Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny





STUDY OF A WOMAN


By Honore De Balzac



Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley




                             DEDICATION

                To the Marquis Jean-Charles di Negro.





STUDY OF A WOMAN


The Marquise de Listomere is one of those young women who have been
brought up in the spirit of the Restoration. She has principles, she
fasts, takes the sacrament, and goes to balls and operas very elegantly
dressed; her confessor permits her to combine the mundane with sanctity.
Always in conformity with the Church and with the world, she presents
a living image of the present day, which seems to have taken the word
"legality" for its motto. The conduct of the marquise shows precisely
enough religious devotion to attain under a new Maintenon to the gloomy
piety of the last days of Louis XIV., and enough worldliness to adopt
the habits of gallantry of the first years of that reign, should it ever
be revived. At the present moment she is strictly virtuous from policy,
possibly from inclination. Married for the last seven years to the
Marquis de Listomere, one of those deputies who expect a peerage, she
may also consider that such conduct will promote the ambitions of her
family. Some women are reserving their opinion of her until the moment
when Monsieur de Listomere becomes a peer of France, when she herself
will be thirty-six years of age,--a period of life when most women
discover that they are the dupes of social laws.

The marquis is a rather insignificant man. He stands well at court; his
good qualities are as negative as his defects; the former can no more
make him a reputation for virtue than the latter can give him the sort
of glamor cast by vice. As deputy, he never speaks, but he votes RIGHT.
He behaves in his own home as he does in the Chamber. Consequently, he
is held to be one of the best husbands in France. Though not susceptible
of lively interest, he never scolds, unless, to be sure, he is kept
waiting. His friends have named him "dull weather,"--aptly enough, for
there is neither clear light nor total darkness about him. He is like
all the ministers who have succeeded one another in France since the
Charter. A woman with principles could not have fallen into better
hands. It is certainly a great thing for a virtuous woman to have
married a man incapable of follies.

Occasionally some fops have been sufficiently impertinent to press the
hand of the marquise while dancing with her. They gained nothing in
return but contemptuous glances; all were made to feel the shock of that
insulting indifference which, like a spring frost, destroys the germs of
flattering hopes. Beaux, wits, and fops, men whose sentiments are fed
by sucking their canes, those of a great name, or a great fame, those of
the highest or the lowest rank in her own world, they all blanch before
her. She has conquered the right to converse as long and as often as she
chooses with the men who seem to her agreeable, without being entered on
the tablets of gossip. Certain coquettish women are capable of following
a plan of this kind for seven years in order to gratify their fancies
later; but to suppose any such reservations in the Marquise de Listomere
would be to calumniate her.

I have had the happiness of knowing this phoenix. She talks well; I know
how to listen; consequently I please her, and I go to her parties. That,
in fact, was the object of my ambition.

Neither plain nor pretty, Madame de Listomere has white teeth, a
dazzling skin, and very red lips; she is tall and well-made; her foot
is small and slender, and she does not put it forth; her eyes, far from
being dulled like those of so many Parisian women, have a gentle glow
which becomes quite magical if, by chance, she is animated. A soul
is then divined behind that rather indefinite form. If she takes an
interest in the conversation she displays a grace which is otherwise
buried beneath the precautions of cold demeanor, and then she is
charming. She does not seek success, but she obtains it. We find that
for which we do not seek: that saying is so often true that some day
it will be turned into a proverb. It is, in fact, the moral of this
adventure, which I should not allow myself to tell if it were not
echoing at the present moment through all the salons of Paris.

The Marquise de Listomere danced, about a month ago, with a young man as
modest as he is lively, full of good qualities, but exhibiting, chiefly,
his defects. He is ardent, but he laughs at ardor; he has talent, and he
hides it; he plays the learned man with aristocrats, and the aristocrat
with learned men. Eugene de Rastignac is one of those extremely clever
young men who try all things, and seem to sound others to discover what
the future has in store. While awaiting the age of ambition, he scoffs
at everything; he has grace and originality, two rare qualities because
the one is apt to exclude the other. On this occasion he talked for
nearly half an hour with madame de Listomere, without any predetermined
idea of pleasing her. As they followed the caprices of conversation,
which, beginning with the opera of "Guillaume Tell," had reached the
topic of the duties of women, he looked at the marquise, more than once,
in a manner that embarrassed her; then he left her and did not speak to
her again for the rest of the evening. He danced, played at ecarte, lost
some money, and went home to bed. I have the honor to assure you that
the affair happened precisely thus. I add nothing, and I suppress
nothing.

