by Eugène Sue
Meanwhile Henri David, believing himself on the track at last, was extending his researches to the most trivial subjects, at least apparently. Convinced that Frederick had powerful reasons for concealing his feelings from his mother, he might exercise less constraint in his intercourse with the two old servants on the place. Henri questioned them closely, and thus became cognisant of several highly significant facts. Among others, a beggar to whom Frederick had always been very generous said to the gardener: “M. Frederick has changed very much. He always used to be so kind-hearted, but to-day he gruffly told me: ‘Apply to M. le marquis. He is so rich! Let him help you!’”
Madame Bastien usually saw David several times a day.
One day he did not make his appearance at all.
When supper-time came Marguerite went to tell him that the meal was on the table, but David bade the servant say to Madame Bastien that, not feeling very well, would she kindly excuse him for not coming down as usual?
Frederick, too, refused to leave his room, so Marie, for the first time since Henri David’s arrival, spent the evening alone.
This loneliness caused a feeling of profound depression, and she was assailed by all sorts of gloomy presentiments.
When she went to her room about eleven o’clock, her son was asleep, or pretended to be asleep, so sadly and silently she slipped on a wrapper and let down her long hair, preparatory to brushing it for the night, when old Marguerite, coming in as usual to inquire if her mistress wanted anything before retiring, remarked, as she was about to withdraw:
“I forgot to ask you if André could have the horse and cart to go to Pont Brillant to-morrow morning, madame?”
“Yes,” answered Marie, abstractedly.
“You know why André has got to go to the village, don’t you, madame?”
“No,” replied Marie, with the same deeply absorbed air.
“Why, it is to take M. David’s things. He is going away, it seems.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Madame Bastien, letting the mass of hair she had been holding fall upon her shoulders, and, turning suddenly to the old servant, “What are you saying, Marguerite?”
“I say that the gentleman is going away, madame.”
“What gentleman?”
“Why, M. David, M. Frederick’s new tutor, and it is a pity, for—”
“He is going away?” repeated Madame Bastien, interrupting Marguerite in such a strangely altered voice, and with such an expression of grief and dismay, that the servant gazed at her wonderingly. “There must be some mistake. How do you know that M. David is going away?”
“He is sending his things away.”
“Who told you so?”
“André.”
“How does he know?”
“Why, yesterday M. David asked André if he could get a horse and cart to send some trunks to Pont-Brillant in a day or two. André told him yes; so I thought I ought to tell you that André intended to use the horse to-morrow, that is all.”
“M. David has become discouraged. He abandons the task as an impossibility. The embarrassment and regret he feels are the cause of his holding himself so sedulously aloof all day. My son is lost!”
This was Marie’s first and only thought. And, wild with despair, forgetting her disordered toilet and the lateness of the hour, she rushed up-stairs and burst into David’s room, leaving Marguerite stupefied with amazement.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WHEN MARIE PRESENTED herself so unexpectedly before him, David was seated at his little table in the attitude of meditation. At the sight of the young woman, pale, weeping, her hair dishevelled, and in the disorder of her night-dress, he rose abruptly, and, turning as pale as Marie herself, at the fear that some dreadful event had taken place, said:
“Madame, what has happened? Has Frederick—”
“M. David!” exclaimed the young woman, “it is impossible for you to abandon us in this way!”
“Madame—”
“I tell you, that you shall not leave, no, you cannot have the heart to do it. My only, my last hope is in you, because — you know it well, oh, my God! — I have no one in the world to help me but you!”
“Madame, a word, I implore you.”
Marie, clasping her hands, continued in a supplicating voice:
“Mercy, M. David, be good and generous to the end. Why are you discouraged? The transports of my son have ceased, he has given up his plans for vengeance. That is already a great deal, and that I owe to your influence. Frederick’s dejection increases, but that is no reason for despair. My God! My God! Perhaps you think me ungrateful, because I express my gratitude to you so poorly. It is not my fault. My poor child seems as dear to you as to me. Sometimes you say our Frederick; then I forget that you are a stranger who has had pity on us! Your tenderness toward my son seems to me so sincere that I am no more astonished at your devotion to him than at my own.”
In his astonishment, David had not at first been able to find a word; then he experienced such delight in hearing Marie portray her gratitude in such a touching manner that, in spite of himself, he did not reassure her, perhaps, as soon as he could have done so. Nevertheless, reproaching himself for not putting an end to the agony of this unhappy woman, he said:
“Will you listen to me, madame?”
“No, no,” cried she, with the impetuosity of grief and entreaty. “Oh, you surely will have pity, you will not kill me with despair, after having made me hope so much! How can I do without you now? Oh, my God! what do you think will become of us if you go away? Oh, monsieur, there is one memory which is all-powerful with you, the memory of your brother. In the name of this memory, I implore you not to abandon Frederick. You have been as tender with him as if he were your own child or your own brother. These are sacred links which unite you and me, and you will not break these links without pity; no, no, it cannot be possible!”
And sobs stifled the voice of the young woman.
Tears came also to the eyes of David, and he hastened to say to Madame Bastien, in a voice full of emotion:
“I do not know, madame, what has made you think that I intended to go away. Nothing was farther from my thought.”
