M. d'Herbois, proud of Thales, of himself, and of philosophy,
proceeded to make careful preparations for the nuptials of his
well-beloved son; and already in his mind's eye beheld himself
dandling his little grand-children that were to be.
One morning he was about entering the apartment of Gustavus, for
the purpose of consulting him on the purchase of some jewels,
intended as a present for the bride. The chamber of the young man
was situated at one end of the room of M. d'Herbois. The entrance to
it was through this latter, and also by a private staircase, which
allowed the young man to go in and out without disturbing any body.
D'Herbois, just as he was about turning the handle of the glass
door, the curtain of which was on his side, checked himself, on
hearing the sound of voices. His son, he found, was not alone.
'Oh, ho!' thought he, 'Gustavus is perhaps bidding farewell to the
bachelor's life. Can he be consoling some little beauty, who is
reminding my young master of his broken vows?'
He raised the corner of the curtain, and was a little
tranquillized. The companion of Gustavus was a man. 'May be it is a
creditor,' thought he; 'but this is a lesser evil.'
He placed himself so as to see and hear what was going on. Opposite
to him, in the middle of his son's room, stood a man of about the
age of M. d'Herbois, gray-headed, with a sharp and crafty expression
of countenance, and person enveloped in a large farmer's riding-coat.
'My dear Peter,' said this person, 'listen to me----'
'Peter?' replied d'Herbois junior; 'you are mistaken, Sir; my name
is Gustavus.'
'I am not mistaken, for all that,' continued the stranger; 'listen
to me, I entreat you, my good Sir; I am about to communicate a piece
of news which fills me with joy; my only fear, (and I confess it is
a natural one,) is that it will not give you as much pleasure.'
'Go on, Sir,' said Gustavus; 'nothing that is agreeable to an honest
man can give me pain; speak out.'
The man, whose presence singularly annoyed M. d'Herbois,
deliberately took a seat, and commenced thus:
'You know, my good Sir, that it is now about twenty years since
Madame d'Herbois gave birth to a son. On account of the weak state
of her health, she was not able to afford him nourishment herself.
A nurse was sought for, and it was my wife, Margaret Pithou, of
Pontoise, who was selected.'
'Ah! you are then my foster-father,' cried Gustavus, with open arms;
'walk in, walk in; my father and mother will be delighted to see
you.'
'Softly! softly!' said Pithou; 'neither Monsieur nor Madame
d'Herbois must know that I am here, or have spoken with you, until
we have had a little explanation together, and you know all.'
'Until I know all! What is it, then, Monsieur Pithou? Pray go on,'
said Gustavus, impatiently.
'Patience, my good Sir; you shall hear all in good time.'
The more interesting and mysterious this conversation became, so
much the more immovable did his philosophy hold Monsieur d'Herbois,
who scarcely dared move, or even breathe.
'My wife and I,' continued Pithou, drawling out his words, 'like
most of our neighbors, were at that time dealers in a small way in
cattle. But provided the murrain did not get among the beasts, and
our cows kept healthy, we managed in one way or another to make both
ends meet at the end of the year. We were young then, and had one
child, a few months older than the son of Monsieur d'Herbois.'
'Than me?' exclaimed Gustavus.
'You shall see. As ill luck would have it, a speculator came down
from Paris, with plenty of money, and established himself at
Pontoise; bought up the finest cows, built large stables, raised the
price of hay and feed; and in short, broke up all the small dealers
like us; for the veal and mutton of this Parisian were always the
fattest and brought the best prices. One bad year ruined us. My wife
took it sadly to heart, and fell ill; her poor foster child felt
the effects of her malady; we dared not say any thing, lest it
should be taken from us; in fine, my wife and the child of Monsieur
d'Herbois both died on the same night. My poor Peter!' continued
Pithou, addressing Gustavus, 'my poor Peter, I was then indeed in a
situation to excite pity: nothing left me, no wife, no money, plenty
of debts, and an infant in the arms, which looked up to me for
support. A thought from heaven suddenly seemed to strike me. Said I
to myself, 'The rich are placed here to succor the poor, and render
them assistance; but as they are often hard-hearted, selfish, and
avaricious, we must have recourse sometimes to stratagem to obtain
from their credulity what their indifference refuses.' In pursuance
of this idea, I gave out every where that my son was dead, and sent
you, my own offspring, to M. d'Herbois, under charge of cousin
Potard, who was herself the dupe of my trick. Yes, you are my own
son Peter! my dear Peter!'
