Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  An hour after having been carried to the brick-kiln, Frederick, completely restored, was still so feeble, notwithstanding his consciousness, that he was not able to utter a word, although many times he looked at David with an expression of tenderness and unspeakable gratitude.

  The preceptor and his pupil were in the modest chamber of the master workman, who had returned to his work near the embankment, and with his labourers was observing the level of the stream, which had not reached such a height in many years, for the inhabitants of these shores were always filled with fear at the thought of an overflow of the Loire.

  David had just administered a warm and invigorating drink to Frederick, when the youth said, in a feeble voice:

  “M. David, it is to you that I shall owe the happiness of seeing my mother again!”

  “Yes, you will see her again, my child,” replied the preceptor, pressing the son’s hands in his own, “but why did you not think that to kill yourself was to kill your mother?”

  “I thought of that too late. Then I felt myself lost, and I cried, ‘My mother!’ when I should have cried, ‘Help!’”

  “Fortunately, that supreme cry I heard, my poor child. But now that you are calm, I implore you, tell me—”

  Then, interrupting himself, David added:

  “No, after what has passed, I have no right to question you. I shall wait for a confession which I wish to owe only to your confidence.”

  Frederick felt David’s delicacy, for it was evident that his preceptor did not desire to abuse the influence given by a service rendered, by forcing a confidence from him.

  Then he said, with tears in his eyes:

  “M. David, life was a burden to me. I judged of the future by the past, and I wished to end it. Yet, that night, when during my mother’s sleep I bade her farewell, my heart was broken. I thought of the sorrow that I would cause her in killing myself, and for a moment I hesitated, but I said to myself, ‘My life will cost her more tears perhaps than my death,’ and so I decided to put an end to it. This morning I asked her to forgive all the grief I had caused her, I also asked you to forgive me for the wrongs I had done to you, M. David. I did not wish to carry with me the animadversion of anybody. To remove all suspicion I affected calmness, certain of finding during the day some means of escaping your watchfulness and that of my mother. Your invitation to go out this morning served my plans. I was acquainted with the country. I directed our walk toward a spot where I felt sure I could escape from you and from your assistance, and I do not know how it was possible for you to find a trace of me, M. David.”

  “I will tell you that, my child, but continue.”

  “The hurry, the eagerness of my flight, the noise of the wind and the waters, seemed to intoxicate me, and then, on the horizon, I saw rise up before me, like an apparition, the—” Here a light flush coloured Frederick’s cheeks, and he did not finish his sentence.

  David mentally supplied it, and said to himself:

  “This unhappy child, in his moment of desperation, saw, as it commanded the shore of the river from afar, the castle of Pont Brillant.”

  After a short silence, Frederick continued:

  “As I told you, M. David, I seemed intoxicated, almost mad, for I do not recollect at what spot on the river I threw myself in. The cold in the water seized me, I thought I was going to die, and then I was afraid. Then the thought of my mother came back to me. I seemed to see her, as in a dream, throw herself upon my cold, dead body. I did not want to die, and I cried, ‘My mother! my mother!’ as I tried to save myself, for I know very well how to swim; but the cold made me numb, and I felt myself sinking to the bottom. As I heard the river roar above my head I made a desperate effort, and came to the surface of the water, and then I lost consciousness until I found myself here, M. David, — here where you have brought me, — saved me as if I were your child, — here, where my first thought has been of my mother.”

  And Frederick, fatigued by the emotion of this recital, leaned his elbow on the bed where they had carried him, and remained silent, his head resting on his hand.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN David and Frederick was interrupted by the brickmaker, who entered the chamber, looking very much frightened. “Monsieur,” said he, hurriedly, to David, “the cart is ready. Go quick.”

  “What is the matter?” asked David.

  “The Loire is still rising, monsieur. Before two hours all my little furniture and effects will be swept away.”

  “Do you fear an overflow?”

  “Perhaps, monsieur, for the rising of the waters is becoming frightful, and, if the Loire overflows, to-morrow nothing will be seen of my brick-kiln but the chimneys. So, for the sake of prudence, I must move you out. The cart which takes you home, will, on its return, carry my furniture away.”

  “Come, my child,” said David to Frederick, “have courage. You see we have not a moment to lose.”

  “I am ready, M. David.”

  “Fortunately our clothes are dry, thanks to this hot furnace. Lean on me, my child.”

  As they left the house, Frederick said to the brickmaker:

  “Pardon me, sir, for not being able to thank you better for your kind attention, but I will return.”

  “May Heaven bless you, my young gentleman, and grant that you may not find a mass of rubbish when you return to this place, instead of this house.”

  David, without Frederick’s knowledge, gave two gold pieces to the brickmaker, as he said, in a low voice:

  “That is for the cart.”

  A few minutes elapsed, and the son of Madame Bastien left the brick-kiln with David in the rustic conveyance filled with a thick layer of straw, and covered over with a cloth, for the rain continued to fall in torrents.

  The cart driver, wrapped in a wagoner’s coat, and seated on one of the shafts, urged the gait of the horse, that trotted slowly and heavily.

