by Eugène Sue
As he passed the open door of the stable, a superannuated farm horse which was sometimes harnessed to a sort of chaise, Madame Bastien’s only equipage, whinnied in his stall for the crusts of bread that he had been in the habit of receiving every morning from his young master.
Frederick had forgotten to bring the crusts that morning, and to atone for his forgetfulness, he tore up a big handful of fresh grass and offered it to his faithful old friend, but suddenly remembering the magnificent blooded horses he had seen at the castle, he smiled bitterly and turned brusquely away from the old horse, who, with the grass still between his teeth, watched his young master for a long time with an expression of almost human intelligence.
Soon afterward an old and infirm woman, to whom Frederick, having no money, gave bread and fruit every week, came to the house as usual.
“Here, my good mother,” he said, as he presented his usual offering, “I wish I could do more for you, but my mother and I have no money.”
“You are very kind all the same, M. Bastien,” replied the woman, “but I shall not be obliged to ask anything of you much longer.”
“Why not?”
“Why, you see, M. Bastien, that M. le marquis is coming to live at the castle, and these great noblemen are very generous with their money, and I hope to get my share. Your servant, M. Bastien.”
Frederick blushed for the first time at the humble gift he had made heretofore with such pleasure and contentment, so shortly afterward, when another beggar accosted him, he said:
“You would only sneer at what I can give you. Apply to M. le marquis. He should act as a benefactor to the entire neighbourhood. He is so rich!”
That such bitter envy should have taken such sudden but absolute possession of Frederick’s heart seems strange indeed to those who know his past, yet this apparent anomaly can be easily explained.
Madame Bastien’s son had been reared in an exceedingly modest home, but his mother’s taste and refinement had imbued even these plain surroundings with an air of elegance and distinction, and, thanks to a thousand nothings, the ensemble had been charming.
The love of beauty and elegance thus developed rendered Frederick peculiarly susceptible to the charm of the wonders he had seen at the castle, and the longing to possess them naturally corresponded with his appreciation and admiration.
If, on the contrary, Frederick’s life had been spent amid rough and coarse surroundings, he would have been more amazed than surprised at the treasures which the château contained, and, ignorant of the refined enjoyment that could be derived from them, he would have been much less likely to envy the fortunate possessor of them.
Madame Bastien soon perceived the change that was gradually taking place in her son, and that manifested itself in frequent fits of melancholy. The humble home no longer resounded with peals of laughter as in days gone by. When his studies were over, Frederick picked up a book and read during the entire recreation hour, but more than once Madame Bastien noticed that her son’s eyes remained fixed upon the same page for a quarter of an hour.
Her anxiety increasing, Madame Bastien remarked to her son: “My son, you seem so grave and taciturn and preoccupied, you are not nearly as lively as formerly.”
“True, mother,” replied Frederick, forcing a smile, “I am sometimes surprised myself at the more serious turn my mind is taking. Still, it is not at all astonishing. I am no longer a child. It is quite time for me to be getting sensible.”
Frederick had never lied before, but he was lying now. Up to this time he had always confessed his faults to his mother. She had been the confidant of his every thought, but the mere idea of confessing or of allowing her to discover the bitter feelings which his visit to the Château de Pont Brillant had excited in his breast filled him with shame and dismay. In fact, he would rather have died than confess that he was enduring the torments of envy; so, placed upon his guard by Madame Bastien’s lively solicitude, he devoted all his powers of mind and strength of will to conceal the wound that was beginning to rankle in his soul, but it is almost certain that his attempts to deceive his mother’s tender sagacity would have proved futile had that mother not been at the same time reassured and deceived by Doctor Dufour.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the physician said to her when she, in all sincerity, consulted him on the subject of her fears. “At the time of puberty, an entire change often takes place in a youth’s character. The gayest and most demonstrative often become the most gloomy and taciturn. They experience the most unreasonable melancholy, the most acute anxiety. They give way to fits of profound depression, and feel an intense longing for solitude. So do not be alarmed, and above all give no sign of having noticed this change in your son. This almost inevitable crisis will be over in a few months, and you will then see Frederick himself again. He will have a different voice, that is all.”
Doctor Dufour’s mistake was the more excusable as the symptoms which so alarmed Madame Bastien strongly resembled those which are often noticed in youths at that age; so Madame Bastien accepted this explanation, as she could not divine the real cause of this change in Frederick.
This change had not manifested itself immediately after the visit to the chateau. It had, on the contrary, taken place gradually, almost imperceptibly, in fact, so that more than a month had elapsed before Madame Bastien really began to feel uneasy, hence it did not seem at all probable that there could be any connection between the visit to the château and Frederick’s melancholy.
Besides, how could Madame Bastien suppose that this youth reared by her — a youth who had always seemed of so noble and generous a character — could know envy?
