"So you despise experience and observation, father," rejoined Emile, restraining his anger; "you do not deign even to consider those commonplace bases of the work of the mind? and yet, you make sport of most theories. What am I to believe, according to your opinion, if you will not allow me to consult either theory or practice?"
"On the contrary, Emile," replied Monsieur Cardonnet, "I respect both one and the other, but on condition that they inhabit healthy brains; for their advantages change to poison or smoke, in foolish brains. Unfortunately, some alleged scientists are of this number, and that is why I would have liked to preserve you from their chimeras. Who is more absurdly credulous and more easily deceived than a pedant with preconceived ideas? I remember an antiquarian who came here last year: he was in search of Druidical stones, and he saw them everywhere. To satisfy him I showed him an old stone the peasants had hollowed out by pounding the grain of which they made their porridge, and I persuaded him that it was the urn in which the sacrificial priests among the Gauls shed human blood. He absolutely insisted on carrying it off for the departmental museum. He took all the granite drinking-troughs for ancient sarcophagi. And that is how the most absurd errors spread. It rested entirely with me whether a trough or a mortar should pass for venerable monuments. And yet that gentleman had passed fifty years of his life reading and meditating. Look out for yourself, Emile, a day may come when you will take bladders for lanterns!"
"I have done my duty," said Emile. "I was bound to urge you to make a further examination of the spots I have visited, and it seemed to me that the experience of your recent disaster might suggest the same advice. But as you answer me with jests I have nothing more to say."
"Let us see, Emile," said Monsieur Cardonnet after a few moments' reflection, "what your conclusion is from all this, and what there is at the bottom of your cheerful predictions. I understand very well that Master Jean Jappeloup, who has set himself up as an inveterate foe of my undertaking, and who passes his life declaiming againstPère Cardonnet—even in your presence, and you could tell me many things about him—would like to persuade you to induce me to leave this country where, it appears, my presence is a thorn in his side. But whither do you seek to lead me, O my philosopher and scientist? Where do you wish to found a colony? into what American desert do you propose to carry the advantages of your socialism and my industrial talent?"
"We might carry them not so far away," replied Emile, "and if you were seriously inclined to work at the civilization of savages, you would find plenty under your hand; but I know only too well, father, that it is no part of your purpose to return to a subject that has been exhausted between us. I have forbidden myself to contradict you in that regard, and I do not think that since I have been here, I have once departed from the respectful silence you imposed upon me."
"Come, come, my boy, don't adopt this tone, for your somewhat cunning reserve is just what annoys me most. Let us drop the discussion of socialism, I agree to that; we will resume it next year and perhaps we shall both have made some progress then that will help us to understand each other better. Let us think of the present. The vacation will not last forever; what do you wish to do when it ends, for your instruction and employment?"
"I aspire to nothing except to remain with you, father."
"I know it," said Monsieur Cardonnet with a malicious smile; "I know that you enjoy yourself hugely in this neighborhood; but that doesn't lead to anything."
"If it leads me to the frame of mind in which I should be in order to reach a perfect understanding with my father, I shall not look upon it as time wasted."
"That is very prettily said, and you are very kind; but I don't think it puts us ahead much, unless you are prepared to devote yourself entirely to my enterprise. Come, shall we write for more experienced advisers and examine the whole locality again?"
"I agree with all my heart, and I persist in believing that it is my duty to urge you to do it."
"Very good; Emile, I see that you are afraid I shall use up your fortune, and I am not displeased to see it."
"You fail to understand the feeling on that subject which I have in the bottom of my heart," Emile replied with warmth; "and yet," he added, making an effort to be prudent, "I desire you to interpret what I say in whatever sense is most agreeable to you."
"You are a great diplomatist, I must agree; but you shall not escape me. Come, Emile, you must make up your mind. If, after the renewed and thorough examination we propose to make, science and observation decide that Master Jappeloup and you are not infallible, that the factory can be finished and have a prosperous existence, that my fortune and yours are planted here, and that they must germinate and fructify here, will you agree to embrace my projects body and soul, to second me in every way, with arms and brain, with heart and head? Swear to me that you will belong to me, that you will have no other thought than that of helping me to make you rich; place all your faculties at my disposal without argument; and in return I swear to you that I will give your heart and your passions all the gratification which it lies in my power to do, and which the laws of morality do not forbid. I believe that I make myself clear?"
"O father!" cried Emile, rising impetuously, "have you weighed your words?"
"They are carefully weighed, and I wish you to weigh your reply."
"I hardly understand you," said Emile, falling back upon his chair. A cloud of flame had passed before his eyes; he felt as if he were about to faint.
"Emile, do you wish to marry?" rejoined Monsieur Cardonnet, eager to make the most of his emotion.
"Yes, father, I do," Emile replied, leaning over the table that stood between them and putting out his hands imploringly. "Oh! do not play with me now, for you would kill me!"
"Do you doubt my word?"
"I cannot, if your word is given seriously."
"It is the most serious promise I have ever given in my life, as you can judge for yourself. You have a noble heart and an eminent mind; I know it and I have proofs of it. But with equal sincerity and equal certainty, I can tell you that your brain is both too weak and too active, and that twenty years hence, perhaps—always perhaps, Emile—you will not be competent to take care of yourself. You will be constantly attacked by vertigo, you will never act coolly, you will take sides passionately, for or against men and things, without precaution and without discernment, without the voice of the indispensable instinct of self-preservation to appeal to you and warn you from the depths of your conscience. You have a poetic nature; it would be useless for me to try to deceive myself in that respect, for everything leads me to the painful certainty that you need a guide and a master. Bless God, therefore, who has given you for your guide and master a father, your best friend. I love you as you are, although you are just the opposite of what I should have liked, could I have chosen my son. I love you as I would love my daughter if nature had not made a mistake in your sex; that is enough to tell you that I love you passionately. So do not complain of your fate and never let my reproaches humiliate you. In our present position with regard to each other, which is clearly defined now to my mind, I will make immense sacrifices to your happiness and your future; I will overcome my repugnance, which is very great, I confess, and I will allow you to marry the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman and his servant. I will satisfy your heart and your passions, as I have said; but only on the condition that your mind is to belong to me absolutely thenceforth, and that I am to dispose of you as freely as of myself."
"O my God! is it possible!" exclaimed Emile, dazzled and terrified at the same time; "but what do you intend by this renunciation of self, father, what meaning do you give to it?"
"Didn't I just tell you? Don't pretend that you can't understand me. Look you, Emile, I know the whole of your Châteaubrun romance, and I could repeat it to you word for word, from your arrival one stormy night down to the Crozant expedition, and from Crozant down to your conversation last Saturday in Monsieur Antoine's orchard. I know all the characters now as well as you do yourself, for I chose to see with my own eyes, and yesterday, while you were exploring the banks of the stream, I went to Châteaubrun, on the pretext of supporting Constant Galuchet's offer of marriage, and I talked a long while with Mademoiselle Gilberte."
"With her, father?"
"Isn't it perfectly natural that I should want to know the young woman you have chosen without consulting me, and who may perhaps be my daughter some day?"
"O father! father!"
