PAINFUL ARGUMENTS
After the talk his mother had had with Perrine, Casimir, by his looks
and manner, gave her every opportunity to confide in him. But she had no
intention of telling him about the researches that his uncle was having
made both in India and in England. True, they had no positive news of
the exile; it was all vague and contradictory, but the blind man still
hoped on. He left no stone unturned to find his beloved son.
Mme. Bretoneux's advice had some good effect. Until then Perrine had not
taken the liberty of having the hood of the phaeton pulled up, if she
thought the day was chilly, nor had she dared advise M. Vulfran to put
on an overcoat nor suggest that he have a scarf around his neck; neither
did she dare close the window in the study if the evening was too cool,
but from the moment that Mme. Bretoneux had warned her that the damp
mists and rain would be bad for him she put aside all timidity.
Now, no matter what the weather was like, she never got into the
carriage without looking to see that his overcoat was in its place and a
silk scarf in the pocket; if a slight breeze came up she put the scarf
around his neck or helped him into his coat. If a drop of rain began to
fall she stopped at once and put up the hood. When she first walked out
with him, she had gone her usual pace and he had followed without a word
of complaint. But now that she realized that a brisk walk hurt him and
usually made him cough or breathe with difficulty, she walked slowly; in
every way she devised means of going about their usual day's routine so
that he should feel the least fatigue possible.
Day by day the blind man's affection for little Perrine grew. He was
never effusive, but one day while she was carefully attending to his
wants he told her that she was like a little daughter to him. She was
touched. She took his hand and kissed it.
"Yes," he said, "you are a good girl." Putting his hand on her head, he
added: "Even when my son returns you shall not leave us; he will be
grateful to you for what you are to me."
"I am so little, and I want to be so much," she said.
"I will tell him what you have been," said the blind man, "and besides
he will see for himself; for my son has a good kind heart."
[Illustration: HE TOLD HER THAT SHE WAS LIKE A LITTLE DAUGHTER TO HIM.]
Often he would speak in these terms, and Perrine always wanted to ask
him how, if these were his sentiments, he could have been so unforgiving
and severe with him, but every time she tried to speak the words would
not come, for her throat was closed with emotion. It was a serious
matter for her to broach such a subject, but on that particular evening
she felt encouraged by what had happened. There could not have been a
more opportune moment; she was alone with him in his study where no one
came unless summoned. She was seated near him under the lamplight. Ought
she to hesitate longer?
She thought not.
"Do you mind," she said, in a little trembling voice, "if I ask you
something that I do not understand? I think of it all the time, and yet
I have been afraid to speak."
"Speak out," he said.
"What I cannot understand," she said timidly, "is that loving your son
as you do, you could be parted from him."
"It is because you are so young you do not understand," he said, "that
there is duty as well as love. As a father, it was my duty to send him
away; that was to teach him a lesson. I had to show him that my will was
stronger than his. That is why I sent him to India where I intended to
keep him but a short while. I gave him a position befitting my son and
heir. He was the representative of my house. Did I know that he would
marry that miserable creature? He was mad!"
"But Father Fields said that she was not a miserable creature," insisted
Perrine.
"She was or she would not have contracted a marriage that was not valid
in France," retorted the blind man, "and I will not recognize her as my
daughter."
He said this in a tone that made Perrine feel suddenly cold. Then he
continued abruptly: "You wonder why I am trying to get my son back now,
if I did not want him back after he had married. Things have changed.
Conditions are not the same now as then. After fourteen years of this
so-called marriage my son ought to be tired of this woman and of the
miserable life that he has been forced to live on account of her.
Besides conditions for me have also changed. My health is not what it
was, and I am blind. I cannot recover my sight unless I am operated upon
and I must be in a calm state favorable to the success of this
operation. When my son learns this do you think he will hesitate to
leave this woman? I am willing to support her and her daughter also. I
am sure many times he has thought of Maraucourt and wanted to return. If
I love him I know that he also loves me. When he learns the truth he
will come back at once, you will see."
