Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  At the sight of the handwriting, Marie could not hide her surprise and fear.

  This letter was from M. Bastien, who wrote as follows:

  “MADAME, MY WIFE (with whom I am not at all satisfied): — My business in Berri has ended sooner than I anticipated. I am now at Pont Brillant, with my boon companion, Bridou, occupied in verifying accounts. We will leave soon for the farm, where Bridou will stay a few days with me, in order to assist me in estimating the indemnity due me, out of the sum allotted to the sufferers from the overflow, because we must get some good out of so much evil.

  “We will arrive in time for dinner.

  “Take care to have a leg of mutton with an abundance of clove of garlic in the best style, and some fine cabbage soup, as I am fond of it, with plenty of hot salted pork, and plenty of Blois sausage; attend especially to that, if you please.

  “Nota bene. I shall arrive in a very bad humour, and very much disposed to box my son’s ears, in case his fits of melancholy and coxcomb airs are not at an end.

  “Your husband, who has no desire to laugh,

  “JACQUES BASTIEN.

  “P. S. Bridou is like me; he likes cheese that can walk alone. Tell Marguerite to provide it, and do you attend to it.”

  Madame Bastien had not recovered from the surprise and regret produced by the unexpected announcement of M. Bastien’s return, when she was drawn from her unhappy reflections by a tumultuous and constantly increasing excitement that she heard outside. One would have declared that an assemblage had surrounded the house. Suddenly Marguerite entered, running, her eyes sparkling with joy, as she cried:

  “Ah, madame! come, — come and see!”

  Marie, more and more astonished, automatically followed the servant.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  THE WEATHER WAS clear, the winter sun radiant. Marie Bastien, as she went out on the rustic porch, built above the front door of the house, saw about one hundred persons, men, women, and children, almost all clothed in coarse, but new and warm garments, filing in order, and ranging themselves behind the little garden.

  This procession was ended by a cart ornamented with branches of fir, on which was placed what was called by the country people, a ferry-boat — a little flat boat, resembling the one Frederick and David so bravely used during the overflow.

  Behind the cart, which stopped at the garden gate, came an empty open carriage, drawn by four horses, and mounted by two postilions in the livery of Pont Brillant; two footmen were seated behind.

  At the head of the procession marched Jean François, the farmer, leading two of his little children by the hand; his wife held the smallest child in her arms.

  At the sight of Madame Bastien, the farmer approached.

  “Good day, Jean François,” said the young woman to him, affectionately. “What do these good people who accompany you want?”

  “We wish to speak to M. Frederick, madame.”

  Marie turned to Marguerite, who, with a triumphant air, was standing behind her mistress, and said to her:

  “Run and tell my son, Marguerite.”

  “It will not take long, madame; he is in the library with M. David.”

  While the servant went in quest of Frederick, Marie, who saw then for the first time the handsomely equipped carriage standing before the garden gate, wondered what could be its purpose.

  Frederick hastened, not expecting the spectacle which awaited him.

  “What do you want, mother?” said he, quickly.

  Then, seeing the crowd which had gathered in the little garden, he stopped suddenly, with an interrogative look at his mother.

  “My child—”

  But the young woman, whose heart was beating with joy, could say no more; overcome by emotion, she had just discovered that the assemblage was composed entirely of those unfortunate people whom she and her son and David had helped in the time of the overflow.

  Then Marie said:

  “My child, it is Jean François who wishes to speak to you, — there he is!”

  And the happy mother withdrew behind her son, exchanging a glance of inexpressible delight with David, who had followed his pupil, and stood half hidden under the porch.

  Frederick, whose astonishment continued to increase, made a step toward Jean François, who said to the young man, in a voice full of tears:

  “M. Frederick, it is we poor valley people, who have come to thank you with a free heart, as well as your mother and your friend, M. David, who have been so kind. As I owe you the most,” continued the farmer, with a voice more and more broken by tears, and pointing to his wife and children with an expressive gesture, “as I owe you the most, M. Frederick, the others have told me — and — I—”

  The poor man could say no more. Sobs stifled his voice.

