Octave Feuillet, born at Saint Lô, in France, on August 11,
1821, was the son of a Norman gentleman who regarded
literature as an ignoble profession. When Octave ran away to
Paris in order to pursue a literary career, his father refused
to help him, and for some years the young writer had a very
hard struggle. But on taking to novel-writing, Feuillet
quickly acquired fame and fortune. His "Romance of a Poor
Young Man" ("Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre"), which
appeared in 1858, made him the most popular author of the day.
Standing midway between the novelists of the romantic school
and the writers of the realistic movement, he combined a sense
of the poetry of life with a gift for analysing the finer
shades of feeling. The plot of the "Romance of a Poor Young
Man" is certainly extraordinary; but in the present case some
allowance must be made for the fact that the hero is induced
to accept the humble position in which he finds himself by his
old family lawyer, who secretly designs to marry him to the
daughter of his new employers. A scheme of this sort would not
Strike a French reader as improbable, for marriage in France
is often more a business arrangement than a love affair.
Feuillet spent the latter part of his life in retirement, and
died on December 29, 1890.
_I.--A Nobleman in Difficulties_
Here I am, then, in the situation that Lawyer Laubépin obtained for me.
I am alone at last, thank goodness, sitting in a gloomy room in this old
Breton castle, in which the former steward to the Laroque family used to
live. My position is certainly very strange, but as Laubépin was
discreet, and did not tell his clients that he was sending them a new
steward in the person of the young Marquis of Champcey, perhaps I shall
not find my post very difficult. I was afraid that the Laroques were a
family of the vulgarly rich sort, like the dreadful persons who have
bought my father's lands. Laroque is a picturesque figure in his old
age, and though his widowed daughter-in-law is rather more commonplace,
his grand-daughter, Marguerite Laroque, is a nobly beautiful girl.
If it were not for my accursed pride, I should now feel happier than I
have ever felt since that day of disaster, misery, and shame when
Laubépin told me that my poor dead father had lost his fortune in
speculations, and left nothing but his title and his debts. Well, I have
paid the debts, and if I can now only earn enough money to keep my
little sister Hélène at school, I shall not grumble at my lot. I feel
the loss of my friends, it is true. There is not a soul I can confide
in, and I must find some outlet for the thoughts and feelings that
oppress me; so I will keep this diary.
It will be at least a silent confidant, and perhaps when I am older I
shall be able to read with a certain pleasurable interest its record of
my singular adventures. No other man in France, on May 1, 1857, can have
been transformed so suddenly, as by the wand of a witch, from a powerful
and wealthy young nobleman of ancient lineage into a humble and despised
domestic servant. Perhaps a good fairy will appear and restore me to my
proper shape; but I wish she had appeared at dinner this evening. There
were twenty guests, and it was the first time since the change of my
fortunes that I took part in a society affair. Nobody spoke to me,
except the pretty little governess of the family, Mlle. Hélouin; and we
were placed at the end of the table. The position of honour was given to
a young and brilliant nobleman, M. de Bévallan, whose estate joined that
of the Laroque family. I gathered from Mlle. Hélouin that it was his
ambition to unite the two estates by marrying Mlle. Marguerite Laroque.
I was, therefore, surprised when the lovely heiress led her grandfather
into the room when everybody was seated, placed him in a chair by
Bévallan, and came and sat by my side.
"She can't," I thought to myself, "be much in love with her wooer," and
I began to study her with a certain curiosity. Her fine, clear-cut
features and large dark eyes attracted me; and by way of opening the
conversation I spoke of the wildly beautiful scenery through which I had
passed on my way to the castle. It was a bad beginning.
"I see," she said, with a singular expression of irony, "that you are a
poet. You must talk about the forests and moorlands with Mlle. Hélouin,
who also adores these things. For my part I do not love them."
"What is it, then, that you really love?" I said.
She gave me a supercilious look and said, in a hard voice, "Nothing,
sir."
I must confess I was hurt. I could not see that I had done anything to
lay myself open to so harsh an answer. No doubt I was only a servant.
But why had she come and sat beside me if she did not want to talk? I
was glad when the dinner was over and we went into the drawing-room.
Madame Laroque, the widowed mother of Marguerite, began to ask M.
Bévallan about the new opera in Paris; he was unable to reply, so, as I
had seen the work in Italy before it was produced in France, I gave her
a description of it. I am afraid I forgot myself with Madame Laroque--a
fine-looking, cultivated woman of forty years of age. Flattered by the
way in which she treated me entirely as her equal, I insensibly glided
from theatrical topics to fashionable gossip, and just stopped in time
in an anecdote about my tour in Russia. A few more words and she would
have learnt that her humble steward, Maxime Odiot--as I am now called--
was a man with very aristocratic connections.
