MADAME FIRMIANI

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By

 Katharine Prescott Wormeley

 DEDICATION

 To my dear Alexandre de Berny. His old friend, De Balzac. 

 MADAME FIRMIANI

Many tales, either rich in situations or made dramatic by some of theinnumerable tricks of chance, carry with them their own particularsetting, which can be rendered artistically or simply by those whonarrate them, without their subjects losing any, even the least oftheir charms. But there are some incidents in human experience towhich the heart alone is able to give life; there are certain details--shall we call them anatomical?--the delicate touches of which cannotbe made to reappear unless by an equally delicate rendering ofthought; there are portraits which require the infusion of a soul, andmean nothing unless the subtlest expression of the speakingcountenance is given; furthermore, there are things which we know nothow to say or do without the aid of secret harmonies which a day, anhour, a fortunate conjunction of celestial signs, or an inward moraltendency may produce. 

Such mysterious revelations are imperatively needed in order to tellthis simple history, in which we seek to interest those souls that arenaturally grave and reflective and find their sustenance in tenderemotions. If the writer, like the surgeon beside his dying friend, isfilled with a species of reverence for the subject he is handling, should not the reader share in that inexplicable feeling? Is it sodifficult to put ourselves in unison with the vague and nervoussadness which casts its gray tints all about us, and is, in fact, asemi-illness, the gentle sufferings of which are often pleasing? Ifthe reader is of those who sometimes think upon the dear ones theyhave lost, if he is alone, if the day is waning or the night has come, let him read on; otherwise, he should lay aside this book at once. Ifhe has never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he will notunderstand these pages, which to some will seem redolent of musk, toothers as colorless and virtuous as those of Florian. In short, thereader must have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the silentpangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear yet far-off Shade, --memories which bring regret for all that earth has swallowed up, with smiles for vanished joys. 

And now, believe that the writer would not, for the wealth of England, steal from poesy a single lie with which to embellish this narrative. The following is a true history, on which you may safely spend thetreasures of your sensibility--if you have any. 

In these days the French language has as many idioms and represents asmany idiosyncracies as there are varieties of men in the great familyof France. It is extremely curious and amusing to listen to thedifferent interpretations or versions of the same thing or the sameevent by the various species which compose the genus Parisian, --"Parisian" is here used merely to generalize our remark. 

Therefore, if you should say to an individual of the speciesPractical, "Do you know Madame Firmiani?" he would present that ladyto your mind by the following inventory: "Fine house in the rue duBac, salons handsomely furnished, good pictures, one hundred thousandfrancs a year, husband formerly receiver-general of the department ofMontenotte. " So saying, the Practical man, rotund and fat and usuallydressed in black, will project his lower lip and wrap it over theupper, nodding his head as if to add: "Solid people, those; nothing tobe said against them. " Ask no further; Practical men settleeverybody's status by figures, incomes, or solid acres, --a phrase oftheir lexicon. 

Turn to the right, and put the same question to that other man, whobelongs to the species Lounger. "Madame Firmiani?" he says; "yes, yes, I know her well; I go to her parties; receives Wednesdays; highlycreditable house. "--Madame Firmiani is metamorphosed into a house! butthe house is not a pile of stones architecturally superposed, ofcourse not, the word presents in Lounger's language an indescribableidiom. --Here the Lounger, a spare man with an agreeable smile, a sayerof pretty nothings with more acquired cleverness than native wit, stoops to your ear and adds, with a shrewd glance: "I have never seenMonsieur Firmiani. His social position is that of looking afterproperty in Italy. Madame Firmiani is a Frenchwoman, and spends hermoney like a Parisian. She has excellent tea. It is one of the fewhouses where you can amuse yourself; the refreshments are exquisite. It is very difficult to get admitted; therefore, of course, one meetsonly the best society in her salons. " Here the Lounger takes a pinchof snuff; he inhales it slowly and seems to say: "I go there, butdon't expect me to present _you_. "

Evidently the Lounger considers that Madame Firmiani keeps a sort ofinn, without a sign. 

"Why do you want to know Madame Firmiani? Her parties are as dull asthe Court itself. What is the good of possessing a mind unless toavoid such salons, where stupid talk and foolish little ballads arethe order of the day. " You have questioned a being classed Egotist, aspecies who would like to keep the universe under lock and key, andlet nothing be done without their permission. They are unhappy ifothers are happy; they forgive nothing but vices, downfalls, frailties, and like none but proteges. Aristocrats by inclination, they make themselves democrats out of spite, preferring to consortwith inferiors as equals. 

