by Eugène Sue
When they went down-stairs they found supper ready.
“I am very much afraid that Frederick will refuse to come to the table this evening. Excuse me a moment, monsieur, while I go and call him.”
Having learned from Marguerite that Frederick was in his room, Madame Bastien hastened there, and found her son thoughtfully pacing the room.
“Supper is ready, my son,” his mother said. “Won’t you come?”
“Thanks, I am not hungry, mother. I intend to go to bed almost immediately.”
“You are not feeling ill, I trust?”
“No; only tired. I seem to need rest.”
“I hope, my son, that you will consider how your words would have pained M. David, who already feels the tenderest interest in you, if he had not felt certain that he would soon overcome your prejudice by his kindness. He will be to you not a master, but a friend; I would say a brother but for the disparity in your ages.”
Frederick made no reply. His mouth contracted slightly, and he hung his head, and Madame Bastien, who had made a careful study of her son’s face for some time past, saw that he was resolved to maintain an obstinate silence, so she insisted no further, but rejoined M. David.
After a frugal supper, Henri, wishing to divert his companion’s thoughts, begged her to let him see Frederick’s note-books and exercises, as well as some of the essays he had written in happier days, hoping he might find in these last some clue to the origin of the unfortunate ideas which seemed to have taken such entire possession of his mind.
While the new tutor was thus engaged the young mother watched him closely, in order that she might judge of the effect these specimens of Frederick’s work produced upon him. Soon he took up an essay Frederick had written upon a theme suggested by his mother, and at first the young mother felt doubtful of its success, for M. David’s features remained grave and thoughtful, but suddenly he smiled, and the smile was followed by several approving nods of the head, and two or three times he even murmured, “Good, very good.” Then something seemed to displease him, for he crumpled one of the sheets of manuscript impatiently, and his features became impassible again as he continued his reading.
Marie’s face reflected each shade of feeling depicted on David’s face; but soon, and for the first time in a long while, the happy mother, forgetting her anxieties at least temporarily, could once more rejoice in Frederick’s triumphs, for the signs of approbation on the new tutor’s part became more frequent. He not only appeared to take a deep interest, but likewise a personal pride and delight in what he was reading, and at last he exclaimed, suddenly:
“No, no; it is impossible that the author of sentiments as noble and generous as these should not listen sooner or later to the voice of justice and reason. May I ask, madame, if this was written very long before the time at which you first began to notice the change in your son’s character?”
After a moment’s reflection, Madame Bastien replied:
“As nearly as I can recollect, this was written just before a visit we paid to the Château de Pont Brillant the latter part of June. It was not until about a month afterward that I began to feel uneasy about Frederick.”
After a moment’s thought, David asked:
“Have you anything that Frederick has written since you noticed this marked change in his nature? If you have, it might aid us in solving this mystery.”
“The idea is a good one,” replied Madame Bastien, and, struck by a sudden recollection, she selected one of her son’s books. She handed it to M. David, saying as she did so:
“Several pages are lacking here, as you see. I asked Frederick why he had mutilated it in this fashion, and he replied that he was dissatisfied with what he had written and did not want me to read it. This occurred just as I was beginning to feel really anxious about him.”
“And you noticed nothing significant in the remaining pages, madame?”
“You can see for yourself, monsieur. Since that time Frederick has written little or nothing, his distaste for work becoming more and more marked from that time on. In vain I have suggested themes of divers kinds; he would write a few lines, then drop his pen, and, burying his face in his hands, sit for hours together, deaf alike to all my questions and entreaties.”
While Madame Bastien was speaking David was hastily glancing over the fragmentary writings his hostess had just handed to him.
“It is strange,” he remarked, after several minutes, “these incoherent lines show none of the nobility of feeling that characterise your son’s other writings. His mind seems to have become clouded, and the lassitude and ennui his work caused him is everywhere apparent. But here are a few words which seem to have been carefully erased,” added David, trying to decipher them.
Marie approached her guest with the intention of assisting him, if possible, and as she bent over the table her arm lightly grazed David’s.
The pressure was so slight that Marie did not even notice it, but it sent a sort of electric thrill through David; but so great was his self-control that he remained perfectly impassive, though he realised for the first time since he made his generous offer that the woman with whom he was to live on such terms of intimacy was young and wonderfully beautiful, as well as endowed with the most admirable traits of character.
He gave no sign of all this, however, but with Marie’s assistance continued his efforts to decipher the words Frederick had erased, and after patient study they succeeded in making out here and there the following phrases which seemed to have no connection whatever with what preceded or followed them, but had apparently been jotted down almost involuntarily under the influence of some strong emotion. For instance, one leaf bore this fragmentary sentence:
“ ...for persons doomed to a humiliating obscurity of lot, the inability to lift oneself from it is—”
Two or three words at the beginning of the sentence had been entirely obliterated.
