Short Fiction, Xavier de Maistre [books to read in your 20s txt] 📗

the most melodious that I have ever heard, not even excepting that of Zénéide, one of those voices which always beat in unison with the fibres of my heart, was singing, quite close to me, a song, of which I did not lose a word and which I shall never forget. Listening attentively, I discovered that the voice came from a window rather lower than mine; unfortunately I could not see the singer, as the edge of the roof, above which rose my garret window, hid her from my eyes. However, the desire of seeing the siren, who so charmed me by her music, increased in proportion to the attractiveness of the song, the touching words of which would have drawn tears from the most soulless individual. Unable to suppress my curiosity any longer, I climbed up to the topmost step of my ladder, and put my foot on the edge of the roof, and holding on by one hand, hung suspended over the street at the risk of falling headlong.

I then perceived in a balcony to my left, a little below me, a young lady in white deshabille: her hand supported her charming head, which was sufficiently inclined to allow me to see by the light of the stars a most interesting profile, and her pose seemed by design to reveal, to an aerial traveller like myself, a slim and graceful figure; one of her bare feet, thrown negligently behind her, was so turned that I was able, despite the darkness, to make a guess at its admirable proportions, whilst one pretty little slipper, which was lying beside it, revealed it more definitely to my eager gaze. I leave you to imagine, my dear Sophie, the extreme awkwardness of my position. I dared not utter the slightest exclamation for fear of startling my beautiful neighbour, nor make the least movement for fear of falling into the street. A sigh, however, escaped me, in spite of myself, but I recovered myself sufficiently to stop in the middle; the remainder was wafted away by a passing breeze, and I had plenty of leisure to examine the pensive lady, and was sustained in this perilous position by the hope of hearing her sing again.

But, alas! her song was ended, and so ill-fated was I that she maintained the most obdurate silence. At length, after having waited a long time, I thought I might venture to speak to her; my only difficulty was to find a compliment worthy of her and of the sentiments which she had inspired. Oh! how I regretted that I had not finished my dedication in verse! how suitable it would have been on this occasion! My presence of mind did not forsake me in this hour of need: inspired by the sweet influence of the stars and by the still more powerful desire of winning a fair lady’s favour, after having coughed lightly, in order to warn her and to render the sounds of my voice more pleasing, “What a fine night it is!” said I to her in my most tender tone.

XVIII

I fancy that I can hear Mme. Hautcastle, whom nothing escapes, even here, demanding some account of the song that I have mentioned in the preceding chapter. For the first time in my life I find myself under the painful necessity of refusing her anything. If I were to insert those verses in the account of my journey, without a doubt I should be taken for their author, and that would make me the butt of many a joke on the necessity of contusions which I would rather be excused. I will, therefore, continue the account of my adventure with my amiable neighbour, for its unexpected termination, as well as the delicacy with which I conducted it, must interest all classes of readers. But before announcing what she replied, and how she received the ingenious compliment I had paid her, I must anticipate an objection of certain people, who fancy themselves more eloquent than I am, and who will ruthlessly condemn me for having commenced the conversation in so trivial a manner, according to their ideas. I will prove to them that, if I had tried to be witty on this important occasion, I should have been acting glaringly in opposition to the rules of prudence and good taste. Every man who begins a conversation with a fine lady with a bon mot, or a compliment, however well he may flatter, permits pretensions to be seen, which should only appear when they are better acquainted. Besides, if he makes a joke, it is clear that he desires to shine, and consequently thinks less of the lady than of himself. Now, ladies wish us to have them ever in our minds; and although they do not always make reflections such as I have described, still they have an exquisite natural taste which tells them that a trivial phrase, uttered only with the idea of beginning the conversation, and to make their better acquaintance, is a thousand times more suitable than a flash of wit, inspired by vanity, and (what is really quite astonishing) is worth more than a poetical dedication.

Further, I maintain (however paradoxical it may seem) that wit and brilliant conversation are not even necessary in the longest lovemaking, where the heart is really engaged; and, in spite of all that people who love but lightly may say about the long pauses which ensue between their ardent professions of love and friendship, the day is always short that is spent with one’s sweetheart, and silence is as interesting as conversation. But, be this as it may, it is quite certain that I thought of nothing better to say on the edge of the roof where I was than the words in question. I had no sooner uttered them than my soul rushed to the drums of my ears to catch the faintest of those tones I was longing to hear. The fair one