IIITHE RUINS
THE morning after this walk Maurice was called to the office of the hotel.
“It’s for a registered letter. The postman wants you.”
He recognised the yellow envelopes that his father used, and rapidly stripped off the seals, while the manager, catching sight of the amount of the remittance, observed him with an admiring air. The letter inside contained a French bill of one hundred francs and a cheque on the International Bank of Milan for eight thousand, signed by his sister Margaret.
“Now,” he said to himself, “I am my own master.”
After his recent humiliation his first thought now was pride. In his reassurance, however, he noticed the black border on the letter and his heart beat fast again. There had been some sorrow, then, a great sorrow, during his absence. In one’s extreme youth, and even later on in life sometimes, one does not take in the possibility of losing those one loves: one goes away from them with no sorrow, feeling sure of seeing them again when one comes back. Only with our first grief is the future’s credit injured. Maurice, separated from his own people, deprived of news, preserved by the heedlessness of his age and the egotism of his love, had not been conscious of the inquietude that wrung his heart brutally when memory intervened. Often, more and more often, he found himself calling up the memory of his family, picturing the empty place that he had left among them. Edith’s presence was not always enough to chase away these phantoms. But he had never had any presentiments of death. And yet for several days of late, ever since the season and his happiness had begun to wane together, the vision of his mother’s pale face had risen before him; he had felt her last caress on his cheek, the caress of that cool hand, the touch of which he could feel again now after a whole year.
The blow which struck him found him unprepared. Why was the letter in Margaret’s handwriting? For whom could she be in deep mourning, unless it were—? He dared not answer this question to himself: it was already answered. He took his hat and went out, holding the letter in his hand. How could he have read it there in the hotel office? He could not read it on the terrace, nor in the avenue, nor in the woods. Edith would come upon him in a few moments and surprise him, and this sorrow was for him alone. He would not share it with anybody. To share it would be to make it less, when he wanted to extract its essence to the full.
Outside the hotel he read the first lines, and fled down the path like some creature wounded and pursued. As long as he was in the neighbourhood of houses he kept on his way. He wanted a solitude in which to weep without being seen, and his feet turned again in the direction of the Buccione tower.
He did not stop once till he had reached the summit of the hill. At the foot of the tower, all out of breath, he threw himself down on a patch of grass which grew between the fallen walls. He had been running, as if one could run away from fate. As he regained his breath, fear seized hold on him and tortured him still further. The letter, several pages long, which he had held crumpled in his hand all the time, he did not dare to read at once in its entirety. He had to make a great effort to go on with the reading of it, to interrupt himself more than once. It brought him news of more sorrows even than he had foreseen.
CHAMBÉRY,November 2d.MY DEAR MAURICE:Your letter to mother was delivered to me. I opened it. I had been waiting for it a long time. I thought surely it would come, or you yourself. Mother told me it would. You could not have forgotten us for good.I can see from reading it that you’ve heard nothing further about us since you left, and I can explain your persistent silence better. As for you, you know now that mother is no longer with us. To have to tell you about it brings back all my suffering again, and yet I don’t want not to suffer, for it brings me nearer to her. Weep with me, my poor brother, shed many tears for all the times you have not wept. But don’t give up and despair of things, for she did not wish it.She left us the fourth of last April, nearly seven months ago. All winter her strength had been growing less, slowly and gently. She did not suffer; at least, she did not complain. And she never ceased from prayer. One evening, without anything to give further warning of such a sudden end, she passed on, praying. Father and I were with her. She looked at us, tried to smile, and murmured a name which we both caught, and which was yours. And then her head fell backward. That was all.A few days earlier she had talked to me about you, as if she were explaining her last wishes to me. I realised it later. She spoke as usual, so simply. She said to me: “Maurice will come back. He is more unfortunate than guilty. He doesn’t know yet, and he’ll hear of it. He will need all his courage. You must promise me, when he comes back, to receive him, to reconcile him with his father, with his family, to defend him, indeed never to abandon him whatever happens.” There was no need of promising, but I promised. And so, when your letter came, I did not hesitate to open it. I am taking mother’s place, very badly, but with all my heart.And you ought to know this: that mamma did not believe you guilty. Neither did I. And father did not, I am sure of it. Yet he told us that weakness was a form of being guilty; and that a young man, whose family had taken care of him through all his early years and up to manhood, is not free to do anything that brings havoc on all his race. Now he doesn’t talk about you, ever. I suspect that he thinks about you often, and that it gives him great pain. Be considerate of him, Maurice, as well as of our mother, who is at rest. He has changed, very much. He had so much youth in his gait, his expression, his voice, and he grew old in a few days. He works without any rest. He forgets his misfortunes in his work. But I promised not to reproach you with anything. Nevertheless, you ought surely to be told what has become of us all, not having had any news of us for more than a year. He is so well thought of that not one of his clients