THE DEBTOR
At sight of the Marquis, Madelaine drew herself up like a fighting-cock,
and cast her eyes, flashing with anger, on the young man.
The Marquis of Létorière was then about twenty years of age. The
portraits we have of him, and the unanimous witness of his
contemporaries, agree in representing him as the type of the most
seductive ideality.
At this age, his proportions of exquisite elegance resembled rather the
Grecian god of love than Antinous.
All the treasures of antique statuary did not offer, it is said,
anything comparable to the harmonious beauty of his form. Under this
charming envelope nature had hidden muscles of steel, the courage of a
lion, a brilliant wit, a lofty soul, and a generous heart.
His enchanting countenance was not of a severe and masculine beauty; but
one could imagine nothing more pleasing,--and the pleasing was then
wonderfully to the purpose. Great size and herculean strength were then
out of place, since coats of mail were no longer worn. A dignified and
grave air would have been out of date, when the imposing leonine wigs of
the age of Louis XIV. were no longer in fashion.
If Létorière wore with such a charming effect rose-powder, laces,
ribbons, silk, and precious stones, it was because all his features, all
his manners, were endowed with a grace almost feminine, admirably in
accordance with the almost effeminate elegance of the costume and
ornaments of gentlemen of that period. If he possessed the art of
pleasing and seducing in the highest degree, it was because his
ravishing countenance could express, by turns, finesse, mockery,
haughtiness, audacity, tenderness and melancholy.
According to the witnesses of his time, his expression and the tone of
his voice had an especial charm, and an irresistible power, which the
partisans of a new science would undoubtedly attribute to magnetic
attraction.
But at the epoch of which we speak, he was only a poor young man, and,
_magnetic_ or not, his attraction was put to a severe test by the
tailor's wife.
Madelaine Landry felt her choler rising at sight of her debtor.
Létorière was soaked by the rain; his hands were blue with cold, and
his forehead almost hidden by the wet curls of his beautiful chestnut
hair, which he then wore without powder.
When he saw Madelaine, he could not repress a look of astonishment and
chagrin; yet he saluted her politely, and, bending on her his great
black eyes, at once so sad and soft, he said, in his brilliant and
harmonious voice:
"What do you wish of me, Madame?"
"I wish you to pay me for the coat on your back, for it belongs to
me--to me and my husband, Landry, tailor _to the Marquis_"--replied
Madelaine, with a sharp voice, insolently staring at her debtor.
A blush of shame colored the young man's cheeks, and a movement of
bitter impatience contracted his eyebrows; but he repressed his emotion,
and replied mildly:
"Unhappily I cannot pay you yet, madame."
"You cannot pay me! that is easy enough said: but I do not take such
money;--when one has nothing to pay for his coats, he should not have
them made. . . . I will not go from here until I have my money;" . . .
and Madelaine Landry rudely seated herself, while Létorière remained
standing.
"Listen to me, madame. . . . In one month from now I have the certainty
of being able to pay you; I give you my word as a gentleman. . . . Only
have the goodness to grant me a little delay, . . . I pray you." . . .
These words, _I pray you_, were pronounced with an inflexion of voice so
noble and touching, that Madelaine, already struck by ill-fortune so
courageously borne, feared she should give way to pity. She meant to
burn her ships, and answered the prayer of her debtor with a gross
insult:
"A fine guarantee, your word of a gentleman! What should I do with
that?"
"Madame!" cried the Marquis; then restraining himself, he spoke in a
sad, yet proud tone: "Madame, it is cruel in you to speak to me
thus . . . you are a woman . . . I owe you money . . . I am in my own
house . . . what can I answer you? Then do not seek to render more painful
my position, which is such as I hope you may never experience."
"But you will have no more money at the end of a month than now," said
Madelaine, harshly. "It is a fib you are telling me."
"If within a month my uncle, the Abbé of Vighan, to whom I intend to
apply, does not return from Hanover, I will enlist as a soldier, and my
bounty-money shall be faithfully remitted to you. . . . You see, madame,
that I can give you my word as a gentleman that you shall be paid."
The Marquis spoke of this desperate resolution with so much dignity, and
with an accent so sincere, that Madelaine, moved, repented of having
gone so far, and replied:
"I do not wish to force you to enlist; but I must be paid. This has
lasted long enough; sell something, . . . then." . . .
"Sell something here, madame?" and with a sorrowful look he pointed to
his poor chamber, cold and bare.
At this gesture, so cruelly significant, Madelaine cast down her eyes:
her heart hardened; then she added, stammering, and pointing to the two
gilt frames:
"But those two pictures?" . . .
"Those pictures?" said the Marquis, gravely and tenderly, "that is all
that remains to me of my father,--of my mother. . . . Madame, those are
their portraits, and for the first time they see their son blush for his
poverty." . . .
