Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “What is the matter?” he exclaimed, seeing Suzanne standing there, pale and terrified.

  “Thérèse was just closing the windows in the dining-room, when she saw, in the moonlight, two men peering over the garden wall.”

  “Thérèse is a coward, afraid of her own shadow, I expect.”

  “Oh, no, monsieur, Thérèse did see the two men distinctly. They were evidently about to enter the garden, when the noise she made in opening the window frightened them away.”

  “These fears seem to me greatly exaggerated,” replied Cloarek; “still, take good care not to say anything about this to Sabine to-morrow. It will only make the poor child terribly uneasy. It is a splendid moonlight night, and I will go out into the garden and satisfy myself that everything is all right.”

  “Go out into the garden!” cried Suzanne, in great alarm. “Don’t think of such a thing. It would be very dangerous, I am sure.”

  “That is all nonsense, my dear Suzanne,” said Cloarek, turning toward the door. “You are as great a coward as Thérèse.”

  “First, let me go and wake Segoffin, monsieur,” pleaded Suzanne. “I tried before I came to you, but this time I will knock so loud that he can’t help hearing me.”

  “And at the same time wake my daughter and frighten her nearly to death by all this hubbub in the house.”

  “You are right, monsieur, and yet you ought not to venture out entirely alone.”

  “What are you doing, Onésime?” asked Cloarek, seeing the younger man making his way toward the door. “Where are you going?”

  “I am going with you, monsieur.”

  “And what for?”

  “My aunt thinks there may be some danger, monsieur.”

  “And of what assistance could you be?” asked Yvon, not curtly or scornfully this time, for Onésime’s devotion touched him.

  “It is true that I can be of very little assistance,” sighed the unfortunate youth, “but if there is any danger, I can at least share it, and, though my sight is poor, perhaps, as a sort of compensation, I can hear remarkably well, so I may be able to find out which way the men went if they are still prowling around the house.”

  This artless offer was made with such evident sincerity, that Cloarek, exchanging a compassionate look with Suzanne, said, kindly:

  “I thank you for your offer, my young friend, and I would accept it very gratefully if your hand did not require attention. The burn is evidently a deep one, and must pain you very much, so you had better attend to it without further delay, Suzanne,” he added, turning to the housekeeper.

  Cloarek went out into the garden. The moon was shining brightly on the sleeping waves. A profound stillness pervaded the scene, and no other human being was visible. Climbing upon the wall, he gazed into the depths below, for the garden wall on the side next the sea was built upon the brow of a steep cliff. Cloarek tried to discover if the grass and shrubbery on the side of the cliff had been broken or trampled, but the investigation revealed no trace of any recent visitor. He listened attentively, but heard only the murmur of the waves as they broke upon the beach, and, concluding that there was no cause for alarm as such a thing as a robbery had not been heard of since Sabine had lived there, he was about to leave the terrace and reënter the house when he saw one of those rockets that are used in the navy as signals at night suddenly dart up from behind a clump of bushes half-way up the beach.

  The rocket swiftly described a curve, its stream of light gleaming brightly against the dark blue heavens for an instant, then died out. This occurrence seemed so remarkable to Cloarek, that he hastily retraced his steps to see if there were any vessel in sight to respond to this signal from the shore, but no vessel of any sort or kind was visible, — only the broad expanse of ocean shimmering in the moonlight met his gaze.

  After vainly endeavouring to explain this singular occurrence for some time, but finally deciding that the rocket must have been fired by smugglers as a signal, he returned to the house.

  This occurrence, which ought, perhaps, to have furnished the captain with abundant food for thought, closely following as it did the bold abduction of which he had been the victim, was speedily forgotten in the grave reflections that his conversation with Onésime had awakened.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  ARGUMENTS FOR AND AGAINST.

  WHEN CLOAREK RAPPED at the door of his daughter’s room the next morning, she promptly responded to the summons, smiling and happy.

  “Well, my child, did you rest well?” he inquired.

  “Splendidly, father. I had the most delightful dreams, for you bring me happiness even in my sleep.”

  “Tell me about these delightful dreams. I am always anxious to hear about everything that makes you happy, whether it be an illusion or reality,” he responded, anxious to bring the conversation around naturally to the subject of Onésime. “Come, I am listening. What brilliant castles in Spain did you behold in your slumbers?”

  “Oh, I am not ambitious, father, even in my dreams.”

  “Is that really so, my child?”

  “It is indeed, father. My desires are very modest. Luxury and display have no charms for me. I dreamed last night that I was spending my life with you, — with you and dear Suzanne, and with Segoffin, who is so warmly attached to you.”