In order to hide my embarrassment, I moved towards the table where some
of the guests were playing whist. This led to my committing a blunder
which, I fear, may make my position a difficult one. Among the whist-
players was a Mlle. de Porhoet-Gael, eighty-eight years of age and full
of strange crotchets. The last descendant of the noblest of Breton
families, she lived, so Madame Laroque told me, on an income of forty
pounds a year, her fortune having been spent in vainly fighting for the
succession to a great estate in Spain. She was talking about it to her
partner when I came up.
"The estate belongs to me," she was saying. "My father told me so a
hundred times, and the persons who are trying to take it from me have no
more connection with my family than this handsome young gentleman has."
And she designated me with a look and a movement of her head. No doubt
she did not mean to imply that because I was a steward I was of mean
birth; but I was stung by her remark, and forgetting myself, I replied
rather sharply, "You are mistaken, madam, in thinking that I am
unrelated to your family."
"You will have to prove that to me, young man."
Confused and ashamed, I withdrew into the corner and tried to talk to
Mlle. Hélouin about poetry and art, but at last, upset and distracted, I
arose and walked out of the room. Mlle. de Porhoet followed me.
"Monsieur Odiot," she said, "would you mind seeing me home? My servant
has not arrived, and I am growing too feeble now to walk without help."
Naturally, I went with her.
"What did you mean," she said, as we walked on together, "by claiming to
be a relation of mine?"
"I hope," I replied very humbly, "that you will pardon a jest that--"
"A jest!" she interrupted. "Is a matter touching my honour a jest? I
see; a remark which would be an insult if addressed to a man becomes
only a jest when it is levelled at an old, unprotected woman."
After that, nothing was left to me, as a man of honour, but to entrust
her with my secret. There had been several marriages between our
families, and after listening with great interest to the story of my
troubles, she became wonderfully kind in her manner to me.
"You must come and see me to-morrow, cousin," she said, when we parted.
"My law-suit is going very badly and I should like you to go through all
my papers, and see if you can discover any new documents in support of
my claim. Do not despair, my dear, over your own misfortunes. I think I
shall be able to help you."
_II.--Love and Jealousy_
I am afraid I lack the industry necessary for keeping a diary. It is now
two months since I wrote the last entry. If I had made every night a
brief note of the events of the day, I should now have a better view of
my position. Has Mlle. de Porhoet betrayed my secret? There has
certainly been a curious change in my relations with the Laroques. I
fancy it began on the day when Marguerite and I met at last on an equal
footing at Mlle. de Porhoet's house. The document which I had just then
found may not be as important as we thought, but our common joy in what
we considered was a discovery of tremendous value brought us closer
together.
But I cannot understand Marguerite. Sometimes she still goes out of her
way to be insulting towards me, and sometimes she treats me with a sweet
frankness which has something sisterly in it. One day, for instance, she
came to my window and asked me if I would go for a walk with her. "Bring
your sketch-book, Monsieur Odiot," she called out gaily, "and I will
take you to Merlin's Tomb in the Enchanted Valley."
As a matter of fact, the woods around the castle of the Laroques were
the remains of the famous forest of Broceliande, and I had always been
promising myself a long ramble through this region of romance, but I had
never found time to explore it. I was now glad I had waited, for
Marguerite was a charming guide. Never had I seen her so light-hearted.
When we reached a great block of stone in the depth of the wood, under
which the wizard Merlin is said to be imprisoned by Vivien, Marguerite
made herself a garland of oak-leaves, and standing like a lovely
priestess clad all in white against the Druidic monument, she asked me
to make a sketch of her. With what joy did I paint the poetic vision
before me! I think she was pleased with the drawing, but on our way back
to the castle a foolish word of mine brought our friendship to an end.
We came to a picturesque little lake, at the end of which was a
waterfall, overgrown with brambles. In order to show what a good swimmer
her dog was, Marguerite threw something in the current and told him to
fetch it, but he got carried over the waterfall and caught in the
whirlpool below.
"Come away! He is drowning--come away! I can't bear to see it!" cried
Marguerite, seizing me by the arm. "No, do not attempt to save him. The
pool is very dangerous."
I am a good swimmer, however, and with a little trouble I managed to
rescue the dog.
"What madness!" she murmured. "You might have been drowned, and just for
a dog!"
