After the servant's departure, Henri David, still under the painful
impression which his friend's revelations on the subject of Marie
Bastien had produced, remained silent for several minutes.
Doctor Dufour, too, was silent and thoughtful, for the servant's
announcement had reminded him that he was soon to be separated from his
dearest friend, perhaps for years.
Henri was the first to speak.
"You were right, Pierre, I shall take away with me a delightful
recollection of this charming Madame Bastien. What you have just told me
will often be a subject of pleasant thought to me, and--"
"I understand you, Henri, and you must forgive me for not having thought
of it sooner," exclaimed the doctor, noting his friend's emotion, "the
sight of this youth must remind you--"
"Yes, the sight of this youth does remind me of one I can never forget,
my poor Fernand," said Henri, seeing the doctor hesitate. "He was about
Frederick's age, so it is only natural that this handsome boy should
excite my interest, an interest which is naturally increased by the
admiration I feel for his brave and devoted mother. Heaven grant that,
after all her love and devotion, her son is not going to be a
disappointment to her. But how is it that, after he has been reared with
such care and solicitude, he should now give his mother such grave cause
for anxiety?"
"The fact is that this lad, whom you have just seen so pale and thin
and sullen and irascible, was full of health and gaiety and good humour
only a few months ago. Then the relations that existed between his
mother and himself were of the most charming as well as affectionate
character imaginable, while his generosity of heart could not have
failed to excite your liveliest admiration."
"Poor boy," said Henri David, compassionately. "I believe you, Pierre,
for there is such an expression of sadness and bitterness on his
handsome face. It is evident that he is not bad at heart. It seems to me
more as if he were suffering from some secret malady," added Henri,
thoughtfully. "How strange it is that there should be such a remarkable
change in him in so short a time!"
"I cannot understand it myself," replied the doctor, "for heart and mind
and body all seem to have been attacked at the same time. A short time
ago study was a pleasure to Frederick, his imagination was brilliant,
his mental faculties almost precocious in their development. All this is
changed now, and about a month ago his mother, distressed at the state
of apathy into which her son had so suddenly relapsed, decided to employ
a tutor for him, hoping that a change of instructors and new branches of
study, more especially those of natural science, would act as a sort of
stimulant."
"Well?"
"At the end of a week the tutor, disgusted with Frederick's dullness,
rudeness, and violence, left the house."
"But to what do you attribute this remarkable change?"
"I thought and still think that it is due to natural or rather physical
causes. There are many instances of similar crises in youths on
attaining the age of puberty. It is a time of life when the salient
traits of character begin to manifest themselves, when the man
succeeding the youth begins to show what he is going to be some day.
This metamorphosis nearly always causes serious disturbance throughout
the entire system, and it is quite probable that Frederick is now under
the influence of this phenomenon."
"Doesn't this very plausible explanation reassure Madame Bastien?"
"One can never entirely reassure a mother, at least a mother like that.
The reasons I gave her calmed her fears for awhile, but the trouble
increased and she took fright again. In her interview with me just now
she made no attempt to disguise her fears, and even accused herself of
being to blame for the recent state of things. 'I am his mother and yet
I cannot divine what is the matter with him, so I certainly must be
lacking in penetration and in maternal instinct. I am his mother, and
yet he will not tell me the cause of the trouble that is killing him. It
is my fault. It must be. I cannot have been a good mother. A mother has
always done something wrong if she cannot succeed in gaining her child's
confidence.'"
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Henri. "She wrongs herself, though, in
considering her maternal instinct in fault."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, doesn't her instinct warn her that you are wrong, plausible as
your explanation of her son's condition is, for, in spite of her
confidence in you, and in spite of the desire she feels to be reassured,
your assurances have not calmed her fears."
Then, after sitting silent and thoughtful for a moment, Henri asked:
"Is that large building we see there in the distance the Chateau de Pont
Brillant?"
"Yes. Its owner, the young marquis, was in the party that passed just
now. But why do you ask?"
"Does Madame Bastien's son visit there?"
"Oh, no. The Pont Brillants are a very proud and aristocratic family,
and associate only with the nobility."
"So Frederick does not even know the young marquis?"
