by Eugène Sue
“My only hope is in you, monsieur, and every hour and minute adds to my anxiety. I am terrified at the thought of what may occur at any moment in spite of my solicitude and untiring vigilance. It is needless to say that I await your assistance with the utmost impatience.
“May Heaven bless you, for the compassion you have shown to a mother who lives only in her son.
“MARIE BASTIEN.”
CHAPTER XIX.
DURING THE BRIEF time which preceded Henri David’s arrival the condition of physical weakness which followed Frederick’s attack of nervous fever prevented him from leaving the house, especially as the weather was very unpleasant, an unusually early snow having covered the ground, while a heavy fog obscured the atmosphere.
Since the scene in the forest there had been no explanation between the mother and son, nor even any allusion to the distressing incident. Remembering the offensive manner in which her son had treated M. David on Saint Hubert’s Day, Madame Bastien felt no little anxiety with regard to the future relations between her son and his new tutor, whose intended coming was as yet a secret to Frederick.
At last came a note from Doctor Dufour, enclosing the following:
“I am travelling by post to make a few hours, my dear Pierre, so I shall arrive very soon after you receive these few lines, and we will go together to Madame Bastien’s house.”
M. David’s arrival being only a matter of a few hours, Marie could defer the revelation of her plans no longer, so she went to the study in search of him. She found him seated at a table, apparently engaged in translating a French exercise into English.
“Lay aside your books a moment, Frederick, and come and sit down by me. There is something I wish to say to you.”
Frederick took a seat beside his mother on a sofa near the fireplace, and his mother, taking her son’s hands in hers, said to him, with the tenderest solicitude:
“How cold your hands are, my son. Your writing-table is too far from the fire. You ought to move your table to this part of the room.”
“I will, mother, if you wish it.”
“I wish you would do so presently, but first we must have a little talk.”
“About what?”
“About a very important matter, my son.”
“I am listening.”
“The reasons that decided me to employ a tutor for you still exist, though he has left us. There are branches in which you need instruction which I am unfortunately not able to give.”
“I seem to have lost all taste for study now, you know, mother.”
“You must make some effort to overcome this languor. It worries me very much.”
“I will try, mother.”
“But it seems to me that if you had some one to encourage you in your good resolutions, and assist your studies, it would be much better for you, don’t you think so?”
“Your encouragement suffices for me.”
“I may encourage you, but as I said before, I am unable to render you any assistance, so I have thought it would be advisable to replace the tutor who just left us.”
“Replace him? It is not worth while to think of that, mother. I don’t want any tutor.”
“But you need one, nevertheless, so I have engaged a new one for you.”
“You must be joking, mother.”
“You and I seem to have gotten sadly out of the habit of jesting, my dear boy. The jolly times you and I used to have together seem almost like a dream when I think of them now. But to return to the subject I was speaking of. Your new tutor will probably arrive—”
“Arrive! When?”
“To-day.”
Frederick’s face turned scarlet, and, springing up abruptly, he stamped angrily upon the floor, exclaiming:
“I will not have any tutor, mother; do you hear me?”
“But listen, my child, I beg of you.”
“I will not have a tutor, I tell you. Send him away; it is useless to take him. I will serve him exactly as I did the other.”
Up to this time Madame Bastien’s manner toward her son had always been tender, almost entreating, but realising that she must show no weakness now, she replied, in a firm though affectionate tone:
“I have decided that it will be for your interest to have a tutor, my son, so I feel sure you will respect my wishes.”
“You will see if I do.”
“If you mean by that, that you hope to wear your new tutor out by your obstinacy and ill-temper, you will make a great mistake; first, because you will grieve me very much, and, secondly, because M. David, for that is his name, is not a person who will be easily disheartened. This is sufficiently proven by the fact that your anger and impertinence only served to arouse his commiseration.”
“What do you mean? Who are you talking about?”
“The gentleman you met at Doctor Dufour’s house.”
“What! that man—”
“Is the tutor I have selected for you.”
“Is that so?” responded Frederick, with a bitter smile. “After all, what difference does it make? I had just as soon contend with one as with the other.”
Though convinced that Henri David was fully prepared for all the tribulations of the difficult task he wished to undertake, Marie was naturally desirous of sparing the generous-hearted man an ungracious reception, so she resolved to appeal to her son’s affection, which had never failed her heretofore.
“My dear son, I feel sure of being understood when I tell you that it is in the name of my tenderness and devotion for you that I implore you to treat M. David with the respectful deference due to his character and merits. That is all I ask. Affection and confidence are sure to come later. But if you do not treat him as you ought, I shall think, yes, I shall think that you have ceased to love me, Frederick. You make no reply. I understand why, my son. You think I am exaggerating, do you not, when I say that I shall think you have ceased to love me if you treat your new tutor rudely? But, my son, the coming of this new tutor means your salvation and mine, for I truly believe it will prove the beginning of a new era of hope and happiness for us both, and that being the case, you would not grieve and disappoint me by receiving M. David rudely, for no son who loved his mother would wish to make me miserable; so you see I do not exaggerate, after all, my child. But, Frederick, you turn away your head. You refuse to look at me. What I say about your having ceased to love me is true, then! You do not say so much as a word to reassure me, you who used to be so loving and affectionate. Why are you angry with me? What have I done?”