"Oh, Madame Firmiani, my dear fellow! she is one of those adorablewomen who serve as Nature's excuse for all the ugly ones she creates. Madame Firmiani is enchanting, and so kind! I wish I were in power andpossessed millions that I might--" (here a whisper). "Shall I presentyou?" The speaker is a youth of the Student species, known for hisboldness among men and his timidity in a boudoir. 

"Madame Firmiani?" cries another, twirling his cane. "I'll tell youwhat I think of her; she is a woman between thirty and thirty-five;faded complexion, handsome eyes, flat figure, contralto voice wornout, much dressed, rather rouged, charming manners; in short, my dearfellow, the remains of a pretty woman who is still worth the troubleof a passion. " This remark is from the species Fop, who has justbreakfasted, doesn't weigh his words, and is about to mount his horse. At that particular moment Fops are pitiless. 

"Magnificent collection of pictures in her house; go and see them byall means, " answers another. "Nothing finer. " You have questioned oneof the species Connoisseur. He leaves you to go to Perignon's orTripet's. To him, Madame Firmiani is a collection of painted canvases. 

A Woman: "Madame Firmiani? I don't wish you to visit her. " This remarkis rich in meanings. Madame Firmiani! dangerous woman! a siren!dresses well, has taste; gives other women sleepless nights. Yourinformant belongs to the genus Spiteful. 

An Attache to an embassy: "Madame Firmiani? Isn't she from Antwerp? Isaw her ten years ago in Rome; she was very handsome then. "Individuals of the species Attache have a mania for talking in thestyle of Talleyrand. Their wit is often so refined that the point isimperceptible; they are like billiard-players who avoid hitting theball with consummate dexterity. These individuals are usuallytaciturn, and when they talk it is only about Spain, Vienna, Italy, orPetersburg. Names of countries act like springs in their mind; pressthem, and the ringing of their changes begins. 

"That Madame Firmiani sees a great deal of the faubourg Saint-Germain, doesn't she?" This from a person who desires to belong to the classDistinguished. She gives the "de" to everybody, --to Monsieur Dupinsenior, to Monsieur Lafayette; she flings it right and left andhumiliates many. This woman spends her life in striving to know and do"the right thing"; but, for her sins, she lives in a the Marais, andher husband is a lawyer, --a lawyer before the Royal courts, however. 

"Madame Firmiani, monsieur? I do not know her. " This man belongs tothe species Duke. He recognizes none but the women who have beenpresented at court. Pray excuse him, he was one of Napoleon'screations. 

"Madame Firmiani? surely she used to sing at the Opera-house. " SpeciesNinny. The individuals of this species have an answer for everything. They will tell lies sooner than say nothing. 

Two old ladies, wives of former magistrates: The First (wears a capwith bows, her face is wrinkled, her nose sharp, voice hard, carries aprayer-book in her hand): "What was that Madame Firmiani's maidenname?"--The Second (small face red as a crab-apple, gentle voice):"She was a Cadignan, my dear, niece of the old Prince de Cadignan, consequently cousin to the present Duc de Maufrigneuse. "

Madame Firmiani is a Cadignan. She might have neither virtue, norwealth, nor youth, but she would still be a Cadignan; it is like aprejudice, always alive and working. 

An Original: "My dear fellow, I've seen no galoshes in herantechamber; consequently you can visit her without compromisingyourself, and play cards there without fear; if there _are_ anyscoundrels in her salons, they are people of quality and come in theircarriages; such persons never quarrel. "

Old man belonging to the genus Observer: "If you call on MadameFirmiani, my good friend, you will find a beautiful woman sitting ather ease by the corner of her fireplace. She will scarcely rise toreceive you, --she only does that for women, ambassadors, dukes, andpersons of great distinction. She is very gracious, she possessescharm; she converses well, and likes to talk on many topics. There aremany indications of a passionate nature about her; but she has, evidently, so many adorers that she cannot have a favorite. Ifsuspicion rested on two or three of her intimates, we might say thatone or other of them was the "cavaliere servente"; but it does not. The lady is a mystery. She is married, though none of us have seen herhusband. Monsieur Firmiani is altogether mythical; he is like thatthird post-horse for which we pay though we never behold it. Madamehas the finest contralto voice in Europe, so say judges; but she hasnever been heard to sing more than two or three times since she cameto Paris. She receives much company, but goes nowhere. "

The Observer speaks, you will notice, as an Oracle. His words, anecdotes, and quotations must be accepted as truths, under pain ofbeing thought without social education or intelligence, and of causinghim to slander you with much zest in twenty salons where he isconsidered indispensable. The Observer is forty years of age, neverdines at home, declares himself no longer dangerous to women, wears amaroon coat, and has a place reserved for him in several boxes at the"Bouffons. " He is sometimes confounded with the Parasite; but he hasfilled too many real functions to be thought a sponger; moreover hepossesses a small estate in a certain department, the name of which hehas never been known to utter. 

