CHAPTER XXIV

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE

LEONE LEONI

_VOLUME II_

EMILE CONFESSES HIS LOVE FOR GILBERTE.

GILBERTE AND JAPPELOUP ACCOMPANY THE MARQUIS.

THE RECONCILIATION.

DON ALEO AND JULIETTE.

LEONI TAKES JULIETTE TO HIS PALACE.

THE MEETING ON THE CANAL.

[Illustration: _EMILE CONFESSES HIS LOVE FOR

GILBERTE._

"_My dear Janille," he cried at last, with impetuous emotion, "and you,

noble and generous Antoine, listen to me and learn my secret at last. I

love your daughter._"]

THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE

(_Continued_)

XXIV

MONSIEUR GALUCHET

But, after sleeping twelve hours, Galuchet had only a very confused

remembrance of the events of the preceding day, and, when Monsieur

Cardonnet sent for him, he retained only a vague feeling of resentment

against the carpenter. Moreover, he was little inclined to boast of

having cut such an absurd figure at the outset of his diplomatic career,

and he attributed his late rising and his sluggish manner to a violent

sick-headache. "I did nothing but feel the ground," he replied to his

master's questions. "I was feeling so miserable that I could not watch

very closely. I can only assure you that they have very vulgar manners

in that house, that they live on a footing of equality with peasants,

and that the table is very poorly served."

"That is no news to me," said Monsieur Cardonnet; "it is impossible that

you can have passed the whole day at Châteaubrun without noticing

something more definite. At what hour did my son arrive, at what time

did he leave?"

"I can't tell you just what time it was,--their old clock is so far out

of the way!"

"That's not an answer. How many hours did he stay there? Come, I don't

ask you to be exact to a minute."

"It must have been five or six hours, monsieur; I was horribly bored.

Monsieur Emile seemed far from glad to see me; and as for the girl,

she's a downright prude. It was fearfully hot on that mountain, and I

couldn't say two words without being interrupted by that peasant."

"I can imagine it, for you don't say two words in succession this

morning, Galuchet; what peasant do you mean?"

"That carpenter, Jappeloup, a miserable fellow, an animal who presumes

to be familiar with everybody, and who speaks of monsieur as _Père

Cardonnet_, as if he were speaking of his equal."

"That doesn't trouble me; but what did my son say to him?"

"Monsieur Emile laughed at his nonsense and Mademoiselle Gilberte thinks

he is charming."

"Did you notice any _asides_ between her and my son?"

"No, monsieur, not exactly. The old woman--who is certainly her mother,

for she calls her _my girl_--hardly ever leaves her, and it can't be

very easy to pay court to her, especially as she is very high and

mighty, and puts on the airs of a princess. That's very becoming in her,

on my word, with the dress she wears and not a sou! If they should offer

her to me, I wouldn't have her!"

"No matter, Galuchet; you must pay court to her."

"To laugh at her, when the time comes--I agree to that!"

"And also to earn a reward, which you will not get unless you bring me a

clearer and more circumstantial report next time; for you are all astray

to-day."

Galuchet bent his head over his books and fought all day against the

discomfort that follows over-indulgence.

Emile passed the whole week head over ears in hydrostatics; he indulged

in no other distraction than to seek out Jean Jappeloup in the evening

and chat with him; and, as he always tried to bring the conversation

around to Gilberte, the carpenter finally said to him:

"Look you, Monsieur Emile, you never get tired of that subject, that's

clear enough. Do you know that Mère Janille thinks you are in love with

her child?"

"What an idea!" rejoined the young man, confused by this sudden

apostrophe.

"It's a sensible idea enough. Why shouldn't you be in love with her?"

"True, why shouldn't I be in love with her?" echoed Emile, more and more

embarrassed. "But can it be that you would speak jestingly of such a

possibility, friend Jean?"

"I should say that you were the one, my boy, for you answer me as if we

were in jest. Come, why not tell me the truth? out with it or I'll not

talk to you any more."

"Jean, if I were really in love with a person for whom I have as much

respect as for my own mother, my best friend should know nothing of it."

"I know very well that I am not your best friend, and yet I should like

to have you tell me."

"Explain yourself, Jean."

"Explain yourself, rather; I am waiting."

"You will wait a long time; for I have no answer to make to such a

question, despite all my esteem and affection for you."

"If that is so, you will have to say adieu forever one of these days to

the people at Châteaubrun; for _ma mie_ Janille is not the woman to

sleep long when danger is brewing."

"That word offends me; I do not think that I can be accused of bringing

danger upon a person whose reputation and dignity are as sacred to me as

to her kindred and dearest friends."

"That sounds very well, but it isn't a straight answer to all my

questions. Do you want me to tell you something?--early last week I went

to Châteaubrun to borrow of Antoine a tool that I needed. I found _ma

mie_ Janille there; she was all alone, expecting you. You didn't come

and she told me all. And now, my boy, if she didn't frown on you Sunday,

and if she allows you to call from time to time to see her girl, you are

indebted to me for it."

"How so, my good Jean?"

"Because I have more confidence in you than you have in me. I told _ma

mie_ Janille that if you loved Gilberte you would marry her, and that I

would answer for you on the salvation of my soul."

"And you were right, Jean," cried Emile, grasping the carpenter's hand;

"you never told a greater truth."

"Very good! but the question still remains whether you are in love, and

that is what you won't tell me."

"It is what I can tell you alone, since you question me so closely. Yes,

Jean, I love her, I love her more than my life, and I mean to marry

her."

"I give my consent," replied Jean in a tone of enthusiastic

satisfaction, "and so far as I am concerned, I join your hands--One

moment! one moment!--provided that Gilberte gives her consent too."

"And if she should ask your advice, my good Jean, who are her friend and

second father?"

"I should tell her that she can make no better choice, that you suit me

and that I am willing to be your surety."

"Good! now my friend, we only have to obtain the consent of the

parents."

"Oh! I'll answer for Antoine, if I take hold of the affair. He has some

pride, and he will be afraid that your father may hesitate, but I know

what to say to him on that subject."

"What will you say to him, pray?"

"Something that you don't know, something that nobody knows but me. I

don't need to speak yet, for the time has not come, and you can't think

of marrying for a year or two."

"Jean, confide this secret to me as I confided mine to you. I see but

one obstacle to our marriage, my father's obstinacy. I have resolved to

overcome it, but I do not conceal from myself that it is very serious."

"Well, as you have been so trustful and frank with old Jean, old Jean

will be the same with you. Listen, my boy; before long your father will

be ruined and will have no further excuse for putting on airs with the

Châteaubrun family."

"If what you say should turn out to be true, I should bless your strange

prophecy, notwithstanding my father's inevitable grief and

disappointment; for I have many reasons for dreading this great wealth."

"I know it; I know your heart, and I see that you would like to enrich

others before enriching yourself. Everything will turn out as you wish,

I am sure. I have dreamed of it more than ten times."

"If you have done nothing more than dream, my dear Jean-----"

"Wait, wait. What is that book you always carry under your arm and that

you seem to be studying?"

"I have already told you, a scientific treatise on the power and weight

of water and the laws of equilibrium."

"I remember--you have told me before; but I tell you that your book

lies, or else you have read it wrong; otherwise you would know what I

know."

"What is that?"

"That your factory is impossible, and that your father, if he persists

in fighting against a stream that snaps its fingers at him, will lose

his outlay and will discover his folly too late. That is why I have been

so cheerful for some time past. I was depressed and out of temper as

long as I thought that your undertaking might succeed; but I had one

hope that kept coming to my mind again and again, and I determined to

satisfy myself about it. So I walked and worked and used my eyes and

studied. Oh! yes, studied, and I didn't read your books and your maps

and your figuring; I saw and understood everything. Monsieur Emile, I am

only a poor peasant, and your Galuchet would spit on me if he dared; but

I can tell you of one thing that you hardly suspect, and that is that

your father has no idea of what he is doing, that he has taken bad

advice, and that you don't know enough about it to set him right. The

coming winter will carry away your works, and every winter will carry

off whatever there is, until Monsieur Cardonnet has thrown his last

three-franc piece into the water. Remember what I tell you, and don't

try to persuade your father. It would be one more reason for him to

persist in ruining himself, and we don't need that to induce him to do

it; but you will be ruined, my son, and if not altogether here, you will

be somewhere else, for I hold your papa's brain in the hollow of my

hand. It is a powerful brain, I admit, but it is a madman's brain. He is

a man who works himself into a frenzy for his schemes to such an extent

that he considers them infallible, and when a man is built that way he

never succeeds in anything. I thought at first that he had played his

hand out, but now I see that the game is becoming serious, for he is

beginning to rebuild all that the last freshet destroyed. He had had too

good luck until then; still another reason--good luck makes a man

overbearing and presumptuous. That is the history of Napoléon, whom I

saw rise and fall, like a carpenter who climbs to the roof of a house

without looking to see if the foundations are solid. However good a

carpenter he may be--however fine a building he may build--if the wall

totters, good-bye to the whole work!"

Jean spoke with such conviction, and his black eyes gleamed so bright

beneath his grizzly bushy eyebrows, that Emile could not help being

moved. He begged him to give his reasons for talking as he did, and the

carpenter refused for a long time. At last, conquered by his

persistence, and a little irritated by his doubts, he made an

appointment with him for the following Sunday.

"You can go to Châteaubrun Saturday or Monday instead," he said, "and

on Sunday we will start at daybreak and go up the stream to certain

places that I will point out to you. Take all your books and all your

instruments if you choose. If they don't confirm me, it's of little

consequence; it will be science that lies. But don't expect to make this

trip on horseback or in a carriage; and if you haven't good legs, don't

expect to make it at all."

On the following Saturday Emile went to Châteaubrun, beginning, as

usual, with Boisguilbault, as he dared not appear too early at

Gilberte's.

As he approached the ruins he saw a black speck at the foot of the

mountain, and that speck soon became Constant Galuchet, in a black coat,

black trousers and gloves, black satin cravat and waistcoat. That was

his costume in the country, winter and summer alike; and no matter how

great the heat or the fatigue which he was about to undergo, he never

left the village except in that ceremonious attire. He would have been

afraid of resembling a peasant if, like Emile, he had donned a blouse

and broad-brimmed gray hat.

If it be true that the bourgeois costume of our generation is the most

depressing, the most inconvenient and the most unbecoming that fashion

ever invented, it is equally true that all its inconveniences and

deformities are most striking in the open country. In the outskirts of

the large cities, one's eyes are less offended, because everything there

is arranged, aligned, planked, built and walled in symmetrically, so

that all the informality and charm of nature are destroyed. We may

sometimes admire the beauty and symmetry of those estates which have

been subjected to all the refinements of civilization; but it is very

hard to imagine oneself loving such a region. The real country is not

there, but in the heart of the fields, neglected and untilled to some

extent, where agriculture has no thought of paltry embellishments and

strict limits, where estates run together and where boundaries are

indicated only by a stone or bush, put in place in full reliance upon

rustic good faith. There the roads, intended only for foot passengers,

equestrians or heavy carts, present innumerable picturesque

irregularities; the hedges, abandoned to their natural vigor, hang in

garlands, from leafy arbors, and deck themselves out with the wild

climbing plants which are carefully removed in more pretentious regions.

