by Eugène Sue
It had been decided by common consent that Frederick should first enter the Polytechnic School, and that from there, according to his inclination, he should follow one of those numerous careers opened to him by this encyclopaedical school, — war, the navy, art, letters, or science.
These few words will give an insight, somewhat incomplete, into the ideal felicity in which these three tender and noble creatures lived from the moment that Marie’s condition ceased to inspire fear; a felicity altogether new to all, since, even in the happy days which followed Frederick’s recovery, the coming of M. Bastien, often forgotten, yet always imminent, would appear on their bright horizon like a threatening cloud.
At this time, on the contrary, as far as the view of Marie and David and Frederick could extend, they beheld an azure sky of such serene splendour that its almost limitless magnificence sometimes dazzled them.
Three weeks had elapsed since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien.
Two o’clock had just sounded, and Frederick, assisted by Marguerite and old André, was filling the vases on the chimneypiece in the library with snowdrops, pale Bengal roses, winter heliotropes, and holly branches, ornamented with their coral berries. In the middle of the mantel, a portrait of Frederick, an admirable likeness done in pastel by David, was placed on an easel; a bright fire burned in the chimney, and on a table were preparations for a simple and rustic collation.
The three accomplices, as they were jestingly called, who presided at the preparations for this little festivity, or, in a word, this surprise party, were walking about on tiptoe and whispering, for fear Madame Bastien might suspect what was taking place. That day, for the first time since her illness, the young woman was to come out of her chamber and remain several hours in the library. Frederick also, and the two old servants, tried to give an air of mirth to this room, and David, without Marie’s knowledge, was busy with Frederick’s portrait, which she was to see that day for the first time.
During the mysterious coming and going, Marie was alone in her chamber with David.
The young woman clothed in mourning, half recumbent on a sick-chair, with silent happiness contemplated David, seated at a work-table and occupied in correcting one of Frederick’s exercises.
Suddenly David, pursuing his reading, said, in a low voice:
“It is incomprehensible!”
“What is incomprehensible, M. David?”
“The really remarkable progress of this child, madame. We have been studying geometry only three weeks, and his aptitude for the exact sciences develops with the same rapidity as his other faculties.”
“If I must tell you, M. David, this aptitude in Frederick astonishes me; it seems to me that those studies which require imagination and sentiment are what he would prefer.”
“And that, madame, is what surprises and charms me. In this dear child everything obeys the same impulse, everything develops visibly, and nothing is injured. I read to you yesterday his last efforts, which were really eloquent, really beautiful.”
“The fact is, M. David, that there is a striking difference between this last production and the best things he wrote before this terrible malady, which, thanks to you will lead to Frederick’s regeneration. All that I now dread for him is excess of work.”
“And for that reason, I moderate, as much as I can, his eagerness to learn, his impatient and jealous enthusiasm, his passionate longing for the future which he wishes to make illustrious and glorious, and that future will be his.”
“Ah, M. David, what joy, what transport for us, if our anticipations are realised!”
It is impossible to reproduce the tenderness Marie expressed in those words, “we — our anticipations,” which in themselves revealed the secret projects for happiness, tacitly formed by Marie and David.
The latter continued:
“Believe me, madame, we will see him great in heart and in intellect. There is in him an extraordinary energy, which has developed twofold through this dreaded envy which has so much alarmed us.”
“Indeed, on yesterday, M. David, he said to me, cheerfully:
“‘Mother, now when I see the castle of Pont Brillant rising in the distance, — that once made me so unhappy, — I throw upon it only a glance of friendly regard and defiance.’”
“And you will see, madame, if, in eight or ten years, the name of Frederick Bastien will not resound more gloriously than that of the young marquis.”
“I have the pride to share your hope, M. David. Guided by us, I do not know to what height my son may not attain.”
“Then after a short silence Marie added:
“But do you know it all seems like a dream? When I think that it is scarcely two months ago, the evening of your arrival, you were there at that table, looking over Frederick’s exercises, and deploring, like me, the veil which lay over the mind of this unhappy child.”
“Do you recollect, madame, that gloomy, frozen silence, against which all our efforts proved unavailing?”
“And that might when, crazy with terror, I ran up-stairs to you, to beseech you not to abandon my son, as if you could have abandoned him.”
“Say, madame, is there not a sort of charm in these painful memories, now that we are in perfect security and happiness?”
“Yes, there is a sad charm in them, but how much I prefer certain hopes! So, M. David, I will tell you that I have made many plans to-night.”
“Let us hear them, madame.”
“There is one, very foolish, — really impossible.”
“So much the better, they are usually the most charming.”
“When our Frederick enters the Polytechnic School, we must be separated from him. Oh, make yourself easy, I will be brave, on one condition.”
“And what is that condition?”
“You are going to laugh at it, because it is so childish, perhaps ridiculous. Ah, well, I wish we could dwell near him. And if I must confess all to you, my desire would be to take lodgings opposite the school, if that is possible. Now you are going to laugh at me.”