So, reassured by Doctor Dufour, Madame Bastien, though she watched the different phases of her son’s condition, forced herself to conceal the sadness she often felt on seeing him so changed, and awaited his recovery with resignation.
At first Frederick had tried to find some diversion in study, but soon study became impossible; his mind was elsewhere. Then he said to himself:
“Whatever I may learn, whatever I may know, I shall never be anything but Frederick Bastien, a sort of half peasant, doomed to a life of obscurity, while that young marquis, without ever having done anything to deserve it, enjoys all the glory of a name which has been illustrious for ages.”
Then, as all the feudal relics at Pont Brillant, those galleries of paintings, those family portraits, those gorgeous escutcheons, recurred to Frederick’s mind, for the first time in his life the poor boy felt deeply humiliated by the obscurity of his birth, and overcome with discouragement, said to himself:
“This young marquis, already weary of the magnificence by which he is surrounded, indifferent to the treasures of which even a thousandth part would make my mother and me and a host of others so happy. Why, and by what right does he possess all this magnificence? Has he acquired these blessings by his toil? No. To enjoy all this, he has only taken the trouble to be born. Why should he have everything and others nothing?”
CHAPTER VI.
THE FIRST PERIOD of envy that Frederick experienced was of a passive, the second of an active character.
It is impossible to describe what he suffered then, especially as this feeling, concealed, concentrated as it were in the lowest depths of his soul, had no outlet, and was constantly stimulated by the sight of the castle, which seemed to meet his gaze at every turn, dominating as it did the whole country roundabout. The more Frederick realised the alarming progress of his malady, the more strenuously he endeavoured to hide it from his mother, telling himself in his gloom and despair that such weakness deserved scorn and contempt, and that not even a mother could condone it.
All mental maladies react upon the physical system. Frederick’s health gradually gave way. He could not sleep, and he, who had formerly been so energetic and active, seemed to dread the slightest exertion. In fact, the pressing and tender solicitations of his mother could alone arouse him from his apathy or his gloomy reveries.
Poor Marie!
How intensely she, too, suffered, but in silence, endeavouring to maintain a cheerful manner all the while for fear of alarming her son about himself, and waiting with mingled anxiety and hope the end of this crisis in her son’s life.
But alas! how long and painful this waiting seemed. What a change! What a contrast between this gloomy, listless, taciturn life, and the bright, busy, happy existence she and her son had previously led!
One day early in October Madame Bastien and her son were together in the room that served both as parlour and study. Frederick, seated at the table, with his head supported on his left hand, was writing slowly and listlessly in a large exercise book.
Madame Bastien, seated only a little distance from him, was apparently occupied with some embroidery, but in reality she was holding her needle suspended in the air, ready to resume her work at her son’s slightest movement, while she furtively watched him.
Tears she could hardly restrain filled her eyes as she noted the terrible change in her son’s appearance, and remembered that only a comparatively short while ago the hours spent in study at this same table had been such pleasant, happy hours both for Frederick and herself, and compared the zeal and enthusiasm which her son had then displayed in his work with the listlessness and indifference she now remarked in him, for she soon saw his pen slip from his fingers, while his countenance displayed an intense ennui and lassitude.
At last the lad, only half smothering a heavy sigh, buried his face in his hands and remained in this attitude several moments. His mother did not lose sight of him for an instant, but what was her surprise on seeing her son suddenly lift his head, and with eyes flashing and a faint colour tinging his cheeks, while a sardonic smile curved his lips, suddenly seize his pen again, and begin writing with feverish rapidity.
The youth was transfigured. So inert, despondent, and lethargic a moment before, he now seemed full to overflowing of life and animation. One could see that his thoughts, too, flowed much more rapidly than his pen could trace them on the paper, by an occasional impatient movement of the body or the quick tapping of his foot upon the floor.
A few words of explanation are necessary here.
For some time Frederick had complained to his mother of his distaste, or rather his incapacity, for any regular work, though occasionally, in compliance with Madame Bastien’s wishes as well as in the hope of diverting his mind, he had attempted something in the way either of study or an essay on some given subject, but almost invariably he had appealed to his formerly fertile imagination in vain.
“I can’t imagine what is the matter with me,” he would murmur, despondently. “My mind seems to be enveloped in a sort of haze. Forgive me, mother, it is not my fault.”
And Madame Bastien found a thousand reasons to excuse and console him.
So on this occasion the young mother fully expected to see Frederick soon abandon his work. What was her astonishment, consequently, to see him for the first time write on and on with increasing interest and eagerness.
