A few minutes afterward Madame Bastien, Frederick, and the doctor left the castle. Marie, out of consideration for the doctor, who seemed greatly pained at this contretemps, as well as by reason of her natural good nature, bore her share of their mutual discomfiture cheerfully, even gaily, and laughed not a little at the absurdly important airs the steward had given himself. M. Dufour, who cared nothing about the man's rudeness except so far as it might affect Madame Bastien, soon recovered his natural good spirits when he saw how little importance his fair companion seemed to attach to the affair.
A quarter of an hour afterward the three friends were sitting in the shade of a clump of gigantic oaks, enjoying their lunch. Frederick, though he manifested some little constraint of manner, seemed to share his companions' high spirits, but Marie, too clear-sighted not to notice that her son was not exactly himself, fancied she could divine the cause of his preoccupation, and teased him a little about the importance he seemed to attach to the steward's impertinence.
"Come, come, my handsome Cid, my valiant cavalier," she said, gaily, "keep your anger and your trusty blade for an adversary worthy of you. The doctor and I both gave the ill-bred fellow a good lesson. Now let us think only of ending the day as pleasantly as possible, and of the pleasure it will give us for weeks to come to talk of the treasures of every kind that we have seen."
Then, with a laugh, the young mother added:
"Say, Frederick, don't forget to-morrow morning to tell old Andre, M. le chef of our open-air garden, not to forget to bring us a bouquet of lilies of the valley and violets."
"Yes, mother," answered Frederick, smiling.
"And I wish you would also have the goodness to tell M. le chef of our stables to harness our venerable white horse in the afternoon, as we must go to the village to do some shopping."
"And I, madame," exclaimed the doctor, with his mouth full of cake, "take great pleasure in assuring you, or, rather, I should say, in proving to you that your old Marguerite, the chef of your culinary department, is a none-such, so far as cake-making is concerned,—for this cake is certainly—"
But the good doctor did not finish the sentence, as he choked badly in his effort to talk and eat at the same time.
So with gay jests and laughter the meal went on, and Frederick tried his best to share his companions' hilarity; but the lad's mirth was constrained, he was conscious of a strange and increasing feeling of annoyance. As certain vague and inexplicable symptoms presage the invasion of a still latent malady, so certain vague and inexplicable sentiments seemed to be germinating in Frederick's heart. The nature of these sentiments, though as yet not very clearly defined, caused him a feeling of instinctive shame, so much so, in fact, that he, who had always been so confiding with his mother, now dreaded her penetration for the first time in his life, and deliberately set to work to deceive her by feigning all the rest of the day a gaiety that he was far from feeling.
SEVERALdays had passed since the visit to the Château de Pont Brillant. Frederick had never left his mother's house to visit the homes of persons of an even humbler station than his own, so the impression which the sight of the splendours and the almost royal luxury that pervaded it had made upon him had suffered no diminution. When, on the following morning, the lad awoke in his own little room, it seemed bare and comfortless to him, and when he afterward went as usual to bid his mother good morning, he involuntarily compared the costly elegance of the Marquise de Pont Brillant's apartments with the poverty of his mother's surroundings, and experienced a strange sinking of heart.
An unlucky chance deepened this impression. When Frederick entered his mother's room, the young woman, in all the freshness of her marvellous beauty, was arranging her beautiful brown hair in front of a cheap painted toilet-table covered with oilcloth and surmounted by a tiny glass with a black frame.
Frederick, remembering the rich lace and satin and gold that adorned the dressing-room of the dowager marquise, experienced for the first time in his life a bitter pang of envy, as he said to himself:
"Doesn't that elegant, luxurious boudoir I saw at the castle seem much better suited to a beautiful and charming woman like my mother than to a wrinkled octogenarian who, in her ridiculous vanity, wants to admire her withered face in mirrors wreathed with lace and ribbons!"
Already strangely depressed in spirits, Frederick went out into the garden. The morning was perfect, and the dew on the petals of the flowers glistened like pearls in the bright July sunshine. Heretofore the lad, like his mother, had often gone into ecstasies over the beauty, freshness, and exquisite perfume of some specially fine rose; the snowy petals of the Easter flowers, the velvety petals of the pansies, and the exquisite delicacy of the acacia had always excited his lively admiration, but now he had only careless, almost disdainful looks for these simple flowers, as he thought of the rare and magnificent tropical plants that filled the spacious conservatories of the château. The grove of venerable oaks, enlivened by the gay warbling of birds that seemed to be replying to the soft murmur of the little waterfall, was also viewed with disdain. How insignificant these things appeared in comparison with the magnificent grounds of the chateau, adorned with rare statues and superb fountains peopled with bronze naiads and Tritons sending great jets of water as high as the tree-tops.
Absorbed in thoughts like these, Frederick walked slowly on until he reached the edge of the grove. There he paused and gazed mechanically around him, then gave a sudden start, and turned abruptly, as he perceived in the distance the château standing out clearly against the horizon in the bright light of the rising sun. At the sight of it Frederick hastily retreated into the shadows of the grove, but, alas! though he could thus close his bodily eyes to this resplendent vision, the lad's too faithful memory kept the wonders that had so impressed him continually before his mental vision, inducing comparisons which poisoned the simple pleasures of the past, until now so full of charm.
As he passed the open door of the stable, a superannuated farm horse which was sometimes harnessed to a sort of chaise, Madame Bastien's only equipage, whinnied in his stall for the crusts of bread that he had been in the habit of receiving every morning from his young master.
Frederick had forgotten to bring the crusts that morning, and to atone for his forgetfulness, he tore up a big handful of fresh grass and offered it to his faithful old friend, but suddenly remembering the magnificent blooded horses he had seen at the castle, he smiled bitterly and turned brusquely away from the old horse, who, with the grass still between his teeth, watched his young master for a long time with an expression of almost human intelligence.
Soon afterward an old and infirm woman, to whom Frederick, having no money, gave bread and fruit every week, came to the house as usual.
"Here, my good mother," he said, as he presented his usual offering, "I wish I could do more for you, but my mother and I have no money."
"You are very kind all the same, M. Bastien," replied the woman, "but I shall not be obliged to ask anything of you much longer."
"Why not?"
"Why, you see, M. Bastien, that M. le marquis is coming to live at the castle, and these great noblemen are very generous with their money, and I hope to get my share. Your servant, M. Bastien."
Frederick blushed for the first time at the humble gift he had made heretofore with such pleasure and contentment, so shortly afterward, when another beggar accosted him, he said:
"You would only sneer at what I can give you. Apply to M. le marquis. He should act as a benefactor to the entire neighbourhood. He is so rich!"
That such bitter envy should have taken such sudden but absolute possession of Frederick's heart seems strange indeed to those who know his past, yet this apparent anomaly can be easily explained.
