by Eugène Sue
In these numerous expeditions Frederick and David displayed indefatigable perseverance, which was the means of rescue for many, and won the admiration of those people whom the advancing waters had driven back on the upland, where the farm of Madame Bastien was situated.
David’s instructions did indeed bear good fruit.
The valour and generosity of Frederick were excited to almost incredible deeds by his envy of the more exalted position of the Marquis de Pont Brillant.
“I am only a half peasant; I am not rich and am not a marquis; I have no bark painted crimson and no oarsmen in livery, nor ancestors to look back to. I have only the encouragement of my mother, the support of my friend, my two arms, and my energy,” said the young man to himself, “but by means of my devotion to the victims of this scourge, my obscure and plebeian name may become one day as well known in this country as the illustrious name of Pont Brillant. All my regret is that the wound of the marquis keeps him at the castle. I would have so much liked to rival him in zeal and courage before the face of everybody!”
In fact the wound which Raoul de Pont Brillant had received was serious enough to confine him to the bed, to his own great regret, for at the first news of the inundation he had valiantly jumped into his yawl and ordered it to the spot where it would prove the most useful.
But when the marquis became incapable of taking command and directing and inspiring his people his own inaction extended to the rest of the house, and the dowager of Pont Brillant, interested only in the suffering of her grandson, gave herself no further concern about the disaster, and roundly rebuked the cockswain of the bark for not having opposed the foolish temerity of Raoul.
Madame Bastien understood the duties of a mother otherwise. With a firm eye she saw her son go to brave new perils; she sought distraction from her own fears only in the care and comfort which she administered with adorable zeal to those whom Providence threw in her way.
Thus did she spend her long days of anxious concern for her son.
The day after the overflow, when it had somewhat abated, the roads were rendered practicable, and a few bridges repaired by carpenters permitted the organisation of more efficient means of aid to the sufferers.
As the waters retired, the unfortunate people whom the deluge had driven away from their homes returned broken in heart, and hastening in bitter impatience to see the extent of their disasters.
So it happened that the evening of the third day the farm of Madame Bastien, which had served as a place of refuge for all, became as solitary as in the past, the family of Jean François being the only ones left in the house, because they had no other shelter.
When the route of Pont Brillant became free again Doctor Dufour, whose anxiety had been extreme, hastened to the farm, to learn with joy and surprise that, notwithstanding the fatigues and excitements of these two terrible days, not one of the three friends had need of his attention. He learned also from Marie of Frederick’s wonderful cure, and after two hours of delightful confidences he left the happy home, whose inmates were about to take that repose so nobly bought.
Raoul de Pont Brillant soon learned that the young man who had snatched him from an almost certain death was Frederick Bastien.
The dowager had not renounced her project of giving this charming little commoner, so near her castle, and whose husband was always absent, to her grandson as a mistress; so, finding, as she said to Zerbinette, an excellent opportunity for undertaking the affair, she went again to see Madame Bastien, at whose house she had twice before presented herself in vain, taking her maid with her in her elegant carriage.
This time it was not necessary for Marguerite to lie in order to declare to the dowager that Madame Bastien was not at home. In fact, for several days the young woman was continually absent from her home, occupied in lavishing on all sides her blessings of material comfort and spiritual consolation.
The marquise, provoked at the futility of this visit, said to her faithful Zerbinette, as she entered:
“This is bad luck; by my faith one would say this little fool is trying not to meet me. These obstacles make me impatient, and I must finish my undertaking without considering Raoul, whether he knows how to go about it. It is an excellent beginning to be fished up by this blockhead. Indeed, in the name of gratitude to her son, Raoul has the right not to stir from his mother’s house until he has everything in hand. It is a famous opportunity. I must give this dear boy a lesson.”
It was the 31st of December, fifteen days after the overflow. The damage had been incalculable, especially for a multitude of unfortunate sufferers, who, returning to their ruined hovels, covered with mud and slime, found only the walls, saturated with water and barely protected by a broken roof.
The ruin was general.
One had lost all his little store of grain gathered from the gleaning, or bought by great privation for the winter’s nourishment.
Another had seen the waters carry away his pig or his cow, treasures of the proletary of the fields; again, there were those who had lost the only bed upon which the family slept; in fact, almost all had to deplore the sand-banks strewn over the little field from which they lived and paid the rent of the farm.
Besides, the vines were torn up by the roots, and the wine, carefully preserved to pay the hire, was carried off with the casks that contained it; in short, all those labourers, who, from the rising to the setting sun, worked with the indefatigable energy of necessity, and could hardly make both ends meet, felt bitterly that this scourge of forty-eight hours would last for many years upon their lives, and render their existence still more miserable.
The Marquis of Pont Brillant and his grandmother acted more than royally; they sent twenty thousand francs to the mayor, and twenty thousand to the parson, the day after the inundation.