"I found her charming, lovely, modest, humble and proud at once, able to express herself well, lacking neither deportment, good manners nor education, and common sense less than all! She refused with much propriety the suitor I proposed to her. Yes, with gentleness, modesty and dignity combined. I was very well pleased with her! What struck me most was her prudence, her reserve, and the perfect control she has over herself; for I confess that I tried to sting her a little, and even to offend her, to get a sight at the under side of her character. Her father was away; but the mother, that sly little old woman whose son-in-law you aspire to be, was so irritated by my reflections on her small fortune and the perfect suitability of a marriage with Galuchet, that she treated me with contempt; she called mebourgeois; and as I persisted, for the express purpose of pushing her to extremities, she said to me, with her arms akimbo, that her daughter was of too good a family to marry a manufacturer's servant; and that, if the manufacturer's son in person should offer himself, they would look at him twice before accepting such a misalliance. She amused me immensely. But Gilberte smoothed everything over by her calm and decided manner. I assure you that she keeps to the letter the promise she gave you, to be patient, to wait and to suffer everything for love of you."
"Oh! did you make her suffer terribly?" cried Emile, beside himself.
"Yes, a little," coolly replied Monsieur Cardonnet, "and I am very glad I did. Now, I know that she has some character, and I should be very glad to have such a person about me. Such a woman can be very useful in a household, and nothing can be worse than to have a wife who is passive and pig-headed at the same time, who can do nothing but sigh and keep silent like many women I know. It would be a pleasure to me to dispute sometimes with my daughter-in-law, and to discover at once that her views are just, that her will is strong, and that she is well fitted to give you sound advice. Come, Emile," he added, offering his son his hand, "you see, I trust, that I am neither blind nor unjust, and that I wish to make the best of the position in which you have put me."
"O mon Dieu! if you consent to my happiness, father, I will give you a lease of myself, I will become your man of business, your overseer, your workman during as many years as you consider me incapable of taking care of myself. I will submit to all your wishes, and I will work every hour in the day, never complaining, never resisting your most trivial orders."
"And never asking for a salary," laughed Monsieur Cardonnet. "Nonsense, Emile, that is not what I mean, and that rôle of menial would outrage nature. No, no, this is no time to throw dust in my eyes, and I am not the man to make any mistake as to your real intentions. I am not yet so nearly ruined that I can't afford to hire an overseer, and I do not think that I could select one less fitted than you to manage workmen. I want you to be another myself, to help me in the work of planning, to learn for me, to give me your ideas, subject to my right to combat and modify them; in a word, to seek out and invent methods of money-making which I will carry out when they suit me. In this way your constant studies and your fertile imagination can assist me in multiplying your fortune by ten. But to obtain this result, Emile, there must be no working with indifference and absence of interest, as you have been doing for a fortnight past. I am not deceived by this temporary submission, concerted with Gilberte, to extort my consent. I require submission for your whole life. I wish you to be ready to undertake journeys—with your wife, if you please—to examine the progress of the manufacturing industry; in a word, I want you to sign, not on paper before a notary, but on my head and with your heart's blood, and before God, a contract which will wipe out your whole past of dreams and chimeras, and which will pledge your convictions, your will, your faith, your devotion, your religion, your whole future, to the success of my work."
"And suppose I do not believe in your work?" said Emile, turning pale.
"You must believe in it; or, if it is impracticable, let me be the first to cease to believe in it. But do not think to escape me by that détour. If we are forced to strike our tent here, I shall pitch it somewhere else, and I shall not stop until I die. Wherever I may be, whatever I may do, you must follow me, second me, and sacrifice all your theories, all your dreams to me."
"What! even my very thoughts, my belief in the future?" cried Emile in dismay. "O father! you are trying to dishonor me in my own eyes!"
"Do you draw back? Ah! you are not even in love, my poor Emile! But let us stop here. This is enough excitement for your poor head. Take time to reflect. I don't wish you to reply until I question you again. Consult the intensity of your passion, and go and consult your mistress. Go to Châteaubrun, go there every day, every hour in the day; you won't meet Galuchet there again. Inform Gilberte and her parents of the result of this conference. Tell them everything. Tell them that I give my consent to your marriage a year hence on condition that you take now the oath that I demand. Your mistress must know this just as it is; I insist upon it; and if you don't tell her, I will take it upon myself to do it; for I know the way to Châteaubrun now!"
"I understand, father," said Emile, deeply wounded and distressed; "you wish her to hate me if I abandon her, or to despise me if I obtain her at the price of my degradation and apostasy. I thank you for the alternative you offer me, and I admire the inventive genius of your paternal affection."
"Not another word, Emile," replied Monsieur Cardonnet, coldly. "I see that the socialistic craze still exists, and that love will have some difficulty in overcoming it. I trust that Gilberte de Châteaubrun will perform that miracle, so that you may not have to reproach me for refusing to consent to your happiness."
Emile locked himself in his room and passed two hours there, a prey to the most violent agitation. The thought of possessing Gilberte without a struggle, without resistance, without the terrible distress of breaking his father's heart, which he had hitherto anticipated with dismay and horror, intoxicated him completely. But suddenly the thought of degrading himself in his own eyes by an unholy oath plunged him into bitter despair; and between these alternatives of joy and anguish he could make up his mind to nothing. Should he dare to go and throw himself at Gilberte's feet and confess everything to her? He could count upon her courage and grandeur of soul. But should he fulfill the duties imposed upon him by his love, if, instead of concealing from her the terrible sacrifice that he might make without a word, he should compel her to bear half of his remorse and his suffering? Had he not said to her a hundred times at Crozant, that, for her and to obtain her hand, he would submit to anything and would recoil at nothing? But he had not then foreseen that his father's infernal genius would appeal to the very force of his love to corrupt and ruin his soul, and he found that he had received an unforeseen blow which had disarmed and bewildered him. Twenty times he was on the point of returning to Monsieur Cardonnet, to ask him to give him his word that he would do nothing, that he would conceal from the family at Châteaubrun the intentions he had revealed to him, until he himself had made up his mind what to do. But an invincible pride held him back. After the contempt his father had manifested for him, by assuming that he was weak enough to apostatize in that way, should he exhibit his irresolution to him and lay bare the depths of his heart, rent by passion as it was?
But who would be the most unjustly punished victim, Gilberte or he, in case honor should carry the day over love? He was blameworthy toward her, for he had destroyed her repose by a fatal passion and had led her on to share his illusions. What had poor Gilberte, the sweet, noble-hearted child, done that she should be snatched from her pure and tranquil existence, and sacrificed at once to the law of inflexible duty? Was it not too late to take cognizance of the reef against which he had steered her? Must he not rather allow himself to be dashed to pieces upon it to save her, and had his conscience the right to recoil from the supreme sacrifice, when it was irrevocably pledged to Gilberte?
And then, if Gilberte should refuse to accept so tremendous a sacrifice, would Emile be any less dishonored in her parents' eyes? Would Monsieur Antoine, who loved and practised equality by instinct, at the dictates of his heart, and also as a necessity of his position, understand how Emile, young as he was, could have made it a religious duty, how an idea could prevail over a sentiment—a pledged oath? And what would Janille think of the slightest hesitation on his part, Janille who, in her humble position, cherished such strange aristocratic prejudices, and took advantage, in her relations with her masters, of the privileges, without giving a thought to the universal right, of equality? She would take him for a miserable fool, or rather she would think that he seized upon that pretext to break his word, and she would banish him from Châteaubrun with anger. Who could say that she would not in time work upon Gilberte's mind so successfully that Gilberte would share her scorn and indignation?
