CONFESSION.
AT our return, we found my mother had prepared the dinner as usual on
the days we went into the country. We joyfully seated ourselves at
the table. What is more delightful than a family dinner? And we were
all united. Louis was also in our midst. Victor was uncommonly lively
that evening. His face, so open, intelligent, and kind, was radiant.
I had never seen him so social and witty. His animation enlivened us
all—we loved him so much! Excellent man! what made him so happy was
the remembrance of the good deed he had done at the peril of his life.
I asked him more than twenty times that evening if he felt any worse,
and if it were not advisable to send for a physician. He invariably
replied that he felt as well as the day before, and even better. But
his cough grew worse from that time, and caused me serious alarm.
During dinner we conversed on general subjects, and afterwards went to
the _salon_. Victor installed himself beside the blazing fire which I
always had made for him in the evening. My mother and sister went up to
their own apartments. We were thus left alone with M. Louis Beauvais.
He turned towards Victor with a look full of respect and affection, and
I observed with astonishment that tears were streaming from his eyes.
“Madame,” said he to me, “I must appear strangely to you. Ah! that is
not the worst of it. I am a great sinner.”
Victor tried to stop him.
“No,” said he; “I will not keep silence. Mme. Barnier must know
everything, as well as you, noble-hearted man, whom I dare not call my
friend: I feel too unworthy.”
He seated himself, and, sadly gazing into the fire, began his story in
a tone as grave and sorrowful as if he were making a solemn avowal of
his faults before dying:
Ten years ago, said he, I was a Christian, not only in name, but in
heart and soul. My mother, a pious, energetic woman, such as we do not
see in our day, brought me up with extreme care, and I did my utmost
to correspond to her efforts. It is so easy and delightful to practise
one’s religion when one has faith, and feels that his endeavors are
at once pleasing to a mother and to God! My other studies over, I
became a candidate for the Polytechnic School, but was not successful
in my application. I then entered another, in order to learn civil
engineering. By the end of a year, I had given up all my pious habits
through want of moral courage. My principles, however, remained firm
enough to condemn me and fill me with remorse, but they were incapable
of restraining one who had imbibed a taste for error. Even my mother’s
death and her last words, though they affected me, did not bring me to
a sense of duty. A short time after I completed my studies in civil
engineering, my father gave me possession of what I inherited from my
mother, and asked what course I intended to pursue. “Remain at home,”
I replied,” and work under the direction of M. C——,” an architect of
the department, and a friend of the family. My father gave his consent
to this.
Left to myself, and master of my time and property, I made no delay in
commencing a life of dissipation and pleasure. My father was, above all
things, a man of forethought and calculation, and my conduct disgusted
him. We had several painful disputes, and at last he declared, to use
his own expressive language, he would give up the reins, and cease
to reproach me, but I must not thenceforth expect of him the least
advice or even aid, if I needed it. He then centred all his affections
on my brother and sister. As for me, I had begun by being idle and
extravagant: I soon became openly irreligious. My religious principles
were a restraint, and I determined to throw them aside. I thought
this would be easy. And I did prove myself uncommonly impious when
the preacher we had some months ago told us so many plain, wholesome
truths. I was not one of those guilty of disorderly conduct, whom all
respectable people must condemn; but—the acknowledgment is due you—I
approved of it, contemptible and wicked as it was. My conscience was
now roused, and remorse filled my soul with secret anger.
My mother being dead, there was no longer any one at home to speak
to me of religious things. My father is an honorable, upright man,
and attentive to his business, but as regardless of another world as
if there were none. My young brother is pious to a certain degree, I
suppose, but he is timid and reserved. Only my sister remains. Aline
left boarding-school about six months ago. She is nearly ten years
younger than I, and bears a striking resemblance to my mother. She has
the same kindness of heart and the same tone of piety, at once fervent
and rational, which I always loved and admired in my mother. I had been
separated from my sister many years, and when I met her again, I was
struck, with this resemblance, and at once conceived so much affection
and respect for her as to astonish myself.
As soon as Aline returned home, the appearance of everything changed:
the house became more attractive. I certainly do not wish to impute any
blame to my father—I love and respect him too much for that—but you
know as well as I that a house is not what it should be that has no
woman to preside over it. An Arabian poet says the mistress of a house
is its soul, and he is right. After my mother’s death, the house became
gloomy, but there was a marked change when Aline returned. It seemed as
if my mother had come back after a long absence to diffuse once more
around her cheerfulness, order, and piety.
