At their disembarking David and Frederick found Madame Bastien.
The young woman had assisted at a few of the episodes of this courageous
salvage, by the aid of David's field-glass, leaving the scene, and
taking another view by turns, as the danger seemed imminent or
surmounted.
Sometimes Marie found her strength unequal to the sight of the heroic
struggle of her son, whom she could not encourage by word or gesture.
Again, she would yield to the irresistible desire to know if Frederick
had escaped the dangers which threatened him every moment.
During this period of admiration, tears, transports, hope, and agonies
of terror, Marie had more than one opportunity of judging of David's
brave solicitude for Frederick, and it would be hardly possible to
describe the joy of the young mother when she saw the little boat land,
and welcomed not only David and her son, but the unfortunate sufferers
whom they had so courageously rescued.
But Marie's happiness became a sort of religious meditation when she
learned from David that Raoul de Pont Brillant owed his life to
Frederick.
Thus had the unhappy child providentially expiated the crime of his
attempted homicide.
Thus disappeared from his life the only stain which his restoration had
not been able utterly to efface.
The farmer and his family, loaded with favours and the sympathetic care
of Madame Bastien, were installed at the farm, for the miserable beings
had nothing left in the world.
Nor did that day or that night see the end of Madame Bastien's provident
care.
The highways, cut off by this sudden inundation against which it was
impossible to provide, rendered the means of salvage very scarce, and
within the radius of country called the Valley, the little boat
belonging to Frederick was the sole resource.
The lowland, almost entirely submerged, contained a great number of
isolated farmhouses; some were completely destroyed and their inmates
drowned, other houses resisted the impetuosity of the waters, but were
so near as to be invaded by the rising of the overflow, and Frederick
and David in the afternoon of the same day and in the next day
accomplished the salvage of many families, and carried clothing and
provisions to other victims of the disaster who had taken refuge in
their garrets while the waters held possession of the lower story.
In these numerous expeditions Frederick and David displayed
indefatigable perseverance, which was the means of rescue for many, and
won the admiration of those people whom the advancing waters had driven
back on the upland, where the farm of Madame Bastien was situated.
David's instructions did indeed bear good fruit.
The valour and generosity of Frederick were excited to almost incredible
deeds by his envy of the more exalted position of the Marquis de Pont
Brillant.
"I am only a half peasant; I am not rich and am not a marquis; I have no
bark painted crimson and no oarsmen in livery, nor ancestors to look
back to. I have only the encouragement of my mother, the support of my
friend, my two arms, and my energy," said the young man to himself, "but
by means of my devotion to the victims of this scourge, my obscure and
plebeian name may become one day as well known in this country as the
illustrious name of Pont Brillant. All my regret is that the wound of
the marquis keeps him at the castle. I would have so much liked to rival
him in zeal and courage before the face of everybody!"
In fact the wound which Raoul de Pont Brillant had received was serious
enough to confine him to the bed, to his own great regret, for at the
first news of the inundation he had valiantly jumped into his yawl and
ordered it to the spot where it would prove the most useful.
But when the marquis became incapable of taking command and directing
and inspiring his people his own inaction extended to the rest of the
house, and the dowager of Pont Brillant, interested only in the
suffering of her grandson, gave herself no further concern about the
disaster, and roundly rebuked the cockswain of the bark for not having
opposed the foolish temerity of Raoul.
Madame Bastien understood the duties of a mother otherwise. With a firm
eye she saw her son go to brave new perils; she sought distraction from
her own fears only in the care and comfort which she administered with
adorable zeal to those whom Providence threw in her way.
Thus did she spend her long days of anxious concern for her son.
The day after the overflow, when it had somewhat abated, the roads were
rendered practicable, and a few bridges repaired by carpenters permitted
the organisation of more efficient means of aid to the sufferers.
As the waters retired, the unfortunate people whom the deluge had driven
away from their homes returned broken in heart, and hastening in bitter
impatience to see the extent of their disasters.
So it happened that the evening of the third day the farm of Madame
Bastien, which had served as a place of refuge for all, became as
solitary as in the past, the family of Jean Francois being the only
ones left in the house, because they had no other shelter.
When the route of Pont Brillant became free again Doctor Dufour, whose
anxiety had been extreme, hastened to the farm, to learn with joy and
surprise that, notwithstanding the fatigues and excitements of these two
terrible days, not one of the three friends had need of his attention.
He learned also from Marie of Frederick's wonderful cure, and after two
hours of delightful confidences he left the happy home, whose inmates
were about to take that repose so nobly bought.
Raoul de Pont Brillant soon learned that the young man who had snatched
him from an almost certain death was Frederick Bastien.