The next morning Rastignac woke late and stayed in bed, giving himself
up to one of those matutinal reveries in the course of which a young man
glides like a sylph under many a silken, or cashmere, or cotton drapery.
The heavier the body from its weight of sleep, the more active the mind.
Rastignac finally got up, without yawning over-much as many ill-bred
persons are apt to do. He rang for his valet, ordered tea, and drank
immoderately of it when it came; which will not seem extraordinary to
persons who like tea; but to explain the circumstance to others, who
regard that beverage as a panacea for indigestion, I will add that
Eugene was, by this time, writing letters. He was comfortably seated,
with his feet more frequently on the andirons than, properly, on the
rug. Ah! to have one's feet on the polished bar which connects the two
griffins of a fender, and to think of our love in our dressing-gown is
so delightful a thing that I deeply regret the fact of having neither
mistress, nor fender, nor dressing-gown.

The first letter which Eugene wrote was soon finished; he folded and
sealed it, and laid it before him without adding the address. The second
letter, begun at eleven o'clock, was not finished till mid-day. The four
pages were closely filled.

"That woman keeps running in my head," he muttered, as he folded this
second epistle and laid it before him, intending to direct it as soon as
he had ended his involuntary revery.

He crossed the two flaps of his flowered dressing-gown, put his feet
on a stool, slipped his hands into the pockets of his red cashmere
trousers, and lay back in a delightful easy-chair with side wings, the
seat and back of which described an angle of one hundred and twenty
degrees. He stopped drinking tea and remained motionless, his eyes fixed
on the gilded hand which formed the knob of his shovel, but without
seeing either hand or shovel. He ceased even to poke the fire,--a vast
mistake! Isn't it one of our greatest pleasures to play with the fire
when we think of women? Our minds find speeches in those tiny blue
flames which suddenly dart up and babble on the hearth. We interpret as
we please the strong, harsh tones of a "burgundian."

Here I must pause to put before all ignorant persons an explanation of
that word, derived from a very distinguished etymologist who wishes his
name kept secret.

"Burgundian" is the name given, since the reign of Charles VI., to those
noisy detonations, the result of which is to fling upon the carpet
or the clothes a little coal or ember, the trifling nucleus of a
conflagration. Heat or fire releases, they say, a bubble of air left in
the heart of the wood by a gnawing worm. "Inde amor, inde burgundus."
We tremble when we see the structure we had so carefully erected between
the logs rolling down like an avalanche. Oh! to build and stir and play
with fire when we love is the material development of our thoughts.

It was at this moment that I entered the room. Rastignac gave a jump and
said:--

"Ah! there you are, dear Horace; how long have you been here?"

"Just come."

"Ah!"

He took up the two letters, directed them, and rang for his servant.

"Take these," he said, "and deliver them."

Joseph departed without a word; admirable servant!

We began to talk of the expedition to Morea, to which I was anxious to
be appointed as physician. Eugene remarked that I should lose a great
deal of time if I left Paris. We then conversed on various matters, and
I think you will be glad if I suppress the conversation.

When the Marquise de Listomere rose, about half-past two in the
afternoon of that day, her waiting-maid, Caroline, gave her a letter
which she read while Caroline was doing her hair (an imprudence which
many young women are thoughtless enough to commit).

"Dear angel of love," said the letter, "treasure of my life and
happiness--"

At these words the marquise was about to fling the letter in the fire;
but there came into her head a fancy--which all virtuous women will
readily understand--to see how a man who began a letter in that style
could possibly end it. When she had turned the fourth page and read it,
she let her arms drop like a person much fatigued.

"Caroline, go and ask who left this letter."

"Madame, I received it myself from the valet of Monsieur le Baron de
Rastignac."

After that there was silence for some time.

"Does Madame intend to dress?" asked Caroline at last.

"No--He is certainly a most impertinent man," reflected the marquise.

I request all women to imagine for themselves the reflections of which
this was the first.

Madame de Listomere ended hers by a formal decision to forbid her porter
to admit Monsieur de Rastignac, and to show him, herself, something
more than disdain when she met him in society; for his insolence far
surpassed that of other men which the marquise had ended by overlooking.
At first she thought of keeping the letter; but on second thoughts she
burned it.

"Madame had just received such a fine love-letter; and she read it,"
said Caroline to the housemaid.

"I should never have thought that of madame," replied the other, quite
surprised.

