The weather was clear, the winter sun radiant. Marie Bastien, as she
went out on the rustic porch, built above the front door of the house,
saw about one hundred persons, men, women, and children, almost all
clothed in coarse, but new and warm garments, filing in order, and
ranging themselves behind the little garden.
This procession was ended by a cart ornamented with branches of fir, on
which was placed what was called by the country people, a ferry-boat--a
little flat boat, resembling the one Frederick and David so bravely used
during the overflow.
Behind the cart, which stopped at the garden gate, came an empty open
carriage, drawn by four horses, and mounted by two postilions in the
livery of Pont Brillant; two footmen were seated behind.
At the head of the procession marched Jean Francois, the farmer, leading
two of his little children by the hand; his wife held the smallest child
in her arms.
At the sight of Madame Bastien, the farmer approached.
"Good day, Jean Francois," said the young woman to him, affectionately.
"What do these good people who accompany you want?"
"We wish to speak to M. Frederick, madame."
Marie turned to Marguerite, who, with a triumphant air, was standing
behind her mistress, and said to her:
"Run and tell my son, Marguerite."
"It will not take long, madame; he is in the library with M. David."
While the servant went in quest of Frederick, Marie, who saw then for
the first time the handsomely equipped carriage standing before the
garden gate, wondered what could be its purpose.
Frederick hastened, not expecting the spectacle which awaited him.
"What do you want, mother?" said he, quickly.
Then, seeing the crowd which had gathered in the little garden, he
stopped suddenly, with an interrogative look at his mother.
"My child--"
But the young woman, whose heart was beating with joy, could say no
more; overcome by emotion, she had just discovered that the assemblage
was composed entirely of those unfortunate people whom she and her son
and David had helped in the time of the overflow.
Then Marie said:
"My child, it is Jean Francois who wishes to speak to you,--there he
is!"
And the happy mother withdrew behind her son, exchanging a glance of
inexpressible delight with David, who had followed his pupil, and stood
half hidden under the porch.
Frederick, whose astonishment continued to increase, made a step toward
Jean Francois, who said to the young man, in a voice full of tears:
"M. Frederick, it is we poor valley people, who have come to thank you
with a free heart, as well as your mother and your friend, M. David, who
have been so kind. As I owe you the most," continued the farmer, with a
voice more and more broken by tears, and pointing to his wife and
children with an expressive gesture, "as I owe you the most, M.
Frederick, the others have told me--and--I--"
The poor man could say no more. Sobs stifled his voice.
Other sobs of tenderness from the excited crowd responded to the tears
of Jean Francois, and broke the almost religious silence which reigned
for several minutes.
Frederick's heart was melted to tears of joy. He threw himself upon his
mother's neck, as if he wished to turn toward her these testimonials of
gratitude by which he was so profoundly touched.
At a sign from Jean Francois, who had dried his eyes and tried to regain
his self-possession, several men of the assemblage approached the cart,
and, taking the ferry-boat, brought it in their arms and laid it before
Frederick.
It was a simple and rustic little boat with two oars of unpolished wood,
and on the inner railing were written in rude and uneven letters, cut
into the framework, the words: "The poor people of the valley to M.
Frederick Bastien."
Then followed the date of the overflow.
Jean Francois, having subdued his emotion, said, as he showed the boat
to the son of Madame Bastien:
"M. Frederick, we united with each other in making this little boat,
which almost looks like the one which served you in saving us and our
effects. Excuse the liberty, M. Frederick, but it is with good intention
and warm friendship that we bring this little boat to you. When you use
it, you will think of the poor people of the valley, and upon those who
will always love you, M. Frederick; they will teach your name to their
little children, who, when they are grown, will some day teach it to
theirs, because that name, you see, M. Frederick, is now the name of the
good saint of the country."
Frederick allowed his tears to flow, as a silent and eloquent response.
David then, leaning over his pupil's ear, whispered to him:
"My child, is not this rude procession worth all the splendour of the
brilliant hunting procession of St. Hubert?"
At the moment Frederick turned toward David to press his hand, he saw a
movement in the crowd, which, suddenly separating itself with a murmur
of surprise and curiosity, gave passage to Raoul de Pont Brillant.