Marie, as we have said, never possessed any other money than the small monthly allowance given to her by M. Bastien, for the maintenance of herself and her son; a sum from which she had little to spare for alms. She wrote then immediately to her husband, who was detained by business in Berri, and besought him to send her at once two or three thousand francs, that she might come to the assistance of the sufferers.
M. Bastien replied by asking his wife if she was making a jest of him, because he had, as he said, ten acres of the best land in the valley ruined by the sand; so far from coming to the assistance of others, he hoped to be included among those sufferers who would be the most largely indemnified, and as soon as his business was ended he was coming to the farm to draw up a statement of his losses so as to estimate the amount of his claim upon the government.
Madame Bastien, more distressed than surprised at her husband’s reply, had recourse to other expedients.
She possessed a few jewels, inherited from her mother; there were at the farm about fifteen plates and a few other pieces of silver; the young woman sent Marguerite to sell this silver and jewels at Pont Brillant; the whole brought about two thousand francs; David asked Marie’s permission to double the amount, and this money, employed with rare intelligence, proved the salvation of a large number of families.
Going through the country with her son, while David was busy making purchases, Marie saw for herself and doubled the value of her benefits by her kind words, a sack of grain for some, a few pieces of furniture for others, and for others still, linen and clothing. All was distributed by the young woman with as much discretion as discernment, and all was suitable to the needs of each.
Jacques Bastien owned a large and beautiful forest of fir-trees. The young woman, although she expected nothing less than the fury of her husband at the dreadful outrage, resolved to diminish by one thousand the number of these splendid firs, and many houses without roofs were at least solidly covered for the winter with beams and rafters of this rustic material, on which was extended a thick layer of wild broom, woven together with long and supple twigs of willow.
It was David, who had seen in his travels through the Alps shelters thus constructed so
as to resist the winds and snows of the mountains, who gave the peasants these ideas for the construction of roofs; directing and sharing their work, he was able to apply and utilise a number of facts acquired in his extensive peregrinations.
As the overflow had swept away many mills and the greater part of the ovens belonging to the isolated houses, — these ovens being built outside and projecting from the gable end, — the peasants were compelled to buy bread in the town, at some distance from the houses scattered through the valley. They bought it dearly, since almost a whole day was required to go and return, and time was precious after such a disaster. David had seen the Egyptian nomads crushing corn, after they had moistened it, between two stones, and preparing cakes of it, which they cooked in the hot ashes. He taught this process to the families whose ovens had been destroyed, and they had at least, during the first days, sufficient and comfortable food.
But, in everything, David was admirably seconded by Frederick, and took pains to efface himself so as to attract gratitude toward his pupil, that he might be more and more encouraged in the noble way in which he was walking.
And besides, even when David had neglected this delicate solicitude for his pupil, Frederick displayed such courage, such perseverance, and showed himself so affectionate and so compassionate toward those whose sufferings he and his mother were relieving by every means in their power, that his name was in every mouth and his memory in every heart.
During the fortnight which followed the overflow, every day was employed by Madame Bastien, her son, and David in benevolent work.
When night came they returned home much fatigued, sometimes wet and covered with snow, and each made a toilet whose cleanliness was its only luxury.
Marie Bastien then would return to the library, her magnificent hair beautifully arranged, and according to her custom almost always dressed in a gown of coarse, shaded blue cloth, marvellously fitting her nymph-like figure. The dazzling whiteness of two broad cuffs, and a collar fastened by a little cravat of cherry or orange coloured silk, relieved the dark shade of this gown, which sometimes permitted one to see a beautiful foot, always freshly clad in Scotch thread stockings, white as snow, over which were crossed the silk buskins of a little shoe made of reddish brown leather.
This active life passed continually in the open air, the cheerfulness of spirit, the gaiety of heart, the habitual expression of charitable sentiments, the serenity of soul, had not only effaced from the lovely features of Marie Bastien the last trace of past suffering, but, like certain flowers, which, after having languished somewhat, often revive to greater freshness, the beauty of Marie became dazzling, and David frequently forgot himself as he contemplated it in silent adoration.
The same causes produced the same results in Frederick; he was more charming than ever, in youth, vigour, and grace.
Marie, her son, and David were accustomed to assemble in the library after these long days of active and courageous devotion, in order to talk over the events of the morning while waiting for dinner, to which they cheerfully did honour, without reflecting that the modest silver had been replaced by a brilliant imitation. After the repast, they went to visit a workroom, where Marie joined several women who were employed to prepare linen and clothing. This economy enabled her to double her gifts. This last duty accomplished, they returned to spend the long winter evenings in the library around a glowing fireside, while the bitter north wind whistled out of doors.
The days thus spent passed delightfully to these three persons united by sacred indissoluble ties.
Sometimes they discussed plans for Frederick’s future, for after these fifteen days of arduous labour, he was about to begin new studies under David’s direction.
The preceptor had travelled over two hemispheres, and often spoke of his voyages, and replied to the untiring questioning of his associates, with interesting accounts of cities, armies, and costumes which he sometimes portrayed with an accurate pencil.
