ARGUMENTS FOR AND AGAINST.
When Cloarek rapped at the door of his daughter's room the next morning,
she promptly responded to the summons, smiling and happy.
"Well, my child, did you rest well?" he inquired.
"Splendidly, father. I had the most delightful dreams, for you bring me
happiness even in my sleep."
"Tell me about these delightful dreams. I am always anxious to hear
about everything that makes you happy, whether it be an illusion or
reality," he responded, anxious to bring the conversation around
naturally to the subject of Onésime. "Come, I am listening. What
brilliant castles in Spain did you behold in your slumbers?"
"Oh, I am not ambitious, father, even in my dreams."
"Is that really so, my child?"
"It is indeed, father. My desires are very modest. Luxury and display
have no charms for me. I dreamed last night that I was spending my life
with you,--with you and dear Suzanne, and with Segoffin, who is so
warmly attached to you."
"And who else?"
"Oh, yes, I forgot."
"Thérèse, I suppose?"
"No, not Thérèse."
"Who was it, then?"
"M. Onésime."
"M. Onésime? I do not understand that. How did M. Onésime happen to be
living with us?"
"We were married."
The words were uttered in such a frank and ingenuous manner that Cloarek
could not doubt the perfect truthfulness of his daughter's account; and
rather in doubt as to whether he ought to congratulate himself on this
singular dream or not, he asked, a little anxiously:
"So you and M. Onésime were married, you say?"
"Yes, father."
"And I had consented to the marriage?"
"You must have done so, as we were married. I don't mean that we were
just married,--we seemed to have been married a long time. We were all
in the parlour. Three of us, you and Onésime and I, were sitting on the
big sofa. Suzanne was crocheting by the window, and Segoffin was on his
knees fixing the fire. You had been silent for several minutes, father,
when, suddenly taking M. Onésime's hand and mine,--you were sitting
between us,--you said: 'Do you know what I have been thinking?' 'No,
father,' M. Onésime and I answered (for naturally he, too, called you
father). 'Well,' you continued, 'I have been thinking that there is not
a happier man in the world than I am. To have two children who adore
each other, and two faithful old servants, or rather two tried friends,
and spend one's life in peace and plenty with them, surely this is
enough and more than enough to thank the good God for now and always, my
children.' And as you spoke, father, your eyes filled with tears."
"Waking as well as dreaming, you are, and ever will be, the best and
most affectionate of daughters," said Cloarek, deeply touched. "But
there is one thing about your dream that surprises me very much."
"And what is that?"
"Your marriage with Onésime."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"How strange. It seemed so perfectly natural to me that I wasn't at all
surprised at it."
"But in the first place, though this is not the greatest objection, by
any means, M. Onésime has no fortune."
"But how often you have told me that all these business trips, and all
these frequent absences that grieve me so much, have been made solely
for the purpose of amassing a handsome dowry for me."
"That is true."
"Then, in that case, M. Onésime does not need any fortune."
"Nevertheless, though it is not absolutely indispensable that M. Onésime
should possess a fortune, it is certainly very desirable. There is
another objection."
"Another?"
"M. Onésime has no profession and consequently no assured social
position."
"He is not to blame for that, poor fellow! Who could possibly consider
his enforced idleness a crime? Will, education, capability, none of
these are lacking. It is his terrible infirmity that proves such an
obstacle to everything he undertakes."
"You are right, my child; this infirmity is an insuperable obstacle that
will unfortunately prevent him from achieving success in any career;
from creating any position for himself, and even from marrying, except
in dreams, understand."
"I don't understand you at all, my dear father. I really don't."
"What! my child, don't you understand that it would be folly in any
woman to marry a half-blind man who cannot see ten feet in front of him?
don't you understand that in such a case the rôles would be entirely
reversed, and that, instead of protecting his wife, as every man ought
to do, M. Onésime will have to be protected by the woman who would be
foolish enough to marry him?"
"It seems to me only right that the person who is able to protect the
other should do so."
"Certainly; but this duty devolves upon the man."
"Yes, when he is able to fulfil this duty; when he is not, it devolves
upon the wife."
"If she is foolish enough, I repeat, to accept such a life of
self-sacrifice and weighty responsibility."
"Foolish?"
"Idiotic, rather. Don't look at me so indignantly."
"Listen to me, father."
"I am listening."
"You have reared me with the utmost kindness and devotion; you have
anticipated my every wish; you have surrounded me with every comfort;
and for my sake you have exposed yourself to all the fatigue and
discomfort of long business trips. Am I not right?"
