by Eugène Sue
“What do you mean?”
“No, she would not allow me to depart, — abandon her son, whom I love as my child, — abandon him in the very moment we are about to realise our highest hopes, — it would be the most culpable folly. I would not do it, and this dear boy would not endure it either. You do not know what he is to me, you do not know what I am to him; indissoluble ties unite us, — him and his mother, and myself.”
“I know all that, Henri; I know the power of these ties; I know too that your love, of which perhaps Marie is ignorant, is as pure as it is respectful.”
“And you wish to send me away?”
“Yes, because I know that Marie and you are both young; because you are compelled every moment to associate intimately; because the expression of the gratitude she owes you would, to suspicious eyes, seem the expression of a more tender sentiment; because, in fact, I know that the old Marquise of Pont Brillant, shameless old dowager if there is one, has made at the castle, in the presence of twenty persons, wicked and satirical allusions to the age and appearance of the preceptor that Madame Bastien has chosen for her son.”
“Oh, that is infamous!”
“Yes, it is infamous; yes, it is shameful; but you will give plausibility to these calumnies, if you remain in this house while Madame Bastien, after seventeen years of marriage, is suing for a separation.”
“But I swear to you, Pierre, she knows nothing of my love; for you know well that I would rather die than say one word to her of this love, because she owes the salvation of her son to me.”
“I have no doubt of you, or of her, but I repeat to you, that your prolonged sojourn in this house will prove an irreparable injury to Marie.”
“Pierre, these fears are foolish.”
“These fears are only too well founded; your presence here, so wickedly misconstrued, will be a reproach to the stainless purity of Marie’s life; her request for a separation will be judged beforehand, and perhaps rejected. Then Bastien, more than ever irritated against his wife, will treat her with renewed cruelty, and he will kill her, Henri, — kill her legally, kill her honourably, as so many husbands kill their wives.”
The justice of the doctor’s words was evident; David could not fail to recognise it. Wishing, however, to cling to a last and forlorn hope, he said:
“But, really, Pierre, how can I leave Frederick, who, this present moment, needs all my care? For his mental health is scarcely confirmed. Dear child! to leave at the very time when I see such a glorious future in store for him?”
“But, remember, pray, that this evening M. Bastien will be here, that he will tell you, perhaps, to leave the house, — for after all, he is master of this house; then what will you do?”
The conversation between David and the doctor was interrupted by Frederick, who entered hurriedly and said to Doctor Dufour:
“My mother has just awakened from her sleep, and desires to speak to you at once.”
“My child,” said the physician to Frederick, “I have something special to say to your mother. Please remain here with David.”
And turning to his friend, he added:
“Henri, I can rely on you; you understand me?”
“I understand you.”
“You give me your word to do what you ought to do?”
After a long hesitation, during which Frederick, surprised at these mysterious words, looked alternately at the doctor and David, the latter replied, in a firm voice, as he extended his hand to his friend.
“Pierre, you have my word.”
“That is well,” said the physician with deep emotion, as he pressed David’s hand.
Then he added:
“I have only fulfilled one half of my task.”
“What do you mean, Pierre?” cried David, as he saw the physician directing his steps to Marie’s chamber, “what are you going to do?”
“My duty,” replied the doctor.
And, leaving David and Frederick in the library, he entered Madame Bastien’s chamber.
CHAPTER XL.
WHEN DOCTOR DUFOUR entered Madame Bastien’s room, he found her in bed, and Marguerite seated by her pillow.
Marie, whose beauty was so radiant the evening before, was pale and exhausted; a burning fever coloured her cheeks and made her large blue eyes glitter under her heavy, half-closed eyelids; from time to time, a sharp, dry cough racked her bosom, upon which the sick woman frequently pressed her hand, as if to suppress a keen, agonising pain.
At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said to her servant:
“Leave us, Marguerite.”
“Well, how are you?” said the doctor, when they were left alone.
“This cough pains me and tears my chest, my good doctor; my sleep has been disturbed by dreadful dreams, the effect of the fever, no doubt, but, we will not speak of that,” added Marie with an accent of angelic resignation. “I wish to consult you upon important matters, good doctor, and I must hurry, for, two or three times since I awoke, I have felt my thoughts slipping away from me.”
“Do not distress yourself about that, for it belongs to the weak state which almost always follows the excitement of fever.”
“I wished to speak to you first, to you alone, before asking M. David and my son to come in, as we will have all three to confer together afterward.”
“I am listening to you, madame.”
“You know my husband came home yesterday evening.”
“I know it,” said the doctor, unable to restrain a shudder of indignation.
“I had a long and painful discussion with him on the subject of my son. In spite of my claims and my prayer, M. Bastien is resolved to enter Frederick with M. Bridou as a bailiff’s clerk. That would make it necessary for me to thank M. David for his care, and separate myself from my son.”
“And you cannot consent to that?”
“So long as there is a spark of life left in me, I will defend my right to my child. As to him, you know the firmness of his character. Never will he be willing to leave me or forsake M. David and enter the house of M. Bridou. M. Bastien will soon return, and he is going to claim the right to take away my son.”
