The conversation between David and Frederick was interrupted by the
brickmaker, who entered the chamber, looking very much frightened.
"Monsieur," said he, hurriedly, to David, "the cart is ready. Go quick."
"What is the matter?" asked David.
"The Loire is still rising, monsieur. Before two hours all my little
furniture and effects will be swept away."
"Do you fear an overflow?"
"Perhaps, monsieur, for the rising of the waters is becoming frightful,
and, if the Loire overflows, to-morrow nothing will be seen of my
brick-kiln but the chimneys. So, for the sake of prudence, I must move
you out. The cart which takes you home, will, on its return, carry my
furniture away."
"Come, my child," said David to Frederick, "have courage. You see we
have not a moment to lose."
"I am ready, M. David."
"Fortunately our clothes are dry, thanks to this hot furnace. Lean on
me, my child."
As they left the house, Frederick said to the brickmaker:
"Pardon me, sir, for not being able to thank you better for your kind
attention, but I will return."
"May Heaven bless you, my young gentleman, and grant that you may not
find a mass of rubbish when you return to this place, instead of this
house."
David, without Frederick's knowledge, gave two gold pieces to the
brickmaker, as he said, in a low voice:
"That is for the cart."
A few minutes elapsed, and the son of Madame Bastien left the brick-kiln
with David in the rustic conveyance filled with a thick layer of straw,
and covered over with a cloth, for the rain continued to fall in
torrents.
The cart driver, wrapped in a wagoner's coat, and seated on one of the
shafts, urged the gait of the horse, that trotted slowly and heavily.
David insisted that Frederick should lie down in the cart, and lean his
head on his knees; thus seated in the back of the cart, he held the
youth in a half embrace, and watched over him with paternal solicitude.
"My child," said he, carefully wrapping Frederick in the thick covering
loaned by the brickmaker, "are you not cold?"
"No, M. David."
"Now, let us agree upon facts. Your mother must never know what has
happened this morning. We will say, shall we not, that, surprised by a
beating rain, we obtained this cart with great difficulty? The
brickmaker thinks you fell in the water by imprudently venturing too
near the slope of the embankment. He has promised me not to noise abroad
this accident, the reports of which might frighten your mother. Now,
that being agreed upon, we will think of it no more."
"What kindness! what generosity! You think of everything. You are right;
my mother must not know that you have saved my life at the risk of your
own, and yet--"
"What your mother ought to know, my dear Frederick, what she ought to
see, is that I have kept the promise that I made to her this morning,
for time presses."
"What promise?"
"I promised her to cure you."
"Cure me!" and Frederick bowed his head with grief. "Cure me!"
"And this cure must be accomplished this morning."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that in an hour, upon our arrival at the farm, you must be the
Frederick of former times, the glory and pride of your mother."
"M. David!"
"My child, the moments are numbered, so listen to me. This morning, at
the time you disappeared, I said to you, 'I know the cause of your
illness.'"
"You did say that to me, truly, M. David."
"Well, now, the cause is envy!"
"Oh, my God!" murmured Frederick, overwhelmed with shame, and trying to
slip away from David's embrace.
But the latter pressed Frederick all the more tenderly to his heart, and
said, quickly:
"Lift up your head, my child,--there is no need for shame, envy is an
excellent quality."
"Envy an excellent quality!" exclaimed Frederick, sitting up and staring
at David with bewildered astonishment. "Envy!" repeated he, shuddering.
"Ah, monsieur, you do not know what it produces."
"Hatred? so much the better."
"So much the better! but hatred in its turn--"
"Gives birth to vengeance, so much the better still."
"M. David," said the young man, falling back on his straw couch with
sadness, "you are laughing at me, and yet--"
"Laughing at you, poor child!" said David, in a voice full of emotion,
as he drew Frederick back to him, and pressed him to his breast with
affection. "I laugh at you! do not say that. To me, more than to anyone
else, grief is sacred. I laugh at you. You do not know then, at first
sight of you, I was filled with compassion, with tenderness, because,
you see, Frederick, I had a young brother about your age--"
And David's tears flowed, until, choked with emotion, he was obliged to
keep silent.
Frederick's tears flowed also, and he in his turn embraced David,
looking at him with a heart-broken expression, as if he wished to ask
pardon for making him weep.
David understood him.
"Be calm, my child; these tears, too, have their sweetness. Well, the
brother I speak of, this young beloved brother, who made my joy and my
love, I lost. That is why I felt for you such a quick and keen interest,
that is why I wish to return you to your mother as you were in the olden
time, because it is to return you to happiness."
