by Eugène Sue
“And what should we have gained by it?
“Should we have been better or more useful citizens? I doubt it, and, at my death, I should have left you a small property, not sufficient for the realisation of any extensive or generous enterprise.
“One word more, my dear child, to answer in advance any reproach that you may in future address to my memory.
“Rest assured if I kept my wealth a secret from you, it was not from any desire to deceive you, nor from any distrust on my part.
“These were my reasons:
“Ignorant of my wealth, you were resigned to poverty; aware of our wealth, you might have accepted the humble existence I imposed upon you without murmuring, but in your secret heart you might have accused me of cruelty and selfishness.
“Nor was this all. Forgive, my son, this foolish fear, — this apprehension so insulting to your affectionate heart, — but during my lifetime I was loath that you should know that you would profit by my death.
“Another, and possibly the most potent reason of all, led me to conceal my wealth from you. I love you so much that it would have been impossible for me to see you subjected to the slightest privation had you known it depended only upon me to give you an easier, broader, and more luxurious life.
“In spite of the apparent contradiction between this feeling and my avaricious conduct toward you, I hope that you will understand me.
“And now that in thought I place myself face to face with death, which may strike me down to-morrow, to-day, this very hour, I solemnly declare that I bless you from the inmost depths of my soul, my beloved son. You have never given me one moment’s pain or sorrow, but only joy and happiness.
“God for ever bless you, my good and loving son. If you are as happy as you deserve to be, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified.
“Your father, A. Richard.
“Paris, February 25, 18 — .”
Deeply touched by this strange letter, Louis fell into a deep, sad reverie, and the day was nearing a close when the young man heard some one knock at the door of his garret, and the well-known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem greeted his ears.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MISER EXTOLLED.
SAINT-HEREM THREW HIMSELF in his friend’s arms, exclaiming:
“Louis, my poor friend, I know all. The porter just told me of your father’s death. What a sudden and cruel blow!”
“Read this, Florestan, and you will understand how bitter my regret must be!” said Louis, brokenly, handing Saint-Herem the dead man’s letter.
“Now do you think any one can blame my father for his avarice?” Louis asked, when his friend had finished the letter. “His one thought seems to have been to enrich me, and to prepare me to make a good use of the large property he would bequeath to me. It was for my sake that he hoarded his wealth, and imposed the hardest privations upon himself!”
“No sacrifice is too great for a miser,” replied Florestan. “Misers are capable of the grandest and most heroic acts. This may seem a paradox to you, but it is true, nevertheless. The prejudice against misers is unjust in the extreme. Misers! Why, we ought to erect altars to them!” added Saint-Herem, with growing enthusiasm. “Is it not wonderful the ingenuity they display in devising all sorts of ways to save? Is it not marvellous to see them accumulating, by persistent efforts, a fortune from the ends of matches and the collecting of lost pins. And people deny the existence of alchemists, and of discoverers of the philosopher’s stone! Why, the miser has found the philosopher’s stone, for does he not make gold out of what would be worthless to others?”
“You are right in that respect, Florestan.”
“In that respect and all other respects, for, Louis, observe my simile closely. It is wonderfully just and worthy of my best rhetorical efforts. There is a dry and sterile tract of land. Some one digs a well there. What is the result? The smallest springs, the almost imperceptible oozings from the earth, the tiniest threads of water, accumulate drop by drop in this well. Gradually the water deepens, the reservoir becomes full, then comes a beneficent hand that diffuses the contents all around, and flowers and verdure spring up as if by enchantment on this once barren soil. Say, Louis, is not my comparison a just one? Is not the wealth amassed by the miser almost always spent in luxuries of every kind? for, as the proverb says: ‘An avaricious father, a spendthrift son.’ And let us consider the miser from a religious point of view.”
“From a religious point of view?”
“Yes; for it is seen from that standpoint that he is especially worthy of praise.”
“That is a very difficult assertion to prove, it seems to me.”
“On the contrary, it is extremely easy. Self-abnegation is one of the greatest of virtues, is it not?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to mention any monastic order whose members renounce all earthly pleasures as absolutely as the majority of misers do. Capuchins renounce champagne, race-horses, dancing girls, hunting, cards, and the opera. I should think so. Most of them have good reasons for it. But how different with the miser! There, in his coffers, under lock and key, are the means of gratifying every wish and indulging in every luxury and pleasure, and yet he possesses the moral courage and strength of will to resist all these temptations. In his disinterestedness, too, the miser is sublime.”
“Disinterestedness, Florestan?”
“Yes, I repeat that his disinterestedness is sublime. He knows perfectly well that he is execrated during life, and that his heirs will dance upon his grave when he is dead. He knows all that, and yet, mention a single case where a miser has tried to take his treasure with him, though it would be an easy matter, as it wouldn’t take five minutes to burn two millions in bank-notes. But no, these kind-hearted misers, full of compassion, practise forgiveness of injuries, and leave their vast wealth to their heirs in almost every case.”