  “And who else?”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot.”

  “Thérèse, I suppose?”

  “No, not Thérèse.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “M. Onésime.”

  “M. Onésime? I do not understand that. How did M. Onésime happen to be living with us?”

  “We were married.”

  The words were uttered in such a frank and ingenuous manner that Cloarek could not doubt the perfect truthfulness of his daughter’s account; and rather in doubt as to whether he ought to congratulate himself on this singular dream or not, he asked, a little anxiously:

  “So you and M. Onésime were married, you say?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “And I had consented to the marriage?”

  “You must have done so, as we were married. I don’t mean that we were just married, — we seemed to have been married a long time. We were all in the parlour. Three of us, you and Onésime and I, were sitting on the big sofa. Suzanne was crocheting by the window, and Segoffin was on his knees fixing the fire. You had been silent for several minutes, father, when, suddenly taking M. Onésime’s hand and mine, — you were sitting between us, — you said: ‘Do you know what I have been thinking?’ ‘No, father,’ M. Onésime and I answered (for naturally he, too, called you father). ‘Well,’ you continued, ‘I have been thinking that there is not a happier man in the world than I am. To have two children who adore each other, and two faithful old servants, or rather two tried friends, and spend one’s life in peace and plenty with them, surely this is enough and more than enough to thank the good God for now and always, my children.’ And as you spoke, father, your eyes filled with tears.”

  “Waking as well as dreaming, you are, and ever will be, the best and most affectionate of daughters,” said Cloarek, deeply touched. “But there is one thing about your dream that surprises me very much.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Your marriage with Onésime.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “How strange. It seemed so perfectly natural to me that I wasn’t at all surprised at it.”

  “But in the first place, though this is not the greatest objection, by any means, M. Onésime has no fortune.”

  “But how often you have told me that all these business trips, and all these frequent absences that grieve me so much, have been made solely for the purpose of amassing a handsome dowry for me.”

  “That is true.”

  “Then, in that case, M. Onésime does not need any fortune.”

  “Nevertheless, though it is not absolutely indispensable that M. Onésime should possess a fortune, it is certainly very desirable.
There is another objection.”

  “Another?”

  “M. Onésime has no profession and consequently no assured social position.”

  “He is not to blame for that, poor fellow! Who could possibly consider his enforced idleness a crime? Will, education, capability, none of these are lacking. It is his terrible infirmity that proves such an obstacle to everything he undertakes.”

  “You are right, my child; this infirmity is an insuperable obstacle that will unfortunately prevent him from achieving success in any career; from creating any position for himself, and even from marrying, except in dreams, understand.”

  “I don’t understand you at all, my dear father. I really don’t.”

  “What! my child, don’t you understand that it would be folly in any woman to marry a half-blind man who cannot see ten feet in front of him? don’t you understand that in such a case the rôles would be entirely reversed, and that, instead of protecting his wife, as every man ought to do, M. Onésime will have to be protected by the woman who would be foolish enough to marry him?”

  “It seems to me only right that the person who is able to protect the other should do so.”

  “Certainly; but this duty devolves upon the man.”

  “Yes, when he is able to fulfil this duty; when he is not, it devolves upon the wife.”

  “If she is foolish enough, I repeat, to accept such a life of self-sacrifice and weighty responsibility.”

  “Foolish?”

  “Idiotic, rather. Don’t look at me so indignantly.”

  “Listen to me, father.”

  “I am listening.”

  “You have reared me with the utmost kindness and devotion; you have anticipated my every wish; you have surrounded me with every comfort; and for my sake you have exposed yourself to all the fatigue and discomfort of long business trips. Am I not right?”

  “It was not only a pleasure, but my duty to do these things for you, my dear child.”

  “A duty?”

  “The most sacred of all duties.”

  “To protect me — to be my guide and my support, you mean, do you not?”

  “Precisely. It is the duty of every parent.”

  “That is exactly what I was coming at,” said Sabine, with amusing naïveté. “It is a father’s duty to protect his child, you say?”

  “Certainly.”

  “But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part of guide, support, and protector? Our rôles would be reversed, as you say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my dear father.”

  “But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her father. In such a case, it is very grand and noble in her to devote her life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free to choose would, I repeat, — don’t glare at me so, — be a fool, yes, an idiot, to select for a husband—”

  “An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest solicitude,” cried Sabine, interrupting her father. “So you really believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe it, — you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every sacrifice for her, — tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote one’s life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind; tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and I will believe you.”

  “No, my generous, noble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be lying if I did,” exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine’s generous enthusiasm; “no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all superior natures.”

  “So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after all,” replied the girl, smiling.