has withdrawn his confidence from him.Hubert, who ought to have stayed two years in France, secured leave to go back again to the colonies. He sailed last May for a post in the Soudan. He commands some quite advanced post, Sikasso, in the interior of the country. It is rather an exposed place, which was what he wanted.Felicie is still in the hospital at Hanoi. She is very anxious about you. Not long ago she wrote to us about the death of two Belgian missionaries who were massacred on the frontiers of China. Instead of grieving over them, she rejoiced for them in their martyrdom, and regretted that she could not give her life for some one whom she called “the prodigal son”—some one whom you will recognise. She has inherited our mother’s ardent piety. May God keep her for us down there at the other end of the world.The Marcellaz have left us. Though Germaine begged him not to, Charles sold his practice here, and acquired another at Lyons. It was very hard for us to have them go. Yet father maintains that Charles was right about it. He had an opportunity to settle nearer to his family, who are at Villa Franca, you see; he had to take advantage of it. They have spent their vacations with us at La Vigie. Peter and Adrienne got good red cheeks there. Little Julian, my favourite, is still rather pale, and as the air of Savoy agrees with him better than the Lyons fogs, Germaine has left him with us for the winter. He gives a bit of life to our big house, which is quite sad.And that is all my news. In other times it was our mother who took charge of the news from the absent ones, and sent it on from one to another. You see I am trying to take her place. What I have still to tell you, Maurice, is the most difficult thing of all. However, I’ll tell it to you without recriminations. It seems to me it will be better so. First of all, I must tell you I am devoted to you just the same, then let you judge of our misery, which is yours, too.You cannot surely be aware of what happened immediately after your departure: otherwise you would not have kept still so long and brought such sorrow on us. Mr. Frasne entered against you, yes, you, Maurice, a complaint of abuse of confidence. That’s what it is called: I’ve heard it talked about so much. He accused you of having stolen one hundred thousand francs from his safe. He brought a civil suit to bring about your extradition, and since you did not appear you were adjudged guilty by default. I’m explaining it to you with the words I have heard used. The council did not want to condemn you. But the clerks in the office, especially Mr. Philippeaux, testified against you at the hearing. They declared that you were aware the safe contained all that money, and that you stayed the last of all of them in the office, and had the keys, and that you knew the combination that would open it. And so the verdict was against you, though with extenuating circumstances, and they sentenced you to a year in prison. It seems that is the minimum. They took account of the influences you had come under. But they sentenced you, you understand. That was last month. Mamma was no longer here. When father told the news to me his face was so white that I was afraid for him. He controlled himself, as always. I should have preferred to see him weep. But he isn’t one of the kind that weep. He suffers inside, and that’s worse.The judgment was posted on our door, published in the papers. It seems that is the law. All the old Roquevillards that have done so many services for their country could not shield us from this flaunting of our name.There are also the one hundred thousand francs which you must restore to Mr. Frasne. Father is of a mind to sell La Vigie to pay them back. He says the length of your absence proves, unfortunately, that you must have used the money, which, from the point of view of honour, is the same as theft. Charles, on the other hand, argues that to pay the money is to admit that you are guilty, and that no such admission ought to be made at such a price. But he has not the family honour in his charge, and I for my part am with father. At all events, the court has decreed a sequestration to divide our mother’s fortune and obtain your part. From my own, since I am of age, father gave me the sum I am sending you, when I asked him for it. He appeared very much surprised. I don’t know if he suspects. I offered to show him your letter, but he refused to read it, with these words, which I copy down for you:“No, he is dead to me, unless he comes back to prove his innocence.”I have added one hundred francs for your return journey. You must come back. Consider the wrong that you have done to us. In the name of our mother, whose last desire it was, her last command, for the sake of father, whom you have wounded to the heart, such a noble and tender heart, in the name of Felicie and Hubert, who deserve it from you, of Germaine and your little sister, in the name of all our race, who for so many years have never given examples of anything but honesty, and who conjure you now not to upset in one day what so many successive generations have built up, come back, Maurice.I’m waiting for you. I shall be here to help you. I am confident that if you come back all can yet be set right. For you are not guilty. It’s impossible that you should be. From your letter I can see quite well it was not you. If there is danger for you in coming back, come just the same. It is right that you should take your turn at suffering, and you will not be cowardly enough, I know, to shun it.That’s all. I should like so much to feel that I have convinced you. However, ifSHEprove stronger than we are, if in spite of our sacrifices and suffering you can’t come back now, I shall wait for you still. I should wait for you all my life. My life is only for you and father now. You know that I shall never abandon you. Did I not promise mamma? You were her last thought. And if my letter brings despair to you, remember that it has commended courage to you. Remember these words of father’s, too: “So long as one is not dead there’s nothing lost.”Good-bye, Maurice, I send my love to you.Your sister,MARGARET.
