"A temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright work stood still,
And might of its own beauty have been proud.
But it was fashioned, and to God was vow'd
By virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art
...
...Hope had her spire
Star-high, and pointing still to something higher."
Wordsworth.
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People who are compassionate and give themselves heartaches over
suffering which seems undeserved, would be wiser and happier if they at
least acknowledged other points of view than their own. If they could
look at them from all, they would see gain where now they only see cost.
No one ever knew what this interview, which had wrung the heart of one,
did for Therese; not even Therese herself, certainly not Max. But it
happened at a time when things were very bad with her, when she was
losing ground, growing bitter, hard, angry with her lot. She had a
feeling as if no one would help her, and that is a very unwholesome
conviction to take root in any one's heart, especially one so young as
Therese. In the midst of it all there came this revelation. While she
believed herself uncared for, this, great tender, unselfish love had
been growing round her. The love she pictured was exacting, jealous,
almost fierce; that which had been opened to her seemed something
nobler, more divine. She acknowledged that, while her heart still clung
to Fabien. Nay, Fabien had never been so well loved as after Max
Deshoulieres had shown her his own nobility. She felt her
heart-burnings and want of faith so petty! She felt as if she could be
more patient, more trustful, more content, now that this man had put
before her a living picture of what love might be.
There was, moreover, a little change for the better in her position.
Monsieur Deshoulieres had noticed that she looked ill and worn, and was
not long in pointing out the fact to Mme. Roulleau.
"You are sure that Mademoiselle Veuillot has all that she requires?" he
asked, gravely.
Madame Roulleau had not much difficulty in satisfying him; men are slow
to suspect cruelty on the part of one woman to another, and he was not
suspicious. He thought that she had been fretting, very likely staying
too much in the house during the cold weather, wanting occupation. Was
there no one to whom she might go for relaxation and society? Madame
assured him that it was mademoiselle's own choice that she confined
herself to their own family. "She assists me in the _menage_, and I am
rejoiced that she should teach the children when she is disposed. Poor
mademoiselle! her teaching is not much, as monsieur may suppose. But,
after all, it gives her occupation, and no one can be happy when they
are idle. And they are such excellent children! They have such good
hearts! As for my little Adolphe, he adores her!"
This was a very rose-coloured account, but it contained nothing to make
M. Deshoulieres doubt. He felt himself, poor fellow, something of the
value of occupation just then. It was a little hard to go through the
daily round of sadnesses, complaints, pain; but, after all, they
lightened the load on his heart. He gave Madame Roulleau two or three
injunctions which made her very uneasy lest he should ask questions from
Therese, and lose the formidable character with which, she had invested
him. She went home on the day on which she met him, in a great hurry,
and embraced Therese. "You want distraction, mademoiselle; you are
looking quite pale, you undertake too much. I shall be obliged to
forbid your assisting me in these little things,"--the girl began to
think that her toil must really be voluntary, madame's words were so
decided.
Madame Roulleau was alarmed. She and her husband had not laid any deep
plot at the beginning of this affair, they had only wanted, as they told
themselves, to be on the watch for such good things as might turn up,
and help them out of certain difficulties in which they found themselves
plunged so as to threaten _faillite_. When little Roulleau was called
to the bedside of the dying man, his keen wits saw at once the
possibility of entanglements, difficulties; all so much money in his
pocket while M. Deshoulieres continued to employ him as notary. This
would be at an end directly M. Deshoulieres, as _depositaire_, had
fulfilled his trust. The idea of getting hold of Therese, and the sum
set aside for her maintenance, occurred to him at the very moment that
he was taking down M. Moreau's words. At first he thought of no more
than this. By little and little other possibilities presented
themselves--pieces of good luck he called them. M. Saint-Martin's
return was the event which would put a stop to the pleasant little
income of which he was already beginning to taste the sweets, and he was
able to arrange two or three hindrances in the way of that return. Two
South American letters, for instance, found among the papers at Chateau
Ardron, would have given a clew to the young man's residence, which
might have brought him back with inconvenient promptitude. These
letters, having been examined by madame, were now no longer in
existence. It was not difficult to procure from Paris an answer or two
containing just as much as he desired and no more, and purporting to
come from an old friend of M. Moreau's, a lawyer, a master at Fabien's
_lycee_. It was not difficult, but it was a decided step. M. Roulleau
used to awake in the night and think of that step in a cold
perspiration. Certain great letters used to dance before his eyes, and
shape themselves into something that resembled "Forgery,"--an ugly word
to haunt people in the middle of the night. Afterwards came that
summons to the Lion d'Or. Most likely this is the usual fashion in
which crime grows into crime. Nothing very definite at first, a sort of
haze over what may happen, a determined shutting of the eyes.
