The first period of envy that Frederick experienced was of a passive,
the second of an active character.
It is impossible to describe what he suffered then, especially as this
feeling, concealed, concentrated as it were in the lowest depths of his
soul, had no outlet, and was constantly stimulated by the sight of the
castle, which seemed to meet his gaze at every turn, dominating as it
did the whole country roundabout. The more Frederick realised the
alarming progress of his malady, the more strenuously he endeavoured to
hide it from his mother, telling himself in his gloom and despair that
such weakness deserved scorn and contempt, and that not even a mother
could condone it.
All mental maladies react upon the physical system. Frederick's health
gradually gave way. He could not sleep, and he, who had formerly been so
energetic and active, seemed to dread the slightest exertion. In fact,
the pressing and tender solicitations of his mother could alone arouse
him from his apathy or his gloomy reveries.
Poor Marie! How intensely she, too, suffered, but in silence,
endeavouring to maintain a cheerful manner all the while for fear of
alarming her son about himself, and waiting with mingled anxiety and
hope the end of this crisis in her son's life.
But alas! how long and painful this waiting seemed. What a change! What
a contrast between this gloomy, listless, taciturn life, and the bright,
busy, happy existence she and her son had previously led!
One day early in October Madame Bastien and her son were together in the
room that served both as parlour and study. Frederick, seated at the
table, with his head supported on his left hand, was writing slowly and
listlessly in a large exercise book.
Madame Bastien, seated only a little distance from him, was apparently
occupied with some embroidery, but in reality she was holding her needle
suspended in the air, ready to resume her work at her son's slightest
movement, while she furtively watched him.
Tears she could hardly restrain filled her eyes as she noted the
terrible change in her son's appearance, and remembered that only a
comparatively short while ago the hours spent in study at this same
table had been such pleasant, happy hours both for Frederick and
herself, and compared the zeal and enthusiasm which her son had then
displayed in his work with the listlessness and indifference she now
remarked in him, for she soon saw his pen slip from his fingers, while
his countenance displayed an intense ennui and lassitude.
At last the lad, only half smothering a heavy sigh, buried his face in
his hands and remained in this attitude several moments. His mother did
not lose sight of him for an instant, but what was her surprise on
seeing her son suddenly lift his head, and with eyes flashing and a
faint colour tinging his cheeks, while a sardonic smile curved his lips,
suddenly seize his pen again, and begin writing with feverish rapidity.
The youth was transfigured. So inert, despondent, and lethargic a moment
before, he now seemed full to overflowing of life and animation. One
could see that his thoughts, too, flowed much more rapidly than his pen
could trace them on the paper, by an occasional impatient movement of
the body or the quick tapping of his foot upon the floor.
A few words of explanation are necessary here.
For some time Frederick had complained to his mother of his distaste,
or rather his incapacity, for any regular work, though occasionally, in
compliance with Madame Bastien's wishes as well as in the hope of
diverting his mind, he had attempted something in the way either of
study or an essay on some given subject, but almost invariably he had
appealed to his formerly fertile imagination in vain.
"I can't imagine what is the matter with me," he would murmur,
despondently. "My mind seems to be enveloped in a sort of haze. Forgive
me, mother, it is not my fault."
And Madame Bastien found a thousand reasons to excuse and console him.
So on this occasion the young mother fully expected to see Frederick
soon abandon his work. What was her astonishment, consequently, to see
him for the first time write on and on with increasing interest and
eagerness.
In this return to former habits Madame Bastien fancied she could detect
the first sign of the end of this critical period in the life of her
son. Doubtless his mind was beginning to emerge from the sort of haze
which had so long obscured it, and, eager to satisfy herself of the
fact, Madame Bastien rose, and noiselessly approaching her son on
tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to read
what he had written.
In his surprise the youth gave a violent start, then, hastily closing
his exercise book, turned an impatient, almost angry face, toward his
mother and exclaimed:
"You had no right to do that, mother."
Then reopening his book, he tore out the pages he had just written,
crumpled them up in his hands, and threw them into the fire that was
blazing on the hearth, where they were soon burnt to ashes.
Madame Bastien, overwhelmed with astonishment, stood for a moment
speechless and motionless; then, comparing this rudeness on the part of
her son with the delightful camaraderie which had formerly existed
between them, she burst into tears.