Emile remembered that he had walked about within several leagues of

Paris without the pleasure of seeing a nettle, and he felt keenly the

charm of that rural scenery amid which he now found himself. Poverty did

not hide, in shame and degradation, beneath the feet of wealth. On the

contrary it made itself manifest, light-hearted and free, on a soil

which proudly bore its emblems, wild flowers and vagabond plants, the

humble moss and the wood-strawberry, the water-cress on the brink of a

stream with no well-defined bed, and the ivy clinging to a rock that had

obstructed the path for centuries, without attracting the attention of

the police. He loved the branches which overhung the road and were

respected by passers-by; the bog-holes in which the frog croaked softly

as if to warn the traveller,--a more vigilant sentinel than he who

guards a king's palace; the old crumbling walls around the enclosure,

which no one thought of rebuilding, the powerful roots which pushed up

the ground and dug holes at the foot of the venerable trees; all that

lack of art which makes nature ingenuous and which harmonizes so well

with the severe type and grave and simple costume of the peasant.

But let that parasitic insect, that _monsieur_ with the black coat,

cleanly shaven chin, gloved hands and shambling legs, appear in the

midst of that austere and impressive scene, which carries the

imagination back to the epoch of primitive poesy, and that king of

society becomes simply a ridiculous blotch, an annoying imperfection in

the picture. What business have your funereal garments in this bright

sunlight, where their creases seem to laugh scornfully as at a victim?

Your offensive, misplaced costume inspires more pity than the poor man's

rags; we feel that you are out of place in the fresh air and that your

livery crushes you.

Never had these reflections presented themselves so vividly to Emile's

mind as when Galuchet appeared before him, hat in hand, climbing the

hill with a painful exertion which caused his coat-tails to flutter in

laughable fashion, and pausing to brush away with his handkerchief the

traces of frequent falls. Emile was strongly inclined to laugh at first;

and then he asked himself angrily why the parasite was buzzing around

the sacred hive. He urged his horse to a gallop, passed Galuchet without

seeming to recognize him, arrived first at Châteaubrun, and announced

the other's coming to Gilberte as an unavoidable calamity.

"Oh! father," said she, "don't receive that ill-bred, disagreeable man,

I entreat you! let us not spoil our Châteaubrun, our home, our

pleasant, unceremonious life, by the presence of this stranger, who

never can and never will be in sympathy with us."

"What do you expect me to do with him, for heaven's sake?" said Monsieur

de Châteaubrun, sorely embarrassed. "I invited him to come whenever he

chose; I could not foresee that you, who are usually so long-suffering

and generous, would take such a dislike to a poor devil because of his

bad manners and his unattractive face. For my part I pity such people; I

see that everyone spurns them and that life is a bore to them."

"Don't believe that," said Emile. "On the contrary they are very well

satisfied and imagine that everybody likes them."

"In that case, why rob them of a delusion without which they would

probably die of grief? I haven't courage to do it, and I don't believe

that my dear Gilberte would advise me to have it."

"My too kind-hearted father!" rejoined Gilberte with a sigh; "I wish

that I were as kind-hearted, too; indeed, I believe I am, generally

speaking; but that conceited, self-satisfied creature, who seems to me

to insult me when he looks at me, and who called me by my Christian name

the first day he ever spoke to me!--no, I can't endure him, and I feel

that he has a bad effect on me, because the sight of him makes me

disdainful and sarcastic, contrary to my instincts and my character."

"It is certain that Monsieur Galuchet will become very familiar with

mademoiselle," said Emile to Monsieur Antoine, "and that you will be

compelled more than once to remind him of the respect he owes her. If it

happens that he forces you to turn him out of the house, you will regret

having received him with too much confidence. Wouldn't it be better to

give him to understand by a somewhat chilly welcome that you have not

forgotten the ungentlemanly way he behaved on his first visit?"

"The best way that I can think of to arrange matters," said Monsieur de

Châteaubrun, "is for you two to go out in the orchard with Janille; I

will take Galuchet out fishing and you will be rid of him."

This suggestion was not particularly agreeable to Emile. When he was

under Monsieur de Châteaubrun's eye, he could almost believe that he

was tête-à-tête with Gilberte, whereas Janille was an exceedingly

active and keen-eyed third. Moreover Gilberte thought that it would be

selfish to compel her father to bear alone the burden of such a

visitor.--"No," she said, kissing him, "we will stay here to keep you in

bad temper; for if we turn our backs on you, you will be so sweet and

good-natured that monsieur will believe that he is welcome, once for

all. Oh! I know you, father! you wouldn't be able to refrain from

telling him so and from keeping him at the table, and then he will drink

again! It will be very wise for me to stay here and force him to keep

watch on himself."

"Oh! I'll look out for that," said Janille, who had listened thus far

without giving her opinion, and who hated Galuchet ever since the day he

had haggled over a ten-sou piece for which she asked him after showing

him the ruins. "I like to have monsieur drink his wine with his friends

and the people he likes; but I don't approve of wasting it on parasites,

and I propose to give Monsieur Galuchet's wine a good baptizing. But you

don't like water, monsieur, and that will make you cut short your stay

at the table."

"Why, Janille, this is downright tyranny," said Monsieur Antoine. "You

say you are going to put me on a water diet? do you want me to die,

pray?"

"No, monsieur, your skin will be all the brighter for it, and if yonder

little fellow makes a wry face at it, so much the worse for him."

Janille kept her word, but Galuchet was too disturbed in mind to notice

it. He felt more and more ill at ease in the presence of Emile, whose

eyes and smile seemed to be always questioning him sternly, and when he

tried to pluck up courage and play the agreeable with Gilberte, he was

so coldly received that he knew not what to do. He had determined to be

very careful in the matter of the Châteaubrun wine, and he was well

pleased when his host, after the first glass, neglected to invite him to

take a second. Monsieur Antoine, when he led the way with the first

bumper, as his duty as host required, stifled a sigh and glanced at

Janille as if to reproach her for the liberality with which she had

measured the admixture of water. Charasson, who was in the old woman's

confidence, roared with laughter, and was sternly reprimanded by his

master, who sentenced him to drink the rest of the harmless beverage

with his supper.

When Galuchet was convinced that he was intolerable to Gilberte and

Emile, he determined to advance his interests with Monsieur Cardonnet by

venturing upon the proposal of marriage. He led Monsieur Antoine aside,

and, feeling sure of being refused, offered his heart, his hand and his

twenty thousand francs for his daughter. Monsieur Galuchet did not

consider that he risked anything by doubling the fictitious capital of

his marriage-portion.

This little fortune, in addition to a place which was worth about twelve

hundred francs a year, surprised Monsieur Antoine extremely. It was a

very good match for Gilberte; indeed, she could aspire to nothing better

in the matter of wealth, for it was impossible for the excellent country

gentleman to provide her with any dowry whatever, even if he should

strip himself entirely. No one on earth was ever more unselfish than

that worthy man; he had given proofs enough of it during his life. But

he could not, without some bitterness, reflect that his darling

daughter, failing to meet a man who would love her for her own sake,

would probably be condemned to live single for many years, perhaps

forever!

"What an unfortunate thing," he said to himself, "that this fellow isn't

more attractive, for he is certainly honest and generous. My daughter

takes his fancy, and he doesn't ask how much money she has. Doubtless he

knows that she has nothing, and means to give her all he possesses. He

is a well-intentioned suitor, whom I must refuse respectfully,

pleasantly and with friendly words."

And not knowing how to go about it--not daring to expose Gilberte to the

suspicion of being vain of her name or to the resentment of a heart

wounded by her manifest aversion--he could think of no better way than

to avoid giving a definite answer, and to ask for time to reflect and

take counsel. Galuchet also asked leave to come again, not precisely to

pay his court to Gilberte, but to learn his fate; and leave was given

him to do so, although poor Antoine trembled as he gave it.

He took him to the bank of the stream to fish, although Galuchet had

brought nothing for that purpose and was very desirous to remain at the

château. However, Antoine walked him along the bank of the Creuse, to

show him the best places, and, on the way, he had the weakness and

good-nature to ask his pardon for Jean's teasing and mockery. Galuchet

took it exceedingly well, and attributed all the blame to himself,

saying, however, to put himself in a somewhat better light, that he had

been surprised into drinking too much, and that, if he was not capable

of carrying much wine, it was because he was habitually very abstemious.

"That's all right," said Antoine. "Janille was afraid that you might be

a little intemperate, but what happened to you proves the contrary."

They talked for a considerable time, and, as Galuchet obstinately

declined to go, although his host's uneasiness made it plain that he

would have preferred not to take him back to the château, they returned

thither, and Galuchet at once took Janille aside, to confide his

intentions to her, and give Antoine time to inform Gilberte. He reckoned

on the displeasure which the news would cause the latter; for on this

occasion, not being drunk, he plainly detected Emile's air of annoyance

and Gilberte's feelings for the protector she had chosen.

"This time," he said to himself, "Monsieur Cardonnet will not reproach

me with having wasted my time. My pretty lovers will be furiously angry

with me, and Monsieur Emile will not be able to hold back from picking a

quarrel with me."

Galuchet was not a coward; and although he did not deem Emile capable of

a duel with fists, he said to himself with much satisfaction that he was

strong enough to hold his own against him. As for a genuine duel, that

would have been less to his liking, because he had had no experience of

duellists' weapons; but he could safely rely upon Monsieur Cardonnet to

preserve him from that danger.

While he was talking with Janille, Monsieur de Châteaubrun remained in

the orchard with his daughter and Emile, and told them what had taken

place between him and Galuchet, albeit with some oratorical precautions.

"Oh!" said he, "you call him an impertinent fool, but you will regret

your harsh judgment of him; for he is really a very worthy fellow, and I

have proof of that. I can tell this before Emile, who is our friend; and

if Gilberte would look at the matter without prejudice, she might ask

him some questions concerning this young man. Tell me, Emile, on your

heart and conscience, is he an honest man?"

"Beyond any question," Emile replied. "My father has employed him for

three years and would be very sorry to lose him."

"Is his character good?"

"Although he can hardly be said to have proved it here the other day, I

must say that he is very peaceable, and ordinarily quite harmless."

"He isn't in the habit of getting drunk?"

"Not so far as I know."

"Well, then, what have you against him?"

"If he had not taken the fancy to become our guest, I should consider

him an accomplished man," said Gilberte.

"Is he so very disagreeable to you?" said Monsieur Antoine, standing

still to look her in the face.

"Why, no, father," she replied, surprised by the solemnity of his

manner. "Do not take my dislike so seriously. I hate nobody; and if this

young man's company is at all agreeable to you, if he has given you good

reason to esteem him particularly, God forbid that I should deprive you

of any pleasure by a mere caprice! I will make an effort, and perhaps I

shall succeed in sharing the good opinion that my excellent father has

of him."

"Spoken like a good, sensible girl, and I recognize my Gilberte. Let me

tell you then, little one, that you are the last one who should despise

this young man's character; and that, even though you do not feel

attracted to him, you ought at least to treat him politely and dismiss

him kindly. Come, do you understand me?"

"Not the least in the world, father."

"I am afraid that I understand," said Emile, his cheeks flushing

scarlet.

"Well," continued Monsieur Antoine, "I will suppose that a young man,

quite wealthy compared to us, notices a beautiful, virtuous girl who is

very poor, and that, falling in love at first sight, he lays at her feet

the most honorable proposals you can imagine--should he be dismissed

roughly, turned out of doors with a: 'Monsieur, you are too ugly.'"

Gilberte blushed as hotly as Emile, and, strive as she would to be

humble, she felt so insulted by Galuchet's proposals that she could make

no reply, while her eyes filled with tears.

"The miserable fellow has lied shamefully to you," cried Emile, "and you

can safely turn him away with contempt. He has no fortune, and my father

rescued him from absolute destitution. Now, he has only been in his

employ three years, and unless he has suddenly received some mysterious

legacy----"

"No, Emile, no, he has told no lie; I am not so weak and credulous as

you think. I questioned him and I know that the source of his little

fortune is pure and unquestionable. Your father has promised him twenty

thousand francs, in order to attach him permanently to his service by

affection and gratitude, in case he marries in the province."

