A LAST APPEAL.
THE poor girl was as pale as death, and so weak that she was obliged to
half recline in a large easy-chair.
"Will you sit down, M. Onésime, and you too, my dear Suzanne and
Segoffin," she said, with gentle dignity.
They all seated themselves in silence.
"Before beginning this conversation," said Sabine, with a melancholy
smile, "I must tell you that I am greatly changed. The vague and often
senseless fears which have haunted me from infancy seem to have
vanished. The terrible reality seems to have dispelled these phantoms. I
tell you this, my friends, so you may understand that it is no longer
necessary to manifest so much caution and consideration in your
treatment of me, and that you can tell me the entire truth with safety,
no matter how terrible it may be. One word more: I adjure you, Suzanne,
and you too, Segoffin, in the name of your devotion to me and to--other
members of my family, to answer all my questions fully and truthfully.
Will you promise to do this?"
"I promise," replied Suzanne.
"I promise," said Segoffin.
A brief silence followed.
All present, and more especially Onésime, were struck by the firm and
resolute manner in which Sabine expressed herself, and felt that,
whatever her decision might be, it would unquestionably prove
unalterable.
"You saw me born, Suzanne," continued the young girl, after a moment,
"and by your untiring care and faithful devotion you made yourself my
mother's valued friend. It is in the name of this friendship that I
adjure you to tell me if the memories of my infancy have deceived me,
and if it was not my father who, twelve years ago, dressed as I saw him
three days ago, caused--caused my mother's death."
"Alas! mademoiselle--"
"In the name of my sainted mother, I adjure you to tell me the truth,
Suzanne."
"The truth is, mademoiselle," replied the housekeeper, in a trembling
voice, "the truth is, that, after a stormy scene between your parents,
madame died; but--"
"Enough, my dear Suzanne," said Sabine, interrupting her. Then, passing
her hand across her burning brow, she relapsed into a gloomy silence
that no one dared to break.
"Segoffin," she said, at last, "you were my grandfather's faithful
servant and trusted friend. You watched over my father in childhood; at
all times, and under all circumstances, you have been blindly devoted to
him. Is it true that my father, instead of being engaged in business as
he said, has been privateering under the name of Captain l'Endurci?"
"Yes, mademoiselle, it is true," Segoffin answered, smothering a sigh.
After another brief silence, Sabine said:
"M. Onésime, I owe it to myself and I owe it to you to inform you of my
determination. In happier days there was some talk of a marriage between
us, but after what has occurred, after what you know and have just
heard, you will not be surprised, I think, to hear me say that this
world is no longer any place for me."
"Good Heavens! what do you mean, mademoiselle?" cried Onésime, in
dismay.
"I have decided to retire to a convent, where I intend to end my days."
Onésime did not utter a word, but sat with his head bowed upon his
breast, while quick, heavy sobs shook his frame.
"No, mademoiselle, no! That is impossible," sobbed Suzanne. "No, surely
you will not thus bury yourself alive."
"My mind is made up," answered Sabine, firmly; "but if such a sojourn
does not seem too gloomy to you, my dear Suzanne, I should be glad to
have you accompany me."
"I shall never leave you. You know that very well, mademoiselle, but you
will not do this, you will not--"
"Suzanne, for two days I have been reflecting upon the course I ought to
pursue. There is nothing else for me to do, so my resolution is
irrevocable."
"And your father, mademoiselle," interposed Segoffin, "before you
separate yourself from him for ever you will surely see him once more."
"No."
"Then, from this day on, you are dead to him and he is dead to you."
It was evidently with a violent effort at self-control that Sabine at
last replied:
"It will be better for me not to see my father again until we are
reunited with my mother."
"Ah, mademoiselle, how can you be so cruel?" murmured Segoffin,
despairingly. "If you knew how wretched he is--"
"No, I am not cruel," replied the girl; "at least I do not mean to be. I
can only repeat what I said to Suzanne just now. For two days I have
been reflecting on the course I ought to pursue, and my decision is
irrevocable."