At these last words, Madelaine compared the interior of her own house,
where there was at least comfort, with this cold room, a miserable
shelter for a gentleman (for they stall believed in gentlemen at that
time); she felt her wrath soften almost to pity, especially when she saw
the young Marquis trembling with cold in his wet clothes.
In these violent natures, opposite emotions are near neighbors. Dame
Landry, since she left the shop, had been kept in a state of almost
frantic irritation; this paroxysm could not last; like all exaggerated
feelings, her anger fell flat, so to speak, on the first reflection
suggested by her naturally good heart.
The marquis was so handsome, he had met her abuse with a dignity so sad
and calm, he appeared to suffer so much with the cold--he who had
undoubtedly been reared in the lap of luxury--that the good woman,
feeling also the irresistible attraction which this singular personage
always exercised, passed almost instantaneously from insult to respect,
from harshness to commiseration; she hastily readjusted her head-dress,
muttered some unintelligible words, and disappeared, to the great
astonishment of the Marquis.
The ex-professor, who had no doubt been waiting the result of this
conversation to come out of his den, partly pushed open the door of the
little room, and said:
"So this miserable harpy has gone? Pardon me--but I basely fled before
the enemy" . . .
"You were there, my good Dominique? . . . Well, you have heard . . .
Good Heavens!--what humiliation! To seem to this woman a man of bad
faith! Ah, this is horrible . . . Dominique, I am resolved . . . if my
uncle does not come, I will enlist . . . I will pay this cursed debt
with the price of my enlistment . . . at least I shall no longer have to
blush . . ."
"You enlist, and renounce all your hopes!"
"They are all folly! I went again to-day to the palace . . . there is no
longer any hope. It would be necessary, in order to carry on the lawsuit
against the German princes, or the Superintendent of Xaintonge, to
deposit with the solicitor more money than I shall ever have. I renounce
it;--but hold, Dominique! I do not feel well, I am cold"--and the
Marquis sank trembling on the side of his bed.
"Poor child! I can well believe it"--said the professor, with a mournful
sigh--"to be out in this cold rain,--to come in without finding a spark
of fire . . . to be received by the insults of that hag, whom I wish I
could put into the fireplace in the shape of faggots, for, alas! as for
wood . . . God knows if I" . . .
"Enough, my good Dominique," said Létorière, putting his hand over his
friend's month . . . "Have you not already done too much for me? Have
you not abandoned your class, your situation?"
"And Socrates? did not that sage, that great philosopher, abandon
everything . . . to follow Alcibiades!!! Only as it is not so cold in
Athens as in Paris . . . Socrates had not the pain of seeing his pupil
shivering with cold. But, listen to me! You had better lie down . . .
take off your wet clothes,--you will be warmer in bed."
"You are right, Dominique; I do not know,--but I think I am
feverish". . .
"No! not so bad as that! to see you fall sick!" Then, turning with an
angry air, Dominique cried, shaking his first at the door by which
Madelaine had gone out:
"'Tis you, you cursed hag, who have brought this new misfortune upon my
unhappy pupil, with your indiscreet clamorings! I'm sorry now that I did
not put you out neck and heels . . ."
In the midst of this apostrophe the door opened, and Dominique saw, with
astonishment, a porter bringing in two enormous faggots, and some
packages of kindlings. . . .
"You are mistaken; this wood is not for us, my lad," said Dominique,
with a sigh.
"Isn't it here that the Marquis of Létorière lives, sir?"
"Yes."
"Well, the wood is to come here. . . . The great woman in a brown cloak
said that she was coming with a brazier, and something to make a nice
little lunch for the Marquis."
"The great woman in a brown cloak?" demanded Dominique.
"Yes, sir, and she has paid for the wood."
"The wood is paid for. Do you hear that, my worthy pupil? Now you shall
have some fire," . . . cried Dominique, joyfully turning towards
Létorière, who, seized with a sudden attack of fever, had gone to bed.
Happily Dame Landry soon came, and confusedly explained the enigma. That
worthy woman had in one hand a kettle of boiling water, and in the other
some lighted charcoal on a shovel.
When the porter had gone, Dame Landry, seeing the paleness of the
Marquis, cried out:
"Poor young gentleman! he has a fever, that's certain . . . the cold has
taken hold of him, and I . . . who was not ashamed to stop and gossip
while he was shivering. . . . But come, come . . . don't stand there
looking at me like a wax figure, my dear sir. Lay the wood properly in
the fireplace; light it, while I prepare something he can eat. Have you
a clean cup?" Then approaching the bed, and feeling of the thin cover,
. . . "Gracious goodness! . . . he is not warm enough! . . . go and get
two or three warm blankets . . . and his head . . . that is too
low . . . he needs a pillow . . . go and get one. And some curtains! How
is it that this alcove has no curtains? Nor the windows either? You see
that daylight is not good for the eyes of the young Marquis. . . . Go and
get them,--I can't do everything myself!"