The dowager had not renounced her project of giving this charming little
commoner, so near her castle, and whose husband was always absent, to
her grandson as a mistress; so, finding, as she said to Zerbinette, an
excellent opportunity for undertaking the affair, she went again to see
Madame Bastien, at whose house she had twice before presented herself in
vain, taking her maid with her in her elegant carriage.
This time it was not necessary for Marguerite to lie in order to declare
to the dowager that Madame Bastien was not at home. In fact, for several
days the young woman was continually absent from her home, occupied in
lavishing on all sides her blessings of material comfort and spiritual
consolation.
The marquise, provoked at the futility of this visit, said to her
faithful Zerbinette, as she entered:
"This is bad luck; by my faith one would say this little fool is trying
not to meet me. These obstacles make me impatient, and I must finish my
undertaking without considering Raoul, whether he knows how to go about
it. It is an excellent beginning to be fished up by this blockhead.
Indeed, in the name of gratitude to her son, Raoul has the right not to
stir from his mother's house until he has everything in hand. It is a
famous opportunity. I must give this dear boy a lesson."
* * * * *
It was the 31st of December, fifteen days after the overflow. The damage
had been incalculable, especially for a multitude of unfortunate
sufferers, who, returning to their ruined hovels, covered with mud and
slime, found only the walls, saturated with water and barely protected
by a broken roof.
The ruin was general.
One had lost all his little store of grain gathered from the gleaning,
or bought by great privation for the winter's nourishment.
Another had seen the waters carry away his pig or his cow, treasures of
the proletary of the fields; again, there were those who had lost the
only bed upon which the family slept; in fact, almost all had to deplore
the sand-banks strewn over the little field from which they lived and
paid the rent of the farm.
Besides, the vines were torn up by the roots, and the wine, carefully
preserved to pay the hire, was carried off with the casks that contained
it; in short, all those labourers, who, from the rising to the setting
sun, worked with the indefatigable energy of necessity, and could hardly
make both ends meet, felt bitterly that this scourge of forty-eight
hours would last for many years upon their lives, and render their
existence still more miserable.
The Marquis of Pont Brillant and his grandmother acted more than
royally; they sent twenty thousand francs to the mayor, and twenty
thousand to the parson, the day after the inundation.
Marie, as we have said, never possessed any other money than the small
monthly allowance given to her by M. Bastien, for the maintenance of
herself and her son; a sum from which she had little to spare for alms.
She wrote then immediately to her husband, who was detained by business
in Berri, and besought him to send her at once two or three thousand
francs, that she might come to the assistance of the sufferers.
M. Bastien replied by asking his wife if she was making a jest of him,
because he had, as he said, ten acres of the best land in the valley
ruined by the sand; so far from coming to the assistance of others, he
hoped to be included among those sufferers who would be the most largely
indemnified, and as soon as his business was ended he was coming to the
farm to draw up a statement of his losses so as to estimate the amount
of his claim upon the government.
Madame Bastien, more distressed than surprised at her husband's reply,
had recourse to other expedients.
She possessed a few jewels, inherited from her mother; there were at the
farm about fifteen plates and a few other pieces of silver; the young
woman sent Marguerite to sell this silver and jewels at Pont Brillant;
the whole brought about two thousand francs; David asked Marie's
permission to double the amount, and this money, employed with rare
intelligence, proved the salvation of a large number of families.
Going through the country with her son, while David was busy making
purchases, Marie saw for herself and doubled the value of her benefits
by her kind words, a sack of grain for some, a few pieces of furniture
for others, and for others still, linen and clothing. All was
distributed by the young woman with as much discretion as discernment,
and all was suitable to the needs of each.
Jacques Bastien owned a large and beautiful forest of fir-trees. The
young woman, although she expected nothing less than the fury of her
husband at the dreadful outrage, resolved to diminish by one thousand
the number of these splendid firs, and many houses without roofs were at
least solidly covered for the winter with beams and rafters of this
rustic material, on which was extended a thick layer of wild broom,
woven together with long and supple twigs of willow.
It was David, who had seen in his travels through the Alps shelters thus
constructed so as to resist the winds and snows of the mountains, who
gave the peasants these ideas for the construction of roofs; directing
and sharing their work, he was able to apply and utilise a number of
facts acquired in his extensive peregrinations.
As the overflow had swept away many mills and the greater part of the
ovens belonging to the isolated houses,--these ovens being built outside
and projecting from the gable end,--the peasants were compelled to buy
bread in the town, at some distance from the houses scattered through
the valley. They bought it dearly, since almost a whole day was required
to go and return, and time was precious after such a disaster. David had
seen the Egyptian nomads crushing corn, after they had moistened it,
between two stones, and preparing cakes of it, which they cooked in the
hot ashes. He taught this process to the families whose ovens had been
destroyed, and they had at least, during the first days, sufficient and
comfortable food.
