by Eugène Sue
“‘But now the malady is known to us, what are the best means or the chances of a cure?
“‘The first thing to be done is to discover the cause of Frederick’s animosity. How is this discovery to be effected? Frederick loves his mother devotedly, nevertheless he has remained deaf to her entreaties, so it is almost certain that he will never tell her his unhappy secret now, partly from a fear of forfeiting the respect of his friends, partly from a fear of imperilling his prospect of vengeance, the inevitable consequence of hatred when it is as energetic and intense as Frederick’s seems to be.’”
Madame Bastien trembled violently as she read this prophecy which the scene she had lately witnessed in the forest verified but too well, and it was in a voice full of emotion she continued:
“‘Consequently it seems almost certain that Madame Bastien must renounce all hope of gaining her son’s confidence. That being the case, shall she resort to penetration, that compound of watchfulness, dissimulation, and trickery? for to ferret out a secret, at least a jealously guarded secret, one must employ all sorts of cunning expedients.
“‘Can a woman like Madame Bastien play such a difficult rôle even if she desire to do so, a rôle which requires so much cool calculation and dissimulation?
“‘No, the poor mother would blush and pale by turn, and in spite of her resolution she would hesitate at every step, even though she felt such a course might effect her son’s salvation.’”
Madame Bastien’s head drooped, two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, her hands fell inertly upon her knees, and she murmured, with a deep sigh:
“What he says is only too true. I recognise my utter powerlessness.”
“Don’t despair, I beseech you,” cried the doctor, earnestly. “Do you suppose I would ever have brought you this letter, or that my friend would ever have written it, if he had not felt sure he had found a means of remedying this evil? Go on, I beg of you.”
“‘In my opinion,’” Marie continued, “‘Frederick has reached an age when the most devoted and intelligent maternal tenderness will no longer suffice for his guidance.
“‘Some knowledge of and experience in a man’s life is needed to arm him against the many temptations of which a woman is entirely ignorant, and against which it is consequently well-nigh impossible for her to protect her son.
“‘An intelligent and devoted father might accomplish this difficult task successfully, but as M. Bastien’s business keeps him so much from home, Frederick needs a man of feeling, honour, integrity, and experience, — a man who understands the full importance of the task of fashioning a youth into a man.
“‘Such a person, aided by the information Madame Bastien could give him, and, above all, by the influence she must still possess over her son, such a person could, I feel sure, by patient study and observation eventually discover Frederick’s secret, and assist his mother in combating and finally destroying this animosity in the heart of this unfortunate youth, and then continue the education which Madame Bastien has so admirably begun.’”
“This is only too true,” commented Madame Bastien. “I have felt the necessity of providing a tutor for my son for some time, as you know, my dear doctor. The tutor I engaged did not fulfil all my requirements by any means, but he was fairly competent, and endowed with an unusual amount of patience and amiability. Unfortunately, my son’s irascibility of temper drove him away. Now, in the seclusion in which I live, and for the very limited amount of money my husband has consented to expend for this purpose, how can I hope to find such a tutor as your friend describes? Besides, how can I induce Frederick to accept a tutor in his present irritated state of mind? Besides, the more conscious a tutor is of his value, his devotion, and his dignity, the less inclined he will be to submit to my son’s violence. Alas! you see I shall be obliged to renounce this means, valuable as I know it to be.”
The young mother resumed her reading.
“‘If Madame Bastien for any special reason does not desire to employ a tutor, there is another course which may not prove equally beneficial, but which will at least serve to divert his mind from the idea which seems to be dominating it, — that is for his mother to start with him on a long journey.’”
“I had made up my mind to do that very thing,” said Marie. “This very evening I wrote to my husband informing him of my decision. I cannot be wrong this time, as I agree with your friend on this point, so—”
“Yes, but in my friend’s opinion, as you will see if you read on a little further, this journey is only a palliative measure.”
Madame Bastien read as follows:
“‘I do not doubt the beneficial effects of such a journey on Frederick’s mind, but unhappily it will only divert his mind from this unfortunate idea, not destroy it. A journey may, I repeat, serve to ameliorate Frederick’s mental condition and enable his mother to gain time, a very important consideration, for I know there will necessarily be considerable difficulty in immediately finding a person capable of undertaking this mission. In fact, I am so conscious of the many difficulties that, if I thought my offer would be acceptable and above all seemly, I should be glad to offer myself to Madame Bastien as Frederick’s tutor.’”
Marie’s astonishment was so intense that she paused suddenly, and thinking she could not have read the letter aright, she read the line over again aloud in order to satisfy herself that her eyes had not played her false.
“‘I should be glad to offer myself to Madame Bastien as Frederick’s tutor.’”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “and if he says it he means it.”
“Pardon me, doctor,” stammered the young mother, overwhelmed with astonishment, “but the amazement this — this unexpected, incomprehensible offer causes me—”
“Incomprehensible, no. When you know the person who makes this offer better, you are the very person to understand and appreciate the feeling that prompted it.”