The accent, the countenance of David, as he uttered these words, were of
such a melancholy, pathetic sweetness that Frederick, more and more
affected, answered, timidly:
"Forgive me, M. David, for having thought you were laughing at me,
but--"
"But what I said to you seemed so strange, did it not, that you could
not believe that I was speaking seriously?"
"That is true."
"So it ought to be, nevertheless my words are sincere, and I am going to
prove it to you."
Frederick fixed on David a look full of pain and eager curiosity.
"Yes, my child, envy, in itself, is an excellent quality; only you, up
to this time, have applied it improperly,--you have envied wickedly
instead of envying well."
"Envy well! Envy an excellent quality!" repeated Frederick, as if he
could not believe his ears. "Envy, frightful envy, which corrodes, which
devours, which kills!"
"My poor child, the Loire came near, just now, being your tomb. Had that
misfortune happened, would not your mother have cried, 'Oh, the accursed
river which kills,--accursed river which has swallowed up my son!'"
"Alas, M. David!"
"And if these fears of inundation are realised, how many despairing
hearts will cry, 'Oh, accursed river! our houses are swept away, our
fields submerged.' Are not these maledictions just?"
"Only too just, M. David."
"Yes; and yet this river so cursed fertilises its shores. It is the
wealth of the cities by which it flows. Thousands of boats, laden with
provisions of all sorts, plough its waves; this river so cursed
accomplishes truly a useful mission, that God has given to everything he
has created, because to say that God has created rivers for inundation
and disaster would be a blasphemy. No, no! It is man, whose ignorance,
whose carelessness, whose egotism, whose greed, and whose disdain change
the gifts of the Creator into plagues."
Frederick, struck with his preceptor's words, listened to him with
increasing interest.
"Just now, even," continued David, "unless heat from the fire had
penetrated your benumbed limbs, you would, perhaps, have died, yet how
horrible are the ravages of fire! Must we curse it and its Creator? What
more shall I say to you? Shall we curse steam, which has changed the
face of the earth, because it has caused so many awful disasters? No,
no! God has created forces, and man, a free agent, employs those forces
for good or for evil. And as God is everywhere the same in his
omnipotence, it is with passions as with elements; no one of them is bad
in itself, they are levers. Man uses them for good or for evil,
according to his own free will. So, my child, your troubles date from
your visit to the castle of Pont Brillant, do they not?"
"Yes, M. David."
"And you felt envy, keenly and deeply, did you not, when you compared
the obscurity of your name and your poor, humble life with the splendid
life and illustrious name of the young Marquis of Pont Brillant?"
"It is only too true."
"Up to that point, these sentiments were excellent."
"Excellent?"
"Excellent! You brought with you from the castle living and powerful
forces; they ought, wisely directed, to have given the widest range to
the development of your faculties. Unhappily, these forces have burst in
your inexperienced hands, and have wounded you, poor dear child! Thus,
to return to yourself, all your pure and simple enjoyments were
destroyed by the constant remembrance of the splendours of the castle;
then, in your grievous, unoccupied covetousness, you were forced to hate
the one who possessed all that you desired; then vengeance."
"You know!" cried Frederick, in dismay.
"I know all, my child."
"Ah, M. David, pardon, I pray you," murmured Frederick, humiliated, "it
was remorse for that base and horrible act that led me to think of
suicide."
"I believe you, my child, and now that explains to me your unconquerable
dejection since I arrived at your mother's house. You meditated this
dreadful deed?"
"I thought of it for the first time, the evening of your arrival."
"This suicide was a voluntary expiation. There are more profitable ones,
Frederick, my dear boy. Besides, I am certain that if envy was the germ
of your hatred toward Raoul de Pont Brillant, the terrible scene in the
forest was brought about by circumstances that I am ignorant of, and
which ought to extenuate your culpable act."
Frederick hung his head in silence.
"Of that we will speak later," said David. "Now, let us see, my child;
what did you envy the most in the young Marquis of Pont Brillant? His
riches? So much the better. Envy them ardently, envy them sincerely, and
in this incessant, energetic envy, you will find a lever of incalculable
power. You will overcome all obstacles. By means of labour,
intelligence, and probity, you will become rich. Why not? Jacques
Lafitte was poorer than you are. He wished to be rich, and he became a
millionaire twenty times over. His reputation is without a stain, and he
always extended a hand to poverty, always favoured and endowed honest,
courageous work. How many similar examples I could cite you!"
Frederick at first looked at his preceptor with profound surprise; then,
beginning to comprehend the significance of his words, he put his hands
on his forehead, as if his mind had been dazzled by a sudden light.