It was the first time her son had ever wounded her feelings. Seeing his
mother's tears, Frederick, in an agony of remorse, threw his arms around
his mother's neck and covered her face with tears and kisses, exclaiming
in a voice broken by sobs:
"Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me!"
On hearing this repentant cry, Madame Bastien reproached herself for her
tears. She even reproached herself for the painful impression the
incident had made upon her, for was it not due to Frederick's
unfortunate condition? so, covering her son's face with passionate
kisses, she, in her turn, implored his forgiveness.
"My poor child, you are not well," she exclaimed, tenderly, "and your
suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to
attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were
hardly accountable."
"No, oh, no, mother, I swear it."
"Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear
Frederick."
"I tore out the pages, mother," continued the lad with no little
embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, "I tore out the pages
because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst
thing I have written since this--this sort of--of despondency seized
me."
"And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first
time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to
see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear
Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a
critic."
"No, mother, I assure you--"
"Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the
mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk."
"It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don't feel as if I had energy
enough to take a single step."
"It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight
against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and
row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good."
"I don't feel equal to it, really, mother."
"Well, you haven't heard, I think, that Andre said he saw a big flock of
plover this morning. Take your gun, and we will go over to Sablonniere
heath. You will enjoy it and so shall I. You are such a good shot, it is
a pleasure to see you handle a gun."
"I don't take any pleasure in hunting now."
"Yet you used to be so fond of it."
"I don't care for anything now," replied Frederick, almost
involuntarily, in a tone of intense bitterness.
Again the young mother felt the tears spring to her eyes, and Frederick,
seeing his mother's distress, exclaimed:
"I love you always, mother, you know that."
"Oh, yes, I know that, but you have no idea how despondently you said,
'I don't care for anything now.'"
Then trying to smile in order to cheer her son, Marie added:
"Really, I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day. I seem to be
continually saying and doing the wrong thing, and here you are crying
again, my dear child."
"Never mind, mother, never mind. It is a long time since I have cried,
and I really believe it will do me good."
He spoke the truth. These tears did indeed seem to relieve his
overburdened heart, and when he at last looked up in the face of the
mother who was tenderly bending over him, and saw her beautiful features
wearing such an expression of infinite tenderness, he thought for an
instant of confessing the feelings that tortured him.
"Yes, yes," he said to himself, "I was wrong to fear either scorn or
anger from her. In her angelic goodness of heart I shall find only pity,
compassion, consolation, and aid."
The mere thought of confessing all to his mother comforted him, and
seemed even to restore a little of his former courage, for after a
moment he said to Madame Bastien:
"You proposed a walk a few minutes ago, mother. I believe you are right
in thinking that the open air would do me good."
This admission on her son's part seemed to Madame Bastien a good omen,
and hastily donning her hat and a silk mantle, she left the house in
company with her son.
But now the time for the confession had come, the youth shrank from it.
He could think of no way to broach the subject, or to excuse himself to
his mother for having concealed the truth from her so long.
As they were walking along, the sky, which had been so lowering all the
morning, suddenly cleared, and the sun shone out brightly.
"What a delightful change!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, in the hope of
cheering her son. "One might almost think that the radiant sun had
emerged from the clouds to give you a friendly greeting. And how pretty
that old juniper looks in this flood of sunlight. That old juniper over
there at the end of the field, you remember it, of course?"
Frederick shook his head.
"What! you have forgotten those two long summer days when I sat in the
shade of that old tree while you finished that poor labourer's work?"
"Oh, yes, that is true," replied Frederick, quickly.
The recollection of that generous act seemed to make the thought of the
painful confession he must make to his mother less painful, and his
growing cheerfulness showed itself so plainly in his face that Madame
Bastien said to him:
"I was right to insist upon your coming out, my child. You look so much
brighter that I am sure you must be feeling better."
"I am, mother."
"How glad I am, my son," exclaimed Madame Bastien, clasping her hands,
thankfully. "What if this should be the end of your malady, Frederick!"
As the young mother made this gesture of thankfulness, the light silk
mantle she was wearing slipped from her shoulders unnoticed either by
her or by Frederick, who replied:
"I don't know why it is, but I too hope like you, mother, that I shall
soon be myself again."
"Ah, if you too hope so, we are saved," exclaimed his mother, joyfully.