"But," said Emile in a trembling voice, "my father certainly cannot know

that he has presumed to raise his eyes to Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun,

for he would not have encouraged him in such a hope."

"On the contrary," rejoined Monsieur Antoine, to whom the affair seemed

perfectly natural, "he has confided to your father his liking for

Gilberte, and your father authorized him to use his name in support of

his offer of marriage."

Gilberte turned deathly pale and looked at Emile, who lowered his eyes,

stupefied, humiliated, and wounded to his heart's core.

XXV

THE EXPLOSION

"Well, well, what's the matter?" said Janille, joining them under a

rustic arbor near the orchard, where they were sitting, all three; "why

is Gilberte so woebegone, and why do you all keep quiet when I come

near, as if you were plotting some conspiracy?"

Gilberte threw herself in her nurse's arms and burst into tears.

"Well, well," continued the good little woman, "here's something else!

My little girl is unhappy and I don't know what the matter is! Will you

speak, Monsieur Antoine?"

"Has that young man gone?" said Monsieur Antoine, looking about him

uneasily.

"To be sure he has, for he took leave of me and I went with him as far

as the gate," said Janille. "I had some difficulty in getting rid of

him. He's a little dull about explaining himself. He would have liked to

stay, I saw that well enough; but I gave him to understand that such

affairs couldn't be settled so fast, that I must consult with you, and

that we would write to him if we wanted to see him again for any reason.

But, before I say anything more, what's the matter with my girl? who has

hurt her feelings? Ah! but _ma mie_ Janille is here to protect her and

comfort her."

"Oh! yes, you will understand me," cried Gilberte, "and you will help me

to repel the insult, for I feel insulted and I need you to help me make

my father understand it. Why, he almost acts as Monsieur Galuchet's

advocate!"

"Ah! so you already know what is going on, do you? In that case it's a

family affair. I have something to tell, you, too; but all this will

bore Monsieur Emile."

"I understand you, my dear Mademoiselle Janille," the young man replied,

"and I know that the proprieties, as ordinarily understood, would

require me to withdraw; but I am too deeply interested in what is going

on here to consider myself bound by common customs; you can safely speak

before me, as I know everything now."

"Very well, monsieur, if you know what is in the wind, and if Monsieur

Antoine has thought best to state his views before you,--which, between

ourselves, was hardly worth while--I will speak as if you were not here.

And in the first place, Gilberte, you mustn't cry; what is it that makes

you feel so bad, my girl? Because a poor fool considers himself worthy

of you? Oh! bless my soul, it isn't the last time that you will have the

pleasure, married or not, of seeing self-sufficient people make

themselves ridiculous; for you must laugh at them, my child, and not be

angry. This fellow thinks that he does you honor and gives you proof of

esteem; receive it as such, and tell him or have somebody else tell him

in all seriousness that you thank him, but that you will have none of

him. I can't see at all why you are so disturbed; do you happen to think

that I am disposed to encourage him? Ah! he might have a hundred

thousand francs, or a hundred million, and I shouldn't think he was the

man for my girl! The villain, with his big eyes and his air of

satisfaction at being in the world--let him look farther! we have no

girl here to give him. Oh! _ma mie_ Janille knows what she is talking

about, she knows that they don't put the thistle beside the rose in the

same bouquet."

"That is well said, dear Janille!" cried Emile, "and you are worthy to

be called her mother!"

"What concern is it of yours, pray, monsieur?" retorted Janille, warmed

up and exalted by her own eloquence. "What have you to do with our

little affairs? Do you know anything wrong about this suitor? If you do,

it's of no use to tell us, for we don't need you to help us to get rid

of him."

"Stop, Janille, don't scold him," said Gilberte, kissing her old friend.

"It does me good to hear it said that that man's proposals are insulting

to me, for it humiliates me to think of them. It makes me cold and sick.

And yet father doesn't understand it! He considers himself honored by

his offer, and will not say anything to keep him out of my sight!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Janille, "he is the one who is at fault, as usual--the

bad man! It is he who makes his daughter cry! Look you, monsieur, do you

propose to play the tyrant here, I should like to know? Don't look

forward to that, for _ma mie_ Janille isn't dead and has no desire to

die."

"That's right," said Monsieur Antoine; "of course I am a despot, an

unnatural father! All right! all right! fall to on me if it relieves

you. After that, perhaps my daughter will be kind enough to tell me what

the matter is, and what I have done that's so criminal."

"Dear father," said Gilberte, throwing herself into his arms, "let us

stop this melancholy jesting, and do you make haste to dismiss Monsieur

Galuchet forever, so that I can breathe freely again and forget this bad

dream."

"Ah! there's the rub," said Monsieur Antoine; "the trouble is to know

what I am to write to him, and that is something it will be well to

consult about."

"Do you know, mother," said Gilberte to Janille, "he doesn't know what

answer to give him? Apparently he wasn't able to say no to him."

"Well, my child, your father didn't do very wrong," replied Janille,

"for I listened to your fine suitor's offer without getting excited, and

I didn't say yes or no to him. There! there! don't be angry. That's the

right way to do, and then consult calmly. You can't say to the fellow:

'I don't like you;' people don't say that sort of thing. You can't say

to him either: 'We belong to a good family and your name is Galuchet;'

for that would be unkind and mortifying."

"And it wouldn't be any reason," said Gilberte. "What does nobility

matter to us now? True nobility is in the heart and not in empty titles.

It isn't the name of Galuchet that disgusts me, but the manners and

feelings of the man who bears it."

"My daughter is right: name, profession and fortune are nothing," said

Monsieur Antoine. "So those are not the means for us to use. Nor can we

blame a man for his physical defects. The best thing for us to say is

that Gilberte doesn't want to marry."

"Allow me, monsieur, one moment," said Janille. "I don't propose to have

you say that; for if this young man should go about repeating it--as he

wouldn't fail to do--no one else would come forward, and I am not in

favor of my girl turning nun."

"But we must give some reason," said Monsieur Antoine. "Suppose we say

that she doesn't want to marry yet, and that we think she's too young."

"Yes, yes, that's it, father! you have hit upon the best reason, and

it's the true one. I do not want to marry yet; I am too young."

"That is not true!" cried Janille. "You are old enough, and I believe

that before long you will find a good husband whom you like and whom we

all like."

"Don't think of that, mother," said Gilberte, warmly. "I will take my

oath before God that my father told the truth. I do not want to marry

yet, and I want everybody to know it, so that all suitors may keep away.

Oh dear! if I am to be surrounded by such importunate creatures, you

will take away all the happiness I have in my home, and make my youth

sad and gloomy! and you will make me unhappy to no purpose, for I shall

not change my resolution, and I will die rather than part from you."

"Who says anything about parting?" rejoined Janille. "The man who loves

you won't want to make you unhappy; and, more than that, you don't know

what you will think when you love someone. Ah! my dear child! then it

will be our turn to weep, perhaps, for it is written that the woman

shall leave her father and mother to follow her husband, and He who said

that knew a woman's heart."

"Oh! that is a law of obedience, not a law of love," cried Emile. "The

man who truly loves Gilberte will truly love her parents and her friends

as his own, and will no more desire to separate her from them than he

will desire to live apart from them himself."

At that moment Janille encountered the passionate glances of the two

lovers seeking each other, and all her prudence returned.

"_Pardieu_, monsieur," she said dryly, "you interfere in matters that

hardly concern you, and it is my opinion that all my ideas would be

better left unsaid before you; but since you persist in hearing them,

and Monsieur Antoine considers it very wise, I will tell you that I

forbid you to repeat or even to believe what my girl just said in a

burst of anger against your Galuchet. For all men are not cut on that

pattern, thank God! and we don't need to have the world condemn her to

remain single, just because she prefers a more agreeable husband. We

will find one for her easily enough, never fear; and don't you imagine

that, because she isn't rich like you, she will go begging."

"Come, come, Janille!" said Monsieur Antoine, taking Emile's hand, "you

are the one who says things that shouldn't be said. It would seem that

you wanted to wound our young friend. You shake your head too much. I

tell you that he is our best friend next to Jean, who has the right of

priority; and I declare that no one, during the twenty years that, on

account of my poverty, I have been in a way to appreciate disinterested

sentiments, has shown me and inspired in me so much affection as Emile.

That is why I say he will never be an embarrassment in our family

secrets. By his common-sense, his education and the loftiness of his

ideas, he is far ahead of his own age and ours. That is why we could

find no better adviser. I look upon him as Gilberte's brother, and I

will answer for it that, if a suitable husband for her should present

himself, he would enlighten us concerning his character, and would exert

himself to bring about a marriage that would make her happy, and to

prevent one likely to do the contrary. So your sharp words have no

common-sense, Janille. When I took him into my confidence, I knew what I

was about; you treat me altogether too much like a child!"

"Ah indeed, monsieur! so you choose to pick a quarrel with me in your

turn, do you?" said Janille, with great animation. "Very good! this is

the day for truth-telling, and I will speak, since you drive me to the

wall. I tell you and I tell Monsieur Emile, to his face, that he is much

too young for this rôle of friend of the family, and that this

friendship had better cool down a little, or you will feel the

inconveniences of it. Why, here's an instance of it this very day, and

you will find it out. A young man comes and offers to marry Gilberte: we

won't have him--that's all right and fully understood; but what will

prevent this discarded suitor from believing and saying--if for no other

reason than to be revenged--that it is because of Monsieur Emile and of

the family ambition to make a rich marriage, that we will listen to

nobody else? I don't say that Monsieur Emile is capable of having such

thoughts, I am sure he is not. He knows us well enough to know what sort

of people we are. But fools will believe it and the consequence will be

that we shall be thought fools. What? we turn Monsieur Galuchet away

because our girl is thought to be too young, and Monsieur Cardonnet the

younger will come here every week, as if he were the only one excepted

from the rule! That can never be, Monsieur Antoine! And it's of no use

for you to look at me with your soft eyes, Monsieur Emile, and to kneel

by me and take my hands as if you were going to make me a declaration; I

love you, yes I admit it, and I shall regret you much; but I shall do my

duty all the same, as I am the only one in this house with any head and

foresight and decision! Yes, my boy, you must go, too, for _ma mie_

Janille isn't in her dotage yet."

Gilberte had become pale as a lily again and Monsieur Antoine was angry,

probably for the first time in his life. He thought Janille

unreasonable, and, as he dared not rise in revolt, he pulled Sacripant's

ear, who, seeing that he was out of temper, overwhelmed him with

caresses and submitted to be tortured by his unconscious hand. Emile was

on his knees between Janille and Gilberte; his heart overflowed and he

could not keep silent.

"My dear Janille," he cried at last, with impetuous emotion, "and you,

noble and generous Antoine, listen to me and learn my secret at last. I

love your daughter. I have loved her passionately since the first day

that I saw her, and if she deigns to share my feelings, I ask her in

marriage, not for Monsieur Galuchet, not for any protégé of my father,

not for any of my friends, but for myself, who cannot live away from

her, and who will not rise except with her consent and yours."

"Come to my heart!" cried Monsieur Antoine, in a transport of joy and

enthusiasm; "for you are a noble fellow and I knew that nothing could be

truer and more loyal than your heart."