Feeling that he lacked strength to face so cruel a test, Emile tried to write to Gilberte. He began and destroyed twenty letters, and at last, being utterly unable to solve the problem of his situation, he resolved to go and open his heart to his old friend Monsieur de Boisguilbault, and ask his advice.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Cardonnet, acting with all the energy and freedom of his cruel inspiration, wrote Gilberte a letter thus conceived:
"Mademoiselle,"You must have found me very troublesome and far from polite yesterday. I write to ask your pardon and to confess to a little feint for which you will forgive me, I am sure, when you know my intentions."My son loves you, mademoiselle, I know, and I also know that you deign to reciprocate his sentiments. I am happy and proud that it is so, now that I know you. Does it not seem natural to you that, before forming a decision of the utmost importance, I desired to see with my own eyes, and in a certain measure to test the character of the young woman who has in her hands my son's heart and the future of my family?"And so, mademoiselle, I write to-day to apologize at your feet, and to say to you that one so lovely and amiable as you can dispense with many things, even with fortune, when it is a question of entering a rich and honorable family."I ask your permission, therefore, to call upon you once more in order to lay before your father in due form my petition for your hand, in my son's behalf, as soon as my son shall have fully authorized me to do so. This last sentence demands an explanation, and that explanation should properly find a place in this letter."I make my consent to my son's happiness dependent upon a single condition, and that condition tends only to make his happiness more complete and to assure its continuance indefinitely. I demand that he abandon those eccentric opinions which would impair our good understanding and would endanger his fortune and consideration in the future. I am sure that you are too sensible and too intelligent to understand the socialistic, levelling doctrines, with the aid of which my dear Emile and his young friends expect to overturn the world in a short time; that the stock phrases of the brotherhood of mankind, equal participation in privileges and enjoyments, and many other technical terms of the young communistic school are absolutely unintelligible to you. I fancy that Emile has never bored you to death with his philosophical declamations, and I find it hard to believe that he could have obtained the happiness of winning your affection by that nonsense. I have no doubt that he will consent to abstain from it forever and to renounce his folly. At that price, provided that he gives me the promise, freely but solemnly, I will consent with all my heart to ratify the fortunate choice that he has made of a perfect creature like yourself. Be kind enough, mademoiselle, to convey to monsieur your father my deep regret at not seeing him, and to inform him of the contents of this letter."Pray accept the sentiments of esteem and of paternal affection with which I place my son's cause and my own in your hands.""VICTOR CARDONNET."
"Mademoiselle,
"You must have found me very troublesome and far from polite yesterday. I write to ask your pardon and to confess to a little feint for which you will forgive me, I am sure, when you know my intentions.
"My son loves you, mademoiselle, I know, and I also know that you deign to reciprocate his sentiments. I am happy and proud that it is so, now that I know you. Does it not seem natural to you that, before forming a decision of the utmost importance, I desired to see with my own eyes, and in a certain measure to test the character of the young woman who has in her hands my son's heart and the future of my family?
"And so, mademoiselle, I write to-day to apologize at your feet, and to say to you that one so lovely and amiable as you can dispense with many things, even with fortune, when it is a question of entering a rich and honorable family.
"I ask your permission, therefore, to call upon you once more in order to lay before your father in due form my petition for your hand, in my son's behalf, as soon as my son shall have fully authorized me to do so. This last sentence demands an explanation, and that explanation should properly find a place in this letter.
"I make my consent to my son's happiness dependent upon a single condition, and that condition tends only to make his happiness more complete and to assure its continuance indefinitely. I demand that he abandon those eccentric opinions which would impair our good understanding and would endanger his fortune and consideration in the future. I am sure that you are too sensible and too intelligent to understand the socialistic, levelling doctrines, with the aid of which my dear Emile and his young friends expect to overturn the world in a short time; that the stock phrases of the brotherhood of mankind, equal participation in privileges and enjoyments, and many other technical terms of the young communistic school are absolutely unintelligible to you. I fancy that Emile has never bored you to death with his philosophical declamations, and I find it hard to believe that he could have obtained the happiness of winning your affection by that nonsense. I have no doubt that he will consent to abstain from it forever and to renounce his folly. At that price, provided that he gives me the promise, freely but solemnly, I will consent with all my heart to ratify the fortunate choice that he has made of a perfect creature like yourself. Be kind enough, mademoiselle, to convey to monsieur your father my deep regret at not seeing him, and to inform him of the contents of this letter.
"Pray accept the sentiments of esteem and of paternal affection with which I place my son's cause and my own in your hands."
"VICTOR CARDONNET."
While a servant in gold lace, mounted on a fine horse, carried this letter to Châteaubrun, Emile, over-burdened with anxious care, betook himself on foot to the park of Boisguilbault.
"Well," said the marquis, squeezing his hand hard, "I did not expect you until next Sunday. I thought that you forgot me yesterday, so this is a pleasant surprise. I thank you, Emile. The days are very long since you have been working so faithfully for your father. I can only approve your submission, although I ask myself with some little alarm if it will not take you farther along with him and his principles than you think. But what's the matter, Emile? You are pale, distressed. You haven't had a fall from your horse, have you?"
"I came on foot; but I have had a worse fall," replied Emile, "and I believe that I have come to die here. Listen to me, my friend. I have come to ask you either for the strength to die or the secret of life. An insane joy and a ghastly sorrow are fighting together in my poor heart, in my tortured brain. I have had, ever since I knew you, a secret which I could not, dared not tell you, but which I cannot keep to myself to-day. I do not know whether you will understand it, whether there is within you any chord that will sympathize with my suffering; but I know that you love me, that you are wise and enlightened, and that you adore justice. It is impossible that you should not give me salutary advice."
Thereupon, the young man confided to the old man his whole story, abstaining carefully from mentioning any name, place, or incident which could possibly lead him to suspect that he was referring to Gilberte and her family. He dreaded the effect of the marquis's personal prejudices, and, desiring that his judgment should not be influenced in any way, he so expressed himself as to allow him to think that the object of his love was an entire stranger in the neighborhood and probably lived at Poitiers or Paris. His reserve in not mentioning his mistress's name did not fail to strike Monsieur de Boisguilbault as being in the best of taste.
When Emile had finished he was greatly surprised not to find his grave confidant armed with the stoical courage which he had anticipated and dreaded. The marquis sighed, hung his head, then looked up at the sky: "The truth is eternal!" he said.—But in another moment he let his head fall again upon his breast, saying: "And yet I know what love is."
"You do, my friend?" said Emile; "then you understand me and I rely upon you to save me."
"No, Emile; it is impossible for me to keep you from draining the cup of bitterness. Whichever course you choose, you must drain it to the dregs, and the only question is, in which direction honor lies, for, as for happiness, do not reckon on it, you have lost it forever."
"Ah! I feel it already," said Emile, "and I have passed from a day of bright sunshine and intoxicating bliss into the shadow of death. But the profound and irreparable calamity that forces itself upon my mind, whatever sacrifice I may resolve upon, is this—that my heart has become as ice toward my father, and that, for several hours past, it has seemed to me that I no longer love him, that I no longer dread to wound him, that I no longer feel either respect or esteem for him. O my God, preserve me from this suffering beyond my strength! Hitherto, as you know, despite all the pain and terror he has caused me, I still cherished him and I put forth all the strength of my heart to believe in him. I felt in the very depths of my being that I was still his son and his friend, and to-day it seems to me that the bond of blood is broken forever, and that I am struggling against a strange master, who oppresses me, who weighs on my heart like an enemy, like a ghost! Ah! I remember a dream I had the first night I passed in this neighborhood. I dreamed that my father came and sat on me to suffocate me!—It was horrible; and now that ghastly vision is being realized; my father has placed his knees, his elbows, his feet on my breast; he is trying to tear out my conscience or my heart. He is poking about in my entrails to see what weak spot will give way to him. Oh! it is a devilish invention, a murderous project, which leads him astray. Is it possible that love of gold and worship of success can inspire such thoughts in a father's mind against his child? If you had seen the smile of triumph with which he displayed the sudden inspiration of his peculiar generosity! he was not a protector and adviser, but an adversary who has set a trap and seizes his foe with a fiendish laugh. 'Choose,' he seemed to say, 'and if you die, what does it matter? I shall have triumphed.'—O my God! it is horrible, horrible, to condemn and to hate one's father!"
