HUMAN FOLLIES.
HUMAN FOLLIES.
(_La Bêtise Humaine._)
BY
JULES NORIAC.
_Translated from the_ SIXTEENTH _Paris Edition_.
BY
GEORGE MARLOW.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA:
FREDERICK LEYPOLDT.
NEW YORK: F. W. CHRISTERN.
1863.
HUMAN FOLLIES.
CHAPTER I.
When Eusebe Martin had attained his twenty-first year, his father,
who was a man of sense, thus addressed him:--
“Eusebe, you are no longer a child: it is time to begin your
education. You were but eight years old when you lost your mother,
my beloved wife. This was a great misfortune, no doubt; for her
heart would have been to you a treasure of affection. However, if
we were permitted to believe in compensations in this world, I
should think that you had been recompensed for this loss, great as
it was. Your mother, had she lived, would have spoiled you, and
to-day you would not have been half the man you are.
“Remember that I have been to you a father full of solicitude.
Since the day of your mother’s death, I have left you as free as
the bird that at this moment is singing on the linden-tree at
the door. I have clothed you according to the season,--in summer
in linen, in winter in wool. My table has always been abundantly
supplied. As I never told you that you ate too much, you have never
shown a desire to overload your stomach. I have accustomed you to
running in the fields and to working with the peasants, which has
rendered you strong and vigorous.
“Morally, I owed you nothing more. Nevertheless, I have taught you
to read and to write. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that
you have not a thick head: instead of six months, you would have
wearied me two long years,--perhaps more. What use have you made
of the little learning I have given you? I have never taken the
pains to inquire. I have left my library entirely at your disposal,
because I knew that if it contained no good books it also contained
no bad ones. Have the books you have read tended to form or deform
your judgment? Little do I care; for, since no one can know where
falsehood is to be found and where truth is hidden, my reflections
would, probably, have been at war with reason.”
“Books generally tire me,” interrupted Eusebe. “Up to the present
time I have read nothing but the adventures of a sailor named
Robinson Crusoe, and of one Telemachus, son of Ulysses.”
“So much the better,” replied M. Martin; “or, perhaps, so much the
worse. I would rather see you an enthusiastic admirer of Robinson,
than of Paul and Virginia, or Faublas. But perhaps I am wrong; for,
after all, Paul and Virginia are all tenderness, Faublas all love,
and Robinson is egotism personified. However, nothing proves that
egotism, which is a fault, is not alone worth as much as tenderness
and love, which are considered good qualities.
“Now, my son, listen to me. You owe me your existence, for which,
if I do not merit your thanks, I should not incur your displeasure.
I but fulfilled a natural law. I have provided for your wants: the
laws of society made it my duty. I have just paid a sum of money
which exempts you from military service. You will, however, be
at liberty to become a soldier at any time you may think proper.
To-day I have received from my notary your mother’s fortune. Here
it is: it is yours. In this belt there are forty-eight pieces of
paper of the Bank of France, and one hundred pieces of gold. Each
one of these pieces of paper is worth fifty pieces of gold: each
piece of gold is worth twenty of those white pieces which I give
you on Sunday, when you go to play with the vagabond boys of the
village on the church square. In short, you possess fifty thousand
francs,--that is, more twenty-sous pieces than we gather apples
in ten years. Compared with some, you are rich; with others, you
are poor. Do not trouble yourself either about those who are above
or about those who are below you. The interest of this money will
enable you to live until, after having become acquainted with the
world, you decide to choose a vocation. If, however, you do not see
fit to take the trouble of investing it, you have only to limit
your expenses to ten francs per day, when your patrimony will
last five thousand days,--that is, about fourteen years. In all
probability, at the expiration of this time I shall be dead, and
you will naturally be the possessor of our domain, the Capelette,
the revenues of which are three thousand francs a year, in bad
times as well as in good.
“You are about to set out for Paris, the city _par excellence_ of
civilization. Never will you have so good a theatre for studying
the world. Profit by it. Go, Eusebe, and do not take the goods of
others: you would have no excuse, since you have enough of your
own. Never disguise the truth. The play is not worth the candle.
Never strike the weak, and be equally careful not to defend them:
you would make yourself two enemies. Try to have neither enemies
nor friends: there is little to choose between them. And now,
good-bye, my boy: here is the coach.”
The young man threw his arms around his father’s neck and embraced
him affectionately. M. Martin was moved by this unexpected outburst
of feeling. In a trembling voice, he said,--
“Farewell, my son! farewell!”
The young man started. His father, having placed himself at the
window a moment afterwards, looked at him as he hurried towards the
road.
“Eusebe!” cried he: “come here a moment, and tell me what put it
into your head to embrace me, and who taught you to make this
demonstration of affection.”
“Father,” replied the young man, “ten years ago M. Jaucourt, the
curate, who died last year, seeing me divide a piece of bread with
a poor idiot, embraced me as I just embraced you when you divided
your fortune with me.”
At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated
himself beside the postilion.
M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid
handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,--
“Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where
they have no business!”