That evening Madame de Listomere went to a party at the Marquis de
Beauseant's, where Rastignac would probably betake himself. It was
Saturday. The Marquis de Beauseant was in some way a connection of
Monsieur de Rastignac, and the young man was not likely to miss coming.
By two in the morning Madame de Listomere, who had gone there solely for
the purpose of crushing Eugene by her coldness, discovered that she was
waiting in vain. A brilliant man--Stendhal--has given the fantastic name
of "crystallization" to the process which Madame de Listomere's thoughts
went through before, during, and after this evening.

Four days later Eugene was scolding his valet.

"Ah ca! Joseph; I shall soon have to send you away, my lad."

"What is it, monsieur?"

"You do nothing but make mistakes. Where did you carry those letters I
gave you Saturday?"

Joseph became stolid. Like a statue in some cathedral porch, he stood
motionless, entirely absorbed in the labors of imagination. Suddenly he
smiled idiotically, and said:--

"Monsieur, one was for the Marquise de Listomere, the other was for
Monsieur's lawyer."

"You are certain of what you say?"

Joseph was speechless. I saw plainly that I must interfere, as I
happened to be again in Eugene's apartment.

"Joseph is right," I said.

Eugene turned and looked at me.

"I read the addresses quite involuntarily, and--"

"And," interrupted Eugene, "one of them was _not_ for Madame de
Nucingen?"

"No, by all the devils, it was not. Consequently, I supposed, my dear
fellow, that your heart was wandering from the rue Saint-Lazare to the
rue Saint-Dominique."

Eugene struck his forehead with the flat of his hand and began to laugh;
by which Joseph perceived that the blame was not on him.

Now, there are certain morals to this tale on which young men had better
reflect. _First mistake_: Eugene thought it would be amusing to
make Madame de Listomere laugh at the blunder which had made her the
recipient of a love-letter which was not intended for her. _Second
mistake_: he did not call on Madame de Listomere for several days after
the adventure, thus allowing the thoughts of that virtuous young woman
to crystallize. There were other mistakes which I will here pass over in
silence, in order to give the ladies the pleasure of deducing them, "ex
professo," to those who are unable to guess them.

Eugene at last went to call upon the marquise; but, on attempting to
pass into the house, the porter stopped him, saying that Madame la
marquise was out. As he was getting back into his carriage the Marquis
de Listomere came home.

"Come in, Eugene," he said. "My wife is at home."

Pray excuse the marquis. A husband, however good he may be, never
attains perfection. As they went up the staircase Rastignac perceived
at least a dozen blunders in worldly wisdom which had, unaccountably,
slipped into this page of the glorious book of his life.

When Madame de Listomere saw her husband ushering in Eugene she could
not help blushing. The young baron saw that sudden color. If the most
humble-minded man retains in the depths of his soul a certain conceit of
which he never rids himself, any more than a woman ever rids herself of
coquetry, who shall blame Eugene if he did say softly in his own mind:
"What! that fortress, too?" So thinking, he posed in his cravat.
Young men may not be grasping but they like to get a new coin in their
collection.

Monsieur de Listomere seized the "Gazette de France," which he saw on
the mantelpiece, and carried it to a window, to obtain, by journalistic
help, an opinion of his own on the state of France.

A woman, even a prude, is never long embarrassed, however difficult may
be the position in which she finds herself; she seems always to have on
hand the fig-leaf which our mother Eve bequeathed to her. Consequently,
when Eugene, interpreting, in favor of his vanity, the refusal to admit
him, bowed to Madame de Listomere in a tolerably intentional manner, she
veiled her thoughts behind one of those feminine smiles which are more
impenetrable than the words of a king.

"Are you unwell, madame? You denied yourself to visitors."

"I am well, monsieur."

"Perhaps you were going out?"

"Not at all."

"You expected some one?"

"No one."

"If my visit is indiscreet you must blame Monsieur le marquis. I had
already accepted your mysterious denial, when he himself came up, and
introduced me into the sanctuary."

"Monsieur de Listomere is not in my confidence on this point. It is not
always prudent to put a husband in possession of certain secrets."

The firm and gentle tones in which the marquise said these words, and
the imposing glance which she cast upon Rastignac made him aware that he
had posed in his cravat a trifle prematurely.

"Madame, I understand you," he said, laughing. "I ought, therefore, to
be doubly thankful that Monsieur le marquis met me; he affords me an
opportunity to offer you excuses which might be full of danger were you
not kindness itself."