"Madame Firmiani? why, my dear fellow, she was Murat's formermistress. " This man belongs to the Contradictors, --persons who noteerrata in memoirs, rectify dates, correct facts, bet a hundred to one, and are certain about everything. You can easily detect them in somegross blunder in the course of a single evening. They will tell youthey were in Paris at the time of Mallet's conspiracy, forgetting thathalf an hour earlier they had described how they had crossed theBeresina. Nearly all Contradictors are "chevaliers" of the Legion ofhonor; they talk loudly, have retreating foreheads, and play high. 

"Madame Firmiani a hundred thousand francs a year? nonsense, you arecrazy! Some people will persist in giving millions with the liberalityof authors, to whom it doesn't cost a penny to dower their heroines. Madame Firmiani is simply a coquette, who has lately ruined a youngman, and now prevents him from making a fine marriage. If she were notso handsome she wouldn't have a penny. "

Ah, _that one_--of course you recognize him--belongs to the speciesEnvious. There is no need to sketch him; the species is as well knownas that of the felis domestica. But how explain the perennial vigor ofenvy?--a vice that brings nothing in!

Persons in society, literary men, honest folk, --in short, individualsof all species, --were promulgating in the month of January, 1824, somany different opinions about Madame Firmiani that it would be tediousto write them down. We have merely sought to show that a man seekingto understand her, yet unwilling or unable to go to her house, would(from the answers to his inquiries) have had equal reason to supposeher a widow or wife, silly or wise, virtuous or the reverse, rich orpour, soulless or full of feeling, handsome or plain, --in short, therewere as many Madame Firmianis as there are species in society, orsects in Catholicism. Frightful reflection! we are all likelithographic blocks, from which an indefinite number of copies can bedrawn by criticism, --the proofs being more or less like us accordingto a distribution of shading which is so nearly imperceptible that ourreputation depends (barring the calumnies of friends and thewitticisms of newspapers) on the balance struck by our criticisersbetween Truth that limps and Falsehood to which Parisian wit giveswings. 

Madame Firmiani, like other noble and dignified women who make theirhearts a sanctuary and disdain the world, was liable, therefore, to betotally misjudged by Monsieur de Bourbonne, an old country magnate, who had reason to think a great deal about her during the winter ofthis year. He belonged to the class of provincial Planters, men livingon their estates, accustomed to keep close accounts of everything andto bargain with the peasantry. Thus employed, a man becomes sagaciousin spite of himself, just as soldiers in the long run acquire couragefrom routine. The old gentleman, who had come to Paris from Touraineto satisfy his curiosity about Madame Firmiani, and found it not atall assuaged by the Parisian gossip which he heard, was a man of honorand breeding. His sole heir was a nephew, whom he greatly loved, inwhose interests he planted his poplars. When a man thinks withoutannoyance about his heir, and watches the trees grow daily finer forhis future benefit, affection grows too with every blow of the spadearound her roots. Though this phenomenal feeling is not common, it isstill to be met with in Touraine. 

This cherished nephew, named Octave de Camps, was a descendant of thefamous Abbe de Camps, so well known to bibliophiles and learned men, --who, by the bye, are not at all the same thing. People in theprovinces have the bad habit of branding with a sort of decentreprobation any young man who sells his inherited estates. Thisantiquated prejudice has interfered very much with the stock-jobbingwhich the present government encourages for its own interests. Withoutconsulting his uncle, Octave had lately sold an estate belonging tohim to the Black Band. [*] The chateau de Villaines would have beenpulled down were it not for the remonstrances which the old uncle madeto the representatives of the "Pickaxe company. " To increase the oldman's wrath, a distant relative (one of those cousins of small meansand much astuteness about whom shrewd provincials are wont to remark, "No lawsuits for me with him!") had, as it were by accident, come tovisit Monsieur de Bourbonne, and _incidentally_ informed him of hisnephew's ruin. Monsieur Octave de Camps, he said, having wasted hismeans on a certain Madame Firmiani, was now reduced to teachingmathematics for a living, while awaiting his uncle's death, not daringto let him know of his dissipations. This distant cousin, a sort ofCharles Moor, was not ashamed to give this fatal news to the oldgentleman as he sat by his fire, digesting a profuse provincialdinner. 

[*] The "Bande Noire" was a mysterious association of speculators, whose object was to buy in landed estates, cut them up, and sell them off in small parcels to the peasantry, or others. 

