The Human Comedy - La Comédie humaine (Complete Edition). Honore de Balzac
bowed. The notary made a slight inclination of the head, looked at Ginevra with a sly expression, took out his snuff-box, opened it, and slowly inhaled a pinch, as if seeking for the words with which to open his errand; then, while uttering them, he made continual pauses (an oratorical manoeuvre very imperfectly represented by the printer’s dash—).
“Monsieur,” he said, “I am Monsieur Roguin, your daughter’s notary, and we have come—my colleague and I—to fulfil the intentions of the law and—put an end to the divisions which—appear—to exist—between yourself and Mademoiselle, your daughter,—on the subject—of—her—marriage with Monsieur Luigi Porta.”
This speech, pedantically delivered, probably seemed to Monsieur Roguin so fine that his hearer could not at once understand it. He paused, and looked at Bartolomeo with that peculiar expression of the mere business lawyer, a mixture of servility with familiarity. Accustomed to feign much interest in the persons with whom they deal, notaries have at last produced upon their features a grimace of their own, which they take on and off as an official “pallium.” This mask of benevolence, the mechanism of which is so easy to perceive, irritated Bartolomeo to such an extent that he was forced to collect all the powers of his reason to prevent him from throwing Monsieur Roguin through the window. An expression of anger ran through his wrinkles, which caused the notary to think to himself: “I’ve produced an effect.”
“But,” he continued, in a honeyed tone, “Monsieur le baron, on such occasions our duties are preceded by—efforts at—conciliation—Deign, therefore, to have the goodness to listen to me—It is in evidence that Mademoiselle Ginevra di Piombo—attains this very day—the age at which the law allows a respectful summons before proceeding to the celebration of a marriage—in spite of the non-consent of the parents. Now—it is usual in families—who enjoy a certain consideration—who belong to society—who preserve some dignity—to whom, in short, it is desirable not to let the public into the secret of their differences—and who, moreover, do not wish to injure themselves by blasting with reprobation the future of a young couple (for—that is injuring themselves), it is usual, I say—among these honorable families—not to allow these summonses—to take place—or remain—a monument to—divisions which should end—by ceasing—Whenever, monsieur, a young lady has recourse to respectful summons, she exhibits a determination too marked to allow of a father—of a mother,” here he turned to the baroness, “hoping or expecting that she will follow their wishes—Paternal resistance being null—by reason of this fact—in the first place—and also from its being nullified by law, it is customary—for every sensible man—after making a final remonstrance to his child—and before she proceeds to the respectful summons—to leave her at liberty to—”
Monsieur Roguin stopped, perceiving that he might talk on for two hours without obtaining any answer; he felt, moreover, a singular emotion at the aspect of the man he was attempting to convert. An extraordinary revolution had taken place on Piombo’s face; his wrinkles, contracting into narrow lines, gave him a look of indescribable cruelty, and he cast upon the notary the glance of a tiger. The baroness was mute and passive. Ginevra, calm and resolute, waited silently; she knew that the notary’s voice was more potent than hers, and she seemed to have decided to say nothing. At the moment when Roguin ceased speaking, the scene had become so terrifying that the men who were there as witnesses trembled; never, perhaps, had they known so awful a silence. The notaries looked at each other, as if in consultation, and finally rose and walked to the window.
“Did you ever meet people born into the world like that?” asked Roguin of his brother notary.
“You can’t get anything out of him,” replied the younger man. “In your place, I should simply read the summons. That old fellow isn’t a comfortable person; he is furious, and you’ll gain nothing whatever by arguing with him.”
Monsieur Roguin then read a stamped paper, containing the “respectful summons,” prepared for the occasion; after which he proceeded to ask Bartolomeo what answer he made to it.
“Are there laws in France which destroy paternal authority?—” demanded the Corsican.
“Monsieur—” said Roguin, in his honeyed tones.
“Which tear a daughter from her father?—”
“Monsieur—”
“Which deprive an old man of his last consolation?—”
“Monsieur, your daughter only belongs to you if—”
“And kill him?—”
“Monsieur, permit me—”
There is nothing more horrible than the coolness and precise reasoning of notaries amid the many passionate scenes in which they are accustomed to take part.
The forms that Piombo saw about him seemed, to his eyes, escaped from hell; his repressed and concentrated rage knew no longer any bounds as the calm and fluted voice of the little notary uttered the words: “permit me.” By a sudden movement he sprang to a dagger that was hanging to a nail above the fireplace, and rushed toward his daughter. The younger of the two notaries and one of the witnesses threw themselves before Ginevra; but Piombo knocked them violently down, his face on fire, and his eyes casting flames more terrifying than the glitter of the dagger. When Ginevra saw him approach her she looked at him with an air of triumph, and advancing slowly, knelt down. “No, no! I cannot!” he cried, flinging away the weapon, which buried itself in the wainscot.
“Well, then! have mercy! have pity!” she said. “You hesitate to be my death, and you refuse me life! Oh! father, never have I loved you as I do at this moment; give me Luigi! I ask for your consent upon my knees: a daughter can humiliate herself before her father. My Luigi, give me my Luigi, or I die!”
The violent excitement which suffocated her stopped her words, for she had no voice; her convulsive movements showed plainly that she lay, as it were, between life and death. Bartolomeo roughly pushed her from him.
“Go,” he said. “The wife of Luigi Porta cannot be a Piombo. I have no daughter. I have not the strength to curse you, but I cast you off; you have no father. My Ginevra Piombo is buried here,” he said, in a deep voice, pressing violently on his heart. “Go, leave my house, unhappy girl,” he added, after a moment’s silence. “Go, and never come into my sight again.”
So saying, he took Ginevra by the arm to the gate of the house and silently put her out.
“Luigi!” cried Ginevra, entering the humble lodging of her lover,—“my Luigi, we have no other fortune than our love.”
“Then am I richer than the kings of the earth!” he cried.
“My father and my mother have cast me off,” she said, in deepest sadness.
“I will love you in place of them.”
“Then let us be happy,—we WILL be happy!” she cried, with a gayety in which there was something dreadful.
CHAPTER V.
MARRIAGE
The day after Ginevra was driven from her father’s house she went to ask Madame Servin for asylum and protection until the period fixed by law for her marriage to Luigi.
Here began for her that apprenticeship to trouble which the world strews about the path of those who do not follow its conventions. Madame Servin received her very coldly, being much annoyed by the harm which Ginevra’s affair had inflicted on her husband, and told her, in politely cautious words, that she must not count on her help in future. Too proud to persist, but amazed at a selfishness hitherto unknown to her, the girl took a room in the lodging-house that was nearest to that of Luigi. The son of the Portas passed all his days at the feet of his future wife; and his youthful love, the purity of his words, dispersed the