Madame Bastien's son had been reared in an exceedingly modest home, but his mother's taste and refinement had imbued even these plain surroundings with an air of elegance and distinction, and, thanks to a thousand nothings, the ensemble had been charming.
The love of beauty and elegance thus developed rendered Frederick peculiarly susceptible to the charm of the wonders he had seen at the castle, and the longing to possess them naturally corresponded with his appreciation and admiration.
If, on the contrary, Frederick's life had been spent amid rough and coarse surroundings, he would have been more amazed than surprised at the treasures which the château contained, and, ignorant of the refined enjoyment that could be derived from them, he would have been much less likely to envy the fortunate possessor of them.
Madame Bastien soon perceived the change that was gradually taking place in her son, and that manifested itself in frequent fits of melancholy. The humble home no longer resounded with peals of laughter as in days gone by. When his studies were over, Frederick picked up a book and read during the entire recreation hour, but more than once Madame Bastien noticed that her son's eyes remained fixed upon the same page for a quarter of an hour.
Her anxiety increasing, Madame Bastien remarked to her son: "My son, you seem so grave and taciturn and preoccupied, you are not nearly as lively as formerly."
"True, mother," replied Frederick, forcing a smile, "I am sometimes surprised myself at the more serious turn my mind is taking. Still, it is not at all astonishing. I am no longer a child. It is quite time for me to be getting sensible."
Frederick had never lied before, but he was lying now. Up to this time he had always confessed his faults to his mother. She had been the confidant of his every thought, but the mere idea of confessing or of allowing her to discover the bitter feelings which his visit to the Château de Pont Brillant had excited in his breast filled him with shame and dismay. In fact, he would rather have died than confess that he was enduring the torments of envy; so, placed upon his guard by Madame Bastien's lively solicitude, he devoted all his powers of mind and strength of will to conceal the wound that was beginning to rankle in his soul, but it is almost certain that his attempts to deceive his mother's tender sagacity would have proved futile had that mother not been at the same time reassured and deceived by Doctor Dufour.
"Don't be alarmed," the physician said to her when she, in all sincerity, consulted him on the subject of her fears. "At the time of puberty, an entire change often takes place in a youth's character. The gayest and most demonstrative often become the most gloomy and taciturn. They experience the most unreasonable melancholy, the most acute anxiety. They give way to fits of profound depression, and feel an intense longing for solitude. So do not be alarmed, and above all give no sign of having noticed this change in your son. This almost inevitable crisis will be over in a few months, and you will then see Frederick himself again. He will have a different voice, that is all."
Doctor Dufour's mistake was the more excusable as the symptoms which so alarmed Madame Bastien strongly resembled those which are often noticed in youths at that age; so Madame Bastien accepted this explanation, as she could not divine the real cause of this change in Frederick.
This change had not manifested itself immediately after the visit to the chateau. It had, on the contrary, taken place gradually, almost imperceptibly, in fact, so that more than a month had elapsed before Madame Bastien really began to feel uneasy, hence it did not seem at all probable that there could be any connection between the visit to the château and Frederick's melancholy.
Besides, how could Madame Bastien suppose that this youth reared by her—a youth who had always seemed of so noble and generous a character—could know envy?
So, reassured by Doctor Dufour, Madame Bastien, though she watched the different phases of her son's condition, forced herself to conceal the sadness she often felt on seeing him so changed, and awaited his recovery with resignation.
At first Frederick had tried to find some diversion in study, but soon study became impossible; his mind was elsewhere. Then he said to himself:
"Whatever I may learn, whatever I may know, I shall never be anything but Frederick Bastien, a sort of half peasant, doomed to a life of obscurity, while that young marquis, without ever having done anything to deserve it, enjoys all the glory of a name which has been illustrious for ages."
Then, as all the feudal relics at Pont Brillant, those galleries of paintings, those family portraits, those gorgeous escutcheons, recurred to Frederick's mind, for the first time in his life the poor boy felt deeply humiliated by the obscurity of his birth, and overcome with discouragement, said to himself:
"This young marquis, already weary of the magnificence by which he is surrounded, indifferent to the treasures of which even a thousandth part would make my mother and me and a host of others so happy. Why, and by what right does he possess all this magnificence? Has he acquired these blessings by his toil? No. To enjoy all this, he has only taken the trouble to be born. Why should he have everything and others nothing?"
THEfirst period of envy that Frederick experienced was of a passive, the second of an active character.
It is impossible to describe what he suffered then, especially as this feeling, concealed, concentrated as it were in the lowest depths of his soul, had no outlet, and was constantly stimulated by the sight of the castle, which seemed to meet his gaze at every turn, dominating as it did the whole country roundabout. The more Frederick realised the alarming progress of his malady, the more strenuously he endeavoured to hide it from his mother, telling himself in his gloom and despair that such weakness deserved scorn and contempt, and that not even a mother could condone it.
All mental maladies react upon the physical system. Frederick's health gradually gave way. He could not sleep, and he, who had formerly been so energetic and active, seemed to dread the slightest exertion. In fact, the pressing and tender solicitations of his mother could alone arouse him from his apathy or his gloomy reveries.
Poor Marie! How intensely she, too, suffered, but in silence, endeavouring to maintain a cheerful manner all the while for fear of alarming her son about himself, and waiting with mingled anxiety and hope the end of this crisis in her son's life.
But alas! how long and painful this waiting seemed. What a change! What a contrast between this gloomy, listless, taciturn life, and the bright, busy, happy existence she and her son had previously led!
One day early in October Madame Bastien and her son were together in the room that served both as parlour and study. Frederick, seated at the table, with his head supported on his left hand, was writing slowly and listlessly in a large exercise book.
Madame Bastien, seated only a little distance from him, was apparently occupied with some embroidery, but in reality she was holding her needle suspended in the air, ready to resume her work at her son's slightest movement, while she furtively watched him.
Tears she could hardly restrain filled her eyes as she noted the terrible change in her son's appearance, and remembered that only a comparatively short while ago the hours spent in study at this same table had been such pleasant, happy hours both for Frederick and herself, and compared the zeal and enthusiasm which her son had then displayed in his work with the listlessness and indifference she now remarked in him, for she soon saw his pen slip from his fingers, while his countenance displayed an intense ennui and lassitude.
At last the lad, only half smothering a heavy sigh, buried his face in his hands and remained in this attitude several moments. His mother did not lose sight of him for an instant, but what was her surprise on seeing her son suddenly lift his head, and with eyes flashing and a faint colour tinging his cheeks, while a sardonic smile curved his lips, suddenly seize his pen again, and begin writing with feverish rapidity.
The youth was transfigured. So inert, despondent, and lethargic a moment before, he now seemed full to overflowing of life and animation. One could see that his thoughts, too, flowed much more rapidly than his pen could trace them on the paper, by an occasional impatient movement of the body or the quick tapping of his foot upon the floor.