And poor Emile, crushed by grief, laid his face on the grass on which he was lying and watered it with burning tears.
"Emile," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, "you can neither hate your father nor be false to your mistress. Tell me, do you set much store by the truth? Can you lie?"
The marquis had touched the right spot. Emile sprang to his feet impetuously.
"No, monsieur, no," he said, "you know that I cannot lie. And of what use is falsehood to cowards? What happiness, what repose can it assure them? If I swear to my father that I have changed my religion, that I believe in ignorance, error, injustice, folly, that I hate God in man, and that I despise man in myself, will some monstrous miracle take place in me? shall I be convinced? shall I find myself suddenly transformed into a placid and supercilious egotist?"
"Perhaps so, Emile! in evil it is only the first step that costs, and whoever has deceived other men, reaches the point where he is able to deceive himself. That has happened often enough to be credible."
"In that case, falsehood to the winds! for I feel that I am a man and I cannot transform myself into a brute of my own free will. My father, with all his craft and all his strength, is blind in this. He believes what he tries to make me believe, and if he should be urged to make my belief his own he could not do it. No interest, no passion could force him to do it, and yet he fancies that he would not despise me on the day that I debased myself so far as to do a dastardly thing of which he knows that he is himself incapable! Does he feel that he must despise me and ruin me in order to confirm himself in his inhuman theories?"
"Do not accuse him of such perversity; he is the man of his epoch—what do I say? he is the man of all epochs. Fanaticism does not reason, and your father is a fanatic; he still burns and tortures heretics, believing that he is doing honor to the truth. Is the priest who comes to us at our last hour and says; 'Believe or you will be damned!' much wiser or more humane? Does not the powerful man who says to the poor clerk or the unfortunate artist; 'Serve me and I will make your fortune,' believe that he is doing him a favor, conferring a benefit on him?"
"But that is corruption!" cried Emile.
"Very good!" rejoined the marquis; "by what means is the world governed to-day, pray tell me? Upon what does the social structure rest? One must needs be very strong, Emile, to protest against it; for when you do, you must make up your mind to be sacrificed."
"Ah! if I were the only victim of my sacrifice," said the young man sorrowfully; "butshe!poor, saint-like creature, must she be sacrificed too?"
"Tell me, Emile, if she should advise you to lie, would you still love her?"
"I don't know! I think so! Can I imagine a state of things in which I should not love her, since I love her now?"
"You really love her, I see. Alas! I too have loved!"
"Tell me, then, if you would have sacrificed honor?"
"Perhaps so, if I had been loved."
"Oh! feeble creatures that we are!" cried Emile. "God help me! shall I not find a counsellor, a guide, a help in my distress? Will no one give me strength? Strength, O my God! I implore it on my knees; and never have I prayed with greater faith and ardor: I beseech Thee, give me strength!"
The marquis went to Emile and pressed him to his heart. Tears were rolling down his cheeks; but he held his peace and did not help him.
Emile wept a long time on his breast and felt that he loved that man whom each succeeding test revealed to him as an extremely sensitive rather than really strong man. He loved him the more for it, but he grieved that he did not find in him the energetic and powerful adviser upon whom he had counted in his weakness. He left him at nightfall and the marquis said nothing more to him than: "Come again to-morrow; I must know what you decide upon. I shall not sleep until I see you in a calmer frame of mind."
Emile took the longest road to return to Gargilesse; he made a détour by means of which he passed within a short distance of Châteaubrun by shaded paths which hid him from sight, and when he was quite near the ruins, he stopped, fairly distracted at the thought of what Gilberte must have suffered since his father's heartless visit, and not daring to carry her better news lest he should lose all his courage and virtue.
He had been standing there several minutes, unable to come to any decision, when he heard his name called in an undertone, with an accent that sent a thrill through him; and looking toward a small clump of oaks at the right hand side of the road, he saw in the shadow a dress gliding behind the bushes. He darted in that direction, and when he was far enough among the trees to be in no danger of being seen, Gilberte turned and called him again.
"Come, Emile," she said, when he was at her side. "We haven't an instant to lose. My father is in the field close by. I saw you and recognized you just as you started down this road, and I left him without saying anything while he was talking with the mowers. I have a letter to show you, a letter from Monsieur Cardonnet: but it is too dark for you to read it, so I will repeat it to you almost word for word. I know it by heart."
When she had repeated the substance of the letter, she continued:
"Now, tell me what this means? I think that I understand it, but I must know surely from you."
"O Gilberte!" cried Emile, "I hadn't the courage to come and tell you; but it was God's will that I should meet you and that my fate should be decided by you. Tell me, my Gilberte, my first and last love, do you know why I love you?"
"Apparently," replied Gilberte, abandoning her hand to him, which he pressed against his lips, "it was because you divined in me a heart created to assist you."
"Very good; and can you tell me, my only love, my only treasure on this earth, why your heart gave itself to me?"
"Yes, I can tell you, my dear; because you seemed to me, from the very first day, noble, generous, simple-hearted, humane, in a single word, good, which to my mind is the noblest quality a man can have."
"But there is a passive goodness which in some sort excludes nobility and generosity of sentiment, a yielding weakness, which may be a charming characteristic, but which, under difficult circumstances, compromises with duty and betrays the interests of mankind generally to spare itself and one or two others a little suffering?"
"I understand that, but I do not call weakness and fear goodness. To my mind there is no true goodness without courage, dignity and, above all, devotion to duty. If I esteem you to the point of saying to you, without suspicion and without shame, that I love you, Emile, it is because I know that you are great in heart and mind; it is because you pity the unfortunate and think only of assisting them, because you despise nobody, because you suffer when others suffer, because you would gladly give everything that belongs to you, even your blood, to relieve the poor and the abandoned. That is what I understood about you as soon as you talked before me and with me; and that is why I said to myself: This heart answers mine; these noble thoughts exalt my soul and confirm me in all that I have thought; I detect in this mind, which impresses me and charms me, a light which I am compelled to follow and which guides me toward God himself. That is why, Emile, I felt neither terror nor remorse in yielding to the inclination to love you. It seemed to me that I was performing a duty; and I have not changed my opinion after reading your father's mocking words concerning you."
"Dear Gilberte, you know my heart and my thought; but your adorable goodness, your divine affection ascribe to me as a great merit sentiments which seem to me so natural and so forced upon men by the instinct God has implanted in them, that I should blush not to have them. And yet these sentiments, which must appear in the same light to you, since you yourself entertain them with such innocence and simplicity, are spurned by many people and derided as dangerous errors. There are some who hate and despise them because they haven't them. There are others who, by a strange anomaly, have them to a certain extent, but cannot tolerate the logical deduction from them and their inevitable consequences. Heaven help me! I fear that I cannot explain myself clearly."
"Yes, yes, I understand you. Janille is good like God himself, and, through ignorance or prejudice, that perfect friend rejects my ideas of equality, and tries to convince me that I can love and pity and help the unfortunate without ceasing to think that they are naturally inferior to me."
