Scenes from a Courtesan's Life, Honoré de Balzac [korean novels in english .txt] 📗

in my life I have had the opportunity
of comparing my old trade as a street hussy with the life of true
love, of placing the tenderness which unfolds in the infinite
above the horrors of a duty which longs to destroy itself and
leave no room even for a kiss. Only such loathing could make death
delightful.

"I have taken a bath; I should have liked to send for the father
confessor of the convent where I was baptized, to have confessed
and washed my soul. But I have had enough of prostitution; it
would be profaning a sacrament; and besides, I feel myself
cleansed in the waters of sincere repentance. God must do what He
will with me.

"But enough of all this maudlin; for you I want to be your Esther
to the last moment, not to bore you with my death, or the future,
or God, who is good, and who would not be good if He were to
torture me in the next world when I have endured so much misery in
this.

"I have before me your beautiful portrait, painted by Madame de
Mirbel. That sheet of ivory used to comfort me in your absence, I
look at it with rapture as I write you my last thoughts, and tell
you of the last throbbing of my heart. I shall enclose the
miniature in this letter, for I cannot bear that it should be
stolen or sold. The mere thought that what has been my great joy
may lie behind a shop window, mixed up with the ladies and
officers of the Empire, or a parcel of Chinese absurdities, is a
small death to me. Destroy that picture, my sweetheart, wipe it
out, never give it to any one--unless, indeed, the gift might win
back the heart of that walking, well-dressed maypole, that
Clotilde de Grandlieu, who will make you black and blue in her
sleep, her bones are so sharp.--Yes, to that I consent, and then I
shall still be of some use to you, as when I was alive. Oh! to
give you pleasure, or only to make you laugh, I would have stood
over a brazier with an apple in my mouth to cook it for you.--So
my death even will be of service to you.--I should have marred
your home.

"Oh! that Clotilde! I cannot understand her.--She might have been
your wife, have borne your name, have never left you day or night,
have belonged to you--and she could make difficulties! Only the
Faubourg Saint-Germain can do that! and yet she has not ten pounds
of flesh on her bones!

"Poor Lucien! Dear ambitious failure! I am thinking of your future
life. Well, well! you will more than once regret your poor
faithful dog, the good girl who would fly to serve you, who would
have been dragged into a police court to secure your happiness,
whose only occupation was to think of your pleasures and invent
new ones, who was so full of love for you--in her hair, her feet,
her ears--your ballerina, in short, whose every look was a
benediction; who for six years has thought of nothing but you, who
was so entirely your chattel that I have never been anything but
an effluence of your soul, as light is that of the sun. However,
for lack of money and of honor, I can never be your wife. I have
at any rate provided for your future by giving you all I have.

"Come as soon as you get this letter and take what you find under
my pillow, for I do not trust the people about me. Understand that
I mean to look beautiful when I am dead. I shall go to bed, and
lay myself flat in an attitude--why not? Then I shall break the
little pill against the roof of my mouth, and shall not be
disfigured by any convulsion or by a ridiculous position.

"Madame de Serizy has quarreled with you, I know, because of me;
but when she hears that I am dead, you see, dear pet, she will
forgive. Make it up with her, and she will find you a suitable
wife if the Grandlieus persist in their refusal.

"My dear, I do not want you to grieve too much when you hear of my
death. To begin with, I must tell you that the hour of eleven on
Monday morning, the thirteenth of May, is only the end of a long
illness, which began on the day when, on the Terrace of
Saint-Germain, you threw me back on my former line of life. The soul
may be sick, as the body is. But the soul cannot submit stupidly to
suffering like the body; the body does not uphold the soul as the
soul upholds the body, and the soul sees a means of cure in the
reflection which leads to the needlewoman's resource--the bushel
of charcoal. You gave me a whole life the day before yesterday,
when you said that if Clotilde still refused you, you would marry
me. It would have been a great misfortune for us both; I should
have been still more dead, so to speak--for there are more and
less bitter deaths. The world would never have recognized us.

"For two months past I have been thinking of many things, I can
tell you. A poor girl is in the mire, as I was before I went into
the convent; men think her handsome, they make her serve their
pleasure without thinking any consideration necessary; they pack
her off on foot after fetching her in a carriage; if they do not
spit in her face, it is only because her beauty preserves her from
such indignity; but, morally speaking they do worse. Well, and if
this despised creature were to inherit five or six millions of
francs, she would be courted by princes, bowed to with respect as
she went past in her carriage, and might choose among the oldest
names in France and Navarre. That world which would have cried
Raca to us, on seeing two handsome creatures united and happy,
always did honor to Madame de Stael, in spite of her 'romances in
real life,' because she had two hundred thousand francs a year.
The world, which grovels before money or glory, will not bow down
before happiness or virtue--for I could have done good. Oh! how
many tears I would have dried--as many as I have shed--I believe!
Yes, I would have lived only for you and for charity.

"These are the thoughts that make death beautiful. So do not
lament, my dear. Say often to yourself, 'There were two good
creatures, two beautiful creatures, who both died for me
ungrudgingly, and who adored me.' Keep a memory in your heart of
Coralie and Esther, and go your way and prosper. Do you recollect
the day when you pointed out to me a shriveled old woman, in a
melon-green bonnet and a puce wrapper, all over black
grease-spots, the mistress of a poet before the Revolution, hardly
thawed by the sun though she was sitting against the wall of the
Tuileries and fussing over a pug--the vilest of pugs? She had had
footmen and carriages, you know, and a fine house! And I said to
you then, 'How much better to be dead at thirty!'--Well, you
thought I was melancholy, and you played all sorts of pranks to
amuse me, and between two kisses I said, 'Every day some pretty
woman leaves the play before it is over!'--And I do not want to
see the last piece; that is all.

"You must think me a great chatterbox; but this is my last
effusion. I write as if I were talking to you, and I like to talk
cheerfully. I have always had a horror of a dressmaker pitying
herself. You know I knew how to die decently once before, on my
return from that fatal opera-ball where the men said I had been a
prostitute.

"No, no, my dear love, never give this portrait to any one! If you
could know with what a gush of love I have sat losing myself in
your eyes, looking at them with rapture during a pause I allowed
myself, you would feel as you gathered up the affection with which
I have tried to overlay the ivory, that the soul of your little
pet is indeed there.

"A dead woman craving alms! That is a funny idea.--Come, I must
learn to lie quiet in my grave.

"You have no idea how heroic my death would seem to some fools if
they could know Nucingen last night offered me two millions of
francs if I would love him as I love you. He will be handsomely
robbed when he hears that I have kept my word and died of him. I
tried all I could still to breathe the air you breathe. I said to
the fat scoundrel, 'Do you want me to love you as you wish? To
promise even that I will never see Lucien again?'--'What must I
do?' he asked.--'Give me the two millions for him.'--You should
have seen his face! I could have laughed, if it had not been so
tragical for me.

"'Spare yourself the trouble of refusing,' said I; 'I see you
care more for your two millions than for me. A woman is always
glad to know at what she is valued!' and I turned my back on him.

"In a few hours the old rascal will know that I was not in jest.

"Who will part your hair as nicely as I do? Pooh!--I will think no
more of anything in life; I have but five minutes, I give them to
God. Do not be jealous of Him, dear heart; I shall speak to Him of
you, beseeching Him for your happiness as the price of my death,
and my punishment in the next world. I am vexed enough at having
to go to hell. I should have liked to see the angels, to know if
they are like you.

"Good-bye, my darling, good-bye! I give you all the blessing of my
woes. Even in the grave