But, in everything, David was admirably seconded by Frederick, and took
pains to efface himself so as to attract gratitude toward his pupil,
that he might be more and more encouraged in the noble way in which he
was walking.
And besides, even when David had neglected this delicate solicitude for
his pupil, Frederick displayed such courage, such perseverance, and
showed himself so affectionate and so compassionate toward those whose
sufferings he and his mother were relieving by every means in their
power, that his name was in every mouth and his memory in every heart.
During the fortnight which followed the overflow, every day was employed
by Madame Bastien, her son, and David in benevolent work.
When night came they returned home much fatigued, sometimes wet and
covered with snow, and each made a toilet whose cleanliness was its only
luxury.
Marie Bastien then would return to the library, her magnificent hair
beautifully arranged, and according to her custom almost always dressed
in a gown of coarse, shaded blue cloth, marvellously fitting her
nymph-like figure. The dazzling whiteness of two broad cuffs, and a
collar fastened by a little cravat of cherry or orange coloured silk,
relieved the dark shade of this gown, which sometimes permitted one to
see a beautiful foot, always freshly clad in Scotch thread stockings,
white as snow, over which were crossed the silk buskins of a little shoe
made of reddish brown leather.
This active life passed continually in the open air, the cheerfulness of
spirit, the gaiety of heart, the habitual expression of charitable
sentiments, the serenity of soul, had not only effaced from the lovely
features of Marie Bastien the last trace of past suffering, but, like
certain flowers, which, after having languished somewhat, often revive
to greater freshness, the beauty of Marie became dazzling, and David
frequently forgot himself as he contemplated it in silent adoration.
The same causes produced the same results in Frederick; he was more
charming than ever, in youth, vigour, and grace.
Marie, her son, and David were accustomed to assemble in the library
after these long days of active and courageous devotion, in order to
talk over the events of the morning while waiting for dinner, to which
they cheerfully did honour, without reflecting that the modest silver
had been replaced by a brilliant imitation. After the repast, they went
to visit a workroom, where Marie joined several women who were employed
to prepare linen and clothing. This economy enabled her to double her
gifts. This last duty accomplished, they returned to spend the long
winter evenings in the library around a glowing fireside, while the
bitter north wind whistled out of doors.
The days thus spent passed delightfully to these three persons united by
sacred indissoluble ties.
Sometimes they discussed plans for Frederick's future, for after these
fifteen days of arduous labour, he was about to begin new studies under
David's direction.
The preceptor had travelled over two hemispheres, and often spoke of his
voyages, and replied to the untiring questioning of his associates, with
interesting accounts of cities, armies, and costumes which he sometimes
portrayed with an accurate pencil.
An appropriate reading or the execution of some piece of music
terminated the evening, for David was an excellent musician, and
frequently entertained his hearers with the national airs of different
countries, and romances charming in their freshness and simplicity.
In these familiar conversations, mingled with intimate confidences,
David learned to appreciate more and more the exquisite character and
loftiness of Madame Bastien's soul. Freed from all preoccupation, she
had regained her liberty of mind, while the preceptor observed with
renewed pleasure the influence he had exercised over Frederick's ideas,
and prepared new plans of study which he cheerfully submitted to the
mother and son.
Indeed, every day increased David's affection for his pupil, and he
bestowed upon him all the treasure of tenderness which had filled his
heart since the lamented death of his young brother. In thus loving
passionately the son of Madame Bastien, David deceived himself by these
fraternal memories, just as one is often deceived by vain regrets in
falling in love with a resemblance.
Not infrequently midnight sounded, and the happy trio looked at each
other in surprise, deploring the rapid flight of time, as they
exclaimed:
"Already!"
And they would always say to each other in parting:
"To-morrow!"
Marie would retire to her own room, but Frederick would conduct David to
his chamber, and there, how many times, standing within the embrasure of
the door, the preceptor and pupil forgot themselves in the charm of a
long friendly chat; one listening with faith, responding with eagerness,
questioning with the ardour of his age, the other speaking with the
tender solicitude of the mature man, who smiles compassionately on
youth, impatient to try the mysterious path of destiny.
How many times old Marguerite was obliged to ascend to the floor upon
which David's chamber was situated, and say to Frederick:
"Indeed, monsieur, it is midnight, it is one o'clock in the morning, and
you know very well that madame never goes to bed before you do."
And Frederick would press David's hand and descend to his mother's
chamber.
There, David would still be the subject of long conversations between
the young woman and her son.
"Mother," Frederick would say, "how interesting was his account of his
travels in Asia Minor."