A gloomy silence greeted this announcement. Segoffin was the first to
speak.
"You surely will not refuse to hear a letter from M. Cloarek read,
mademoiselle," he said, at last. "It is the only request he makes of
you, for he foresaw the aversion you would feel for him."
"Aversion!" cried Sabine, like one in mortal agony. Then controlling
herself, she added:
"There seems to have been a strange and cruel fatality about all this."
"Yes," answered the old servant, sighing; "but as M. Cloarek is never to
see you again, will you not at least listen to the letter I brought to
M. Onésime?"
"It is undoubtedly my duty to comply with my father's wishes, so I am
ready to listen, M. Onésime."
The young man opened the envelope Segoffin handed him. The letter which
Cloarek had written to his daughter was accompanied with the following
brief note:
"I implore you to read the enclosed letter to Sabine, my dear Onésime.
It is a last proof of esteem and affection I desire to give you.
"May this truthful account written by a despairing parent, and read by a
beloved voice, reach his daughter's heart. Yours affectionately,
"Y. CLOAREK."
After telling Sabine the contents of this note the young man read the
following aloud:
"'TO MY DAUGHTER:--Fate seems to decree that I am to be separated from
you for ever, my child, for now I know you can no longer bear the sight
of me.
"'A strange and unforeseen event has revealed a terrible and jealously
guarded secret to you.
"'Yes, that man in the strange costume, whom you have always remembered
as your mother's murderer, was I, your father.
"'The privateer whose deeds inspired you with such horror was I.
"'Your mother was _enceinte_. We had a quarrel,--the first in our whole
married life, I swear it! I gave way to my temper, and my anger became
so terrible that, in your mother's nervous condition, her fright killed
her.
"'Mine was a double crime, for the terror that proved fatal to your
mother also had a lasting effect upon you, for the unfortunate
impression made upon you at that tender age had a most deplorable
influence, not only upon your health, but upon your whole life.
"'You know my crime, now let me tell you how I have expiated it.
"'When I saw you motherless, I asked myself what would become of you.
"'The small fortune that your mother and I possessed had been almost
entirely lost in consequence of the political agitations of the day and
a ruinous lawsuit. I had lost my position as a magistrate in consequence
of the scandal which my ebullitions of temper caused.
"'I sold the small amount of property I had left, and realised about six
thousand francs from the sale. Suzanne, who had gained your poor
mother's affectionate esteem by her virtues and her faithfulness, was
devoted to you. I said to her:
"'"Here are five thousand francs; enough, with economy, to supply my
daughter's wants and yours for five years. I entrust my child to your
care. If you have seen or heard nothing from me at the expiration of
these five years, you will send a letter which I will leave with you to
the person to whom it is addressed."
"'The person to whom this letter was written was a man of noble lineage
whose life I had saved during the revolution, and who had taken up his
abode in Germany; and I felt sure that this man, who was still wealthy,
would treat you as an adopted child; but I did not intend you to eat the
bitter bread of dependence if I could help it.
"'These arrangements made, I kissed you while you were peacefully
sleeping, and departed with one thousand francs as my only dependence.
Segoffin, my tried and trusted friend, insisted upon sharing my
fortunes, so he accompanied me.
"'I had devoted the days which immediately preceded my departure to
sorrowful meditations upon the future and the past, during which I had
questioned, studied, and judged myself with inexorable severity.
"'My misfortunes and my crime toward your mother were due to the
impetuosity of my character. Anything that wounded my feelings, anything
contradictory to my convictions, anything in the way of opposition to my
wishes, made my blood boil and excited me almost to frenzy; and this
exuberance and impetuosity vented themselves in fury and violence.
"'In short, my only capital was anger.
"'While thus studying myself I recollected the wonderful mental and
physical power with which I seemed to be endowed when I yielded to these
transports of rage.
