When I reached home my sister was playing on the lawn in the middle of
the great, silent courtyard. As I dismounted, she ran up to embrace me,
and said, with an air of importance and mystery that was almost joyful:
"The cure has come."
I did not, however, perceive any unusual animation in the house, nor any
signs of disorder or alarm. I went rapidly up the staircase, and had
passed through the boudoir which communicated with my mother's room,
when the door opened softly, and my father appeared. I stopped in front
of him; he was very pale, and his lips were trembling.
"Maxime," he said, without looking at me, "your mother is asking for
you."
I wished to question him, but he checked me with a gesture, and walked
hurriedly towards a window, as if to look out. I entered. My mother
lay half-reclining in an easy-chair, one of her arms hanging limply over
the side. Again I saw on her face, now as white as wax, the exquisite
sweetness and delicate grace which lately had been driven away by
suffering. Already the Angel of Eternal Rest was casting the shadow of
his wing over that peaceful brow. I fell upon my knees; she half-opened
her eyes, raised her drooping head with an effort, and enveloped me in a
long, loving look. Then, in a voice which was scarcely more than a
broken sigh, she slowly spoke these words:
"Poor child! ... I am worn out, you see! Do not weep. You have deserted
me a little lately, but I have been so trying. We shall meet again,
Maxime, and we shall understand one another, my son. I can't say any
more.... Remind your father of his promise to me.... And you, Maxime,
be strong in the battle of life, and forgive the weak."
She seemed to be exhausted, and stopped for a moment. Then, raising a
finger with difficulty, and looking at me fixedly, she said: "Your
sister!"
Her livid eyelids closed; then suddenly she opened them, and threw out
her arms with a rigid and sinister gesture. I uttered a cry; my father
came quickly, and, with heartrending sobs, pressed the poor martyr's
body to his bosom.
Some weeks later, at the formal request of my father, who said that he
was obeying the last wishes of her whom we mourned, I left France, and
began that wandering life which I have led nearly up to this day.
During a year's absence my heart, becoming more affectionate as the
selfish frenzy of youth burnt out, urged me to return and renew my life
at its source, between my mother's tomb and my sister's cradle. But my
father had fixed the duration of my travels, and he had not brought me
up to treat his wishes lightly. He wrote to me affectionately, though
briefly, showing no desire to hasten my return. So I was the more
alarmed when I arrived at Marseilles, two months ago, and found several
letters from him, all feverishly begging me to return at once.
It was on a sombre February evening, that I saw once more the massive
walls of our ancient house standing out against the light veil of snow
that lay upon the country. A sharp north wind blew in icy gusts; flakes
of frozen sleet dropped like dead leaves from the trees of the avenue,
and struck the wet soil with a faint and plaintive sound. As I entered
the court a shadow, which I took to be my father's, fell upon a window
of the large drawing-room on the ground floor--a room which had not been
used during my mother's last days. I hurried on, and my father, seeing
me, gave a hoarse cry, then opened his arms to me, and I felt his heart
beating wildly against my own.
"Thou art frozen, my poor child," he said, much against his habit, for
he seldom addressed me in the second person. "Warm thyself, warm
thyself. This is a cold room, but I prefer it now; at least one can
breathe here."
"Are you well, father?"
"Pretty well, as you see."
Leaving me by the fireplace, he resumed his walk across the vast
_salon_, dimly lighted by two or three candles. I seemed to have
interrupt this walk of his. This strange welcome alarmed me. I looked
at my father in dull surprise.
"Have you seen my horses?" he said suddenly, without stopping.
"But, father----"
"Ah, yes, of course, you've only just come." After a silence he
continued. "Maxime," he said, "I have something to tell you."
"I'm listening, father."
He did not seem to hear me, but walked about a little, and kept on
repeating, "I have something to tell you, my son." At last he sighed
deeply, passed his hand across his forehead, and sitting down suddenly,
signed to me to take a seat opposite to him. Then, as if he wanted to
speak and had not the courage to do so, his eyes rested on mine, and I
read in them an expression of suffering, humility, and supplication that
in a man so proud as my father touched me deeply. Whatever the faults
he found it so hard to confess, I felt from the bottom of my heart that
he was fully pardoned.
Suddenly his eyes, which had never left mine, were fixed in an
astonished stare, vague and terrible. His hand stiffened on my arm; he
raised himself in his chair, then drooped, and in an instant fell
heavily on the floor. He was dead.