“But, my friend, it sounds very strangely to hear a person who spends money as lavishly as you do lauding avarice to the skies.”
“All the more reason that I should.”
“And why?”
“Who can appreciate the excellence of the armourer’s work as well as the warrior? The excellence of a horse as well as the rider? the excellence of a musical instrument as well as the person who plays upon it? Pope Paganini has canonised Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins the great artist plays so divinely; and I, who could spend millions so admirably, shall certainly feel like canonising my uncle — that heroic martyr to avarice — if Fate so wills that the means of prodigality which he had been accumulating penny by penny ever falls into my hands.”
“My God!”
“What is the matter, Louis?”
“Then you do not know—”
“What?”
“I told you of my poor father’s desire for a marriage between me and your cousin.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Your uncle, ignorant of my refusal, and anxious to hasten this union which he desired as ardently as my father, apparently, left Dreux yesterday, in company with his daughter, and this morning—”
“Both arrived in Paris, I suppose. Why this hesitation, my dear Louis?”
“Your uncle and cousin did not come straight through to Paris. They stopped at Versailles, Florestan, at Versailles, where my poor father went to—”
But Louis could not finish the sentence. His emotion overcame him completely.
“Courage, my friend,” said Saint-Herem, deeply affected, “I understand your feelings.”
“Florestan,” said the young man, drying his tears, after a long silence, “my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and cousin.”
“Well?”
“It was agreed that they were to accompany my father back to Paris. There is little doubt that they did so, and as it is almost certain that they were all in the same railway carriage—”
“They, too! Oh, that would be too horrible!” exclaimed Saint-He
rem, covering his face with his hands.
The exclamation of horror and the tone of profound pity in Saint-Herem’s voice were so sincere and so spontaneous that Louis was deeply touched by this proof of noble-heartedness on the part of his friend, who had manifested only a feeling of generous commiseration, without one particle of the satisfaction or selfish joy that might have been considered almost excusable under the circumstances.
CHAPTER XIV.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
LOUIS AND SAINT-HEREM remained silent for several minutes. The former was the first to speak.
“I cannot tell you how deeply your sensibility touches me, my dear Florestan,” he said, at last “It is so thoroughly in accord with my own feelings at this sad moment.”
“Why, what else could you expect, my dear friend? I had no affection for my uncle, as you know, but one must be heartless, indeed, not to feel deeply grieved and horrified at the mere possibility that my relatives may have shared your poor father’s cruel fate. I retract nothing I have said in regard to avarice and its far-reaching consequences, though it would have given my thoughts a much more serious turn had I foreseen that the question was to affect me personally; but I can at least say, with truth, that I am not one of those persons who receive an inheritance with unalloyed delight. Now tell me, Louis, — and forgive the necessity of a question that is sure to revive your grief, — in your sorrowful search for your father did you see nothing that would lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped such a horrible death?”
“All I can say, Florestan, is that I remember perfectly having seen neither your uncle nor cousin among the killed and injured. As for the unfortunate persons who shared my father’s fate, it was impossible to identify any of them, as they were burned almost to ashes.”
“Then your supposition is probably correct, my poor Louis, as my uncle and his daughter are almost certain to have been in the same carriage as your father, and even in the same compartment. In that case, there can be little doubt that they met with the same fate. I shall write to Dreux at once, and I shall also have a careful search for their remains instituted without delay. If you hear anything more, inform me as soon as possible. But now I think of it, how about Mariette? The sad announcement you have just made to me almost made me forget the object of my visit.”
“It was a cruel misunderstanding that caused all the trouble, as I suspected, Florestan. I found her more loving and devoted than ever.”
“Her love will be a great consolation to you in your deep sorrow. Courage, my poor Louis, courage! All that has occurred should only serve to strengthen the bonds of friendship between us.”
“Ah, Florestan, but for this friendship and Mariette’s affection, I do not know how I could endure this crushing blow. Farewell, my friend. Keep me advised of the progress of your search for your uncle, I beg of you.”
The two friends separated. Left alone, Louis reflected some time in regard to the course he should pursue. Finally he placed in his satchel the hidden gold he had just discovered, then, taking his father’s letter, he repaired to the house of his employer, who was also the business agent and friend of his deceased parent, as he had just learned from the letter found with the gold.
The notary, deeply affected by the harrowing details of his late patron’s terrible fate, tried to console Louis, and also offered to attend to the necessary legal formalities.
This arrangement made, Louis said:
“There is another question I should like to ask. As soon as these formalities have been complied with, do I come into possession of my father’s property?”
“Certainly, my dear Louis.”
“Then I will tell you what I intend to do. I have brought you gold coin to the amount of more than two hundred thousand francs. I found it in a chest in the room I occupied with my father. Out of this amount, I wish you to take enough to purchase an annuity of twelve thousand francs for the godmother of a young girl that I am about to marry.”