  Other sobs of tenderness from the excited crowd responded to the tears of Jean François, and broke the almost religious silence which reigned for several minutes.

  Frederick’s heart was melted to tears of joy. He threw himself upon his mother’s neck, as if he wished to turn toward her these testimonials of gratitude by which he was so profoundly touched.

  At a sign from Jean François, who had dried his eyes and tried to regain his self-possession, several men of the assemblage approached the cart, and, taking the ferry-boat, brought it in their arms and laid it before Frederick.

  It was a simple and rustic little boat with two oars of unpolished wood, and on the inner railing were written in rude and uneven letters, cut into the framework, the words: “The poor people of the valley to M. Frederick Bastien.”

  Then followed the date of the overflow.

  Jean François, having subdued his emotion, said, as he showed the boat to the son of Madame Bastien:

  “M. Frederick, we united with each other in making this little boat, which almost looks like the one which served you in saving us and our effects. Excuse the liberty, M. Frederick, but it is with good intention and warm friendship that we bring this little boat to you. When you use it, you will think of the poor people of the valley, and upon those who will always love you, M. Frederick; they will teach your name to their little children, who, when they are grown, will some day teach it to theirs, because that name, you see, M. Frederick, is now the name of the good saint of the country.”

  Frederick allowed his tears to flow, as a silent and eloquent response. David then, leaning over his pupil’s ear, whispered to him:

  “My child, is not this rude procession worth all the splendour of the brilliant hunting procession of St. Hubert?”

  At the moment Frederick turned toward David to press his hand, he saw a movement in the crowd, which, suddenly separating itself with a murmur of surprise and curiosity, gave passage to Raoul de Pont Brillant.

  The marquis advanced a little in front of Jean François; then, with perfect ease and grace, he said to Frederick:

  “I have come, monsieur, to thank you for saving my life, because this is my first day out, and it was my duty to dedicate it to you. I met these good people on the way, and after learning from one of them the purpose of their assemblage I joined them, since, like these good people, I am of the valley, and like several of them, I owe my life to you.”

  After these words, uttered with an accent perhaps more polished than emotional, the Marquis de Pont Brillant, with exquisite tact, again mingled with the multitude.

  “Ah, well, my child,” whispered David to Frederick, “is it not the Marquis de Pont Brillant now who ought to envy you?”

  Frederick pressed David’s hand, but was possessed by the thought: “He whom I basely desired to murder is there, ignorant of my dastardly attempt, and he has come to thank me for saving his life.”

  Then the son of Madame Bastien, addressing the people of the valley, said to them, in an impassioned voice, as he mingled with them, and cordially pressed their hands:

  “My friends, what I have done was done at the suggestion of my mother, and with the aid of my friend, M. David. It is, then, in their nam
e, as well as my own, that I thank you from the bottom of my heart for these evidences of affection. As to this little boat,” added the young man, turning toward the boat which had been deposited in the middle of the garden, and contemplating it with as much sadness as joy, “it shall be consecrated to the pleasure of my mother, and this touching inscription will remind us of the inhabitants of the valley, whom we love as much as they love us.”

  Then Frederick, addressing in turn all those who surrounded him, asked one if his fields were in a tillable condition, another if he hoped to preserve a great part of his vineyard, another still if the slime deposited on his land by the Loire had not somewhat compensated for the disaster from which he had suffered. To all Frederick said some word which proved that he had their interest and their misfortunes at heart.

  Marie, on her part, speaking to the women and mothers and children, found a word of affection and solicitude for all, and proved that like her son she had a perfect acquaintance with the sorrows and needs of each one.