He pressed the slender youth in his arms as if he would have suffocated

him. Janille, deeply moved, put her handkerchief to her eyes; but in an

instant she forced back her tears and said:

"This is madness, Monsieur Antoine, genuine madness! Keep watch on

yourself and don't let your heart go so fast. Certainly he is a fine

fellow, and if we were rich or if he were poor, we could never make a

better choice; but we must not forget that what he proposes is

impossible, that his family will never consent to it, and that he has

been building a romance in his little brain. If I didn't love you so

much, Emile, I would scold you for inflaming Monsieur Antoine's

imagination so, for it is younger still than yours, and is capable of

taking your dreams seriously. Luckily his daughter is more sensible than

he and I are. She is not at all disturbed by your soft words. She is

grateful to you for them and thanks you for your kind intentions; but

she is perfectly well aware that you don't belong to yourself and can't

dispense with your father's consent; and that, even if you were old

enough to summon him into court to make him consent, she is too well

born to care to enter by force a family that spurned her."

"That is true," said Monsieur Antoine, as if waking from a dream; "we

are going astray, my poor children; Monsieur Cardonnet will never have

anything to do with us, for we have nothing to offer him but a name

which he would treat as a chimera, which, indeed, we hold too cheap

ourselves, and which throws open no road to fortune. Emile, Emile, let

us say no more about it, for it would become a source of regret. Let us

be friends, friends forever! be my child's brother, her protector and

defender if occasion offers; but let us say nothing about marriage or

love, for, in these times we live in, love is a dream and marriage a

business affair."

"You do not know me," cried Emile, "if you think that I accept or will

ever accept the laws of society and the scheming of self-interest! I

will not deceive you; I would answer for my mother if she were free, but

my father will not be favorably disposed to this marriage. And yet my

father loves me, and when he has tested the force and endurance of my

will he will realize that his own will cannot carry the day in this

matter. There is one means that he can try to compel me to submit. He

can deprive me for a time of the enjoyments of his wealth. But in that

case how joyfully I will work in order to deserve Gilberte's hand, to

raise myself to her level, to deserve the esteem which is not accorded

to lazy men, but which they merit who have passed through honorable

tests, as you have, Monsieur Antoine. My father will yield some day, I

have no doubt; I can take my oath to it before God and before you,

because I feel within me all the strength of an invincible love. And

when he has come to appreciate the power of a passion like mine, he, who

is so sovereignly wise and intelligent and who loves me more than all

the world, certainly more than ambition and wealth, will open his arms

and his heart unreservedly to my bride. For I know my father well enough

to know that when he yields to the power of destiny, he does it without

a backward look to the past, without base rancor, without cowardly

regret. Therefore believe in my love, O my friends, and rely as I do on

God's help. There is nothing humiliating to you in the prejudices I

shall have to combat, and the love of my mother, who lives only for me

and in me, will make up to Gilberte in secret for my father's temporary

prejudice. Oh! do not doubt it, do not doubt it, I implore you! Faith

can do anything, and if you help me in this fight, I shall be the

luckiest mortal who ever fought for the holiest of all causes, for a

noble love, and for a woman worthy of my whole life's devotion!"

"Ta! ta! ta!" exclaimed Janille, bewildered by his eloquence; "here he

is talking like a book and trying to excite my girl's brain. Will you be

kind enough to keep quiet, golden tongue? we do not want to listen to

you, and we refuse to believe you. I forbid you, Monsieur Antoine! You

don't realize all the misfortunes this may bring on us, and the least

would be to prevent Gilberte's making a possible, reasonable marriage."

Poor Antoine no longer knew which way to turn. When Emile spoke, he

glowed with the memory of his youthful years, and remembered that he too

had loved; nothing seemed to be nobler and holier than to defend the

cause of love and to encourage such a noble enterprise. But when Janille

threw water on the fire, he recognized his mentor's wisdom and prudence.

Thus, sometimes he took part with her against Emile, sometimes with

Emile against her.

"We have had enough of this," said Janille, vexed because she saw no

apparent end to their irresolution; "all this ought not to be discussed

before my child. What would be the result if she were a weak or

frivolous creature? Luckily she does not bite at your fairy tales, and

as she cares very little for your money she will have too keen a sense

of dignity to wait until you're at liberty to dispose of your heart. She

will dispose of hers as she thinks best, and while she continues to give

you her esteem and friendship, she will beg you not to compromise her by

your visits. Come, Gilberte, say a sensible, brave word to put an end to

all this foolish talk!"

Thus far Gilberte had said nothing. Deeply moved as she was, she gazed

pensively in turn at her father, Janille, and, most frequently of all,

at Emile, whose ardor and tone of conviction stirred her to the depths

of her soul. Suddenly she rose and knelt before her father and her

governess, whose hands she affectionately kissed.

"It is too late to call upon me for cold prudence, and to remind me of

the exigencies of self-interest," she said; "I love Emile, I love him as

dearly as he loves me, and before it had occurred to me that I could

ever belong to him, I had sworn in my heart never to belong to another.

Receive my confession, my father and mother before God! For two months I

have not been frank with you, and for two weeks I have been hiding from

you a secret that weighs upon my conscience, and that will be the last,

as it is the first in my whole life. I have given my heart to Emile, I

have promised to be his wife on the day that my parents and his consent.

Until then, I have promised to love him bravely and calmly; I promise it

now anew, and I call upon God and you to witness my promise. I have

promised, and I promise again, that if his father's will is inflexible,

we will love each other as brother and sister, although it will be

impossible for me ever to love another, and that I will never give way

to any impulse of madness and despair. Have confidence in me. See--I am

strong, and I am happier than ever, since I have placed Emile between

you two and with you two in my heart. Do not fear complaints or

melancholy or low spirits or sickness from me. Ten years hence I shall

be just as you see me to-day, finding all-powerful consolation in your

love, and in my own a courage proof against every trial."

"God's mercy!" cried Janille in desperation, "we are all accursed. We

only lacked this. This girl of mine actually loves him and has told him

so, and tells him so again before us! Oh! it was a wretched day for us

that this young man entered our house!"

Antoine, utterly overwhelmed, could do nothing but burst into tears,

pressing his daughter to his heart. But Emile, inspired by Gilberte's

courage, found so much to say, that he succeeded in taking possession of

that mind, incapable as it was of defending itself. Even Janille herself

was shaken, and they ended by adopting the plan which the lovers

themselves had formed at Crozant, namely, to wait--a plan which did not

decide much to Janille's satisfaction--and not to meet too often--which,

at all events, reassured her to some slight extent as to the danger from

without.

They left the orchard, and a few moments later Galuchet also left it,

but stealthily, and, without being seen, plunged into the bushes to make

his way, under cover, to the Gargilesse road.

Emile remained to dinner, for neither Antoine nor Janille had the

courage to shorten a visit which was not to be repeated until the

following week.

The worthy country gentleman's affectionate and ingenuous heart was

unable to resist the caresses and loving speeches of the two children,

and when Janille's back was turned, he allowed himself to be prevailed

upon to share their hopes and to bless their love. Janille tried to hold

out against them, and her depression was genuine and profound; but no

one can arrange a plan of seduction so cunningly as two lovers who

desire to win over a friend to their cause. They were both so kind, so

attentive, so affectionate, so ingenious in their cajoling flatteries,

and above all, so beautiful, with their eyes and foreheads illumined by

the glow of enthusiasm, that a tiger could not have resisted. Janille

wept, at first with vexation, then with grief, then with affection: and

when the evening came and they went and sat by the stream, in the soft

moonlight, those four, united by invincible affection, formed but a

single group, with arms intertwined and hearts beating in unison.

Gilberte especially was radiant, her heart was lighter and purer than

the fragrance which exhaled from the plants when the stars rise, and

ascends to them. Intoxicated with bliss as Emile was, he could not

entirely forget the difficulty of the duties he had to perform in order

to reconcile the religion of his love with filial respect. But Gilberte

believed that they could wait forever, and that, so long as she loved,

the miracle would occur of itself and no one would be obliged to act.

When Emile, having ventured to kiss her hand under the eyes of her

parents, had taken his leave, Janille said to her, with a sigh:

"Well, now you will be in the dumps for a week! I shall see you with

your eyes all red, as they often were before that infernal trip to

Crozant! There will be no more peace or happiness here!"

"If I am sad, darling mother," said Gilberte, "I give you leave to

prevent his coming again; and if my eyes are red, I will tear them out

so that I can't see him. But what will you say if I am more cheerful and

happier than ever? Don't you feel how calm my heart is? See, put your

hand there, while we can still hear his horse's footsteps as he rides

away! Am I excited? Light the lamp and examine me closely. Am I not

still Gilberte, your daughter, who breathes only for you and my father,

and who can never be bored and listless for an instant with you? Ah!

when I suffered, when I cried, was when I had a secret from you, and

when I was dying to be able to tell it to you. Now that I can speak and

think aloud, I breathe again and I feel nothing but the joy of living

for you and with you. And didn't you see this evening how happy we all

were to be able to love one another without fear or shame? Do you think

that it will ever be different, and that Emile and I would be happy

together if you were not with us always and every minute?"

"Alas!" thought Janille with a sigh, "we are only at the very beginning

of this fine arrangement!"

XXVI

THE SNARE

Emile determined to delay no longer to speak seriously to his father,

and to make, not a formal and too hasty avowal of his love, but a sort

of preliminary discourse which would lead little by little to more

decisive explanations. But the carpenter had made an appointment with

him for the following morning, and he thought, justly enough, that if

that man proved what he had asserted, he would have an excellent pretext

for broaching the subject, and for demonstrating to Monsieur Cardonnet

the uncertainty and vanity of his plans for making a fortune.

Not that Emile placed blind faith in Jean Jappeloup's competence to form

an opinion in such matters; but he knew that the observation of a

natural logician may materially assist scientific investigation, and he

set out before dawn to join his companion at a certain point where they

had agreed to meet. He had informed Monsieur Cardonnet the night before

of his purpose to examine the course of the stream that ran the factory,

but without telling him whom he had chosen for his guide.

It was a difficult but interesting excursion, and on his return Emile

requested a private interview with his father. He found him with a

tranquil air of triumph, which seemed to him not to be of very good

augury. However, as he deemed it his duty to inform him of what he had

seen, he entered upon the subject without hesitation.

"You urge me, father," he began, "to espouse your projects and to take

hold of them with the same ardor that you yourself display. I have done

my best, for some time past, to place at your service all the

application of which my brain is capable; I owe it therefore to the

confidence you have placed in me to tell you that we are building on

sand, and that, instead of doubling your fortune, you are rapidly

throwing it into a bottomless pit."

"What do you mean, Emile?" replied Monsieur Cardonnet with a smile;

"this is a very alarming exordium, and I supposed that science would

have led you to the same result that practice shows--namely, that

nothing is impossible to enlightened determination. It seems that you

have deduced from your meditations a contrary solution. Let us see! you

have made a long trip and doubtless a very thorough examination? I too

explored last year the stream which it is our business to subdue, and I

am certain of success; what do you say to that, boy?"

"I say that you will fail, father, because it will require an outlay

beyond the means of a private individual, and which is not likely to be

retrieved by proportionate profit."

With that, Emile, with much lucidity, entered upon explanations which we

will spare the reader, but which tended to prove that the course of the

Gargilesse presented natural obstacles impossible to overcome without an

outlay ten times as great as Monsieur Cardonnet anticipated. It would be

necessary for him to become the owner of a considerable part of the bed

of the stream, in order to divert its course in one place, widen it in

another, and in another, blast out ledges that interfered with the

regularity of its flow; and finally, if he could not do away with the

accumulation and sudden and violent overflow of the water in the upper

reservoirs, he would have to build dikes around the factory a hundred

times more extensive than those already begun, which dikes would then

throw the water back in such quantities as to ruin the surrounding land;

and, in order to do that, he would have to buy half of the commune or

wield an oppressive power, impossible to obtain in France. The works

already constructed by Monsieur Cardonnet were a serious detriment to

the millers thereabout. The water, being arrested in its course for his

use, made their mills _walk backward_, as they said in the province,

producing a contrary current against their wheels, which stopped them

entirely at certain hours. Not without compensating them in another way

and at great expense, had he succeeded hitherto in pacifying these small

manufacturers, pending the time when he would ruin them or ruin himself;

for the compensation offered could be temporary only and was to cease

with the completion of his works. He had bought at a high price, from

one, his services for six months as a carter, from others, the use of

their horses to draw his barges. He had soothed a goodly number with

illusory promises, and the simple-minded people, dazzled by a temporary

profit, had closed their eyes to the future, as always happens with

those whose present circumstances are straitened.

