The Purse by Honoré de Balzac


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Page 2

When they reached the floor beneath that occupied by the
painter's studio, the old lady gently observed, "Adelaide, you
left the door open."

"That was to come to my assistance," said the painter, with a
grateful smile.

"You came down just now, mother," replied the young girl, with a
blush.

"Would you like us to accompany you all the way downstairs?"
asked the mother. "The stairs are dark."

"No, thank you, indeed, madame; I am much better."

"Hold tightly by the rail."

The two women remained on the landing to light the young man,
listening to the sound of his steps.



In order to set forth clearly all the exciting and unexpected
interest this scene might have for the young painter, it must be
told that he had only a few days since established his studio in
the attics of this house, situated in the darkest and, therefore,
the most muddy part of the Rue de Suresnes, almost opposite the
Church of the Madeleine, and quite close to his rooms in the Rue
des Champs-Elysees. The fame his talent had won him having made
him one of the artists most dear to his country, he was beginning
to feel free from want, and to use his own expression, was
enjoying his last privations. Instead of going to his work in one
of the studios near the city gates, where the moderate rents had
hitherto been in proportion to his humble earnings, he had
gratified a wish that was new every morning, by sparing himself a
long walk, and the loss of much time, now more valuable than
ever.

No man in the world would have inspired feelings of greater
interest than Hippolyte Schinner if he would ever have consented
to make acquaintance; but he did not lightly entrust to others
the secrets of his life. He was the idol of a necessitous mother,
who had brought him up at the cost of the severest privations.
Mademoiselle Schinner, the daughter of an Alsatian farmer, had
never been married. Her tender soul had been cruelly crushed,
long ago, by a rich man, who did not pride himself on any great
delicacy in his love affairs. The day when, as a young girl, in
all the radiance of her beauty and all the triumph of her life,
she suffered, at the cost of her heart and her sweet illusions,
the disenchantment which falls on us so slowly and yet so
quickly--for we try to postpone as long as possible our belief in
evil, and it seems to come too soon--that day was a whole age of
reflection, and it was also a day of religious thought and
resignation. She refused the alms of the man who had betrayed
her, renounced the world, and made a glory of her shame. She gave
herself up entirely to her motherly love, seeking in it all her
joys in exchange for the social pleasures to which she bid
farewell. She lived by work, saving up a treasure for her son.
And, in after years, a day, an hour repaid her amply for the long
and weary sacrifices of her indigence.

At the last exhibition her son had received the Cross of the
Legion of Honor. The newspapers, unanimous in hailing an unknown
genius, still rang with sincere praises. Artists themselves
acknowledged Schinner as a master, and dealers covered his
canvases with gold pieces. At five-and-twenty Hippolyte Schinner,
to whom his mother had transmitted her woman's soul, understood
more clearly than ever his position in the world. Anxious to
restore to his mother the pleasures of which society had so long
robbed her, he lived for her, hoping by the aid of fame and
fortune to see her one day happy, rich, respected, and surrounded
by men of mark. Schinner had therefore chosen his friends among
the most honorable and distinguished men. Fastidious in the
selection of his intimates, he desired to raise still further a
position which his talent had placed high. The work to which he
had devoted himself from boyhood, by compelling him to dwell in
solitude--the mother of great thoughts--had left him the
beautiful beliefs which grace the early days of life. His
adolescent soul was not closed to any of the thousand bashful
emotions by which a young man is a being apart, whose heart
abounds in joys, in poetry, in virginal hopes, puerile in the
eyes of men of the world, but deep because they are
single-hearted.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 29th Mar 2024, 9:28