  Frederick hoped to join the Marquis de Pont Brillant; he earnestly longed to press the hand of the man whom he had so long pursued with bitter hatred; it seemed to him that this frank expression ought to efface from his mind the last memory of the dreadful deed he had contemplated; but he could not find the marquis, whose carriage had also disappeared.

  After the departure of the valley people, Frederick, entering the house with his mother and David, found Marguerite, who proudly handed him a letter.

  “What is this letter, Marguerite?” asked the young man.

  “Read, M. Frederick.”

  “You permit me, mother? and you also, my friend?”

  Marie and David made a sign in the affirmative.

  Frederick immediately cast his eyes upon the signature and said:

  “It is from the Marquis de Pont Brillant.”

  “The very same, M. Frederick,” interposed Marguerite. “Before departing in his carriage he came through the grove and asked to write you a word.”

  “Come in the library, my child,” said Marie to her son.

  David, Frederick, and his mother being alone, the young man said, innocently:

  “I am going to read it aloud, mother.”

  “As you please, my child.”

  “Ah, but now I think it is doubtless a letter of thanks,” said Frederick, smiling, “and should not be read aloud.”

  “You are right; you would suppress three-fourths of it,” said Marie, smiling in her turn. “Give the letter to M. David, he will read it better than you.”

  “Come,” answered Frederick, gaily, “my modesty serves me ill. If it is praise, it will still seem very sweet to me.”

  “That will be a punishment for your humility,” said David, laughing, and he read what follows:

  “‘As I had the honour of telling you, monsieur, I left my house in the hope of expressing my gratitude to you. I met the valley people, who were on their way to make an ovation for you, — you, monsieur, whose name has rightfully become so popular in our country since the inundation. I thought I ought to join these people and wait the opportunity to thank you personally.

  “‘I should have accomplished this duty to-day, monsieur, without this interesting circumstance.

  “‘As I heard you thank the good people of the valley in a voice so full of emotion, it seemed to me I recognised the voice of a person whom I met at night in the depth of the forest of Pont Brillant about two months ago, for, if I remember correctly, this meeting took place in the first week of November.’”

  “Frederick, what does that mean?” asked Madame Bastien, interrupting David.

  “Presently, mother, I will tell you all. Please go on, my friend.”

  David continued:

  “‘It is possible, monsieur, and I earnestly hope it, that this passage in my letter relating to this meeting may appear incomprehensible to you; in that case please attach no importance to it, and attribute it to a mistake caused by a resemblance of voice and accent which is very unusual.

  “‘If, on the contrary, monsieur, you comprehend me; if you are, in a word, the person whom I met at night in a very dark spot where it was impossible to distinguish your features, you will condescend, no doubt, monsieur, to explain to me the contradiction (apparent, I hope) which exists between your conduct at the time of our meeting in the forest and at the time of the inundation.

  “‘I await, then, monsieur, with your permission, the elucidation of this mystery, that I may know with what sentiments I can henceforth have the honour of subscribing myself. Your very humble and obedient servant,

  “‘R., MARQUIS DE PONT BRILLANT.’”

  The reading of this letter, written with assurance and aggressive pride, was scarcely ended when the son of Madame Bastien ran to a table and wrote a few lines spontaneously, folded the paper, and returned to his mother.

  “I am going, mother,” said he, “to relate to you in a few words the adventure in the forest; afterward you and my friend will judge if my reply to the Marquis de Pont Brillant is proper.”

  And Frederick, without mentioning the conversation between the dowager and Zerbinette which he had surprised (for that would have outraged his mother), told the young woman and David all that happened on the fatal day to which the marquis alluded; how the marquis, having refused to fight in the darkness with an unknown person, and wishing to escape from the persistence of Frederick, had overthrown him with the breast of his horse; how Frederick, in a delirium of rage, had lain in ambuscade near a spot where the marquis would pass, in order to kill him.

