SUZANNE'S ENLIGHTENMENT.
"My dear Suzanne," said M. Cloarek, "first of all, I want to thank you
for the excellent care you have taken of my daughter."
"Poor Mlle. Sabine, didn't I nurse her when she was a baby, and isn't
she almost like my own child to me?"
"You have been a second mother to my child, I know. And it is on account
of the tender affection you have always manifested toward her that I
wish to talk with you on a very important matter."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"You sent for your nephew in my absence. He has been here nearly two
months, I understand."
"Yes, and it is in regard to the poor fellow that I wish to talk with
you this evening, monsieur. I will explain--"
"Sabine has told me all about it."
"Great Heavens! you are not angry, I hope."
"Not angry, Suzanne, but greatly worried and alarmed."
"Alarmed! Alarmed about what?"
"The effect of your nephew's presence in this house."
"Had I foreseen that it would be disagreeable to you, I would not have
sent for the poor boy; but he was so unhappy, and I knew your kindness
of heart so well, that I thought I might take the liberty--"
"You have rendered too valuable service to each and every member of my
family, Suzanne, for your relatives not to have a right to my interest
and assistance. What I reproach you for is a great imprudence."
"Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not understand."
"Your nephew is young?"
"Twenty-five."
"He is well educated?"
"Too well for his position, monsieur. My poor sister and her husband
made great sacrifices for him. His sight being so poor, they gave him an
excellent education in the hope he might enter the clergy, but Onésime
felt that he had no calling that way, so there was nothing for him to do
but secure a clerkship."
"I know the rest, but how about his personal appearance? What kind of a
looking young man is he?"
"The poor fellow is neither handsome nor ugly, monsieur. He has a very
kind and gentle manner, but his extreme near-sightedness gives him a
rather scared look. He is really the best-hearted boy that ever lived.
Ask mademoiselle, and see what she will tell you."
"Really, Suzanne, such blindness on your part amazes me."
"Such blindness, monsieur?"
"Is it possible, Suzanne, that you, who are a person of so much
experience and good sense, have not felt, I will not say the
impropriety, but the grave imprudence there is in having your nephew
under the same roof with my daughter, and allowing them to live in the
extremely intimate relations of such a secluded existence as you lead
here?"
"I know that I am only a servant, monsieur, and that my nephew--"
"That is not the question at all. Have not I and my daughter always
striven to prove that we regarded you as a friend, and not as a
servant?"
"Then I do not understand the cause of your reproaches."
"And that is very unfortunate, for if you had been more clear-sighted,
you would long since have discovered what has happened."
"Good Heavens! what has happened, monsieur?"
"Sabine loves your nephew."
"Mademoiselle!"
"She loves him, I tell you."
"Mademoiselle loves Onésime! Monsieur cannot be in earnest. It is
impossible."
"Impossible, and why?"
"Because the poor boy is as timid as a girl; because he is not at all
good-looking; because he sees very badly, a defect that makes him commit
twenty blunders a day, at which mademoiselle is not unfrequently the
first to laugh. He does not resemble a hero of romance in the least. Oh,
no, monsieur, you need feel no anxiety on that score. Mademoiselle has
always been very kind and considerate to Onésime, because he is my
nephew, and she pitied him, but--"
"Ah, blind woman that you are, not to have foreseen that, in a person of
Sabine's character, in a person of her extreme sensibility and angelic
kindness of heart, pity was almost certain to lead to a more tender
sentiment,--as it has!"
"Can it be possible that mademoiselle would condescend to look at a poor
fellow like Onésime?"
"It is precisely because he is poor and helpless and timid, and because
his infirmity places him in such an exceptional and painful position,
that Sabine was almost certain to love him, and you, who know her as
well as I do, should have foreseen this. I hope to Heaven that your
blindness may not prove disastrous in its consequences."
"Ah, monsieur," responded the housekeeper, contritely, "your words
enlighten me, now, when it is too late. But no, I cannot believe what
you have just told me. Mlle. Sabine has not admitted that she loves
Onésime, has she?"