Emile passed hurriedly over these details, which were of a nature to

irritate Monsieur Cardonnet rather than to convince him; and he strove

to arouse his apprehensions, especially as he was thoroughly convinced,

and certain that he had exaggerated nothing.

Monsieur Cardonnet listened to the lad with much attention, and, when he

had finished, said to him, passing his hand over his head with a

fatherly, caressing touch, but with a calm smile of conscious power:

"I am well pleased with you, Emile. I see that you are busy; that you

are working in earnest; and that you are no longer wasting your time

running about from château to château. You have been talking very

clearly, like a conscientious young lawyer who has studied his case

carefully. I thank you for the excellent direction your ideas are

taking; and do you know what affords me the most pleasure? that you

apply yourself to your work as I had hoped that you would as a result of

hard study. Here you are already eager for success; you feel its potent

excitement. You are passing through the inevitable stages of alarm,

doubt, and even momentary discouragement which accompany the development

of every important plan in the genius of the manufacturer. Yes, Emile,

that is what I call conceiving and giving birth. This mystery of the

will is not begotten without pain; it is with the man's brain as with

the woman's womb. But set your mind at rest now, my boy. The danger that

you fancy that you have discovered exists only upon a superficial

examination of things, and you cannot grasp the whole subject in a

simple walk. I passed a week exploring this stream before I laid the

first stone on its banks, and I took counsel of a man more experienced

than you. See, here is a plan of the whole locality, with the levels,

measurements and depths of water. Let us look it over together."

Emile examined the plan with care and discovered several actual

mistakes. They had considered it impossible that the water should reach

a certain elevation even in extraordinary freshets, and that certain

barriers could hold it in check beyond a certain number of hours. They

had figured on contingencies, and the commonest experience, the

testimony of any witness of what had happened theretofore, would have

sufficed to destroy the theory, if they had been willing to listen to

that evidence. But that was something that Cardonnet's proud and

distrustful nature could not do. He had placed himself at the mercy of

the elements, with his eyes closed, like Napoléon in the Russian

campaign, and in his superb obstinacy he would willingly have

undertaken, like Xerxes, to whip the rebellious Neptune into submission.

His adviser, although a very clever man, had thought of nothing but

encouraging his ambition, or had allowed himself to be swayed and

influenced by that ardent will.

"Father," said Emile, "this is not simply a matter of hydrographic

calculations, and you will allow me to say that your absolute confidence

in the work of a specialist has led you astray. You laughed at me when,

at the beginning of my general studies, I said to you that all branches

of human knowledge seemed to me to be interrelated, and that one must

needs know almost everything to be infallible on any given point; in a

word, that no special work could dispense with synthesis, and that

before learning the mechanism of a watch it would be well to learn the

mechanism of creation. You laughed at me--you laugh at me still--and you

took me away from the stars to send me back to mills. Very well; if,

with your hydrographer, you had consulted a geologist, a botanist and a

physicist, they would have demonstrated to you something that I feel

safe in asserting after one view of the locality, subject to the

confirmation of more competent judges than myself. It is: that, taking

into consideration the slope of the ridge of the mountain over which

your stream flows, taking into consideration the direction of the winds

that accompany it, taking into consideration the plateaus from which it

takes its source and their relative elevation, which attracts all the

clouds, where indeed all the storms take rise--floods of water must

constantly pour down into this ravine and sweep away unavailing

obstacles; unless, as I have said, it be controlled by works which you

cannot undertake to erect, because the necessary expense exceeds the

resources of any single capitalist. That is what the physicist would

have told you on the authority of atmospheric laws: he would have

appealed to the incessant effects of the lightning upon the rocks which

attract it; the geologist would have appealed to the nature of the soil,

whether loamy, chalky or granitic, which retains, absorbs and discharges

the water in turn.

"And the botanist," said Monsieur Cardonnet, smiling, "do you forget

him?"

"He," replied Emile, with an answering smile, "would have noticed on the

steep, barren cliff, where the geologist could not have detected with

absolute assurance the former passage of the water, a few blades of

grass which would not have enlightened his fellow-scientists. 'This

little plant,' he would have said to them, 'did not grow there all

alone; it is not the kind of spot that it loves, and you see what a

melancholy look it has, awaiting the time when the flood that brought it

here shall carry it away again or bring some of its friends for

company.'"

"Bravo! Emile, nothing could be more ingenious."

"And nothing more certain, father."

"Where did you learn all this, pray? Are you hydrographer, mechanician,

astronomer, geologist, physicist and botanist all at once?"

"No, father; you compelled me to pick up on the wing the elements of

those sciences, which have a common foundation; but there are some

privileged natures in which observation and logic take the place of

learning."

"You are not modest."

"I am not speaking of myself, father, but of a peasant, a true genius,

who doesn't know how to read, who doesn't know the names of the fluids,

gases, minerals or plants, but who understands causes and effects, whose

keen eye and infallible memory detect differences and characteristics;

of a man, in short, who, while speaking the language of a child, showed

me all these things and made them clear to me."

"Who is this unknown genius whom you met on your walk, I pray to know?"

"A man whom you do not like, father, whom you take for a madman, and

whose name I hardly dare mention to you."

"Ah! I understand! it is your friend Jappeloup the carpenter, Monsieur

de Boisguilbault's vagabond, the village sorcerer, who cures sprains

with words and puts out fires by cutting a cross on a beam with his

axe."

Monsieur Cardonnet, who had thus far listened to his son with interest,

albeit without being persuaded, laughed scornfully, and was thenceforth

inclined to treat the subject with sarcasm and contempt.

"And this is the way madmen come together and agree!" he said. "Really,

my poor Emile, nature made you an unfortunate gift when she gave you a

large supply of intellect and imagination, for she withheld the guiding

spirits, coolness and common-sense. Here you are astray, and because a

miracle-working peasant has posed before you as the hero of a romance,

you devote all your petty knowledge and your ingenious reasoning powers

to attempt to confirm his wonderful decisions! You have put all the

sciences at work, and astronomy, geology, hydrography, physics and even

poor little botany, which hardly expected the honor, come in a body to

sign the patent of infallibility awarded to Master Jappeloup. Write

poetry, Emile, write novels! you are good for nothing else, I am very

much afraid."

"So you despise experience and observation, father," rejoined Emile,

restraining his anger; "you do not deign even to consider those

commonplace bases of the work of the mind? and yet, you make sport of

most theories. What am I to believe, according to your opinion, if you

will not allow me to consult either theory or practice?"

"On the contrary, Emile," replied Monsieur Cardonnet, "I respect both

one and the other, but on condition that they inhabit healthy brains;

for their advantages change to poison or smoke, in foolish brains.

Unfortunately, some alleged scientists are of this number, and that is

why I would have liked to preserve you from their chimeras. Who is more

absurdly credulous and more easily deceived than a pedant with

preconceived ideas? I remember an antiquarian who came here last year:

he was in search of Druidical stones, and he saw them everywhere. To

satisfy him I showed him an old stone the peasants had hollowed out by

pounding the grain of which they made their porridge, and I persuaded

him that it was the urn in which the sacrificial priests among the Gauls

shed human blood. He absolutely insisted on carrying it off for the

departmental museum. He took all the granite drinking-troughs for

ancient sarcophagi. And that is how the most absurd errors spread. It

rested entirely with me whether a trough or a mortar should pass for

venerable monuments. And yet that gentleman had passed fifty years of

his life reading and meditating. Look out for yourself, Emile, a day may

come when you will take bladders for lanterns!"

"I have done my duty," said Emile. "I was bound to urge you to make a

further examination of the spots I have visited, and it seemed to me

that the experience of your recent disaster might suggest the same

advice. But as you answer me with jests I have nothing more to say."

"Let us see, Emile," said Monsieur Cardonnet after a few moments'

reflection, "what your conclusion is from all this, and what there is at

the bottom of your cheerful predictions. I understand very well that

Master Jean Jappeloup, who has set himself up as an inveterate foe of my

undertaking, and who passes his life declaiming against _Père

Cardonnet_--even in your presence, and you could tell me many things

about him--would like to persuade you to induce me to leave this country

where, it appears, my presence is a thorn in his side. But whither do

you seek to lead me, O my philosopher and scientist? Where do you wish

to found a colony? into what American desert do you propose to carry the

advantages of your socialism and my industrial talent?"

"We might carry them not so far away," replied Emile, "and if you were

seriously inclined to work at the civilization of savages, you would

find plenty under your hand; but I know only too well, father, that it

is no part of your purpose to return to a subject that has been

exhausted between us. I have forbidden myself to contradict you in that

regard, and I do not think that since I have been here, I have once

departed from the respectful silence you imposed upon me."

"Come, come, my boy, don't adopt this tone, for your somewhat cunning

reserve is just what annoys me most. Let us drop the discussion of

socialism, I agree to that; we will resume it next year and perhaps we

shall both have made some progress then that will help us to understand

each other better. Let us think of the present. The vacation will not

last forever; what do you wish to do when it ends, for your instruction

and employment?"

"I aspire to nothing except to remain with you, father."

"I know it," said Monsieur Cardonnet with a malicious smile; "I know

that you enjoy yourself hugely in this neighborhood; but that doesn't

lead to anything."

"If it leads me to the frame of mind in which I should be in order to

reach a perfect understanding with my father, I shall not look upon it

as time wasted."

"That is very prettily said, and you are very kind; but I don't think it

puts us ahead much, unless you are prepared to devote yourself entirely

to my enterprise. Come, shall we write for more experienced advisers and

examine the whole locality again?"

"I agree with all my heart, and I persist in believing that it is my

duty to urge you to do it."

"Very good; Emile, I see that you are afraid I shall use up your

fortune, and I am not displeased to see it."

"You fail to understand the feeling on that subject which I have in the

bottom of my heart," Emile replied with warmth; "and yet," he added,

making an effort to be prudent, "I desire you to interpret what I say in

whatever sense is most agreeable to you."

"You are a great diplomatist, I must agree; but you shall not escape me.

Come, Emile, you must make up your mind. If, after the renewed and

thorough examination we propose to make, science and observation decide

that Master Jappeloup and you are not infallible, that the factory can

be finished and have a prosperous existence, that my fortune and yours

are planted here, and that they must germinate and fructify here, will

you agree to embrace my projects body and soul, to second me in every

way, with arms and brain, with heart and head? Swear to me that you will

belong to me, that you will have no other thought than that of helping

me to make you rich; place all your faculties at my disposal without

argument; and in return I swear to you that I will give your heart and

your passions all the gratification which it lies in my power to do, and

which the laws of morality do not forbid. I believe that I make myself

clear?"

"O father!" cried Emile, rising impetuously, "have you weighed your

words?"

"They are carefully weighed, and I wish you to weigh your reply."

"I hardly understand you," said Emile, falling back upon his chair. A

cloud of flame had passed before his eyes; he felt as if he were about

to faint.

"Emile, do you wish to marry?" rejoined Monsieur Cardonnet, eager to

make the most of his emotion.