A few words of explanation are necessary here.
For some time Frederick had complained to his mother of his distaste, or rather his incapacity, for any regular work, though occasionally, in compliance with Madame Bastien's wishes as well as in the hope of diverting his mind, he had attempted something in the way either of study or an essay on some given subject, but almost invariably he had appealed to his formerly fertile imagination in vain.
"I can't imagine what is the matter with me," he would murmur, despondently. "My mind seems to be enveloped in a sort of haze. Forgive me, mother, it is not my fault."
And Madame Bastien found a thousand reasons to excuse and console him.
So on this occasion the young mother fully expected to see Frederick soon abandon his work. What was her astonishment, consequently, to see him for the first time write on and on with increasing interest and eagerness.
In this return to former habits Madame Bastien fancied she could detect the first sign of the end of this critical period in the life of her son. Doubtless his mind was beginning to emerge from the sort of haze which had so long obscured it, and, eager to satisfy herself of the fact, Madame Bastien rose, and noiselessly approaching her son on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to read what he had written.
In his surprise the youth gave a violent start, then, hastily closing his exercise book, turned an impatient, almost angry face, toward his mother and exclaimed:
"You had no right to do that, mother."
Then reopening his book, he tore out the pages he had just written, crumpled them up in his hands, and threw them into the fire that was blazing on the hearth, where they were soon burnt to ashes.
Madame Bastien, overwhelmed with astonishment, stood for a moment speechless and motionless; then, comparing this rudeness on the part of her son with the delightful camaraderie which had formerly existed between them, she burst into tears.
It was the first time her son had ever wounded her feelings. Seeing his mother's tears, Frederick, in an agony of remorse, threw his arms around his mother's neck and covered her face with tears and kisses, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs:
"Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me!"
On hearing this repentant cry, Madame Bastien reproached herself for her tears. She even reproached herself for the painful impression the incident had made upon her, for was it not due to Frederick's unfortunate condition? so, covering her son's face with passionate kisses, she, in her turn, implored his forgiveness.
"My poor child, you are not well," she exclaimed, tenderly, "and your suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were hardly accountable."
"No, oh, no, mother, I swear it."
"Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear Frederick."
"I tore out the pages, mother," continued the lad with no little embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, "I tore out the pages because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst thing I have written since this—this sort of—of despondency seized me."
"And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a critic."
"No, mother, I assure you—"
"Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk."
"It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don't feel as if I had energy enough to take a single step."
"It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good."
"I don't feel equal to it, really, mother."
"Well, you haven't heard, I think, that André said he saw a big flock of plover this morning. Take your gun, and we will go over to Sablonnière heath. You will enjoy it and so shall I. You are such a good shot, it is a pleasure to see you handle a gun."
"I don't take any pleasure in hunting now."
"Yet you used to be so fond of it."
"I don't care for anything now," replied Frederick, almost involuntarily, in a tone of intense bitterness.
Again the young mother felt the tears spring to her eyes, and Frederick, seeing his mother's distress, exclaimed:
"I love you always, mother, you know that."
"Oh, yes, I know that, but you have no idea how despondently you said, 'I don't care for anything now.'"
Then trying to smile in order to cheer her son, Marie added:
"Really, I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day. I seem to be continually saying and doing the wrong thing, and here you are crying again, my dear child."
"Never mind, mother, never mind. It is a long time since I have cried, and I really believe it will do me good."
He spoke the truth. These tears did indeed seem to relieve his overburdened heart, and when he at last looked up in the face of the mother who was tenderly bending over him, and saw her beautiful features wearing such an expression of infinite tenderness, he thought for an instant of confessing the feelings that tortured him.
"Yes, yes," he said to himself, "I was wrong to fear either scorn or anger from her. In her angelic goodness of heart I shall find only pity, compassion, consolation, and aid."
The mere thought of confessing all to his mother comforted him, and seemed even to restore a little of his former courage, for after a moment he said to Madame Bastien:
"You proposed a walk a few minutes ago, mother. I believe you are right in thinking that the open air would do me good."
This admission on her son's part seemed to Madame Bastien a good omen, and hastily donning her hat and a silk mantle, she left the house in company with her son.
But now the time for the confession had come, the youth shrank from it. He could think of no way to broach the subject, or to excuse himself to his mother for having concealed the truth from her so long.
As they were walking along, the sky, which had been so lowering all the morning, suddenly cleared, and the sun shone out brightly.
"What a delightful change!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, in the hope of cheering her son. "One might almost think that the radiant sun had emerged from the clouds to give you a friendly greeting. And how pretty that old juniper looks in this flood of sunlight. That old juniper over there at the end of the field, you remember it, of course?"
Frederick shook his head.
"What! you have forgotten those two long summer days when I sat in the shade of that old tree while you finished that poor labourer's work?"
"Oh, yes, that is true," replied Frederick, quickly.
The recollection of that generous act seemed to make the thought of the painful confession he must make to his mother less painful, and his growing cheerfulness showed itself so plainly in his face that Madame Bastien said to him:
"I was right to insist upon your coming out, my child. You look so much brighter that I am sure you must be feeling better."
"I am, mother."
"How glad I am, my son," exclaimed Madame Bastien, clasping her hands, thankfully. "What if this should be the end of your malady, Frederick!"
As the young mother made this gesture of thankfulness, the light silk mantle she was wearing slipped from her shoulders unnoticed either by her or by Frederick, who replied:
"I don't know why it is, but I too hope like you, mother, that I shall soon be myself again."
"Ah, if you too hope so, we are saved," exclaimed his mother, joyfully. "M. Dufour told me that this strange and distressing malady which has been troubling you often disappears as suddenly as it came, like a bad dream, and health returns as if by enchantment."
"A dream!" exclaimed Frederick, looking at his mother with a strange expression on his face; "yes, mother, you are right. It was a bad dream."
"What is the matter, my child? You seem greatly excited, but it is with pleasurable emotion. I know that by your face."
"Yes, mother, yes! If you knew—"
But Frederick did not have time to finish the sentence. A sound that was coming nearer and nearer, but that Marie and her son had not noticed before, made them both turn.
A few yards behind them was a man on horseback, holding Madame Bastien's mantle in his hand.
Checking his horse, which a servant who was in attendance upon him hastened forward to hold, the rider sprang lightly to the ground, and with his hat in one hand and the mantle in the other he advanced toward Madame Bastien, and bowing low, said, with perfect grace and courtesy of manner:
"I saw this mantle slip from your shoulders, madame, and deem myself fortunate in being able to return it to you."
Then with another low bow, having the good taste to thus evade Madame Bastien's thanks, the rider returned to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. As he passed Madame Bastien he deviated considerably from his course, keeping near a hedge that bordered the field, as if fearing the close proximity of his horse might alarm the lady, then bowed again, and continued on his way at a brisk trot.
