The Best Works of Balzac. Оноре де Бальзак

answered Madame du Gua, wishing to continue a conversation which might reveal to her all that she wanted to know, “the First Consul seems to have excellent intentions. They say that he is going to remove the disabilities of the emigres.”

      “That is true, madame,” she replied, with rather too much eagerness, “and if so, why do we rouse Brittany and La Vendee? Why bring civil war into France?”

      This eager cry, in which she seemed to share her own reproach, made the young sailor quiver. He looked earnestly at her, but was unable to detect either hatred or love upon her face. Her beautiful skin, the delicacy of which was shown by the color beneath it, was impenetrable. A sudden and invincible curiosity attracted him to this strange creature, to whom he was already drawn by violent desires.

      “Madame,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, after a pause, “may I ask if you are going to Mayenne?”

      “Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the young man with a questioning look.

      “Then, madame,” she continued, “as your son serves the Republic” (she said the words with an apparently indifferent air, but she gave her companions one of those furtive glances the art of which belongs to women and diplomatists), “you must fear the Chouans, and an escort is not to be despised. We are now almost travelling companions, and I hope you will come with me to Mayenne.”

      Mother and son hesitated, and seemed to consult each other’s faces.

      “I am not sure, mademoiselle,” said the young man, “that it is prudent in me to tell you that interests of the highest importance require our presence to-night in the neighborhood of Fougeres, and we have not yet been able to find a means of conveyance; but women are so naturally generous that I am ashamed not to confide in you. Nevertheless,” he added, “before putting ourselves in your hands, I ought to know whether we shall get out of them safe and sound. In short, mademoiselle, are you the sovereign or the slave of your Republican escort? Pardon my frankness, but your position does not seem to me exactly natural—”

      “We live in times, monsieur, when nothing takes place naturally. You can accept my proposal without anxiety. Above all,” she added, emphasizing her words, “you need fear no treachery in an offer made by a woman who has no part in political hatreds.”

      “A journey thus made is not without danger,” he said, with a look which gave significance to that commonplace remark.

      “What is it you fear?” she answered, smiling sarcastically. “I see no peril for any one.”

      “Is this the woman who a moment ago shared my desires in her eyes?” thought the young man. “What a tone in her voice! she is laying a trap for me.”

      At that instant a shrill cry of an owl which appeared to have perched on the chimney top vibrated in the air like a warning.

      “What does that mean?” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “Our journey together will not begin under favorable auspices. Do owls in these woods screech by daylight?” she added, with a surprised gesture.

      “Sometimes,” said the young man, coolly. “Mademoiselle,” he continued, “we may bring you ill-luck; you are thinking of that, I am sure. We had better not travel together.”

      These words were said with a calmness and reserve which puzzled Mademoiselle de Verneuil.

      “Monsieur,” she replied, with truly aristocratic insolence, “I am far from wishing to compel you. Pray let us keep the little liberty the Republic leaves us. If Madame were alone, I should insist—”

      The heavy step of a soldier was heard in the passage, and the Commandant Hulot presently appeared in the doorway with a frowning brow.

      “Come here, colonel,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, smiling and pointing to a chair beside her. “Let us talk over the affairs of State. But what is the matter with you? Are there Chouans here?”

      The commandant stood speechless on catching sight of the young man, at whom he looked with peculiar attention.

      “Mamma, will you take some more hare? Mademoiselle, you are not eating,” said the sailor to Francine, seeming busy with the guests.

      But Hulot’s astonishment and Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s close observation had something too dangerously serious about them to be ignored.

      “What is it, citizen?” said the young man, abruptly; “do you know me?”

      “Perhaps I do,” replied the Republican.

      “You are right; I remember you at the School.”

      “I never went to any school,” said the soldier, roughly. “What school do you mean?”

      “The Polytechnique.”

      “Ha, ha, those barracks where they expect to make soldiers in dormitories,” said the veteran, whose aversion for officers trained in that nursery was insurmountable. “To what arm do you belong?”

      “I am in the navy.”

      “Ha!” cried Hulot, smiling vindictively, “how many of your fellow-students are in the navy? Don’t you know,” he added in a serious tone, “that none but the artillery and the engineers graduate from there?”

      The young man was not disconcerted.

      “An exception was made in my favor, on account of the name I bear,” he answered. “We are all naval men in our family.”

      “What is the name of your family, citizen?” asked Hulot.

      “Du Gua Saint-Cyr.”

      “Then you were not killed at Mortagne?”

      “He came very near being killed,” said Madame du Gua, quickly; “my son received two balls in—”

      “Where are your papers?” asked Hulot, not listening to the mother.

      “Do you propose to read them?” said the young man, cavalierly; his blue eye, keen with suspicion, studied alternately the gloomy face of the commandant and that of Mademoiselle de Verneuil.

      “A stripling like you to pretend to fool me! Come, produce your papers, or—”

      “La! la! citizen, I’m not such a babe as I look to be. Why should I answer you? Who are you?”

      “The commander of this department,” answered Hulot.

      “Oh, then, of course, the matter is serious; I am taken with arms in my hand,” and he held a glass full of Bordeaux to the soldier.

      “I am not thirsty,” said Hulot. “Come, your papers.”

      At that instant the rattle of arms and the tread of men was heard in the street. Hulot walked to the window and gave a satisfied look which made Mademoiselle de Verneuil tremble. That sign of interest on her part seemed to fire the young man, whose face had grown cold and haughty. After feeling in the pockets of his coat he drew forth an elegant portfolio and presented certain papers to the commandant, which the latter read slowly, comparing the description given in the passport with the face and figure of the young man before him. During this prolonged examination the owl’s cry rose again; but this time there was no difficulty whatever in recognizing a human voice. The commandant at once returned the papers to the young man, with a scoffing look.

      “That’s all very fine,” he said; “but I don’t like the music. You will come with me to headquarters.”

      “Why do you take him there?” asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, in a tone of some excitement.

      “My good lady,” replied the commandant, with his usual grimace, “that’s none of your business.”

      Irritated by the tone and words of the old soldier, but still more at the sort of humiliation offered to her in presence of a man who was under the influence of her charms, Mademoiselle de Verneuil rose, abandoning the simple and modest manner she had hitherto adopted; her cheeks glowed