"It was not only a pleasure, but my duty to do these things for you, my
dear child."
"A duty?"
"The most sacred of all duties."
"To protect me--to be my guide and my support, you mean, do you not?"
"Precisely. It is the duty of every parent."
"That is exactly what I was coming at," said Sabine, with amusing
_naïveté_. "It is a father's duty to protect his child, you say?"
"Certainly."
"But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one
of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your
sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to
repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part
of guide, support, and protector? Our rôles would be reversed, as you
say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her
father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest
the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward
her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my
dear father."
"But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In
consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl
might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her
father. In such a case, it is very grand and noble in her to devote her
life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her
father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free
to choose would, I repeat,--don't glare at me so,--be a fool, yes, an
idiot, to select for a husband--"
"An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest
solicitude," cried Sabine, interrupting her father. "So you really
believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made
such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe
it,--you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who
have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every
sacrifice for her,--tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote
one's life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind;
tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an
infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and
I will believe you."
"No, my generous, noble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be
lying if I did," exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine's
generous enthusiasm; "no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one
finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the
attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all
superior natures."
"So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after
all," replied the girl, smiling.
"You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or
rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully."
"And what is that?"
"When a man loves, he loves body and soul; you must admit that. The
contemplation of the charming face of a beloved wife is as sweet to a
man as the realisation of her merits and virtues. Now, in a long
conversation that I had last evening with M. Onésime, at your
recommendation, remember, I asked him if he could see a person a few
feet off, distinctly. He replied that he could not, and remarked in this
connection that he had seen you plainly but once, and that was yesterday
when you were assisting Suzanne in binding up his hand. The most
inconceivable thing in your dream-marriage, after all, is a husband who
spends his life near his wife without ever seeing her except by
accident, as it were."
"Ah, well, father, I, for my part, think such a state of affairs is not
without its advantages, after all."
"Really, that is going a little too far, I think."
"I will prove it to you if you wish."
"I defy you to do it."
"But, father, I have read somewhere that nothing could be more
sacrilegious than to leave always exposed to view the portraits of one's
loved ones; for the eye finally becomes so accustomed to these
lineaments that the effect is perceptibly impaired."
"There may be some truth in this remark, but I do not perceive any
special advantage to be derived from it so far as you are concerned."
"But if, on the contrary, these portraits are in a case that is opened
only when one desires to contemplate the beloved features, the
impression produced upon you is powerful in proportion to the rarity of
the treat."
"Your reasoning is fairly good, to say the least; but how about the
other party, the person that can see? She will be obliged to close her
eyes, I suppose, and keep them closed, to prevent her husband's
features from losing their charm."
"Are you really in earnest in making this objection?"
"Certainly I am."
"Then I will merely say in reply that, though I put myself in M.
Onésime's place for a moment, that is no reason why I should renounce my
own excellent eye-sight, for I am not in the least afraid that I should
ever tire of looking at my husband any more than I tire of looking at
you, my dear father, and I know I could gaze at your face a hundred
years without growing weary of reading on your noble features all your
devoted tenderness for me," added Sabine, kissing her father fondly.
"My dear, dear child," murmured Cloarek, responding to his daughter's
fervent caress, "how can I hope to contend successfully with your heart
and reason. I must acknowledge myself beaten, I suppose, and confess
that your dream is not so unreasonable, perhaps, after all, and that a
woman might perhaps marry such a terribly near-sighted man if she really
loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of your romantic way of regarding poor
Onésime's infirmity, I should infinitely prefer--But, now I think of
it--"
"Well, father?"
"During my travels I have heard a good deal about a young and
wonderfully skilful surgeon,--a terrible gourmand, too, they say he is,
by the way. It is his only fault, I understand. This young surgeon
established himself in Paris a few years ago, and his fame has grown,
until he is now considered one of the greatest celebrities of the
scientific world. It is possible that he may be able to restore this
poor fellow's sight."
"Do you really suppose there is any hope of that?" cried Sabine.
"I cannot say, my child, but I know several wonderful cures that Doctor
Gasterini has effected, and I will write to him this very day. I am
going out for a little while, but I shall be back in an hour, and as I
shall want to see you as soon as I return, you had better wait for me
here."
On leaving Sabine, Cloarek went up to Onésime's room, and, desiring that
their conversation should be of the most secret character and free from
any possibility of interruption, he asked that young man to accompany
him on a promenade he intended to take on the beach before dinner.