"Well, my noble-hearted Gilberte, my father has the same prejudices as Janille, from another point of view. While she believes that birth creates a claim to power, he is persuaded that skill, strength and energy create a claim to wealth, and that it is the duty of acquired wealth to go on adding to itself forever, at any cost, and to pursue its way into the future, never allowing the weak to be happy and free."
"Why, that is horrible!" cried Gilberte, ingenuously.
"It is prejudice, Gilberte, and the terrible power of custom. I cannot condemn my father; but tell me—when he asks me to swear that I will espouse his errors, that I will share his passionate ambition and his arrogant intolerance—ought I to obey him? And if your hand is to be had only at that price, if I hesitate an instant, if a profound terror takes possession of me, if I fear that I may become unworthy of you by denying my belief in the future of mankind, do I not deserve some pity from you, some encouragement, or some consolation?"
"O mon Dieu!" said Gilberte, clasping her hands, "you do not understand what is happening to us, Emile! Your father does not wish us ever to be married, and his conduct is full of cunning and shrewdness. He knows well enough that you cannot change your heart and brain as one changes his coat or his horse; and be sure that he would despise you himself, that he would be in despair if he should obtain what he asks. No, no, he knows you too well to believe it, Emile, and he has but little fear of it; but he attains his end all the same. He separates you from me, he tries to make trouble between us, he puts himself in the right and you in the wrong. But he will not succeed, Emile; no, I swear it; your resistance to his demands will increase my affection for you. Ah! yes, I understand it all; but I am above such a paltry stratagem, and nothing shall ever part us."
"O my Gilberte, O my blessed angel!" cried Emile, "tell me what I shall do; I belong to you absolutely. If you bid me, I will bend my neck under the yoke; I will commit all manner of iniquities, all manner of crimes for you."
"I hope not," rejoined Gilberte, mildly yet proudly, "for I should no longer love you if you ceased to be yourself, and I will have no husband whom I cannot respect. Tell your father, Emile, that I will never give you my hand on such conditions, and that, notwithstanding all the contempt he may entertain for me in the bottom of his heart, I will wait until he has opened his eyes to justice and his heart to a more honorable feeling for us two. I will not be the reward of an act of treachery."
"O noble girl!" cried Emile, throwing himself at her knees and ardently embracing them, "I adore you as my God and bless you as my providence! But I have not your courage. What is going to become of us?"
"Alas!" said Gilberte, "we must cease to meet for some time. We must do it; my father and Janille were present when your father's letter arrived. My poor father was dumb with joy, and understood nothing of the conditions at the end. He has expected you all day, and he will continue to expect you every day until I tell him that you are not coming, and then, I trust, that I shall be able to justify your conduct and your absence. But Janille will not excuse you for long; she is already beginning to be surprised and disturbed and irritated because your father seems to await your sanction to come and make a formal request for my hand. If you should tell her now what I insist upon your doing, she would curse you and banish you from my presence forever."
"O my God!" cried Emile, "to see you no more! No, that is impossible!"
"Why, my dear, what change will there be in our relations? Will you cease to love me because you do not see me for a few weeks, a few months, perhaps? Are we proposing to bid each other adieu forever? Do you no longer believe in me? Did we not anticipate obstacles, suffering, a period of separation?"
"No, no," said Emile, "I anticipated nothing. I could not believe that this would happen! I cannot believe it yet!"
"O my dear Emile! do not be weak when I need all my strength. You have sworn to overcome your father's opposition, and you will do it. Here is one of his most tremendous efforts which we have defeated already. He was very sure beforehand that you would not accept dishonor, and he thinks that you will be discouraged so easily! He doesn't know you. You will persist in loving me, and in telling him so, and in proving it to him every day. Come, the hardest part of it is over, since he knows all, and, instead of being indignant and grieved, he accepts the battle with a smile, like a game of cards in which he believes himself the more skilful. So have courage; I will have plenty of it. Do not forget that our union is the work of several years of perseverance and faithful toil. Adieu, Emile, I hear my father's voice coming nearer and I must fly. Stay here, and do not go on until we are well out of the way."
"To see you no more!" murmured Emile; "to hear your voice no more, and still have courage?"
"If you lack courage, Emile, it will be because you do not love me as much as I love you, and because our union does not promise happiness enough to induce you to fight hard and long."
"Oh! I will have courage!" cried Emile, conquered by the noble-hearted girl's energy. "I will force myself to suffer and to wait. You will see, Gilberte, whether the happiness the future promises does not enable me to endure everything in the present. But can we not meet sometimes, by chance, as we met to-day, for instance?"
"Who knows," said Gilberte. "Let us rely on Providence."
"But one can sometimes assist Providence. Can we not invent some means of communication, of sending word to each other?—by writing, for instance?"
"Yes, but then we must deceive those whom we love!"
"O Gilberte! what can we do?"
"I will think about it; let me go."
"Go without promising me anything at all?"
"You have my pledge and my heart; are they nothing to you?"
"Go, then!" said Emile, making a violent effort to unclasp his arms, which obstinately detained Gilberte's slender form. "I am happy, Gilberte, even as I let you go! See if I love you, if I believe in you and in myself!"
"Believe in God," said Gilberte, "He will protect us."
And she disappeared among the trees.
Emile remained a long while on the spot she had just left. He kissed the grass that her feet had barely touched and the tree she had grazed with her dress, and after lying a long while in that thicket, the silent witness of his last joy, he tore himself away with difficulty. Gilberte ran after her father, who had started to return to the ruins and was walking fast in front of her. Suddenly he turned and retraced his steps. "Ah! my dear child, I was coming back to look for you," he said innocently.
"That is to say, father, you had forgotten me," replied Gilberte, forcing herself to smile.
"No, no, don't say that; Janille would call it absent-mindedness! I was thinking of you all the time. That letter from Monsieur Cardonnet is running in my brain. Perhaps Emile is waiting for us at the house—who knows? Probably he couldn't have come sooner; his father must have detained him. Let us hurry back; I'll wager that he's there." And the goodman confidently quickened his pace.
Janille was in a savage humor. She could not understand Emile's moderation, and was beginning to be seriously disturbed. Gilberte tried to divert her thoughts, and during supper was calm and almost cheerful. But she was no sooner alone in her room than she fell on her knees and buried her face in the bed, to stifle the sobs which shook her frame.
Gilberte was resigned, albeit in despair. Emile was perhaps less desperate, because in the bottom of his heart he was not yet resigned. Every moment his uncertainty returned, and the greater and more worthy of his love Gilberte appeared to him in the light of their conversation, the more intensely did that love make its invincible power felt. As he was entering the village, he turned abruptly and retraced his steps, trying to fancy that he was going to Châteaubrun; and when he had walked a few minutes, he sat down on a rock, covered his face with his hands, and felt weaker, more in love, more human than ever.
"If Monsieur de Boisguilbault had seen her and heard her," he said to himself, "he would understand that I cannot hesitate between her and myself, and that I must have her, even at the price of a falsehood! O my God! my God! inspire me. It was Thou who didst plant this love in my heart, and, having given me the strength to conceive it, Thou wouldst not give me the strength to crush it."
"Well, Monsieur Emile, what are you doing here?" queried Jean Jappeloup, whose approach he had not observed, and who had seated himself by his side. "I was looking for you, for I had fallen into the habit of talking with you in the evening, and when I don't see you after my day's work, I miss you. What is the trouble? Have you got a headache, that you hold your head in your hands as if you were afraid of losing it?"
"It is too late, my friend," replied Emile; "my head is lost forever."
"Why, are you so very much in love? Tell us when the wedding is to be."