At the conclusion of this strange story, Pithou arose, drew Gustavus
to him, kissed his forehead, his eyes, his hair, and bedewed the
young man, who seemed lost in amazement, with paternal tears. 'How
otherwise, my dear child,' said he, 'could you have wished me to
have acted?' The time passed with Monsieur d'Herbois has procured
for you the advantages of a good education, and beside that, has
been so much exemption from suffering for you. In truth, when I
examine my motives, and think seriously of my conduct, I cannot
repent of it. Since then, fortune has been more propitious to me.
I came to Paris, engaged in trade, and as others have done before
me, have made a handsome fortune. You see that I am too honest to
allow you to profit by the riches of M. d'Herbois; we will confess
all to him. Adieu, my dear Peter! I have full proofs of what I have
told you; I am going to get them, and will take them myself to M.
d'Herbois.'
So saying, Pithou again embraced Gustavus, and departed by the
private stairs.
Monsieur d'Herbois, upon whom not a word of this conversation had
been lost, knew not what to do or think. What! Gustavus, his son!
the child of whom he had not lost sight for twenty years; whom he
loved more than ever parent loved a son; for whom he had deprived
himself of so many comforts; who bore his name; Gustavus to be
called Peter! Peter Pithou! to be the son of another! Monsieur
d'Herbois was astounded, and in the utmost consternation ran to seek
his wife.
'Madame!' cried he, 'Madame d'Herbois, I have no longer a son; my
son has been dead for twenty years!'
Madame d'Herbois was a woman of a lively disposition, who knew her
husband well, and did not always take his words literally.
'You frightened me,' said she to him, laughingly; 'but as you say
that Gustavus has been dead for twenty years, I reassured myself
when I thought of the good appetite he had at breakfast this
morning.'
'Gustavus is not my son, Madame!'
'What do you mean by that, Sir?'
'Good heavens, Madame, you do not comprehend me! I mean that he is
no more your son than he is mine. Poor Gustavus died while nursing;
we have got the son of Pithou, Peter Pithou!'
The amazed couple then recalled all the details of the early infancy
of Gustavus. He had, in fact, been placed at nurse at Pontoise,
and the child had been brought home in consequence of the death of
his nurse, Margaret Pithou. All that Pithou had related had the
appearance of truth; perhaps, alas! was true.
Gustavus at this moment entered his mother's apartment, and M.
d'Herbois now for the first time remarked that the young man did not
resemble him as much as he had formerly fancied; in fact, he had
neither the same eyes, the same features, nor the same figure. M.
d'Herbois also mentally observed that the voice of Gustavus had the
same tones as that of Pithou. Gustavus, embarrassed by his secret,
knew not how to commence the painful disclosure; his eyes filled
with tears; he turned from M. d'Herbois toward his wife, without
daring to address or embrace either of them.
'Come to my arms!' passionately exclaimed Madame d'Herbois; 'come
here, my child; we know every thing; but you are, yes, you are my
son; I feel it in my love! I feel it in my heart! Come to me, my
dear son!'
'You know every thing?' said Gustavus; 'has Pithou, then, already
brought his proofs?'
'No, my child, but your father overheard it all.'
A domestic entering, announced to M. d'Herbois that a person was
waiting to see him in his study.
'It is that Pithou,' said he, as he left the mother and son
dissolved in tears.
In the study he found his friend Durand.
'My good friend,' said Durand to him, 'as you are about marrying
your son, I thought you would like to have this beautiful cameo that
I have recently met with. I think it the finest I have ever seen.
Look at it; and it is not dear either.'
'To the devil with your cameo, and with the wedding, and with my son
too!' cried d'Herbois, beside himself with passion.
'Hey day! what's the matter now?' inquired Durand; 'has Gustavus
been getting into any scrape?'
'There is no such person as Gustavus. I have no longer any son;
there is only one Pithou; confounded be the whole race! one Peter
Pithou!'
D'Herbois then recounted to his friend the sad discovery he had just
made.
'Well, well,' said Durand, coolly, 'this is not so bad after all;
the matter may be amicably settled; M. Pithou will doubtless listen
to reason. He will possibly consent to leave Gustavus the name which
he has hitherto borne; and since you possess the affections of the
young man, what difference, after all, does it make to you?'
'What difference does it make to me!' replied M. d'Herbois, in a
fury. 'What difference? I have lost my son, my blood, my life! They
have left me in his stead the descendant of a Pithou! And do you ask
me what _difference_ does it make!'
'Patience, patience, my good Sir! Have you not always loved him
until now as if he were your son? Have not your paternal bowels
yearned toward him, as if in fact he had been Gustavus and not
Peter? Take my advice, my friend; arrange this matter with Pithou.
The young man will never lose the affection he bears you, and it
will be Pithou, and not you, who will have the worst of the bargain.'