The heart does not reason or calculate. That is its glory. In a moment
I had divined everything. One minute had been enough to show me all at
once, and without a word of explanation--in a burst of irresistible
light, the fatal truth which a thousand things daily repeated under my
eyes had never made me suspect. Ruin was here, in this house, over my
head. Yet I do not think that I should have mourned my father more
sincerely or more bitterly if he had left me loaded with benefits. With
my regret and my deep sorrow there was mingled a pity, strangely
poignant in that it was the pity of a son for his father. That
beseeching, humbled, hopeless look haunted me. Bitterly I regretted
that I had not been able to speak a word of consolation to that heart
before it broke! Wildly I called to him who could no longer hear me, "I
forgive you, I forgive you." My God, what moments were these! As far as
I have been able to guess, my mother, when she was dying, had made my
father promise to sell the greater part of his property; to pay off the
whole of the enormous debt he had incurred by spending every year a
third more than his income, and to live solely and strictly on what he
had left. My father had tried to keep to this engagement; he had sold
the timber and part of the estate, but finding himself master of a
considerable capital, he had applied only a small portion of it to the
discharge of his debts, and had attempted to restore our fortunes by
staking the remainder in the hateful chances of the Stock Exchange. He
had thus completed his ruin. I have not yet sounded the depths of the
abyss in which we are engulfed. A week after my father's death I was
taken seriously ill, and after two months of suffering I was only just
able to leave my ancient home on the day that a stranger took possession
of it. Fortunately an old friend of my mother's, who lives at Paris,
and who formerly acted as notary to our family, has come to my help. He
has offered to undertake the work of liquidation which to my
inexperienced judgment seemed beset with unconquerable difficulties. I
left the whole business to him, and I presume that now his work is
completed. I went to his house directly I arrived yesterday; he was in
the country, and will not return till to-morrow.
These have been two cruel days; uncertainty is the worst of all evils,
because it is the only one that necessarily stops the springs of action
and checks our courage. I should have been very much surprised if, ten
years ago, any one had told me that the old notary, whose formal
language and stiff politeness so much amused my father and me, would one
day be the oracle from whom I should await the supreme sentence of my
destiny.
I do my best to guard against excessive hopes; I have calculated
approximately that, after paying all the debts, we should have a hundred
and twenty to a hundred and fifty thousand francs left. A fortune of
five millions should leave so much salvage at least. I intend to take
ten thousand francs and seek my fortune in the new States of America;
the rest I shall resign to my sister.
Enough of writing for to-night. Recalling such memories is a mournful
occupation. Nevertheless, I feel that it has made me calmer. Work is
surely a sacred law, since even the lightest task discharged brings a
certain contentment and serenity. Yet man does not love work; he cannot
fail to see its good effects; he tastes them every day, and blesses
them, and each day he comes to his work with the same reluctance. I
think that is a singular and mysterious contradiction, as if in toil we
felt at once a chastisement, and the divine and fatherly hand of the
chastiser.
_Thursday_
When I woke this morning a letter from old M. Laubepin was brought to
me. He invited me to dinner and apologized for taking such a liberty.
He said nothing about my affairs. I augured unfavourably from this
silence.
In the meantime I fetched my sister from her convent, and took her about
Paris. The child knows nothing of our ruin. In the course of the day
she had some rather expensive fancies. She provided herself liberally
with gloves, pink note-paper, bonbons for her friends, delicate scents,
special soaps, and tiny pencils, all very necessary useful things, but
not as necessary as a dinner. May she never have to realize this!
At six o'clock I was at M. Laubepin's in the Rue Cassette. I do not
know our old friend's age, but to-day I found him looking just the same
as ever--tall and thin, with a little stoop, untidy white hair, and
piercing eyes under bushy black eyebrows--altogether a face at once
strong and subtle. I recognised the unvarying costume, the
old-fashioned black coat, the professional white cravat, the family
diamond in the shirt-frill--in short, all the outward signs of a
serious, methodical, and conservative nature. The old gentleman was
waiting for me at the open door of his little _salon_. After making me
a low bow, he took my hand lightly between two of his fingers and
conducted me to a homely looking old lady who was standing by the
fire-place.
"The Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive!" said M. Laubepin, in his strong,
rich, and emphatic voice, and turning quickly to me, added in a humbler
tone, "Mme. Laubepin!"
We sat down. An awkward silence ensued. I had expected an immediate
explanation of my position. Seeing that this was to be postponed, I
assumed at once that it was unfavourable, an assumption confirmed by the
discreet and compassionate glances with which Mme. Laubepin furtively
honoured me. As for M. Laubepin, he observed me with a remarkable
attention not altogether kindly. My father, I remember, always
maintained that at the bottom of his heart and under his respectful
manner the ceremonious old scrivener had a little of _bourgeois_
democratic and even Jacobin leaven. It seemed to me that this leaven
was working just now, and that the old man found some satisfaction for
his secret antipathies in the spectacle of a gentleman under torture.
In spite of my real depression, I began to talk at once, trying to
appear quite unconcerned.
"So, M. Laubepin," I said, "you've left the Place des Petits-Peres, the
dear old Place. How could you bring yourself to do it? I would never
have believed it of you."
"_Mon Dieu_, marquis," replied M. Laubepin, "I must admit that it is an
infidelity unbecoming at my age; but in giving up the practice I had to
give up my chambers as well, for one can't carry off a notary's plate as
one can a sign-board."
