Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I don’t know why it is, but I too hope like you, mother, that I shall soon be myself again.”

  “Ah, if you too hope so, we are saved,” exclaimed his mother, joyfully. “M. Dufour told me that this strange and distressing malady which has been troubling you often disappears as suddenly as it came, like a bad dream, and health returns as if by enchantment.”

  “A dream!” exclaimed Frederick, looking at his mother with a strange expression on his face; “yes, mother, you are right. It was a bad dream.”

  “What is the matter, my child? You seem greatly excited, but it is with pleasurable emotion. I know that by your face.”

  “Yes, mother, yes! If you knew—”

  But Frederick did not have time to finish the sentence. A sound that was coming nearer and nearer, but that Marie and her son had not noticed before, made them both turn.

  A few yards behind them was a man on horseback, holding Madame Bastien’s mantle in his hand.

  Checking his horse, which a servant who was in attendance upon him hastened forward to hold, the rider sprang lightly to the ground, and with his hat in one hand and the mantle in the other he advanced toward Madame Bastien, and bowing low, said, with perfect grace and courtesy of manner:

  “I saw this mantle slip from your shoulders, madame, and deem myself fortunate in being able to return it to you.”

  Then with another low bow, having the good taste to thus evade Madame Bastien’s thanks, the rider returned to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. As he passed Madame Bastien he deviated considerably from his course, keeping near a hedge that bordered the field, as if fearing the close proximity of his horse might alarm the lady, then bowed again, and continued on his way at a brisk trot.

  This young man, who was about Frederick’s age, and who had a remarkably handsome face and distinguished bearing, had evinced so much grace of manner and politeness, that Madame Bastien innocently remarked to her son:

  “It is impossible to conceive of any one more polite or better bred, is it not, Frederick?”

  Just as Madame Bastien asked her son this question, a small groom in livery, who was following the horse-man, and who, like his master, was mounted upon a superb blooded horse, passed, the lad, who was evidently a strict observer of etiquette, having waited until his master was the prescribed twenty-five yards in advance of him before he moved from his place.

  Madame Bastien motioned him to stop. He did so.

  “Will you be kind enough to tell me your master’s name?” asked the young woman.

  “M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant, madame,” replied the groom, with a strong English accent.

  Then seeing that his master had started on a brisk trot, the lad did the same.

  “Did your hear that, Frederick?” asked Marie, turning to her son. “That was the young Marquis de Pont Brillant. Is he not charming? It is pleasant to see such a worthy representative of rank and fortune, is it not, my son? To be such a high and mighty personage, and so perfectly polite and well-bred, is certainly a charming combination. But why do you not answer me, Frederick? What is the matter, Frederick?” added Madame Bastien, suddenly becoming uneasy.

  “There is nothing the matter with me, mother,” was the cold reply.

  “But there must be. Your face looks so different from what it did a moment ago. You must be suffering, and, great Heavens, how pale you are!”

  “The sun has disappeared behind the clouds again, and I am cold!”

  “Then let us hasten back, — let us hasten back at once! Heaven grant the improvement you spoke of just now may continue.”

  “I doubt it very much, mother.”

  “How despondently you speak.”

  “I speak as I feel.”

  “You are not feeling as well, then, my dear child?”

  “Not nearly as well,” the lad replied. Then added, with a sort of ferocious bitterness, “I have suffered a relapse, a complete relapse, but it is the cold that has caused it, probably.”

  And the unfortunate youth, who had always adored his mother, now experienced an almost savage delight in increasing his youthful parent’s anxiety, thus avenging the poignant suffering which his mother’s praises of Raoul de Pont Brillant had caused him.

  Yes, for jealousy, a feeling as entirely unknown to Frederick as envy had been heretofore, now increased the resentment he already felt against the young marquis.