Madame was clever, but she was a dangerous coadjutor, little Roulleau
acknowledged it with groans. There was always the risk that her temper
might flame out, and ruin their most carefully concocted schemes. She
knew it herself: every now and then she put tremendous restraint upon
it, but the restraint did not last. The love of tyranny was
overpowering. To indulge it upon Therese she used to jeopardise every
thing. If Ignace tried to counteract it, he only added fuel to the
flame. He lived in continual fear.
Husband and wife would have shared the panic could they have known what
had taken place in the little _talon_ on that December day, and how
nearly it brought M. Deshoulieres and Therese together. Perhaps Nannon
guessed. She was a shrewd old woman. Therese was young and scarcely
able to conceal her feelings; so there was a soft bright expression in
her face which Nannon had never before noticed. She came slowly up the
stairs and into the room where the holes were being mended for her
without saying any thing, and looked out of the window with eyes which
saw a great deal more than the crowded roofs, or even the broad flat
plain beyond.
"Mademoiselle might give an opinion," Nannon said at last, affronted.
Therese started, turned round, went quickly to her, and gratefully
kissed the old brown wrinkled cheek.
"Do you know what you are like?" she said. "You are like one of the
fairies who used to come to the help of the poor princesses who were
shut up in terrible towers, and forced to do all kinds of hateful work.
I don't believe one of them had a worse hole than that to mend."
"I don't know about fairies," answered Nannon, shaking her head
doubtfully; "but, if they are evil spirits, it is not very polite of
you, mademoiselle, to call me one."
The girl laughed.
"If you lived in the north you would know more about fairies; but here,
in this ugly flat country, there is not so much as a bush for them to
hide behind. _Allons_, don't be cross, Nannon; not even Rouen has a
cathedral like yours. I am going there now; will you come?"
"What has happened?" thought the old woman to herself. Therese had not
laughed so gayly for many a week past.
They went out, along the narrow street, under the archway at the end,
into the Place Notre Dame. A strong wind was blowing from the
south-west, all the earth was grey, but the sky was full of glorious
lights. A delicate greenish blue made the groundwork; over that lay
motionless masses of high clouds, rosy red, here and there broken with
purple shadows, serene, majestic; out of one uncovered depth shone a
tiny trembling star. Nearer the earth grey rain-clouds were hurrying
up; they had blotted out the west and the sinking sun, and now hurled
themselves across the plain, with edges torn and rent and twisted by the
violence of the driving wind. Broken bits of vapour scudded before
them, veiling for a moment the rosy lights above. It was a strange
contrast of peace and unrest. For though the earth was saddened by the
driving rain-cloud which was powerless to rob the heavens of their
glory, but could blot it out and hide it from the dwellers below, there
was peace even with her. In the midst of the rush and tumults--solemn,
steadfast, and unmoved--rose up the spires of Charville's great
cathedral. Into the drift of the cloud itself, untouched by any ruddy
glow from the glowing sky, grey with the shadow of the storm, it pierced
the darkness like an eternal prayer. Never more glorious in its beauty,
never more faithful in its teaching, than now when it pointed upwards
through sadness and gloom. Round about it stood the sentinel statues,
just men made perfect, an innumerable company of angels; overhead,
flying buttresses lightly clasped the stone, interlacing pinnacles
crowned the clustering shafts. From arch to arch, from gargoyle to
buttress, from pinnacle to spire, the eye followed its holy guidance,
until, above cloud and greyness and the sweep of the whirlwind, it
reached the deep light, the burning brightness of the heavens.
One little heart, at least, felt something of all this. It seemed to
come like a seal upon what the afternoon had opened to Therese; glimpses
of a life in the midst of what was low and base, higher than she had
taught herself to realise before. Out of the stones of the earth men
had raised the church which pointed to heaven. Out of the little
struggles of the day might grow the joys of eternity. The carved
figures of the gateways looked at her with kind human eyes; until now
they had seemed very far off--saints whose holiness was out of reach,
martyrs who were martyrs, and not men. Therese used to gaze up at them
with admiration, and get a little impatient. But to-day they had come
down to her from out of their canopies. She had learned something of
the divine lesson which glorifies life, and turns drudgery into an
aureole.
The two women went together into the great church. When they came out
again it was dark; the clouds were still flying wildly; between the
rents stars were shining out. Nannon was a little puzzled over M.
