Honoré de Balzac: Premium Collection. Honore de Balzac
devote myself to Paz. Our two characters have kept their natural asperities and defects, but the mutual comprehension of our souls has tightened the bond already close between us. It is quite possible to save a man’s life and kill him afterwards if we find him a bad fellow; but Paz and I know THAT of each other which makes our friendship indissoluble. There’s a constant exchange of happy thoughts and impressions between us; and really, perhaps, such a friendship as ours is richer than love.”
A pretty hand closed the count’s mouth so promptly that the action was somewhat like a blow.
“Yes,” he said, “friendship, my dear angel, knows nothing of bankrupt sentiments and collapsed joys. Love, after giving more than it has, ends by giving less than it receives.”
“One side as well as the other,” remarked Clementine laughing.
“Yes,” continued Adam, “whereas friendship only increases. You need not pucker up your lips at that, for we are, you and I, as much friends as lovers; we have, at least I hope so, combined the two sentiments in our happy marriage.”
“I’ll explain to you what it is that has made you and Thaddeus such good friends,” said Clementine. “The difference in the lives you lead comes from your tastes and from necessity; from your likings, not your positions. As far as one can judge from merely seeing a man once, and also from what you tell me, there are times when the subaltern might become the superior.”
“Oh, Paz is truly my superior,” said Adam, naively; “I have no advantage over him except mere luck.”
His wife kissed him for the generosity of those words.
“The extreme care with which he hides the grandeur of his feelings is one form of his superiority,” continued the count. “I said to him once: ‘You are a sly one; you have in your heart a vast domain within which you live and think.’ He has a right to the title of count; but in Paris he won’t be called anything but captain.”
“The fact is that the Florentine of the middle-ages has reappeared in our century,” said the countess. “Dante and Michael Angelo are in him.”
“That’s the very truth,” cried Adam. “He is a poet in soul.”
“So here I am, married to two Poles,” said the young countess, with a gesture worthy of some genius of the stage.
“Dear child!” said Adam, pressing her to him, “it would have made me very unhappy if my friend did not please you. We were both rather afraid of it, he and I, though he was delighted at my marriage. You will make him very happy if you tell him that you love him,—yes, as an old friend.”
“I’ll go and dress, the day is so fine; and we will all three ride together,” said Clementine, ringing for her maid.
II
Paz was leading so subterranean a life that the fashionable world of Paris asked who he was when the Comtesse Laginska was seen in the Bois de Boulogne riding between her husband and a stranger. During the ride Clementine insisted that Thaddeus should dine with them. This caprice of the sovereign lady compelled Paz to make an evening toilet. Clementine dressed for the occasion with a certain coquetry, in a style that impressed even Adam himself when she entered the salon where the two friends awaited her.
“Comte Paz,” she said, “you must go with us to the Opera.”
This was said in the tone which, coming from a woman means: “If you refuse we shall quarrel.”
“Willingly, madame,” replied the captain. “But as I have not the fortune of a count, have the kindness to call me captain.”
“Very good, captain; give me your arm,” she said,—taking it and leading the way to the dining-room with the flattering familiarity which enchants all lovers.
The countess placed the captain beside her; his behavior was that of a poor sub-lieutenant dining at his general’s table. He let Clementine talk, listened deferentially as to a superior, did not differ with her in anything, and waited to be questioned before he spoke at all. He seemed actually stupid to the countess, whose coquettish little ways missed their mark in presence of such frigid gravity and conventional respect. In vain Adam kept saying: “Do be lively, Thaddeus; one would really suppose you were not at home. You must have made a wager to disconcert Clementine.” Thaddeus continued heavy and half asleep. When the servants left the room at the end of the dessert the captain explained that his habits were diametrically opposite to those of society,—he went to bed at eight o’clock and got up very early in the morning; and he excused his dulness on the ground of being sleepy.
“My intention in taking you to the Opera was to amuse you, captain; but do as you prefer,” said Clementine, rather piqued.
“I will go,” said Paz.
“Duprez sings ‘Guillaume Tell,’” remarked Adam. “But perhaps you would rather go to the ‘Varietes’?”
The captain smiled and rang the bell. “Tell Constantin,” he said to the footman, “to put the horses to the carriage instead of the coupe. We should be rather squeezed otherwise,” he said to the count.
“A Frenchman would have forgotten that,” remarked Clementine, smiling.
“Ah! but we are Florentines transplanted to the North,” answered Thaddeus with a refinement of accent and a look in his eyes which made his conduct at table seem assumed for the occasion. There was too evident a contrast between his involuntary self-revelation in this speech and his behavior during dinner. Clementine examined the captain with a few of those covert glances which show a woman’s surprise and also her capacity for observation.
It resulted from this little incident that silence reigned in the salon while the three took their coffee, a silence rather annoying to Adam, who was incapable of imagining the cause of it. Clementine no longer tried to draw out Thaddeus. The captain, on the other hand, retreated within his military stiffness and came out of it no more, neither on the way to the Opera nor in the box, where he seemed to be asleep.
“You see, madame, that I am a very stupid man,” he said during the dance in the last act of “Guillaume Tell.” “Am I not right to keep, as the saying is, to my own specialty?”
“In truth, my dear captain, you are neither a talker nor a man of the world, but you are perhaps Polish.”
“Therefore leave me to look after your pleasures, your property, your household—it is all I am good for.”
“Tartufe! pooh!” cried Adam, laughing. “My dear, he is full of ardor; he is thoroughly educated; he can, if he chooses, hold his own in any salon. Clementine, don’t believe his modesty.”
“Adieu, comtesse; I have obeyed your wishes so far; and now I will take the carriage and go home to bed and send it back for you.”
Clementine bowed her head and let him go without replying.
“What a bear!” she said to the count. “You are a great deal nicer.”
Adam pressed her hand when no one was looking.
“Poor, dear Thaddeus,” he said, “he is trying to make himself disagreeable where most men would try to seem more amiable than I.”
“Oh!” she said, “I am not sure but what there is some calculation in his behavior; he would have taken in an ordinary woman.”
Half an hour later, when the chasseur, Boleslas, called out “Gate!” and the carriage was waiting for it to swing back, Clementine said to her husband, “Where does the captain perch?”
“Why, there!” replied Adam, pointing to a floor above the porte-cochere which had one window looking on the street. “His apartments are over the coachhouse.”