'The wretch!' continued d'Herbois, pacing the room with hurried
strides; 'to have played the fool with me in this manner! to have
trifled thus with my affections! But there are laws against crimes
like this! Thank Heaven! we live in a civilized land; we have the
code; the substitution of children is punishable in France; I will
invoke the law; I will bring the culprit before the tribunal, and he
shall receive the reward of his guilt.'
'But consider,' replied Durand; 'there were many extenuating
circumstances in this offence of Pithou. He was suffering from want;
his mind was distracted by grief for the loss of his wife. To be
sure, nothing can justify a crime; but if any thing could excuse
one, would it not be the anxiety of a father to save his child from
imminent death? Beside,' continued Durand, 'observe the conduct of
this man. As soon as he becomes wealthy, and is able to provide for
him, he comes to reclaim his son. He is not willing that he should
enjoy any longer the advantages of your wealth; he does not even
wait until his child has consummated an advantageous marriage. All
these circumstances would plead strongly in favor of Pithou, in a
court of justice. And, in fact, the offence is not the complete
substitution of a child; it is merely a temporary one; and the court
would probably adjudge Pithou to pay to you the expenses of the
education of Gustavus, or Peter; this would be all.'
But poor M. d'Herbois would not listen to his friend. He gave
himself up to all the violence of his passion, and began already to
feel in his heart a strange aversion to a son, whom until now he had
so tenderly loved.
'Yes, yes,' said he, 'he has the very voice and look of Pithou; his
gestures, his walk. No doubt this Peter Pithou junior will turn out
a rogue, like his father.'
'But only one word,' said Durand; 'take my advice; marry Gustavus,
who is not to blame in this matter, and buy this beautiful cameo.
You will never get another such a chance.'
'I beg you, Sir, to hold your tongue about that cursed cameo!' said
d'Herbois, sternly, to his friend.
'But remember, my good Sir, you are a philosopher, and have defied
the whole world to disturb the serenity of your soul, or the
tranquillity of your spirit.'
'Philosopher! when I have lost my only child!'
'You have lost nothing. Gustavus is in good health. As for the one
that died twenty years ago, you have never known him; in fact, have
scarcely seen him. Beside, where is the merit and advantage of
philosophy, if it is not able to console you under afflictions; to
moderate grief, and impart to the mind the calmness requisite to
diminish evil, and enable you to arrive at truth?'
Instead of making answer, the philosopher burst into tears; two
briny streams flowed down his cheeks, attesting the vanity of his
stoicism, and the superiority of Thales of Melitus over Thales of
Paris.
'Ah ha!' exclaimed M. Durand, on witnessing the deep humiliation of
his friend, 'have I then conquered your philosophy? But cheer up!
Lapierre! Lapierre! come this way.'
Lapierre entered; he had laid aside his livery, and had on still the
farmer's large coat.
'Here is Pithou, and there is no other; it is Lapierre, my valet.
The claim he sets up for your son is all a matter of moonshine.
I was acquainted with all the circumstances, and laid my plans
accordingly. The true Pithou is still at Pontoise, employed in
fattening calves. He has married a second time, has a score of
children, and has no thoughts of coming here to claim a son who
is none of his. And now, Monsieur Philosopher, is it thus you put
in practice the professions you are daily preaching? Is it thus
you exemplify the maxims of the great Thales? Let but misfortune
touch your little finger, and you are beside yourself: you examine
nothing, neither the truth, nor even the probability of a thing; and
before the slightest proofs are laid before you, you withdraw your
affections, almost discard your child, and are eager to send a man
off to the galleys! And yet one of the maxims of Thales was, 'Never
decide any thing rashly.'
M. d'Herbois, confused and crest-fallen, hung down his head, and
by his silence confessed that the trial had been too severe for
his philosophy. Being, however, fortunately possessed of a large
stock of good-nature, which is sometimes better than philosophy,
he did not think it worth his while to quarrel with his friend.
Poor Gustavus alone suffered from the trial. M. d'Herbois from that
time forth could no more trace in his features that resemblance to
himself of which he had formerly been so proud; and when the young
man spoke, 'That is not my voice,' said he to himself; 'it is the
very tone of Pithou.'
And so Gustavus, although suitably married, did not get possession
of the country-house at Sussy, which was so agreeable to M.
d'Herbois during the summer season. Neither did the old folks
discommode themselves in town, and the young couple resided on the
second floor.
Convinced in this manner of the vanity of his philosophy, M.
d'Herbois quietly resumed his position as father and husband. 'It is
impossible,' said he, 'to preserve one's serenity, if our happiness
is placed upon objects out of ourselves, and depends upon a wife
or child. So when the mother of Thales besought him to marry, the
sage replied, 'It is not yet time.' After a while she renewed her
entreaties; 'It is now too late,' said Thales.
In our days, the philosophy of most people commences the day after
marriage.