CHAMBÉRY,November 2d.
MY DEAR MAURICE:
Your letter to mother was delivered to me. I opened it. I had been waiting for it a long time. I thought surely it would come, or you yourself. Mother told me it would. You could not have forgotten us for good.
I can see from reading it that you’ve heard nothing further about us since you left, and I can explain your persistent silence better. As for you, you know now that mother is no longer with us. To have to tell you about it brings back all my suffering again, and yet I don’t want not to suffer, for it brings me nearer to her. Weep with me, my poor brother, shed many tears for all the times you have not wept. But don’t give up and despair of things, for she did not wish it.
She left us the fourth of last April, nearly seven months ago. All winter her strength had been growing less, slowly and gently. She did not suffer; at least, she did not complain. And she never ceased from prayer. One evening, without anything to give further warning of such a sudden end, she passed on, praying. Father and I were with her. She looked at us, tried to smile, and murmured a name which we both caught, and which was yours. And then her head fell backward. That was all.
A few days earlier she had talked to me about you, as if she were explaining her last wishes to me. I realised it later. She spoke as usual, so simply. She said to me: “Maurice will come back. He is more unfortunate than guilty. He doesn’t know yet, and he’ll hear of it. He will need all his courage. You must promise me, when he comes back, to receive him, to reconcile him with his father, with his family, to defend him, indeed never to abandon him whatever happens.” There was no need of promising, but I promised. And so, when your letter came, I did not hesitate to open it. I am taking mother’s place, very badly, but with all my heart.
And you ought to know this: that mamma did not believe you guilty. Neither did I. And father did not, I am sure of it. Yet he told us that weakness was a form of being guilty; and that a young man, whose family had taken care of him through all his early years and up to manhood, is not free to do anything that brings havoc on all his race. Now he doesn’t talk about you, ever. I suspect that he thinks about you often, and that it gives him great pain. Be considerate of him, Maurice, as well as of our mother, who is at rest. He has changed, very much. He had so much youth in his gait, his expression, his voice, and he grew old in a few days. He works without any rest. He forgets his misfortunes in his work. But I promised not to reproach you with anything. Nevertheless, you ought surely to be told what has become of us all, not having had any news of us for more than a year. He is so well thought of that not one of his clients has withdrawn his confidence from him.
Hubert, who ought to have stayed two years in France, secured leave to go back again to the colonies. He sailed last May for a post in the Soudan. He commands some quite advanced post, Sikasso, in the interior of the country. It is rather an exposed place, which was what he wanted.
Felicie is still in the hospital at Hanoi. She is very anxious about you. Not long ago she wrote to us about the death of two Belgian missionaries who were massacred on the frontiers of China. Instead of grieving over them, she rejoiced for them in their martyrdom, and regretted that she could not give her life for some one whom she called “the prodigal son”—some one whom you will recognise. She has inherited our mother’s ardent piety. May God keep her for us down there at the other end of the world.
The Marcellaz have left us. Though Germaine begged him not to, Charles sold his practice here, and acquired another at Lyons. It was very hard for us to have them go. Yet father maintains that Charles was right about it. He had an opportunity to settle nearer to his family, who are at Villa Franca, you see; he had to take advantage of it. They have spent their vacations with us at La Vigie. Peter and Adrienne got good red cheeks there. Little Julian, my favourite, is still rather pale, and as the air of Savoy agrees with him better than the Lyons fogs, Germaine has left him with us for the winter. He gives a bit of life to our big house, which is quite sad.
And that is all my news. In other times it was our mother who took charge of the news from the absent ones, and sent it on from one to another. You see I am trying to take her place. What I have still to tell you, Maurice, is the most difficult thing of all. However, I’ll tell it to you without recriminations. It seems to me it will be better so. First of all, I must tell you I am devoted to you just the same, then let you judge of our misery, which is yours, too.