The marquis advanced a little in front of Jean Francois; then, with
perfect ease and grace, he said to Frederick:
"I have come, monsieur, to thank you for saving my life, because this is
my first day out, and it was my duty to dedicate it to you. I met these
good people on the way, and after learning from one of them the purpose
of their assemblage I joined them, since, like these good people, I am
of the valley, and like several of them, I owe my life to you."
After these words, uttered with an accent perhaps more polished than
emotional, the Marquis de Pont Brillant, with exquisite tact, again
mingled with the multitude.
"Ah, well, my child," whispered David to Frederick, "is it not the
Marquis de Pont Brillant now who ought to envy you?"
Frederick pressed David's hand, but was possessed by the thought: "He
whom I basely desired to murder is there, ignorant of my dastardly
attempt, and he has come to thank me for saving his life."
Then the son of Madame Bastien, addressing the people of the valley,
said to them, in an impassioned voice, as he mingled with them, and
cordially pressed their hands:
"My friends, what I have done was done at the suggestion of my mother,
and with the aid of my friend, M. David. It is, then, in their name, as
well as my own, that I thank you from the bottom of my heart for these
evidences of affection. As to this little boat," added the young man,
turning toward the boat which had been deposited in the middle of the
garden, and contemplating it with as much sadness as joy, "it shall be
consecrated to the pleasure of my mother, and this touching inscription
will remind us of the inhabitants of the valley, whom we love as much as
they love us."
Then Frederick, addressing in turn all those who surrounded him, asked
one if his fields were in a tillable condition, another if he hoped to
preserve a great part of his vineyard, another still if the slime
deposited on his land by the Loire had not somewhat compensated for the
disaster from which he had suffered. To all Frederick said some word
which proved that he had their interest and their misfortunes at heart.
Marie, on her part, speaking to the women and mothers and children,
found a word of affection and solicitude for all, and proved that like
her son she had a perfect acquaintance with the sorrows and needs of
each one.
Frederick hoped to join the Marquis de Pont Brillant; he earnestly
longed to press the hand of the man whom he had so long pursued with
bitter hatred; it seemed to him that this frank expression ought to
efface from his mind the last memory of the dreadful deed he had
contemplated; but he could not find the marquis, whose carriage had also
disappeared.
After the departure of the valley people, Frederick, entering the house
with his mother and David, found Marguerite, who proudly handed him a
letter.
"What is this letter, Marguerite?" asked the young man.
"Read, M. Frederick."
"You permit me, mother? and you also, my friend?"
Marie and David made a sign in the affirmative.
Frederick immediately cast his eyes upon the signature and said:
"It is from the Marquis de Pont Brillant."
"The very same, M. Frederick," interposed Marguerite. "Before departing
in his carriage he came through the grove and asked to write you a
word."
"Come in the library, my child," said Marie to her son.
David, Frederick, and his mother being alone, the young man said,
innocently:
"I am going to read it aloud, mother."
"As you please, my child."
"Ah, but now I think it is doubtless a letter of thanks," said
Frederick, smiling, "and should not be read aloud."
"You are right; you would suppress three-fourths of it," said Marie,
smiling in her turn. "Give the letter to M. David, he will read it
better than you."
"Come," answered Frederick, gaily, "my modesty serves me ill. If it is
praise, it will still seem very sweet to me."
"That will be a punishment for your humility," said David, laughing, and
he read what follows:
"'As I had the honour of telling you, monsieur, I left my house in
the hope of expressing my gratitude to you. I met the valley
people, who were on their way to make an ovation for you,--you,
monsieur, whose name has rightfully become so popular in our
country since the inundation. I thought I ought to join these
people and wait the opportunity to thank you personally.
"'I should have accomplished this duty to-day, monsieur, without
this interesting circumstance.
"'As I heard you thank the good people of the valley in a voice so
full of emotion, it seemed to me I recognised the voice of a person
whom I met at night in the depth of the forest of Pont Brillant
about two months ago, for, if I remember correctly, this meeting
took place in the first week of November.'"
"Frederick, what does that mean?" asked Madame Bastien, interrupting
David.
"Presently, mother, I will tell you all. Please go on, my friend."
David continued:
"'It is possible, monsieur, and I earnestly hope it, that this
passage in my letter relating to this meeting may appear
incomprehensible to you; in that case please attach no importance
to it, and attribute it to a mistake caused by a resemblance of
voice and accent which is very unusual.