  The mother and son wended their way homeward, Madame Bastien in inexpressible grief and disappointment, Frederick in gloomy silence, thinking with sullen rage that he had been on the point of confessing to his mother the shameful secret for which he blushed, and that at almost the very same moment that she was lavishing enthusiasm upon the object of his envy, the Marquis de Pont Brillant.

  The unconscious comparison which his mother had made between the young marquis and himself, a comparison, alas! so unflattering to himself, changed the almost passive dislike he had heretofore felt for Raoul de Pont Brillant into an intense and implacable hatred.

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE LITTLE TOWN of Pont Brillant is situated a few leagues from Blois, and not far from the Loire.

  A promenade called the mall, shaded by lofty trees, bounds Pont Brillant on the south. A few houses stand on the left side of the boulevard, which also serves as a fair ground.

  Doctor Dufour lived in one of these houses.

  About a month had elapsed since the events we have just related.

  Early in the month of November, on St. Hubert’s Day, — St. Hubert, the reader may or may not recollect, is the hunter’s patron saint, — the idlers of the little town had assembled on the mall about four o’clock in the afternoon to await the return of the young Marquis de Pont Brillant’s hunting party from the neighbouring forest.

  The aforesaid idlers were beginning to become impatient at the long delay, when a clumsy cabriolet, drawn by an old work-horse in a dilapidated harness, tied up here and there with strings, drove up to the doctor’s door, and Frederick Bastien, stepping out of this extremely modest equipage, assisted his mother to alight.

  The old horse, whose discretion and docility were established beyond all question, was left standing, with the lines upon his neck, close to the pavement in front of the doctor’s house, which Madame Bastien and her son immediately entered.

  An old servant woman ushered them into the parlour, which was on the second floor, with windows overlooking the mall.

  “Can the doctor see me?” inquired Madame Bastien.

  “I think so, though he is with one of his friends who has been here for a few days but who leaves for Nantes this evening. I will go and tell him that you are here, though, madame.”

  Envy, aided by jealousy, — the reader probably has not forgotten the praises so innocently lavished upon the young marquis by Madame Bastien, — had made frightful ravages in Frederick’s heart during the past month, and the deterioration in his physical condition having been correspondingly great, one would scarcely have known him. His complexion was not only pale, but jaundiced and bilious, while his hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, which burned with a feverish light, and the bitter smile which was ever upon his lips, imparted an almost ferocious as well as unnatural expression to his face. His abrupt, nervous movements, and his curt, often impatient, voice, also made the contrast between the youth’s past and present condition all the more striking.

  Marie Bastien seemed utterly disheartened and discouraged, but the gentle melancholy of her face only made her remarkable beauty still more touching in its character.

  A cold reserve on Frederick’s part had succeeded the demonstrative affection that had formerly existed between mother and son. Marie, in despair, had nearly worn herself out in her efforts to discover the cause of this change in her child, and she was now beginning to fear that M. Dufour had been mistaken in his diagnosis of her son’s case. She had accordingly come to consult him again on the subject, not having seen him for some time, as the worthy doctor had been detained at home by the dutie
s and pleasures of a friendly hospitality.

  After having gazed sadly at her son for a moment, Marie said to him, almost timidly, as if afraid of irritating him:

  “Frederick, as you have accompanied me to the house of our friend, Doctor Dufour, whom I wish to consult in regard to myself, we had better take advantage of the opportunity to speak to him about you.”

  “It is not at all necessary, mother. I am not ill.”

  “Great Heavens! how can you say that? All last night you scarcely closed your eyes, my poor child. I went into your room several times to see if you were asleep and always found you wide awake.”

  “It is so almost every night.”

  “Alas! I know it, and that is one of the things that worry me so.”

  “You do very wrong to trouble yourself about it, mother. I shall get over it by and by.”

  “But consult M. Dufour, I beg of you. Is he not the best friend we have in the world? Tell him your feeling, and listen to his counsels.”

  “I tell you again there is no need for me to consult M. Dufour,” replied the lad, impatiently. “I warn you, too, that I shall not answer one of his questions.”