But the superintendence of the household affairs, and her obligations
to society, did not wholly fill up Aline’s time. Like her whose
living image she was, she was eager to extend her knowledge. Before
her return, my father had subscribed for that wretched journal which
is the delight of the unbeliever, or those who wish to pass as such.
Aline sometimes read it, but she disliked it, as you may suppose. She
imparted her impressions to me, but I did not conceal from her my
sympathy with its irreligious views.
“Well, I do not agree with it in the least,” said she; “and, as I like
to know what is going on, I wish I could subscribe for M. Barnier’s
paper. Mme. C—— has lent it to me for some time. It is an able,
thoughtful journal, and edited by a sincere Catholic. That is the kind
of a newspaper that suits me.”
“Then, order it to be sent you.”
“That would be ridiculous. A young girl cannot subscribe for a
newspaper.”
“I see no other way of having it.”
“Excuse me, there is. If you were obliging, you would see the way at
once.”
“And subscribe for you!... I subscribe for a _journal de sacristie_?...
That would be going rather too far; I should be laughed at.”
“You must have publicly compromised yourself, then, to fear making
people talk by subscribing for a respectable paper.” ...
The cut was well aimed. I reddened, but made no reply, and went away.
That night I subscribed for your paper, and received my first number.
Of course I opened it at once, out of perverse curiosity. I should have
been overjoyed to find a single flaw in it.
A short time after this, the incident at the cathedral occurred. As I
have already told you, I was not among those who made a disturbance
at the church door, but I was with them in heart. Père Laurent was
repulsive to me, as well as to most of those who displayed their
anger in so reprehensible a manner. He was everywhere the topic of
conversation. At home, my sister, who never lost one of his sermons,
annoyed me with his praises. Above all, she irritated me by repeating
his very words—words that seemed chosen expressly to disturb me and
force me to reflect.
The day after that atrocious manifestation, I eagerly opened your
journal. I was sure you would speak of the outbreak of the previous
day, and wished to see how far you would condemn it. The article
surpassed my expectations. You showed yourself more courageous than
ever. Never had you written anything that so directly hit my case. You
made use of certain phrases that reminded me of my shameful course, my
base inclinations, and my secret remorse, and in so forcible a manner
that the very perusal made me tremble with anger. That night, at our
club—that well-known circle of young men devoid of reason, and so
many men of riper years even more thoughtless—we had a great deal to
say about the occurrence of the previous day, and your article of that
morning. There was a general indignation against the preacher, and that
excited by what you had written was still stronger.
One of the _habitués_ of the club—one of those men who assume
the right of imposing their opinions on others about every
subject—seriously declared he had made a very important discovery:
the clerical party wished to overrule the city, and assert its adverse
authority as in the fearful times of the middle ages; but, however well
contrived the plot might be, it had not escaped the sagacious eye of
the speaker. The Conference of S. Vincent de Paul, more flourishing
than ever; the new development given to the journal you edit; the
arrival of an eloquent preacher—were they not all so many signs that
ought to arouse us to the imminence and extent of the danger?
The simplest and worst members of the club allowed themselves to be
influenced by this absurd declamation. I was, I confess, of the number.
Others shrugged their shoulders. The orator perceived it.
“Ah! you smile, messieurs; you think I exaggerate! In a year you will
confess I was right, but then it will be too late! Your wives will have
become devotees, the very thought of whose bigotry is enough to make
anybody shudder; your daughters will only aspire to the happiness
of entering a convent; the theatres will be closed for want of
patronage; and, if any one wishes an office, it will only be obtained
by presenting a certificate of confession. _Allez! allez!_ when that
black-robed tribe undertakes any scheme, it knows how to bring it
about. Instead of shrugging your shoulders when I reveal what is going
on, you would do better to take proper precautions. It is high time.”
A young fop in the assembly, the head clerk of a notary, notorious for
his volubility, his shallowness, and his assurance, rose and took up
the thread of discourse in his turn:
“I agree with what M. Simon has just said. We must consider the means
of utterly routing this dark race. The shortest course would be to
attack their leader. I will take that on myself. Barnier shall hear
from me.”
“No rashness!” was the exclamation on all sides. “We must beware of
making a martyr of him!”
“What course shall we take, then?” asked some of the party.
“Intimidate him,” said a voice. “Write him a letter of warning of so
serious a character as to make him desist.”
“That is also a bad plan,” objected M. Simon. “Anonymous letters are
treated with contempt, or are laid before the public. In either case,
the effect would be unfavorable to us.”