But heirs cannot always rid themselves of uncles as easily as theywould like to. Thanks to his obstinacy, this particular uncle refusedto believe the story, and came out victorious from the attack ofindigestion produced by his nephew's biography. Some shocks affect theheart, others the head; but in this case the cousin's blow fell on thedigestive organs and did little harm, for the old man's stomach wassound. Like a true disciple of Saint Thomas, Monsieur de Bourbonnecame to Paris, unknown to Octave, resolved to make full inquiries asto his nephew's insolvency. Having many acquaintances in the faubourgSaint-Germain, among the Listomeres, the Lenoncourts, and theVandenesses, he heard so much gossip, so many facts and falsities, about Madame Firmiani that he resolved to be presented to her underthe name of de Rouxellay, that of his estate in Touraine. The astuteold gentleman was careful to choose an evening when he knew thatOctave would be engaged in finishing a piece of work which was to payhim well, --for this so-called lover of Madame Firmiani still went toher house; a circumstance that seemed difficult to explain. As toOctave's ruin, that, unfortunately, was no fable, as Monsieur deBourbonne had at once discovered. 

Monsieur de Rouxellay was not at all like the provincial uncle at theGymnase. Formerly in the King's guard, a man of the world and afavorite among women, he knew how to present himself in society withthe courteous manners of the olden time; he could make gracefulspeeches and understand the whole Charter, or most of it. Though heloved the Bourbons with noble frankness, believed in God as agentleman should, and read nothing but the "Quotidienne, " he was notas ridiculous as the liberals of his department would fain have hadhim. He could hold his own in the court circle, provided no one talkedto him of "Moses in Egypt, " nor of the drama, or romanticism, or localcolor, nor of railways. He himself had never got beyond Monsieur deVoltaire, Monsieur le Comte de Buffon, Payronnet, and the ChevalierGluck, the Queen's favorite musician. 

"Madame, " he said to the Marquise de Listomere, who was on his arm asthey entered Madame Firmiani's salons, "if this woman is my nephew'smistress, I pity him. How can she live in the midst of this luxury, and know that he is in a garret? Hasn't she any soul? Octave is a foolto have given up such an estate as Villaines for a--"

Monsieur de Bourbonne belonged to the species Fossil, and used thelanguage of the days of yore. 

"But suppose he had lost it at play?"

"Then, madame, he would at least have had the pleasure of gambling. "

"And do you think he has had no pleasure here? See! look at MadameFirmiani. "

The brightest memories of the old man faded at the sight of hisnephew's so-called mistress. His anger died away at the graciousexclamation which came from his lips as he looked at her. By one ofthose fortunate accidents which happen only to pretty women, it was amoment when all her beauties shone with peculiar lustre, due perhapsto the wax-lights, to the charming simplicity of her dress, to theineffable atmosphere of elegance that surrounded her. One must needshave studied the transitions of an evening in a Parisian salon toappreciate the imperceptible lights and shades which color a woman'sface and vary it. There comes a moment when, content with her toilet, pleased with her own wit, delighted to be admired, and feeling herselfthe queen of a salon full of remarkable men who smile to her, theParisian woman reaches a full consciousness of her grace and charm;her beauty is enhanced by the looks she gathers in, --a mute homagewhich she transfers with subtle glances to the man she loves. Atmoments like these a woman is invested with supernatural power andbecomes a magician, a charmer, without herself knowing that she isone; involuntarily she inspires the love that fills her own bosom; hersmiles and glances fascinate. If this condition, which comes from thesoul, can give attraction even to a plain woman, with what radiancedoes it not invest a woman of natural elegance, distinguished bearing, fair, fresh, with sparkling eyes, and dressed in a taste that wringsapproval from artists and her bitterest rivals. 

Have you ever, for your happiness, met a woman whose harmonious voicegives to her speech the same charm that emanates from her manners? awoman who knows how to speak and to be silent, whose words are happilychosen, whose language is pure, and who concerns herself in yourinterests with delicacy? Her raillery is caressing, her criticismnever wounds; she neither discourses nor argues, but she likes to leada discussion and stop it at the right moment. Her manner is affableand smiling, her politeness never forced, her readiness to serveothers never servile; she reduces the respect she claims to a softshadow; she never wearies you, and you leave her satisfied with herand with yourself. Her charming grace is conveyed to all the thingswith which she surrounds herself. Everything about her pleases theeye; in her presence you breathe, as it were, your native air. Thiswoman is natural. There is no effort about her; she is aiming at noeffect; her feelings are shown simply, because they are true. Frankherself, she does not wound the vanity of others; she accepts men asGod made them; pitying the vicious, forgiving defects and absurdities, comprehending all ages, and vexed by nothing, because she has had thesense and tact to foresee all. Tender and gay, she gratifies beforeshe consoles. You love her so well that if this angel did wrong youwould be ready to excuse her. If, for your happiness, you have metwith such a woman, you know Madame Firmiani. 

