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pubOne.info present you this new edition. "Come, deputy of the Centre, forward! Quick step! march! if we want to be in time to dine with the others. Jump, marquis! there, that's right! why, you can skip across a stubble-field like a deer!

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819933038
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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ADIEU
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
DEDICATION
To Prince Frederic Schwartzenburg
ADIEU
CHAPTER I. AN OLD MONASTERY
“Come, deputy of the Centre, forward! Quick step!march! if we want to be in time to dine with the others. Jump,marquis! there, that's right! why, you can skip across astubble-field like a deer! ”
These words were said by a huntsman peacefullyseated at the edge of the forest of Ile-Adam, who was finishing anHavana cigar while waiting for his companion, who had lost his wayin the tangled underbrush of the wood. At his side four pantingdogs were watching, as he did, the personage he addressed. Tounderstand how sarcastic were these exhortations, repeated atintervals, we should state that the approaching huntsman was astout little man whose protuberant stomach was the evidence of atruly ministerial “embonpoint. ” He was struggling painfully acrossthe furrows of a vast wheat-field recently harvested, the stubbleof which considerably impeded him; while to add to his othermiseries the sun's rays, striking obliquely on his face, collectedan abundance of drops of perspiration. Absorbed in the effort tomaintain his equilibrium, he leaned, now forward, now back, inclose imitation of the pitching of a carriage when violentlyjolted. The weather looked threatening. Though several spaces ofblue sky still parted the thick black clouds toward the horizon, aflock of fleecy vapors were advancing with great rapidity anddrawing a light gray curtain from east to west. As the wind wasacting only on the upper region of the air, the atmosphere below itpressed down the hot vapors of the earth. Surrounded by masses oftall trees, the valley through which the hunter struggled felt likea furnace. Parched and silent, the forest seemed thirsty. Thebirds, even the insects, were voiceless; the tree-tops scarcelywaved. Those persons who may still remember the summer of 1819 canimagine the woes of the poor deputy, who was struggling along,drenched in sweat, to regain his mocking friend. The latter, whilesmoking his cigar, had calculated from the position of the sun thatit must be about five in the afternoon.
“Where the devil are we? ” said the stout huntsman,mopping his forehead and leaning against the trunk of a tree nearlyopposite to his companion, for he felt unequal to the effort ofleaping the ditch between them.
“That's for me to ask you, ” said the other,laughing, as he lay among the tall brown brake which crowned thebank. Then, throwing the end of his cigar into the ditch, he criedout vehemently: “I swear by Saint Hubert that never again will Itrust myself in unknown territory with a statesman, though he be,like you, my dear d'Albon, a college mate. ”
“But, Philippe, have you forgotten your French? Orhave you left your wits in Siberia? ” replied the stout man,casting a sorrowfully comic look at a sign-post about a hundredfeet away.
“True, true, ” cried Philippe, seizing his gun andspringing with a bound into the field and thence to the post. “Thisway, d'Albon, this way, ” he called back to his friend, pointing toa broad paved path and reading aloud the sign: “'From Baillet toIle-Adam. ' We shall certainly find the path to Cassan, which mustbranch from this one between here and Ile-Adam. ”
“You are right, colonel, ” said Monsieur d'Albon,replacing upon his head the cap with which he had been fanninghimself.
“Forward then, my respectable privy councillor, ”replied Colonel Philippe, whistling to the dogs, who seemed morewilling to obey him than the public functionary to whom theybelonged.
“Are you aware, marquis, ” said the jeering soldier,“that we still have six miles to go? That village over there mustbe Baillet. ”
“Good heavens! ” cried the marquis, “go to Cassan ifyou must, but you'll go alone. I prefer to stay here, in spite ofthe coming storm, and wait for the horse you can send me from thechateau. You've played me a trick, Sucy. We were to have had a nicelittle hunt not far from Cassan, and beaten the coverts I know.Instead of that, you have kept me running like a hare since fouro'clock this morning, and all I've had for breakfast is a cup ofmilk. Now, if you ever have a petition before the Court, I'll makeyou lose it, however just your claim. ”
The poor discouraged huntsman sat down on a stonethat supported the signpost, relieved himself of his gun and hisgamebag, and heaved a long sigh.
“France! such are thy deputies! ” exclaimed Colonelde Sucy, laughing. “Ah! my poor d'Albon, if you had been like mesix years in the wilds of Siberia— ”
He said no more, but he raised his eyes to heaven asif that anguish were between himself and God.
