THE CONSULTATION.
Scarcely had the outer door closed upon Firmin when Monsieur Eugène
finished his interview with the land-owner, and presently Catherine was
asked to come into his office.
A strange man was Monsieur Eugène. He was rich in many good qualities,
but he had one fault, or rather an unfortunate failing, which had
practically destroyed those gifts of nature which would have made him a
great success had he but devoted himself to one profession or one art.
Having received a liberal education in other branches, Eugène Bertier
went to Paris to study medicine. For three years he applied himself to
this science with an unusual enthusiasm. Not a student in the college
could compare with him in diligence or knowledge. He was held up as
an example to the other students, and was very popular among the
foremost surgeons in the institution. One day a little child, a girl of
fourteen, was brought to the hospital. She was a winsome, intelligent
little thing who had been cruelly burned in a fire while attempting to
save a baby brother. From the first moment he saw her Eugène gained an
affection almost paternal for the little girl--his No. 17, as he called
her, being his seventeenth patient.
The principal doctor said to him: “Monsieur Bertier, I place this
little girl in your charge. I believe that you can cure her.”
Eugène accepted the trust, saying: “Yes, I am sure of it.”
The little girl had the utmost confidence in her young physician,
and seeing with what tenderness he dressed her burns, she bore the
pain with rare fortitude. The right side of her body was a mass of
sores. With compressed lips she endured the agony of having the cotton
changed, not a cry escaping her. When the pain was less intense, when
she was comparatively easy, the young doctor questioned her concerning
her family and home life, winning her confidence by his kind and
sympathetic manner. Alas! little Madelaine’s story was a sad one. Her
father, a well-born, honest, and worthy man, becoming financially
embarrassed, had ended his troubles by committing suicide. He had left
four children and a nervous, sickly wife to battle with the world.
The mother soon afterward had died, and young Madelaine had been left
to provide for her little brothers and sister--not for long, however,
for in trying to save her youngest charge, who perished in a fire, she
herself had been terribly burned, and the two other children had been
handed over to charity.
Quite simply she told her story, as though her pain and suffering were
but natural and merited. Monsieur Eugène was touched. “First,” he
mentally concluded, “let me cure her and then I will see what can be
done.”
Every day he brought to her some delicacy: a basket of fruit, a
nosegay, or some bonbons. Never was a brother more devoted to a sister
than was he to the afflicted child. The treatment to which he resorted
seemed certain. It was now only a question of time, and each day the
affection between the two grew stronger.
“Fortunately I am rich, and when she is strong enough I will establish
her in a little flower-stall wherever she wishes it to be located.”
Then the hot weather came and Eugène redoubled his precautions and
care. One day, however, he found a little white spot upon the flesh
where the burn had resisted his treatment.
Calling the chief surgeon, he showed him the spot and expressed his own
fears in a whisper. “That is nothing,” said the surgeon. “Don’t worry
about it.”
He prescribed another application, but on the following day Madelaine
was worse. Then Eugène called in consultation the most famous
practitioners in all Paris, but in vain.
Twenty-four hours later the young girl died in his arms. Science had
failed to save her.
The grief-stricken young physician thus depreciated the art of healing:
“For what purpose is science? What matters it how hard one studies or
how deeply one delves into scientific research if one can do nothing
at a time like this? Science, after all, is only an illusion, and the
scientists are humbugs. I do not wish to deceive those who come to me
in confidence. I will renounce this so-called science. I will not be a
physician.”
His decision was irrevocable. But as he was by nature fond of work he
could not remain idle or aimless, and accordingly three months later
he began the study of painting. After four years in this pursuit
he abandoned it to study law. Whatever he undertook he did well,
and his brilliant attainments won for him the respect of every one.
But he spoiled everything by always and at every step exacting of
himself perfection. The men with whom he came in contact must be
irreproachable. To see wickedness and immorality on all sides was
terrible to him. The means which men employed to succeed in life
disgusted him. Here and there he saw that men of brains often fell
short of success, while dull and irresponsible men were on the top wave
of prosperity, and these glimpses of life shocked his too sensitive
nature.
It is a decided mistake not to take humanity for what it is worth,
without stopping to speculate and to moralize. But poor Eugène could
not understand the frailty of mankind, and so one day at the age of
thirty-five, disillusioned, not knowing what to do, regretting his own
unworthiness, but convinced that a man truly honest and pure-minded
will strive to make his own life unimpeachable before criticising the
foibles of others, he realized how little real good he had done in the
world. Visions of the fields and hedges of Morvan came to his mind, and
finally he returned to his native town to put all his knowledge and
acquirements at the service of his unsophisticated neighbors.
Twenty years later he still dwelt at St. Benoit, where a fellow-citizen
could not construct a house, fell a tree, marry a girl, make a will,
buy a meadow or undertake a lawsuit without consulting Monsieur Eugène.
