Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “You have been a second mother to my child, I know. And it is on account of the tender affection you have always manifested toward her that I wish to talk with you on a very important matter.”

  “What is it, monsieur?”

  “You sent for your nephew in my absence. He has been here nearly two months, I understand.”

  “Yes, and it is in regard to the poor fellow that I wish to talk with you this evening, monsieur. I will explain—”

  “Sabine has told me all about it.”

  “Great Heavens! you are not angry, I hope.”

  “Not angry, Suzanne, but greatly worried and alarmed.”

  “Alarmed! Alarmed about what?”

  “The effect of your nephew’s presence in this house.”

  “Had I foreseen that it would be disagreeable to you, I would not have sent for the poor boy; but he was so unhappy, and I knew your kindness of heart so well, that I thought I might take the liberty—”

  “You have rendered too valuable service to each and every member of my family, Suzanne, for your relatives not to have a right to my interest and assistance. What I reproach you for is a great imprudence.”

  “Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not understand.”

  “Your nephew is young?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “He is well educated?”

  “Too well for his position, monsieur. My poor sister and her husband made great sacrifices for him. His sight being so poor, they gave him an excellent education in the hope he might enter the clergy, but Onésime felt that he had no calling that way, so there was nothing for him to do but secure a clerkship.”

  “I know the rest, but how about his personal appearance? What kind of a looking young man is he?”

  “The poor fellow is neither handsome nor ugly, monsieur. He has a very kind and gentle manner, but his extreme near-sightedness gives him a rather scared look. He is really the best-hearted boy that ever lived. Ask mademoiselle, and see what she will tell you.”

  “Really, Suzanne, such blindness on your part amazes me.”

  “Such blindness, monsieur?”

  “Is it possible, Suzanne, that you, who are a person of so much experience and good sense, have not felt, I will not say the impropriety, but the grave imprudence there is in having your nephew under the same roof with my daughter, and allowing them to live in the extremely intimate relations of such a secluded existence as you lead here?”

  “I know that I am only a servant, monsieur, and that my nephew—”

  “That is not the question at all. Have not I and my daughter always striven to prove that we regarded you as a friend, and not as a servant?”

  “Then I do not understand the cause of your reproaches.”

  “And that is very unfortunate, for if you had been more clear-sighted, you would long since have discovered what has happened.”

  “Good Heavens! what has happened, monsieur?”

  “Sabine loves your nephew.”

  “Mademoiselle!”

  “She loves him, I tell you.”

  “Mademoiselle loves Onésime! Monsieur cannot be in earnest. It is impossible.”

  “Impossible, and why?”

  “Because the poor boy is as timid as a girl; because he is not at all good-looking; because he sees very badly, a defect that makes him commit twenty blunders a day, at which mademoiselle is not unfrequently the first to laugh. He does not resemble a hero of romance in the least. Oh, no, monsieur, you need feel no anxiety on that score. Mademoiselle has always been very kind and considerate to Onésime, because he is my nephew, and she pitied him, but—”

  “Ah, blind woman that you are, not to have foreseen that, in a person of Sabine’s character, in a person of her extreme sensibility and angelic kindness of heart, pity was almost certain to lead to a more tender sentiment, — as it has!”

  “Can it be possible that mademoiselle would condescend to look at a poor fellow like Onésime?”

  “It is precisely because he is poor and helpless and timid, and because his infirmity places him in such an exceptional and painful position, that Sabine was almost certain to love him, and you, who know her as well as I do, should have foreseen this. I hope to Heaven that your blindness may not prove disastrous in its consequences.”

  “Ah, monsieur,” responded the housekeeper, contritely, “your words enlighten me, now, when it is too late. But no, I cannot believe what you have just told me. Mlle. Sabine has not admitted that she loves Onésime, has she?”

  “Oh, no; she has not admitted it, but I am satisfied of the fact. She is so candid and so sincere that one can read her heart as one reads an open book. She does love him, I tell you, and this destroys all the plans I had formed. But what is the matter? Why are you sobbing so? Suzanne, Suzanne, get up,” cried Cloarek, seeing the housekeeper throw herself at his feet.

  “I have such a dreadful fear.”

  “Explain.”

  “Good Heavens, monsieur, what if you should suppose that in asking my nephew here I was actuated by a desire to interest mademoiselle in him, and so bring about a marriage between them!”

  “Suzanne, you do me a gross injustice by supposing me capable of such a suspicion.”

  “Tell me, oh, tell me that you do not believe me capable of such a thing.”

  “I repeat that you have been thoughtless and imprudent. That is all, and that is enough; but as for accusing you of any such shameful plotting, that would be utterly absurd on my part. I understand, too, how certain peculiarities in your nephew’s character seemed a sufficient guarantee against any such possibility, and that you never suspected that any such danger could threaten my daughter.”

  “Alas! that is the truth, monsieur. I didn’t consider Onésime any more dangerous than an infant.”

  “I believe you, but the evil is done, nevertheless.”

  “But it can be repaired. Onésime shall leave the house at daybreak, to-morrow morning, and never set foot in it again.”