“Come, march on! ” he added. “If you sit still youare lost. ”
“How can I, Philippe? It is an old magisterial habitto sit still. On my honor! I'm tired out— If I had only killed ahare! ”
The two men presented a rather rare contrast: thepublic functionary was forty-two years of age and seemed no morethan thirty, whereas the soldier was thirty, and seemed forty atthe least. Both wore the red rosette of the officers of the Legionof honor. A few spare locks of black hair mixed with white, likethe wing of a magpie, escaped from the colonel's cap, whilehandsome brown curls adorned the brow of the statesman. One wastall, gallant, high-strung, and the lines of his pallid face showedterrible passions or frightful griefs. The other had a face thatwas brilliant with health, and jovially worth of an epicurean. Bothwere deeply sun-burned, and their high gaiters of tanned leathershowed signs of the bogs and the thickets they had just comethrough.
“Come, ” said Monsieur de Sucy, “let us get on. Ashort hour's march, and we shall reach Cassan in time for a gooddinner. ”
“It is easy to see you have never loved, ” repliedthe councillor, with a look that was pitifully comic; “you are asrelentless as article 304 of the penal code. ”
Philippe de Sucy quivered; his broad browcontracted; his face became as sombre as the skies above them. Somememory of awful bitterness distorted for a moment his features, buthe said nothing. Like all strong men, he drove down his emotions tothe depths of his heart; thinking perhaps, as simple characters areapt to think, that there was something immodest in unveiling griefswhen human language cannot render their depths and may only rousethe mockery of those who do not comprehend them. Monsieur d'Albonhad one of those delicate natures which divine sorrows, and areinstantly sympathetic to the emotion they have involuntarilyaroused. He respected his friend's silence, rose, forgot hisfatigue, and followed him silently, grieved to have touched a woundthat was evidently not healed.
“Some day, my friend, ” said Philippe, pressing hishand, and thanking him for his mute repentance by a heart-rendinglook, “I will relate to you my life. To-day I cannot. ”
They continued their way in silence. When thecolonel's pain seemed soothed, the marquis resumed his fatigue; andwith the instinct, or rather the will, of a wearied man his eyetook in the very depths of the forest; he questioned the tree-topsand examined the branching paths, hoping to discover some dwellingwhere he could ask hospitality. Arriving at a cross-ways, hethought he noticed a slight smoke rising among the trees; hestopped, looked more attentively, and saw, in the midst of a vastcopse, the dark-green branches of several pine-trees.
“A house! a house! ” he cried, with the joy thesailor feels in crying “Land! ”
Then he sprang quickly into the copse, and thecolonel, who had fallen into a deep reverie, followed himmechanically.
“I'd rather get an omelet, some cottage bread, and achair here, ” he said, “than go to Cassan for sofas, truffles, andBordeaux. ”
These words were an exclamation of enthusiasm,elicited from the councillor on catching sight of a wall, the whitetowers of which glimmered in the distance through the brown massesof the tree trunks.
“Ha! ha! this looks to me as if it had once been apriory, ” cried the marquis, as they reached a very old andblackened gate, through which they could see, in the midst of alarge park, a building constructed in the style of the monasteriesof old. “How those rascals the monks knew how to choose theirsites! ”
This last exclamation was an expression of surpriseand pleasure at the poetical hermitage which met his eyes. Thehouse stood on the slope of the mountain, at the summit of which isthe village of Nerville. The great centennial oaks of the forestwhich encircled the dwelling made the place an absolute solitude.The main building, formerly occupied by the monks, faced south. Thepark seemed to have about forty acres. Near the house lay asuccession of green meadows, charmingly crossed by several clearrivulets, with here and there a piece of water naturally placedwithout the least apparent artifice. Trees of elegant shape andvaried foliage were distributed about. Grottos, cleverly managed,and massive terraces with dilapidated steps and rusty railings,gave a peculiar character to this lone retreat. Art had harmonizedher constructions with the picturesque effects of nature. Humanpassions seemed to die at the feet of those great trees, whichguarded this asylum from the tumult of the world as they shaded itfrom the fires of the sun.
“How desolate! ” thought Monsieur d'Albon, observingthe sombre expression which the ancient building gave to thelandscape, gloomy as though a curse were on it. It seemed a fatalspot deserted by man. Ivy had stretched its tortuous muscles,covered by its rich green mantle, everywhere. Brown or green, redor yellow mosses and lichen spread their romantic tints on treesand seats and roofs and stones. The crumbling window-casings werehollowed by rain, defaced by time; the balconies were broken, theterraces demolished. Some of the outside shutters hung from asingle hinge. The rotten doors seemed quite unable to resist anassailant. Covered with shining tufts of mistletoe, the branches ofthe