This young man, who was about Frederick's age, and who had a remarkably handsome face and distinguished bearing, had evinced so much grace of manner and politeness, that Madame Bastien innocently remarked to her son:
"It is impossible to conceive of any one more polite or better bred, is it not, Frederick?"
Just as Madame Bastien asked her son this question, a small groom in livery, who was following the horse-man, and who, like his master, was mounted upon a superb blooded horse, passed, the lad, who was evidently a strict observer of etiquette, having waited until his master was the prescribed twenty-five yards in advance of him before he moved from his place.
Madame Bastien motioned him to stop. He did so.
"Will you be kind enough to tell me your master's name?" asked the young woman.
"M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant, madame," replied the groom, with a strong English accent.
Then seeing that his master had started on a brisk trot, the lad did the same.
"Did your hear that, Frederick?" asked Marie, turning to her son. "That was the young Marquis de Pont Brillant. Is he not charming? It is pleasant to see such a worthy representative of rank and fortune, is it not, my son? To be such a high and mighty personage, and so perfectly polite and well-bred, is certainly a charming combination. But why do you not answer me, Frederick? What is the matter, Frederick?" added Madame Bastien, suddenly becoming uneasy.
"There is nothing the matter with me, mother," was the cold reply.
"But there must be. Your face looks so different from what it did a moment ago. You must be suffering, and, great Heavens, how pale you are!"
"The sun has disappeared behind the clouds again, and I am cold!"
"Then let us hasten back,—let us hasten back at once! Heaven grant the improvement you spoke of just now may continue."
"I doubt it very much, mother."
"How despondently you speak."
"I speak as I feel."
"You are not feeling as well, then, my dear child?"
"Not nearly as well," the lad replied. Then added, with a sort of ferocious bitterness, "I have suffered a relapse, a complete relapse, but it is the cold that has caused it, probably."
And the unfortunate youth, who had always adored his mother, now experienced an almost savage delight in increasing his youthful parent's anxiety, thus avenging the poignant suffering which his mother's praises of Raoul de Pont Brillant had caused him.
Yes, for jealousy, a feeling as entirely unknown to Frederick as envy had been heretofore, now increased the resentment he already felt against the young marquis.
The mother and son wended their way homeward, Madame Bastien in inexpressible grief and disappointment, Frederick in gloomy silence, thinking with sullen rage that he had been on the point of confessing to his mother the shameful secret for which he blushed, and that at almost the very same moment that she was lavishing enthusiasm upon the object of his envy, the Marquis de Pont Brillant.
The unconscious comparison which his mother had made between the young marquis and himself, a comparison, alas! so unflattering to himself, changed the almost passive dislike he had heretofore felt for Raoul de Pont Brillant into an intense and implacable hatred.
THElittle town of Pont Brillant is situated a few leagues from Blois, and not far from the Loire.
A promenade called the mall, shaded by lofty trees, bounds Pont Brillant on the south. A few houses stand on the left side of the boulevard, which also serves as a fair ground.
Doctor Dufour lived in one of these houses.
About a month had elapsed since the events we have just related.
Early in the month of November, on St. Hubert's Day,—St. Hubert, the reader may or may not recollect, is the hunter's patron saint,—the idlers of the little town had assembled on the mall about four o'clock in the afternoon to await the return of the young Marquis de Pont Brillant's hunting party from the neighbouring forest.
The aforesaid idlers were beginning to become impatient at the long delay, when a clumsy cabriolet, drawn by an old work-horse in a dilapidated harness, tied up here and there with strings, drove up to the doctor's door, and Frederick Bastien, stepping out of this extremely modest equipage, assisted his mother to alight.
The old horse, whose discretion and docility were established beyond all question, was left standing, with the lines upon his neck, close to the pavement in front of the doctor's house, which Madame Bastien and her son immediately entered.
An old servant woman ushered them into the parlour, which was on the second floor, with windows overlooking the mall.
"Can the doctor see me?" inquired Madame Bastien.
"I think so, though he is with one of his friends who has been here for a few days but who leaves for Nantes this evening. I will go and tell him that you are here, though, madame."
Envy, aided by jealousy,—the reader probably has not forgotten the praises so innocently lavished upon the young marquis by Madame Bastien,—had made frightful ravages in Frederick's heart during the past month, and the deterioration in his physical condition having been correspondingly great, one would scarcely have known him. His complexion was not only pale, but jaundiced and bilious, while his hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, which burned with a feverish light, and the bitter smile which was ever upon his lips, imparted an almost ferocious as well as unnatural expression to his face. His abrupt, nervous movements, and his curt, often impatient, voice, also made the contrast between the youth's past and present condition all the more striking.
Marie Bastien seemed utterly disheartened and discouraged, but the gentle melancholy of her face only made her remarkable beauty still more touching in its character.
A cold reserve on Frederick's part had succeeded the demonstrative affection that had formerly existed between mother and son. Marie, in despair, had nearly worn herself out in her efforts to discover the cause of this change in her child, and she was now beginning to fear that M. Dufour had been mistaken in his diagnosis of her son's case. She had accordingly come to consult him again on the subject, not having seen him for some time, as the worthy doctor had been detained at home by the duties and pleasures of a friendly hospitality.
After having gazed sadly at her son for a moment, Marie said to him, almost timidly, as if afraid of irritating him:
"Frederick, as you have accompanied me to the house of our friend, Doctor Dufour, whom I wish to consult in regard to myself, we had better take advantage of the opportunity to speak to him about you."
"It is not at all necessary, mother. I am not ill."
"Great Heavens! how can you say that? All last night you scarcely closed your eyes, my poor child. I went into your room several times to see if you were asleep and always found you wide awake."
"It is so almost every night."
"Alas! I know it, and that is one of the things that worry me so."
"You do very wrong to trouble yourself about it, mother. I shall get over it by and by."
"But consult M. Dufour, I beg of you. Is he not the best friend we have in the world? Tell him your feeling, and listen to his counsels."
"I tell you again there is no need for me to consult M. Dufour," replied the lad, impatiently. "I warn you, too, that I shall not answer one of his questions."
"But, my son, listen to me!"
"Good Heavens! mother, what pleasure do you find in tormenting me like this?" Frederick exclaimed, stamping his foot angrily. "I have nothing to tell M. Dufour, and I shall tell him nothing. You will find out whether I have any will of my own or not."
Just then the doctor's servant came in and said to Madame Bastien that the doctor was waiting for her in his office.
Casting an imploring look at her son, the young mother furtively wiped away her tears and followed the servant to the doctor's office. Frederick, thus left alone in the room, leaned his elbow upon the sill of the open window, which overlooked the mall as we have said before. Between the mall and the Loire stretched a low range of hills, while in the horizon and dominating the forest that surrounded it was the Château de Pont Brillant, half veiled in the autumnal haze.