  David insisted that Frederick should lie down in the cart, and lean his head on his knees; thus seated in the back of the cart, he held the youth in a half embrace, and watched over him with paternal solicitude.

  “My child,” said he, carefully wrapping Frederick in the thick covering loaned by the brickmaker, “are you not cold?”

  “No, M. David.”

  “Now, let us agree upon facts. Your mother must never know what has happened this morning. We will say, shall we not, that, surprised by a beating rain, we obtained this cart with great difficulty? The brickmaker thinks you fell in the water by imprudently venturing too near the slope of the embankment. He has promised me not to noise abroad this accident, the reports of which might frighten your mother. Now, that being agreed upon, we will think of it no more.”

  “What kindness! what generosity! You think of everything. You are right; my mother must not know that you have saved my life at the risk of your own, and yet—”

  “What your mother ought to know, my dear Frederick, what she ought to see, is that I have kept the promise that I made to her this morning, for time presses.”

  “What promise?”

  “I promised her to cure you.”

  “Cure me!” and Frederick bowed his head with grief. “Cure me!”

  “And this cure must be accomplished this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that in an hour, upon our arrival at the farm, you must be the Frederick of former times, the glory and pride of your mother.”

  “M. David!”

  “My child, the moments are numbered, so listen to me. This morning, at the time you disappeared, I said to you, ‘I know the cause of your illness.’”

  “You did say that to me, truly, M. David.”

  “Well, now, the cause is envy!”

  “Oh, my God!” murmured Frederick, overwhelmed with shame, and trying to slip away from David’s embrace.

  But the latter pressed Frederick all the more tenderly to his heart, and said, quickly:

  “Lift up your head, my child, �
�� there is no need for shame, envy is an excellent quality.”

  “Envy an excellent quality!” exclaimed Frederick, sitting up and staring at David with bewildered astonishment. “Envy!” repeated he, shuddering. “Ah, monsieur, you do not know what it produces.”

  “Hatred? so much the better.”

  “So much the better! but hatred in its turn—”

  “Gives birth to vengeance, so much the better still.”

  “M. David,” said the young man, falling back on his straw couch with sadness, “you are laughing at me, and yet—”

  “Laughing at you, poor child!” said David, in a voice full of emotion, as he drew Frederick back to him, and pressed him to his breast with affection. “I laugh at you! do not say that. To me, more than to anyone else, grief is sacred. I laugh at you. You do not know then, at first sight of you, I was filled with compassion, with tenderness, because, you see, Frederick, I had a young brother about your age—”

  And David’s tears flowed, until, choked with emotion, he was obliged to keep silent.

  Frederick’s tears flowed also, and he in his turn embraced David, looking at him with a heart-broken expression, as if he wished to ask pardon for making him weep.

  David understood him.

  “Be calm, my child; these tears, too, have their sweetness. Well, the brother I speak of, this young beloved brother, who made my joy and my love, I lost. That is why I felt for you such a quick and keen interest, that is why I wish to return you to your mother as you were in the olden time, because it is to return you to happiness.”

  The accent, the countenance of David, as he uttered these words, were of such a melancholy, pathetic sweetness that Frederick, more and more affected, answered, timidly:

  “Forgive me, M. David, for having thought you were laughing at me, but—”

  “But what I said to you seemed so strange, did it not, that you could not believe that I was speaking seriously?”

  “That is true.”

  “So it ought to be, nevertheless my words are sincere, and I am going to prove it to you.”

  Frederick fixed on David a look full of pain and eager curiosity.

  “Yes, my child, envy, in itself, is an excellent quality; only you, up to this time, have applied it improperly, — you have envied wickedly instead of envying well.”

  “Envy well! Envy an excellent quality!” repeated Frederick, as if he could not believe his ears. “Envy, frightful envy, which corrodes, which devours, which kills!”

  “My poor child, the Loire came near, just now, being your tomb. Had that misfortune happened, would not your mother have cried, ‘Oh, the accursed river which kills, — accursed river which has swallowed up my son!’”

  “Alas, M. David!”

  “And if these fears of inundation are realised, how many despairing hearts will cry, ‘Oh, accursed river! our houses are swept away, our fields submerged.’ Are not these maledictions just?”

  “Only too just, M. David.”

  “Yes; and yet this river so cursed fertilises its shores. It is the wealth of the cities by which it flows. Thousands of boats, laden with provisions of all sorts, plough its waves; this river so cursed accomplishes truly a useful mission, that God has given to everything he has created, because to say that God has created rivers for inundation and disaster would be a blasphemy. No, no! It is man, whose ignorance, whose carelessness, whose egotism, whose greed, and whose disdain change the gifts of the Creator into plagues.”

  Frederick, struck with his preceptor’s words, listened to him with increasing interest.

  “Just now, even,” continued David, “unless heat from the fire had penetrated your benumbed limbs, you would, perhaps, have died, yet how horrible are the ravages of fire! Must we curse it and its Creator? What more shall I say to you? Shall we curse steam, which has changed the face of the earth, because it has caused so many awful disasters? No, no! God has created forces, and man, a free agent, employs those forces for good or for evil. And as God is everywhere the same in his omnipotence, it is with passions as with elements; no one of them is bad in itself, they are levers. Man uses them for good or for evil, according to his own free will. So, my child, your troubles date from your visit to the castle of Pont Brillant, do they not?”

