Vendetta | Page 3

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Etext prepared by John Bickers, [email protected] Bonnie
Sala, and Dagny, [email protected]

VENDETTA
BY
HONORE DE BALZAC

Translated By Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To Puttinati, Milanese Sculptor.

VENDETTA

CHAPTER I
PROLOGUE
In the year 1800, toward the close of October, a foreigner, accompanied
by a woman and a little girl, was standing for a long time in front of the
palace of the Tuileries, near the ruins of a house recently pulled down,
at the point where in our day the wing begins which was intended to
unite the chateau of Catherine de Medici with the Louvre of the Valois.
The man stood there with folded arms and a bowed head, which he
sometimes raised to look alternately at the consular palace and at his
wife, who was sitting near him on a stone. Though the woman seemed
wholly occupied with the little girl of nine or ten years of age, whose
long black hair she amused herself by handling, she lost not a single
glance of those her companion cast on her. Some sentiment other than
love united these two beings, and inspired with mutual anxiety their
movements and their thoughts. Misery is, perhaps, the most powerful
of all ties.
The stranger had one of those broad, serious heads, covered with thick
hair, which we see so frequently in the pictures of the Caracci. The jet
black of the hair was streaked with white. Though noble and proud, his
features had a hardness which spoiled them. In spite of his evident
strength, and his straight, erect figure, he looked to be over sixty years
of age. His dilapidated clothes were those of a foreign country. Though
the faded and once beautiful face of the wife betrayed the deepest
sadness, she forced herself to smile, assuming a calm countenance
whenever her husband looked at her.
The little girl was standing, though signs of weariness were on the
youthful face, which was tanned by the sun. She had an Italian cast of
countenance and bearing, large black eyes beneath their well arched
brows, a native nobleness, and candid grace. More than one of those
who passed them felt strongly moved by the mere aspect of this group,
who made no effort to conceal a despair which seemed as deep as the

expression of it was simple. But the flow of this fugitive sympathy,
characteristic of Parisians, was dried immediately; for as soon as the
stranger saw himself the object of attention, he looked at his observer
with so savage an air that the boldest lounger hurried his step as though
he had trod upon a serpent.
After standing for some time undecided, the tall stranger suddenly
passed his hand across his face to brush away, as it were, the thoughts
that were ploughing furrows in it. He must have taken some desperate
resolution. Casting a glance upon his wife and daughter, he drew a
dagger from his breast and gave it to his companion, saying in Italian:--
"I will see if the Bonapartes remember us."
Then he walked with a slow, determined step toward the entrance of the
palace, where he was, naturally, stopped by a soldier of the consular
guard, with whom he was not permitted a long discussion. Seeing this
man's obstinate determination, the sentinel presented his bayonet in the
form of an ultimatum. Chance willed that the guard was changed at that
moment, and the corporal very obligingly pointed out to the stranger
the spot where the commander of the post was standing.
"Let Bonaparte know that Bartolomeo di Piombo wishes to speak with
him," said the Italian to the captain on duty.
In vain the officer represented to Bartolomeo that he could not see the
First Consul without having previously requested an audience in
writing; the Italian insisted that the soldier should go to Bonaparte. The
officer stated the rules of the post, and refused to comply with the order
of this singular visitor. Bartolomeo frowned heavily, casting