The marquise looked at the young man with an air of some surprise, but
she answered with dignity:--

"Monsieur, silence on your part will be the best excuse. As for me,
I promise you entire forgetfulness, and the pardon which you scarcely
deserve."

"Madame," said Rastignac, hastily, "pardon is not needed where there was
no offence. The letter," he added, in a low voice, "which you received,
and which you must have thought extremely unbecoming, was not intended
for you."

The marquise could not help smiling, though she wished to seem offended.

"Why deceive?" she said, with a disdainful air, although the tones of
her voice were gentle. "Now that I have duly scolded you, I am willing
to laugh at a subterfuge which is not without cleverness. I know many
women who would be taken in by it: 'Heavens! how he loves me!' they
would say."

Here the marquise gave a forced laugh, and then added, in a tone of
indulgence:--

"If we desire to continue friends let there be no more _mistakes_, of
which it is impossible that I should be the dupe."

"Upon my honor, madame, you are so--far more than you think," replied
Eugene.

"What are you talking about?" asked Monsieur de Listomere, who, for
the last minute, had been listening to the conversation, the meaning of
which he could not penetrate.

"Oh! nothing that would interest you," replied his wife.

Monsieur de Listomere tranquilly returned to the reading of his paper,
and presently said:--

"Ah! Madame de Mortsauf is dead; your poor brother has, no doubt, gone
to Clochegourde."

"Are you aware, monsieur," resumed the marquise, turning to Eugene,
"that what you have just said is a great impertinence?"

"If I did not know the strictness of your principles," he answered,
naively, "I should think that you wished either to give me ideas which I
deny myself, or else to tear a secret from me. But perhaps you are only
amusing yourself with me."

The marquise smiled. That smile annoyed Eugene.

"Madame," he said, "can you still believe in an offence I have not
committed? I earnestly hope that chance may not enable you to discover
the name of the person who ought to have read that letter."

"What! can it be _still_ Madame de Nucingen?" cried Madame de Listomere,
more eager to penetrate that secret than to revenge herself for the
impertinence of the young man's speeches.

Eugene colored. A man must be more than twenty-five years of age not
to blush at being taxed with a fidelity that women laugh at--in order,
perhaps, not to show that they envy it. However, he replied with
tolerable self-possession:--

"Why not, madame?"

Such are the blunders we all make at twenty-five.

This speech caused a violent commotion in Madame de Listomere's bosom;
but Rastignac did not yet know how to analyze a woman's face by a rapid
or sidelong glance. The lips of the marquise paled, but that was all.
She rang the bell for wood, and so constrained Rastignac to rise and
take his leave.

"If that be so," said the marquise, stopping Eugene with a cold and
rigid manner, "you will find it difficult to explain, monsieur, why your
pen should, by accident, write my name. A name, written on a letter,
is not a friend's opera-hat, which you might have taken, carelessly, on
leaving a ball."

Eugene, discomfited, looked at the marquise with an air that was both
stupid and conceited. He felt that he was becoming ridiculous; and after
stammering a few juvenile phrases he left the room.

A few days later the marquise acquired undeniable proofs that Eugene had
told the truth. For the last fortnight she has not been seen in society.

The marquis tells all those who ask him the reason of this seclusion:--

"My wife has an inflammation of the stomach."

But I, her physician, who am now attending her, know it is really
nothing more than a slight nervous attack, which she is making the most
of in order to stay quietly at home.




ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.

     Bianchon, Horace
       Father Goriot
       The Atheist's Mass
       Cesar Birotteau
       The Commission in Lunacy
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       A Bachelor's Establishment
       The Secrets of a Princess
       The Government Clerks
       Pierrette
       A Study of Woman
       Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
       Honorine
       The Seamy Side of History
       The Magic Skin
       A Second Home
       A Prince of Bohemia
       Letters of Two Brides
       The Muse of the Department
       The Imaginary Mistress
       The Middle Classes
       Cousin Betty
       The Country Parson
     In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following:
       Another Study of Woman

     Joseph
       The Magic Skin

     Listomere, Marquis de
       The Lily of the Valley
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris

     Listomere, Marquise de
       The Lily of the Valley
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       A Daughter of Eve

     Rastignac, Eugene de
       Father Goriot
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
       The Ball at Sceaux
       The Interdiction
       Another Study of Woman
       The Magic Skin
       The Secrets of a Princess
       A Daughter of Eve
       The Gondreville Mystery
       The Firm of Nucingen
       Cousin Betty
       The Member for Arcis
       The Unconscious Humorists