What was the old Baron really thinking about while he delivered this
political speech?
There was just one thought in his mind; the same sullen, concealed anger
gnawed incessantly at his heart.
He thought incessantly of his son, of the contempt which he had
experienced because of him, and was still experiencing daily, even
hourly, because of the fact that Eberhard had withdrawn from his power,
had repudiated him.
He could not get over the fact that he had heaped up millions, and that
Eberhard, so far as it was humanly possible to calculate--and in
accordance with the law--would some day fall heir to a part of these
millions. He knew very little about poverty; but his poisoned mind could
think of nothing else than the satisfaction he would derive from being
able, somehow, to deliver this abortive scion of his own name and blood
over to poverty. Thus did he wish to take vengeance; thus would he
punish.
But it was impossible for him to wreak vengeance on his son as he would
have liked to: between the execution of the punishment and himself stood
the law. The very thought that his riches were increasing daily, hourly,
that the millions he had were creating new millions without his moving a
finger, that he could not even stop the flood if he wished to, and that
consequently the share of this disloyal, rebellious, and hateful son was
becoming larger daily, even hourly--this thought he could not endure. It
poisoned his peace of mind, paralysed his powers, robbed him of all
natural and legitimate joy, and enveloped his days in a cloud of
despair.
A modern Midas, he transformed everything he touched into gold; and the
more gold he had the sadder his life became, the more revengeful his
soul.
The tones of a piano reached his ear; it was his wife who was playing.
She played Mendelssohn's "Song Without Words." He shook with disgust;
for of all things repulsive, music was to him the most repulsive.
"_Depeche-toi, mon bon garcon_," screeched the parrot.