You cannot surely be aware of what happened immediately after your departure: otherwise you would not have kept still so long and brought such sorrow on us. Mr. Frasne entered against you, yes, you, Maurice, a complaint of abuse of confidence. That’s what it is called: I’ve heard it talked about so much. He accused you of having stolen one hundred thousand francs from his safe. He brought a civil suit to bring about your extradition, and since you did not appear you were adjudged guilty by default. I’m explaining it to you with the words I have heard used. The council did not want to condemn you. But the clerks in the office, especially Mr. Philippeaux, testified against you at the hearing. They declared that you were aware the safe contained all that money, and that you stayed the last of all of them in the office, and had the keys, and that you knew the combination that would open it. And so the verdict was against you, though with extenuating circumstances, and they sentenced you to a year in prison. It seems that is the minimum. They took account of the influences you had come under. But they sentenced you, you understand. That was last month. Mamma was no longer here. When father told the news to me his face was so white that I was afraid for him. He controlled himself, as always. I should have preferred to see him weep. But he isn’t one of the kind that weep. He suffers inside, and that’s worse.
The judgment was posted on our door, published in the papers. It seems that is the law. All the old Roquevillards that have done so many services for their country could not shield us from this flaunting of our name.
There are also the one hundred thousand francs which you must restore to Mr. Frasne. Father is of a mind to sell La Vigie to pay them back. He says the length of your absence proves, unfortunately, that you must have used the money, which, from the point of view of honour, is the same as theft. Charles, on the other hand, argues that to pay the money is to admit that you are guilty, and that no such admission ought to be made at such a price. But he has not the family honour in his charge, and I for my part am with father. At all events, the court has decreed a sequestration to divide our mother’s fortune and obtain your part. From my own, since I am of age, father gave me the sum I am sending you, when I asked him for it. He appeared very much surprised. I don’t know if he suspects. I offered to show him your letter, but he refused to read it, with these words, which I copy down for you:
“No, he is dead to me, unless he comes back to prove his innocence.”
I have added one hundred francs for your return journey. You must come back. Consider the wrong that you have done to us. In the name of our mother, whose last desire it was, her last command, for the sake of father, whom you have wounded to the heart, such a noble and tender heart, in the name of Felicie and Hubert, who deserve it from you, of Germaine and your little sister, in the name of all our race, who for so many years have never given examples of anything but honesty, and who conjure you now not to upset in one day what so many successive generations have built up, come back, Maurice.
I’m waiting for you. I shall be here to help you. I am confident that if you come back all can yet be set right. For you are not guilty. It’s impossible that you should be. From your letter I can see quite well it was not you. If there is danger for you in coming back, come just the same. It is right that you should take your turn at suffering, and you will not be cowardly enough, I know, to shun it.
That’s all. I should like so much to feel that I have convinced you. However, ifSHEprove stronger than we are, if in spite of our sacrifices and suffering you can’t come back now, I shall wait for you still. I should wait for you all my life. My life is only for you and father now. You know that I shall never abandon you. Did I not promise mamma? You were her last thought. And if my letter brings despair to you, remember that it has commended courage to you. Remember these words of father’s, too: “So long as one is not dead there’s nothing lost.”
Good-bye, Maurice, I send my love to you.
Your sister,
MARGARET.
The sorrow and shame which had seized hold of Maurice when his mistress had made her semi-revelations to him about her dot were as nothing in comparison with the flood of pain that Margaret’s letter now let loose upon him. How could he resist the appeal it made to him: had he not listened to the call of death, merely for an infamous suspicion? At his feet the lake still invited him, offered forgetfulness to him, silence and peace, yet now he did not even see it. The call of his race resounded in his breast, and behold, instead of being feeble, he was gathering all his strength and setting his face against the disaster that had overwhelmed him. The idea of death comes naturally to lovers the moment they conceive a doubt as to the eternity of their love. Now, it was not a question any longer of his happiness. That was an individual matter of which he believed himself to hold control. Losing that, he should think himself justified in not living on any longer, if he judged that best. All his family was concerned with him in this trial. No longer did he belong to himself alone. Whether he wished it or no, he must yield to a dependency, and the isolation that he had created round himself was nothing but chimerical and vain. And as he lost his lover’s eternal illusion of love’s solitude, of love’s unrelatedness to all the rest of the world, he drew comfort as from a reservoir of energy out of that depth of family ties and bonds that imposed themselves on him with such authority and power.