"Soon, Jean, whenever we choose!" cried Emile, wild at the thought. "My father consents, and I am going to marry her. Yes, I am going to marry her, do you hear? for if I don't, I shall die. Tell me, mustn't I marry her?"
"The devil! I should think so! How can you hesitate a minute? I would never be the one to justify you, if you should throw her over; and upon my word, my boy, I believe I would force you to marry her even if I had to fight you."
"Yes, it's my duty, isn't it?"
"Damnation! one would say that you doubt it. You have a sort of daft way of saying that."
"Yes, I am daft, it is true; but no matter. I know my duty now, and you confirm me in my best resolution. Let us go to Châteaubrun together!"
"Are you going there? All right; but let's walk fast, for it is late. You can tell me on the way how your father, whom I believed to be a madman, suddenly made up his mind to be sensible."
"My father is mad, in very truth," said Emile, taking the carpenter's arm and walking excitedly beside him; "altogether mad! for he gives his consent on condition that I tell him a lie which he will not believe. But it is a triumph to him, a genuine delight, to induce me to lie!"
"Look here," said Jappeloup, "you've not been drinking? No, you never drink too much! and yet you are crazy. They say that love makes one as drunk as wine; it must be true, for you say things without rhyme or reason."
"My father, who is mad," continued Emile, beside himself with excitement, "wants to make me mad too, and he is succeeding finely, as you see! He wants me to tell him that two and two make five, and to take my oath to it before him. I consent, you see! What harm does it do to flatter his mania, so long as I marry Gilberte?"
"I don't like all this business, Emile," said the carpenter. "I don't understand it, and it annoys me. If you are mad, I don't propose that Gilberte shall marry you. Let us stop here and try to collect our wits a little. I have no desire to take you to Châteaubrun, if you are going to ramble in this way, my son."
"Jean, I feel very ill," said Emile, sitting down again; "I am dizzy. Try to understand me, to calm me, to help me to understand myself. You know that I don't think as my father does. Well, my father insists that I shall think as he does; that's the whole story! That is impossible; but so long as I say the same things that he does, what difference does it make?"
"Say what? deuce take it!" cried Jean, who had, as we know, very little patience.
"Oh! a thousand foolish things," replied Emile, who felt an icy chill, alternating at intervals with a burning flush. "For instance, that it is exceedingly fortunate for the poor that there are rich men."
"That is false!" said Jean, with a shrug.
"That the more rich and poor there are, the better the world will get on."
"I deny it."
"That the battle between the rich and poor is ordained by God, and that the rich should go forth to it with the keenest joy."
"On the contrary, God forbids it!"
"Lastly, that men of intellect are happier than the poor in intellect, because such is the order of Providence."
"Ten thousand devils, he lies!" cried Jean, smiting the rock with his stick. "Don't repeat any more of that drivel, for I can't listen to it. The Good Lord himself has said just the opposite of it all, and he came to the earth, disguised as a carpenter, for nothing else than to prove it."
"Much God and the Gospel have to do with it!" rejoined Emile. "This is a question of Gilberte and me. I shall never persuade my father that he is wrong. I must say what he does, Jean, and then I shall be free to marry Gilberte. He will go himself to-morrow and ask her father to give her to me."
"Really! Why he must be mad indeed to believe that you will echo his nonsense in good faith! Ah! yes, I see that his brain is really awry, Emile, and that is what makes you feel so badly; for I see, also, that you are sad to the bottom of your heart, my poor boy."
Emile shed tears, which relieved him, and, recovering his self-possession, he explained more clearly to the carpenter what had taken place between his father and himself.
Jean listened with his eyes on the ground; then, after reflecting for a long time, he took the young man's hand, saying:
"Emile, you mustn't tell these lies; they are unworthy of a man. I see that your father is more crafty than crazy, and that he won't be satisfied with two or three vague words, such as we sometimes say to soothe a man who has drunk too much and whom we treat like a child. Your father, when you have lied to him, or made promises that you can't keep, won't let you breathe, and if you try to become a man again he will say: 'Remember, that you're nobody now?' He is proud and hard; I know it well. He won't give you one day a week to think in your own way, and, more than that, he will make your wife unhappy. I can see it all: he will make you blush before her, and he will play his cards so well that she will finally blush for you. To the devil with all lies and words you don't mean! None of that, Emile; I forbid it."
"But Gilberte?"
"Gilberte will say as I do, and so will Antoine and Janille.Ma mieJanille can say what she pleases. For my part, I don't propose that you shall lie. There's no Gilberte who could make me lie."
"Then I must give her up—not see her any more?"
"That is a misfortune," said Jean, firmly; "but when misfortune is upon us, we must bear it. Go and see Monsieur de Boisguilbault; he will say the same as I do, for, according to all you have told me of him, he is a man who takes a just view of things and whose ideas are good."
"Well, Jean, I have seen Monsieur de Boisguilbault, and he realizes that the sacrifice is beyond my strength."
"Does he know that you love Gilberte? Oho! did you tell him?"
"He knows that I am in love, but I didn't mention her name."
"And he advised you to lie?"
"He gave me no advice at all."
"For heaven's sake, has he lost his wits too? Come, Emile, you will listen to me because I am right. I am neither rich nor learned; I don't know whether that deprives me of the right to eat my fill and sleep in a bed, but I know well that God never said to me when I prayed to him: 'Get you gone!' and that, when I have asked him what is true or false, bad or good, he has always told me, without answering: 'Go to school.' Just reflect a little. There are many of us poor people on earth, and a small lot of rich men; for, if everybody had a large slice, the earth would be too small. We are a good deal in the way of one another, and we can't love one another, try as we will. That is proved by our having to have police and prisons to keep us on good terms. How could it be otherwise? I have no idea. You say some very pretty things on that subject, and when you're on it I could pass days and nights listening to you, it pleases me so to see how you arrange it all in your head. That is what makes me love you; but I have never said, my boy, that I had any hope of seeing it come true. It seems to me to be a long way off, if it is possible at all, and I, who am accustomed to hard work, ask the good Lord for nothing more than to leave us as we are, and not allow the rich and great to make our lot any worse. I know that if everybody was like you and me and Antoine and Gilberte we should all eat the same soup at the same table; but I also see that most other people wouldn't care to hear of such an arrangement, and that it would take too much time and talk to bring them to it. I am proud myself, and I can get along very well without people who look down on me; that's my wisdom. I bother my head very little about politics; I don't understand it; but I don't want to be eaten, and I detest the people who say: 'Let us devour everything.' Your father is one of those devourers, and if you were like him I would split your head open with my axe rather than let you think of Gilberte. God chose that you should be a good man, and that the truth should seem to you worth sticking to. Stick to it, therefore, for it is the only thing the wicked cannot take from this earth. Let your father say: 'It's this way; it suits me so, and I choose to have it so!' Let him talk; he is powerful because he is rich, and neither you nor I can hold him back. But if he is obstinate and angry enough to try to make you say that it is so, and that God is satisfied to have it so—stop there! It is contrary to religion to say that God loves evil, and we are Christians, I believe. Have you been baptized? So have I; and I deny Satan. At all events my sponsors renounced him for me, and I have renounced him for others when I have been a sponsor. For that reason we must take no false oaths, nor blaspheme, nor say that all men are not equal when they come into the world and do not all deserve happiness, for that is equivalent to saying that some are condemned to hell before they are born. I am done, Emile. You won't lie, and you will make your father abandon that cunning condition!"