“But without knowing me, doctor—”
“In the first place he does know you, for I admitted, did I not? that I had been very indiscreet; besides, would any other tutor that offered himself be any better acquainted with you?”
“But — but your friend has never been a tutor?”
“No; yet from his letter can you not see that he is a just, generous, and judicious person? As to his capabilities, I can vouch for them. But read on, please.”
“‘This proposition will doubtless astonish you, my dear friend, as I left you last evening for Nantes, from which place I was to embark for a long voyage. Moreover, I have never been a tutor, the modest fortune at my disposal preventing the necessity of following any regular avocation; last but not least, Madame Bastien does not know me, though I ask her to give me the greatest proof of confidence that it is in her power to grant, that is, to allow me to share the oversight of Frederick with her.
“‘The first moment of surprise over, my friend, you will recollect that, though I have endeavoured to impart a useful aim to my travels, I adopted this roving life in the hope of finding distraction from the intense grief the loss of my poor brother caused me. Now after several hours of reflection, I am not only willing but anxious to attempt Frederick’s cure. A very extraordinary desire this will doubtless appear to those who do not know me, but perfectly natural to those who do know me intimately. Since Fernand’s death all boys of his age inspire me with a profound interest; and since I have reflected long and carefully upon the seriousness of Frederick’s mental condition and his mother’s increasing anxiety, as well as the obstacles she must overcome in order to ensure her son’s recovery, I think I have devised a way of effecting a cure. It seems to me, too, that I should be paying the greatest possible tribute of affection and respect to my poor Fernand’s memory by doing for Frederick precisely what I had hoped to do for my own brother, and that this would not only be a wholesome distraction, but the only possible consolation in my grief.
“‘Now you have heard my reasons I feel sure my decision will no longer asto
nish you; and if my offer is accepted I shall fulfil my duties conscientiously.
“‘From what I know of Madame Bastien, I feel sure that she will understand my motives perfectly; so, on reflection, I think it would be advisable for you to show her this letter, though it was really written for your eye alone. You are in a position to answer any inquiries Madame Bastien may desire to make concerning me. You know me and my life; so say whatever you think you are justified in saying to satisfy Madame Bastien that I am worthy of her confidence.
“‘Write me at Nantes. It is absolutely necessary that I should have an answer this day week, as the Endymion, on which I have engaged passage, sails on the fourteenth, wind permitting; so desiring to give Madame Bastien the longest possible time for reflection, I seize this opportunity to write so my letter may reach you twenty-four hours earlier.
“‘If my offer is refused I shall take my intended journey.
“‘The diligence is about to start, so I must bid you a hasty farewell, my dear Pierre. I have only time to address this letter and assure you once more of my devoted affection.
“‘HENRI DAVID.’”
CHAPTER XVIII.
AS MADAME BASTIEN returned the letter with a hand that trembled with emotion, Doctor Dufour said:
“One word, please. I do not know what your decision may be, but before you announce it I ought to give you some information about Henri David, so you may know all about him before you either accept or refuse his offer. Do you not think so?”
“No, my dear doctor, I do not,” replied Madame Bastien, after a moment’s reflection.
“What?”
“I shall be obliged to do one of two things, that is to say, I shall either have to accept or decline M. David’s offer. If I accept it, a desire to know anything further in relation to him would show a distrust of him and of you. This letter is to my mind convincing proof of his high sense of honour and his generosity of heart. If, on the contrary, I cannot or should not accept M. David’s offer, there would be a sort of indelicate curiosity on my part in encouraging your revelations concerning the past of a person who would remain a stranger to me, though the nobility of his offer merits my eternal gratitude.”
“I thank you both on David’s behalf and my own for the confidence you manifest in us, my dear Madame Bastien. Now reflect, and let me know your decision as soon as your mind is fully made up. In compliance with my friend’s request, I lost no time in acquainting you with the contents of his letter, and that is why I came at this late hour of the night, even at the risk of disturbing you, instead of waiting until to-morrow, and—”
The doctor did not finish the sentence, for a shrill, spasmodic laugh resounded from Frederick’s room, and made Madame Bastien spring from her seat.
Pale and terrified, she seized the lamp and ran into her son’s room, followed by the doctor.
The unfortunate youth, with distorted features, livid complexion, and lips contracted in a sardonic smile, had been seized with a fit of delirium, due, doubtless, to a reaction after the events of the evening, and his frenzied outburst of laughter was followed by incoherent exclamations, in which the following recurred incessantly:
“I missed him, but patience, patience!”
These words, which were only too significant to Madame Bastien, showed how persistently the idea of vengeance still clung to Frederick. Thanks to Doctor Dufour’s almost providential presence, the promptest and most efficacious attentions were lavished upon Frederick, and the physician spent the remainder of the night and the morning of the next day with the sick youth. Toward evening there was a decided change for the better in his condition. The delirium ceased, and it was with unusual effusiveness that the poor boy thanked his mother for her devotion, weeping freely the while.
Madame Bastien’s relief was so great that she deluded herself with the idea that the violence of this crisis had effected a salutary change in the condition of her son’s mind, and that he was saved, so about ten o’clock in the evening she yielded to the doctor’s persuasions, and consented to lie down and rest while old Marguerite watched over her son.
