Several days had passed since the visit to the Chateau de Pont Brillant.
Frederick had never left his mother's house to visit the homes of
persons of an even humbler station than his own, so the impression which
the sight of the splendours and the almost royal luxury that pervaded it
had made upon him had suffered no diminution. When, on the following
morning, the lad awoke in his own little room, it seemed bare and
comfortless to him, and when he afterward went as usual to bid his
mother good morning, he involuntarily compared the costly elegance of
the Marquise de Pont Brillant's apartments with the poverty of his
mother's surroundings, and experienced a strange sinking of heart.
An unlucky chance deepened this impression. When Frederick entered his
mother's room, the young woman, in all the freshness of her marvellous
beauty, was arranging her beautiful brown hair in front of a cheap
painted toilet-table covered with oilcloth and surmounted by a tiny
glass with a black frame.
Frederick, remembering the rich lace and satin and gold that adorned the
dressing-room of the dowager marquise, experienced for the first time in
his life a bitter pang of envy, as he said to himself:
"Doesn't that elegant, luxurious boudoir I saw at the castle seem much
better suited to a beautiful and charming woman like my mother than to a
wrinkled octogenarian who, in her ridiculous vanity, wants to admire her
withered face in mirrors wreathed with lace and ribbons!"
Already strangely depressed in spirits, Frederick went out into the
garden. The morning was perfect, and the dew on the petals of the
flowers glistened like pearls in the bright July sunshine. Heretofore
the lad, like his mother, had often gone into ecstasies over the beauty,
freshness, and exquisite perfume of some specially fine rose; the snowy
petals of the Easter flowers, the velvety petals of the pansies, and the
exquisite delicacy of the acacia had always excited his lively
admiration, but now he had only careless, almost disdainful looks for
these simple flowers, as he thought of the rare and magnificent tropical
plants that filled the spacious conservatories of the chateau. The grove
of venerable oaks, enlivened by the gay warbling of birds that seemed to
be replying to the soft murmur of the little waterfall, was also viewed
with disdain. How insignificant these things appeared in comparison with
the magnificent grounds of the chateau, adorned with rare statues and
superb fountains peopled with bronze naiads and Tritons sending great
jets of water as high as the tree-tops.
Absorbed in thoughts like these, Frederick walked slowly on until he
reached the edge of the grove. There he paused and gazed mechanically
around him, then gave a sudden start, and turned abruptly, as he
perceived in the distance the chateau standing out clearly against the
horizon in the bright light of the rising sun. At the sight of it
Frederick hastily retreated into the shadows of the grove, but, alas!
though he could thus close his bodily eyes to this resplendent vision,
the lad's too faithful memory kept the wonders that had so impressed him
continually before his mental vision, inducing comparisons which
poisoned the simple pleasures of the past, until now so full of charm.
As he passed the open door of the stable, a superannuated farm horse
which was sometimes harnessed to a sort of chaise, Madame Bastien's only
equipage, whinnied in his stall for the crusts of bread that he had
been in the habit of receiving every morning from his young master.
Frederick had forgotten to bring the crusts that morning, and to atone
for his forgetfulness, he tore up a big handful of fresh grass and
offered it to his faithful old friend, but suddenly remembering the
magnificent blooded horses he had seen at the castle, he smiled bitterly
and turned brusquely away from the old horse, who, with the grass still
between his teeth, watched his young master for a long time with an
expression of almost human intelligence.
Soon afterward an old and infirm woman, to whom Frederick, having no
money, gave bread and fruit every week, came to the house as usual.
"Here, my good mother," he said, as he presented his usual offering, "I
wish I could do more for you, but my mother and I have no money."
"You are very kind all the same, M. Bastien," replied the woman, "but I
shall not be obliged to ask anything of you much longer."
"Why not?"
"Why, you see, M. Bastien, that M. le marquis is coming to live at the
castle, and these great noblemen are very generous with their money, and
I hope to get my share. Your servant, M. Bastien."
Frederick blushed for the first time at the humble gift he had made
heretofore with such pleasure and contentment, so shortly afterward,
when another beggar accosted him, he said:
"You would only sneer at what I can give you. Apply to M. le marquis. He
should act as a benefactor to the entire neighbourhood. He is so rich!"
That such bitter envy should have taken such sudden but absolute
possession of Frederick's heart seems strange indeed to those who know
his past, yet this apparent anomaly can be easily explained.
