The Celibates | Page 4

be translated, while /La Rabouilleuse/
cannot.
George Saintsbury

I

PIERRETTE
By HONORE DE BALZAC
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To Mademoiselle Anna Hanska:
Dear Child,--You, the joy of the household, you, whose pink or white
pelerine flutters in summer among the groves of Wierzschovnia like a
will-o'-the-wisp, followed by the tender eyes of your father and your
mother,--how can I dedicate to /you/ a story full of melancholy? And

yet, ought not sorrows to be spoken of to a young girl idolized as you
are, since the day may come when your sweet hands will be called to
minister to them? It is so difficult, Anna, to find in the history of our
manners and morals a subject that is worthy of your eyes, that no
choice has been left me; but perhaps you will be made to feel how
fortunate your fate is when you read the story sent to you by Your old
friend, De Balzac.

PIERRETTE

I
THE LORRAINS
At the dawn of an October day in 1827 a young fellow about sixteen
years of age, whose clothing proclaimed what modern phraseology so
insolently calls a proletary, was standing in a small square of Lower
Provins. At that early hour he could examine without being observed
the various houses surrounding the open space, which was oblong in
form. The mills along the river were already working; the whirr of their
wheels, repeated by the echoes of the Upper Town in the keen air and
sparkling clearness of the early morning, only intensified the general
silence so that the wheels of a diligence could be heard a league away
along the highroad. The two longest sides of the square, separated by
an avenue of lindens, were built in the simple style which expresses so
well the peaceful and matter-of-fact life of the bourgeoisie. No signs of
commerce were to be seen; on the other hand, the luxurious
porte-cocheres of the rich were few, and those few turned seldom on
their hinges, excepting that of Monsieur Martener, a physician, whose
profession obliged him to keep a cabriolet, and to use it. A few of the
house-fronts were covered by grape vines, others by roses climbing to
the second-story windows, through which they wafted the fragrance of
their scattered bunches. One end of the square enters the main street of
the Lower Town, the gardens of which reach to the bank of one of the
two rivers which water the valley of Provins. The other end of the
square enters a street which runs parallel to the main street.
At the latter, which was also the quietest end of the square, the young
workman recognized the house of which he was in search, which
showed a front of white stone grooved in lines to represent courses,

windows with closed gray blinds, and slender iron balconies decorated
with rosettes painted yellow. Above the ground floor and the first floor
were three dormer windows projecting from a slate roof; on the peak of
the central one was a new weather-vane. This modern innovation
represented a hunter in the attitude of shooting a hare. The front door
was reached by three stone steps. On one side of this door a leaden pipe
discharged the sink-water into a small street-gutter, showing the
whereabouts of the kitchen. On the other side were two windows,
carefully closed by gray shutters in which were heart-shaped openings
cut to admit the light; these windows seemed to be those of the
dining-room. In the elevation gained by the three steps were vent- holes
to the cellar, closed by painted iron shutters fantastically cut in
open-work. Everything was new. In this repaired and restored house,
the fresh-colored look of which contrasted with the time-worn exteriors
of all the other houses, an observer would instantly perceive the paltry
taste and perfect self-satisfaction of the retired petty shopkeeper.
The young man looked at these details with an expression of pleasure
that seemed to have something rather sad in it; his eyes roved from the
kitchen to the roof, with a motion that showed a deliberate purpose.
The rosy glow of the rising sun fell on a calico curtain at one of the
garret windows, the others being without that luxury. As he caught
sight of it the young fellow's face brightened gaily. He stepped back a
little way, leaned against a linden, and sang, in the drawling tone
peculiar to the west of France, the following Breton ditty, published by
Bruguiere, a composer to whom we are indebted for many charming
melodies. In Brittany, the young villagers sing this song to all
newly-married couples on their wedding-day:--
"We've come to wish you happiness in marriage, To m'sieur your
husband As well as to you:
"You have just been