"'Often when I had revolted against certain iniquitous facts or acts of
cruel oppression, the very intensity of my anger had given me almost
superhuman power to defend the weak and chastise the oppressor. For
instance, one day when I found three ruffians attacking a poor
defenceless woman, I nearly killed all three of them, though in my
normal condition I could not have coped successfully with any one of
them single-handed.
"'But alas! my child, on continuing this inexorable study of myself, I
was also obliged to admit that I had not always had just cause for my
anger, by any means, for not unfrequently the slightest contradiction
infuriated me almost to madness. Your poor mother's death was a terrible
example of this idiosyncrasy on my part.
"'After this long and careful examination of myself, I summed up the
result as follows:
"'Anger is a passion of such intensity in me, that it increases my
mental and physical powers a hundred-fold. In other words, it is a
force.
"'When this force is brought into action by generous motives, it leads
to acts of which I have every reason to be proud.
"'When, on the contrary, it is brought into action by unworthy motives,
it causes me to commit culpable or even criminal acts, which I shall
never cease to regret.
"'Anger has been the cause of my ruin and of my despair. It killed my
wife. Now, anger shall be my salvation and the salvation of my daughter.
"'These words may seem incomprehensible to you, my child, but listen.
"'In my position of magistrate, my proneness to anger and violence was
most prejudicial to me. It caused people to regard me with derision,
even with contempt, and destroyed every prospect of my advancement in my
judicial career. In other words, my mind, character, and temperament did
not harmonise with my functions.
"'It was consequently advisable for me to adopt a profession in which
the vice, or rather, the radical force of my nature could be utilised to
the best advantage of myself and of others.
"'I soon found such a profession.
"'My grandfather had been a sea-faring man, like nearly all Bretons who
live on the coast; but my father's rather delicate health led him to
enter the judiciary. But I had been reared on the coast, and the sight
of the sea, and the daring, adventurous, and independent life of the
fishermen had made a deep impression upon my mind.
"'A privateer! to be a privateer! When this idea presented itself to my
mind my heart bounded with hope.
"'It seemed to amount to a revelation.
"'It offered an outlet for the feverish ardour that was devouring me.
"'My one object in life now was to save you from poverty, and ensure you
the comforts of life, both now and in years to come,--to secure
sufficient wealth to make it possible for you to marry the man of your
choice, some day. This, and to find a career in which my powers could be
best utilised.
"'How could I do this more effectually than by becoming a privateer?
"'The prize-money gained by privateers often amounts to large sums, so
it was quite possible that I might succeed in amassing a very
comfortable little fortune for you; besides, where could I hope to find
a life that would suit me better, or even as well as the daring,
exciting, adventurous life of a corsair?
"'Contention and strife were like the breath of life to me. Resistance
exasperated me to frenzy; peril only incited me to greater efforts; the
presence of danger set my blood to boiling. Madness seized me, and my
capabilities seemed to increase in power in proportion to the number of
my enemies.
"'Nor was this all, my child. As I have remarked before, cruelty, or
oppression, or treachery, enraged me well-nigh to madness, and against
whom should I fight if I became a corsair? Against a country I
abhorred,--against a country that, impelled by hatred, greed, or
ambition, as the case might be, had pursued France with the utmost
vindictiveness for years, hesitating at nothing,--now trying to ruin us
by flooding our country with counterfeit assignats, now torturing our
brave soldiers to madness, even to death, in her horrible prison
hulks,--in short, _England_!
"'_England_! In spite of the despair that overwhelms me as I write, the
mere name of that country (which I hate with an even more mortal hatred
since the dastardly attempt of which you so narrowly escaped becoming
the victim) brings a hot flush of anger to my cheek; my wrath kindles
again, and--
"'But forgive me, forgive me, my poor child, forgive me for thus
grieving your tender and ingenuous heart, which is incapable of aught
like hatred.
"'I did feel it necessary, however, to explain all the reasons that
actuated me in entering upon the only career that seemed open to me.
"'My decision made, I kissed you farewell while you were sleeping, and
departed in company with Segoffin.'"
* * * * *
Onésime's reading was here interrupted by a despairing sob that Sabine
could no longer repress.