  This recital terminated, without justifying Frederick, but at least explaining to his mother and David by what sequence of sentiments and deeds he had been led to conceive the idea of a dastardly ambush unknown to the Marquis of Pont Brillant, Frederick said to his mother:

  “Now, here is my answer to the letter of the Marquis de Pont Brillant.”

  Marie Bastien read the following:

  “MONSIEUR: — I provoked you without cause; I am ashamed of it. I saved your life; I am glad of it. There is the whole mystery.

  “Your very humble servant,

  “FREDERICK BASTIEN.”

  “Well, my child,” said David, earnestly, “you nobly confess a wicked intention that you have paid for at the peril of your life.”

  “When I think of this rehabilitation and of all that has just occurred,” said Marie, with profound emotion, “when I realise that it is all your work, M. David, and that fifteen days ago my son was killing himself — his heart consumed with hatred—”

  “And yet you do not know all, mother,” interrupted Frederick, “no, you do not know all that I owe to this good genius who has come to change our grief to joy.”

  “What do you mean, my child?”

  “Frederick!” added David, with a tone of reproach, suspecting the intention of Madame Bastien’s son.

  “My friend, to-day is the day of confessions, and, besides, I see my mother so happy that—”

  Then, interrupting himself, he asked:

  “You are happy, are you not, mother?”

  Marie replied by embracing her son with ecstasy.

  “So you see, my friend, my mother is so happy that a danger past cannot give her cause for sorrow, especially when she will have one reason more for loving you and blessing you.”

  “Frederick, once again I beseech you—”

  “My friend, the only reason which has made me conceal this secret from my mother was the fear of distressing her.”

  “I beg you, dear child, explain yourself,” cried Marie.

  “Ah, well, mother, those farewells at night, you remember? — it was not a dream.”

  “Why, did you really come to me that dreadful night?”

  “Yes, to bid you farewell.”

  “My God! and where were you going?”

  “I was going to kill myself.”

  Marie uttered a shriek of fright, and turned pale.

  “Frederick,” said David, �
��you see what imprudence—”

  “No, no, M. David,” interrupted the young woman, trying to smile. “It is I who am absurdly weak. Have I not my son here in my arms, on my heart?”

  As she said these words, Marie pressed her son in her arms, as they sat together on the sofa; then kissing him on the forehead, she added, in a trembling voice:

  “Oh, I have you in my arms. Now I have no more fear, I can hear all.”

  “Well, mother, devoured by envy, and more than that, pursued by remorse, which always awakened at the sound of your voice, I wanted to kill myself. I went out with M. David, I escaped from him. He succeeded in finding my tracks. I had run to the Loire, and when he arrived—”

  “Ah! unhappy child!” cried Marie, “but for him you would have drowned!”

  “Yes, and when I was about to drown I called you, mother, as one calls for help. He heard my cries, and threw himself in the Loire, and—”

  Frederick was interrupted by Marguerite.

  The old servant this time did not present herself smiling and triumphant, but timid and alarmed, as she whispered to her mistress, as if she were announcing some fatal news:

  “Madame, madame, monsieur has come!”

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  THESE WORDS OF Marguerite, “Monsieur has come!” announcing the arrival of Jacques Bastien at the very moment in which Marie realised that she owed to David not only the moral restoration but the life of her son, so appalled the young woman that she sat mute and motionless, as if struck by an unexpected blow; for the incidents of the morning had banished from her mind every thought of her husband’s letter. Frederick, on his part, felt a sad surprise. Thanks to his mother’s reticence he was ignorant of much of his father’s unkindness and injustice, but certain domestic scenes in which the natural brutality of Jacques Bastien’s character had been manifested, and the unwise severity with which he exercised his paternal authority in his rare visits to the farm, united in rendering the relations of father and son very strained.

  David also saw the arrival of M. Bastien with profound apprehension; although prepared to make all possible concessions to this man, even to the point of utter self-effacement, it pained him to think that the continuity of his relations with Frederick and his mother depended absolutely on the caprice of Jacques Bastien.