"M. Dufour told me that this strange and distressing malady which has
been troubling you often disappears as suddenly as it came, like a bad
dream, and health returns as if by enchantment."
"A dream!" exclaimed Frederick, looking at his mother with a strange
expression on his face; "yes, mother, you are right. It was a bad
dream."
"What is the matter, my child? You seem greatly excited, but it is with
pleasurable emotion. I know that by your face."
"Yes, mother, yes! If you knew--"
But Frederick did not have time to finish the sentence. A sound that was
coming nearer and nearer, but that Marie and her son had not noticed
before, made them both turn.
A few yards behind them was a man on horseback, holding Madame Bastien's
mantle in his hand.
Checking his horse, which a servant who was in attendance upon him
hastened forward to hold, the rider sprang lightly to the ground, and
with his hat in one hand and the mantle in the other he advanced toward
Madame Bastien, and bowing low, said, with perfect grace and courtesy of
manner:
"I saw this mantle slip from your shoulders, madame, and deem myself
fortunate in being able to return it to you."
Then with another low bow, having the good taste to thus evade Madame
Bastien's thanks, the rider returned to his horse and vaulted into the
saddle. As he passed Madame Bastien he deviated considerably from his
course, keeping near a hedge that bordered the field, as if fearing the
close proximity of his horse might alarm the lady, then bowed again, and
continued on his way at a brisk trot.
This young man, who was about Frederick's age, and who had a remarkably
handsome face and distinguished bearing, had evinced so much grace of
manner and politeness, that Madame Bastien innocently remarked to her
son:
"It is impossible to conceive of any one more polite or better bred, is
it not, Frederick?"
Just as Madame Bastien asked her son this question, a small groom in
livery, who was following the horse-man, and who, like his master, was
mounted upon a superb blooded horse, passed, the lad, who was evidently
a strict observer of etiquette, having waited until his master was the
prescribed twenty-five yards in advance of him before he moved from his
place.
Madame Bastien motioned him to stop. He did so.
"Will you be kind enough to tell me your master's name?" asked the young
woman.
"M. le Marquis de Pont Brillant, madame," replied the groom, with a
strong English accent.
Then seeing that his master had started on a brisk trot, the lad did the
same.
"Did your hear that, Frederick?" asked Marie, turning to her son. "That
was the young Marquis de Pont Brillant. Is he not charming? It is
pleasant to see such a worthy representative of rank and fortune, is it
not, my son? To be such a high and mighty personage, and so perfectly
polite and well-bred, is certainly a charming combination. But why do
you not answer me, Frederick? What is the matter, Frederick?" added
Madame Bastien, suddenly becoming uneasy.
"There is nothing the matter with me, mother," was the cold reply.
"But there must be. Your face looks so different from what it did a
moment ago. You must be suffering, and, great Heavens, how pale you
are!"
"The sun has disappeared behind the clouds again, and I am cold!"
"Then let us hasten back,--let us hasten back at once! Heaven grant the
improvement you spoke of just now may continue."
"I doubt it very much, mother."
"How despondently you speak."
"I speak as I feel."
"You are not feeling as well, then, my dear child?"
"Not nearly as well," the lad replied. Then added, with a sort of
ferocious bitterness, "I have suffered a relapse, a complete relapse,
but it is the cold that has caused it, probably."
And the unfortunate youth, who had always adored his mother, now
experienced an almost savage delight in increasing his youthful parent's
anxiety, thus avenging the poignant suffering which his mother's praises
of Raoul de Pont Brillant had caused him.
Yes, for jealousy, a feeling as entirely unknown to Frederick as envy
had been heretofore, now increased the resentment he already felt
against the young marquis.
* * * * *
The mother and son wended their way homeward, Madame Bastien in
inexpressible grief and disappointment, Frederick in gloomy silence,
thinking with sullen rage that he had been on the point of confessing to
his mother the shameful secret for which he blushed, and that at almost
the very same moment that she was lavishing enthusiasm upon the object
of his envy, the Marquis de Pont Brillant.
The unconscious comparison which his mother had made between the young
marquis and himself, a comparison, alas! so unflattering to himself,
changed the almost passive dislike he had heretofore felt for Raoul de
Pont Brillant into an intense and implacable hatred.