This is one of my ultimate favorite Balzac stories. I loved the romantic soul of Philip and his tragic love story. This also shows the brutally of war and the sentiment of the soldiers and people truly suffering. M. and Mme. Grandville make a brief appearance here.
I didn’t read this edition but from a Delphi Collection of his works which included the below synopsis.
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THE SHORT STORY Adieu originally appeared in 1830 and opens with two old friends walking home after a long day of hunting. The younger, Colonel Philippe de Sucy, has served in Siberia, while his host, Marquis d’Albon, is a plump magistrate who desires to rest and eat. A remark by d’Albon causes the Colonel to shudder and to warn, “Some day I will tell you my story.”
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The story opens up in the year 1819 and tells of the retreat of French in 1812. I was thinking that Stephanie would not regain her mind but then after Philip had made the exact duplicate of the area near the river to refresh her memory, I thought she would and they would be happy but that was not the case. Why did the Comte's wife come with her husband near the battlefield? Did she want to be near Philip, her lover.
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1819
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Two men more different are seldom seen together. The civilian, a man of forty-two, seemed scarcely more than thirty; while the soldier, at thirty years of age, looked to be forty at the least. Both wore the
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red rosette that proclaimed them to be officers of the Legion of Honor. A few locks of hair, mingled white and black, like a magpie’s wing, had strayed from beneath the Colonel’s cap; while thick, fair curls clustered about the magistrate’s temples. The Colonel was tall, spare, dried up, but muscular; the lines in his pale face told a tale of vehement passions or of terrible sorrows; but his comrade’s jolly countenance beamed with health, and would have done credit to an Epicurean. Both men were deeply sunburnt. Their high
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gaiters of brown leather carried souvenirs of every ditch and swamp that they crossed that day.
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“You never were in love, that is positive,” returned the Councillor, with a comically piteous expression. “You are as inexorable as Article 304 of the Penal Code!” Philip de Sucy shuddered violently. Deep lines appeared in his broad forehead, his face was overcast like the sky above them; but though his features seemed to contract with the pain of an intolerably bitter memory, no tears came to his eyes. Like all men of strong character, he possessed the power of forcing his emotions down into some inner depth, and, perhaps, like many reserved natures, he shrank from laying bare a wound too deep for any words of human speech, and winced at the thought of ridicule from those who do not care to understand. M. d’Albon was one of those who are keenly sensitive
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by nature to the distress of others, who feel at once the pain they have unwillingly given by some blunder. He respected his friend’s mood, rose to his feet, forgot his weariness, and followed in silence, thoroughly annoyed with himself for having touched on a wound that seemed not yet healed. “Some day I will tell you my story,” Philip said at last, wringing his friend’s hand, while he acknowledged his dumb repentance with a heart-rending glance. “To-day I cannot.”
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Just at that moment, a woman sprang out from under a walnut tree on the right-hand side of the gateway, and passed before the Councillor as noiselessly and swiftly as the shadow of a cloud. This apparition struck him dumb with amazement.
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“In all probability she is under that fig-tree,” he went on, indicating, for Philip’s benefit, some branches that over-topped the wall on the left-hand side of the gateway. “She? Who?” “Eh! how should I know?” answered M. d’Albon. “A strange-looking woman sprang up there under my very eyes just now,” he added, in a low voice; “she looked to me more like a ghost than a living being. She was so slender, light and shadowy
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that she might be transparent. Her face was as white as milk, her hair, her eyes, and her dress were black. She gave me a glance as she flitted by. I am not easily frightened, but that cold stony stare of hers froze the blood in my veins.” “Was she pretty?” inquired Philip. “I don’t know. I saw nothing but those eyes in her head.”
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He had scarcely finished speaking when the two sportsmen heard a cry as if some bird had been taken in a snare. They listened. There was a sound like the murmur of rippling water, as something forced its way through the bushes; but diligently
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as they lent their ears, there was no footfall on the path, the earth kept the secret of the mysterious woman’s passage, if indeed she had moved from her hiding-place.
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“If I were not a magistrate,” returned M. d’Albon, “I should think that the woman in black is a witch.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the cow came up to the railings and held out her warm damp nose, as if she were glad of human society. Then a woman, if so indescribable a being could be called a woman, sprang up from the bushes, and pulled at the cord about the cow’s neck. From beneath
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the crimson handkerchief about the woman’s head, fair matted hair escaped, something as tow hangs about a spindle. She wore no kerchief at the throat. A coarse black-and-gray striped woolen petticoat, too short by several inches, left her legs bare. She might have belonged to some tribe of Redskins in Fenimore Cooper’s novels; for her neck, arms, and ankles looked as if they had been painted brick-red. There was no spark of intelligence in her featureless face; her pale, bluish eyes looked out dull and expressionless from beneath the eyebrows with one or two straggling white hairs on them. Her teeth were prominent and uneven, but white as a dog’s.