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One moment.
1C’était enfin un de ces visages mélodieux qui, muets, nous parlent et nous attirent ; néanmoins, en le contemplant avec un peu d’attention, peut-être y aurait-on reconnu l’espèce de flétrissure qu’imprime une grande pensée ou la passion, dans une verdeur mate qui le faisait ressembler à une jeune feuille se dépliant au soleil. Aussi, jamais opposition ne fut-elle plus brusque ni plus vive que l’était celle offerte par la réunion de ces deux êtres. Il semblait voir un gracieux et faible arbuste né dans le creux d’un vieux saule, dépouillé par le temps, sillonné par la foudre, décrépit, un de ces saules majestueux, l’admiration des peintres ; le timide arbrisseau s’y met à l’abri des orages. L’un était un Dieu, l’autre était un ange ; celui-ci le poète qui sent, celui-là le poète qui traduit ; un prophète souffrant, un lévite en prières. Tous deux passèrent en silence.
2— Avez-vous vu comme il l’a sifflé ? s’écria le sergent de ville au moment où le pas des deux étrangers ne s’entendit plus sur la grève. N’est-ce point un diable et son page ? — Ouf ! répondit Jacqueline, j’étais oppressée. Jamais je n’avais examiné nos hôtes si attentivement. Il est malheureux, pour nous autres femmes, que le démon puisse prendre un si gentil visage ! — Oui, jette-lui de l’eau bénite, s’écria Tirechair, et tu le verras se changer en crapaud. Je vais aller tout dire à l’officialité. En entendant ce mot, la dame se réveilla de la rêverie dans laquelle elle était plongée, et regarda le sergent qui mettait sa casaque bleue et rouge. — Où courez-vous ? dit-elle. — Informer la justice que nous logeons des sorciers, bien à notre corps défendant.
3L’inconnue se prit à sourire. — Je suis la comtesse Mahaut, dit-elle en se levant avec une dignité qui rendit le sergent tout pantois. Gardez-vous de faire la plus légère peine à vos hôtes. Honorez surtout le vieillard, je l’ai vu chez le roi votre seigneur qui l’a courtoisement accueilli, vous seriez mal avisé de lui causer le moindre encombre. Quant à mon séjour chez vous, n’en sonnez mot, si vous aimez la vie. La comtesse se tut et retomba dans sa méditation. Elle releva bientôt la tête, fit un signe à Jacqueline, et toutes deux montèrent à la chambre de Godefroid. La belle comtesse regarda le lit, les chaires de bois, le bahut, les tapisseries, la table, avec un bonheur semblable à celui du banni qui contemple, au retour, les toits pressés de sa ville natale, assise au pied d’une colline.
The source text as printed, transcribed diplomatically. Where the source language uses a non-Latin script that reaches us only through a Victorian romanisation, this layer is labelled transliteration, because that is what we hold.
1The stranger preserved that intrepid and dignified manner that is frequently habitual with men inured to disaster, and fitted by rature to stand unmoved before a furious mob and to face the greatest dangers. He seemed to move in a sphere apart, where he poised above humanity. His gestures, no less than his look, were full of irresistible power; his lean hands were those of a soldier; and if your own eyes were forced to fall before his piercing gaze, you were no less sure to tremble when by word or action he spoke to your soul. He moved in silent majesty that made him seem a king without his guard, a god without his rays. His dress emphasized the ideas suggested by the peculiarities of his mien and face. Soul, body, and garb were in harmony, and calculated to impress the coldest imagination. He wore a sort of sleeveless gown of black cloth, fastened in front, and falling to the calf, leaving the neck bare with no collar. His doublet and boots were likewise black. On his head was a black velvet cap like a priest’s, sitting in a close circle above his forehead, and not showing a single hair. It was the strictest mourning, the gloomiest habit a man could wear. But for a long sword that hung by his side from a leather belt which could be seen where his surcoat hung open, a priest would have hailed him as a brother. Though of no more than middle height, he apZo 826 BALZAC’S WORKS peared tall; and, looking him in the face, he seemed a giant. >
2“The clock has struck, the boat is waiting; will you not come ?”’ At these words, spoken in bad French, but distinctly audible in the silence, a little noise was heard in the other top room, and the young man came down as lightly as a bird. 1 When Godefroid appeared, the lady’s face turned crimson; she trembled, started, and covered her face with her white hands.
3Any woman might have shared her agitation at the sight of this youth of about twenty, of a form and stature so slender that at a first glance he might have been taken ior a mere boy, or a young girl in disguise. His black cap—lke the beret worn by the Basque people—showed a brow as white as snow, where grace and inn»cence shone with an expression of divine sweetness—the light of a soul full of faith. A poet’s fancy would have seen there the star which, in some old tale, a mother entieats the fairy godmother to set on the forehead of an infant abandoned, like Moses, to the waves. Love lurked in the thousand fair curls that fell over his shoulders. His throat, truly a swan’s throat, was white and exquisitely round. His blue eyes, bright and liquid, mirrored the sky. His features and the mold of his brow were refined and delicate enough to enchant a painter. The bloom of beauty, which in a woman’s face causes men such indescribable delight, the exquisite purity of outline, the halo of light that bathes the features we love, were here combined with a masculine complexion, and with strength as yet but half developed, in the most enchanting contrast. His was one of those melodious countenances THE EXILES 827 which even when silent speak and attract us. And yet, on marking it attentively, the incipient blight might have been detected which comes of a great thought or a passion, the faint yellow tinge that made him seem like a young leaf opening to the sun.
Our translation, period-faithful. Citable as our translation, never as the source.
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