BROTHER AND SISTER.
M. Louis Beauvais had finished his story.
“And now,” said Victor, in the cheering, confidential tone of one
friend who wishes to encourage another, “what are you going to do?”
“That is precisely the question that preoccupies me. In fact, I see
no way of solving it. Were you to ask me what I am not going to do,
oh! then I should not be embarrassed for a reply. At all events, had
I even the means, I should not wish to continue the life I have led.
Nor do I any longer desire to escape from the trying position I am in
by having recourse to the cowardly, criminal means I took in a moment
of madness. Suicide fills me with horror! One must behold death face
to face, as I have to-day, to realize how easily a man can deceive
himself. I had really arrived at such a state of indifference and
insensibility that it seemed as if I had never had any religion; but
the terrible thought no sooner sprang up in my soul that I was about
to appear before God, than I found myself as sincere a believer as on
the day of my first communion. My whole life passed in review before
me, and I condemned myself without awaiting the divine sentence. When I
recall the inexpressible terror of that moment; when I remember if God
had not sent you to my assistance, and that, had it not been for your
heroism, I should have been for ever lost, there springs up in my heart
a continually increasing gratitude to my heavenly Father, and to you
who were the agent of his mercy.”
“Then, my friend,” replied Victor gravely, “you will allow me to make
one request.”
“Consider whatever you would ask of me granted in advance.”
“Then, forget the past six or eight years of your life, and become
again what you were under your mother’s influence.”
“I pledge you my word to do so, and hope by the divine assistance never
to break my promise—a promise I make with inexpressible joy. But that
is not all. What course do you advise me to take?”
“If I may form an opinion of your sister from what you say, she must be
a person of intelligence, kind feelings, and decision. In your place, I
would go to her, make known my exact situation, and ask her advice.”
“Yes; that is the best course to take. The idea pleases me. I will put
it in execution this very evening. My father is to be absent a day or
two longer. I shall have a good opportunity of talking freely with
Aline. I will go directly to her when I leave you. To-morrow morning I
will return and give you an account of our interview.”
Louis left us a few moments after. We commended him to God with all
our hearts at our evening devotions. It was so impressive a spectacle
to behold a soul break loose from past habits, and return to God
humiliated and conscious of his weakness—repentant, and burning with
ardor to enter upon a new life.
During the night, Victor was seriously ill. Fearing he was going to
die, I exclaimed, in a moment of anguish:
“Oh! that unfortunate adventure! That wretched young man will be the
death of you!”
“Take that back, dear,” said Victor; “it pains me. Instead of deploring
this occurrence, and calling it unfortunate, you should thank God.
He has thus granted my dearest wish. From the time I found my days
numbered, I prayed God to grant me every possible opportunity of
showing how earnestly I wished to serve him during the short time
left me on earth. He has now granted my desire. If my going into the
water to-day leads to my death, I shall have the infinite joy of being
in a certain sense a martyr, for I fully realized the danger. But an
interior voice whispered: ‘There is a soul to save,’ and I plunged into
the river.... Others would have done the same, but God does not give
every one such an opportunity. I thank him for having granted it to me.”
By degrees Victor’s alarming symptoms wore off. When he awoke the next
morning, he was much better than I had dared hope. He recalled with
a lively joy the events of the previous day, and expressed an eager
desire to know what Louis and his sister had decided upon.
We were not kept in suspense long. Louis arrived about nine o’clock.
Seeing his face was calm and happy, my poor husband manifested a
livelier satisfaction than I had ever known him to express.
“Sit down there,” said he, pointing to an arm-chair beside his bed,
“and give us the details of all you have done.”
As we agreed upon last evening, replied Louis, I went directly home
after leaving you, and inquired if my sister was in. They told me she
was. I went to her room. It was vacant. A servant informed me that
she had given up her old chamber some weeks before, and now occupied
my mother’s. I found Aline sitting in the middle of the room beside
a stand, in the same arm-chair my mother made use of to the last. I
cannot express the emotion that overpowered me when I entered. The
aspect of the room, the sight of the well-known furniture, Aline’s
grave air, and her resemblance to my mother, all carried me back ten
years. It seemed as if I were once more in the presence of her whom
I loved so much, but whose counsels I had followed so poorly. My
agitation increased when Aline sprang towards me, clasped me in her
arms, and covered my face with her tears.
“Wicked, wicked boy, she cried; you wished to put an end to your life!
How sinful in you! and what sorrow for us! Oh! conceal nothing from
me.... You are very unhappy, then?... You have no confidence in me?...
Come, tell me all. Leave me no longer in a state of uncertainty. And,
first, have you renounced your horrible project?”
Her voice betrayed such profound emotion, her eyes such tender
affection and deep anxiety, that I was affected to tears. I began by
begging pardon for all the anxiety I had caused her. I pledged my word
to enter upon a new life. When we were both somewhat calmer, I told her
all I had related to you. At the end of the account, she looked at me
as a mother would at her son, and said:
“Louis, the hand of God has visibly interposed in your behalf.