In this return to former habits Madame Bastien fancied she could detect the first sign of the end of this critical period in the life of her son. Doubtless his mind was beginning to emerge from the sort of haze which had so long obscured it, and, eager to satisfy herself of the fact, Madame Bastien rose, and noiselessly approaching her son on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to read what he had written.
In his surprise the youth gave a violent start, then, hastily closing his exercise book, turned an impatient, almost angry face, toward his mother and exclaimed:
“You had no right to do that, mother.”
Then reopening his book, he tore out the pages he had just written, crumpled them up in his hands, and threw them into the fire that was blazing on the hearth, where they were soon burnt to ashes.
Madame Bastien, overwhelmed with astonishment, stood for a moment speechless and motionless; then, comparing this rudeness on the part of her son with the delightful camaraderie which had formerly existed between them, she burst into tears.
It was the first time her son had ever wounded her feelings. Seeing his mother’s tears, Frederick, in an agony of remorse, threw his arms around his mother’s neck and covered her face with tears and kisses, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs:
“Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me!”
On hearing this repentant cry, Madame Bastien reproached herself for her tears. She even reproached herself for the painful impression the incident had made upon her, for was it not due to Frederick’s unfortunate condition? so, covering her son’s face with passionate kisses, she, in her turn, implored his forgiveness.
“My poor child, you are not well,” she exclaimed, tenderly, “and your suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were hardly accountable.”
“No, oh, no, mother, I swear it.”
“Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear Frederick.”
“I tore out the pages, mother,” continued the lad with no little embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, “I tore out the pages because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst thing I have written since this — this sort of — of despondency seized me.”
“And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a critic.”
“No, mother, I assure you—”
“Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk.”
“It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don’t feel as if I had energy enough to take a single step.”
“It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good.”
“I don’t feel equal to it, really, mother.”
“Well, you haven’t heard, I think, that André said he saw a big flock of plover this morning. Take your gun, and we will go over to Sablonnière heath. You will enjoy it and so shall I. You are such a good shot, it is a pleasure to see you handle a gun.”
“I don’t take any pleasure in hunting now.”
“Yet you used to be so fond of it.”
“I don’t care for anything now,” replied Frederick, almost involuntarily, in a tone of intense bitterness.
Again the young mother felt the tears spring to her eyes, and Frederick, seeing his mother’s distress, exclaimed:
“I love you always, mother, you know that.”
“Oh, yes, I know that, but you have no idea how despondently you said, ‘I don’t care for anything now.’”
Then trying to smile in order to cheer her son, Marie added:
“Really, I can’t imagine what is the matter with me to-day. I seem to be continually saying and doing the wrong thing, and here you are crying again, my dear child.”
“Never mind, mother, never mind. It is a long time since I have cried, and I really believe it will do me good.”
He spoke the truth. These tears did indeed seem to relieve his overburdened heart, and when he at last looked up in the face of the mother who was tenderly bending over him, and saw her beautiful features wearing such an expression of infinite tenderness, he thought for an instant of confessing the feelings that tortured him.
“Yes, yes,” he said to himself, “I was wrong to fear either scorn or anger from her. In her angelic goodness of heart I shall find only pity, compassion, consolation, and aid.”
The mere thought of confessing all to his mother comforted him, and seemed even to restore a little of his former courage, for after a moment he said to Madame Bastien:
“You proposed a walk a few minutes ago, mother. I believe you are
right in thinking that the open air would do me good.”
This admission on her son’s part seemed to Madame Bastien a good omen, and hastily donning her hat and a silk mantle, she left the house in company with her son.
But now the time for the confession had come, the youth shrank from it. He could think of no way to broach the subject, or to excuse himself to his mother for having concealed the truth from her so long.
As they were walking along, the sky, which had been so lowering all the morning, suddenly cleared, and the sun shone out brightly.
“What a delightful change!” exclaimed Madame Bastien, in the hope of cheering her son. “One might almost think that the radiant sun had emerged from the clouds to give you a friendly greeting. And how pretty that old juniper looks in this flood of sunlight. That old juniper over there at the end of the field, you remember it, of course?”
Frederick shook his head.
“What! you have forgotten those two long summer days when I sat in the shade of that old tree while you finished that poor labourer’s work?”
“Oh, yes, that is true,” replied Frederick, quickly.
The recollection of that generous act seemed to make the thought of the painful confession he must make to his mother less painful, and his growing cheerfulness showed itself so plainly in his face that Madame Bastien said to him:
“I was right to insist upon your coming out, my child. You look so much brighter that I am sure you must be feeling better.”
“I am, mother.”
“How glad I am, my son,” exclaimed Madame Bastien, clasping her hands, thankfully. “What if this should be the end of your malady, Frederick!”
As the young mother made this gesture of thankfulness, the light silk mantle she was wearing slipped from her shoulders unnoticed either by her or by Frederick, who replied:
