Scarcely had he taken a few steps in the street, when he saw his faithful
friend Jean running towards him with a joyful face.
"What has happened?" he asked; "have you news to tell me?"
"Yes," replied Jean; "I have to tell you that the seals have been
officially broken and that you can enter your home. All your father's
debts being paid, you remain the owner of the house. It is true that all
the money and all the jewels have been taken away; but at least the house
belongs to you, and you have not lost everything. I have been running
about for an hour, not knowing what had become of you, and I hope, my dear
master, that you will now be wise enough to take a reasonable course."
"What course do you wish me to take?"
"Sell this house, sir, it is all your fortune. It will bring you about
thirty thousand francs. With that at any rate you will not die of hunger;
and what is to prevent you from buying a little stock in trade, and
starting business for yourself? You would surely prosper."
"We shall see about this," answered Croisilles, as he hurried to the
street where his home was. He was eager to see the paternal roof again.
But when he arrived there so sad a spectacle met his gaze, that he had
scarcely the courage to enter. The shop was in utter disorder, the rooms
deserted, his father's alcove empty. Everything presented to his eyes the
wretchedness of utter ruin. Not a chair remained; all the drawers had been
ransacked, the till broken open, the chest taken away; nothing had escaped
the greedy search of creditors and lawyers; who, after having pillaged the
house, had gone, leaving the doors open, as though to testify to all
passers-by how neatly their work was done.
"This, then," exclaimed Croisilles, "is all that remains after thirty
years of work and a respectable life,--and all through the failure to have
ready, on a given day, money enough to honor a signature imprudently
given!"
While the young man walked up and down given over to the saddest thoughts,
Jean seemed very much embarrassed. He supposed that his master was without
ready money, and that he might perhaps not even have dined. He was
therefore trying to think of some way to question him on the subject, and
to offer him, in case of need, some part of his savings. After having
tortured his mind for a quarter of an hour to try and hit upon some way of
leading up to the subject, he could find nothing better than to come up to
Croisilles, and ask him, in a kindly voice:
"Sir, do you still like roast partridges?"
The poor man uttered this question in a tone at once so comical and so
touching, that Croisilles, in spite of his sadness, could not refrain from
laughing.
"And why do you ask me that?" said he.
"My wife," replied Jean, "is cooking me some for dinner, sir, and if by
chance you still liked them--"
Croisilles had completely forgotten till now the money which he was
bringing back to his father. Jean's proposal reminded him that his pockets
were full of gold.
"I thank you with all my heart," said he to the old man, "and I accept
your dinner with pleasure; but, if you are anxious about my fortune, be
reassured. I have more money than I need to have a good supper this
evening, which you, in your turn, will share with me."
Saying this, he laid upon the mantel four well-filled purses, which he
emptied, each containing fifty louis.
"Although this sum does not belong to me," he added, "I can use it for a
day or two. To whom must I go to have it forwarded to my father?"
"Sir," replied Jean, eagerly, "your father especially charged me to tell
you that this money belongs to you, and, if I did not speak of it before,
it was because I did not know how your affairs in Paris had turned out.
Where he has gone your father will want for nothing; he will lodge with
one of your correspondents, who will receive him most gladly; he has
moreover taken with him enough for his immediate needs, for he was quite
sure of still leaving behind more than was necessary to pay all his just
debts. All that he has left, sir, is yours; he says so himself in his
letter, and I am especially charged to repeat it to you. That gold is,
therefore, legitimately your property, as this house in which we are now.
I can repeat to you the very words your father said to me on embarking:
'May my son forgive me for leaving him; may he remember that I am still in
the world only to love me, and let him use what remains after my debts are
paid as though it were his inheritance.' Those, sir, are his own
expressions; so put this back in your pocket, and, since you accept my
dinner, pray let us go home."
The honest joy which shone in Jean's eyes, left no doubt in the mind of
Croisilles. The words of his father had moved him to such a point that he
could not restrain his tears; on the other hand, at such a moment, four
thousand francs were no bagatelle. As to the house, it was not an
available resource, for one could realize on it only by selling it, and
that was both difficult and slow. All this, however, could not but make a
considerable change in the situation the young man found himself in; so he
felt suddenly moved--shaken in his dismal resolution, and, so to speak,
both sad and, at the same time, relieved of much of his distress. After
having closed the shutters of the shop, he left the house with Jean, and
as he once more crossed the town, could not help thinking how small a
thing our affections are, since they sometimes serve to make us find an
unforeseen joy in the faintest ray of hope. It was with this thought that
he sat down to dinner beside his old servant, who did not fail, during the
repast, to make every effort to cheer him.
Heedless people have a happy fault. They are easily cast down, but they
have not even the trouble to console themselves, so changeable is their
mind. It would be a mistake to think them, on that account, insensible or
selfish; on the contrary they perhaps feel more keenly than others and are
but too prone to blow their brains out in a moment of despair; but, this
moment once passed, if they are still alive, they must dine, they must
eat, they must drink, as usual; only to melt into tears again at bed-time.
Joy and pain do not glide over them but pierce them through like arrows.
Kind, hot-headed natures which know how to suffer, but not how to lie,
through which one can clearly read,--not fragile and empty like glass, but
solid and transparent like rock crystal.
After having clinked glasses with Jean, Croisilles, instead of drowning
himself, went to the play. Standing at the back of the pit, he drew from
his bosom Mademoiselle Godeau's bouquet, and, as he breathed the perfume
in deep meditation, he began to think in a calmer spirit about his
adventure of the morning. As soon as he had pondered over it for awhile,
he saw clearly the truth; that is to say, that the young lady, in leaving
the bouquet in his hands, and in refusing to take it back, had wished to
give him a mark of interest; for otherwise this refusal and this silence
could only have been marks of contempt, and such a supposition was not
possible. Croisilles, therefore, judged that Mademoiselle Godeau's heart
was of a softer grain than her father's and he remembered distinctly that
the young lady's face, when she crossed the drawing-room, had expressed an
emotion the more true that it seemed involuntary. But was this emotion one
of love, or only of sympathy? Or was it perhaps something of still less
importance,--mere commonplace pity? Had Mademoiselle Godeau feared to see
him die--him, Croisilles--or merely to be the cause of the death of a man,
no matter what man? Although withered and almost leafless, the bouquet
still retained so exquisite an odor and so brave a look, that in breathing
it and looking at it, Croisilles could not help hoping. It was a thin
garland of roses round a bunch of violets. What mysterious depths of
sentiment an Oriental might have read in these flowers, by interpreting
their language! But after all, he need not be an Oriental in this case.
The flowers which fall from the breast of a pretty woman, in Europe, as in
the East, are never mute; were they but to tell what they have seen while
reposing in that lovely bosom, it would be enough for a lover, and this,
in fact, they do. Perfumes have more than one resemblance to love, and
there are even people who think love to be but a sort of perfume; it is
true the flowers which exhale it are the most beautiful in creation.
While Croisilles mused thus, paying very little attention to the tragedy
that was being acted at the time, Mademoiselle Godeau herself appeared in
a box opposite.
The idea did not occur to the young man that, if she should notice him,
she might think it very strange to find the would-be suicide there after
what had transpired in the morning. He, on the contrary, bent all his
efforts towards getting nearer to her; but he could not succeed. A
fifth-rate actress from Paris had come to play Mérope, and the crowd was so
dense that one could not move. For lack of anything better, Croisilles had
to content himself with fixing his gaze upon his lady-love, not lifting
his eyes from her for a moment. He noticed that she seemed pre-occupied
and moody, and that she spoke to every one with a sort of repugnance. Her
box was surrounded, as may be imagined, by all the fops of the
neighborhood, each of whom passed several times before her in the gallery,
totally unable to enter the box, of which her father filled more than
three-fourths. Croisilles noticed further that she was not using her
opera-glasses, nor was she listening to the play. Her elbows resting on
the balustrade, her chin in her hand, with her far-away look, she seemed,
in all her sumptuous apparel, like some statue of Venus disguised en
marquise. The display of her dress and her hair, her rouge, beneath which
one could guess her paleness, all the splendor of her toilet, did but the
more distinctly bring out the immobility of her countenance. Never had
Croisilles seen her so beautiful. Having found means, between the acts, to
escape from the crush, he hurried off to look at her from the passage
leading to her box, and, strange to say, scarcely had he reached it, when
Mademoiselle Godeau, who had not stirred for the last hour, turned round.
She started slightly as she noticed him and only cast a glance at him;
then she resumed her former attitude. Whether that glance expressed
surprise, anxiety, pleasure or love; whether it meant "What, not dead!" or
"God be praised! There you are, living!"--I do not pretend to explain. Be
that as it may; at that glance, Croisilles inwardly swore to himself to
die or gain her love.