The young fop who had begun the subject now resumed:
“M. Simon, who has so clairvoyant an eye with respect to danger, ought
himself to suggest some way of bringing Barnier to reason.”
M. Simon assumed a solemn air: “I only know of one way, but that is a
good one. We must bribe him, not to withdraw from the paper—that would
be a false step, for another would take his place, and continue to
annoy us—but to induce him, in consideration of a certain sum, to wage
henceforth only an apparent war on us. That is the best thing to do.”
“Well,” replied the young fop, “it is hardly worth while to criticise
others, and then propose something not half so good. Barnier is not to
be bribed.”
“Why not?” asked M. Simon.
“Because a man whose opinions are the result of conviction can never
be bought. He fights for his flag, and is not much concerned about
anything else.”
“Convictions!—flag!—disinterestedness, indeed!” retorted M. Simon,
with a gesture of supreme contempt.
It was in vain to say that most of us had carefully observed you, and
were not mistaken as to your character. We were nearly all of the
clerk’s opinion. For once in his life, the fellow had a correct notion.
We then separated without coming to any decision, but each one promised
to think of some means of bringing you to reason, as we expressed it.
I dwelt on the subject the whole evening, and was still thinking of it
the next day when I took my place among the family at the dinner-table.
Aline was at that time greatly interested in the _soirée_ to which you
were afterwards invited, and the preliminaries were discussed at table.
To my great astonishment, she proposed to place your name on the list
of invitations. This proposition made me angry, and I flatly declared
it absurd. I was sure my father would make a similar reply. I had no
idea he would open the doors of his _salon_ to you, for I knew there
was no similarity of opinion between you. The result was precisely
contrary to my expectations. Was my father desirous of gratifying
Aline? Or did he wish to seize an opportunity of showing how little
value he attached to my opinion? I know not. But he allowed me to
finish what I had to say, and then said, in a dry tone:
“Aline, send M. Barnier an invitation. It is my wish.”
I was confounded. In my fury, I inwardly swore to be revenged. The
means of intimidating you, which the members of the club had not
been able to find without compromising themselves, I thought I had
discovered myself the night before. I communicated my plan to two of my
friends whose names I will not give. They declared it excellent, and
promised to second me.
What took place you know, but I will give you some details impossible
for you to have ascertained. I did not attend the _soirée_, but one of
my accomplices was there to keep me informed of your movements. When
you were ready to leave, he came to my room to notify me. It took only
a moment to disguise ourselves. We went out by a private door, and
dogged your steps. Ah! my dear friend, what infamous behavior! What had
you done to me that I should thus dare violate in your person the laws
of hospitality which even savages respect?
At this revelation, I turned pale. M. Louis Beauvais perceived it.
“Is not such an act unpardonable, madame?” said he. “And do you not
look upon me as worthy only of your contempt and hatred?”
“I have forgiven those who committed this wrong, whoever they might
be,” I replied. “Now I know it was you, and see how fully you repent of
it, I forgive you even more willingly.”
Thank you, madame, said he; but let me assure you that, culpable as my
intentions were, they were less so than they must have seemed to you.
We were desirous of intimidating M. Barnier, and making him believe
he exposed himself to constant serious danger by the boldness of the
course he had taken. We did not—I mistake—I did not intend to show
any physical violence, for that I considered base and criminal. I was
indignant when I saw one of our number strike him. I have ever since
regarded that young man with profound contempt. I had more than one fit
of remorse that night. The next morning, Aline, after accosting me,
said:
“You know what happened to M. Barnier last night after leaving us. It
is infamous! It must have been a plot. I am sure you know the guilty
authors! Who are they? They ought to be punished.”
“How should I know them?” I exclaimed angrily.
“You know them only too well,” said Aline, regarding me with an air of
severity; ... “but you are not willing to betray your friends.... What
friends!”
I endeavored to appear unconcerned. She continued looking at me with a
steadiness that made me shiver.
“Do not add to my distress,” said she. “Do not lay aside the only
virtue you have left, my poor brother—your customary frankness! I
understand it all, and know what I ought to say to you, but words fail
me. Ah! if our poor mother were still alive!” ...
Aline went away without another word. As for me, I remained motionless
and silent for some moments, by turns filled with shame, remorse, and
anger.... It would seem as if so grave an occurrence should have led
me to serious reflection. I felt inclined to it at first, but resisted
the inclination. I found excuses for myself, and soon thought no more
of it.