After Monsieur de Bourbonne had talked with her for ten minutes, sitting beside her, his nephew was forgiven. He perceived thatwhatever the actual truth might be, the relation between MadameFirmiani and Octave covered some mystery. Returning to the illusionsthat gild the days of youth, and judging Madame Firmiani by herbeauty, the old gentleman became convinced that a woman so innatelyconscious of her dignity as she appeared to be was incapable of a badaction. Her dark eyes told of inward peace; the lines of her face wereso noble, the profile so pure, and the passion he had come toinvestigate seemed so little to oppress her heart, that the old mansaid to himself, while noting all the promises of love and virtuegiven by that adorable countenance, "My nephew is committing somefolly. "

Madame Firmiani acknowledged to twenty-five. But the Practicals provedthat having married the invisible Firmiani (then a highly respectableindividual in the forties) in 1813, at the age of sixteen, she must beat least twenty-eight in 1825. However the same persons also assertedthat at no period of her life had she ever been so desirable or socompletely a woman. She was now at an age when women are most prone toconceive a passion, and to desire it, perhaps, in their pensive hours. She possessed all that earth sells, all that it lends, all that itgives. The Attaches declared there was nothing of which she wasignorant; the Contradictors asserted that there was much she ought tolearn; the Observers remarked that her hands were white, her feetsmall, her movements a trifle too undulating. But, nevertheless, individuals of all species envied or disputed Octave's happiness, agreeing, for once in a way, that Madame Firmiani was the mostaristocratically beautiful woman in Paris. 

Still young, rich, a perfect musician, intelligent, witty, refined, and received (as a Cadignan) by the Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry, thatoracle of the noble faubourg, loved by her rivals the Duchesse deMaufrigneuse her cousin, the Marquise d'Espard, and Madame de Macumer, --Madame Firmiani gratified all the vanities which feed or excitelove. She was therefore sought by too many men not to fall a victim toParisian malice and its charming calumnies, whispered behind a fan orin a safe aside. It was necessary to quote the remarks given at thebeginning of this history to bring out the true Firmiani incontradistinction to the Firmiani of society. If some women forgaveher happiness, others did not forgive her propriety. Now nothing is sodangerous in Paris as unfounded suspicions, --for the reason that it isimpossible to destroy them. 

This sketch of a woman who was admirably natural gives only a faintidea of her. It would need the pencil of an Ingres to render the prideof that brow, with its wealth of hair, the dignity of that glance, andthe thoughts betrayed by the changing colors of her cheeks. In herwere all things; poets could have found an Agnes Sorel and a Joan ofArc, also the woman unknown, the Soul within that form, the soul ofEve, the knowledge of the treasures of good and the riches of evil, error and resignation, crime and devotion, the Donna Julia and theHaidee of Lord Byron. 

The former guardsman stayed, with apparent impertinence, after theother guests had left the salons; and Madame Firmiani found himsitting quietly before her in an armchair, evidently determined toremain, with the pertinacity of a fly which we are forced to kill toget rid of it. The hands of the clock marked two in the morning. 

"Madame, " said the old gentlemen, as Madame Firmiani rose, hoping tomake him understand that it was her good pleasure he should go, "Madame, I am the uncle of Monsieur Octave de Camps. "

Madame Firmiani immediately sat down again, and showed her emotion. Inspite of his sagacity the old Planter was unable to decide whether sheturned pale from shame or pleasure. There are pleasures, deliciousemotions the chaste heart seeks to veil, which cannot escape the shockof startled modesty. The more delicacy a woman has, the more she seeksto hide the joys that are in her soul. Many women, incomprehensible intheir tender caprices, long to hear a name pronounced which at othertimes they desire to bury in their hearts. Monsieur de Bourbonne didnot interpret Madame Firmiani's agitation exactly in this way: prayforgive him, all provincials are distrustful. 

"Well, monsieur?" said Madame Firmiani, giving him one of those clear, lucid glances in which we men can never see anything because theyquestion us too much. 

