by Eugène Sue
“Really and truly?”
“Why should I wish to deceive you? Do I ever look glum and sour like a man who is discontented with his lot?”
“That is only because you have such an uncommonly good disposition, perhaps.”
“That depends. If I were obliged to live with that abominable old skinflint Ramon, I should soon become intolerable.”
“Why are you so hard upon that poor man?”
“The recollection of the torture I endured under his roof, I suppose.”
“Torture?”
“What else do you call it, father, to live in a big, cold, dilapidated, cheerless house, — a house so dreary, in fact, that the grave seems a cheerful abode in comparison? And then to see those two thin, solemn-faced, famished-looking servants wandering about in that grim sepulchre! And the meals, — meals at which the master of the house seems to count each morsel that you eat! And his daughter, — for the man has a daughter who will perpetuate the breed, I suppose, — and his daughter, who doles out scanty portions for the domestics, and then carefully locks up the remains of the meagre meal!”
“Louis, Louis, how is it that you, who are usually so charitably inclined, should be so strangely hostile to this poor man and his daughter?”
“His daughter! Can you call such a thing as that a daughter, a big, raw-boned creature, with feet and hands like a man’s, a face like a nutcracker, and a nose, — great Heavens! what a nose, — a nose as long as that, and of a brick-red colour? But justice compels me to say that this incomparable creature has yellow hair and black teeth to make up for her red nose.”
“The portrait is not flattered, evidently, but all women cannot be pretty, and a kind heart is much better than a pretty face.”
“True, father, but how strange it is that there should be such remarkable contrasts in some families.”
“What do you mean?”
“Judge of my surprise on seeing in one of the apartments of that gloomy house the portrait of a woman with such a charming, refined, distinguished face that it seemed as if the picture must have been placed there expressly to spite hateful Miss Red Nose. You shake your head, father, but I am sure you ought not to censure me very severely. At first I felt very sorry for the young lady when I saw her so excessively ugly, and, above all, condemned to live with such an old skinflint of a father; but afterwards, when I saw her nearly badger the life out of those two poor servants, scolding them continually for the merest trifle, and doling out the very smallest amount of food that would suffice to keep them alive, my compassion changed to aversion and positive loathing. But to return to the subject of the picture. The portrait bore such a striking resemblance to one of my old schoolmates that I asked old Harpagon who the lady was, and greatly to my surprise he told me that it was a portrait of his sister, the late Madame de Saint-Herem. ‘Then this lady is, doubtless, the mother of the young Marquis de Saint-Herem?’ I asked, and if you could only have seen old Ramon’s face! One would have supposed I had just evoked the very devil himself. Miss Red Nose, too, made a gesture of pious horror (I forgot to tell you, to complete the picture, that she is one of the worst of bigots), whereupon her worthy parent answered that he had the misfortune to be the uncle of an infernal scoundrel named Saint-Herem.”
“This M. de Saint-Herem must bear a very bad reputation, I judge.”
“What! Florestan? the bravest and most delightful fellow in the world.”
“But his uncle—”
“Listen, father, and you shall judge for yourself. Saint-Herem and I were very intimate at college, but I had lost sight of him for a long time, when about six months ago, as I was walking along the boulevard, I saw everybody turning to look at a beautiful mail phaeton drawn by two magnificent horses, and with two tiny footmen perched up behind. And who do you suppose was driving this exquisite turnout? My old college friend, Saint-Herem, who looked handsomer than ever; in fact, it would be impossible to conceive of a more distinguished-looking young man.”
“I should judge that he must be a terrible spendthrift, though.”
“Wait until you hear the end of my story, my dear father. The vehicle stopped suddenly, the little grooms jumped down and ran to the horses’ heads. Saint-Herem sprang out of the phaeton, rushed up to me, and positively embraced me in his delight at meeting me again after such a long separation. I was dressed like the poor devil of a notary’s clerk that I am, and you must admit, my dear father, that most men of fashion would have shrunk from even recognising such a plebeian-looking creature, but Florestan did not even seem to notice my plain apparel. As for me, I was both pleased and embarrassed by this manifestation of friendly feeling on his part, for we seemed to attract a great deal of attention. Saint-Herem, too, must have noticed the fact, for he exclaimed:
“‘Did you ever see such a set of gaping idiots? Where are you going?’
“‘To the office.’
“‘Then get in with me. We can talk as we drive along.’
“‘What! get into that stylish carriage with my clumsy shoes and big umbrella? What will people think?’ I replied. But Florestan only shrugged his shoulders, and, seizing me by the arm, half led, half dragged me to the carriage. On our way to the office he made me promise that I would come and see him, and finally he set me down at the notary’s door with the warmest protestations of friendship and good-will. Now what do you think of a man who would act like that, father?”
“Pooh!” responded the scrivener, with a by no means enthusiastic air, “he yielded to a kindly impulse, that is all. I always distrust people who are so inclined to make a display of their friendship; besides, you are in no position to keep up such an acquaintance.”