Marie, overcome by the emotion she was trying to combat, was obliged to pause a moment, and was attacked by such a dangerous fit of coughing, united to such a painful oppression in the chest, that the doctor involuntarily raised his eyes to Heaven with grief. After taking a drink prepared by the doctor, Marie continued:
“Such is our position, my dear doctor, and before the return of M. Bastien, we must resolve upon something decisive, or—” and Marie became deathly pale— “or something terrible will happen here, for you know how violent M. Bastien is, and how resolute Frederick is; and as to me, I feel that, sick as I am, to take away my son is to strike me with death.”
“Madame, the moments are precious; permit me first to appeal to your sincerity and frankness.”
“Speak.”
“Yesterday evening, at the conclusion of the discussion which you had with your husband, a most atrocious thing occurred, and that night—”
“Monsieur.”
“I know all, madame.”
“Once more, doctor—”
“I know all, I tell you, and, with your habitual courage, you did, I am certain of it, submit to this abominable treatment, in order not to make public this outrageous deed, and to avoid a collision between your son and your husband. Oh, do not try to deny it; your safety and the safety of your son depend upon the sincerity of your confession.”
“My safety! my son’s safety!”
“Come, madame, do you think the law has no redress for such atrocities as those your husband has been guilty of toward you? No, no! and there are witnesses of his unreasonable brutality. And these witnesses, Marguerite and myself, to whom you have applied for medical attention, as a consequence of the injuries you have sustained, we, I say, will authorise and justify your demand for separation. This demand must be formulated to-day.”
“A
separation!” cried Marie, clasping her hands in a transport of joy, “will it be possible?”
“Yes, and you will obtain it; trust yourself to me, madame. I will see your judges, I will establish your rights, your illness, your grievances; but before formulating this demand,” added the doctor, with hesitation, for he appreciated the delicacy of the question raised, “it is essential for David to go away.”
At these words, Marie trembled with surprise and distress; with her eyes fixed on those of Doctor Dufour, she tried to divine his thought, unable to comprehend why he, David’s best friend, should insist upon his going away.
“Separate us from M. David,” said she finally, “at the time my son has so much need of his care?”
“Madame, believe me, the departure of David is essential. David himself realises it, because he has resolved to go.”
“M. David!”
“I have his word.”
“It is impossible!”
“I have his word, madame.”
“He! he! abandon us at such a time!”
“In order to save you and your son.”
“In order to save us?”
“His presence near you, madame, would compromise the success of your demand for a separation.”
“Why is that?”
There was so much candour and sincerity in Marie’s question, she revealed so thoroughly the innocence of her heart, that the doctor had not the heart to give a new pain to this angelic creature by telling her of the odious reports being circulated about herself and David, so he replied:
“You cannot doubt, madame, the devotion and affection of David. He knows all that is to be regretted in his departure, all that is most painful to Frederick, but he knows also that his departure is absolutely necessary.”
“He, depart!”
At the heartrending tone with which Marie uttered the two words, “He, depart,” the doctor realised the depth of Marie’s love for David for the first time, and as he thought of this deep and pure affection, the outcome of the noblest sentiments and the holiest feelings, his heart sank. He knew well Marie’s virtue and David’s delicacy, and hence he saw no end to this fatal passion.
Marie, after weeping silently turned her pale, sad, and tear-stained face to the doctor, and said to him, sorrowfully:
“M. David thinks it is best to go away, and my son and I will resign ourselves to it. Your friend has given too many proofs of his devotion to permit us to question his heart for a moment, but I must tell you his departure will be a terrible blow to my son.”
“But you will remain with him, madame, for I do not doubt that once your separation is obtained, you will be allowed to keep your son.”
“You hope then they will leave me my son?”
“Without doubt.”
“How,” replied Marie, clasping her hands and looking at the doctor with inexpressible anguish, “could there be a doubt that they will leave me my son?”
“He is more than sixteen years old, and in a case of separation, the son follows the father; a daughter would be given to you.”
“But, then,” replied Marie, all excited with fear, “what good is this separation, if I am not sure of keeping my son?”
“First, to assure your peace, your life perhaps, because your husband—”
“But my son, my son?”
“We will do everything in the world to have him given to you.”
“And if they do not give him to me?”
“Alas! madame.”
“Let us think no more of this separation, Doctor Dufour.”
“Think, then, madame, what it is to remain at the mercy of a wretch who will kill you some day.”
“But at least, before that happens, he will not have taken my son away from me.”
“He will take him away from you, madame. Did he not wish to do so yesterday?”
“Oh, my God!” cried Marie, falling back on her pillow with such an expression of grief and despair that the doctor ran to her, exclaiming:
“In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?”
“Doctor Dufour,” said Marie, in a feeble voice, closing her eyes and overcome by grief, “I am utterly exhausted. No matter which way I look at the future, it is horrible; what shall I do, my God! what shall I do? The hour approaches when my husband will return and take away my son with him. Oh, for my sake, put yourself between Frederick and his father! Oh, if you only knew what I dread, I—”
And the words expired on her lips, for the unhappy woman again sank into unconsciousness.