The honest professor, to whom these conflicting and hurried orders were
given, stood astonished before Madelaine, endeavoring to understand the
cause of this wonderful change. Suddenly he cried, speaking to himself:
"It is his _charm!_ There is no doubt of it! it is the natural charm
with which he is endowed that has begun to work; . . . it has seduced
the tailor's wife as Alcibiades seduced Timea, the wife of Agis, King of
Lacedemonia . . . and all that . . . without offending virtue, which is
yet more beautiful and meritorious! My dear woman, I must acknowledge to
you that we have neither pillow, nor curtains, nor blankets." . . .
"What a pity!" said Madelaine, in a low voice, and much moved. Then
seeing the professor still draped in his toga, she cried: "Well, then,
until the bed can be better furnished, give me this coverlet, instead of
keeping it round you like a regular carnival dress; at your age, are you
not ashamed of such a thing?" and the housewife pulled resolutely at one
of the corners of the Dominique's toga. But he, stoutly clutching his
garment, exclaimed:
"My good woman! listen to me . . . let me alone . . . don't pull so hard
. . . it is a question of decency . . . I suppose I must confide in you
. . . you are of a respectable age, and moreover the wife of a tailor;"
. . . and Dominique added in a low voice: "My breeches, as our fathers
called them, being absolutely unfit for service . . . and having no
dressing-gown, I am obliged to substitute this kind of Roman mantle for
a more suitable garment."
"Is it possible?" said Madelaine, letting go the corners of the
coverlet. . . . "If this is true, I will send Landry to you this
evening." Then she added, in a low voice, stirring the fire into a
bright blaze, which threw its cheerful light through the miserable
chamber . . . "Is the Marquis asleep? if not, will he drink this?" and
she handed him a cup of warm drink.
Dominique approached the bed on tip-toe.
"How do you feel?" said he.
"I am cold . . . my head aches," replied the Marquis, in a feeble voice.
"But what is this? How happens it that we have a fire?"
"We have a fire because you are _charming_ . . . this good and worthy
woman has made it; and here is a nice warm drink, very warm, that you
must take; she has also prepared that for you. Come, take courage! Your
good star is rising in the very respectable countenance of Dame
Landry" . . .
The Marquis, suffering with a horrible headache, hardly comprehended a
word of what Dominique said, or of what rising star he spoke;
nevertheless, he took the cup, drank, and fell into a profound slumber.
Then the worthy woman approached the bed, holding her breath; she
smoothed the clothes with truly maternal care, and returned to
Dominique.
"You must be generous, and pardon me, sir," said she; "just now I was
very rude to the Marquis; but, you see, it was my husband who turned my
head; I must say also that I had never seen the young gentleman,--so
young! so pretty, and an orphan, too . . . and then for a gentleman like
him not to have a fire in midwinter, when work-people like us always
have a good warm stove! Come now, my worthy sir, I shall always reproach
myself for having dared to speak impudently to the Marquis; but be
assured, at least, that as long as Madelaine Landry lives, she will
always be his humble servant. . . . Now, sir"--and the good woman cast
down her eyes while drawing a little bag from her pocket--"on my way
here I changed a bill of three hundred francs; here is the young Marquis
confined to his bed, and perhaps he will need something,--a doctor. I
should never have dared to offer it to him, but with you I am more bold
. . . Come, now, sir, take it, and we will put it on the bill, and
forget the vile words I said to you." . . .
"As to that, we are perfectly equal, my dear woman, for if you called me
an owl, I called you an osprey; so we won't speak of it any more. . . .
As to this loan, I ought perhaps to tell you that the return of the
Abbé de Vighan, my pupil's uncle, may be postponed, and that it may
perhaps be a long time before we can restore what you so generously
offer--and after the scene of this morning, I fear perhaps . . ."
"Don't speak of that, sir, or I shall die of shame, upon my word. The
Marquis can return it whenever he will; God be thanked! we are not
dependant on sixty dollars for our living."
"I will take this debt on myself, my worthy woman; besides, my next
half-year's income from the salt tax will pay you the amount."
"Ah! well and good! It seems to me that I am more than half pardoned for
my insolence. And now, sir, I will go home and get what the Marquis
needs; and I will come back every day, if you will allow me, and
establish myself as his nurse; for men know nothing about taking care of
the sick,--without offence to you, sir."
And Madelaine left Dominique near his pupil's bed, in possession of a
good fire, an enjoyment the old man had not known for a long time.