“I know that; still, under the circumstances, I felt obliged to keep my promise to take breakfast with Florestan on the following Sunday. The kind-hearted fellow treated me as if I were a prince, and begged me to come again, but I left for Dreux soon afterward, so I have not seen him since.”
“It is very strange that you never said anything to me about your visit to him.”
“Shall I tell you why I did not? I said to myself: ‘My poor father loves me so much he may fear that the sight of Florestan’s splendour will excite my envy, and make me dissatisfied with my own humble condition in life, so I will conceal the fact that I once breakfasted with a Sardanapalus or a Lucullus.’”
“My dear, brave boy!” exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion, “I understand; and the delicacy of your conduct touches me deeply. It is only one more proof of your kindness and generosity of heart, but I beg that you will now listen to me attentively for a moment, for it is to this very generosity of feeling, as well as to your affection for me, that I am about to appeal. There is an extremely grave and important matter about which I must speak to you.”
The scrivener’s expression had become so serious and even solemn that the young man gazed at him with surprise; but just then the porter knocked at the door and said:
“Here is a letter for you, M. Louis.”
“Very well,” replied the young man, abstractedly, too much engaged in wondering what the important matter to which his father had alluded could be to pay much attention to the letter, which Father Richard instantly recognised as the one which he had written to his son that morning, and which he had addressed to the Rue de Grenelle instead of to Dreux, as poor Mariette had requested.
Knowing the contents of the missive, the old scrivener was on the point of advising his son to read the letter immediately, but, after a moment’s reflection, he adopted the opposite course, and said:
“My dear boy, you will have plenty of time to read your letter by and by. Listen to me now, for I repeat there is a matter of great importance both to you and to me, that I must consult you about.”
“I am at your service, my dear father,” replied Louis, laying the letter which he had been about to open on the table.
CHAPTER VI.
A FATHER’S AMBITION.
FATHER RICHARD REMAINED silent for a
moment, then, turning to his son, said:
“I have warned you that I am about to appeal to your generosity as well as to your affection for me.”
“Then you have only to speak, father.”
“You told me just now that, if you sometimes dreamed of a less humble existence than ours, it was not on your own account, but mine.”
“And that is perfectly true.”
“Ah, well, my son, it only depends upon yourself to see this desire realised.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to me. Reverses of fortune which closely followed your mother’s death, while you were but an infant, left me barely property enough to defray the expenses of your education.”
“Yes, my dear father, and the courage and resignation with which you have endured this misfortune have only increased my love and respect for you.”
“Our pecuniary condition seems likely to speedily become worse instead of better, I regret to say. With old age fast coming on, and my failing vision, I realise that the day is near at hand when it will be impossible for me to earn even the pittance needed for my support.”
“But, father, you may be sure—”
“Of your willing aid, I know that; but your own future is precarious in the extreme. The most you can hope for is to become chief clerk in a notary’s office, for it takes money to study a profession, and I am poor.”
“Do not worry, father. I shall always be able to earn money enough for us two.”
“But what if sickness should come, or some accident should befall either of us, or you should be thrown out of employment for several months, what would become of us then?”
“My dear father, if we poor people stopped to think of the misfortunes that might befall us, we should lose courage. Let us close our eyes to the future, and think only of the present. That, thank Heaven! is not alarming.”
“Yes, I admit that it is better not to think of the future when it is alarming, but when it may be happy and prosperous, if we choose to make it so, is it not well to open our eyes instead of closing them?”
“Certainly.”
“So I repeat, that it depends entirely upon yourself to make our future both happy and prosperous.”
“You may consider it done, then. Only tell me how I am to do it.”
“I shall surprise you very much, I am sure, when I tell you that this M. Ramon with whom you have just spent several days, and whom you so cruelly misjudge, is an old friend of mine, and that the visit you just paid him was planned by him and me.”
“But the papers my employer—”
“Your employer kindly consented to assist us by charging you with a pretended mission to Ramon.”
“But why was it considered necessary to resort to this trick?”
“Ramon wished to see you and study you; in other words, to become thoroughly acquainted with you without your suspecting it, and I feel it my duty to tell you that he is delighted with you. I received a long letter from him this very morning, in which he speaks of you in the highest terms.”
“I regret that I am unable to return the compliment; but how can M. Ramon’s good or bad opinion affect me?”
“It does affect you very seriously, though, my dear boy, for the prosperous future of which I spoke is entirely dependent upon the opinion Ramon has of you.”
“You speak in enigmas, father.”
“Ramon, without being what is called rich, possesses a comfortable fortune, which, by reason of his wise economy, is increasing every day.”
“I can readily believe that, only what you call economy is contemptible stinginess, father.”
“Don’t let us haggle about terms, my son. Call it parsimony or economy, or what you will, in consequence of it Ramon is sure to leave his daughter a handsome fortune, though he will give her nothing during his lifetime.”
“That does not surprise me in the least; but I really cannot imagine what you are driving at, father?”