Frederick's eyes, after wandering aimlessly here and there for a moment, finally fixed themselves upon the château. On beholding it, the unfortunate lad started violently, his features contracted, then became even more gloomy, and with his elbows still resting on the window-sill he lapsed into a gloomy reverie.
So great was his preoccupation that he did not see or hear another person enter the room, a stranger, who, with a book in his hand, seated himself in a corner of the room without taking any notice of the youth.
Henri David, for that was the name of the newcomer, was a tall, slender man about thirty-five years of age. His strong features, embrowned by long exposure to the heat of the tropical sun, had a peculiar charm, due, perhaps, to an expression of habitual melancholy. His broad, rather high forehead, framed with wavy brown hair, seemed to indicate reflective habits, and his bright, dark eyes, surmounted by fine arched eyebrows, had a penetrating, though thoughtful expression.
This gentleman, who had just returned from a long journey, had been spending several days at the house of Doctor Dufour, his most intimate friend, but was to leave that same evening for Nantes to make preparation for another and even more extended journey.
Frederick, still leaning on the window-sill, never once took his eyes off the castle; and after a few moments Henri David, having laid his book on his knee, doubtless to reflect upon what he had just been reading, raised his head and for the first time really noticed the lad whose side-face was distinctly visible from where he sat. He gave a sudden start, and it was evident that the sight of the youth evoked some sad and at the same time precious memory in his heart, for two tears glittered in the eyes that were fixed upon Frederick; then, passing his hand across his brow as if to drive away these painful recollections, he began to watch the boy with profound interest as he noted, not without surprise, the gloomy, almost heart-broken expression of his face.
The youth's eyes remained so persistently fixed upon the château that David said to himself:
"What bitter thoughts does the sight of the Château de Pont Brillant evoke in the mind of this pale, handsome youth that he cannot take his eyes off it?"
David's attention was suddenly diverted by the blare of trumpets still a long way off but evidently approaching the mall, and a few minutes afterward this promenade was thronged with a crowd, eager to see the cortège of hunters organised in honour of St. Hubert by the young marquis.
The expectations of the crowd were not disappointed. The shrill notes of the trumpets sounded louder and louder, and a brilliant cavalcade appeared at the end of the mall.
The procession began with four whippers-in on horseback, in buckskin jackets and breeches, with scarlet collars and facings richly trimmed with silver braid, with cocked hats on their heads and hunting knives in their belts. They also carried bugles, upon which they alternately sounded the calls for the advance and retreat of the hounds.
Then came fully one hundred magnificent hunting dogs of English breed, wearing upon their collars, still in honour of St. Hubert, big knots of fawn-coloured and scarlet ribbon.
Six keepers on foot, also in livery, with knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes with big silver buckles, also with hunting knives, followed the pack, responding with their horns to the bugles of the huntsmen.
"THE PROCESSION BEGAN.""THE PROCESSION BEGAN."
A hunting fourgon, drawn by two horses driven tandem, served as a funeral-car for a magnificent stag reposing upon a bed of green branches, with his enormous antlers adorned with long floating ribbons.
Behind this fourgon came the huntsmen, all on horseback, some in long scarlet redingotes, others clad out of courtesy in uniform like that worn by the young Marquis de Pont Brillant.
Two barouches, each drawn by four magnificent horses driven by postilions in fawn-coloured satin jackets, followed the hunters. In one of these carriages was the dowager marquise as well as two young and beautiful women in riding-habits, with a rosette of the Pont Brillant colours on the left shoulder, for they had followed the chase from start to finish.
The other barouche, as well as a mail phaeton and an elegantchar-à-banc, was filled with ladies and several elderly men, who by reason of age had merely played the part of onlookers.
A large number of superb hunters, intended to serve as relays in case of need, in richly emblazoned blankets and led by grooms on horseback, ended the cortège.
The perfect taste that characterised the whole display, the perfection of the dogs and horses, the richness of the liveries, the distinguished bearing of the gentlemen, and the beauty and elegance of the ladies that accompanied them would have excited admiration anywhere; but for the denizens of the little town of Pont Brillant this cortège was a superb spectacle, a sort of march from an opera, where neither music, gorgeous costumes, nor imposing display wore lacking; so in their artless admiration the most enthusiastic, or perhaps the most polite of these townspeople,—a goodly number of them were tradespeople,—shouted, "Bravo, bravo, monsieur le marquis!" and clapped their hands excitedly.
Unfortunately, the triumphal progress of the cortège was disturbed momentarily by an accident that occurred almost under the windows of M. Dufour's house.
The reader has not forgotten the venerable steed that had brought Madame Bastien to Pont Brillant and that had been left standing with the reins upon his neck in front of the doctor's house. The faithful animal had always proved worthy of the confidence reposed in him heretofore, and would doubtless have justified it to the end had it not been for this unwonted display.
At the first blast of the bugle, the old horse had contented himself with pricking up his ears, but when the procession began to pass him, the shrill notes of the hunting-horns, the baying of the hounds, the applause of the spectators, and the loud cries of the children, all combined to destroy the wonted composure of this aged son of toil, and neighing as loudly as in the palmy days of his youth, he evinced a most unfortunate desire to join the brilliant cortège that was crossing the mall.
With two or three vigorous bounds, the venerable animal, dragging the old chaise after him, landed in the midst of the gay cavalcade, where he distinguished himself by standing on his hind legs and pawing the air with his fore feet, abandoning himself to the ebullition of joy, directly in front of the barouche containing the dowager marquise, who drew back in terror, waving her handkerchief and uttering shrill cries of alarm.
Hearing this commotion, the young marquis glanced behind him to see what was the matter, then, wheeling his horse about, reached the side of his grandmother's carriage with a single bound, after which, with a few heavy blows of his riding-whip, he made the venerable but too vivacious work-horse realise the impertinence of this familiarity,—a hard lesson which was greeted with shouts of laughter and loud applause of the spectators.
As for the poor old horse, regretting doubtless the breach of confidence of which he had been guilty, he humbly returned of his own accord to the doctor's door, while the hunting cortège proceeded on its way.
Frederick Bastien, from the window where he was standing, had witnessed the entire scene.
WHENthe cortège entered the mall, Frederick's countenance and expression underwent such a strange transformation that David, who had started toward the window on hearing the notes of the bugle, suddenly paused, forgetting everything else in his surprise, for the lad's face, in spite of its beauty, had become almost frightful in its expression. The bitter smile which had curved Frederick's lips while he was gazing at the distant château was succeeded by an expression of disdain when the cortège appeared, but when Raoul de Pont Brillant, clad in his costly hunting-suit and mounted on a magnificent jet black steed, passed amid the admiring plaudits of the crowd, Frederick's face became livid, and he clutched the window so violently that the veins, blue in his hands, stood out like whipcords under the white skin.
