. My weary comrades ate in silence; of course, they asked me some
questions, and we related our misadventures, mingled with reflections on
the campaign, the generals, their mistakes, the Russians, and the cold.
A minute after my arrival the colonel, having finished his meagre meal,
wiped his moustache, bid us good-night, shot a black look at the Italian
woman, saying, ‘Rosina?’ and then, without waiting for a reply, went
into the little barn full of hay, to bed. The meaning of the Colonel’s
utterance was self-evident. The young wife replied by an indescribable
gesture, expressing all the annoyance she could not feel at seeing her
thralldom thus flaunted without human decency, and the offence to her
dignity as a woman, and to her husband. But there was, too, in the rigid
setting of her features and the tight knitting of her brows a sort of
presentiment; perhaps she foresaw her fate. Rosina remained quietly in
her place.
“A minute later, and apparently when the Colonel was snug in his couch
of straw or hay, he repeated, ‘Rosina?’
“The tone of this second call was even more brutally questioning than
the first. The Colonel’s strong burr, and the length which the
Italian language allows to be given to vowels and the final syllable,
concentrated all the man’s despotism, impatience, and strength of will.
Rosina turned pale, but she rose, passed behind us, and went to the
Colonel.
“All the party sat in utter silence; I, unluckily, after looking at
them all, began to laugh, and then they all laughed too.—‘Tu ridi?—you
laugh?’ said the husband.
“‘On my honor, old comrade,’ said I, becoming serious again, ‘I confess
that I was wrong; I ask your pardon a thousand times, and if you are not
satisfied by my apologies I am ready to give you satisfaction.’
“‘Oh! it is not you who are wrong, it is I!’ he replied coldly.
“Thereupon we all lay down in the room, and before long all were sound
asleep.
“Next morning each one, without rousing his neighbor or seeking
companionship, set out again on his way, with that selfishness
which made our rout one of the most horrible dramas of self-seeking,
melancholy, and horror which ever was enacted under heaven.
Nevertheless, at about seven or eight hundred paces from our shelter we,
most of us, met again and walked on together, like geese led in flocks
by a child’s wilful tyranny. The same necessity urged us all.
“Having reached a knoll where we could still see the farmhouse where we
had spent the night, we heard sounds resembling the roar of lions in the
desert, the bellowing of bulls—no, it was a noise which can be compared
to no known cry. And yet, mingling with this horrible and ominous roar,
we could hear a woman’s feeble scream. We all looked round, seized by I
know not what impulse of terror; we no longer saw the house, but a huge
bonfire. The farmhouse had been barricaded, and was in flames. Swirls
of smoke borne on the wind brought us hoarse cries and an indescribable
pungent smell. A few yards behind, the captain was quietly approaching
to join our caravan; we gazed at him in silence, for no one dared
question him; but he, understanding our curiosity, pointed to his breast
with the forefinger of his right hand, and, waving the left in the
direction of the fire, he said, ‘_Son’io_.’
“We all walked on without saying a word to him.”
“There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep,” said de
Marsay.
“It would be frightful to let us leave with this horrible picture in our
memory,” said Madame de Montcornet. “I shall dream of it——”
“And what was the punishment of Monsieur de Marsay’s ‘First’?” said Lord
Dudley, smiling.
“When the English are in jest, their foils have the buttons on,” said
Blondet.
“Monsieur Bianchon can tell us, for he saw her dying,” replied de
Marsay, turning to me.
“Yes,” said I; “and her end was one of the most beautiful I ever
saw. The Duke and I had spent the night by the dying woman’s pillow;
pulmonary consumption, in the last stage, left no hope; she had taken
the sacrament the day before. The Duke had fallen asleep. The Duchess,
waking at about four in the morning, signed to me in the most touching
way, with a friendly smile, to bid me leave him to rest, and she
meanwhile was about to die. She had become incredibly thin, but her face
had preserved its really sublime outline and features. Her pallor made
her skin look like porcelain with a light within. Her bright eyes
and color contrasted with this languidly elegant complexion, and her
countenance was full of expressive calm. She seemed to pity the Duke,
and the feeling had its origin in a lofty tenderness which, as death
approached, seemed to know no bounds. The silence was absolute. The
room, softly lighted by a lamp, looked like every sickroom at the hour
of death.