David continued:
"Let us go farther. Did the wealth of the marquis fill your heart only
with covetous desire, instead of a sentiment of hatred and revolt
against a society where some abound with superfluous possession, while
others die for want of the necessaries of life? Very well, my child,
that is an excellent sentiment; it is sacred and religious, because it
inspired the Fathers of the Church with holy and avenging words. So, at
the voice of great revolutions, the divine principle of fraternity, of
human equality, has been proclaimed. Yes," added David, with a bitter
sadness, "but proclaimed in vain. Priests, denying their humble origin,
have become accomplices of wealth and power in the hands of kings, and
have said to the people, 'Fate has devoted you to servitude, to misery,
and to tears, on this earth.' Was not this a blasphemy against the
fatherly goodness of the Creator,--a base desertion of the cause of the
disinherited? But in our day this cause has valiant defenders, and
blessed are these sentiments that the sight of wealth inspires in you,
if it throws you among the people of courage who fight for the
imperishable cause of equality and human brotherhood."
"Oh!" cried Frederick, with clasped hands, his face radiant, and his
heart throbbing with generous enthusiasm, "I understand, I understand."
"Let us see," pursued David, with increasing animation; "for what else
did you envy this young marquis? The antiquity of his name? Envy it,
envy it, by all means. You will have what is better than an ancient
name; you will make your own name illustrious, and more widely
celebrated than that of Pont Brillant. Art, letters, war! how many
careers are open to your ambition! And you will win reputation. I have
studied your works; I know the extent of your ability, when it is
increased tenfold by the might of a determined and noble emulation."
"My God! my God!" cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, his eyes filled with
tears, "I cannot tell what change has come over me. The darkness of
night has been turned to day,--the day of the past, and even brighter
than the past. Oh, my mother! my mother!"
"Let us go on," continued David, unwilling to leave the least doubt in
Frederick's mind; "does the envy you feel when you hear the ancient name
of Pont Brillant manifest itself by a violent hatred of aristocratic
tradition, always springing up, sometimes feudal, and sometimes among
the citizenship? Exalt this envy, my child. Jean Jacques, in protesting
against the inequality of material conditions, was sublimely envious,
and our fathers, in destroying the privileges of the monarchy, were
heroically, immortally envious."
"Oh!" exclaimed Frederick, "how my heart beats at your noble words, M.
David! What a revelation! What was killing me, I realise now, was a
cowardly, barren envy. Envy for me was indolence, despair, death. Envy
ought to be action, hope, and life. In my impotent rage I only knew how
to curse myself, others, and my own nonentity. Envy ought to give me the
desire and strength to come out of my obscurity, and I will come out of
it."
"Good! good! dear, brave child!" exclaimed David, in his turn, pressing
Frederick to his breast. "Oh, I was certain I could cure you! An easy
task with a generous nature like yours, so long cherished by the most
admirable of mothers. Tender and excellent heart!" added he, no longer
able to restrain his tears. "This morning, as you were about to drown,
your last cry was, 'My mother! my mother!' You are born again to hope
and life, and your first cry is still, 'My mother! my mother!'"
"I owe you my life," murmured Frederick, responding to the ardent
embrace of his preceptor. "I owe you the life of my body as well as the
life of my soul, M. David."
"Frederick, my child," said David, with inexpressible emotion, "call me
your friend. That name I deserve now, do I not? It will replace the
sweet and cherished name I can never hear again,--my brother!"
"Oh, my friend!" cried Frederick, with exaltation, "and you will see me
worthy of the name of friend."
A moment of silence succeeded this outburst of sentiment, as David and
Frederick held each other in close embrace.
The preceptor was the first to speak.
"Now, my dear child, I must appeal to your candour on a last and
important matter. It may be severe, even relentless to me, but not
unjust. Tell me, if--"
David could not finish. Entirely absorbed in their conversation, the
preceptor and his pupil had not noticed the route, until the cart
suddenly stopped a short distance from the farm gate.
Marie Bastien, greatly distressed at the prolonged absence of her son,
had been standing long under the rustic porch of her house, eagerly
looking for his return.
At the sight of the covered cart, as it approached the farm, an
inexplicable presentiment told the young woman that her son was there.
Then, divided between fear and joy, she ran to meet the cart, and
exclaimed:
"Frederick, is it you?"
David was interrupted in his remarks, and the cart stopped.
With one bound, the son of Madame Bastien leaped from the cart, threw
himself on his mother's neck, covered it with kisses and tears, as he
cried, with a voice broken by sobs:
"Mother, saved! No more trouble! saved, mother, saved!"