TRUE LOVE—HAPPY UNION.
The following day Victor took up his abode with us. Before a fortnight
had elapsed, my mother was enchanted with her new lodger. She sounded
his praises from morning till night. This may perhaps astonish you,
but you must know that she and I were always in the habit of telling
each other our very thoughts. This reciprocal confidence was so perfect
that it might be truly said we concealed nothing from each other.
And I must confess Victor showed himself every day more worthy of my
mother’s admiration. He was the most modest, amiable, industrious, and
orderly of young men—a genuine model for Christian men of letters. He
rose every morning at an early hour, and worked in his room till about
eight o’clock. Then, unless his occupations were too pressing, he heard
Mass at a neighboring church. After that, he went to the _Journal_
office, where he remained till noon; then he returned to breakfast. He
left again at one, came back at three, worked till dinnertime, then
studied till ten at night, and often later.
“Why do you work so hard?” said my mother to him one day. “The life
of a journalist, according to you, is that of a galley-slave. I never
should have thought an editor had so hard a time. You have all the four
large pages of the _Journal_ to write yourself, then, M. Victor?”
“By no means, dear madame. I write the leading article every day, and
in a short time, too, for I have the peculiarity of not writing well
when I write slowly. This done, I look over the other articles for the
paper. As I am responsible for them, I do not accept them till they are
carefully examined. This is my whole task—apparently an easy one, but
tedious and difficult in reality.”
“Yes; I see you have a great deal to do at the office; but why do you
continue to work at home?”
“Two motives oblige me to study—to increase my knowledge, and prevent
ennui. Having risen from a mere apothecary’s clerk to be the chief
editor of an important journal, I have to apply myself to keep apace
with my new profession. A journalist must be imprudent or dishonest who
discusses any subject on which he has not sufficient information. And
think of the multitude of questions connected with politics, political
economy, legislation, literature, and religion itself which I have in
turn to treat of! In the Paris newspapers, each editor writes on the
subjects he understands the best. The work is thus divided, to the
great advantage of the paper and its editors. Here, I alone am often
responsible for everything. Nevertheless, the care of my health, as
well as my indolence, would induce me to rest a few hours a day; but
where shall I pass them?—At the café? I go there sometimes to extend
my knowledge of human nature; but one cannot go there much without
being in danger of contracting injurious habits.—With my friends? I
have none, and am in no hurry to make any. The choice of a friend is
such a serious thing! One cannot be too cautious about it.”
“Come and see us,” said my mother, with her habitual cordiality. “When
you have nowhere else to go, and your mind is weary, come up and pass
an hour in the evening with your neighbors.”
Victor came, at first occasionally, then every day. Only a few weeks
elapsed before I felt that I loved him. His companionship was so
delightful; he had so much delicacy in little things; he was so frank,
so devoted to all that is beautiful and good! Did he love me in return?
No one could have told, for he was as timid as a young girl.
But this timidity was surmounted when my feast-day arrived. He came in
blushing with extreme embarrassment—poor dear friend! I can still see
him—holding a bouquet in his left hand, which he concealed behind him,
while with the other he presented my mother with an open paper. She
took it, glanced at it, and, after reading a few words, said:
“But this is not addressed to me. Here, Agnes, these stanzas are for
you, my child! And I see a bouquet!”
Victor presented it to me in an agitated manner. I myself was so
confused that I longed to run away to hide my embarrassment. I
concealed it as well as I could behind the sheet on which the stanzas
were written, and read them in a low tone. They gracefully thanked
my mother for all her kindness to him, and ended with some wishes
for me—wishes that were ardent and touching. In a tremulous tone I
expressed my gratitude with a sincerity which was quite natural. Our
embarrassment was not of long continuance. It soon passed off, and we
spent the evening in delightful conversation. One would have thought we
had always lived together, and formed but one family.
The next morning, when I returned from giving my lessons, what was my
astonishment to find Victor with my mother!
“Here she is to decide the question,” exclaimed the latter joyfully.
“M. Victor loves you, and wishes to know if you will be his wife.”
“Mother,” I replied, “must I be separated from you?”
“Less than ever,” cried Victor.
My delightful dream was realized! I was to be united to the man I loved
with all my heart—whom I esteemed without any alloy! And this without
being obliged to separate from her of whom I was the sole reliance.
I extended my hand to Victor, and threw myself into my mother’s arms,
thanking her as well as I could, but in accents broken by tears....
A month after, we were married, and happy—as happy, I believe, as
people can be here below.