"But you still undertake some business?"
"Yes, in a friendly way, marquis. Some of the honourable families, the
important families, whose confidence I have had the good fortune to
secure in the course of forty-five years of practice, are still glad,
especially in situations of unusual delicacy, to have the benefit of my
experience, and I believe I may say they rarely regret having followed
my advice."
As M. Laubepin finished this testimonial to his own merits, an old
servant came in and announced that dinner was served. It was my
privilege to conduct Mme. Laubepin into the adjacent dining-room.
Throughout the meal the conversation never rose above the most ordinary
commonplaces. M. Laubepin continued to look at me in the same
penetrating and ambiguous manner, while Mme. Laubepin offered me each
dish in the mournful and compassionate tone we use at the bedside of an
invalid. In time we left the table, and the old notary took me into his
study, where coffee was served immediately. He made me sit down, and
standing before the fireplace, began:
"Marquis," he said, "you have done me the honour of intrusting to me the
administration of the estate of your father, the late Marquis de
Champcey d'Hauterive. Yesterday I was about to write to you, when I
learned of your arrival in Paris. This enables me to convey to you,
_viva voce_, the result of my zeal and of my action."
"I foresee, M. Laubepin, that the result is not favourable."
"Marquis, it is not favourable, and you will need all your courage to
bear it. But it is my rule to proceed methodically.--In the year 1820
Mlle. Louise Helene Dugald Delatouche d'Erouville was sought in marriage
by Charles-Christian Odiot, Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive. A
tradition a century old had placed the management of the Dugald
Delatouche affairs in my hands, and I was further permitted a respectful
intimacy with the young heiress of the house. I thought it my duty,
therefore, to oppose her infatuation by every argument in my power and
to dissuade her from this deplorable alliance. I say deplorable
alliance without reference to M. de Champcey's fortune, which was nearly
equal to that of Mlle. Delatouche, though even at this time he had
mortgaged it to some extent. I say so because I knew his character and
temperament, which were in the main hereditary. Under the fascinating
and chivalrous manner common to all of his race I saw clearly the
heedless obstinacy, the incurable irresponsibility, the mania for
pleasure, and, finally, the pitiless selfishness."
"Sir," I interrupted sharply, "my father's memory is sacred to me, and
so it must be to every one who speaks of him in my presence."
"Sir," replied the old man with a sudden and violent emotion, "I respect
that sentiment, hut when I speak of your father I find it hard to forget
that he was the man who killed your mother, that heroic child, that
saint, that angel!"
I had risen in great agitation. M. Laubepin, who had taken a few steps
across the room, seized my arm. "Forgive me, young man," he said to me.
"I loved your mother and wept for her. You must forgive me." Then
returning to the fire-place, he continued in his usual solemn tone:
"I had the honour and the pain of drawing up your mother's marriage
contract.
"In spite of my remonstrance, the strict settlement of her property upon
herself had not been adopted, and it was only with much difficulty that
I got included in the deed a protective clause by which about a third of
your mother's estate could not be sold, except with her consent duly and
legally authenticated. A useless precaution, marquis; I might call it
the cruel precaution of an ill-advised friendship. This fatal clause
brought most intolerable sufferings to the very person whose peace it
was intended to secure. I refer to the disputes and quarrels and
wrangles the echo of which must sometimes have reached your ears, and in
which, bit by bit, your mother's last heritage--her children's
bread--was torn from her!"
"Spare me, M. Laubepin!"
"I obey.... I will speak only of the present. Directly I was honoured
with your confidence, marquis, my first duty was to advise you not to
accept the encumbered estate unless after paying all liabilities."
"Such a course seemed to cast a slur on my father's memory, and I could
not adopt it."
M. Laubepin darted one of his inquisitorial glances at me, and
continued:
"You are apparently aware that by not having availed yourself of this
perfectly legal method, you became responsible for all liabilities, even
if they exceed the value of the estate itself. And that, it is my
painful duty to tell you, is the case in the present instance. You will
see by these documents that after getting exceptionally favourable terms
for the town-house, you and your sister are still indebted to your
father's creditors to the amount of forty-five thousand francs."
I was utterly stunned by this news, which far exceeded my worst
apprehensions. For a minute I stared at the clock without seeing the
hour it marked, and listened dazed to the monotonous sound of the
pendulum.
"Now," continued M. Laubepin, after a silence, "the moment has come to
tell you, marquis, that your mother, in view of contingencies which are
unfortunately realized to-day, deposited with me some jewels which are
valued at about fifty thousand francs. To exempt this small sum, now
your sole resource, from the claims of the creditors of the estate, we
can, I believe, make use of the legal resource which I shall have the
honour of submitting to you."
"That will not be necessary, M. Laubepin. I am only too glad to be
able, through this unexpected means, to pay my father's debts in full,
and I beg you to devote it to that purpose."