“Really!” exclaimed Marie, in a voice which cannot be described.
“And if I must tell you, madame, while I have not been discouraged, I have realised the difficulty of our task; but to-day, at this hour, for the first time I have good hope.”
“My God, you hear him!” murmured Marie with religious fervour. “May this hope not be in vain!”
“It will not be, madame, I have every reason to believe, and, far from contemplating departure, I have spent my time in reflecting all this day, because to-morrow may offer something decisive. And in order that my reflections might not be interrupted, I did not appear at dinner, under the pretext of a slight indisposition. Calm yourself, madame, I implore you in my turn. Believe that I have only one thought in the world, the salvation of our Frederick. To-day this salvation is not only possible, but probable. Yes, everything tells me that to-morrow will be a happy day for us.”
It is impossible to describe the transformation which, at each word of David, was manifested in the countenance of the young woman. Her face, so pale and distorted by agony, became suddenly bright with joyous surprise; her lovely features, half veiled by her loose and beautiful hair, now shone with ineffable hope.
Marie was so adorably beautiful, thus attired in her white dressing-gown, half open from the violent palpitations of her bosom, that a deep blush mounted to David’s brow, and the passionate love that he had so long felt, not without dread, now took possession of his heart.
“M. David,” continued Madame Bastien, “surely you will not deceive me with false hope, in order to escape my prayers, and spare yourself the sight of my tears. Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I am ashamed of this last doubt, the last echo of my past terror. Oh, I believe you, yes, I believe you! I am so happy to believe you!”
“You can do so, madame, for I hav
e never lied,” replied David, scarcely daring to look up at Marie, whose beauty intoxicated him almost to infatuation. “But who, madame, has led you to suppose that I was going away?”
“It was Marguerite who told me a little while ago in my chamber; then, in my dismay, I ran to you.”
These words reminded David that the presence of Madame Bastien in his chamber at a late hour of the night might seem strange to the servants of the house, in spite of the affectionate respect with which they regarded the young mother, so, taking advantage of the excuse she had just offered, he advanced to the threshold of his door, left open during this conversation, and called Marguerite in a loud voice.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said he to Marie, who looked at him with surprise. “I would like to know why Marguerite thought I was going away.”
The servant, astonished and frightened by the sudden flight of her mistress, hurried to David’s chamber, and he at once said to her:
“My dear Marguerite, you have just been the cause of great distress to Madame Bastien, by telling her that I was preparing to leave the house, and that, too, at a time when Frederick, this poor child whom you have seen from his birth, has need of all our care. In her deep anxiety, Madame Bastien ran up here; fortunately, I have been able to satisfy her; but, again, how came you to think I was about to leave?”
“As I told madame, M. David, you had asked André for a horse and cart to carry trunks to Pont Brillant. Then, I thought—”
“That is true,” said David, interrupting Marguerite.
Then, addressing Marie, he said:
“A thousand pardons, madame, for having given reason for the mistake which has caused you so much anxiety. The story is simply this: I had charge of some boxes of books that I was to deliver, upon my arrival at Senegal, to one of my compatriots. In departing from Nantes, I had, in my preoccupation of mind, given order to address my baggage here; these boxes, contrary to my intention, were included in the list, and it was—”
“To return them to Nantes by the coach which passes Pont Brillant that you asked for a horse and cart, was it not, M. David?” said the old servant.
“Exactly, my dear Marguerite.”
“It is the fault of André, too,” said the servant. “He told me trunks. I said trunks or effects, which are the same thing, but, thank God! you have calmed madame, and you must stay, M. David, because, if left alone, she will have trouble with poor M. Frederick.”
During this interchange of explanation between Marguerite and David, Madame Bastien, altogether encouraged, came, so to speak, to herself entirely; then feeling her hair float over her half-naked bosom, she thought of the disorder of her attire; but she was so pure and unaffected, so much the mother more than the woman, that she attached no importance to the fact of her nocturnal interview with David; but when her instinct of natural modesty awakened, she reflected upon the embarrassment and painful awkwardness of running to David’s chamber in her night-dress, and she saw at once the delicacy of sentiment which he had obeyed in calling Marguerite and demanding an explanation of the circumstances.
These reflections filled her mind while David and Marguerite were conversing upon the subject.
Not knowing how to arrange her disordered toilet without being seen by David, and feeling that any attempt at arrangement was a tacit avowal of her embarrassment, however excusable, the young woman found a way out of the complication.
The servant wore a large red woollen shawl. Madame Bastien took it and silently wrapped it around herself, then, as many of the women of the country do, she put it over her head and crossed it, so that her floating hair was half hidden and she was enveloped to her waist in the long folds of the shawl.
This was done with so much quickness that David did not perceive the metamorphosis in Marie’s costume until she said to her servant, with affectionate familiarity:
“My good Marguerite, forgive me for taking your shawl, but to-night is freezing, and I am cold.”
If David had found the young woman adorably beautiful and attractive with dishevelled hair and all in white, he beheld a still more captivating beauty in her as she stood wrapped in this mantle of scarlet; nothing could have more enhanced the soft brilliancy of her large blue eyes, the lovely colour of her brown hair, and the delicate rose of her complexion.