  “And Sabine? His sudden departure would grieve her terribly, it might even kill her, weak and nervous as she is, — for she is her poor dear mother over again, in her sensitiveness and extreme susceptibility.”

  “Mon Dieu, I see, I see! How culpable I have been!” sobbed the governess. “What are we to do, monsieur? What are we to do?”

  “I have no idea myself.”

  “Cloarek paced the room in silence several minutes, then he asked, suddenly:

  “Where is your nephew?”

  “In the Blue Boom, monsieur. I told him to wait there until I could let him know the result of my interview with you.”

  “Send him to me.”

  “Here, monsieur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, monsieur, have pity on him, have pity on him, I beseech you!” cried Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly. “I swear to you that it was not his fault. The poor boy is innocent of any wrong-doing, even in thought. He hasn’t the slightest suspicion of all this, I am sure. Have pity on him, I implore you!”

  “Send him to me, I say.”

  “He shall leave the house this very night, monsieur, I swear it!”

  “And my daughter! You want her to die of grief, perhaps!”

  “One word, monsieur. It may be that mademoiselle’s affection for Onésime is only a youthful fancy that time and absence will soon cause her to forget.”

  “But what if she does not forget it? What if this love is really deep and true, as it must be, if it has once really taken root in a heart like Sabine’s? No, no, it would be an insult to the poor child to believe her capable of loving in that way. She is her mother over again, I tell you.”

  “Alas! monsieur, what you say nearly breaks my heart, and yet I am forced to admit that you are right. I never realised, until this very moment, all the possible consequences of this deplorable intimacy; for, unfortunately, this is not the only thing that must be considered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Monsieur—” />
  “Speak, speak, I say.”

  “What if, — and it would not be his fault, remember, monsieur, — what if he should not share the affection he has inspired in mademoiselle—”

  “Damnation!” exclaimed Cloarek.

  Then after a moment’s silence he said, sternly:

  “Send your nephew here.”

  “Do not ask me to do that, monsieur!” pleaded Suzanne, in terror.

  “Obey me, do you hear?”

  “Not if you kill me, monsieur,” replied Suzanne, resolutely; “no, he shall not come. I will make him leave the house. I will not expose him to—”

  “To what? To my violence, my anger, I suppose you mean. Don’t you see that my daughter’s love for him renders him sacred in my eyes?”

  “But if he does not love her, monsieur?”

  “If he does not love her?” exclaimed Cloarek, becoming frightfully pale; then, without adding a word, and before the housekeeper, overcome with consternation, could make so much as a movement to prevent it, he rushed out of the parlour and into the room where Onésime was waiting to hear the result of his aunt’s interview with the master of the house.

  To open the door of this room, and close and lock it behind him, to prevent Suzanne from entering and Onésime from leaving it, was only the work of an instant, and he thus found himself alone with Suzanne’s nephew.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  ONÉSIME’S CONQUEST.

  ON HEARING THE violent opening and closing of the door, Onésime sprang up surprised and alarmed, for he was expecting to see only his aunt, and the heavy tread of the person who had just entered so boisterously indicated the presence of a stranger.

  Cloarek, who had recovered the composure which had momentarily deserted him, scrutinised Onésime with anxious curiosity. At the first glance the countenance of the young man seemed gentle and prepossessing, but soon, forgetting the infirmity that prevented him from gaining more than a vague idea of objects a few feet from him, and seeing him gaze at him intently without giving any sign of recognition, he began to consider Onésime’s manner extremely insolent, even audacious.

  Suzanne’s nephew, surprised at the prolonged silence, advanced a step or two in the hope of recognising the intruder, and at last asked, hesitatingly:

  “Who is it?”

  Cloarek, still forgetting the young man’s infirmity, thought the question impertinent, and replied:

  “Who is it! It is the master of the house, I would have you know.”

  “M. Cloarek!” exclaimed Onésime, recoiling a little, for the speaker’s manner and tone indicated only too plainly that his, Onésime’s, presence in the house was unwelcome to Sabine’s father, so after a moment he said, in a trembling, almost timid voice:

  “In complying with the wishes of my aunt, I believed, monsieur, that her request was made with your approval, or at least that you would not disapprove her kindness to me. But for that, I should not have thought of accepting her invitation.”

  “I hope so, indeed.”

  “I must therefore beg you to excuse an indiscretion of which I have been the involuntary accomplice, monsieur. I will leave your house to-morrow.”

  “And where will you go? What will you do?” demanded Cloarek, abruptly. “What will become of you afterward?”

  “Not understanding the feeling that prompts these questions, you cannot be surprised that I hesitate to answer them,” responded Onésime, with gentle dignity.

  “My feeling may be kindly, and it may be the opposite, — that depends upon circumstances. I shall know presently, however.”

  “You seem to constitute yourself the sole arbiter of my destiny, monsieur!” exclaimed Onésime, with respectful firmness. “By what right, may I ask?”

  “On the contrary, you seem to have made yourself the arbiter of my destiny,” exclaimed Cloarek, impetuously.

  “I do not understand you, monsieur.”

  “Do you dare to look me in the face and answer me in that way?”

  “Look you in the face, monsieur? I wish that I could, but alas! at this distance I am utterly unable to distinguish your features.”