“You feel better now, doubtless, since you have summoned a stranger to your aid, mother.”
“What else could I do? Be just, I beg of you. What am I to think when I see you utterly unmoved by all I say to you? Is it true that in a few brief months I have lost all influence over you, that my tears and entreaties are alike powerless to move you? And when I see only too plainly that this is the case, you are angry because I summon some one to my aid. Is it possible that you are no longer able to distinguish good from evil, that all that is good and generous and noble is dead within you? In that case my last hope has indeed fled. I must bring myself face to face with the hideous reality, and as you force me, absolutely force me, to do it,” added Marie, in a voice almost inaudible from horror, “I must remind you of that horrible scene, the other night, in the forest — in the forest — when you — when you tried — tried to kill — in the most cowardly manner — Oh, my God! my son, my son, an assassin!”
The last word was accompanied with such an outburst of despairing sobs that Frederick turned pale and trembled from head to foot.
On hearing the word “assassin” applied to him by his own mother, Frederick realised for the first time the enormity of the crime he had tried to commit, and noticing her son’s gloomy silence, and the expression of profound despair that had succeeded his strained and sarcastic smile, Madame Bastien asked herself, with increasing anxiety, whether the result of this cruel scene would be disastrous or salutary for
Frederick; but just then Marguerite entered hurriedly, and said to her mistress:
“The doctor has just arrived with another gentleman, madame. They wish to see you.”
“Frederick,” exclaimed the young mother, hastily wiping away her tears, “my son, it is your new tutor, M. David. I implore you—”
But she could not finish the sentence, for Doctor Dufour entered, accompanied by Henri David.
The latter bowed low to Madame Bastien, but as he raised his head he saw traces of recent tears on the lady’s face. He noticed, too, Frederick’s livid pallor and his gloomy and defiant air, so he would have had no trouble in divining what had just taken place, even if an imploring look from Madame Bastien had not still further enlightened him.
“Madame, I have the honour to present my friend, M. Henri David,” began the doctor.
Madame Bastien was so overwhelmed with emotion, that she could only rise from her chair, into which she sank back again after bowing to David, who said:
“I shall endeavour to be worthy of the confidence you have manifested in me, madame.”
“My son,” said Marie Bastien, in a voice she tried hard to steady, “I hope you will not disappoint the expectations of M. David, who has kindly consented to assume the direction of your studies.”
“Monsieur,” said Frederick, looking his new tutor full in the face, “you come here in spite of me. You will leave here on account of me.”
“Mon Dieu!” murmured Madame Bastien, with a despairing sob, and, overcome with shame and confusion, she dared not even lift her eyes to Henri David’s face.
“You will regret those words when you learn to know me better,” said Henri David, with a look of infinite compassion.
Frederick burst into a shrill, sardonic laugh, and rushed out of the room.
“Don’t leave him alone, doctor, I implore you,” exclaimed the mother.
But this entreaty had not passed her lips before M. Dufour started after Frederick.
CHAPTER XX.
LEFT ALONE WITH Madame Bastien, Henri David remained silent for several minutes as if to collect his thoughts, then, turning to his companion, he said, earnestly:
“I wish, madame, that you could see in me a physician who is devoting himself to a dangerous but by no means hopeless case. I should like to receive from you a full account of all the events which have taken place since you first noticed the change in your son’s character which distresses you so much. Our friend, Doctor Dufour, has already given me some information on the subject. But what you can tell me, madame, will doubtless enlighten me still more.”
Marie complied with his request, but when she came to the description of the scene in the forest, she hesitated and turned pale, and her distress was so apparent that Henri David exclaimed:
“What is the matter, madame? This emotion, these tears—”
“Ah, monsieur, I should be unworthy of your generous aid if I concealed any portion of the truth from you, no matter how terrible it may be.”
“What do you mean, madame?”
“Ah, monsieur,” murmured Madame Bastien, with eyes downcast, “in a paroxysm of fever, or delirium, or I know not what, he lost his senses completely and went at night—”
“At night?”
“To the forest.”
And as Madame Bastien again paused with a shudder, David repeated:
“To the forest?”
“Yes, to the forest, where he concealed himself behind a tree to shoot M. de Pont Brillant.”
“A murderer!” exclaimed David, turning pale, “a murderer at sixteen.”
“Have pity, monsieur, have pity,” cried Marie, stretching out her hands imploringly.
“Do not forsake him,” cried the unhappy woman, as if fearing this revelation would cause David to renounce his generous undertaking. “Alas, monsieur, the greater my misfortune, the more desperate my straits, the more you should pity me! Once more I beseech you not to forsake my son. My only hope is in you. What will become of me? What will become of him if you do? Besides, I tell you he was not in his right mind. He was delirious; he was mad!”