Madame Bastien's son had been reared in an exceedingly modest home, but
his mother's taste and refinement had imbued even these plain
surroundings with an air of elegance and distinction, and, thanks to a
thousand nothings, the ensemble had been charming.
The love of beauty and elegance thus developed rendered Frederick
peculiarly susceptible to the charm of the wonders he had seen at the
castle, and the longing to possess them naturally corresponded with his
appreciation and admiration.
If, on the contrary, Frederick's life had been spent amid rough and
coarse surroundings, he would have been more amazed than surprised at
the treasures which the chateau contained, and, ignorant of the refined
enjoyment that could be derived from them, he would have been much less
likely to envy the fortunate possessor of them.
Madame Bastien soon perceived the change that was gradually taking place
in her son, and that manifested itself in frequent fits of melancholy.
The humble home no longer resounded with peals of laughter as in days
gone by. When his studies were over, Frederick picked up a book and read
during the entire recreation hour, but more than once Madame Bastien
noticed that her son's eyes remained fixed upon the same page for a
quarter of an hour.
Her anxiety increasing, Madame Bastien remarked to her son: "My son, you
seem so grave and taciturn and preoccupied, you are not nearly as lively
as formerly."
"True, mother," replied Frederick, forcing a smile, "I am sometimes
surprised myself at the more serious turn my mind is taking. Still, it
is not at all astonishing. I am no longer a child. It is quite time for
me to be getting sensible."
Frederick had never lied before, but he was lying now. Up to this time
he had always confessed his faults to his mother. She had been the
confidant of his every thought, but the mere idea of confessing or of
allowing her to discover the bitter feelings which his visit to the
Chateau de Pont Brillant had excited in his breast filled him with shame
and dismay. In fact, he would rather have died than confess that he was
enduring the torments of envy; so, placed upon his guard by Madame
Bastien's lively solicitude, he devoted all his powers of mind and
strength of will to conceal the wound that was beginning to rankle in
his soul, but it is almost certain that his attempts to deceive his
mother's tender sagacity would have proved futile had that mother not
been at the same time reassured and deceived by Doctor Dufour.
"Don't be alarmed," the physician said to her when she, in all
sincerity, consulted him on the subject of her fears. "At the time of
puberty, an entire change often takes place in a youth's character. The
gayest and most demonstrative often become the most gloomy and taciturn.
They experience the most unreasonable melancholy, the most acute
anxiety. They give way to fits of profound depression, and feel an
intense longing for solitude. So do not be alarmed, and above all give
no sign of having noticed this change in your son. This almost
inevitable crisis will be over in a few months, and you will then see
Frederick himself again. He will have a different voice, that is all."
Doctor Dufour's mistake was the more excusable as the symptoms which so
alarmed Madame Bastien strongly resembled those which are often noticed
in youths at that age; so Madame Bastien accepted this explanation, as
she could not divine the real cause of this change in Frederick.
This change had not manifested itself immediately after the visit to the
chateau. It had, on the contrary, taken place gradually, almost
imperceptibly, in fact, so that more than a month had elapsed before
Madame Bastien really began to feel uneasy, hence it did not seem at all
probable that there could be any connection between the visit to the
chateau and Frederick's melancholy.
Besides, how could Madame Bastien suppose that this youth reared by
her--a youth who had always seemed of so noble and generous a
character--could know envy?
So, reassured by Doctor Dufour, Madame Bastien, though she watched the
different phases of her son's condition, forced herself to conceal the
sadness she often felt on seeing him so changed, and awaited his
recovery with resignation.
At first Frederick had tried to find some diversion in study, but soon
study became impossible; his mind was elsewhere. Then he said to
himself:
"Whatever I may learn, whatever I may know, I shall never be anything
but Frederick Bastien, a sort of half peasant, doomed to a life of
obscurity, while that young marquis, without ever having done anything
to deserve it, enjoys all the glory of a name which has been illustrious
for ages."
Then, as all the feudal relics at Pont Brillant, those galleries of
paintings, those family portraits, those gorgeous escutcheons, recurred
to Frederick's mind, for the first time in his life the poor boy felt
deeply humiliated by the obscurity of his birth, and overcome with
discouragement, said to himself:
"This young marquis, already weary of the magnificence by which he is
surrounded, indifferent to the treasures of which even a thousandth part
would make my mother and me and a host of others so happy. Why, and by
what right does he possess all this magnificence? Has he acquired these
blessings by his toil? No. To enjoy all this, he has only taken the
trouble to be born. Why should he have everything and others nothing?"