I
At the beginning of the reign of Louis XV., a young man named Croisilles,
son of a goldsmith, was returning from Paris to Havre, his native town. He
had been intrusted by his father with the transaction of some business,
and his trip to the great city having turned out satisfactorily, the joy
of bringing good news caused him to walk the sixty leagues more gaily and
briskly than was his wont; for, though he had a rather large sum of money
in his pocket, he travelled on foot for pleasure. He was a good-tempered
fellow, and not without wit, but so very thoughtless and flighty that
people looked upon him as being rather weak-minded. His doublet buttoned
awry, his periwig flying to the wind, his hat under his arm, he followed
the banks of the Seine, at times finding enjoyment in his own thoughts and
again indulging in snatches of song; up at daybreak, supping at wayside
inns, and always charmed with this stroll of his through one of the most
beautiful regions of France. Plundering the apple-trees of Normandy on his
way, he puzzled his brain to find rhymes (for all these rattlepates are
more or less poets), and tried hard to turn out a madrigal for a certain
fair damsel of his native place. She was no less than a daughter of a
fermier-général, Mademoiselle Godeau, the pearl of Havre, a rich heiress,
and much courted. Croisilles was not received at M. Godeau's otherwise
than in a casual sort of way, that is to say, he had sometimes himself
taken there articles of jewelry purchased at his father's. M. Godeau,
whose somewhat vulgar surname ill-fitted his immense fortune, avenged
himself by his arrogance for the stigma of his birth, and showed himself
on all occasions enormously and pitilessly rich. He certainly was not the
man to allow the son of a goldsmith to enter his drawing-room; but, as
Mademoiselle Godeau had the most beautiful eyes in the world, and
Croisilles was not ill-favored, and as nothing can prevent a fine fellow
from falling in love with a pretty girl, Croisilles adored Mademoiselle
Godeau, who did not seem vexed thereat. Thus was he thinking of her as he
turned his steps toward Havre; and, as he had never reflected seriously
upon anything, instead of thinking of the invincible obstacles which
separated him from his lady-love, he busied himself only with finding a
rhyme for the Christian name she bore. Mademoiselle Godeau was called
Julie, and the rhyme was found easily enough. So Croisilles, having
reached Honfleur, embarked with a satisfied heart, his money and his
madrigal in his pocket, and as soon as he jumped ashore ran to the
paternal house.
He found the shop closed, and knocked again and again, not without
astonishment and apprehension, for it was not a holiday; but nobody came.
He called his father, but in vain. He went to a neighbor's to ask what had
happened; instead of replying, the neighbor turned away, as though not
wishing to recognize him. Croisilles repeated his questions; he learned
that his father, his affairs having long been in an embarrassed condition,
had just become bankrupt, and had fled to America, abandoning to his
creditors all that he possessed.
Not realizing as yet the extent of his misfortune, Croisilles felt
overwhelmed by the thought that he might never again see his father. It
seemed to him incredible that he should be thus suddenly abandoned; he
tried to force an entrance into the store; but was given to understand
that the official seals had been affixed; so he sat down on a stone, and
giving way to his grief, began to weep piteously, deaf to the consolations
of those around him, never ceasing to call his father's name, though he
knew him to be already far away. At last he rose, ashamed at seeing a
crowd about him, and, in the most profound despair, turned his steps
towards the harbor.
On reaching the pier, he walked straight before him like a man in a
trance, who knows neither where he is going nor what is to become of him.
He saw himself irretrievably lost, possessing no longer a shelter, no
means of rescue and, of course, no longer any friends. Alone, wandering on
the sea-shore, he felt tempted to drown himself, then and there. Just at
the moment when, yielding to this thought, he was advancing to the edge of
a high cliff, an old servant named Jean, who had served his family for a
number of years, arrived on the scene.
"Ah! my poor Jean!" he exclaimed, "you know all that has happened since I
went away. Is it possible that my father could leave us without warning,
without farewell?"
"He is gone," answered Jean, "but indeed not without saying good-bye to
you."
At the same time he drew from his pocket a letter, which he gave to his
young master. Croisilles recognized the handwriting of his father, and,
before opening the letter, kissed it rapturously; but it contained only a
few words. Instead of feeling his trouble softened, it seemed to the young
man still harder to bear. Honorable until then, and known as such, the old
gentleman, ruined by an unforeseen disaster (the bankruptcy of a partner),
had left for his son nothing but a few commonplace words of consolation,
and no hope, except, perhaps, that vague hope without aim or reason which
constitutes, it is said, the last possession one loses.