“You need have no fears of my abandoning your son, madame. Difficulties do not discourage me; they only impel me to renewed efforts. But you are mistaken in supposing that Frederick was insane. The deed was the inevitable result of the hatred that is consuming him.”
“Oh, no, no, I cannot believe—”
“On the contrary, the conviction should reassure instead of alarming you. Frederick’s animosity reached its highest pitch at that time, and we now know the full extent of the malady. The cause of this hatred is still shrouded in mystery, but I feel confident that we shall soon fathom it, and then the cure will be comparatively easy. We have many things in our favour. Frederick’s tender years, his antecedents, your tender solicitude, my constant vigilance. All that is noble and generous in your son is paralysed temporarily, but rest assured that, purified by the very ordeal through which he is now passing, your son will some day not only realise but even surpass your most sanguine hopes.”
Henri David’s tone was so earnest and convincing, there was such an expression of deep interest on his manly face, that Madame Bastien felt hope once more spring up in her heart, and she exclaimed, with profound emotion:
“The only thanks, monsieur, that I can give you—”
“Thanks, you owe me no thanks, madame,” interrupted Henri David. “Our friend showed you my letter, and you know that in the work I am about to undertake I hope to find distraction from cruel grief, and that I also regard it as a sacred tribute to the memory of a deeply lamented brother.”
“I shall not insist, monsieur, particularly as my words would so inadequately express my feelings, but I must say one word in relation to a rather painful subject,” added Madame Bastien, lowering her eyes and blushing deeply. “I must ask your pardon in advance for the modest life you will be obliged to lead here, and I—”
“Permit me to interrupt you, here and now, madame,” interposed David, smiling. “I have travelled a great deal, through uncivilised as well as civilised countries, so I am half sailor, half soldier, in the simplicity of my habits.”
“But this is not all, monsieur,” continued Madame Bastien, with increasing embarrassment. “I live alone most of the time. My husband’s business keeps him away from home a great deal, but sometimes he spends several days here.”
“Permit me to interrupt you once more, madame,” said David, touched by Madame Bastien’s evident embarrassment, particularly as he divined what she was about to say to him. “Our mutual friend, the doctor, has told me something of M. Bastien’s habits, and you will find me anxious to do everything possible to prevent my presence here from disturbing that gentleman’s habits. I shall also do everything in my power to win his toleration, if not his regard; for, my work once begun, it would distress me very much to see it suddenly interrupted. In short, as I cannot remain here without M. Bastien’s permission, I shall do my best to win his toleration, and any concessions which my self-respect will permit of will, I assure you, be cheerfully made.”
Madame Bastien was deeply impressed by M. David’s delicacy. She could not doubt that Doctor Dufour had told his friend of M. Bastien’s habitual coarseness, and that the generous man who was consecrating himself to Frederick’s salvation with such disinterested devotion had made up his mind in advance to many disagreeable and even humiliating experiences, though his pecuniary independence and his nobility of character made him superior.
Marie was the first to break the silence that ensued.
“M. David,” she said, with gentle dignity, “will you let me show you to the room I must beg you to occupy here?”
David bowed, and followed her in silence.
CHAPTER XXI.
IT WAS NEARLY dark.
Madame Bastien took a lamp, and, passing through the little dining-room where Marguerite was laying the table for the frugal evening meal, led the way to the garret, which was divided into three room
s, one occupied by Marguerite, another by the gardener, while the third was allotted to the tutor.
This was M. Bastien’s arrangement. His wife had vainly endeavoured to convince him of the impropriety of lodging a tutor in this fashion, and had begged him to allow her to fit up a room on the floor below for his use, but he had flown into a violent passion, and declared that, if his wife disobeyed him, he would send the spouter of Latin up to the garret where he belonged as soon as he found it out.
Madame Bastien knew he was quite capable of carrying this threat into execution, so, to spare the new tutor such a humiliation, she had resigned herself to seeing her son’s preceptor occupy a room so little in harmony with the importance of his functions.
If the young woman had taken so much to heart what she regarded as an insult to the dignity of her son’s former tutor, one can judge of her feelings when it was inflicted upon Henri David, whose disinterestedness merited such heartfelt gratitude. Consequently, it was with painful confusion that she opened the door of the garret room which she had done her best to make cosy and inviting. A small blue and white china vase containing a bouquet of chrysanthemums and late roses stood on the walnut table, the floor was of spotless whiteness, the white curtains were tied back with ribbons, in short, a desire to make the plainness of the apartment forgotten by dint of assiduous care and good-will was everywhere apparent.
“It is with deep regret, I assure you, that I am compelled to offer you this room,” said Madame Bastien, “but my utter inability to place a more suitable apartment at your disposal must be my excuse.”
Henri David could not repress a slight movement of surprise as he glanced around him, and, after a brief silence, he said, with a melancholy smile:
“By a singular chance, madame, this room strongly resembles one I occupied in boyhood beneath my father’s roof, and it is pleasant to be thus reminded of the happiest years of my life.”