“But does this young girl’s financial condition—”
“My dear patron,” interrupted Louis, respectfully but firmly, “the young girl I speak of is a working girl, and supports herself and her godmother by her daily toil. I have loved her a long time, and no human power can prevent me from marrying her.”
“So be it,” replied the notary, understanding the uselessness of any further protest. “I will settle the desired amount upon the person designated.”
“I also desire to take from this sum of money about fifteen thousand francs to set up housekeeping in a suitable manner.”
“Only fifteen thousand francs!” exclaimed the notary, surprised at the modesty of this request. “Will that be enough?”
“My affianced wife is, like myself, accustomed to a frugal and laborious life, so the income from fifteen thousand francs, together with the proceeds of our labour, will more than suffice.”
“The proceeds of your labour! What! do you intend—”
“To remain in your office if you do not consider me unworthy of your confidence.”
“Remain a notary’s clerk when you have an income of more than two hundred thousand francs a year?”
“I cannot and will not take possession of this immense fortune for a long time to come. Even when the death of my father has been legally established, I shall still feel a vague hope of again seeing the parent I so deeply mourn.”
“Alas! I fear there is little hope of that, my poor Louis.”
“Still, I shall cherish the hope as long as possible; and so long as I do, I shall not consider myself at liberty to dispose of my father’s property, — at least only to the extent I have indicated to you. Will you not, therefore, continue to take charge of the estate exactly as you have done in the past?”
“I cannot but admire the course you have decided upon, my dear Louis,” replied the notary, with unfeigned emotion. “Your conduct now conforms in every respect with that you have always maintained. You could not do greater honour to your father’s memory than by acting thus. It shall be as you wish. I will remain the custodian of your fortune, and the annuity you spoke of shall be purchased this very day.”
“There is a detail in relation to that matter, about which I should like to speak, trivial and almost absurd as it may appear to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The poor woman upon whom I desire to settle this annuity has seen so much trouble during her long life that her character has become embittered, and she feels no confidence in any one. Any promise would seem utterly valueless to her, if the promise was not based upon something tangible; so to convince the poor creature, I want to take her fifteen thousand francs in gold, which will represent very nearly the amount that will have to be expended for the annuity. It is the only way to thoroughly convince the poor creature of my good intentions.”
“Take any amount you please, of course, my dear Louis. The matter shall be arranged to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XV.
MADAME LACOMBE’S UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER.
ON LEAVING THE notary’s office, Louis hastened to Mariette’s home. He found the young girl sewing by the bedside of her godmother, who seemed to be sound asleep.
Her lover’s extreme pallor, as well as the sad expression of his face, struck the young girl at once, and running toward him, she exclaimed, anxiously:
“Oh, Louis, something terrible must have happened, I am sure.”
“Yes, Mariette. Have you heard of the frightful accident that occurred on the Versailles railroad yesterday?”
“Yes, it was horrible. People say there were nobody knows how many victims.”
“I can hardly doubt that my father was one of the number.”
Quick as thought, Mariette threw herself, sobbing, on Louis’s breast, and for a long time the two stood clasped in a silent embrace. Louis was the first to speak.
“Mariette, you know how devotedly I loved my father, so you can judge of my despair,” he said, sadly.
“It is a terrible blow to you, I know, Louis.”
“The only consolation I have is your love, Mariette, and I am about to ask a fresh proof of this love.”
“You have but to speak, Louis.”
“I want you to marry me at once.”
“Can you doubt my consent? Is this the proof of love that you asked?” inquired the young girl.
Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added:
“But can we marry before your period of mourning, that only begins to-day, expires?”
“I entreat you, Mariette, not to be deterred by that scruple, decent as it appears.”
“I — I will do whatever you wish.”
“Listen, Mariette, my heart will be torn with regrets for a long, long time. True mourning is of the soul, and, with me, it will long exceed the period fixed by custom. I know that I honour my father’s memory in every fibre of my being, and it is for this very reason that I do not feel it necessary to conform to any purely conventional custom. Believe me, a marriage contracted at so sad a time as this is of a much more solemn and sacred nature than if we married under different circumstances.”
“You are right, perhaps, Louis; nevertheless, custom—”
“Because you will be my wife, Mariette, — because you will mourn for my father with me, — because you will share my grief, will he be less deeply regretted? Besides, Mariette, crushed with grief, as I am, I could not live on alone, separated from you, — all I have left in the world now. It would kill me.”
“I am only a poor seamstress who knows little or nothing of the laws of society, so I can only tell you how I feel about this matter, Louis. Though a moment ago the idea of marrying you at once seemed almost a breach of propriety, the reasons you give have made me change my mind. Possibly I am wrong; possibly it is the desire to please you that influences me, but now I should not feel the slightest remorse if I married you at once, and yet it seems to me that I am as susceptible as any one I know.”