Farther on, upon another page were these two words, but slightly blurred, as if their laconicism was sufficient protection against interpretation:
“Why? By what right—”
And lastly, this more complete sentence was deciphered with great difficulty:
“Through you, great and holy Revolution, the weak became the strong. The hour of vengeance came at last, terrible indeed, but grand and far-reaching in its—”
As David was slowly perusing these words a second time as if to gather their hidden significance, the clock on the mantel struck twelve.
“Twelve!” exclaimed Madame Bastien, in surprise, “twelve o’clock already!”
David rose at once, and, taking the book, said:
“With your permission, madame, I will take this with me. What we have deciphered is very vague, but it may give us a clue to the truth. Good night, madame.”
“Good night, M. David. I gladly accept all the encouragement you hold out to me. I need it more than I can tell you. To-morrow will be a momentous day to us. God grant it may prove a propitious one.”
“God grant it, madame.”
CHAPTER XXII.
AS SOON AS his mother’s words brought a full realisation of the crime he had tried to commit, Frederick experienced the keenest remorse; but though he was conscientious enough to feel appalled by his attempt at homicide, he was far from being cured of his hatred and envy.
During the night that immediately followed Henri David’s arrival at the farm, Frederick underwent a new transformation that very naturally disconcerted both his mother and M. David. Both were instantly struck by the change in the lad’s expression. It was no longer haughty, sarcastic, and defiant, but embarrassed and crestfallen. Madame Bastien and David had anticipated a fresh ebullition of temper when Frederick’s second interview with his tutor took place, but nothing of the kind occurred.
David questioned the lad in relation to his studies; he replied promptly and definitely, but in regard to all extraneous subjects he maintained a determined silence.
Marie proposed that he take a walk with David, and
Frederick consented without the slightest demur. During the long walk the new tutor, whose stock of information was as extensive as it was varied, tried to call Frederick’s attention to some of the most interesting phenomena of nature, a bit of rock serving as the starting-point for a dissertation on the most curious of the different ages of the earth and the successive transformation of its inhabitants, while an old ruin near the farmhouse led to a series of interesting comments on the warlike habits of the middle ages and the narration of a number of quaint old legends, to which his youthful companion listened politely but replied only in monosyllables.
As soon as they returned Frederick picked up a book and read until dinner-time, after which he asked to be excused for the rest of the evening.
On being left alone, David and Marie exchanged discontented glances, for both felt that the first day had proved a failure.
“I am almost tempted to regret the change I notice in him,” remarked David, thoughtfully. “Pronounced as his asperity of manner was, it nevertheless gave one a sort of hold, but what can one do confronted with a surface as hard and polished as glass?”
“But what do you think of this sudden change?”
“Is it the calm that follows the subsidence of the tempest or the treacherous calm which often precedes another storm? We shall know by and by. This change may be due to my arrival.”
“How is that, M. David?”
“Perhaps he feels that our double surveillance will make another attempt at vengeance impossible; perhaps he fears that my penetration, united with yours, madame, would ferret out his secret, so he increases his constraint and reserve.”
“And the book you took to your room last night?”
“Has given me a slight clue, perhaps, madame, but it is such a very weak and feeble one that I must ask you to pardon me for not even mentioning it. Ours is such a difficult and extremely delicate task that the merest trifle may make or mar us. So once more I implore you to forgive my reticence.”
“You ask my pardon, M. David, when your very reserve is a proof of your generous solicitude for the person I hold nearest and dearest on earth.”
As Madame Bastien was preparing for bed that same night, old Marguerite came in and said:
“You have been so occupied with M. David since you returned from your walk that I have had no chance to tell you about something very remarkable that happened to-day.”
“What was it, pray?”
“Why, you had been gone about an hour when I heard a great noise at the gate of the courtyard, and what should I see there but a grand carriage drawn by four splendid horses, and who should be in the carriage but the Marquise de Pont Brillant, and she said she wanted to speak to you!”
“To me!” exclaimed Marie, turning pale as the idea that Frederick’s attempt had been discovered occurred to her. “You must be mistaken, Marguerite. I do not know the marquise.”
“It was you that the dear good lady wished to see, madame. She even said to me that she was terribly disappointed not to find you at home, as she came to make a neighbourly call. She intended to come again some day soon, with her grandson, but that must not hinder you from coming to the castle soon, very soon, to return her visit.”
“What can this mean?” Madame Bastien said to herself, greatly puzzled, and shuddering at the mere thought of a meeting between Frederick and Raoul de Pont Brillant. “She told you she was coming again soon, with—”
“With monsieur le marquis, yes, madame, and the dear lady even added: ‘He is a handsome fellow, this grandson of mine, and as generous as a king. Oh, well, as I have had the misfortune to miss Madame Bastien, I may as well go. But say, my good woman,’ added madame la marquise, ‘I am frightfully thirsty, can’t you get me a nice glass of cold water?’ ‘Certainly, madame la marquise,’ I replied, ashamed that such a grand lady should have to remind me to offer her such a courtesy. But I said to myself, ‘Madame la marquise asked for water out of politeness, I will show my politeness by giving her a glass of wine;’ so I ran to my pantry, and poured out a big tumbler of wine and set it on a clean plate and took it to the carriage.”