"Jean, my friend, you carried me in your arms," said Croisilles, when he
had read the letter, "and you certainly are to-day the only being who
loves me at all; it is a very sweet thing to me, but a very sad one for
you; for, as sure as my father embarked there, I will throw myself into
the same sea which is bearing him away; not before you nor at once, but
some day I will do it, for I am lost."
"What can you do?" replied Jean, not seeming to have understood, but
holding fast to the skirt of Croisilles' coat; "What can you do, my dear
master? Your father was deceived; he was expecting money which did not
come, and it was no small amount either. Could he stay here? I have seen
him, sir, as he made his fortune, during the thirty years that I served
him. I have seen him working, attending to his business, the crown-pieces
coming in one by one. He was an honorable man, and skilful; they took a
cruel advantage of him. Within the last few days, I was still there, and
as fast as the crowns came in, I saw them go out of the shop again. Your
father paid all he could, for a whole day, and, when his desk was empty,
he could not help telling me, pointing to a drawer where but six francs
remained: 'There were a hundred thousand francs there this morning!' That
does not look like a rascally failure, sir? There is nothing in it that
can dishonor you."
"I have no more doubt of my father's integrity," answered Croisilles,
"than I have of his misfortune. Neither do I doubt his affection. But I
wish I could have kissed him, for what is to become of me? I am not
accustomed to poverty, I have not the necessary cleverness to build up my
fortune. And, if I had it, my father is gone. It took him thirty years,
how long would it take me to repair this disaster? Much longer. And will
he be living then? Certainly not; he will die over there, and I cannot
even go and find him; I can join him only by dying."
Utterly distressed as Croisilles was, he possessed much religious feeling.
Although his despondency made him wish for death, he hesitated to take his
life. At the first words of this interview, he had taken hold of old
Jean's arm, and thus both returned to the town. When they had entered the
streets and the sea was no longer so near:
"It seems to me, sir," said Jean, "that a good man has a right to live and
that a misfortune proves nothing. Since your father has not killed
himself, thank God, how can you think of dying? Since there is no dishonor
in his case, and all the town knows it is so, what would they think of
you? That you felt unable to endure poverty. It would be neither brave nor
Christian; for, at the very worst, what is there to frighten you? There
are plenty of people born poor, and who have never had either mother or
father to help them on. I know that we are not all alike, but, after all,
nothing is impossible to God. What would you do in such a case? Your
father was not born rich, far from it,--meaning no offence--and that is
perhaps what consoles him now. If you had been here, this last month, it
would have given you courage. Yes, sir, a man may be ruined, nobody is
secure from bankruptcy; but your father, I make bold to say, has borne
himself through it all like a man, though he did leave us so hastily. But
what could he do? It is not every day that a vessel starts for America. I
accompanied him to the wharf, and if you had seen how sad he was! How he
charged me to take care of you; to send him news from you!--Sir, it is a
right poor idea you have, that throwing the helve after the hatchet. Every
one has his time of trial in this world, and I was a soldier before I was
a servant. I suffered severely at the time, but I was young; I was of your
age, sir, and it seemed to me that Providence could not have spoken His
last word to a young man of twenty-five. Why do you wish to prevent the
kind God from repairing the evil that has befallen you? Give Him time, and
all will come right. If I might advise you, I would say, just wait two or
three years, and I will answer for it, you will come out all right. It is
always easy to go out of this world. Why will you seize an unlucky
moment?"
While Jean was thus exerting himself to persuade his master, the latter
walked in silence, and, as those who suffer often do, was looking this way
and that as though seeking for something which might bind him to life. As
chance would have it, at this juncture, Mademoiselle Godeau, the daughter
of the fermier-général, happened to pass with her governess. The mansion
in which she lived was not far distant; Croisilles saw her enter it. This
meeting produced on him more effect than all the reasonings in the world.
I have said that he was rather erratic, and nearly always yielded to the
first impulse. Without hesitating an instant, and without explanation, he
suddenly left the arm of his old servant, and crossing the street, knocked
at Monsieur Godeau's door.