Louis Lambert — Honoré de Balzac, trans. Katharine Prescott Wormeley

lodgers by the sergeant of the watch. She mechanically looked up at the window of the room inhabited by the old man, and shivered with horror as she suddenly caught sight of the gloomy, melancholy face and the piercing eye that so affected her husband, accustomed as he was to dealing with criminals.

At that period, great and small, priests and laymen, all trembled before the idea of any supernatural power. The word ‘‘magic’’ was as powerful as leprosy to root up feelings, break social ties, and freeze piety in the most generous soul. It suddenly struck the constable’s wife that she never, in fact, had seen either of her lodgers exercising any human function. Though the younger man’s voice was as sweet and melodious as the tones of a flute, she so rarely heard it that she was tempted to think his silence the result of a spell. As she recalled the strange beauty of that pink-and-white face, and saw in memory the fine fair hair and moist brillianey of those eyes, she believed they were indeed the artifices of the Devil. She remembered that for days at a time she had never heard the slightest sound from either room. Where were the strangers during all those hours ?

Suddenly the most singular circumstances recurred to her mind. She was completely overmastered by fear, and could even discern witchcraft in the rich lady’s interest in this young Goderroid, a poor orphan who had come from Flanders to study at the University of Paris. She hastily put her hand into one of her pockets, pulled out four livres of Tournay in large silver coinage, and looked at the pieces with an expression of avarice mingled with terror.

“That, at any rate, is not false coin,’’ said she, showing the silver to her husband. ‘‘Besides,’’ she went on, ‘‘howp. 523 can I turn them out after taking next year’s rent paid in advance ?”’

‘*You had better inquire of the Dean of the Chapter,’’ replied Tirechair. ‘‘Is not it his business to tell us how we should deal with these extraordinary persons ?’’

‘‘Ay, truly extraordinary,’’ cried Jacqueline. ‘To think of their cunning; coming here under the very | shadow of Notre-Dame! Still,’’ she went on, ‘‘or ever I ask the Dean, why not warn that fair and noble lady of the risk she runs?”’

As she spoke, Jacqueline went into the house with her husband, who had not missed a mouthful. Tirechair, as a man grown old in the tricks of his trade, affected to believe that the strange lady was in fact a work-girl; still, this assumed indifference could not altogether cloak the timidity of a courtier who respects a royal incognito. At this moment six was striking by the clock of Saint-Denis du Pas, a small church that stood between Notre-Dame and the Port-Saint-Landry—the first church erected in Paris, on the very spot where Saint Denis was laid on the gridiron, as chronicles tell. The hour flew from steeple to tower all over the city. Then suddenly confused shouts were heard on the left bank of the Seine, behind Notre-Dame, in the quarter where the schools of the University harbored their swarms.

At this signal, Jacqueline’s elder lodger began to move about his room. The sergeant, his wife, and the strange lady listened while he opened and shut his door, and the old man’s heavy step was heard on the steep stair. The constable’s suspicions gave such interest to the advent of this personage, that the lady was startled as she observed the strange expression of the two countenances before her.

p. 524

Referring the terrors of ‘this couple to the youth she was — protecting—as was natural in a lover—the young lady awaited, with some uneasiness, the event thus heralded by the fears of her so-called master and mistress.