"Oh, yes, nothing could be more so," Marie would answer. "And besides,
Frederick, what curious things M. David has taught us about the
vibrations of sound, and all that, too, by a few chords on this broken
old piano."
"Mother, what a charming account he gave us, in comparing the properties
of sound and light."
"And that delightful strain from Mozart that he played. Do you remember
the choir of spirits in the 'Enchanted Flute?' It was so aerial, so
light. What a pleasure for poor savages like us, who have never known
anything of Mozart; it is like discovering a treasure of harmony."
"And how touching his anecdote about the old age of Haydn. And what he
told us of the association of the Moravian brethren in America. How
much less misery, how much benefit to poor people if those ideas could
be applied in our country!"
"And, mother, did you notice that his eyes filled with tears when he
spoke of the happiness which might be the portion of so many people who
are now in want?"
"Ah, my poor child, his is the noblest heart in the world."
"Yes, mother, and how we ought to cherish it! Oh, we must love him so
much, you see; yes, so very much that it will be impossible for him to
leave us. He has no family; his best friend, Doctor Dufour, is our
neighbour. Where could M. David find a better home than with us?"
"Leave us!" exclaimed Marie, "leave us! why, it is he who gives us our
strength, our faith, our confidence in the future. Is it possible he can
abandon us now?"
Then old Marguerite was obliged to interpose again.
"For the love of God, madame, do go to bed; why, it is two o'clock in
the morning," said the old servant. "You rose at six o'clock, and so did
M. Frederick, and then so must work all day long! Besides, it is not
good sense to sit up so late!"
"Marguerite is right to scold us, my child," said Marie, smiling, and
kissing her son on the forehead, "we are foolish to go to bed so late."
And the next day, again Marguerite's recriminations cut short the
conversations of the mother and son.
* * * * *
Two or three times Marie went to bed in a sweetly pensive mood.
One evening, while Frederick was reading, his friend, thoughtful and
sedate, his elbows on the table, was leaning over with his forehead on
his hand; the light of the lamp, concentrated by the shade, shone
brightly upon the noble and expressive face of David.
Marie, a moment distracted from the reading, directed her gaze to the
guardian of her son, and looked at him a long time. By degrees, the
young woman felt her eyes grow moist, her beautiful bosom palpitate
suddenly, while a delicate blush mounted her snowy brow.
Just at this moment, David accidentally raised his eyes and met Marie's
glance.
The young woman immediately cast her eyes down, and blushed scarlet.
Another time David was at the piano, accompanying Frederick and Marie,
who were singing a duet; the young woman turned the page, just as David
had the same intuition, and their hands met.
At this electric contact, she trembled, her blood rushed toward her
heart, and a cloud passed before her eyes.
Notwithstanding these suggestive indications, the young mother slept
that evening, pensive and dreamy, but full of calm and chaste serenity.
As always before, she kissed her son on the forehead, without blushing.
* * * * *
Thus passed the last fortnight of December.
Upon the eve of the new year, David, Marie, and her son were preparing
to go out, in order to carry a few last remembrances to their
dependents, when Marguerite handed her mistress a letter which the
express had just brought.
At the sight of the handwriting, Marie could not hide her surprise and
fear.
This letter was from M. Bastien, who wrote as follows:
"MADAME, MY WIFE (with whom I am not at all satisfied):--My
business in Berri has ended sooner than I anticipated. I am now at
Pont Brillant, with my boon companion, Bridou, occupied in
verifying accounts. We will leave soon for the farm, where Bridou
will stay a few days with me, in order to assist me in estimating
the indemnity due me, out of the sum allotted to the sufferers from
the overflow, because we must get some good out of so much evil.
"We will arrive in time for dinner.
"Take care to have a leg of mutton with an abundance of clove of
garlic in the best style, and some fine cabbage soup, as I am fond
of it, with plenty of hot salted pork, and plenty of Blois sausage;
attend especially to that, if you please.
"_Nota bene._ I shall arrive in a very bad humour, and very much
disposed to box my son's ears, in case his fits of melancholy and
coxcomb airs are not at an end.
"Your husband, who has no desire to laugh,
"JACQUES BASTIEN.
"P. S. Bridou is like me; he likes cheese that can walk alone. Tell
Marguerite to provide it, and do you attend to it."
Madame Bastien had not recovered from the surprise and regret produced
by the unexpected announcement of M. Bastien's return, when she was
drawn from her unhappy reflections by a tumultuous and constantly
increasing excitement that she heard outside. One would have declared
that an assemblage had surrounded the house. Suddenly Marguerite
entered, running, her eyes sparkling with joy, as she cried:
"Ah, madame! come,--come and see!"
Marie, more and more astonished, automatically followed the servant.