  “But, my son, listen to me!”

  “Good Heavens! mother, what pleasure do you find in tormenting me like this?” Frederick exclaimed, stamping his foot angrily. “I have nothing to tell M. Dufour, and I shall tell him nothing. You will find out whether I have any will of my own or not.”

  Just then the doctor’s servant came in and said to Madame Bastien that the doctor was waiting for her in his office.

  Casting an imploring look at her son, the young mother furtively wiped away her tears and followed the servant to the doctor’s office. Frederick, thus left alone in the room, leaned his elbow upon the sill of the open window, which overlooked the mall as we have said before. Between the mall and the Loire stretched a low range of hills, while in the horizon and dominating the forest that surrounded it was the Château de Pont Brillant, half veiled in the autumnal haze.

  Frederick’s eyes, after wandering aimlessly here and there for a moment, finally fixed themselves upon the château. On beholding it, the unfortunate lad started violently, his features contracted, then became even more gloomy, and with his elbows still resting on the window-sill he lapsed into a gloomy reverie.

  So great was his preoccupation that he did not see or hear another person enter the room, a stranger, who, with a book in his hand, seated himself in a corner of the room without taking any notice of the youth.

  Henri David, for that was the name of the newcomer, was a tall, slender man about thirty-five years of age. His strong features, embrowned by long exposure to the heat of the tropical sun, had a peculiar charm, due, perhaps, to an expression of habitual melancholy. His broad, rather high forehead, framed with wavy brown hair, seemed to indicate reflective habits, and his bright, dark eyes, surmounted by fine arched eyebrows, had a penetrating, though thoughtful expression.

  This gentleman, who had just returned from a long journey, had been spending several days at the house of Doctor Dufour, his most intimate friend, but was to leave that same evening for Nantes to make preparation for another and even more extended journey.

  Frederick, still leaning on the window-sill, never once took his eyes off the castle; and after a few moments Henri David, having laid his book on his knee, doubtless to reflect upon what he had just been reading, raised his head and for the first time really noticed the lad whose side-face was distinctly visible from where he sat. He gave a sudden start, and it was evident that the sight of the youth evoked some sad and at the same time precious memory in his heart, for two tears glittered in the eyes that were fixed upon Frederick; then, passing his hand across his brow as if to drive away these painful recollections, he began to watch the boy with profound interest as he noted, not without surprise, the gloomy, almost heart-broken expression of his face.

  The youth’s eyes remained so persistently fixed upon the château that David said to himself:

  “What bitter thoughts does the sight of the Château de Pont Brillant evoke in the mind of this pale, handsome youth that he cannot take his eyes off it?”

  David’s attention was suddenly diverted by the blare of trumpets still a long way off but evidently approaching the mall, and a few minutes afterward this promenade was thronged with a crowd, eager to see the cortège of hunters organised in honour of St. Hubert by the young marquis.

  The expectations of the crowd were not disappointed. The shrill notes of the trumpets sounded louder and louder, and a brilliant cavalcade appeared at the end of the mall.

  The procession began with four whippers-in on horseback, in buckskin jackets and breeches, with scarlet collars and facings richly trimmed with silver braid, with cocked hats on their heads and hunting knives in their belts. They also carried bugles, upon which they alternately sounded the calls for the advance and retreat of the hounds.

  Then came fully one hundred magnificent hunting dogs of English breed, wearing upon their collars, still in honour of St. Hubert, big knots of fawn-coloured and scarlet ribbon.

  Six keepers on foot, also in livery, with knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes with big silver buckles, also with hunting knives, followed the pack, responding with their horns to the bugles of the huntsmen.

  “THE PROCESSION BEGAN.”

  A hunting fourgon, drawn by two horses driven tandem, served as a funeral-car for a magnificent stag reposing upon a bed of green branches, with his enormous antlers adorned with long floating ribbons.