"Well, madame, " returned the old man, "do you know what some one cameto tell me in the depths of my province? That my nephew had ruinedhimself for you, and that the poor fellow was living in a garret whileyou were in silk and gold. Forgive my rustic sincerity; it may beuseful for you to know of these calumnies. "

"Stop, monsieur, " said Madame Firmiani, with an imperative gesture; "Iknow all that. You are too polite to continue this subject if Irequest you to leave it, and too gallant--in the old-fashioned senseof the word, " she added with a slight tone of irony--"not to agreethat you have no right to question me. It would be ridiculous in me todefend myself. I trust that you will have a sufficiently good opinionof my character to believe in the profound contempt which, I assureyou, I feel for money, --although I was married, without any fortune, to a man of immense wealth. It is nothing to me whether your nephew isrich or poor; if I have received him in my house, and do now receivehim, it is because I consider him worthy to be counted among myfriends. All my friends, monsieur, respect each other; they know thatI have not philosophy enough to admit into my house those I do notesteem; this may argue a want of charity; but my guardian-angel hasmaintained in me to this day a profound aversion for tattle, and alsofor dishonesty. "

Through the ring of her voice was slightly raised during the firstpart of this answer, the last words were said with the ease andself-possession of Celimene bantering the Misanthrope. 

"Madame, " said Monsieur de Bourbonne, in a voice of some emotion, "Iam an old man; I am almost Octave's father, and I ask your pardon mosthumbly for the question that I shall now venture to put to you, givingyou my word of honor as a loyal gentleman that your answer shall diehere, "--laying his hand upon his heart, with an old-fashioned gesturethat was truly religious. "Are these rumors true; do you love Octave?"

"Monsieur, " she replied, "to any other man I should answer thatquestion only by a look; but to you, and because you are indeed almostthe father of Monsieur de Camps, I reply by asking what you wouldthink of a woman if to such a question she answered _you_? To avow ourlove for him we love, when he loves us--ah! that may be; but even whenwe are certain of being loved forever, believe me, monsieur, it is aneffort for us, and a reward to him. To say to another!--"

She did not end her sentence, but rose, bowed to the old man, andwithdrew into her private apartments, the doors of which, opening andclosing behind her, had a language of their own to his sagacious ears. 

"Ah! the mischief!" thought he; "what a woman! she is either a sly oneor an angel"; and he got into his hired coach, the horses of whichwere stamping on the pavement of the silent courtyard, while thecoachman was asleep on his box after cursing for the hundredth timehis tardy customer. 

The next morning about eight o'clock the old gentleman mounted thestairs of a house in the rue de l'Observance where Octave de Camps wasliving. If there was ever an astonished man it was the young professorwhen he beheld his uncle. The door was unlocked, his lamp stillburning; he had been sitting up all night. 

"You rascal!" said Monsieur de Bourbonne, sitting down in the nearestchair; "since when is it the fashion to laugh at uncles who havetwenty-six thousand francs a year from solid acres to which we are thesole heir? Let me tell you that in the olden time we stood in awe ofsuch uncles as that. Come, speak up, what fault have you to find withme? Haven't I played my part as uncle properly? Did I ever require youto respect me? Have I ever refused you money? When did I shut the doorin your face on pretence that you had come to look after my health?Haven't you had the most accommodating and the least domineering unclethat there is in France, --I won't say Europe, because that might betoo presumptuous. You write to me, or you don't write, --no matter, Ilive on pledged affection, and I am making you the prettiest estate inall Touraine, the envy of the department. To be sure, I don't intendto let you have it till the last possible moment, but that's anexcusable little fancy, isn't it? And what does monsieur himself do?--sells his own property and lives like a lackey!--"

"Uncle--"

"I'm not talking about uncles, I'm talking nephew. I have a right toyour confidence. Come, confess at once; it is much the easiest way; Iknow that by experience. Have you been gambling? have you lost moneyat the Bourse? Say, 'Uncle, I'm a wretch, ' and I'll hug you. But ifyou tell me any lies greater than those I used to tell at your ageI'll sell my property, buy an annuity, and go back to the evil ways ofmy youth--if I can. "

"Uncle--"

"I saw your Madame Firmiani yesterday, " went on the old fellow, kissing the tips of his fingers, which he gathered into a bunch. "Sheis charming. You have the consent and approbation of your uncle, ifthat will do you any good. As to the sanction of the Church I supposethat's useless, and the sacraments cost so much in these days. Come, speak out, have you ruined yourself for her?"