“You ought to have given Madame de Pont Brillant the glass of water she asked for, but it makes no difference.”
“Pardon me, madame, but I did right to take her the wine, for she took it.”
“The big tumbler of wine?”
“Yes, madame, that she did. It is true she only moistened her lips with it, but she made another old lady who was with her drink the rest of it, and I think she couldn’t have been very fond of wine, for she made a sort of face after she drank it, and madame la marquise added, ‘Tell Madame Bastien that we drank to her health and to her beautiful eyes,’ and when she returned the glass she slipped these five shining gold pieces into my hand, saying: ‘These are for Madame Bastien’s servants on condition that they will drink to the health of my grandson, the Marquis de Pont Brillant. Au revoir, my good woman.’ And the handsome coach whirled away.”
“I am very sorry that you didn’t have the delicacy to decline to take the money she offered you.”
“What, madame, refuse five louis d’or?”
“It is for the very reason that this is such a large sum of money that I am so sorry you accepted it.”
“I didn’t know, madame. It is the first time such a thing ever happened. If madame wants me to, I’ll take these five gold pieces up to the château, and return them to the lady.”
“That would only make a bad matter worse, but if you want to please me, Marguerite, you will give this hundred francs to the poor of our parish.”
“I’ll do that very thing to-morrow, madame,” said Marguerite, bravely, “for these gold pieces burn my fingers, now you tell me I did wrong to take them.”
“Thank you, Marguerite, thank you. I always knew you were a good, true woman. But one word more. Does my son know that Madame de Pont Brillant was here?”
“No, madame, for I have not told him, and I was alone in the house when the carriage came.”
“Very well. I don’t want my son to know anything about this visit, Marguerite.”
“I won’t breathe a word, then.”
“And if Madame de Pont Brillant calls again you are to say that I am not at home, whether I am or not.”
“What, madame, you won’t see this great lady?”
“I am no great lady, my good Marguerite, and I do not crave the society of those who are so far above me in rank, so let it be understood that I am not at home if Madame de Pont Brillant calls again, and also that my son must remain entirely ignorant of to-day’s visit.”
“Very well, madame, you may trust me for that.”
The next morning Madame Bastien informed M. David of the circumstance, and he commented on two things that had also struck Madame Bastien, though from an entirely different point of view.
“The request for a glass of water was evidently only an excuse for the bestowal of an extraordinarily large gratuity,” said David. “The lady also announced her intention of soon coming again, I understand, though—”
“Though she begged me not to trouble myself to return her visit at the château,” interrupted Marie. “I noted this humiliating distinction, and though I had not the slightest intention of responding to Madame de Pont Brillant’s advances, this warning on her part obliges me to close my doors upon her in future. Far from being flattered by this visit, the possibility of her returning here, particularly with her grandson, alarms me beyond measure, remembering as I do that terrible scene in the forest. But this much is certain, the young Marquis de Pont Brillant knows nothing of Frederick’s animosity. If he did, he certainly would not consent to accompany his grandmother here. Ah, monsieur, my brain fairly reels when I try to solve the mystery.”
Two or three days more were devoted to fruitless efforts on the part of the mother and tutor.
Frederick remained impenetrable.
At last M. David resorted to heroic measures, and spoke of Raoul de Pont Brillant. Frederi
ck changed colour and hung his head, but remained silent and impassible.
“He must at least have renounced his idea of vengeance,” decided David, after studying the youth’s face attentively. “The animosity still exists, perhaps, but it will at least be passive henceforth.”
Marie shared this conviction, so her fears were to some extent allayed.
One day M. David said to Madame Bastien:
“While accepting with comparative cheerfulness the modest existence led by the members of your household, madame, has he never seemed to crave wealth and luxury, or deplore the fact that he does not possess them?”
“Never, M. David, never have I heard Frederick express a desire of that kind. How often has he tenderly exclaimed:
“‘Ah, mother, could any lot be happier than ours? What happiness it is to be able to live on here with you—’”
But the poor mother could not finish the sentence. This recollection of a radiant past was too overpowering.
Each day the intimacy between Henri David and Marie Bastien was increased by their common interests and anxieties. There was a continual interchange of questions, confidences, fears, plans or hopes, alas! only too rare, — all having Frederick for their object.
The long winter evenings were usually passed tête-à-tête, for Madame Bastien’s son retired at eight o’clock, feigning fatigue in order to escape from the solicitude that surrounded him, and that he might pursue his gloomy meditations undisturbed.
“I am more unhappy now than ever,” he said to himself. “In times gone by my mother’s continual questions about my secret malady irritated me; now they break my heart and augment my despair. I understand all my mother must suffer. Each day brings some new proof of her tender commiseration and her untiring efforts to cure me, but, alas! she can never forgive nor forget my crime. I shall be to her henceforth only an object of compassion. I think exactly the same of M. David that I do of my mother. I do full justice to his devotion to me and to my mother, but it is equally powerless to cure me, and to efface the remembrance of the vile and cowardly act of which I was guilty.”