His cruellest suffering came from not being able to mourn for his mother freely and alone. He envied those mothers’ sons who could gather round a grave and surrender to their grief, with nothing to throw their thoughts back upon themselves. Had he not had some part in her unlooked-for end? He recalled the fact that the doctor had not given the sick woman up when he had left, that he had hoped for benefit from a regimen of quiet and rest. But how could her frail life have resisted such a storm?
And this storm that he had let loose behind him had indeed ravaged and destroyed his home. It was the dispersion—the Marcellaz gone, Hubert exiled, to seek a little honour for his tarnished name; the threat of ruin with the selling of the old estate. Only Margaret and his father, an old man already, were left at home. But why was Margaret not married? Could her fiancé have been so cowardly as to blame her for her brother’s fault? She said nothing of it at all in her letter. She forgot herself in her chronicle of their trials. “My life now is for you and father,” she said simply, without any other allusion to her sacrifice. No one of them had been spared, except the culprit, culling life’s sweetness under these cloudless skies.
For if he had not deserved all the ignominious accusations which Mr. Frasne hurled at him, he was guilty none the less toward his family for having believed he had the right to give them up. He accused his mistress for her imprudence in thus dishonouring him, for whose love he had been degraded. But was it really her love that had degraded him? He attributed all his sensibilities to love, as the harmonies in those legendary lyres that hung in trees were due the wind—love which he had so coveted in his at once studious and ecstatic youth, and which had passed across his heart as the warm winds across the lyres’ strings that waited for them. And he blamed it for enthusiasms and weaknesses that had their source in him alone. In his distracted retrospect across his life he summoned up the memory of Edith’s eyes, her mouth, her every movement. Yes, his heart had been hung up to catch this song of her grace, the caresses of her voice, the flame of her eyes. He would leave the woman, but he would not disown his love.
And, besides, what had he to reproach Edith with? What did she suspect, though it was through her fault, of this lamentable drama in which a whole race rolled in the dust? Nothing, surely. She had taken this money as she had stolen hearts, without meaning any ill, and believing she was within her rights. If he warned her of his danger, she would be astonished, and without hesitation, no doubt, she would return to Chambéry to proclaim her lover’s innocence to his judges. He did not want to profit by such generosity. He thought it better that she should always remain in ignorance, that she should run no risk for herself. He would leave this evening—no, not this evening, to-morrow morning, without saying anything to her, after having made good the amount of her wrongfully taken dowry, so that she should not want for anything.
But what was to become of her, thus abandoned? Had he not also some duty toward her, whose whole life was love? He tried to imagine her future. He saw her cruelly torn, cursing him and weeping for him by turns, calling for him in the sacred wood, among the chapels, in all the places that had been the witness of their tenderness. He shared truly in her agony. However, there was so much of life’s resource in her, such a frenzy of living, that she would hold out against her fate in the end and find herself. Had he not seen her rise against him, trembling and revolting against him, when he had spoken to her of dying? Yes, she would find herself again, she would resist fate and live. And he felt his heart yearn at the thought of her being loved again, the thought that perhaps some day this devouring flame which consumed her should burn again for some one else.
“No, not that,” he sighed; “I don’t wish that.”
It was the last struggle.
From the first moment he had acknowledged his defeat. His mother’s death, his family’s supreme appeal to him, the infamous sentence that had been dealt him, did not permit him to discuss it with her. It only remained for him to set right the details of his departure, to lessen as much as possible the sorrow it would bring to her. He could not consent to live with her any longer, and though he was separated from her only by this frail decision, he suffered and almost cried out in pain....
She was waiting for him on the steps of the hotel. The moment she saw him she came running to meet him.
“At last,” she murmured, her words coming like a soft moan, but not with any scolding.
He tried to smile.
“Good-day, Edith.”
Tenderly and attentively she scanned her lover’s face, and noticed the traces of tears there.
“I’m always afraid now,” she said, “when you are away.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that you may not come back.”
“My dear——”
“Oh, I know,” she said gravely. “One day you’ll not come back. Tell me that day hasn’t come yet.”
“Hush, Edith. I shall always love you.”
“Always? No matter what happens?”
“No matter what happens.”
She took his hand, and with an adoring gesture raised it to her lips, then asked timidly:
“You had news from France this morning. They told me.”
“Yes.”
“Good news?”
He had the courage to nod his head. He kept his sorrow for himself alone; they were already separated.
“I never expect any news, myself. You are my whole heart and life.”
And as she went ahead of him along the terrace, where their little table had been set for them out of the wind, he asked himself:
“Shall I have the strength to go away?”