Scenes from a Courtesans Life | Page 8

"So our friend Lucien has come above water once more," said Nathan,
joining the group. "I thought he had gone back to Angoumois for the
rest of his days. Has he discovered some secret to ruin the English?"
"He has done what you will not do in a hurry," retorted Rastignac; "he
has paid up."
The burly mask nodded in confirmation.
"A man who has sown his wild oats at his age puts himself out of court.
He has no pluck; he puts money in the funds," replied Nathan.
"Oh, that youngster will always be a fine gentleman, and will always
have such lofty notions as will place him far above many men who
think themselves his betters," replied Rastignac.
At this moment journalists, dandies, and idlers were all examining the
charming subject of their bet as horse-dealers examine a horse for sale.
These connoisseurs, grown old in familiarity with every form of
Parisian depravity, all men of superior talent each his own way, equally
corrupt, equally corrupting, all given over to unbridled ambition,
accustomed to assume and to guess everything, had their eyes centered
on a masked woman, a woman whom no one else could identify. They,
and certain habitual frequenters of the opera balls, could alone

recognize under the long shroud of the black domino, the hood and
falling ruff which make the wearer unrecognizable, the rounded form,
the individuality of figure and gait, the sway of the waist, the carriage
of the head--the most intangible trifles to ordinary eyes, but to them the
easiest to discern.
In spite of this shapeless wrapper they could watch the most appealing
of dramas, that of a woman inspired by a genuine passion. Were she La
Torpille, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, or Madame de Serizy, on the
lowest or highest rung of the social ladder, this woman was an
exquisite creature, a flash from happy dreams. These old young men,
like these young old men, felt so keen an emotion, that they envied
Lucien the splendid privilege of working such a metamorphosis of a
woman into a goddess. The mask was there as though she had been
alone with Lucien; for that woman the thousand other persons did not
exist, nor the evil and dust-laden atmosphere; no, she moved under the
celestial vault of love, as Raphael's Madonnas under their slender oval
glory. She did not feel herself elbowed; the fire of her glance shot from
the holes in her mask and sank into Lucien's eyes; the thrill of her
frame seemed to answer to every movement of her companion. Whence
comes this flame that radiates from a woman in love and distinguishes
her above all others? Whence that sylph-like lightness which seems to
negative the laws of gravitation? Is the soul become ambient? Has
happiness a physical effluence?
The ingenuousness of a girl, the graces of a child were discernible
under the domino. Though they walked apart, these two beings
suggested the figures of Flora and Zephyr as we see them grouped by
the cleverest sculptors; but they were beyond sculpture, the greatest of
the arts; Lucien and his pretty domino were more like the angels busied
with flowers or birds, which Gian Bellini has placed beneath the
effigies of the Virgin Mother. Lucien and this girl belonged to the
realm of fancy, which is as far above art as cause is above effect.
When the domino, forgetful of everything, was within a yard of the
group, Bixiou exclaimed:
"Esther!"

The unhappy girl turned her head quickly at hearing herself called,
recognized the mischievous speaker, and bowed her head like a dying
creature that has drawn its last breath.
A sharp laugh followed, and the group of men melted among the crowd
like a knot of frightened field-rats whisking into their holes by the
roadside. Rastignac alone went no further than was necessary, just to
avoid making any show of shunning Lucien's flashing eye. He could
thus note two phases of distress equally deep though unconfessed; first,
the hapless Torpille, stricken as by a lightning stroke, and then the
inscrutable mask, the only one of the group who had remained. Esther
murmured a word in Lucien's ear just as her knees gave way, and
Lucien, supporting her, led her away.
Rastignac watched the pretty pair, lost in meditation.
"How did she get her name of La Torpille?" asked a gloomy voice that
struck to his vitals, for it was no longer disguised.
"He again--he has made his escape!" muttered Rastignac to himself.
"Be silent or I murder you," replied the mask, changing his voice. "I am
satisfied with you, you have kept your word, and there is more than one
arm ready to serve you. Henceforth be as silent as the grave; but, before
that, answer my question."
"Well, the girl is