None of these details had escaped the notice of Henri David, who had had a wide experience with his kind, and his heart sank within him as he said to himself:
"Poor boy! to feel the pangs of hatred so early, for I cannot doubt that it is hatred he feels for that other lad on the handsome black horse! But what can be the cause of it?"
Henri David was asking himself this question when the little contretemps in which the old work-horse had played such a prominent part occurred.
On seeing his horse beaten, Frederick's face became terrible. His eyes dilated with anger, and, with a cry of rage, he would in his blind fury have precipitated himself from the window to run after the marquis, if he had not been prevented by David, who seized him about the waist.
The surprise this occasioned recalled Frederick to himself, but, recovering a little from his astonishment, he demanded, in a voice trembling with anger:
"Who are you, monsieur, and why do you touch me?"
"You were leaning so far out of the window, my boy, that I feared you would fall," replied David, gently. "I wanted to prevent such a calamity."
"Who told you it would be a calamity?" retorted the youth.
Then turning abruptly away, he threw himself in an armchair, buried his face in his hands, and began to weep.
David's interest and curiosity were becoming more and more excited as he gazed with tender compassion at this unfortunate youth who seemed now as utterly crushed as he had been violently excited a short time before.
Suddenly the door opened, and Madame Bastien appeared, accompanied by the doctor.
"Where is my son?" asked Marie, glancing around the room, without even seeing David.
Madame Bastien could not see her son, the armchair in which he had thrown himself being concealed by the door that had been thrown open.
On seeing this beautiful young woman, who looked scarcely twenty, as we have said before, and whose features bore such a striking resemblance to Frederick's, David remained for a moment speechless with surprise and admiration, to which was added a profound interest when he learned that this was the mother of the youth for whom he already felt such a sincere compassion.
"Where is my son?" repeated Madame Bastien, advancing farther into the room and gazing around her with evident anxiety.
"The poor child is there," said David, in a low tone, at the same time motioning the anxious parent to look behind the door.
There was so much sympathy and kindness in David's face as well as in the tone in which he uttered the words, that though Marie had been astonished at first at the sight of the stranger, she said to him now as if she had known him always:
"Good Heavens! what is the matter? Has anything happened to him?"
"Ah, mother," suddenly replied the youth, who had taken advantage of the moment during which he had been hidden from Madame Bastien's sight to wipe away his tears. Then bowing with a distrait air to Doctor Dufour, whom he had always treated with such affectionate cordiality before, Frederick approached his mother and said:
"Come, mother, let us go."
"Frederick," exclaimed Marie, seizing her son's hands and anxiously scrutinising his features, "Frederick, you have been weeping."
"No," he responded, stamping his foot impatiently, and roughly disengaging his hands from his mother's grasp. "Come, let us go, I say."
"But he has been weeping, has he not, monsieur?" again turning to David with a half-questioning, half-frightened air.
"Well, yes, I have been weeping," replied Frederick, with a sarcastic smile, "weeping for gratitude, for this gentleman here," pointing to David, "prevented me from falling out of the window. Now, mother, you know all. Come, let us go."
And Frederick turned abruptly toward the door.
Doctor Dufour, no less surprised and grieved than Madame Bastien, turned to David.
"My friend, what does this mean?" he asked.
"Monsieur," added Marie, also turning to the doctor's friend, embarrassed and distressed at the poor opinion this stranger must have formed of Frederick, "I have no idea what my son means. I do not know what has happened, but I must beg you, monsieur, to excuse him."
"It is I who should ask to be excused, madame," replied David, with a kindly smile. "Seeing your son leaning imprudently far out of the window just now, I made the mistake of treating him like a schoolboy. He is proud of his sixteen summers, as he should be, for at that age," continued David, with gentle gravity, "one is almost a man, and must fully understand and appreciate all the charm and happiness of a mother's love."
"Monsieur!" exclaimed Frederick, impetuously, his nostrils quivering with anger, and a deep flush suffusing his pale face, "I need no lesson from you."
And turning on his heel, he left the room.
"Frederick!" cried Marie, reproachfully, but her son was gone; so turning her lovely face, down which tears were now streaming, to David, she said, with touching artlessness:
"Ah, monsieur, I must again ask your pardon. Your kind words lead me to hope that you will understand my regret, and that you will not blame my unhappy son too severely."
"He is evidently suffering, and should be pitied and soothed," replied David, sympathisingly. "When I first saw him I was startled by his pallor and the drawn appearance of his features. But he has gone, madame, and I would advise you not to leave him by himself."
"Come, madame, come at once," said Doctor Dufour, offering his arm to Madame Bastien, and the latter, divided between the surprise the stranger's kindness excited and the intense anxiety she felt in regard to her son, left the room precipitately in company with the doctor to overtake Frederick.
On being left alone, David walked to the window. A moment afterward, he saw Madame Bastien come out of the house with her handkerchief to her eyes and leaning on the doctor, and step into the shabby little vehicle in which Frederick had already seated himself amid the laughs and sneers of the crowd that lingered on the mall, and that had witnessed the old work-horse's misadventure.
"That old nag won't forget the lesson the young marquis gave him for some time, I'll be bound," remarked one lounger.
"Wasn't he a sight when he planted himself with that old rattletrap of a chaise right in the midst of our young marquis's fine carriages?" remarked another.
"Yes, the old plug won't forget St. Hubert's Day in a hurry, I guess," added a third.
"Nor shall I forget it," muttered Frederick, trembling with rage.
At that moment the doctor assisted Madame Bastien into the vehicle, and Frederick, exasperated by the coarse jests he had just overheard, struck the innocent cause of all this commotion a furious blow, and the poor old horse, unused to such treatment, started off almost on a run.
In vain Madame Bastien implored her son to moderate the animal's pace. Several persons narrowly escaped being run over. A child who was slow in getting out of the way received a cut of the whip from Frederick, and whirling rapidly around the corner at the end of the mall, the chaise disappeared from sight amid the jeers and execrations of the angry crowd.
AFTERhe had escorted Marie to her carriage Doctor Dufour reëntered the house and found his friend still standing thoughtfully by the window.
On hearing the door open and close, David awoke from his reverie and turned toward the doctor, who, thinking of the painful scene which they had just witnessed, exclaimed, referring of course to Madame Bastien:
"Poor woman! poor woman!"
"The young woman does indeed seem greatly to be pitied," remarked David.
"Far more than you think, for she lives only for her son; so you can judge how she must suffer."
"Her son? Why, I thought he was her brother. She doesn't look a day over twenty. She must have married very young."
"At the age of fifteen."
"And how beautiful she is!" remarked Henri, after a moment's silence. "Her loveliness, too, is of an unusual type,—the at once virginal and maternal beauty that gives Raphael's virgin mothers such a divine character."