When she returned to her son’s bedside she found him sleeping soundly, so motioning Marguerite to follow her, she asked:
“Has he rested well?”
“Very well, madame. He woke only twice, and talked very sensibly, I assure you.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he talked about different things. Among others he asked me where his gun was, and when I told him madame had made me put it away, he said: ‘That’s all right, Marguerite, but don’t tell my mother I’ve been asking for my gun. It might worry her if she thought I had any idea of hunting again, weak as I am.’”
So he had hardly recovered from this attack before Frederick’s mind was again engrossed with thoughts of vengeance. Marie had only just made this deplorable discovery when a letter was handed to her. Madame Bastien recognised her husband’s handwriting, consequently this was the reply to the letter in which she had announced her intention of travelling with Frederick.
“BOURGES, November 5, 1846.
“I answer by return mail as you request, to ask, first, if you have gone mad, and, secondly, if you really think me ass enough to accede to the most absurd whim that ever visited a woman’s brain.
“So, madame, on the plea that Frederick’s health requires it, you are planning a pleasure trip to the sunny south with your retinue like some great lady! It strikes me that you have taken it into your head to play the part of a woman rather late in the day!
“‘We shall remain in Paris only twenty-four hours at the longest,’ you say, but I see through your little game.
“You are dying to see the capital, like all provincials, and your excuse would be a pretty good one if I was such an egregious fool as you seem to think. Once in Paris, you would write: My son is too much fatigued with the journey to go on at once, or, we could secure no places in the diligence, or, I am not feeling well myself, until a week or two weeks or even a month had passed.
“If monsieur, my son, needs diversion on account of his health, send him out fishing, — he has three ponds at his disposal, — or let him go hunting. If he needs change, let him walk from Herbiers to the Grand Pré mill half a dozen times a day, and I’ll wager that in three months he’ll be strong enough to make the journey from Pont Brillant to Hyères on foot.
“You excite my pity, upon my word! To have such absurd ideas at your age, think of it, and, above all, to suppose me capable of consenting to anything so ridiculous!
“All this confirms me in the opinion that you are bringing up your son to be a perfect nincompoop. I shall hear of his having the blues and nervous attacks next, I suppose. He’ll soon get over all this nonsense when I take him in hand, I promise you. I consented to leave him with you until he was seventeen, and even to let him have a tutor, as if he were a young duke or a marquis. I shall keep my word, so you can have your son and a tutor exactly five months longer, after which M. Frederick will enter the office of my friend Bridou, the notary, where he will stain his slender white fingers copying documents as his father and grandfather did before him.
“I write to my banker in Blois by this same mail, telling him not to advance you a centime. I shall also write to my friend Bossard, the notary at Pont Brillant, who is as good as a town crier, to proclaim it from the housetops that, in case you try to borrow any money, no one is to loan you a sou, for any debts contracted by a wife without the husband’s consent, or rather when he has given due notice that he has no intention of paying them, are null and void.
“Besides, I warn you that I shall instruct Bridou, in case you have the audacity to undertake this journey on borrowed money, to set the police on your track and bring you back to the conjugal domicile, as I have an undoubted right to do, for no wife can leave her husband’s roof without the consent of her lord and master. You know me too well to fancy for one moment that I shall hesitate to carry my threat into execution. You have a will of yo
ur own, as you have proved. Very well, you will find that I have one, too.
“Don’t take the trouble to answer this letter. I leave Bourges this evening for the Netherlands, where I shall probably remain until the middle of January, returning to the farm in March, to give you and my son the blowing up you so richly deserve.
“It is in this hope that I sign myself your deeply incensed husband,
“BASTIEN.
“P.S. — You wrote me in a previous letter that the tutor had taken his departure. If you want another ass to take the place of the one that has gone, you can employ one, provided you can get him for one hundred francs a month, board and lodging — but no washing — included. Above all, don’t forget that I won’t have him eating at the table with me. When I am at home he will eat in his room, or in the kitchen if he wants company.
“Ask Huebin to let me know how the brood sows are looking, for I want to get the premium for my hogs this fall. It is a matter of pride with me.”
A quarter of an hour after this coarse effusion from her lord and master had been received, Madame Bastien wrote the following letters, which were despatched to Pont Brillant at once.
“TO DOCTOR DUFOUR: — Dear doctor, will you have the goodness to forward the enclosed letter to Nantes, after having first read and sealed it. My son had a comfortable night.
“Try to give me a few minutes to-day or to-morrow, so I can tell you what I have not time to write.
“Hoping to see you very soon, I remain,
“Your sincere friend,
“MARIE BASTIEN.”
The letter enclosed read as follows:
“MONSIEUR: — I accept your generous offer with profound gratitude. My son’s age and mental condition, the anxiety I feel concerning his future are my only claims upon your interest, yet I believe that in your eyes these claims are sacred.
“Increase my obligations by hastening the date of your arrival here as much as possible. Your predictions in relation to my unfortunate child are more than verified.