An appropriate reading or the execution of some piece of music terminated the evening, for David was an excellent musician, and frequently entertained his hearers with the national airs of different countries, and romances charming in their freshness and simplicity.
In these familiar conversations, mingled with intimate confidences, David learned to appreciate more and more the exquisite character and loftiness of Madame Bastien’s soul. Freed from all preoccupation, she had regained her liberty of mind, while the preceptor observed with renewed pleasure the influence he had exercised over Frederick’s ideas, and prepared new plans of study which he cheerfully submitted to the mother and son.
Indeed, every day increased David’s affection for his pupil, and he bestowed upon him all the treasure of tenderness which had filled his heart since the lamented death of his young brother. In thus loving passionately the son of Madame Bastien, David deceived himself by these fraternal memories, just as one is often deceived by vain regrets in falling in love with a resemblance.
Not infrequently midnight sounded, and the happy trio looked at each other in surprise, deploring the rapid flight of time, as they exclaimed:
“Already!”
And they would always say to each other in parting:
“To-morrow!”
Marie would retire to her own room, but Frederick would conduct David to his chamber, and there, how many times, standing within the embrasure of the door, the preceptor and pupil forgot themselves in the charm of a long friendly chat; one listening with faith, responding with eagerness, questioning with the ardour of his age, the other speaking with the tender solicitude of the mature man, who smiles compassionately on youth, impatient to try the mysterious path of destiny.
How many times old Marguerite was obliged to ascend to the floor upon which David’s chamber was situated, and say to Frederick:
“Indeed, monsieur, it is midnight, it is one o’clock in the morning, and you know very well that madame never goes to bed before you do.”
And Frederick would press David’s hand and descend to his mother’s chamber.
There, David would still be the subject of long conversations between the young woman and her son.
“Mother,” Frederick would say, “how interesting was his account of his travels in Asia Minor.”
“Oh, yes, nothing could be more so,” Marie would answer. “And besides, Frederick, what curious things M. David has taught us about the vibrations of sound, and all that, too, by a few chords on this broken old piano.”
“Mother, what a charming account he gave us, in comparing the properties of sound and light.”
“And that delightful strain from Mozart that he played. Do you remember the choir of spirits in the ‘Enchanted Flute?’ It was so aerial, so light. What a pleasure for poor savages like us, who have never known anything of Mozart; it is like discovering a treasure of harmony.”
“And how touching his anecdote about the old age of Haydn. And what he told us of the association of the Moravian brethren in America. How much less misery, how much benefit to poor people if those ideas could be applied in our country!”
“And, mother, did you notice that his eyes filled with tears when he spoke of the happiness which might be the portion of so many people who are now in want?”
“Ah, my poor child, his is the noblest heart in the world.”
“Yes, mother, and how we ought to cherish it! Oh, we must love him so much, you see; yes, so very much that it will be impossible for him to leave us. He has no family; his best friend, Doctor Dufour, is our neighbour. Where could M. David find a better home than with us?”
“Leave us!” exclaimed Marie, “leave us! why, it is he who gives us our strength, our faith, our confidence in the future. Is it possible he can abandon us now?”
Then old Marguerite was obliged to interpose again.
“For the love of God, madame, do go to bed; why, it is two o’clock in the morning,” said the old servant. “You rose at six o’clock, and so did M. Frederick, and then so must w
ork all day long! Besides, it is not good sense to sit up so late!”
“Marguerite is right to scold us, my child,” said Marie, smiling, and kissing her son on the forehead, “we are foolish to go to bed so late.”
And the next day, again Marguerite’s recriminations cut short the conversations of the mother and son.
Two or three times Marie went to bed in a sweetly pensive mood.
One evening, while Frederick was reading, his friend, thoughtful and sedate, his elbows on the table, was leaning over with his forehead on his hand; the light of the lamp, concentrated by the shade, shone brightly upon the noble and expressive face of David.
Marie, a moment distracted from the reading, directed her gaze to the guardian of her son, and looked at him a long time. By degrees, the young woman felt her eyes grow moist, her beautiful bosom palpitate suddenly, while a delicate blush mounted her snowy brow.
Just at this moment, David accidentally raised his eyes and met Marie’s glance.
The young woman immediately cast her eyes down, and blushed scarlet.
Another time David was at the piano, accompanying Frederick and Marie, who were singing a duet; the young woman turned the page, just as David had the same intuition, and their hands met.
At this electric contact, she trembled, her blood rushed toward her heart, and a cloud passed before her eyes.
Notwithstanding these suggestive indications, the young mother slept that evening, pensive and dreamy, but full of calm and chaste serenity.
As always before, she kissed her son on the forehead, without blushing.
Thus passed the last fortnight of December.
Upon the eve of the new year, David, Marie, and her son were preparing to go out, in order to carry a few last remembrances to their dependents, when Marguerite handed her mistress a letter which the express had just brought.