"Yes, uncle. "

"Ha! the jade! I'd have wagered it. In my time the women of the courtwere cleverer at ruining a man than the courtesans of to-day; but thisone--I recognized her!--it is a bit of the last century. "

"Uncle, " said Octave, with a manner that was tender and grave, "youare totally mistaken. Madame Firmiani deserves your esteem, and allthe adoration the world gives her. "

"Youth, youth! always the same!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne. "Well, go on; tell me the same old story. But please remember that myexperience in gallantry is not of yesterday. "

"My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell you nearlyall, " said Octave, taking it from an elegant portfolio, _her_ gift, nodoubt. "When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you willthen know a Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world. "

"I haven't my spectacles; read it aloud. "

Octave began:--

 "'My beloved--'"

"Hey, then you are still intimate with her?" interrupted his uncle. 

"Why yes, of course. "

"You haven't parted from her?"

"Parted!" repeated Octave, "we are married. "

"Heavens!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, "then why do you live in agarret?"

"Let me go on. "

"True--I'm listening. "

Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could notread without deep emotion. 

 "'My beloved Husband, --You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed it?--but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I cannot deceive you; this may be a misfortune, for it is one of the conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay and caressing. Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but I would not do it even if the happiness with which you have blessed and overpowered me depended on it. 

 "'Ah! dearest, how much gratitude there is in my love. I long to love you forever, without limit; yes, I desire to be forever proud of you. A woman's glory is in the man she loves. Esteem, consideration, honor, must they not be his who receives our all? Well, my angel has fallen. Yes, dear, the tale you told me has tarnished my past joys. Since then I have felt myself humiliated in you, --you whom I thought the most honorable of men, as you are the most loving, the most tender. I must indeed have deep confidence in your heart, so young and pure, to make you this avowal which costs me much. Ah! my dear love, how is it that you, knowing your father had unjustly deprived others of their property, that YOU can keep it?

 "'And you told me of this criminal act in a room filled with the mute witnesses of our love; and you are a gentleman, and you think yourself noble, and I am yours! I try to find excuses for you; I do find them in your youth and thoughtlessness. I know there is still something of the child about you. Perhaps you have never thought seriously of what fortune and integrity are. Oh! how your laugh wounded me. Reflect on that ruined family, always in distress; poor young girls who have reason to curse you daily; an old father saying to himself each night: "We might not now be starving if that man's father had been an honest man--"'"

"Good heavens!" cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, interrupting his nephew, "surely you have not been such a fool as to tell that woman about yourfather's affair with the Bourgneufs? Women know more about wasting afortune than making one. "

"They know about integrity. But let me read on, uncle. "

 "'Octave, no power on earth has authority to change the principles of honor. Look into your conscience and ask it by what name you are to call the action by which you hold your property. '"

The nephew looked at the uncle, who lowered his head. 

 "'I will not tell you all the thoughts that assail me; they can be reduced to one, --this is it: I cannot respect the man who, knowingly, is smirched for a sum of money, whatever the amount may be; five francs stolen at play or five times a hundred thousand gained by a legal trick are equally dishonoring. I will tell you all. I feel myself degraded by the very love which has hitherto been all my joy. There rises in my soul a voice which my tenderness cannot stifle. Ah! I have wept to feel that I have more conscience than love. Were you to commit a crime I would hide you in my bosom from human justice, but my devotion could go no farther. Love, to a woman, means boundless confidence, united to a need of reverencing, of esteeming, the being to whom she belongs. I have never conceived of love otherwise than as a fire in which all noble feelings are purified still more, --a fire which develops them. 

 "'I have but one thing else to say: come to me poor, and my love shall be redoubled. If not, renounce it. Should I see you no more, I shall know what it means. 

 "'But I do not wish, understand me, that you should make restitution because I urge it. Consult your own conscience. An act of justice such as that ought not to be a sacrifice made to love. I am your wife and not your mistress, and it is less a question of pleasing me than of inspiring in my soul a true respect. 

 "'If I am mistaken, if you have ill-explained your father's action, if, in short, you still think your right to the property equitable (oh! how I long to persuade myself that you are blameless), consider and decide by listening to the voice of your conscience; act wholly and solely from yourself. A man who loves a woman sincerely, as you love me, respects the sanctity of her trust in him too deeply to dishonor himself. 

 "'I blame myself now for what I have written; a word might have sufficed, and I have preached to you! Scold me; I wish to be scolded, --but not much, only a little. Dear, between us two the power is yours--you alone should perceive your own faults. '"

"Well, uncle?" said Octave, whose eyes were full of tears. 

"There's more in the letter; finish it. "

"Oh, the rest is only to be read by a lover, " answered Octave, smiling. 