"Yes, father, I do," Emile replied, leaning over the table that stood

between them and putting out his hands imploringly. "Oh! do not play

with me now, for you would kill me!"

"Do you doubt my word?"

"I cannot, if your word is given seriously."

"It is the most serious promise I have ever given in my life, as you can

judge for yourself. You have a noble heart and an eminent mind; I know

it and I have proofs of it. But with equal sincerity and equal

certainty, I can tell you that your brain is both too weak and too

active, and that twenty years hence, perhaps--always perhaps, Emile--you

will not be competent to take care of yourself. You will be constantly

attacked by vertigo, you will never act coolly, you will take sides

passionately, for or against men and things, without precaution and

without discernment, without the voice of the indispensable instinct of

self-preservation to appeal to you and warn you from the depths of your

conscience. You have a poetic nature; it would be useless for me to try

to deceive myself in that respect, for everything leads me to the

painful certainty that you need a guide and a master. Bless God,

therefore, who has given you for your guide and master a father, your

best friend. I love you as you are, although you are just the opposite

of what I should have liked, could I have chosen my son. I love you as I

would love my daughter if nature had not made a mistake in your sex;

that is enough to tell you that I love you passionately. So do not

complain of your fate and never let my reproaches humiliate you. In our

present position with regard to each other, which is clearly defined now

to my mind, I will make immense sacrifices to your happiness and your

future; I will overcome my repugnance, which is very great, I confess,

and I will allow you to marry the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman

and his servant. I will satisfy your heart and your passions, as I have

said; but only on the condition that your mind is to belong to me

absolutely thenceforth, and that I am to dispose of you as freely as of

myself."

"O my God! is it possible!" exclaimed Emile, dazzled and terrified at

the same time; "but what do you intend by this renunciation of self,

father, what meaning do you give to it?"

"Didn't I just tell you? Don't pretend that you can't understand me.

Look you, Emile, I know the whole of your Châteaubrun romance, and I

could repeat it to you word for word, from your arrival one stormy night

down to the Crozant expedition, and from Crozant down to your

conversation last Saturday in Monsieur Antoine's orchard. I know all the

characters now as well as you do yourself, for I chose to see with my

own eyes, and yesterday, while you were exploring the banks of the

stream, I went to Châteaubrun, on the pretext of supporting Constant

Galuchet's offer of marriage, and I talked a long while with

Mademoiselle Gilberte."

"With her, father?"

"Isn't it perfectly natural that I should want to know the young woman

you have chosen without consulting me, and who may perhaps be my

daughter some day?"

"O father! father!"

"I found her charming, lovely, modest, humble and proud at once, able to

express herself well, lacking neither deportment, good manners nor

education, and common sense less than all! She refused with much

propriety the suitor I proposed to her. Yes, with gentleness, modesty

and dignity combined. I was very well pleased with her! What struck me

most was her prudence, her reserve, and the perfect control she has over

herself; for I confess that I tried to sting her a little, and even to

offend her, to get a sight at the under side of her character. Her

father was away; but the mother, that sly little old woman whose

son-in-law you aspire to be, was so irritated by my reflections on her

small fortune and the perfect suitability of a marriage with Galuchet,

that she treated me with contempt; she called me _bourgeois_; and as I

persisted, for the express purpose of pushing her to extremities, she

said to me, with her arms akimbo, that her daughter was of too good a

family to marry a manufacturer's servant; and that, if the

manufacturer's son in person should offer himself, they would look at

him twice before accepting such a misalliance. She amused me immensely.

But Gilberte smoothed everything over by her calm and decided manner. I

assure you that she keeps to the letter the promise she gave you, to be

patient, to wait and to suffer everything for love of you."

"Oh! did you make her suffer terribly?" cried Emile, beside himself.

"Yes, a little," coolly replied Monsieur Cardonnet, "and I am very glad

I did. Now, I know that she has some character, and I should be very

glad to have such a person about me. Such a woman can be very useful in

a household, and nothing can be worse than to have a wife who is passive

and pig-headed at the same time, who can do nothing but sigh and keep

silent like many women I know. It would be a pleasure to me to dispute

sometimes with my daughter-in-law, and to discover at once that her

views are just, that her will is strong, and that she is well fitted to

give you sound advice. Come, Emile," he added, offering his son his

hand, "you see, I trust, that I am neither blind nor unjust, and that I

wish to make the best of the position in which you have put me."

"_O mon Dieu_! if you consent to my happiness, father, I will give you a

lease of myself, I will become your man of business, your overseer, your

workman during as many years as you consider me incapable of taking care

of myself. I will submit to all your wishes, and I will work every hour

in the day, never complaining, never resisting your most trivial

orders."

"And never asking for a salary," laughed Monsieur Cardonnet. "Nonsense,

Emile, that is not what I mean, and that rôle of menial would outrage

nature. No, no, this is no time to throw dust in my eyes, and I am not

the man to make any mistake as to your real intentions. I am not yet so

nearly ruined that I can't afford to hire an overseer, and I do not

think that I could select one less fitted than you to manage workmen. I

want you to be another myself, to help me in the work of planning, to

learn for me, to give me your ideas, subject to my right to combat and

modify them; in a word, to seek out and invent methods of money-making

which I will carry out when they suit me. In this way your constant

studies and your fertile imagination can assist me in multiplying your

fortune by ten. But to obtain this result, Emile, there must be no

working with indifference and absence of interest, as you have been

doing for a fortnight past. I am not deceived by this temporary

submission, concerted with Gilberte, to extort my consent. I require

submission for your whole life. I wish you to be ready to undertake

journeys--with your wife, if you please--to examine the progress of the

manufacturing industry; in a word, I want you to sign, not on paper

before a notary, but on my head and with your heart's blood, and before

God, a contract which will wipe out your whole past of dreams and

chimeras, and which will pledge your convictions, your will, your faith,

your devotion, your religion, your whole future, to the success of my

work."

"And suppose I do not believe in your work?" said Emile, turning pale.

"You must believe in it; or, if it is impracticable, let me be the first

to cease to believe in it. But do not think to escape me by that

détour. If we are forced to strike our tent here, I shall pitch it

somewhere else, and I shall not stop until I die. Wherever I may be,

whatever I may do, you must follow me, second me, and sacrifice all your

theories, all your dreams to me."

"What! even my very thoughts, my belief in the future?" cried Emile in

dismay. "O father! you are trying to dishonor me in my own eyes!"

"Do you draw back? Ah! you are not even in love, my poor Emile! But let

us stop here. This is enough excitement for your poor head. Take time to

reflect. I don't wish you to reply until I question you again. Consult

the intensity of your passion, and go and consult your mistress. Go to

Châteaubrun, go there every day, every hour in the day; you won't meet

Galuchet there again. Inform Gilberte and her parents of the result of

this conference. Tell them everything. Tell them that I give my consent

to your marriage a year hence on condition that you take now the oath

that I demand. Your mistress must know this just as it is; I insist upon

it; and if you don't tell her, I will take it upon myself to do it; for

I know the way to Châteaubrun now!"

"I understand, father," said Emile, deeply wounded and distressed; "you

wish her to hate me if I abandon her, or to despise me if I obtain her

at the price of my degradation and apostasy. I thank you for the

alternative you offer me, and I admire the inventive genius of your

paternal affection."

"Not another word, Emile," replied Monsieur Cardonnet, coldly. "I see

that the socialistic craze still exists, and that love will have some

difficulty in overcoming it. I trust that Gilberte de Châteaubrun will

perform that miracle, so that you may not have to reproach me for

refusing to consent to your happiness."

XXVII

SORROWS AND JOYS OF LOVE

Emile locked himself in his room and passed two hours there, a prey to

the most violent agitation. The thought of possessing Gilberte without a

struggle, without resistance, without the terrible distress of breaking

his father's heart, which he had hitherto anticipated with dismay and

horror, intoxicated him completely. But suddenly the thought of

degrading himself in his own eyes by an unholy oath plunged him into

bitter despair; and between these alternatives of joy and anguish he

could make up his mind to nothing. Should he dare to go and throw

himself at Gilberte's feet and confess everything to her? He could count

upon her courage and grandeur of soul. But should he fulfill the duties

imposed upon him by his love, if, instead of concealing from her the

terrible sacrifice that he might make without a word, he should compel

her to bear half of his remorse and his suffering? Had he not said to

her a hundred times at Crozant, that, for her and to obtain her hand, he

would submit to anything and would recoil at nothing? But he had not

then foreseen that his father's infernal genius would appeal to the very

force of his love to corrupt and ruin his soul, and he found that he had

received an unforeseen blow which had disarmed and bewildered him.

Twenty times he was on the point of returning to Monsieur Cardonnet, to

ask him to give him his word that he would do nothing, that he would

conceal from the family at Châteaubrun the intentions he had revealed

to him, until he himself had made up his mind what to do. But an

invincible pride held him back. After the contempt his father had

manifested for him, by assuming that he was weak enough to apostatize in

that way, should he exhibit his irresolution to him and lay bare the

depths of his heart, rent by passion as it was?

But who would be the most unjustly punished victim, Gilberte or he, in

case honor should carry the day over love? He was blameworthy toward

her, for he had destroyed her repose by a fatal passion and had led her

on to share his illusions. What had poor Gilberte, the sweet,

noble-hearted child, done that she should be snatched from her pure and

tranquil existence, and sacrificed at once to the law of inflexible

duty? Was it not too late to take cognizance of the reef against which

he had steered her? Must he not rather allow himself to be dashed to

pieces upon it to save her, and had his conscience the right to recoil

from the supreme sacrifice, when it was irrevocably pledged to Gilberte?

And then, if Gilberte should refuse to accept so tremendous a sacrifice,

would Emile be any less dishonored in her parents' eyes? Would Monsieur

Antoine, who loved and practised equality by instinct, at the dictates

of his heart, and also as a necessity of his position, understand how

Emile, young as he was, could have made it a religious duty, how an idea

could prevail over a sentiment--a pledged oath? And what would Janille

think of the slightest hesitation on his part, Janille who, in her

humble position, cherished such strange aristocratic prejudices, and

took advantage, in her relations with her masters, of the privileges,

without giving a thought to the universal right, of equality? She would

take him for a miserable fool, or rather she would think that he seized

upon that pretext to break his word, and she would banish him from

Châteaubrun with anger. Who could say that she would not in time work

upon Gilberte's mind so successfully that Gilberte would share her scorn

and indignation?

Feeling that he lacked strength to face so cruel a test, Emile tried to

write to Gilberte. He began and destroyed twenty letters, and at last,

being utterly unable to solve the problem of his situation, he resolved

to go and open his heart to his old friend Monsieur de Boisguilbault,

and ask his advice.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Cardonnet, acting with all the energy and freedom of

his cruel inspiration, wrote Gilberte a letter thus conceived:

"Mademoiselle,

"You must have found me very troublesome and far from polite yesterday.

I write to ask your pardon and to confess to a little feint for which

you will forgive me, I am sure, when you know my intentions.

"My son loves you, mademoiselle, I know, and I also know that you deign

to reciprocate his sentiments. I am happy and proud that it is so, now

that I know you. Does it not seem natural to you that, before forming a

decision of the utmost importance, I desired to see with my own eyes,

and in a certain measure to test the character of the young woman who

has in her hands my son's heart and the future of my family?

"And so, mademoiselle, I write to-day to apologize at your feet, and to

say to you that one so lovely and amiable as you can dispense with many

things, even with fortune, when it is a question of entering a rich and

honorable family.

"I ask your permission, therefore, to call upon you once more in order

to lay before your father in due form my petition for your hand, in my

son's behalf, as soon as my son shall have fully authorized me to do so.

