



Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny





LA GRANDE BRETECHE

(Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac


Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell





LA GRANDE BRETECHE


"Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my
collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know
the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac:
'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of
champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us,"
said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said
he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so
completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid
tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small
towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the
box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle
at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown
up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The
wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful
luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past,
no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The
espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with
purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old
castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can
see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to
determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country
gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but
above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather
the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely
destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the
negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we
divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his
tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the
soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely
Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters
are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the
doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones
of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter,
summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled
off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats,
polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each
other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the
street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children
have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been
blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see
that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side
towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline
the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the
blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The
stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts
broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree
has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was
France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles
crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a
vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La
Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me
in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became
one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain
memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but
this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging
hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least,
it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the
hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I
got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or
private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not,
as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due,
have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I
wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of
melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite
commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry
which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various
phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the
graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one
day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae;
but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative
ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull
hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you
must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about
with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear
of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your
shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty
weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at
the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for
this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy
thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air
of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said
she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat
in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a
receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue
of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The
stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond
in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?'