  “You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully.”

  “And what is that?”

  “When a man loves, he loves body and soul; you must admit that. The contemplation of the charming face of a beloved wife is as sweet to a man as the realisation of her merits and virtues. Now, in a long conversation that I had last evening with M. Onésime, at your recommendation, remember, I asked him if he could see a person a few feet off, distinctly. He replied that he could not, and remarked in this connection that he had seen you plainly but once, and that was yesterday when you were assisting Suzanne in binding up his hand. The most inconceivable thing in your dream-marriage, after all, is a husband who spends his life near his wife without ever seeing her except by accident, as it were.”

  “Ah, well, father, I, for my part, think such a state of affairs is not without its advantages, after all.”

  “Really, that is going a little too far, I think.”

  “I will prove it to you if you wish.”

  “I defy you to do it.”

  “But, father, I have read somewhere that nothing could be more sacrilegious than to leave always exposed to view the portraits of one’s loved ones; for the eye finally becomes so accustomed to these lineaments that the effect is perceptibly impaired.”

  “There may be some truth in this remark, but I do not perceive any special advantage to be derived from it so far as you are concerned.”

  “But if, on the contrary, these portraits are in a case that is opened only when one desires to contemplate the beloved features, the impression produced upon you is powerful in proportion to the rarity of the treat.”

  “Your reasoning is fairly good, to say the least; but how about the other party, the person that can see? She will be obliged to close her eyes, I suppose, and keep them closed, to prevent her husband’s features from losing their charm.”

  “Are you really in earnest in making this objection?”

  “Certainly I am.”

  “Then I will merely say in reply that, though I put myself in M. Onésime’s place for a moment, that is no reason why I should renounce my own excellent eye-sight, for I am not in the least afraid that I should ever tire of looking at my husband any more than I tire of looking at you, my dear father, and I know I could gaze at your face a hundred years without growing weary of reading on your noble features all your devoted tenderness for me,” added Sabine, kissing her father fondly.

  “My dear, dear child,” murmured Cloarek, responding to his daughter’s fervent caress, “how can I hope to contend successfully with your heart and reason. I must acknowledge myself beaten, I suppose, and confess that your dream is not so unreasonable, perhaps, after all, and that a woman might perhaps marry such a terribly near-sighted man if she really loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of your romantic way of regarding poor Onésime’s infirmity, I should infinitely prefer — But, now I think of it—”

  “Well, father?”

  “During my travels I have heard a good deal about a young and wonderfully skilful surgeon, — a terrible gourmand, too, they say he is, by the way. It is his only fault, I understand. This young surgeon established himself in Paris a few years ago, and his fame has grown, until he is now considered one of the greatest celebrities of the scientific world. It is possible that he may be able to restore this poor fellow’s sigh
t.”

  “Do you really suppose there is any hope of that?” cried Sabine.

  “I cannot say, my child, but I know several wonderful cures that Doctor Gasterini has effected, and I will write to him this very day. I am going out for a little while, but I shall be back in an hour, and as I shall want to see you as soon as I return, you had better wait for me here.”

  On leaving Sabine, Cloarek went up to Onésime’s room, and, desiring that their conversation should be of the most secret character and free from any possibility of interruption, he asked that young man to accompany him on a promenade he intended to take on the beach before dinner.

  CHAPTER XV.

  AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.

  SOON AFTER M. Cloarek left the house in company with Onésime, Segoffin might have been seen standing on the garden terrace with an old spy-glass levelled on an object that seemed to be absorbing his attention and exciting his surprise and curiosity to the highest pitch.

  The object was a vessel that he had just discovered in the offing and that elicited the following comments as he watched its evolutions.

  “It seems preposterous! Am I dreaming, or is that really our brig? It must be! That rigging, that mast, those lines, are certainly hers, and yet it cannot be. That is not her hull. With her barbette guns she sat as low in the water as a whaler. I don’t see a single gun poking its nose out of this craft, though. No, no, it is not, of course it is not. This vessel is painted a dark gray, while the Hell-hound was black with scarlet stripes. And yet that big sail perched so rakishly over the stem, that rigging fine as a spider’s web, there never was a vessel built except the Hell-hound that could carry such a stretch of canvas as that. But what an ass I am! She is putting about, so there’s a sure way of satisfying myself of the identity I wish to verify, as M. Yvon used to say when he wore the robes of office and amused himself by throwing chief justices out of the window, — that is to read the name on her stern, as I shall be able to do in a minute or two, and—”

  But Segoffin’s soliloquy was here interrupted by a familiar tap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, he found himself face to face with Suzanne.