"Then he would have to leave his wife and daughter?"
"He has no wife nor has he a daughter," said the old man sternly.
"Father Fields says that he was married at the Mission House by Father
Leclerc," said Perrine.
"This marriage was contracted contrary to the French law," said M.
Vulfran.
"But was it not lawful in India?" asked Perrine.
"I will have it annulled in Rome," said the blind man.
"But the daughter?"
"The law would not recognize that child."
"Is the law everything?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that it is not the law that makes one love or not love one's
parents or children. It was not the law that made me love my poor
father. I loved him because he was good and kind and he loved me. I was
happy when he kissed me, and smiled at me. I loved him and there was
nothing that I liked better than to be with him. He loved me because I
was his little girl and needed his affection; he loved me because he
knew that I loved him with all my heart. The law had nothing to do with
that. I did not ask if it was the law that made him my father. It was
our love that made us so much to each other."
"What are you driving at?" asked M. Vulfran.
"I beg your pardon if I have said anything I should not say, but I speak
as I think and as I feel."
"And that is why I am listening to you," said the blind man; "what you
say is not quite reasonable, but you speak as a good girl would."
"Well, sir, what I am trying to say is this," said Perrine boldly; "if
you love your son and want to have him back with you, he also loves his
daughter and wants to have her with him."
"He should not hesitate between his father and his daughter," said the
old man; "besides, if the marriage is annulled, she will be nothing to
him. He could soon marry that woman off again with the dowry that I
would give her. Everything is changed since he went away. My fortune is
much larger.... He will have riches, honor and position. Surely it isn't
a little half-caste that can keep him back."
"Perhaps she is not so dreadful as you imagine," said Perrine.
"A Hindu."
"In the books that I read to you it says that the Hindus are more
beautiful than the Europeans," said Perrine.
"Travelers' exaggerations," said the old man scoffingly.
"They have graceful figures, faces of pure oval, deep eyes with a proud
look. They are patient, courageous, industrious; they are studious...."
"You have a memory!"
"One should always remember what one reads, should not one?" asked
Perrine. "It does not seem that the Hindu is such a horrible creature as
you say."
"Well, what does all that matter to me as I do not know her?"
"But if you knew her you might perhaps get interested in her and learn
to love her."
"Never! I can't bear to think of her and her mother!..."
"But if you knew her you might not feel so angry towards her."
He clenched his fist as though unable to control his fury, but he did
not stop her.
"I don't suppose that she is at all like you suppose," said Perrine;
"Father Fields is a good priest and he would not say what was not true,
and he says that her mother was good and kind and a lady...."
"He never knew her; it is hearsay."
"But it seems that everyone holds this opinion. If she came to your
house would you not be as kind to her as you have been to me, ... a
stranger?"
"Don't say anything against yourself."
"I do not speak for or against myself, but what I ask is for justice. I
know if that daughter, your granddaughter, came here she would love you
with all her heart."
She clasped her hands together and looked up at him as though he could
see her; her voice shook with emotion.
"Wouldn't you like to be loved by your granddaughter?" she asked
pleadingly.
The blind man rose impatiently.
"I tell you she can never be anything to me," he cried. "I hate her as I
hate her mother. The woman took my son from me and she keeps him from
me. If she had not bewitched him he would have been back long before
this. She has been everything to him while I, his father, have been
nothing."
He strode back and forth, carried away with his anger. She had never
seen him like this. Suddenly he stopped before her.
"Go to your room," he said almost harshly, "and never speak of those
creatures to me again; besides, what right have you to mix up in this?
Who told you to speak to me in such a manner?"
For a moment she was dumbfounded, then she said:
"Oh, no one, sir, I assure you. I just put myself into your little
granddaughter's place, that is all."
He softened somewhat, but he continued still in a severe voice: "In the
future do not speak on this subject; you see it is painful for me and
you must not annoy me."
"I beg your pardon," she said, her voice full of tears; "certainly I
ought not to have spoken so."