"Ah! my friend, if I could see Gilberte once a week! If I were not dishonored in her father's eyes and banished from his house, I should not lose hope or courage."
"Dishonored in Antoine's eyes? Pray tell me, what do you take him for? Do you think he would have a renegade and backslider for a son-in-law?"
"Oh, if he only looked at things as you do, Jean! but he will not understand my conduct."
"Antoine didn't invent gunpowder, I agree. He has never been able to get the square of the hypotenuse into his head, whereas I learned it in a few minutes, simply by watching a schoolmate do it. But you consider him much simpler than he is. In the matter of honor and worthy sentiments, that old fellow knows all that any one ought to know. Pray, do you think that a man must be very sly and very learned to understand that two and two make four and not five? For my part, I say that, to know that, one needn't have read a roomful of big books like old Boisguilbault, and that every unhappy man on this earth knows very well that his lot is unjust when he has not deserved it. Very good! hasn't friend Antoine suffered and endured, I should like to know? Did not the rich turn their backs on him when he became poor? Is there any one who can say that they were justified in treating him so—a man who never had a crust of bread that he didn't give three-quarters and sometimes the whole of it to others! And if you were not a sensible man, would you ever have been attracted to him? Would you be in love with his daughter to the point of wanting to marry her, if you had your father's ideas? No, you wouldn't have looked at her, or else you'd have seduced her; but you would reflect that she has no dowry, and you would abandon her like a villain. Courage, Emile, my boy! Honest men will always esteem you, and I will answer for Antoine; I will take charge of him. If Janille cries out, I will cry out too, and we will see whether she or I has the loudest voice and the best-oiled tongue. As for Gilberte, be sure that she will have a kindly feeling for you all her life, and that she will think well of you for your straightforwardness. She will never love any other man, I promise you! I know her; she's a girl who has only one word. But the time will come when your father will change his tune. That will be when he is unhappy in his turn, and I have already prophesied that time would come."
"He doesn't believe it."
"Have you told him what I think about his factory?"
"I was bound to."
"You did wrong, but it's done now, and what must be will be. Come, Emile, let us go back to the village and to bed, for I see that you are shivering and I feel that you are feverish. Come, my boy, don't let your blood boil like this, and rely a little on the good Lord! I will go to Châteaubrun to-morrow morning; I will say what I have to say, and they will have to listen to me. I will answer for it that you won't have any falling out with them, at all events, for doing your duty."
"Good Jean! you do me a deal of good! you give me strength, and I feel better since you have been talking to me."
"Because I go straight to the point, you see, and don't embarrass myself with useless things."
"And you will go to Châteaubrun to-morrow? to-morrow? although it's a working day?"
"To-morrow, to be sure; as I work for nothing, I can begin my day at any time I please. Whom do you suppose I am going to work for to-morrow? Let's see you guess, Emile; there's something to divert your thoughts."
"I can't guess. For Monsieur Antoine?"
"No, Antoine hasn't much work to be done, poor fellow, and he can do it alone; but he has a neighbor who has plenty of it, and who doesn't haggle over the time of his workmen."
"Who is it? Has Monsieur de Boisguilbault become reconciled to your features?"
"Not so far as I know; but he never forbade his farmers giving me work. He is not the man to try to injure me, and almost nobody outside of his house knows that he has a grudge against me, if indeed he has; the devil only knows what's at the bottom of it all! However, as I say, I work for him without his knowing anything about it; for you know that he inspects his property once a year at the most. It's a little far from our village; but, thanks to your father, workmen are so rare that they sent for me; and I didn't wait to be asked twice, although I had some urgent work elsewhere. It's a pleasure to me to work for that old fellow! But, as you can imagine, I will never take any pay. I owe him enough, after what he has done for me."
"He won't allow you to work for him for nothing."
"He must allow it, for he will know nothing of it. Does he know what is done on his farms? He settles his account at the end of the year, and pays little heed to details."
"But suppose the farmers charge him for the days you work, as if they had paid you?"
"To do that they must be rascals, and on the contrary they are honest men. You see, a man is what other men make him. Old Boisguilbault is never robbed, although nothing in the world would be easier; but as he neither worries nor pushes any one, no one has any occasion to deceive him or to take any more than belongs to him. He isn't like your father. He reckons and disputes and watches every one closely, and consequently his people steal from him, and always will: that's the kind of business he will do all his life."
Jean succeeded in diverting Emile's thoughts, and almost in consoling him. That upright, bold, decided character had an excellent influence over him, and he went to bed with a more tranquil mind, after receiving his promise that he would let him know on the following evening how Gilberte's people felt toward him. Jean was confident of his ability to open their eyes concerning his conduct and Monsieur Cardonnet's. Sorrow makes us weak and trustful, and when our courage fails us, we can find nothing better to do than place our fate in the hands of an energetic and resolute person. If he does not solve the embarrassing problems of our position so easily as he flatters himself that he can do, at all events the contact with him strengthens and revivifies us; his confidence insensibly passes into us and makes us capable of assisting ourselves.
"This peasant, whom my father despises," thought Emile as he fell asleep, "this poor, ignorant, simple-hearted man has done me more good than Monsieur de Boisguilbault did; and when I asked God for an adviser, a support, a savior, He sent the poorest and humblest of His servants to mark out my duty in two words. Oh! what force the truth has in the mouths of those men whose instincts are upright and pure! and how profitless is all our knowledge compared with that of the heart! Father! father! more than ever I feel that you are blinded, and the lesson I have received from this peasant condemns you more than all the rest."
Although mentally more tranquil, Emile had a sharp attack of fever in the night. Amid the violent upheavals of the mind, we forget to care for and preserve the body. We allow ourselves to be exhausted by hunger, surprised by cold and dampness, when we are reeking with perspiration or burning with fever. We do not feel the approach of physical disease, and when it has fastened itself upon us, there is a sort of relief from the change from mental suffering. At such times we flatter ourselves that we cannot be unhappy long without dying of it, and there is some comfort in believing oneself too weak to endure never-ending sorrow.
Monsieur de Boisguilbault expected his young friend all the following day, and he became exceedingly anxious at night, when he did not appear. The marquis had become deeply attached to Emile. While he did not express himself nearly so strongly as he felt, he could no longer do without his society. He was immensely grateful to the noble-hearted boy whom his cold and melancholy nature had never repelled, and who, after obstinately persisting in reading his heart, had religiously kept the promise he had made of being a devoted son to him. This dismal old man, who was reputed to be such a terrible bore, and who, through discouragement, exaggerated in his own mind his involuntary faults, had found a friend when he made up his mind that there was nothing left for him to do but to die alone and unregretted. Emile had almost reconciled him to life, and sometimes he abandoned himself to a sweet illusion of paternity, when he saw that young man make himself at home in his house, share his dismal amusements, arrange his library, turn the leaves of his books, ride his horses, and sometimes even attend to matters of business for him, in order to relieve him of a particularly tedious duty; in short, take his ease under his roof and in his company, as if nature and the habit of a whole lifetime had neutralized the difference in their ages and their tastes.
The old man had continued for a long time to have occasional fits of distrust, and he had tried to make Emile fit in with his curious misanthropic theories, but he had not succeeded. After he had passed three days trying to persuade himself that idleness or curiosity had brought him this new guest, with the thirst for serious conversation and philosophical discussion, when he saw that amiable face, expansive and ingenuous in its fearless expression, appear in his solitude, he felt that hope appeared with it, and he surprised himself in the very act of loving, at the risk of being more unhappy than ever when doubt returned. In a word, after passing his whole life, especially the last twenty years, in guarding against emotions which he deemed himself incapable of sharing, he fell under their dominion, and could not endure the thought of being deprived of them.