“Good night, M. David,” said the young mother; “after having entered your room in despair, I leave it greatly encouraged, since you tell me that to-morrow will be a day of decisive experience for Frederick, and perhaps a day of happiness for us.”
“Yes, madame, I have good hope, and if you will permit it, to-morrow morning, before seeing Frederick, I would like to meet you in the library.”
“I will await you there, M. David, and with great impatience. God grant that our anticipations may not be mistaken. Good night again, M. David. Come, Marguerite.”
Long after the young woman had left the chamber of David, he stood motionless in the same place, trembling with rapture, as he pictured to himself the enchanting loveliness of the face sheltered under the folds of the scarlet shawl.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NEXT MORNING at eight o’clock David awaited Madame Bastien in the library; she soon arrived there.
“Good morning, madame,” said the preceptor to her. “Well, how now about Frederick?”
“Really, M. David, I do not know if I ought to rejoice or feel alarmed, for last night something very strange happened.”
“What is that, madame?”
“Overcome by the emotions of yesterday evening, I slept one of those profound and heavy sleeps, the awakening from which often leaves you in a state of torpor for a few moments, and you are hardly conscious of what is passing around you. Suddenly it seemed to me that, half awake, I do not know why, I saw indistinctly by the light of the lamp Frederick leaning over my bed. He looked at me and was weeping as he said, ‘Good-bye, mother, good-bye.’ I wanted to speak to him and tried to do so, but the torpor against which I was struggling prevented me for some minutes. At last, after a desperate effort of my will, I woke, thoroughly. Frederick had disappeared. Still quite bewildered, I asked myself if this apparition was a dream or a reality. After waiting a while I went to my son’s chamber. He was sleeping or pretended to be sleeping soundly. In my doubt, I did not dare awake him, for the poor child sleeps so little now!”
“And have you mentioned the incident of last night to him this morning?”
“Yes; but he appeared to be so sincerely surprised at what I told him, and declared so naturally that he had not left his chamber, that I do not know what to think. Have I been the dupe of an illusion? In my constant thought of Frederick, could I have taken a dream for reality? That is possible. Yet it seems to me I can still see my son’s face bathed in tears and hear his distressed voice say to me, ‘Good-bye, mother, good-bye!’ — but pardon me, monsieur,” said Madame Bastien, in an altered voice, holding her handkerchief to her eyes, “the very memory of this word ‘good-bye’ makes me wretched. Why these good-byes? Where does he wish to go? Dream or reality, this word distresses me, in spite of myself.”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said David, after having listened attentively to Madame Bastien. “I think, with you, that the apparition of Frederick has been an illusion produced by the continual tension of your mind. A thousand examples attest the possibility of such hallucinations.”
“But this word — good-bye? Ah, I cannot tell you the anguish of heart it has caused me, the gloomy foreboding that it leaves with me still.”
“Pardon me, madame, but do not attach any importance to a dream. I say dream, because it is difficult to admit the reality of this incident. Would Frederick come and weep by your pillow, and tell you good-bye during your sleep? Why do you think he wishes to leave you? Where could he go, now that our united watchfulness guards his every step?”
“That is true, M. David; yet—”
“Pray, take courage, madame, and, besides, you have just told me that, with the excepti
on of this incident, you did not know whether to rejoice or feel alarm, — what is the cause of that?”
“This morning Frederick appeared calm, almost contented; he no longer had an air of dejection; he smiled, and embraced me as in the past, with tender effusion, imploring me to forgive him for the grief he had caused me, and promising to do everything in the world to make me forget it. So, taking your assuring words of yesterday, and this unexpected language of my son, and the kind of satisfaction that I read in his countenance, together, I ought to be happy — very happy.”
“In fact, madame, why should you feel alarmed? This sudden change, which agrees with my hopes and plans so marvellously, ought, on the contrary—”
David was interrupted by the entrance of Frederick.
Pale, as usual, but his brow serene and lips smiling, he advanced to his preceptor with an air of frankness, and said, with a mingling of deference and cordiality:
“M. David, I wish to ask your indulgence and your forgiveness for a poor half-foolish boy, who, upon your arrival here, said such words to you as would have made him blush with shame if he had been aware of his thoughts and actions. Since that time this poor boy has become less rude, although he has remained unimpressed by the thousand evidences of kindness which you have given him. Of all these wrongs he repents. Will you grant me his pardon?”
“With all my heart, my brave boy,” replied David, exchanging a look of surprise and happiness with Madame Bastien.
“Thank you, M. David,” replied Frederick, pressing with emotion the hands of his preceptor in his own; “thank you for my mother and for myself.”
“Ah, my child,” said Madame Bastien, quickly, “I cannot tell you how happy you make me; our sad days are all at an end.”
“Yes, mother; and I swear to you that it will not be I who will cause you sorrow.”
“My dear Frederick,” said David, smiling, “you know that I am not an ordinary preceptor, and that I love to take the fields for my study-hall; the weather is quite fine this morning, suppose we go out for a walk.”