by Eugène Sue
“What! wasn’t your day’s work ended when you left the store?”
“Ended at eight o’clock in the evening! What are you thinking of? — for I had stipulated that I was to be free at eight o’clock so I could utilise the rest of the time. For a year I worked at home in the evening, on tapestry work or on my water-colours, or copying music, but after that a friend of Michel’s recommended me to a very aristocratic, but rather misanthropical, blind lady, who, being unable to go into society, preferred to pass her evenings in listening to reading; so, for three years, I acted as reader for her at a salary of eight hundred francs a year. I went to her house at nine o’clock, I read to her awhile, and then we talked and drank tea by turn. This lady lived on the Rue de Tournon, so Michel could call for me about midnight, on his return from his theatre.”
“From his theatre?”
“Yes, from the Odéon.”
“Good Heavens! has he turned actor?”
“You are mad!” cried Florence, laughing heartily. “Nothing of the sort. I told you that we both did anything we could find to do, and Michel was controller at the Odéon, performing his duties there after he had left his desk, where he earned two thousand four hundred francs a year as an entry clerk.”
“Michel, who was so indolent that he would not pay the slightest attention to his own business affairs, in years gone by!”
“And take notice that, after he returned home at night, he used to post books and straighten up people’s accounts, thus adding considerably to his earnings in the course of a year. In this fashion, my dear Valentine, and by living with the most rigid economy, going without a fire in winter, waiting on ourselves, and even working on Sunday, we accumulated the amount we needed in four years. Well, was I wrong when I boasted of the wonders indolence could accomplish?”
“I can’t get over my astonishment. This seems incredible.”
“Ah, but Valentine, as Michel says, ‘A love of idleness is often the real cause of some of the most laborious lives. Why do so many persons, who are neither ambitious nor avaricious, toil with such untiring ardour? In order that they may cease work as soon as possible, is it not?’”
“You are right, perhaps. At least, I see now that the love of idleness may impart wonderful energy to one’s efforts, at least for a time. But tell me, Florence, why were your rooms and Michel’s so close together and yet separated?”
“Oh, that arrangement was convincing proof of the most sublime and heroic wisdom on our part!” exclaimed Florence, triumphantly. We said to ourselves, ‘What is our object? To accumulate as quickly as possible the amount of money needed to enable us to lead an idle life. That being the case, time is money, so the less time we waste the more money we shall earn, and the surest way of losing a great deal of time is for us to be together. Nor is this all. We used, it is true, to hold in holy horror all love that caused one trouble and pain; but now that we are free, and there would be no cause for anxiety or self-reproach in our love, who knows, — the devil is very cunning, and we might succumb. Then what would become of our good resolutions, and all the work we are planning to do? All that time, that is to say all that money, lost! For how could we hope to muster up the necessary courage to tear ourselves from indolence, and from love as well? No, no, we must be inexorable towards ourselves, so as not to imperil our future, and swear, in the name of Indolence, our divinity, not to speak a word, a single word, to each other until our little fortune has been made.’”
“What, during these four years—”
“We have kept our oath.”
“Not one word?”
“Not one word from the day we began to work.”
“Florence, you must be exaggerating. Such self-restraint is an impossibility.”
“I promised to tell you the truth, and I am telling it. We have never spoken a word to each other during these four years. When any important matter or any question affecting our interests was to be decided, we wrote to each other; that is all. I must also admit that we invented a way to communicate with each other through the wall between our rooms. It was a very brief telegraphic code, however. Only extensive enough to permit us to say to each other, ‘Good night, Michel’— ‘Good night, Florence;’ and in the morning, ‘Good morning, Michel’— ‘Good morning, Florence;’ or, ‘It is time to start,’ or now and then: ‘Courage, Michel’— ‘Courage, Florence; let us think of paradise, and endure purgatory as cheerfully as possible!’ But even this mode of correspondence had to be strictly tabooed now and then; for would you believe it? Michel sometimes wasted so much time in tapping upon the wall with the handle of his pocket-knife that I was obliged to silence the hot-headed creature in the most peremptory manner.”
“And did this meagre correspondence satisfy you?”
“Perfectly. Did we not have a life in common, in spite of the wall that separated us? Were not our minds concentrated upon the same aim, and was not our pursuance of this aim exactly the same thing as always thinking of each other? Besides, we saw each other every morning and evening. As we were not lovers, that sufficed. If we had been, a single look might have been enough to destroy all our good resolutions. Well, a fortnight ago, our object was accomplished. In four years we had accumulated forty-two thousand eight hundred francs! We might have ‘retired,’ as merchants say, several months earlier; but we said, or, rather, we wrote to each other, ‘It is not well for persons to crave any more than is required to provide them with the necessaries of life; still, we ought to have enough to supply the needs of any poor and hungry stranger who may knock at our door. Nothing gives greater peace to the soul than the consciousness of having always been kind and humane.’ This being the case, we prolonged our purgatory a little. And now, Valentine, confess that there is nothing like well-directed indolence to imbue persons with energy, courage, and virtue.”