“I rather hesitate to tell you, because, however erroneous first impressions may be, they are very tenacious, and you have expressed yourself so harshly in relation to Mlle. Ramon—”
“Miss Red Nose? On the contrary, I assure you that I have been extremely lenient.”
“Oh, you will get over your prejudice, I am sure. Believe me, Mlle. Ramon is one of those persons who have to be known to be appreciated. She is a young woman of remarkable strength of character as well as of the most exemplary piety. What more can one ask in the mother of a family?”
“The mother of a family?” repeated Louis, who, though he was far from suspecting the danger that menaced him, began to be conscious of a vague uneasiness. “And what difference does it make to me whether Mlle. Ramon proves an admirable mother of a family or not?”
“It is a matter of vital importance to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“And why?” demanded Louis, anxiously.
“Because it is the one desire of my life to see you Mlle. Ramon’s husband,” answered the old man, firmly.
“Mlle. Ramon’s husband!” cried Louis, springing up with a movement of positive horror; “I marry that woman?”
“Yes, my son. Marry Mlle. Ramon, and our future is assured. We will go to Dreux to live. The house is large enough for us all. Ramon will give his daughter no dowry, but we are to live with him, that is decided, and he will procure you a lucrative situation. When your father-in-law dies, you will come into a handsome fortune. Louis, my son, my beloved son,” added the old man, imploringly, seizing his son’s hands, “consent to this marriage, I beg of you. Consent to it, and you will make me the happiest of men.”
“Ah, father, you do not know what you are asking,” replied Louis.
“You are going to say that you do not love Mlle. Ramon, perhaps; but mutual respect and esteem are sufficient, and you can give both to Mlle. Ramon, for she deserves them. As for her father, the parsimony that shocked you so much at first, will seem less objectionable when you recollect that, after all, you are the person who will profit by it, eventually. Ramon is really a most estimable man. The one ambition of his life is to leave his daughter and the husband of her choice a handsome fortune; to attain this end, he keeps his expenses down as much as possible. Is this any crime, I should like to know? Come, Louis, my dear boy, answer me, give me a word of hope.”
“Father, much as it costs me to thwart your plans, what you ask is impossible,” replied the young man, sadly.
“Louis, can it be you that answers me in this way when I appeal to your love for me?”
“In the first place, you would derive no personal advantage from this marriage. You are thinking only of my interest when you urge it upon me.”
“What! is it nothing to be able to live with Ramon without being obliged to spend a sou? For it is understood that we are to live there for nothing, I tell you, as he gives his daughter no dowry.”
“So long as I have a drop of blood in my veins, I will accept charity from no man, father. More than once already I have begged you to abandon your profession of scrivener, and let me supply our modest wants without any assistance from you. I can easily do it by working a little harder.”
“But if your health should fail, and old age should prevent me from earning a livelihood, there would be nothing left for me but to go to the almshouse.”
“I have faith in my courage. I shall not lose my health, and you will want for nothing; but, if I had to marry Mlle. Ramon, I should certainly die of grief and despair.”
“You are not in earnest, Louis?”
“I certainly am, father. I feel, and I always shall feel, an unconquerable aversion to Mlle. Ramon; besides, I love a young girl, and she, and she alone, shall be my wife.”
“I fancied I had your confidence, and yet you have come to such an important decision as this without my even suspecting it.”
“I have been silent on the subject, because I wished to give convincing proofs of the permanent nature of this attachmen
t before I confided my intentions to you. I, and the young girl I love, accordingly agreed to wait one year in order to see if our natures were really congenial, and if what we considered real love were only an ephemeral fancy. Our love has withstood every test, thank God! The year expires to-day, and I shall see the girl I love to-morrow, in order to decide upon the day that she will broach the subject to her godmother who reared her. Forgive me, father,” added Louis, interrupting the old man as he was about to speak; “I wish to say one word more. The girl I love is poor, and works for her daily bread as I do, but she is the best and noblest creature I know. Never will you find a more devoted daughter. Her earnings and mine will suffice for our needs; she is accustomed to even greater privations than we are. I will toil with redoubled ardour and diligence, and, believe me, you shall have the rest you so much need. Any disagreement between you and me is intensely painful to me. This is the first time, I believe, that we have ever differed in opinion, so spare me the sorrow of again refusing to comply with your request, I beseech you. Do not insist further upon the subject of this marriage. I can never resign myself to it, never! Nor will I ever have any other woman for my wife than Mariette Moreau!”
Louis uttered these last words in such a firm, though respectful tone that the old man, not considering it advisable to insist further, replied, with a disappointed air:
“I cannot believe, Louis, that all the reasons I have urged in favour of this marriage will remain valueless in your eyes. I have more faith in your heart than you have in mine, and I feel sure that a little reflection on your part will lead you to reconsider your decision.”
“You must not hope that, father.”
“I will so far comply with your wishes as to insist no further at this time; I trust to reflection to bring you to a different frame of mind. I give you twenty-four hours to come to a final decision. I will promise not to say another word to you on the subject until that time expires; and I must request you, in turn, to make no further allusion to your wishes. Day after to-morrow we will talk the matter over again.”