  “Yes, M. David.”

  “And you felt envy, keenly and deeply, did you not, when you compared the obscurity of your name and your poor, humble life with the splendid life and illustrious name of the young Marquis of Pont Brillant?”

  “It is only too true.”

  “Up to that point, these sentiments were excellent.”

  “Excellent?”

  “Excellent! You brought with you from the castle living and powerful forces; they ought, wisely directed, to have given the widest range to the development of your faculties. Unhappily, these forces have burst in your inexperienced hands, and have wounded you, poor dear child! Thus, to return to yourself, all your pure and simple enjoyments were destroyed by the constant remembrance of the splendours of the castle; then, in your grievous, unoccupied covetousness, you were forced to hate the one who possessed all that you desired; then vengeance.”

  “You know!” cried Frederick, in dismay.

  “I know all, my child.”

  “Ah, M. David, pardon, I pray you,” murmured Frederick, humiliated, “it was remorse for that base and horrible act that led me to think of suicide.”

  “I believe you, my child, and now that explains to me your unconquerable dejection since I arrived at your mother’s house. You meditated this dreadful deed?”

  “I thought of it for the first time, the evening of your arrival.”

  “This suicide was a voluntary expiation. There are more profitable ones, Frederick, my dear boy. Besides, I am certain that if envy was the germ of your hatred toward Raoul de Pont Brillant, the terrible scene in the forest was brought about by circumstances that I am ignorant of, and which ought to extenuate your culpable act.”

  Frederick hung his head in silence.

  “Of that we will speak later,” said David. “Now, let us see, my child; what did you envy the most in the young Marquis of Pont Brillant? His riches? So much the better. Envy them ardently, envy them sincerely, and in this incessant, energetic envy, you will find a lever of incalculable power. You will overcome all obstacles. By means of labour, intelligence, and probity, you will become rich. Why not? Jacques Lafitte was poorer than you are. He wished to be rich, and he became a millionaire twenty times over. His reputation is without a stain, and he always extended a hand to poverty, always favoured and endowed honest, courageous work. How many similar examples I could cite you!”

  Frederick at first looked at his preceptor with profound surprise; then, beginning to comprehend the significance of his words, he put his hands on his forehead, as if his mind had been dazzled by a sudden light.

  David continued:

  “Let us go farther. Did the wealth of the marquis fill your heart only with covetous desire, instead of a sentiment of hatred and revolt against a society where some abound with superfluous possession, while others die for want of the necessaries of life? Very well, my child, that is an excellent sentiment; it is sacred and religious, because it inspired the Fathers of the Church with holy and avenging words. So, at the voice of great revolutions, the divine principle of fraternity, of human equality, has been proclaimed. Yes,” added David, with a bitter sadness, “but proclaimed in vain. Priests, denying their humble origin, have become accomplices of wealth and power in the hands of kings, and have said to the people, ‘Fate has devoted you to servitude, to misery, and to tears, on this earth.’ Was not this a blasphemy against the fatherly goodness of the Creator, — a base desertion of the cause of the disinherited? But in our day this cause has valiant defenders, and blessed are these sentiments that the sight of wealth inspires in you, if it throws you among the people of courage who fight for the imperishable cause of equality and human brotherhood.”

  “Oh!” cried Fre
derick, with clasped hands, his face radiant, and his heart throbbing with generous enthusiasm, “I understand, I understand.”

  “Let us see,” pursued David, with increasing animation; “for what else did you envy this young marquis? The antiquity of his name? Envy it, envy it, by all means. You will have what is better than an ancient name; you will make your own name illustrious, and more widely celebrated than that of Pont Brillant. Art, letters, war! how many careers are open to your ambition! And you will win reputation. I have studied your works; I know the extent of your ability, when it is increased tenfold by the might of a determined and noble emulation.”

  “My God! my God!” cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, his eyes filled with tears, “I cannot tell what change has come over me. The darkness of night has been turned to day, — the day of the past, and even brighter than the past. Oh, my mother! my mother!”

  “Let us go on,” continued David, unwilling to leave the least doubt in Frederick’s mind; “does the envy you feel when you hear the ancient name of Pont Brillant manifest itself by a violent hatred of aristocratic tradition, always springing up, sometimes feudal, and sometimes among the citizenship? Exalt this envy, my child. Jean Jacques, in protesting against the inequality of material conditions, was sublimely envious, and our fathers, in destroying the privileges of the monarchy, were heroically, immortally envious.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Frederick, “how my heart beats at your noble words, M. David! What a revelation! What was killing me, I realise now, was a cowardly, barren envy. Envy for me was indolence, despair, death. Envy ought to be action, hope, and life. In my impotent rage I only knew how to curse myself, others, and my own nonentity. Envy ought to give me the desire and strength to come out of my obscurity, and I will come out of it.”