I continued, therefore, to live as I had for five years, one pleasure
succeeding another, and spending my property without reflecting what I
should do hereafter. But the day was at hand when I found myself in a
critical position in consequence of my prodigality.
When my father, in order to avert cause for contention, put me in
possession of my mother’s property, I at once took my papers to a man
in whom I placed entire confidence. I did this in order to throw off
all care. He had been for a long time my father’s cashier. He was and
is honesty itself.
“F. Martin,” said I, “here is all I possess. It will be a care for me
to keep these papers and collect my income. Do me the favor to take
charge of my property.”
F. Martin was confused and gratified at such a proof of confidence. But
his pleasure was somewhat modified when I added the following words:
“F. Martin, I attach one condition to this arrangement: you are not to
take advantage of it to sermonize me. I now tell you, with a frankness
that will preclude all surprise, I wish to amuse myself.... To what
degree, or how long, I cannot say, but such is my present intention,
that is certain.”
“O M. Louis, if your mother could only hear you!”
“F. Martin,” said I, with a gesture, as if to take back my portfolio,
“if you are going to begin to preach to me, take care!... I shall
give my papers to some one who may rob me. Then, instead of merely
curtailing my property a little, I shall spend it all in two years, or
four at the furthest; or rather, we shall spend it between us.”
“Dreadful boy! I always said you had the faculty of making everybody
yield to you. Well, I will do as you wish.”
“Ah! that is right. One word more. When I have but twenty thousand
francs left, you may warn me—not before!”
Things went on thus till a few days ago. I spent my property with a
rapidity that frightened me when I thought of it. My father perceived
it. My extravagance excited his indignation, but, faithful to his
resolution to avoid all contention, he forebore saying anything.
Not quite a fortnight ago, I met with a sad disappointment. An old
aunt of mine died. I had calculated on being her heir, but she left
all she had to my sister and other relatives, and gave me nothing.
My unwise conduct had for some time prejudiced her against me. This
disappointment made me quite thoughtful. I wrote F. Martin that I
wished to know the exact state of my affairs. The next day Martin
arrived at the appointed hour. He was pale and agitated—pitifully so.
“M. Louis,” said he, “you anticipated me. I was going to request an
interview with you. You have now only twenty thousand francs!”
I made a strong effort to control myself, and replied, with a smiling
air: “Well done! that is rather fast work!”
“So fast that I can hardly believe you have come to this. But it is
really so!”
“Where are the twenty thousand francs, Martin?”
“Why, I have not got them, M. Louis! I have only five thousand left
besides what you took.”
At this, my strength almost failed me. I at once realized I was
completely ruined. Fifteen months before, I had withdrawn twenty
thousand francs from Martin’s hands under the pretext of investing
them in a particularly advantageous manner. A trip to Germany, play,
and some pressing debts absorbed this sum without Martin’s knowing it.
I quietly dismissed him, saying I would see him again the next day.
Left alone, I balanced my accounts. Alas! my affairs were desperate!
The five thousand francs in Martin’s possession were all I had left,
and my debts amounted to four times that sum!
All day yesterday I remained stupefied, as it were, at so unexpected a
disclosure. My father had gone to Paris. I resolved to take refuge in
the country, and come to some decision. I went, scarcely knowing what
I was about, angry with myself, with everybody else, and desperate.
All night I sought some way of escape from the terrible blow that
had befallen me. I walked to and fro. From anger I sank into the
most profound dejection. The very thought of applying myself to any
occupation whatever appeared, above all, intolerable.
When morning came, I mechanically went to walk beside the river that
runs about a hundred yards from our house, and fell into a gloomy
reverie. The sleepless nights, the rioting, the habits to which I had
successively given myself up for years, the painful anxiety of the
previous night, had excited and weakened my nervous system. I was, as
it were, deprived of my reason.
While I was thus lingering on the shore, it seemed as if a mysterious
voice invited me to bury myself in the current before me. A terrible
struggle took place between my reason, the instinct that restrained
me, and the hallucination that kept drawing me nearer the bank. Reason
failed me. In a fit of despair, I cast myself into the stream. As soon
as I felt the cold water, my reason, my faith, awoke as ardent as in
the days of my boyhood. A cry issued from the very depths of my soul:
“O Mary, save me!” It would be impossible to tell you with what fervor,
what terror, I uttered this short prayer—impossible, also, to express
the immense joy that filled my heart when I realized I was saved.
But what confusion mingled with this joy—what gratitude, too, what
admiration of the designs of God, when I saw it was you who had rescued
me at the peril of your life!