Always good-natured and generous, he gave himself up unreservedly to
all their interests. He cured their wounds, settled their disputes,
and advised them in their conduct, and only asked in return a little
gratitude.
To say that Monsieur Eugène did not nourish vague regrets would hardly
be true. But he had acquired, with years, a certain indifference to
what might have been, which contributed greatly to his tranquillity of
mind.
When Catherine entered he asked her to sit down for a moment while he
wrote a few lines. Monsieur Eugène’s library was an artistic, beautiful
room. Rare volumes filled the shelves and exquisite _objets d’art_ and
unique _vertu_ were scattered about in profusion. All these things,
however, were quite lost upon the ordinary peasant who came to him
for advice. Only a few, like Catherine and Savin, could appreciate
his taste, the rest declaring that Monsieur Eugène was _bizarre_ and
eccentric in this particular. Catherine was too much excited to contain
herself, and stepping up to his desk she simply said: “Monsieur Eugène,
I want to procure a separation.”
“What! Has Savin been unkind to you?”
“Yes, and moreover he struck me on the shoulder. I will not stand such
indignities, of course, and besides, we are both unhappy together, so
it will be far better if we are separated.”
“Was any one present at your quarrel?”
“No.”
“That is unfortunate, for witnesses are necessary in such a case. A
tribunal would not be satisfied with your word alone.”
“Ah! and what if he kills me in the mean time?”
“My dear Catherine, I do not say the law is always agreeable. I only
tell you what the law is.”
“Then it is impossible for me to free myself from him?”
“No. If Savin confesses that he struck you, that will suffice.”
“Then he will confess it, for he desires a separation quite as much as
I do.”
“Very well. Have you any money?”
“Why? Do I need much?”
“Certainly.”
“What! must I be subjected to insult, maltreatment, and abuse because I
have no money?”
“Alas!”
“_Mon Dieu!_ And then the world is astonished because a man is tempted
to kill his wife or a woman to----”
“Say no more, Catherine. The words may cost you dear.”
“But how unreasonable!”
“The law provides, however, in cases like yours, that if one of
the parties be really a worthy object of judiciary assistance, the
government will furnish it.”
“Then I shall seek such aid. How can I do so?”
“Wait one minute and tell me, is it true that you permitted Bruno to
embrace you yesterday in the walnut grove?”
Catherine blushed and lowered her eyes.
“Be frank with me, Catherine. I am your friend.”
“Well, yes, it is true; but if you only knew the circumstances----”
“Listen, Catherine. You have been very indiscreet, and naturally your
husband is mad with jealousy and wounded pride.”
“O Monsieur, do not discuss the question. I understand all you would
say; but do you not think I can obtain the assistance you speak of?”
“Candidly, no. You cannot.”
“But why?”
“Because you have been at fault, and inquiries will be made regarding
your character, and Savin’s as well.”
“What of that?”
“Everybody knows Savin and admires him. The magistrates will learn
about the raspberry _fête_ last summer and its consequences. Besides,
you have been most imprudent in your attitude toward Firmin and Bruno.”
“But, Monsieur----”
“My child, even if you had the necessary means to push a lawsuit, I
should still advise you to desist.”
“Why?”
“Because Savin married you under most peculiar circumstances, and you
must not forget his generosity and magnanimity in shielding you against
the world. Most women would adore such a man, no matter how jealous he
was. Such a man never has any difficulty in finding friends to defend
him.”
“I have nothing more to say, Monsieur. Good-morning,” said Catherine,
as she hastened with an injured look toward the door.
Understanding her feelings, Monsieur Eugène quietly rose and opened the
door for her. Sad and troubled, Catherine went away. As she was passing
the inn she heard a loud discussion going on. Andoche’s voice could be
heard above all the others, but Firmin too was talking loudly, trying
to defend himself against their taunts.
“She is pretty, to be sure, Firmin,” Fadard was saying, “but you must
run a great risk.”
“Can it be that you have been to the war?” asked another.
“What a gay cavalier you are,” declared a third.
“May you live to grow old,” cried Fadard, sarcastically.
“Stop!” shouted Firmin, at last, “or you will be sorry.”
“About what?”
“Well, you just wait long enough and he will do you up in the same
way, Monsieur; and then we shall see how much there is to your boasted
bravery. You are as much of a poacher as anybody.”
“Look out--here comes Savin’s wife.”
“Well, she will shut his mouth quick enough.”
Firmin seized a bottle and brandished it over the head of Nicolas, the
last speaker. Andoche interposed, and Firmin, availing himself of the
opportunity to escape, ran out of the inn and soon overtook Catherine
on the road. She greeted him with an air of hauteur.
“I know what a coward you are,” she said. “I see I can look to you for
nothing.”
“I will kill him to-night.”
“Oh, come, you are only boasting.”
“I will kill him, I tell you!”
“And _I_ don’t believe you.”
With a savage gesture Firmin turned and left her.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]