“I do not laugh at this idea at all, madame; I think it is an excellent one, because, thanks to this proximity, you will be able to see our dear boy twice a day, and, besides visits, there will be two long days when we will have him all to ourselves.”
“Really,” answered Marie, smiling, “you do not think I am too fond a mother?”
“My reply is very short, madame. As it is always necessary to provide for things in the distance, I am going to write to Paris to-day to a reliable person who will watch for a convenient lodging opposite the school and engage it for us.”
“How good you are!”
“Very easy kindness, really, to share with you the joy of being near our dear boy.”
Marie remained silent a moment; then tears of gratitude filled her eyes and she said, with inexpressible emotion, as she turned toward David:
“How sweet happiness is!”
And her tearful eyes sought and met the eyes of David; for a long time they gazed at each other in silent, divine ecstasy. The door of the chamber opened and Marguerite said to the preceptor, with an air at the same time joyous and mysterious:
“M. David, will you come, if you please?”
“And my son,” asked Marie, “where is he?”
“M. Frederick is busy, madame, very busy,” replied Marguerite, exchanging a glance of intelligence with the preceptor, who was going out of the door.
“If madame will permit it,” said Marguerite, “I will stay with her, in case she may need something.”
“Ah, Marguerite, Marguerite,” said the young wife, smiling and shaking her head, “they are plotting something here.”
“Why do you think that, madame?”
“Oh, I am very discerning! Since this morning, such goings and comings I have heard in the corridor, Frederick is absent during his study hour, and an unusual noise in the library; so you see—”
“I can assure you, madame, that—”
; “Good! good! you are taking advantage of my condition,” said Marie, smiling. “They all know that I cannot walk about and see myself what is happening out there.”
“Oh, madame, what do you think?”
“Well, Marguerite, I think it is a surprise.”
“A surprise, madame?”
“Come, my good Marguerite, tell me all about it, I beg you; then I shall be happier sooner, and so I shall be happier a longer time.”
“Madame,” said Marguerite, heroically, “that would be treason.”
At that moment old André opened the door half-way, put his head in, looking very radiant and mysterious, and said to the servant:
“Marguerite, they want to know where is the thing that — that—”
“Ah, my God! he is going to say some foolishness; he never does anything else!” cried Marguerite, running to the door, where she conversed some moments with André in a low tone, after which she came back to her mistress, who said to her, smiling:
“Come, Marguerite, since you are relentless, I am going to see for myself.”
“Madame, you think so? You are not able yet to walk after such an illness.”
“Do not scold me, I submit; I will not spoil the surprise, but how impatient I am to know!”
The door of the library opened again.
It was David, Frederick, and Doctor Dufour.
Marguerite went away, after having whispered to Frederick:
“M. Frederick, when you hear me cough behind the door, all will be ready.”
And the old servant went out.
At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said, cheerfully:
“Oh, now that you are here, my good doctor, I do not doubt any longer that there is a conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy?” answered Doctor Dufour, affecting astonishment, while David and Frederick exchanged a smile.
“Yes, yes,” replied Marie. “A surprise they are preparing for me. But I warn you that surprises are very dangerous to poor invalids like me, and you had a great deal better tell me beforehand.”
“All that I can tell you, my dear impatient and beautiful invalid, is that we have agreed that to-day is the day when you must make an attempt to walk alone for the first time, and that it is my duty, yes, madame, my duty to assist this exertion of your powers.”
Scarcely had the doctor uttered these words, when they heard Marguerite cough with great affectation behind the door.
“Come, mother,” said Frederick to his mother, tenderly, “have courage now, we are going to take a long walk in the house.”
“Oh, I feel so strong that you will be astonished,” replied Marie, smiling and trying to rise from her sick-chair, and succeeding with great difficulty, for she was very weak.
It was a beautiful and pathetic picture.
Marie, having risen, advanced with an uncertain step, David at her right, the doctor at her left, ready to sustain her if she fainted, while Frederick, in front of her, was slowly walking backward, holding out his arms, as one does to a child that is attempting his first steps.
“You see how strong I am!” said the young woman, stepping slowly toward her son, who smiled upon her with tenderness. “Where are you going to take me?”
“You are going to see, mother.”
Frederick had scarcely uttered these words, when a fearful, terrible shriek sounded from behind the door.
“SHE SAW HER HUSBAND.”
It was Marguerite. Then the door opened suddenly, and a bantering, ringing voice said at the same time:
“Make a note of it! The big old fellow is living yet!”
Marie, who was opposite the door, uttered a terror-stricken cry and fell backward.
She saw her husband Jacques Bastien.
CHAPTER XLII.
IT WILL BE remembered, perhaps, that at the moment of departure for Blémur, Bridou put on Jacques Bastien’s greatcoat, made of goatskin. Bastien, half drunk, had, in spite of old André’s advice to the contrary, persisted in fording a place inundated by the pond as well as by the waters of the Loire; the horse lost his footing, and the carriage was dragged down the current. Bridou succeeded in getting out of the carriage, but was swept by the torrent under the wheels of the mill and crushed to death. A part of the goatskin coat was caught in one of the wheels. In the pocket of the garment were found several letters addressed to M. Bastien. Hence the fatal error. It was supposed that M. Bastien had been crushed under the wheels, and that the body of the bailiff had disappeared under the water.