“At this moment the clock struck. The Duke awoke, and was in despair at
having fallen asleep. I did not see the gesture of impatience by which
he manifested the regret he felt at having lost sight of his wife for a
few of the last minutes vouchsafed to him; but it is quite certain
that any one but the dying woman might have misunderstood it. A busy
statesman, always thinking of the interests of France, the Duke had a
thousand odd ways on the surface, such as often lead to a man of genius
being mistaken for a madman, and of which the explanation lies in the
exquisiteness and exacting needs of their intellect. He came to seat
himself in an armchair by his wife’s side, and looked fixedly at her.
The dying woman put her hand out a little way, took her husband’s and
clasped it feebly; and in a low but agitated voice she said, ‘My poor
dear, who is left to understand you now?’ Then she died, looking at
him.”
“The stories the doctor tells us,” said the Comte de Vandenesse, “always
leave a deep impression.”
“But a sweet one,” said Mademoiselle des Touches, rising.
PARIS, June 1839-42.
ADDENDUM
The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot
The Atheist’s Mass
Cesar Birotteau
The Commission in Lunacy
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
The Secrets of a Princess
The Government Clerks
Pierrette
A Study of Woman
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Honorine
The Seamy Side of History
The Magic Skin
A Second Home
A Prince of Bohemia
Letters of Two Brides
The Muse of the Department
The Imaginary Mistress
The Middle Classes
Cousin Betty
The Country Parson
In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: La Grande Breteche
Blondet, Émile Jealousies of a Country Town
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Modeste Mignon
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
The Firm of Nucingen
The Peasantry
Blondet, Virginie (Madame Montcornet) Jealousies of a Country Town
The Secrets of a Princess
The Peasantry
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Member for Arcis
A Daughter of Eve
Bridau, Joseph The Purse
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Start in Life
Modeste Mignon
Pierre Grassou
Letters of Two Brides
Cousin Betty
The Member for Arcis
Canalis, Constant-Cyr-Melchior, Baron de Letters of Two Brides
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Modeste Mignon
The Magic Skin
A Start in Life
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
The Member for Arcis
Dudley, Lord The Lily of the Valley
The Thirteen
A Man of Business
A Daughter of Eve
Espard, Jeanne-Clementine-Athenais de Blamont-Chauvry, Marquise d’
The Commission in Lunacy
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Letters of Two Brides
The Gondreville Mystery
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
Beatrix
Laginski, Comte Adam Mitgislas The Imaginary Mistress
Cousin Betty
Marsay, Henri de The Thirteen
The Unconscious Humorists
The Lily of the Valley
Father Goriot
Jealousies of a Country Town
Ursule Mirouet
A Marriage Settlement
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Letters of Two Brides
The Ball at Sceaux
Modeste Mignon
The Secrets of a Princess
The Gondreville Mystery
A Daughter of Eve
Maufrigneuse, Duchesse de The Secrets of a Princess
Modeste Mignon
Jealousies of a Country Town
The Muse of the Department
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Letters of Two Brides
The Gondreville Mystery
The Member for Arcis
Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de The Thirteen
Father Goriot
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Pierrette
The Member for Arcis
Nucingen, Baron Frederic de The Firm of Nucingen
Father Goriot
Pierrette
Cesar Birotteau
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Secrets of a Princess
A Man of Business
Cousin Betty
The Muse of the Department
The Unconscious Humorists
Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de Father Goriot
The Thirteen
Eugenie Grandet
Cesar Birotteau
Melmoth Reconciled
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Commission in Lunacy
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Modeste Mignon
The Firm of Nucingen
A Daughter of Eve
The Member for Arcis
Portenduere, Vicomtesse Savinien de Ursule Mirouet
Beatrix
Rastignac, Eugene de Father Goriot
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Ball at Sceaux
The Commission in Lunacy
A Study of Woman
The Magic Skin
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
The Gondreville Mystery
The Firm of Nucingen
Cousin Betty
The Member for Arcis
The Unconscious Humorists
Ronquerolles, Marquis de The Imaginary Mistress
The Peasantry
Ursule Mirouet
A Woman of Thirty
The Thirteen
The Member for Arcis
Serizy, Comtesse de A Start in Life
The Thirteen
Ursule Mirouet
A Woman of Thirty
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Imaginary Mistress
Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Daughter of Eve
Honorine
Beatrix
The Muse of the Department
Vandenesse, Comte Felix de The Lily of the Valley
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Cesar Birotteau
Letters of Two Brides
A Start in Life
The Marriage Settlement
The Secrets of a Princess
The Gondreville Mystery
A Daughter of Eve
End of Project Gutenberg's Another Study of Woman, by Honore de Balzac