"It was yours," I answered in a low voice.
Her manner at once changed.
"You had better run home, Monsieur Odiot," she said very coldly, "or you
will get a chill. Do not wait for me."
So I returned alone, and for some days Marguerite never spoke a word to
me. What was still worse, M. Bévallan appeared at the castle, and she
went for walks with him, leaving me in the company of Mlle. Hélouin. I
am afraid that I became very friendly with the pretty governess.
Nothing, however, that I ever said to her, or that she said to me,
prepared me for the strange scene that happened to-night. As I was
walking along the terrace, she came up and took my arm, and said, "Are
you really my friend, Maxime?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then tell me the truth," she exclaimed. "Do you love me, or do you love
Mademoiselle Marguerite?"
"Why do you bring in her name?" I said.
"Ah, you love her!" she cried fiercely; "or, rather, you love her
fortune. But you shall never have it, Monsieur de Champcey. I know why
you came here under a false name, and so shall she."
With a movement of anger she departed. I cannot continue here under
suspicion of being a fortune-hunter, so I have written to Laubépin to
obtain another situation for me.
_III.--Two on a Tower_
It is all over. Was it because she still only half believed the slanders
spread against me that Marguerite again asked me to go for a walk with
her? Oh, what an unfortunate wretch I am! We rode through the forest
together to one of the most magnificent monuments in Brittany, the
Castle of Elven. Finding the door unlocked, we tethered our horses in
the deserted courtyard, and climbed up the narrow, winding staircase to
the battlements. The sea of autumnal foliage below was bathed in the
light of the setting sun, and for a long time we sat side by side in
silence, gazing at the infinite distances.
"Come!" she said at last, in a low whisper, as the light died out of the
sky. "It is finished!"
But on descending the dark staircase we found that the door of the keep
was locked. No doubt the shepherd boy who looked after the castle had
come and shut up the place while we were sitting, watching the sunset.
"Monsieur de Champcey," she said, in a cold, hard voice, "were there any
scoundrels in your family before you?"
"Marguerite!" I cried.
"You paid that boy to lock us in," she exclaimed. "You think you will
force me to marry you by compromising me in this manner. Do you think
you will win my hand--and, what is more important to you still, my
wretched wealth--by this trick? Rather than marry a scoundrel like you,
I will shut myself up in a convent!"
Carried away by my feelings, I seized her two hands, and said, "Now
listen, Marguerite. I love you, it is true. Never did man love more
devotedly, yes, and more disinterestedly, than I do. But I swear that if
I get out of this place alive I will never marry you until you are as
poor as I am, or I as rich as you are. If you love me, as I think you
do, fall on your knees and pray, for unless a miracle happens you will
never see me again alive."
But a miracle did happen. I threw myself out of the window, and fell
upon a branch of an oak-tree. It bent beneath my weight, and then broke;
but it came so near the earth before breaking that if my left arm had
not struck against the masonry I should have escaped uninjured. As it
was, my arm was smashed, and I swooned away with the pain. When I came
to, Marguerite was leaning out of the window, calling, "Maxime, speak to
me! For the love of heaven, speak to me, and say you pardon me!"
I arose, saying, "I am not hurt. If you will only wait another hour, I
will go home and get some one to let you out. Believe me, I will save
your honour as I have saved my own."
Binding up my arm, I got on my horse, and galloped back to Laroque
Castle. On the way I met Bévallan.
"Have you seen Mlle. Marguerite?" he said. "We are afraid she has got
lost."
"I met her this afternoon," I replied. "She told me she was going for a
ride to Elven Castle."
He rode off in the direction from which I had come, and when I returned
from the doctor with my broken arm set and bandaged, Marguerite and
Bévallan entered.
Hearing that I had had an accident, Madame Laroque came up late to-night
to see me. Old Laroque has had a stroke of paralysis, she tells me, and
she wishes to get the marriage contract between her daughter and
Bévallan signed to-morrow. Laubépin is bringing the document.
_IV.---A Test Case_
I don't know why I take the trouble to go on with this diary, but having
begun it I may as well finish it. Laubépin wanted me to go into the
drawing-room to witness the signing of the marriage contract, but
happily I was too ill to leave my bed; not only was my arm very painful,
but I was suffering from the shock of the fall. What an hour of misery I
passed before Mlle. de Porhoet-Gael appeared with the news of what had
happened! Her sweet, kind old eyes were bright with joy.
"It is all over," she said. "Bévallan has gone, and young Hélouin has
also been turned out of the house."