Jacques Bastien, incommoded by his great corpulence, had not, in spite of his efforts, succeeded in getting out of the carriage; this circumstance saved him. The horse, after having been dragged some distance with the drift, regained his footing, but soon, exhausted by fatigue, and attempting to ascend a very steep hill, he tumbled down. Jacques, thrown forward, received a deep wound in the head, and lay insensible for some time, when, at the break of day, some labourers going to the fields found him, picked him up and carried him to an isolated farm quite distant from the scene of the disaster.
Jacques remained a long time in this farmhouse, seriously ill from the results of his wound, and a dangerous attack produced by fright and prolonged immersion in the ice-cold water. When he was in a condition to write to his wife, he intentionally neglected to do so, promising himself — as no doubt rumours of his death were current — to make his resurrection a stupid and brutal joke, for he well understood with what sentiments his household would receive the news of his tragic end.
In his project, Jacques, as we have seen, did not fail.
When, however, he saw his wife fall, overwhelmed at the sight of him, he thought he had killed her, and fled from his house in a terror which partook of the nature of frenzy.
Marie was not the only one overcome by this terrible blow.
Frederick was not less shocked by the sudden appearance of Bastien, and, seeing his mother fall dead as it were on the floor, fell fainting in the arms of Doctor Dufour.
The poor boy was not borne to his own chamber, but to the library, and a bed was there prepared for him, as Doctor Dufour feared, with reason, that the removal of Frederick to his own chamber, which opened into his mother’s, might be followed by consequences disastrous to both.
The doctor could not give his attention to both at the same time, and occupied himself first with Marie, who, scarcely convalescent from her previous illness, was alas! struck with a mortal blow.
When Doctor Dufour returned to Frederick he found him prostrated by cerebral congestion, and soon his condition was desperate.
When Marie regained consciousness she realised that her end was approaching, and asked to see her son immediately.
The embarrassment of Marguerite, her pallor and tears, her look of despair, and the excuses and evasions she made to explain the absence of Frederick in that solemn moment were a revelation to the young mother.
She felt, so to speak, that, like herself, her son was about to die; then she asked to see David.
Marguerite ushered the preceptor into the room and left him alone with Madame Bastien, whose angelic features already bore the impress of death. With her cold white hand she made a sign to David to sit down at her bedside and said to him:
“How is my son?”
“Madame—”
“He is not in his chamber; they are hiding him from me.”
“Do not think—”
“I understand all; he is in a desperate state I know, but as my end is near, too, I wish to say farewell to him, Henri.”
For the first and the last time, alas! Marie called David by his baptismal name.
“Farewell!” repeated he, with a heartrending sob “you wish to say farewell!”
“But I cannot die without telling you how much I have loved you. You knew it, did you not, my friend?”
“And you say that you are going to die! No, no! Marie, the power of my love will give new life to you!” cried David, under a sort of aberration of mind. “Die! Oh, why
will you die? We love each other so much.”
“Yes, our love is great, my friend, and for me it began from the day you restored the life of my son’s soul.”
“Oh, woe! woe!”
“No, Henri, my death is not a woe for us. It seems to me, you understand, that, in the moment of leaving this life, my soul, freed from terrestrial ties, can read the future. Henri, do you know what would have been our fate?”
“You ask me to tell you that, when this morning our plans were so—”
“Listen to me, my friend; there are profound mysteries of maternal love which, perhaps, are never unveiled but in supreme moments. As long as I felt myself free, the future appeared radiant to me, as it did to you, Henri, and perhaps for a few months, you and my son and myself would have mingled our lives in the same bliss.”
“Oh, that dream! that dream!”
“The dream was beautiful, Henri; perhaps the awakening would have been cruel.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how much my son loves me. You know that all passionate affection has its jealousy; sooner or later, he would have been jealous of my love for you, Henri.”
“He, he jealous of me?”
“You can believe a mother’s heart; I am not mistaken.”
“Alas, you only wish to make my sorrow less grievous; brave and generous to the last!”
“Say I am a mother to the last. Listen to me still, Henri. In uniting myself to you, I would have lost my name, that humble name that my son wanted above everything to make illustrious, because that name was mine, because everything in the poor child had reference to me.”
“Oh, yes, you were in all his thoughts; when he thought he was dying, he cried, ‘My mother!’ and his first cry, as he began his march to a glorious destiny, was still, ‘My mother!’”
“My friend, let us not deceive ourselves. What would have been our grief, if, just when we were about to be united, the fear of arousing my son’s jealousy, perhaps would have stopped me? And however painful to have renounced our love, think how much more horrible it would have been to see, perhaps, the development of Frederick’s jealousy after our union. What could we have done then? What would have become of us?”