  Behind this fourgon came the huntsmen, all on horseback, some in long scarlet redingotes, others clad out of courtesy in uniform like that worn by the young Marquis de Pont Brillant.

  Two barouches, each drawn by four magnificent horses driven by postilions in fawn-coloured satin jackets, followed the hunters. In one of these carriages was the dowager marquise as well as two young and beautiful women in riding-habits, with a rosette of the Pont Brillant colours on the left shoulder, for they had followed the chase from start to finish.

  The other barouche, as well as a mail phaeton and an elegant char-à-banc, was filled with ladies and several elderly men, who by reason of age had merely played the part of onlookers.

  A large number of superb hunters, intended to serve as relays in case of need, in richly emblazoned blankets and led by grooms on horseback, ended the cortège.

  The perfect taste that characterised the whole display, the perfection of the dogs and horses, the richness of the liveries, the distinguished bearing of the gentlemen, and the beauty and elegance of the ladies that accompanied them would have excited admiration anywhere; but for the denizens of the little town of Pont Brillant this cortège was a superb spectacle, a sort of march from an opera, where neither music, gorgeous costumes, nor imposing display wore lacking; so in their artless admiration the most enthusiastic, or perhaps the most polite of these townspeople, — a goodly number of them were tradespeople, — shouted, “Bravo, bravo, monsieur le marquis!” and clapped their hands excitedly.

  Unfortunately, the triumphal progress of the cortège was disturbed momentarily by an accident that occurred almost under the windows of M. Dufour’s house.

  The reader has not forgotten the venerable steed that had brought Madame Bastien to Pont Brillant and that had been left standing with the reins upon his neck in front of the doctor’s house. The faithful animal had always proved worthy of the confidence reposed in him heretofore, and would doubtless have justified it to the end had it not been for this unwonted display.

  At the first blast of the bugle, the old horse had contented himself with pricking up his ears, but when the procession began to pass him, the shrill notes of the hunting-horns, the baying of the hounds, the applause of the spectators, and the loud cries of the children, all combined to destroy the wonted composure of this aged son of toil, and neighing as loudly as in the palmy days of his youth, he evinced a most unfortunate desire to join the brilliant cortège that was cro
ssing the mall.

  With two or three vigorous bounds, the venerable animal, dragging the old chaise after him, landed in the midst of the gay cavalcade, where he distinguished himself by standing on his hind legs and pawing the air with his fore feet, abandoning himself to the ebullition of joy, directly in front of the barouche containing the dowager marquise, who drew back in terror, waving her handkerchief and uttering shrill cries of alarm.

  Hearing this commotion, the young marquis glanced behind him to see what was the matter, then, wheeling his horse about, reached the side of his grandmother’s carriage with a single bound, after which, with a few heavy blows of his riding-whip, he made the venerable but too vivacious work-horse realise the impertinence of this familiarity, — a hard lesson which was greeted with shouts of laughter and loud applause of the spectators.

  As for the poor old horse, regretting doubtless the breach of confidence of which he had been guilty, he humbly returned of his own accord to the doctor’s door, while the hunting cortège proceeded on its way.

  Frederick Bastien, from the window where he was standing, had witnessed the entire scene.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  WHEN THE CORTÈGE entered the mall, Frederick’s countenance and expression underwent such a strange transformation that David, who had started toward the window on hearing the notes of the bugle, suddenly paused, forgetting everything else in his surprise, for the lad’s face, in spite of its beauty, had become almost frightful in its expression. The bitter smile which had curved Frederick’s lips while he was gazing at the distant château was succeeded by an expression of disdain when the cortège appeared, but when Raoul de Pont Brillant, clad in his costly hunting-suit and mounted on a magnificent jet black steed, passed amid the admiring plaudits of the crowd, Frederick’s face became livid, and he clutched the window so violently that the veins, blue in his hands, stood out like whipcords under the white skin.