“Farewell, Florence,” said Madame d’Infreville, in a voice husky with tears, and throwing herself in her friend’s arms, “farewell for ever!”
“What do you mean, Valentine?”
“A vague hope impelled me to come here, — a foolish, senseless hope. Once more, farewell! Be happy with Michel. Heaven created you for each other, and your happiness has been nobly earned.”
The garden gate closed noisily.
“Madame, madame,” cried the old nurse, hastening towards them with an unsealed letter, which she handed to Valentine, “the gentleman that remained in the carriage told me to give this to you at once. He came from over there,” added the old woman, pointing to the same clump of shrubbery in which Valentine had fancied that she heard a suspicious sound, some time before.
Florence watched her friend with great surprise, as Valentine opened the missive, which contained another note, and read the following words, hastily scrawled in pencil:
“Give the enclosed to Florence, and rejoin me immediately. There is no hope. Let us depart at once.”
Involuntarily Madame d’Infreville turned as if to comply with the request.
“Where are you going, Valentine?” cried Florence, hastily seizing her friend by the hand.
“Wait for me a moment,” replied Madame d’Infreville, pressing her friend’s hands convulsively, “wait for me, and read this.”
Then giving the note to Florence, she darted away, while her friend, more and more astonished as she perceived that the writing was her husband’s, read these lines:
“Concealed behind a clump of shrubbery, I have heard all. A vague hope brought me here, and I confess that, when I saw this hope blighted, my first thought was of revenge. But I renounce both the hope and the revenge. Be happy, Florence! I can feel for you henceforth only esteem and respect.
“My only regret is that I am unable to give you your entire liberty. The law prevents that, so you must resign yourself to bearing my name.
“Once more farewell, Florence; you will never see me again, but, from this day on, remember me as your most sincere and devoted friend,
A. DE LUCEVAL.”
Madame de Luceval was deeply touched by this letter, which she had scarcely finished when she heard the sound of carriage wheels becoming fainter and fainter in the distance.
Florence felt that Valentine would never return, and when, just before nightfall, Michel came in search of Madame de Luceval, she handed him her husband’s letter.
Michel, like Florence, was deeply touched by this letter, but after a little he remarked, with a smile:
“Fortunately, Valentine is free.”
CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION.
ABOUT TWO YEARS after these events, the following paragraphs appeared in a number of the journals of the times:
“A correspondent, writing from Symarkellil, says that the ascent of one of the highest peaks of the Caucasus was made late in May by two intrepid French tourists, M. and Madame M —— . The latter, a tall and remarkably handsome brunette, donned male attire and shared all the dangers of this dangerous expedition. The guides could not say enough in praise of her courage, coolness, and gaiety. It is said that these two untiring travellers afterwards started across the steppes to Saint Petersburg in order to reach there in time to join Captain Moradoff’s expedition to the North Pole. The numerous letters from influential persons which they took with them to the court of Russia lead them to hope that they will obtain the favour they ask, and that they will be allowed to take part in this perilous expedition to the polar seas.”
“A correspondent, writing from Hyères under date of December 29th, says:
“A singular instance of extraordinary vegetation lately presented itself in this neighbourhood. Rumours of an orange-tree in full bloom at this season of the year were current, and as we seemed to doubt these reports, a friend, to convince us, took us to a small country-seat on the coast a few miles from here. There, in a quincunx of orange-trees, we saw, with our own eyes, a superb tree literally covered with buds and blossoms which perfumed the air for hundreds of yards around. We were more than repaid for the trouble of our journey by the sight of this freak of nature, and the cordial welcome given us by the master and mistress of the house, — M. and Madame Michel.”
THE END
Avarice
Anonymous 1899 translation, published by Francis A. Niccolls
Avarice is a sin of desire, also known as covetousness, greed and cupidity and in the Christian church, applies mainly to material goods. The penultimate novel in the series of The Seven Cardinal Sins opens on the narrow street of Charnier des Innocents, where a young woman named Mariette Moreau walks to meet the local scribe. She is attractive, but her beauty is subdued by signs of poverty in her dress and complexion and today she is filled with embarrassment at having to ask the scribe to write a letter for her.