"Virgin mothers! The words are peculiarly appropriate in this connection. I will tell you Madame Bastien's story. I feel sure that it will interest you."
"You are right, my friend. It will give me food for thought during my travels."
"M. Fierval," began the doctor, "was the only son of a well-to-do banker of Angers; but several unfortunate speculations involved him deeply, financially. Among his business friends was a real estate agent named Jacques Bastien, who was a native of this town and the son of a notary. When M. Fierval became embarrassed, Bastien, who had considerable ready money, gave him valuable pecuniary assistance. Marie was fifteen at the time, beautiful, and, like nearly all the daughters of thrifty provincials, brought up like a sort of upper servant in the house."
"What you say amazes me. Madame Bastien's manners are so refined. She has such an air of distinction—"
"In short, you see nothing to indicate any lack of early education in her."
"Quite the contrary."
"You are right; but you would not be so much surprised if you had witnessed the numerous metamorphoses in Madame Bastien that I have. Though she was so young she made a sufficiently deep impression upon our real estate man for him to come to me one day, and say:
"'I want to do a very foolish thing, that is to marry a young girl, but what makes the thing a little less idiotic, perhaps, is that the girl I have in view, though extremely pretty, has very little education, though she is a capital housewife. She goes to market with her father's cook, makes delicious pickles and preserves, and hasn't her equal in mending and darning.' Six weeks afterward, Marie, in spite of her aversion, and in spite of her tears and entreaties, yielded to her father's inexorable will, and became Madame Bastien."
"Was Bastien himself aware of the repugnance he inspired?"
"Perfectly; and this repugnance, by the way, was only too well justified, for Bastien, who was then forty-two years old, was as ugly as I am, to say the least, but had the constitution of a bull,—a sort of Farnese Hercules he was, in short,—though much more inclined to embonpoint, as he is an immense eater, and not at all cleanly in his personal habits. So much for him physically. Mentally, he is coarse, ignorant, arrogant, and bigoted, insufferably proud of the money he has amassed. Strongly inclined to avarice, he thinks he is treating his wife very liberally by allowing her one servant, a gardener, who acts as a Jack-of-all-trades on the place, and an old work-horse to take her to town now and then. The only good thing about Bastien is that his business keeps him away about three-quarters of the time, for he buys large tracts of land all over the country, and, after dividing them up, sells these subdivisions to small farmers. When he does return to his present home, a farm which proved a poor investment, and which he has been unable to dispose of, he devotes his time to making as much money out of it as he can, getting up at sunrise to watch his crops put in, and returning only at night to sup voraciously, drink like a fish, and fall into a drunken sleep."
"You are right, Pierre, this poor woman is much more unfortunate than I supposed. What a husband for such a charming creature! But men like this Bastien, who are endowed with the appetites of the brute combined with the instinct of rapacity, are at least excessively fond of their wives and their young. M. Bastien at least loves his wife and son, does he not?"
"As for his wife, your comparison of a virgin mother was singularly appropriate, as I remarked a few minutes ago. A day or two after his marriage, Bastien, who has always persecuted me with his confidences, said, sullenly: 'If I were to yield to that prudish wife of mine I should remain a bachelor husband all the rest of my life.' And it would seem that he has been obliged to, for, alluding to his son, he remarked one day, 'It is a good thing for me I had a child when I did, but for that I should never have had one.' In his anger at finding himself rebuffed, he tried to punish poor Marie for the repugnance he had inspired, but which he has been entirely unable to overcome, though he has resorted to brutality, to violence, and even to blows; for when this man is intoxicated he has not the slightest control over himself."
"Why, this is infamous!"
"Yes; and when I indignantly reproached him, he said: 'Nonsense. She is my wife, and the law is on my side. I didn't marry to remain a bachelor, and no slip of a girl like that is going to get the better of me.' And yet he has had to yield, for brute force cannot overcome a woman's aversion and loathing, particularly when the woman is endowed with remarkable strength of will like Marie Bastien. At first he intended to live in Blois, but his wife's resistance changed his plans. 'If this is the way she is going to act,' he said to me one day, 'she shall pay dearly for it. I have a farm near Pont Brillant. She shall live there alone on one hundred francs a month.' And he was as good as his word. Marie accepted the pinched and lonely life Bastien imposed upon her with courage and resignation, though Bastien did his best to make her existence as miserable as possible, until he learned that she was enceinte. After that he became a little more lenient, for though he still left Marie at the farm, he allowed her to make a few inexpensive changes, which, thanks to Madame Bastien's good taste, have quite transformed the abode. The amiability and many virtues of his charming wife seem to have wrought some slight improvement in Bastien, for though he is still coarse, he seems to be rather less of a brute, and to have decided to make the best of his life of a bachelor husband. 'Well, doctor, I was born lucky after all,' he remarked to me, not very long ago. 'My wife is living, and I am not sorry for it on the whole. She is sweet-tempered and patient and economical, and I never give her a penny except for household expenses, yet she seems perfectly contented. She never sets foot off the farm, and seems to think only of her son. On the other hand, if my wife should die I should not be inconsolable, for, as you must understand yourself, to be a married man and yet have to lead a bachelor life has its objections as well as being very expensive; so whether my wife lives or dies I have no cause to complain. That was what I meant when I told you just now that I was really born lucky, after all.'"
"And his son, does he seem to really care anything about him?" inquired Henri, more and more interested.
"Bastien is one of those fathers who consider that a parent should always be crabbed and angry and fault-finding, so, during his rare sojourns at the farm, where he evinces more interest in his cattle than in his son, he always finds a means of incensing his child against him. The natural result of all this is that Bastien has no place in the lives of his wife and son. And, speaking of Frederick's education, I must tell you another of those admirable metamorphoses that maternal love has effected in Madame Bastien."
"Pray do, Pierre," said Henri, earnestly. "You have no idea how much this interests me."
"Reared as I have described, and married at the age of fifteen," continued the doctor, "Marie Bastien had received a very imperfect education, though she was really endowed with an unusual amount of intellectual ability. But when she became a mother, realising the importance of the duties devolving upon her, Marie, inconsolable at her ignorance, resolved to acquire in four or five years all the knowledge necessary to enable her to undertake her child's education, which she was determined to entrust to no one else."
"And this resolve?" inquired David.
"Was faithfully carried out. When she first broached the subject to Bastien he scoffed at the idea, but when Marie told him that she was determined not to be separated from her son, and reminded him how expensive it would be to have teachers come out to the farm from Pont Brillant and later from Blois, Bastien concluded that his wife might be right, after all, and consented to the arrangement. Fortunately Marie found in a young Englishwoman a treasure of knowledge, intelligence, and kindheartedness. Miss Harriet, for that was her name, appreciating and admiring this rare example of maternal devotion, devoted herself body and soul to her mission, and, ably assisted by the natural talent and untiring industry of her pupil, in four years she had imparted to the young mother a thorough acquaintance with history, geography, and literature. Madame Bastien had also become a sufficiently good musician to teach her son music. She had also acquired a fair knowledge of the English language, a sufficient knowledge of drawing to be able to teach Frederick to draw from nature. He profited wonderfully well by these lessons, for few boys of his age are equally far advanced or so thoroughly grounded, and his mother certainly had good cause to feel proud of the effects both of her training and teaching, when she suddenly perceived a strange change in him."