He wandered, in feverish agitation, through all the avenues of his park, waited at all the gates, sighing with every step, starting at the slightest sound, and at last, depressed beyond measure by that silence and that solitude, heart-broken at the thought that Emile was contending with a sorrow which he could not lighten, he went out into the road and turned in the direction of Gargilesse, still hoping to see a black horse coming toward him.
It very rarely happened that Monsieur de Boisguilbault ventured to make such a rash sortie from the park, and he could not make up his mind to follow the beaten roads lest he should fall in with some face with which he was not familiar. So he walked as the crow flies, through the fields, without, however, losing sight of the road on which Emile was likely to be. He walked slowly, at a pace which might have been characterized as uncertain, but which the prudence and circumspection which marked his most trivial movements made firmer than it appeared.
As he approached an arm of the stream which, after leaving his park, followed a winding course through the valley, he heard an axe, and the sound of several voices attracted his attention. It was his custom always to turn away from any sound which indicated the presence of man, and to make a détour to avoid meeting anybody, but he had something on his mind which led him at this time to adopt the contrary course. He had a passion for trees, if we may so express it, and did not allow his tenants to cut any down unless they were entirely dead. Therefore, the sound of an axe made him prick up his ears, and he could not resist the desire to go and see with his own eyes if his orders were disobeyed.
So he walked resolutely into the field where the men were at work, and saw, with a feeling of childlike grief, some thirty or more superb trees, all covered with foliage, lying at full length on the ground, and already partly cut up. A farmer, assisted by his men, was at work loading several huge logs on an ox-cart. The axe which was being plied so energetically, awaking all the echoes of the valley, was in the diligent hands of Jean Jappeloup!
Monsieur de Boisguilbault had not exaggerated when he previously told Emile, in glacial tones, that he was very irascible. That was another of the anomalous features of his character. At sight of the carpenter, whose face, or whose name even, always affected him painfully, he turned pale; then, as he saw him cutting in pieces his fine trees, still young and perfectly sound, he trembled with anger, flushed scarlet, stammered some incoherent words, and rushed at him with an impetuosity of which no one would have deemed him capable who had seen him a moment before, walking with measured steps, leaning on his stout cane, with its well-turned head.
The felling which offended Monsieur de Boisguilbault so deeply had been done on the bank of the little stream, and the slender poplars, the old willows and the majestic elms, falling in confusion, had formed a sort of bridge of verdure over that narrow current. While the oxen were dragging some of the trees with ropes to the carts that were to haul them away, the sturdy carpenter, running about on the trunks that blocked the stream, busied himself cutting away the tangled branches whose resistance neutralized the efforts of the cattle. Intent upon his task and zealous in the work of destruction of which his trade reaps the benefit, he exerted his skill and daring with a sort of frenzy. The river was deep and swift at that point, and Jean's post was so dangerous that no one else dared to share it with him. Running with a young man's lightness of foot and self-possession to the flexible extremities of the trees that lay across the stream, he turned sometimes to cut the very branch on which he was balancing himself, and, when a loud cracking told him that his support was on the point of giving way under his feet, he would jump nimbly to a branch near by, electrified by the danger and the amazement of his comrades. His gleaming axe whirled in lightning flashes around his head, and his resonant voice stimulated the other workmen, surprised to find how simple was a task which the intelligence and energy of a single man directed, simplified and performed as by a miracle.
If Monsieur de Boisguilbault had not been excited, he would have admired with the rest, aye, and would have felt a certain respect for the man who imported the power of genius into the accomplishment of that commonplace task. But the sight of a noble tree, full of sap and life, cut down by the axe in the midst of its development, angered him and tore his heart, as if he had witnessed a murder, and when that tree belonged to him, he defended it as if it were a member of his family.
"What are you doing there, you stupid fools!" he cried, brandishing his cane, and in a high tone which anger made as shrill and ear-piercing as the note of a fife. "And you, villain!" he shouted to Jean Jappeloup, "have you taken an oath to wound me and outrage my feelings all the time?"
The peasant has a dull ear, especially the Berri peasant. The ox-drivers, excited by their unaccustomed interest in their work, did not hear the master's voice, especially as the straining of the ropes, the groaning of the yokes and the carpenter's powerful shouts, rising above everything, drowned those shrill tones. The weather was threatening, the horizon was a mass of dark purple clouds which were rapidly overspreading the sky. Jean, dripping with perspiration, had kept everybody at work, swearing that the job must be finished before the rain, which would swell the stream and might carry away the trees they had felled. A sort of frenzy had taken possession of him, and despite the true piety which reigned in his heart, he swore like a heathen, as if he thought that he could in that way increase his strength tenfold. The blood hummed in his ears; exclamations of excitement and satisfaction escaped him at every exploit of his muscular arm, and mingled with the rumbling of the thunder. Violent gusts of wind enveloped him in leaves and kept his coarse silvery locks flying about his forehead. With his pale face, his flashing eyes, his leathern apron, his tall thin figure, his bare arms brandishing the axe, he had the aspect of a Cyclops, on the sides of Mount Ætna, gathering wood to keep alight the fire of his infernal forge.
While the marquis exhausted his strength in unavailing cries, the carpenter, having cleared away the last obstacle, darted back to the round trunk of a young maple, with an address that would have done credit to a professional acrobat, leaped to the bank, and, seizing the draught-rope, was reinforcing the tired oxen with his exuberant muscular strength, when he felt upon his loins, covered with a coarse shirt only, the sting of Monsieur de Boisguilbault's flexible bamboo.
The carpenter thought that a branch had swung back against him, as often happened in such battles with verdure-clad boughs. He uttered a terrible oath, turned quickly and cut the marquis's cane in two with his axe, exclaiming:
"I guess that won't strike another man!"
He had no sooner pronounced this apostrophe of extermination, than his eyes, veiled by the excitement of toil, suddenly shone clear, and, by the glare of a vivid flash of lightning, he saw his benefactor standing before him, pale as a ghost. The marquis still held in his hand, which trembled with rage, the stump of his cane and its gold head. The stump was so short that it was plain that Jean had narrowly missed striking off the hand that was rashly raised against him.
"By the five hundred thousand names of the devil, Monsieur de Boisguilbault!" he cried, throwing away his axe; "if this is your ghost come here to torment me, I will have a mass said for you; but if it's yourself, in flesh and blood, speak to me, for I am not patient with people from the other world."
"What are you doing here? why are you cutting down my trees, you stupid beast?" replied Monsieur de Boisguilbault, in no wise tranquillized by the danger which he had escaped as by a miracle.
"Excuse me," retorted Jean, in utter amazement, "you don't seem pleased! So it was you who struck me, was it? You're no baby when you are angry, and you don't warn a fellow. Look you, don't do it again, for if you hadn't done me such a great service I would have cut you in two like a reed before this."
"Master, master, pardon!" said the farmer, who had hurriedly left his cattle to place himself between the carpenter and the marquis; "I was the one who asked Jean to cut down our trees. No one understands it like him and he does ten men's work all by himself. See if he's wasted his time! Since noon he has cut down these thirty trees, chopped 'em up as you see, and helped us haul 'em out of the water. Don't be angry with him, master! He's a fine workman, and he wouldn't work so well for his own benefit."
"But why does he cut down my trees? who gave him leave to cut them down?"
"They are trees that the freshet uprooted, master, and they were beginning to turn yellow; one more freshet and the water would have carried them off. See if I am wrong!"