Everything shows you would have been drowned. And what a horrible
end!—in that river where so few people go, especially the spot you
chose, had not Providence, at the very moment you plunged into the
water, sent a man, a noble-hearted man, to save you at the peril of
his life. That is not all. When you were able to thank your deliverer,
you found it was—the very man who had already been brought to death’s
door through your fault. If I am not deceived, this is a wonderful
interposition of Providence. You have been a great sinner, my poor
boy, and your conversion had to be effected by a great sacrifice. This
sacrifice has been offered by M. Barnier in risking his life in order
to restore you to existence, which you wished to deprive yourself of. I
believe—pardon my great frankness—God wished, I believe, to inspire
you with thorough repentance by showing you your victim under the form
of your deliverer. Oh! if this repentance is not lasting, I shall
tremble at the thought of the chastisement that the justice of God,
weary of pardoning you, has in reserve. But, no!—there is no fear of
that. And now, what are you going to do?”
“Put an end to my idle life.”
“Very well. It was idleness especially that caused your ruin. But what
occupation will suit you? No imprudent heroism! You must do something
that will be congenial.”
“I am an engineer. It is time to remember it. I am going to Paris.
Either there or elsewhere I can easily find a place in some
manufactory.”
“Very well. Father is to return to-morrow evening. What has occurred
cannot be concealed from him. I am even of the opinion it would be best
to tell him the whole truth. Only ... you will allow me to speak with
the frankness of a sister who loves you, will you not?”
“Oh! yes. Speak to me as our mother would.”
“Well, then, I must acknowledge father is extremely offended with
you. He is kind, very kind, as you know, but he cannot endure want of
calculation, especially in money matters, and your manner of conducting
has excited his indignation. I fear, therefore, he will at first be
greatly irritated at learning what has taken place. Public rumor will
at once inform him of it, so that, when he sees you for the first
time, you will not be able to induce him to listen to you. With your
consent, I will talk with him first. To prevent a premature explanation
with him, I propose you should go and pass two or three days with Aunt
Mary. She is now at her country-seat in M——. It is not far off. I can
easily send you word when it is time for you to return.”
I need not say with what gratitude I accepted this proposal, which
revealed the kindness of a sister, the delicacy of a woman, and the
prudence of a mother.
Aline continued: “I have two more requests to make. If you were a
different person, I might hesitate. But you were once pious. You are
better instructed in our religion than most of the poor young men
of our day. In a word, you have never lost your faith. Do not delay
having recourse to the remedy. Go to confession as soon as possible.
Confession develops repentance, puts a seal on our good resolutions,
and confers a special grace to keep them. I speak as I think. A
repentance that remains purely human cannot be lasting.”
I promised to go to confession to Father——, and shall keep my promise.
“One favor more,” resumed Aline. “It is a somewhat delicate matter,
but let us talk with the same freedom and simplicity that we did in
our childhood. That is the shortest way to come to an understanding.
You say you are fifteen thousand francs in debt. Knowing my father’s
disposition as I do, I am sure this will cause trouble if he knows it.
He is a man who would forgive your spending a hundred thousand francs,
but a debt of five hundred would make him extremely angry. This is
strange, but it is so. And you may be sure as soon as your creditors
hear of your ruin, they will come upon you. We must, therefore, hasten
to forestall them. We must settle with them where they are. Will you
permit me to render you a little service?... Sit down here, and draw
up, as papa would say, a schedule of your debts. I will give it to our
head clerk to-morrow, bind him to secrecy, and before noon you will be
free from debt.”
I was profoundly moved by so much generosity, and so profuse in my
thanks as to greatly touch Aline herself. But she concealed her emotion
under a lively, playful manner. I had to make out a list at once. I did
so, and gave it to Aline. She took it with a smile, and folded it up
without looking at it. There were two small sheets, one of which was
nearly blank.
“Why two papers?” she asked mechanically.
“One contains the list—the sad list; the other is a note which”....
“Ah! that is too much! Louis, my poor Louis, you are only half
converted! You do not really love me! You are unwilling to receive
anything from me. You would deprive me of the pleasure of giving this
to you. Ah! that is wrong. Oh! the contemptible _rôle_ you wish me to
play! I lend it to you! Fie, fie!” ...
So saying, Aline tore up the unfortunate note.
The night was far advanced before we separated. I had already bidden
my sister good-night. She retained my hand in hers, and, looking at me
with a caressing air, said:
“Louis, one favor more! Let us say our night-prayers together at the
foot of that bed where our dear mother made us say them so often. We
will pray for her. She watches over us. What has happened to you is a
proof of it.”
We sank on our knees beside each other. Aline said the prayers aloud.
I repeated them with my lips and in my heart, and with so much joy and
emotion that I melted into tears.
This morning I took leave of Aline. She means to come here herself,
in order to express her gratitude. My mother could not feel more. Oh!
how she loves you! As for me, I am going away ruined, but happier than
if my fortune were increased tenfold. Pray for me. And you, my dear
friend, take care of yourself. I trembled yesterday at the thought of
the danger to which you had exposed yourself in order to save my life.
I trembled as I came here, fearing your heroic imprudence might have
led to fatal results! Thank God! there is nothing serious. But redouble
your precautions; I shall need you for a long while. You will be my
best guide in the new way upon which I have now entered.
Louis then departed, leaving us exceedingly happy at the favorable turn
in his affairs.