"If he does, it is only by sight, for I repeat the young marquis is much
too proud to have anything to do with a youth of Frederick's humble
station."
"Is this family popular?" inquired Henri David, more and more
thoughtfully.
"The Pont Brillants are immensely rich, nearly all the land for six or
seven leagues around belongs to them. They own, too, most of the houses
in this little town. The tradespeople, too, are of course largely
dependent upon their patronage, so this powerful family command at least
a strong show of respect and attachment. There is also a certain amount
of money given to the poor every year by the family. The mayor and the
cure distribute it, however. The young marquis has nothing more to do
with that than his grandmother, whose skepticism and cynicism make Baron
Holbach's atheism seem pale by comparison. But why do you ask all these
questions in relation to the chateau and its occupants?"
"Because just now when I was alone with Frederick I thought I discovered
that he hated this young marquis with a deadly hatred."
"Frederick?" exclaimed the doctor, with quite as much surprise as
incredulity. "That is impossible. I am sure he never spoke to M. de Pont
Brillant in his life. So how could he possibly feel any such animosity
against the young marquis?"
"I do not know, but I am sure, from what I have seen, that he does."
"What you have seen?"
"The horse that brought Frederick and his mother here, not being
hitched, evinced an intention of joining the brillant cortege as it
passed. The young marquis struck it a heavy blow with his whip and drove
it back, and if I had not restrained Frederick, he would have jumped
out of the window and flown at M. de Pont Brillant."
"So it was in order not to frighten Madame Bastien you told us--"
"That Frederick had imprudently leaned too far out of the window. Yes,
Pierre, I repeat it, I did not lose a gesture or the slightest change of
expression in the poor boy's face. It is hatred, a deadly hatred, that
he feels for the other youth."
"But I tell you that Madame Bastien's son has never even spoken to Raoul
de Pont Brillant. They live in two entirely different worlds. They can
never have come in the slightest contact with each other."
"True. Your reasoning seems perfectly just, and I suppose I ought to
acquiesce," replied Henri David, thoughtfully. "Nevertheless, something
tells me that I am right, and now I almost begin to regret having met
this charming woman, for the very reason that she and her son have
inspired me with such a deep interest."
"What do you mean?"
"Frankly, my friend, what can be more sad than to feel a commiseration
as profound as it is futile? Who could be more worthy of sympathy and
respect than this most unhappily married woman, who has lived even
cheerfully for years in almost complete solitude, uncomplainingly, with
a son as handsome, sensible, and intelligent as herself? And suddenly at
one fell swoop this life is blighted; the mother watches with growing
despair the progress of the mysterious malady the cause of which she has
striven in vain to discover. Ah, I can understand only too well the
agony of an experience like hers, for I too loved my poor Fernand almost
to idolatry," continued Henri, scarcely able to restrain his tears, "and
to me this utter powerlessness in the presence of an evil one deeply
deplores has always been a source of torture, almost of remorse, to
me."
"Yes, that is true," replied the doctor. "How often you said almost the
very same thing in the letters you wrote me during your long and
dangerous journeys, undertaken with such a noble object, but at the same
time with the necessity of authenticating the most frightful facts, the
most barbarous customs, the most atrocious laws, though realising all
the while that this state of things must go on for years, and perhaps
even for centuries, unhindered. Yes, yes, I can understand how it must
try a soul like yours to see evils which it is impossible to assuage."
The clock in a neighbouring church struck three quarters past five.
"My dear friend, we have but a few minutes left," remarked Henri,
holding out his hand to the doctor, who was unable to speak for awhile,
so great was his emotion.
"Alas! my dear Henri," he said at last, "I ought to have accustomed
myself to the idea of your departure, but you see my courage fails me
after all."
"Nonsense, Pierre, I shall see you again in less than two years. This
voyage will probably be the last I shall undertake, and then I am coming
to take up my abode near you."
"Monsieur, monsieur, the Nantes diligence is coming in," cried the old
servant, rushing into the room. "You haven't a minute to lose."
"Farewell, Pierre," said Henri, clasping his friend in a last embrace.
"Farewell. God grant we may meet again, my dear Henri."
A few minutes afterward, Henri David was on his way to Nantes, from
which port he was to start on an expedition to Central Africa.