  “True, monsieur,” replied Cloarek, with much less brusqueness, “I had forgotten your infirmity. But though you cannot see, you may rest assured that I have an eye that nothing escapes. It is one advantage that I have over you, and one that I shall profit by, I assure you.”

  “I assure you that this advantage will be of very little service to you so far as I am concerned. I have never had anything to conceal in my life.”

  This odd mixture of frankness and gentleness, of melancholy and dignity, touched Cloarek; nevertheless he tried to resist its softening influence.

  “I am blessed with a very small amount of penetration, monsieur,” continued Onésime, “but your questions and the tone in which they are asked, as well as some of your remarks, lead me to suppose that you have a grievance against me, though I am unfortunately ignorant of the cause.”

  “You love my daughter?” said Cloarek, gazing searchingly at the youth as if resolved to read his inmost thoughts.

  Onetime turned red and pale by turns, and felt so much like falling that he was obliged to reseat himself at a small table and bury his face in his hands.

  In his attempt to cover his face the handkerchief that was bound around his hand fell off, disclosing to view the terrible burn he had received, and though Cloarek was accustomed to seeing all sorts of hurts, the grave nature of this one made him shudder and say to himself:

  “Poor wretch, how he must suffer! A person must have a good deal of courage to endure such torture uncomplainingly. Such courage, combined with such amiability of character, as well as quiet dignity, at least indicates nobility of heart.”

  Seeing how completely overcome Onésime seemed to be, Yvon asked, in rather more friendly tones:

  “How am I to interpret your silence? You do not answer me.”

  “What can I say, monsieur?”

  “You confess it, then?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “And is my daughter ignorant of this love?”

  “Ignorant of it! Why, monsieur, I would rather die than reveal it to her. I thought I had concealed my secret in the depths of my innermost soul, so I have no idea how you can have discovered what I have almost succeeded in hiding from myself.”

  “Why did you not endeavour to overcome a feeling that could only make you unhappy?”

  “Believing every one ignorant of it, I abandoned myself to it with delight. Up to this time I have only known misfortune. This love is the first happiness of my life, as it will be the only consolation of the dreary destiny that awaits me.”

  “You would be separated from my daughter sooner or later. Did that thought never occur to you?”

  “No, monsieur, I did not stop to reflect. I think I loved merely for the happiness of loving. I loved without hope, but also without fear and without remorse.”

  “So you were not even deterred by a fear that I would find out about this love some day or other?”

  “I did not reflect at all, as I told you just now. I loved only for the pleasure of loving. Ah, monsieur, when one is as I am, almost entirely isolated from external objects and the diversion of mind they cause, it is easy to yield oneself entirely to the solitary enjoyment of a single, all-absorbing passion.”

  “But if your sight is so bad, you can scarcely know how my daughter looks.”

  “During all the weeks I have been living in this house, I never saw Mlle. Sabine distinctly until this evening.”

  “And why this evening rather than any other evening?”

  “Because she insisted on aiding my aunt in dressing a severe burn on my hand, and, while she was doing this, she came near enough for me to be able to distinguish her features perfectly.”

  “In that case, how did you come to love her?”

  “How did I come to love her? Why, what I love in her,” exclaimed Onésime, “is her noble and generous heart, the sweetness
of her disposition, the charms of her mind. What do I love in her? Why, her sweet and soothing presence and her voice, — her voice, so gentle and touching when she utters words of friendly interest or consolation.”

  “Then the thought that you might become Sabine’s husband some day has never occurred to you?”

  “I love her too much for that, monsieur.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You forget, monsieur, that I am half blind, and that, by reason of this infirmity, I am doomed to ridicule, to poverty, or a humiliating idleness. I, who can never be anything but a burden to those who feel an interest in me, the idea that I should have the audacity — No, no, I repeat it, I even swear, that I have loved and still love Mlle. Sabine as one loves the good and the beautiful, without any other hope than of the heavenly felicity the love of the good and the beautiful inspires. This, monsieur, is what I have felt and still feel. If my frankness is convincing, deign to promise me, monsieur, that I shall at least take your esteem with me when I leave this house.”

  “You have won this esteem; you deserve it, Onésime,” replied Cloarek, earnestly; “and after this assurance on my part, you will permit me to ask what you intend to do after leaving here.”

  “I shall endeavour to find some employment similar to that I was engaged in before; but, however modest and laborious my situation in life may be, if it enables me to earn my living, it is all I ask.”

  “But are you not afraid you will lose this situation for the same reasons you did before?”

  “Alas! monsieur, if I allowed myself to think of all the trials and disappointments that are, undoubtedly, in store for me, I should become utterly disheartened,” answered Onésime, sadly.

  “It was not to discourage you that I ventured this reminder. On the contrary, I wish, and certainly hope to find the means of helping you to escape from a position which must be unspeakably trying.”

  “Ah, monsieur, how kind you are! How have I deserved—”

  The conversation was here interrupted by several hurried knocks at the door, and Suzanne’s voice was heard, crying:

  “Open the door, monsieur, for pity’s sake!”

  Cloarek instantly complied with the request.