"Oh, no; she has not admitted it, but I am satisfied of the fact. She is
so candid and so sincere that one can read her heart as one reads an
open book. She does love him, I tell you, and this destroys all the
plans I had formed. But what is the matter? Why are you sobbing so?
Suzanne, Suzanne, get up," cried Cloarek, seeing the housekeeper throw
herself at his feet.
"I have such a dreadful fear."
"Explain."
"Good Heavens, monsieur, what if you should suppose that in asking my
nephew here I was actuated by a desire to interest mademoiselle in him,
and so bring about a marriage between them!"
"Suzanne, you do me a gross injustice by supposing me capable of such a
suspicion."
"Tell me, oh, tell me that you do not believe me capable of such a
thing."
"I repeat that you have been thoughtless and imprudent. That is all, and
that is enough; but as for accusing you of any such shameful plotting,
that would be utterly absurd on my part. I understand, too, how certain
peculiarities in your nephew's character seemed a sufficient guarantee
against any such possibility, and that you never suspected that any such
danger could threaten my daughter."
"Alas! that is the truth, monsieur. I didn't consider Onésime any more
dangerous than an infant."
"I believe you, but the evil is done, nevertheless."
"But it can be repaired. Onésime shall leave the house at daybreak,
to-morrow morning, and never set foot in it again."
"And Sabine? His sudden departure would grieve her terribly, it might
even kill her, weak and nervous as she is,--for she is her poor dear
mother over again, in her sensitiveness and extreme susceptibility."
"_Mon Dieu_, I see, I see! How culpable I have been!" sobbed the
governess. "What are we to do, monsieur? What are we to do?"
"I have no idea myself."
"Cloarek paced the room in silence several minutes, then he asked,
suddenly:
"Where is your nephew?"
"In the Blue Boom, monsieur. I told him to wait there until I could let
him know the result of my interview with you."
"Send him to me."
"Here, monsieur?"
"Yes."
"Oh, monsieur, have pity on him, have pity on him, I beseech you!" cried
Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly. "I swear to you that it was not
his fault. The poor boy is innocent of any wrong-doing, even in thought.
He hasn't the slightest suspicion of all this, I am sure. Have pity on
him, I implore you!"
"Send him to me, I say."
"He shall leave the house this very night, monsieur, I swear it!"
"And my daughter! You want her to die of grief, perhaps!"
"One word, monsieur. It may be that mademoiselle's affection for Onésime
is only a youthful fancy that time and absence will soon cause her to
forget."
"But what if she does not forget it? What if this love is really deep
and true, as it must be, if it has once really taken root in a heart
like Sabine's? No, no, it would be an insult to the poor child to
believe her capable of loving in that way. She is her mother over again,
I tell you."
"Alas! monsieur, what you say nearly breaks my heart, and yet I am
forced to admit that you are right. I never realised, until this very
moment, all the possible consequences of this deplorable intimacy; for,
unfortunately, this is not the only thing that must be considered."
"What do you mean?"
"Monsieur--"
"Speak, speak, I say."
"What if,--and it would not be his fault, remember, monsieur,--what if
he should not share the affection he has inspired in mademoiselle--"
"Damnation!" exclaimed Cloarek.
Then after a moment's silence he said, sternly:
"Send your nephew here."
"Do not ask me to do that, monsieur!" pleaded Suzanne, in terror.
"Obey me, do you hear?"
"Not if you kill me, monsieur," replied Suzanne, resolutely; "no, he
shall not come. I will make him leave the house. I will not expose him
to--"
"To what? To my violence, my anger, I suppose you mean. Don't you see
that my daughter's love for him renders him sacred in my eyes?"
"But if he does not love her, monsieur?"
"If he does not love her?" exclaimed Cloarek, becoming frightfully pale;
then, without adding a word, and before the housekeeper, overcome with
consternation, could make so much as a movement to prevent it, he rushed
out of the parlour and into the room where Onésime was waiting to hear
the result of his aunt's interview with the master of the house.
To open the door of this room, and close and lock it behind him, to
prevent Suzanne from entering and Onésime from leaving it, was only the
work of an instant, and he thus found himself alone with Suzanne's
nephew.