This last sentence demands an explanation, and that explanation should

properly find a place in this letter.

"I make my consent to my son's happiness dependent upon a single

condition, and that condition tends only to make his happiness more

complete and to assure its continuance indefinitely. I demand that he

abandon those eccentric opinions which would impair our good

understanding and would endanger his fortune and consideration in the

future. I am sure that you are too sensible and too intelligent to

understand the socialistic, levelling doctrines, with the aid of which

my dear Emile and his young friends expect to overturn the world in a

short time; that the stock phrases of the brotherhood of mankind, equal

participation in privileges and enjoyments, and many other technical

terms of the young communistic school are absolutely unintelligible to

you. I fancy that Emile has never bored you to death with his

philosophical declamations, and I find it hard to believe that he could

have obtained the happiness of winning your affection by that nonsense.

I have no doubt that he will consent to abstain from it forever and to

renounce his folly. At that price, provided that he gives me the

promise, freely but solemnly, I will consent with all my heart to ratify

the fortunate choice that he has made of a perfect creature like

yourself. Be kind enough, mademoiselle, to convey to monsieur your

father my deep regret at not seeing him, and to inform him of the

contents of this letter.

"Pray accept the sentiments of esteem and of paternal affection with

which I place my son's cause and my own in your hands."

"VICTOR CARDONNET."

While a servant in gold lace, mounted on a fine horse, carried this

letter to Châteaubrun, Emile, over-burdened with anxious care, betook

himself on foot to the park of Boisguilbault.

"Well," said the marquis, squeezing his hand hard, "I did not expect you

until next Sunday. I thought that you forgot me yesterday, so this is a

pleasant surprise. I thank you, Emile. The days are very long since you

have been working so faithfully for your father. I can only approve your

submission, although I ask myself with some little alarm if it will not

take you farther along with him and his principles than you think. But

what's the matter, Emile? You are pale, distressed. You haven't had a

fall from your horse, have you?"

"I came on foot; but I have had a worse fall," replied Emile, "and I

believe that I have come to die here. Listen to me, my friend. I have

come to ask you either for the strength to die or the secret of life. An

insane joy and a ghastly sorrow are fighting together in my poor heart,

in my tortured brain. I have had, ever since I knew you, a secret which

I could not, dared not tell you, but which I cannot keep to myself

to-day. I do not know whether you will understand it, whether there is

within you any chord that will sympathize with my suffering; but I know

that you love me, that you are wise and enlightened, and that you adore

justice. It is impossible that you should not give me salutary advice."

Thereupon, the young man confided to the old man his whole story,

abstaining carefully from mentioning any name, place, or incident which

could possibly lead him to suspect that he was referring to Gilberte and

her family. He dreaded the effect of the marquis's personal prejudices,

and, desiring that his judgment should not be influenced in any way, he

so expressed himself as to allow him to think that the object of his

love was an entire stranger in the neighborhood and probably lived at

Poitiers or Paris. His reserve in not mentioning his mistress's name did

not fail to strike Monsieur de Boisguilbault as being in the best of

taste.

When Emile had finished he was greatly surprised not to find his grave

confidant armed with the stoical courage which he had anticipated and

dreaded. The marquis sighed, hung his head, then looked up at the sky:

"The truth is eternal!" he said.--But in another moment he let his head

fall again upon his breast, saying: "And yet I know what love is."

"You do, my friend?" said Emile; "then you understand me and I rely upon

you to save me."

"No, Emile; it is impossible for me to keep you from draining the cup of

bitterness. Whichever course you choose, you must drain it to the dregs,

and the only question is, in which direction honor lies, for, as for

happiness, do not reckon on it, you have lost it forever."

"Ah! I feel it already," said Emile, "and I have passed from a day of

bright sunshine and intoxicating bliss into the shadow of death. But the

profound and irreparable calamity that forces itself upon my mind,

whatever sacrifice I may resolve upon, is this--that my heart has become

as ice toward my father, and that, for several hours past, it has seemed

to me that I no longer love him, that I no longer dread to wound him,

that I no longer feel either respect or esteem for him. O my God,

preserve me from this suffering beyond my strength! Hitherto, as you

know, despite all the pain and terror he has caused me, I still

cherished him and I put forth all the strength of my heart to believe in

him. I felt in the very depths of my being that I was still his son and

his friend, and to-day it seems to me that the bond of blood is broken

forever, and that I am struggling against a strange master, who

oppresses me, who weighs on my heart like an enemy, like a ghost! Ah! I

remember a dream I had the first night I passed in this neighborhood. I

dreamed that my father came and sat on me to suffocate me!--It was

horrible; and now that ghastly vision is being realized; my father has

placed his knees, his elbows, his feet on my breast; he is trying to

tear out my conscience or my heart. He is poking about in my entrails to

see what weak spot will give way to him. Oh! it is a devilish invention,

a murderous project, which leads him astray. Is it possible that love of

gold and worship of success can inspire such thoughts in a father's mind

against his child? If you had seen the smile of triumph with which he

displayed the sudden inspiration of his peculiar generosity! he was not

a protector and adviser, but an adversary who has set a trap and seizes

his foe with a fiendish laugh. 'Choose,' he seemed to say, 'and if you

die, what does it matter? I shall have triumphed.'--O my God! it is

horrible, horrible, to condemn and to hate one's father!"

And poor Emile, crushed by grief, laid his face on the grass on which he

was lying and watered it with burning tears.

"Emile," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, "you can neither hate your

father nor be false to your mistress. Tell me, do you set much store by

the truth? Can you lie?"

The marquis had touched the right spot. Emile sprang to his feet

impetuously.

"No, monsieur, no," he said, "you know that I cannot lie. And of what

use is falsehood to cowards? What happiness, what repose can it assure

them? If I swear to my father that I have changed my religion, that I

believe in ignorance, error, injustice, folly, that I hate God in man,

and that I despise man in myself, will some monstrous miracle take place

in me? shall I be convinced? shall I find myself suddenly transformed

into a placid and supercilious egotist?"

"Perhaps so, Emile! in evil it is only the first step that costs, and

whoever has deceived other men, reaches the point where he is able to

deceive himself. That has happened often enough to be credible."

"In that case, falsehood to the winds! for I feel that I am a man and I

cannot transform myself into a brute of my own free will. My father,

with all his craft and all his strength, is blind in this. He believes

what he tries to make me believe, and if he should be urged to make my

belief his own he could not do it. No interest, no passion could force

him to do it, and yet he fancies that he would not despise me on the day

that I debased myself so far as to do a dastardly thing of which he

knows that he is himself incapable! Does he feel that he must despise me

and ruin me in order to confirm himself in his inhuman theories?"

"Do not accuse him of such perversity; he is the man of his epoch--what

do I say? he is the man of all epochs. Fanaticism does not reason, and

your father is a fanatic; he still burns and tortures heretics,

believing that he is doing honor to the truth. Is the priest who comes

to us at our last hour and says; 'Believe or you will be damned!' much

wiser or more humane? Does not the powerful man who says to the poor

clerk or the unfortunate artist; 'Serve me and I will make your

fortune,' believe that he is doing him a favor, conferring a benefit on

him?"

"But that is corruption!" cried Emile.

"Very good!" rejoined the marquis; "by what means is the world governed

to-day, pray tell me? Upon what does the social structure rest? One must

needs be very strong, Emile, to protest against it; for when you do, you

must make up your mind to be sacrificed."

"Ah! if I were the only victim of my sacrifice," said the young man

sorrowfully; "but _she!_ poor, saint-like creature, must she be

sacrificed too?"

"Tell me, Emile, if she should advise you to lie, would you still love

her?"

"I don't know! I think so! Can I imagine a state of things in which I

should not love her, since I love her now?"

"You really love her, I see. Alas! I too have loved!"

"Tell me, then, if you would have sacrificed honor?"

"Perhaps so, if I had been loved."

"Oh! feeble creatures that we are!" cried Emile. "God help me! shall I

not find a counsellor, a guide, a help in my distress? Will no one give

me strength? Strength, O my God! I implore it on my knees; and never

have I prayed with greater faith and ardor: I beseech Thee, give me

strength!"

The marquis went to Emile and pressed him to his heart. Tears were

rolling down his cheeks; but he held his peace and did not help him.

Emile wept a long time on his breast and felt that he loved that man

whom each succeeding test revealed to him as an extremely sensitive

rather than really strong man. He loved him the more for it, but he

grieved that he did not find in him the energetic and powerful adviser

upon whom he had counted in his weakness. He left him at nightfall and

the marquis said nothing more to him than: "Come again to-morrow; I must

know what you decide upon. I shall not sleep until I see you in a calmer

frame of mind."

Emile took the longest road to return to Gargilesse; he made a détour

by means of which he passed within a short distance of Châteaubrun by

shaded paths which hid him from sight, and when he was quite near the

ruins, he stopped, fairly distracted at the thought of what Gilberte

must have suffered since his father's heartless visit, and not daring to

carry her better news lest he should lose all his courage and virtue.

He had been standing there several minutes, unable to come to any

decision, when he heard his name called in an undertone, with an accent

that sent a thrill through him; and looking toward a small clump of oaks

at the right hand side of the road, he saw in the shadow a dress gliding

behind the bushes. He darted in that direction, and when he was far

enough among the trees to be in no danger of being seen, Gilberte turned

and called him again.

"Come, Emile," she said, when he was at her side. "We haven't an instant

to lose. My father is in the field close by. I saw you and recognized

you just as you started down this road, and I left him without saying

anything while he was talking with the mowers. I have a letter to show

you, a letter from Monsieur Cardonnet: but it is too dark for you to

read it, so I will repeat it to you almost word for word. I know it by

heart."

When she had repeated the substance of the letter, she continued:

"Now, tell me what this means? I think that I understand it, but I must

know surely from you."

"O Gilberte!" cried Emile, "I hadn't the courage to come and tell you;

but it was God's will that I should meet you and that my fate should be

decided by you. Tell me, my Gilberte, my first and last love, do you

know why I love you?"

"Apparently," replied Gilberte, abandoning her hand to him, which he

pressed against his lips, "it was because you divined in me a heart

created to assist you."

"Very good; and can you tell me, my only love, my only treasure on this

earth, why your heart gave itself to me?"

"Yes, I can tell you, my dear; because you seemed to me, from the very

first day, noble, generous, simple-hearted, humane, in a single word,

good, which to my mind is the noblest quality a man can have."

"But there is a passive goodness which in some sort excludes nobility

and generosity of sentiment, a yielding weakness, which may be a

charming characteristic, but which, under difficult circumstances,

compromises with duty and betrays the interests of mankind generally to

spare itself and one or two others a little suffering?"

"I understand that, but I do not call weakness and fear goodness. To my

mind there is no true goodness without courage, dignity and, above all,

devotion to duty. If I esteem you to the point of saying to you, without

suspicion and without shame, that I love you, Emile, it is because I

know that you are great in heart and mind; it is because you pity the

unfortunate and think only of assisting them, because you despise

nobody, because you suffer when others suffer, because you would gladly

give everything that belongs to you, even your blood, to relieve the

poor and the abandoned. That is what I understood about you as soon as

you talked before me and with me; and that is why I said to myself: This

heart answers mine; these noble thoughts exalt my soul and confirm me in

all that I have thought; I detect in this mind, which impresses me and

charms me, a light which I am compelled to follow and which guides me

toward God himself. That is why, Emile, I felt neither terror nor

remorse in yielding to the inclination to love you. It seemed to me that

I was performing a duty; and I have not changed my opinion after reading

your father's mocking words concerning you."

"Dear Gilberte, you know my heart and my thought; but your adorable

goodness, your divine affection ascribe to me as a great merit

sentiments which seem to me so natural and so forced upon men by the

instinct God has implanted in them, that I should blush not to have

them. And yet these sentiments, which must appear in the same light to

you, since you yourself entertain them with such innocence and

simplicity, are spurned by many people and derided as dangerous errors.

There are some who hate and despise them because they haven't them.

There are others who, by a strange anomaly, have them to a certain

extent, but cannot tolerate the logical deduction from them and their

inevitable consequences. Heaven help me! I fear that I cannot explain

myself clearly."

"Yes, yes, I understand you. Janille is good like God himself, and,

through ignorance or prejudice, that perfect friend rejects my ideas of

equality, and tries to convince me that I can love and pity and help the

unfortunate without ceasing to think that they are naturally inferior to

me."

"Well, my noble-hearted Gilberte, my father has the same prejudices as

Janille, from another point of view. While she believes that birth

creates a claim to power, he is persuaded that skill, strength and

energy create a claim to wealth, and that it is the duty of acquired

wealth to go on adding to itself forever, at any cost, and to pursue its

way into the future, never allowing the weak to be happy and free."

"Why, that is horrible!" cried Gilberte, ingenuously.

"It is prejudice, Gilberte, and the terrible power of custom. I cannot

condemn my father; but tell me--when he asks me to swear that I will

espouse his errors, that I will share his passionate ambition and his

arrogant intolerance--ought I to obey him? And if your hand is to be had

only at that price, if I hesitate an instant, if a profound terror takes

possession of me, if I fear that I may become unworthy of you by denying

my belief in the future of mankind, do I not deserve some pity from you,

some encouragement, or some consolation?"

"_O mon Dieu_!" said Gilberte, clasping her hands, "you do not

understand what is happening to us, Emile! Your father does not wish us

ever to be married, and his conduct is full of cunning and shrewdness.

He knows well enough that you cannot change your heart and brain as one

changes his coat or his horse; and be sure that he would despise you

himself, that he would be in despair if he should obtain what he asks.

No, no, he knows you too well to believe it, Emile, and he has but

little fear of it; but he attains his end all the same. He separates you

from me, he tries to make trouble between us, he puts himself in the

right and you in the wrong. But he will not succeed, Emile; no, I swear

it; your resistance to his demands will increase my affection for you.

Ah! yes, I understand it all; but I am above such a paltry stratagem,

and nothing shall ever part us."

"O my Gilberte, O my blessed angel!" cried Emile, "tell me what I shall

do; I belong to you absolutely. If you bid me, I will bend my neck under

the yoke; I will commit all manner of iniquities, all manner of crimes

for you."

"I hope not," rejoined Gilberte, mildly yet proudly, "for I should no

longer love you if you ceased to be yourself, and I will have no husband

whom I cannot respect. Tell your father, Emile, that I will never give

you my hand on such conditions, and that, notwithstanding all the

contempt he may entertain for me in the bottom of his heart, I will wait

until he has opened his eyes to justice and his heart to a more

honorable feeling for us two. I will not be the reward of an act of

treachery."

"O noble girl!" cried Emile, throwing himself at her knees and ardently

embracing them, "I adore you as my God and bless you as my providence!

But I have not your courage. What is going to become of us?"

"Alas!" said Gilberte, "we must cease to meet for some time. We must do

it; my father and Janille were present when your father's letter

arrived. My poor father was dumb with joy, and understood nothing of the

conditions at the end. He has expected you all day, and he will continue

to expect you every day until I tell him that you are not coming, and

then, I trust, that I shall be able to justify your conduct and your

absence. But Janille will not excuse you for long; she is already

beginning to be surprised and disturbed and irritated because your

father seems to await your sanction to come and make a formal request

for my hand. If you should tell her now what I insist upon your doing,

she would curse you and banish you from my presence forever."

"O my God!" cried Emile, "to see you no more! No, that is impossible!"

"Why, my dear, what change will there be in our relations? Will you

cease to love me because you do not see me for a few weeks, a few

months, perhaps? Are we proposing to bid each other adieu forever? Do

you no longer believe in me? Did we not anticipate obstacles, suffering,

a period of separation?"

"No, no," said Emile, "I anticipated nothing. I could not believe that

this would happen! I cannot believe it yet!"

"O my dear Emile! do not be weak when I need all my strength. You have

sworn to overcome your father's opposition, and you will do it. Here is

one of his most tremendous efforts which we have defeated already. He

was very sure beforehand that you would not accept dishonor, and he

thinks that you will be discouraged so easily! He doesn't know you. You

will persist in loving me, and in telling him so, and in proving it to

him every day. Come, the hardest part of it is over, since he knows all,

and, instead of being indignant and grieved, he accepts the battle with

a smile, like a game of cards in which he believes himself the more

skilful. So have courage; I will have plenty of it. Do not forget that

our union is the work of several years of perseverance and faithful

toil. Adieu, Emile, I hear my father's voice coming nearer and I must

fly. Stay here, and do not go on until we are well out of the way."

"To see you no more!" murmured Emile; "to hear your voice no more, and

still have courage?"

"If you lack courage, Emile, it will be because you do not love me as

much as I love you, and because our union does not promise happiness

enough to induce you to fight hard and long."

"Oh! I will have courage!" cried Emile, conquered by the noble-hearted

girl's energy. "I will force myself to suffer and to wait. You will see,

Gilberte, whether the happiness the future promises does not enable me

to endure everything in the present. But can we not meet sometimes, by

chance, as we met to-day, for instance?"

"Who knows," said Gilberte. "Let us rely on Providence."

"But one can sometimes assist Providence. Can we not invent some means

of communication, of sending word to each other?--by writing, for

instance?"

"Yes, but then we must deceive those whom we love!"

"O Gilberte! what can we do?"

"I will think about it; let me go."

"Go without promising me anything at all?"

"You have my pledge and my heart; are they nothing to you?"

"Go, then!" said Emile, making a violent effort to unclasp his arms,

which obstinately detained Gilberte's slender form. "I am happy,

Gilberte, even as I let you go! See if I love you, if I believe in you

and in myself!"

"Believe in God," said Gilberte, "He will protect us."

And she disappeared among the trees.

Emile remained a long while on the spot she had just left. He kissed the

grass that her feet had barely touched and the tree she had grazed with

her dress, and after lying a long while in that thicket, the silent

witness of his last joy, he tore himself away with difficulty. Gilberte

ran after her father, who had started to return to the ruins and was

walking fast in front of her. Suddenly he turned and retraced his steps.

"Ah! my dear child, I was coming back to look for you," he said

innocently.

"That is to say, father, you had forgotten me," replied Gilberte,

forcing herself to smile.

"No, no, don't say that; Janille would call it absent-mindedness! I was

thinking of you all the time. That letter from Monsieur Cardonnet is

running in my brain. Perhaps Emile is waiting for us at the house--who

knows? Probably he couldn't have come sooner; his father must have

detained him. Let us hurry back; I'll wager that he's there." And the

goodman confidently quickened his pace.

Janille was in a savage humor. She could not understand Emile's

moderation, and was beginning to be seriously disturbed. Gilberte tried

to divert her thoughts, and during supper was calm and almost cheerful.

But she was no sooner alone in her room than she fell on her knees and

buried her face in the bed, to stifle the sobs which shook her frame.

XXVIII

CONSOLATION

Gilberte was resigned, albeit in despair. Emile was perhaps less

desperate, because in the bottom of his heart he was not yet resigned.

Every moment his uncertainty returned, and the greater and more worthy

of his love Gilberte appeared to him in the light of their conversation,

the more intensely did that love make its invincible power felt. As he

was entering the village, he turned abruptly and retraced his steps,

trying to fancy that he was going to Châteaubrun; and when he had

walked a few minutes, he sat down on a rock, covered his face with his

hands, and felt weaker, more in love, more human than ever.

"If Monsieur de Boisguilbault had seen her and heard her," he said to

himself, "he would understand that I cannot hesitate between her and

myself, and that I must have her, even at the price of a falsehood! O my

God! my God! inspire me. It was Thou who didst plant this love in my

heart, and, having given me the strength to conceive it, Thou wouldst

not give me the strength to crush it."

"Well, Monsieur Emile, what are you doing here?" queried Jean Jappeloup,

whose approach he had not observed, and who had seated himself by his

side. "I was looking for you, for I had fallen into the habit of talking

with you in the evening, and when I don't see you after my day's work, I

miss you. What is the trouble? Have you got a headache, that you hold

your head in your hands as if you were afraid of losing it?"

"It is too late, my friend," replied Emile; "my head is lost forever."

"Why, are you so very much in love? Tell us when the wedding is to be."

"Soon, Jean, whenever we choose!" cried Emile, wild at the thought. "My

father consents, and I am going to marry her. Yes, I am going to marry

her, do you hear? for if I don't, I shall die. Tell me, mustn't I marry

her?"

"The devil! I should think so! How can you hesitate a minute? I would

never be the one to justify you, if you should throw her over; and upon

my word, my boy, I believe I would force you to marry her even if I had

to fight you."

"Yes, it's my duty, isn't it?"

"Damnation! one would say that you doubt it. You have a sort of daft way

of saying that."

"Yes, I am daft, it is true; but no matter. I know my duty now, and you

confirm me in my best resolution. Let us go to Châteaubrun together!"

"Are you going there? All right; but let's walk fast, for it is late.

You can tell me on the way how your father, whom I believed to be a

madman, suddenly made up his mind to be sensible."

"My father is mad, in very truth," said Emile, taking the carpenter's

arm and walking excitedly beside him; "altogether mad! for he gives his

consent on condition that I tell him a lie which he will not believe.

But it is a triumph to him, a genuine delight, to induce me to lie!"

"Look here," said Jappeloup, "you've not been drinking? No, you never

drink too much! and yet you are crazy. They say that love makes one as

drunk as wine; it must be true, for you say things without rhyme or

reason."

"My father, who is mad," continued Emile, beside himself with

excitement, "wants to make me mad too, and he is succeeding finely, as

you see! He wants me to tell him that two and two make five, and to take

my oath to it before him. I consent, you see! What harm does it do to

flatter his mania, so long as I marry Gilberte?"

"I don't like all this business, Emile," said the carpenter. "I don't

understand it, and it annoys me. If you are mad, I don't propose that

Gilberte shall marry you. Let us stop here and try to collect our wits a

little. I have no desire to take you to Châteaubrun, if you are going

to ramble in this way, my son."

"Jean, I feel very ill," said Emile, sitting down again; "I am dizzy.

Try to understand me, to calm me, to help me to understand myself. You

know that I don't think as my father does. Well, my father insists that

I shall think as he does; that's the whole story! That is impossible;

but so long as I say the same things that he does, what difference does

it make?"

"Say what? deuce take it!" cried Jean, who had, as we know, very little

patience.

"Oh! a thousand foolish things," replied Emile, who felt an icy chill,

alternating at intervals with a burning flush. "For instance, that it is

exceedingly fortunate for the poor that there are rich men."

"That is false!" said Jean, with a shrug.

"That the more rich and poor there are, the better the world will get

on."

"I deny it."

"That the battle between the rich and poor is ordained by God, and that

the rich should go forth to it with the keenest joy."

"On the contrary, God forbids it!"

"Lastly, that men of intellect are happier than the poor in intellect,

because such is the order of Providence."

"Ten thousand devils, he lies!" cried Jean, smiting the rock with his

stick. "Don't repeat any more of that drivel, for I can't listen to it.

The Good Lord himself has said just the opposite of it all, and he came

to the earth, disguised as a carpenter, for nothing else than to prove

it."