Life has been hard for Mariette; she is an orphan, her brother has also died and she has had to work for a living since the age of nine. She sews at home for up to eighteen hours a day for her money, as she has to look after her irascible, ailing godmother. The letter is to a M. Louis Richard in the town of Dreux, asking him why he had not replied to her letters. No sooner has she returned to her lodgings than her godmother tells her that they have finally received a letter from that place. If Mariette is to have the scribe read it to her, she must pawn her best garments, as she has no money at all and so is compelled to do this. The scribe gives her bad news – her impending marriage to Louis has been called off; yet, unbeknownst to Mariette, the scribe has a secret connection to the young man that has deserted her. Grief stricken, Mariette returns to her lodgings, only to find the arrogant Commandant de la Miraudiere, a customer of the seamstress for whom she used to work, offering to buy her from her godmother as his mistress, as though she were an ornament he could own and display as he wishes. Can her humiliation be any deeper? However, a young man of pleasing looks and character returns from his travels to stay with his father in the Charnier des Innocents and could well symbolise the changing tide of her fortunes…
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER I.
AN UNFORTUNATE CHOICE.
THE NARROW STREET known for many long years as the Charnier des Innocents (the Charnel-house of the Innocents), near the market, has always been noted for the large number of scriveners who have established their booths in this densely populated part of Paris.
One fine morning in the month of May, 18 — , a young girl about eighteen years of age, who was clad in working dress, and whose charming though melancholy face wore that peculiar pallor which seems to be a sort of sinister reflection of poverty, was walking thoughtfully down the Charnier des Innocents. Several times she paused as if in doubt in front of as many scriveners’ booths, but either because the proprietors seemed too young or too unprepossessing in appearance or too busy, she went slowly on again.
Seeing, in the doorway of the last booth, an old man with a face as good and kind as it was venerable, the young girl did not hesitate to enter the modest little establishment.
The scrivener, struck in his turn by the young girl’s remarkable beauty and modest bearing, as well as her timid and melancholy air, greeted her with almost paternal affability as she entered his shop, after which he closed the door; then drawing the curtain of the little window, the good man motioned his client to a seat, while he took possession of his old leather armchair.
Mariette — for that was the young girl’s name — lowered her big blue eyes, blushed deeply, and maintained an embarrassed, almost painful, silence for several seconds. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously under the small gray shawl that she wore over her faded calico gown, while the hands she had clasped in her lap trembled violently.
The old scrivener, anxious to reassure the poor girl, said to her, almost affectionately, “Come, come, my child, compose yourself. Why should you feel this embarrassment? You came to ask me to write some request or petition for you, or, perhaps, a letter, did you not?”
“Yes, monsieur, it was — it was to ask you to write a letter for me that I came.”
“Then you do not know how to write?”
“No, monsieur,” replied Mariette, blushing still more deeply, as if ashamed of her ignorance, whereupon the scrivener, regretting that he had thus humiliated his client, said, kindly:
“You certainly cannot suppose me capable of blaming you for your ignorance. On the contrary, it is a sincere compassion I feel for persons who, for want of an education, are compelled to come to me, to apply to a third party, who may betray their confidence, and, perhaps, even ridicule them! And yet they are compelled to confide their dearest and most secret thoughts to these strangers. It is very hard, is it not?”
“It is, indeed, monsieur,” replied Mariette, touched by these words. “To be obliged to apply to a stranger to—”
The young girl did not finish the sentence, but blushed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears.
Gazing at his youthful client with even greater interest, the scrivener said:
“Do not be so troubled, my child. You have neither garrulousness nor ridicule to fear from me. I have always regarded as something indescribably touching and sacred the confidence which persons who have been deprived of the advantages of an education are obliged to repose in me.”
Then, with a kindly smile, he added: “But pray do not suppose for one moment, mademoiselle, that I say this to glorify myself at the expense of my confreres, and to get their clients away from them. No, I am saying exactly what I think and feel;
and at my age, one certainly may be allowed to do that.”
Mariette, more and more surprised at the old man’s words, said, gratefully:
“I thank you, monsieur; you relieve me very much by thus understanding and excusing my embarrassment. It is very hard not to know how to read and write,” she added, sighing,” but, alas! very often one cannot help it.”
“I am sure, my poor child, that in your case, as in the case of many other young girls who apply to me, it is not the good-will but the opportunity that is lacking. Many of these young girls, from being obliged to take care of their young brothers and sisters while their parents are busy away from home, have had no chance to attend school. Others were apprenticed at an early age—”
“Like myself, monsieur,” said Mariette, smiling. “I was apprenticed when I was only nine years old, and up to that time I had been obliged to remain at home and take care of a little brother, who died a short time before my father and mother.”
“Poor child! your history is very similar to that of most young girls of your station in life. But, since your term of apprenticeship expired, have you made no effort to acquire a little education?”
“Since that time I have had to work all day and far into the night to earn enough to keep my godmother and myself alive, monsieur,” said Mariette, sadly.
“Alas! yes, time is bread to the labourer, and only too often he has to choose whether he shall die of hunger or live in ignorance.”