"Yes, right, my boy, " said the old man, gently. "I have had manyaffairs in my day, but I beg you to believe that I too have loved, 'etego in Arcardia. ' But I don't understand yet why you give lessons inmathematics. "

"My dear uncle, I am your nephew; isn't that as good as saying that Ihad dipped into the capital left me by my father? After I had readthis letter a sort of revolution took place within me. I paid my wholearrearage of remorse in one day. I cannot describe to you the state Iwas in. As I drove in the Bois a voice called to me, 'That horse isnot yours'; when I ate my dinner it was saying, 'You have stolen thisfood. ' I was ashamed. The fresher my honesty, the more intense it was. I rushed to Madame Firmiani. Uncle! that day I had pleasures of theheart, enjoyments of the soul, that were far beyond millions. Togetherwe made out the account of what was due to the Bourgneufs, and Icondemned myself, against Madame Firmiani's advice, to pay three percent interest. But all I had did not suffice to cover the full amount. We were lovers enough for her to offer, and me to accept, hersavings--"

"What! besides her other virtues does that adorable woman lay bymoney?" cried his uncle. 

"Don't laugh at her, uncle; her position has obliged her to be verycareful. Her husband went to Greece in 1820 and died there three yearslater. It has been impossible, up to the present time, to get legalproofs of his death, or obtain the will which he made leaving hiswhole property to his wife. These papers were either lost or stolen, or have gone astray during the troubles in Greece, --a country whereregisters are not kept as they are in France, and where we have noconsul. Uncertain whether she might not be forced to give up herfortune, she has lived with the utmost prudence. As for me, I wish toacquire property which shall be _mine_, so as to provide for my wife incase she is forced to lose hers. "

"But why didn't you tell me all this? My dear nephew, you might haveknown that I love you enough to pay all your good debts, the debts ofa gentleman. I'll play the traditional uncle now, and revenge myself!"

"Ah! uncle, I know your vengeance! but let me get rich by my ownindustry. If you want to do me a real service, make me an allowance oftwo or three thousand francs a year, till I see my way to anenterprise for which I shall want capital. At this moment I am sohappy that all I desire is just the means of living. I give lessons sothat I may not live at the cost of _any one_. If you only knew thehappiness I had in making that restitution! I found the Bourgneufs, after a good deal of trouble, living miserably and in need ofeverything. The old father was a lottery agent; the two daughters kepthis books and took care of the house; the mother was always ill. Thedaughters are charming girls, but they have been cruelly taught thatthe world thinks little of beauty without money. What a scene it was!I entered their house the accomplice in a crime; I left it an honestman, who had purged his father's memory. Uncle, I don't judge him;there is such excitement, such passion in a lawsuit that even anhonorable man may be led astray by them. Lawyers can make the mostunjust claims legal; laws have convenient syllogisms to quietconsciences. My visit was a drama. To _be_ Providence itself; actuallyto fulfil that futile wish, 'If heaven were to send us twenty thousandfrancs a year, '--that silly wish we all make, laughing; to bringopulence to a family sitting by the light of one miserable lamp over apoor turf fire!--no, words cannot describe it. My extreme justiceseemed to them unjust. Well! if there is a Paradise my father is happyin it now. As for me, I am loved as no man was ever loved yet. MadameFirmiani gives me more than happiness; she has inspired me with adelicacy of feeling I think I lacked. So I call her _my dearconscience_, --a love-word which expresses certain secret harmonieswithin our hearts. I find honesty profitable; I shall get rich in timeby myself. I've an industrial scheme in my head, and if it succeeds Ishall earn millions. "

"Ah! my boy, you have your mother's soul, " said the old man, his eyesfilling at the thought of his sister. 

Just then, in spite of the distance between Octave's garret and thestreet, the young man heard the sound of a carriage. 

"There she is!" he cried; "I know her horses by the way they arepulled up. "

A few moments more, and Madame Firmiani entered the room. 

"Ah!" she exclaimed, with a gesture of annoyance at seeing Monsieur deBourbonne. "But our uncle is not in the way, " she added quickly, smiling; "I came to humbly entreat my husband to accept my fortune. The Austrian Embassy has just sent me a document which proves thedeath of Monsieur Firmiani, also the will, which his valet was keepingsafely to put into my own hands. Octave, you can accept it all; youare richer than I, for you have treasures here" (laying her hand uponhis heart) "to which none but God can add. " Then, unable to supporther happiness, she laid her head upon her husband's breast. 

"My dear niece, " said the old man, "in my day we made love; in yours, you love. You women are all that is best in humanity; you are not evenguilty of your faults, for they come through us. "

ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Blamont-Chauvry, Princesse de The Thirteen Madame Firmiani The Lily of the Valley

Bourbonne, De Madame Firmiani The Vicar of Tours

Camps, Octave de Madame Firmiani The Member for Arcis

Camps, Madame Octave de Madame Firmiani The Government Clerks A Woman of Thirty A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis