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Beatrix. Honore de Balzac
Читать онлайн.Название Beatrix
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4057664599681
Автор произведения Honore de Balzac
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
“Where did he learn them?” said the mother; “at Les Touches.”
“Yes, my darling mother; she found me ignorant as a carp, and she has taught me.”
“You knew the essential things when you learned the duties taught us by religion,” replied the baroness. “Ah! this woman is fated to destroy your noble and sacred beliefs.”
The old maid rose, and solemnly stretched forth her hands toward her brother, who was dozing in his chair.
“Calyste,” she said, in a voice that came from her heart, “your father has never opened books, he speaks Breton, he fought for God and for the king. Educated people did the evil, educated noblemen deserted their land—be educated if you choose!”
So saying, she sat down and began to knit with a rapidity which betrayed her inward emotion.
“My angel,” said the mother, weeping, “I foresee some evil coming down upon you in that house.”
“Who is making Fanny weep?” cried the old man, waking with a start at the sound of his wife’s voice. He looked round upon his sister, his son, and the baroness. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” replied his wife.
“Mamma,” said Calyste, whispering in his mother’s ear, “it is impossible for me to explain myself just now; but to-night you and I will talk of this. When you know all, you will bless Mademoiselle des Touches.”
“Mothers do not like to curse,” replied the baroness. “I could not curse a woman who truly loved my Calyste.”
The young man bade adieu to his father and went out. The baron and his wife rose to see him pass through the court-yard, open the gate, and disappear. The baroness did not again take up the newspaper; she was too agitated. In this tranquil, untroubled life such a discussion was the equivalent of a quarrel in other homes. Though somewhat calmed, her motherly uneasiness was not dispersed. Whither would such a friendship, which might claim the life of Calyste and destroy it, lead her boy? Bless Mademoiselle des Touches? how could that be? These questions were as momentous to her simple soul as the fury of revolutions to a statesman. Camille Maupin was Revolution itself in that calm and placid home.
“I fear that woman will ruin him,” she said, picking up the paper.
“My dear Fanny,” said the old baron, with a jaunty air, “you are too much of an angel to understand these things. Mademoiselle des Touches is, they say, as black as a crow, as strong as a Turk, and forty years old. Our dear Calyste was certain to fall in love with her. Of course he will tell certain honorable little lies to conceal his happiness. Let him alone to amuse himself with his first illusions.”
“If it had been any other woman—” began the baroness.
“But, my dear Fanny, if the woman were a saint she would not accept your son.” The baroness again picked up the paper. “I will go and see her myself,” added the baron, “and tell you all about her.”
This speech has no savor at the present moment. But after reading the biography of Camille Maupin you can then imagine the old baron entering the lists against that illustrious woman.
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