"'If, on the contrary, monsieur, you comprehend me; if you are, in
a word, the person whom I met at night in a very dark spot where it
was impossible to distinguish your features, you will condescend,
no doubt, monsieur, to explain to me the contradiction (apparent, I
hope) which exists between your conduct at the time of our meeting
in the forest and at the time of the inundation.
"'I await, then, monsieur, with your permission, the elucidation of
this mystery, that I may know with what sentiments I can henceforth
have the honour of subscribing myself. Your very humble and
obedient servant,
"'R., MARQUIS DE PONT BRILLANT.'"
The reading of this letter, written with assurance and aggressive pride,
was scarcely ended when the son of Madame Bastien ran to a table and
wrote a few lines spontaneously, folded the paper, and returned to his
mother.
"I am going, mother," said he, "to relate to you in a few words the
adventure in the forest; afterward you and my friend will judge if my
reply to the Marquis de Pont Brillant is proper."
And Frederick, without mentioning the conversation between the dowager
and Zerbinette which he had surprised (for that would have outraged his
mother), told the young woman and David all that happened on the fatal
day to which the marquis alluded; how the marquis, having refused to
fight in the darkness with an unknown person, and wishing to escape from
the persistence of Frederick, had overthrown him with the breast of his
horse; how Frederick, in a delirium of rage, had lain in ambuscade near
a spot where the marquis would pass, in order to kill him.
This recital terminated, without justifying Frederick, but at least
explaining to his mother and David by what sequence of sentiments and
deeds he had been led to conceive the idea of a dastardly ambush unknown
to the Marquis of Pont Brillant, Frederick said to his mother:
"Now, here is my answer to the letter of the Marquis de Pont Brillant."
Marie Bastien read the following:
"MONSIEUR:--I provoked you without cause; I am ashamed of it. I
saved your life; I am glad of it. There is the whole mystery.
"Your very humble servant,
"FREDERICK BASTIEN."
"Well, my child," said David, earnestly, "you nobly confess a wicked
intention that you have paid for at the peril of your life."
"When I think of this rehabilitation and of all that has just occurred,"
said Marie, with profound emotion, "when I realise that it is all your
work, M. David, and that fifteen days ago my son was killing
himself--his heart consumed with hatred--"
"And yet you do not know all, mother," interrupted Frederick, "no, you
do not know all that I owe to this good genius who has come to change
our grief to joy."
"What do you mean, my child?"
"Frederick!" added David, with a tone of reproach, suspecting the
intention of Madame Bastien's son.
"My friend, to-day is the day of confessions, and, besides, I see my
mother so happy that--"
Then, interrupting himself, he asked:
"You are happy, are you not, mother?"
Marie replied by embracing her son with ecstasy.
"So you see, my friend, my mother is so happy that a danger past cannot
give her cause for sorrow, especially when she will have one reason more
for loving you and blessing you."
"Frederick, once again I beseech you--"
"My friend, the only reason which has made me conceal this secret from
my mother was the fear of distressing her."
"I beg you, dear child, explain yourself," cried Marie.
"Ah, well, mother, those farewells at night, you remember?--it was not a
dream."
"Why, did you really come to me that dreadful night?"
"Yes, to bid you farewell."
"My God! and where were you going?"
"I was going to kill myself."
Marie uttered a shriek of fright, and turned pale.
"Frederick," said David, "you see what imprudence--"
"No, no, M. David," interrupted the young woman, trying to smile. "It is
I who am absurdly weak. Have I not my son here in my arms, on my heart?"
As she said these words, Marie pressed her son in her arms, as they sat
together on the sofa; then kissing him on the forehead, she added, in a
trembling voice:
"Oh, I have you in my arms. Now I have no more fear, I can hear all."
"Well, mother, devoured by envy, and more than that, pursued by remorse,
which always awakened at the sound of your voice, I wanted to kill
myself. I went out with M. David, I escaped from him. He succeeded in
finding my tracks. I had run to the Loire, and when he arrived--"
"Ah! unhappy child!" cried Marie, "but for him you would have drowned!"
"Yes, and when I was about to drown I called you, mother, as one calls
for help. He heard my cries, and threw himself in the Loire, and--"
Frederick was interrupted by Marguerite.
The old servant this time did not present herself smiling and
triumphant, but timid and alarmed, as she whispered to her mistress, as
if she were announcing some fatal news:
"Madame, madame, monsieur has come!"