The doctor hastened to ring the bell violently, then he returned to the help of Madame Bastien.
The servant not replying to the bell, the doctor opened the door and called:
“Marguerite! Marguerite!”
At the alarmed voice of the doctor, Frederick, who had remained in the library, rushed to his mother’s chamber, followed by David, who, forgetting all propriety, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, wished to see the woman he was about to leave, for the last time.
“Frederick, support your mother,” cried Doctor Dufour, “and you, Henri, go quick for some cold water in the dining-room — somewhere. I do not know where Marguerite is.”
David ran to execute the doctor’s orders, while Frederick, supporting his mother in his arms, for she was almost without consciousness, said to the doctor, in a broken voice:
“Oh, my God! this fainting fit, how long it lasts! how pale she is! Help, help!”
Marguerite suddenly appeared; her distorted features presented a singular expression of astonishment, terror, and satisfaction.
“Doctor,” cried she, almost breathless, “if you only knew!”
“Pierre, here is what you asked me for,” said David, running and giving him a bottle filled with fresh water, of which the doctor poured out several spoonfuls in a cup.
Then addressing the servant in a low voice, he said:
“Marguerite, give me that vial, there on the chimneypiece. But what is the matter with you?” added Doctor Dufour, as he saw the old servant standing still and trembling in every limb. “Speak, do speak!”
“Ah! monsieur,” replied the servant, in a whisper, “it is what takes my breath away. If you only knew!”
“Well, finish, what is it?”
“Master is dead!”
At these words the doctor stepped back, forgot Marie, stood petrified, and looked at the servant, unable to utter a word.
David experienced such a violent commotion of feeling that he was obliged to lean against the wainscoting.
Frederick, holding his mother in his arms, turned abruptly toward Marguerite, murmuring:
“Oh, my God! Dead — dead — my father!”
And he hid his face in his mother’s bosom.
Marie, although in a swoon, caused by complete prostration of her strength, was sufficiently conscious to hear.
Marguerite’s words, “Master is dead,” reached her ears, but dimly and vague as the thought of a dream.
The doctor broke the solemn silence which had greeted the servant’s words and said to her:
“How do you know? Explain yourself.”
“This night,” replied the servant, “master, about six miles from here, wanted to cross a ford on a route covered by the overflow. The horse and carriage were dragged into the water. They have not found the body of M. Bridou, but they recognised master’s body by his goatskin cloak; it was ground under the wheels of the mill at the pond; they found half his coat in one of the wheels; one of the pockets contained several letters addressed to master. It is by that the mayor of Blémur, who is there with a gendarme, knew that it was master who was drowned, and he has drawn up the act of death.”
When the servant had finished her recital in the midst of a religious silence, Madame Bastien recalled to herself entirely by the profound and violent reaction produced by this unexpected news, clasped her son to her bosom passionately, and said:
“We will never leave each other, never!”
Marie was about to seek David’s eyes, instinctively, but an exquisite delicacy forbade it; she turned her eyes away, her pallor was replaced by a faint colour, and she pressed her son in a new embrace.
CHAPTER XLI.
ABOUT THREE WEEKS had elapsed since the death of M. Bastien had been announced.
So many violent and contrary emotions had complicated Marie’s disease, and rendered it still more dangerous. For two days her condition had been almost desperate, then by degrees it improved, thanks to the skill of Doctor Dufour and the ineffable hope from which the young woman drew enough force, enough desire to live, to combat death.
At the end of a few days the convalescence of Marie began, and although this convalescence was necessarily tedious and demanded the most careful attention, for fear of a relapse more to be dreaded than the disease itself, all alarm had ceased.
Is it necessary to say that since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien, David and Marie had not uttered one word which made allusion to their secret and assured hopes?
These two pure souls had the exquisite bashfulness of happiness, and although the death of Jacques Bastien could not be regretted, David and Marie respected religiously his ashes, which were scarcely cold, however unworthy of respect the man had been.
The illness of Madame Bastien, and the fears entertained so many days for her life, produced a sincere sorrow in the country, and her recovery a universal joy; these testimonials of touching sympathy, addressed as much to Frederick as to his mother, and the consciousness of a future which had, so to speak, no fault save that of being too bright, confirmed and hastened the convalescence of Marie, who, at the end of three weeks, felt only an excessive weakness which prevented her leaving her chamber.
As soon as her condition was no longer critical, she desired Frederick to undertake the studies planned for him by David, and to receive a part of them in her apartment, and she experienced an indescribable delight in seeing, united under her eyes, those two beings so much loved, and from whom she had so dreaded to be separated. Her presence at these lessons gave her a thousand joys. First the tender, enlightened interest of David, then the indomitable enthusiasm of the young man, who longed for a glorious, illustrious destiny, that he might be the pride and joy of his mother, and satisfy his ambitious envy, whose purified flame burned within him more than ever.