The doctor was here interrupted by the entrance of the old servant, who, addressing her master, said:
"Monsieur, I came to warn you that the diligence for Nantes will pass at six o'clock, and they have come for M. David's baggage."
"Very well, they can take it, and will you ask them to be good enough to inform me when the diligence arrives?"
"Yes, M. David." Then, with an expression of artless regret, she added:
"Is it really true that you are going to leave us, M. David? Is it possible that you are going to let your friend go?" she added, turning to the doctor.
"Do you hear that?" asked M. Dufour, smiling sadly. "I am not the only person who regrets your departure, you see."
AFTERthe servant's departure, Henri David, still under the painful impression which his friend's revelations on the subject of Marie Bastien had produced, remained silent for several minutes.
Doctor Dufour, too, was silent and thoughtful, for the servant's announcement had reminded him that he was soon to be separated from his dearest friend, perhaps for years.
Henri was the first to speak.
"You were right, Pierre, I shall take away with me a delightful recollection of this charming Madame Bastien. What you have just told me will often be a subject of pleasant thought to me, and—"
"I understand you, Henri, and you must forgive me for not having thought of it sooner," exclaimed the doctor, noting his friend's emotion, "the sight of this youth must remind you—"
"Yes, the sight of this youth does remind me of one I can never forget, my poor Fernand," said Henri, seeing the doctor hesitate. "He was about Frederick's age, so it is only natural that this handsome boy should excite my interest, an interest which is naturally increased by the admiration I feel for his brave and devoted mother. Heaven grant that, after all her love and devotion, her son is not going to be a disappointment to her. But how is it that, after he has been reared with such care and solicitude, he should now give his mother such grave cause for anxiety?"
"The fact is that this lad, whom you have just seen so pale and thin and sullen and irascible, was full of health and gaiety and good humour only a few months ago. Then the relations that existed between his mother and himself were of the most charming as well as affectionate character imaginable, while his generosity of heart could not have failed to excite your liveliest admiration."
"Poor boy," said Henri David, compassionately. "I believe you, Pierre, for there is such an expression of sadness and bitterness on his handsome face. It is evident that he is not bad at heart. It seems to me more as if he were suffering from some secret malady," added Henri, thoughtfully. "How strange it is that there should be such a remarkable change in him in so short a time!"
"I cannot understand it myself," replied the doctor, "for heart and mind and body all seem to have been attacked at the same time. A short time ago study was a pleasure to Frederick, his imagination was brilliant, his mental faculties almost precocious in their development. All this is changed now, and about a month ago his mother, distressed at the state of apathy into which her son had so suddenly relapsed, decided to employ a tutor for him, hoping that a change of instructors and new branches of study, more especially those of natural science, would act as a sort of stimulant."
"Well?"
"At the end of a week the tutor, disgusted with Frederick's dullness, rudeness, and violence, left the house."
"But to what do you attribute this remarkable change?"
"I thought and still think that it is due to natural or rather physical causes. There are many instances of similar crises in youths on attaining the age of puberty. It is a time of life when the salient traits of character begin to manifest themselves, when the man succeeding the youth begins to show what he is going to be some day. This metamorphosis nearly always causes serious disturbance throughout the entire system, and it is quite probable that Frederick is now under the influence of this phenomenon."
"Doesn't this very plausible explanation reassure Madame Bastien?"
"One can never entirely reassure a mother, at least a mother like that. The reasons I gave her calmed her fears for awhile, but the trouble increased and she took fright again. In her interview with me just now she made no attempt to disguise her fears, and even accused herself of being to blame for the recent state of things. 'I am his mother and yet I cannot divine what is the matter with him, so I certainly must be lacking in penetration and in maternal instinct. I am his mother, and yet he will not tell me the cause of the trouble that is killing him. It is my fault. It must be. I cannot have been a good mother. A mother has always done something wrong if she cannot succeed in gaining her child's confidence.'"
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Henri. "She wrongs herself, though, in considering her maternal instinct in fault."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, doesn't her instinct warn her that you are wrong, plausible as your explanation of her son's condition is, for, in spite of her confidence in you, and in spite of the desire she feels to be reassured, your assurances have not calmed her fears."
Then, after sitting silent and thoughtful for a moment, Henri asked:
"Is that large building we see there in the distance the Château de Pont Brillant?"
"Yes. Its owner, the young marquis, was in the party that passed just now. But why do you ask?"
"Does Madame Bastien's son visit there?"
"Oh, no. The Pont Brillants are a very proud and aristocratic family, and associate only with the nobility."
"So Frederick does not even know the young marquis?"
"If he does, it is only by sight, for I repeat the young marquis is much too proud to have anything to do with a youth of Frederick's humble station."
"Is this family popular?" inquired Henri David, more and more thoughtfully.
"The Pont Brillants are immensely rich, nearly all the land for six or seven leagues around belongs to them. They own, too, most of the houses in this little town. The tradespeople, too, are of course largely dependent upon their patronage, so this powerful family command at least a strong show of respect and attachment. There is also a certain amount of money given to the poor every year by the family. The mayor and the curé distribute it, however. The young marquis has nothing more to do with that than his grandmother, whose skepticism and cynicism make Baron Holbach's atheism seem pale by comparison. But why do you ask all these questions in relation to the château and its occupants?"
"Because just now when I was alone with Frederick I thought I discovered that he hated this young marquis with a deadly hatred."
"Frederick?" exclaimed the doctor, with quite as much surprise as incredulity. "That is impossible. I am sure he never spoke to M. de Pont Brillant in his life. So how could he possibly feel any such animosity against the young marquis?"
"I do not know, but I am sure, from what I have seen, that he does."
"What you have seen?"
"The horse that brought Frederick and his mother here, not being hitched, evinced an intention of joining the brillant cortège as it passed. The young marquis struck it a heavy blow with his whip and drove it back, and if I had not restrained Frederick, he would have jumped out of the window and flown at M. de Pont Brillant."
"So it was in order not to frighten Madame Bastien you told us—"
"That Frederick had imprudently leaned too far out of the window. Yes, Pierre, I repeat it, I did not lose a gesture or the slightest change of expression in the poor boy's face. It is hatred, a deadly hatred, that he feels for the other youth."
"But I tell you that Madame Bastien's son has never even spoken to Raoul de Pont Brillant. They live in two entirely different worlds. They can never have come in the slightest contact with each other."