Deshoulieres' visit and Therese's silence; she said, at last,--
"Mademoiselle, has any thing been heard of M. Fabien?"
"Nothing yet. But M. Deshoulieres is sure that he will soon come
home."
"M. Deshoulieres? Hum. Do you know what people are beginning to say?"
"What?"
"They say that even to be _depositaire_ to such a property is a very
fine thing, and that M. Deshoulieres is perhaps in no hurry to smooth
M. Saint-Martin's return."
"They say that! And you can repeat it!" cried Therese flashing round
upon her. "Nannon, I shall hate you if you believe what wicked people
talk. Do you not know how good he is? Have you not told me yourself
how much he does?"
"That may be. But he is a hard man for all that," said Nannon,
obstinately.
"So you repeat. I do not believe it. I believe there is no man in all
Charville so good, so noble, and so generous, as Monsieur Deshoulieres,"
cried the girl, with vehemence.
"So, so! This is new doctrine. What has changed you, then,
mademoiselle?"
Therese was silent. In the darkness, Nannon could not see her blushes.
"Perhaps, because I have only now begun to know him," she said, softly.
"This is not the first time you have met," Nannon answered, with a
certain dryness. "_Peste_! this wind is enough to blow one's head off
one's shoulders. Well, well, old people can't take these fancies like
young ones."
"Yet you have told me yourself about his kindness to your neighbours."
"Oh, for a doctor, yes. That is quite another affair. A doctor, you
see, mademoiselle, makes it a part of his trade to be good to the sick.
Otherwise, nobody would take his nasty medicines. There would be a
revolution, and, who knows, we might find that we could live without
doctors. M. Deshoulieres is very well when you have need of him. But
I have heard it said, `Never trust a lawyer when you are in peace, a
doctor when you are well.' There is another word about cures, only
mademoiselle might not like to hear it. Ouf, what a tempest!"
"Nannon, you are not good to-day at all."
"_Pardon_, mademoiselle. It is rather that I think of Jean-Marie."
"Jean-Marie is not at the farm now?"
"No, no; he has tried three masters since M. Gohon. He is too good for
them, little angel, that is the truth. He is not like one of those
great hulking country boys who have no wits beyond their hands and feet.
M. Gohon might have suited him, though."
"But, Nannon, it was not because of that affair at the Halle that M.
Gohon dismissed him."
"That is your innocence, mademoiselle; when any one has enemies like
that Madame Mathurine and M. Deshoulieres, a very little serves. No,
no; M. Deshoulieres is not good to have to do with, unless one has the
fever. Then, certainly--"
"If ever you have the fever, and he cures you, you will not talk of him
like this," Therese answered, indignantly.
"If I have it I shall send for him, and not for that poor little Pinot,
whom I recollect when he was a little creature in leading-strings,
tumbling about like a helpless bundle. As if he could tell what was
good for anybody! But, mademoiselle, I do not understand. If M.
Deshoulieres is so excellent as you suppose him, why do you not complain
to him of these creatures--these Roulleaus--who insult you with making
you slave for them? Perhaps he does not know."
"No, he does not know," answered Therese, dreamily. The same thought
had come into her own mind. She knew now that she had but to speak, and
her life would be lightened of those heavy burdens which had grown so
hateful to her. And yet--could she speak? She believed that the sum
left by her uncle for her support was, in truth, very inadequate, and
she knew nothing of its being even now doubled. Few people might care
to receive her; she disliked the idea of being thrown upon M.
Deshoulieres' charity. And, after all, it might be so short a time
before it ended! With his words ringing in her ears, she fancied Fabien
might be at the doors. She would rather bear all until he came.
Deliverance by him would be very sweet. With it all there spoke a
nobler reason. To take up something of what she had let fall--to redeem
months past in idle repining--to live a life that was not ever
self-seeking, ever crying out for good things withheld: this was the
purpose growing out of that day's events. It was all feeble, imperfect,
even in the act of resolution; but it was there.
"No; he does not know," she repeated, as they stood at the door of the
Roulleaus' house. "I would rather he did not know. I would rather
affairs remained as they are. Good-night, Nannon. It was very good of
you to mend those holes."
"Good-night, mademoiselle." The old woman stood and watched the dark
figure run lightly up the stairs; then she turned away, shaking her
head. "Something has done all this, something has changed her, and yet
her heart has not moved from M. Fabien, for I said it to see. The
saints forbid that M. Deshoulieres should want her to marry him, since
he will always have his own way, and the poor child would have to yield.
Mend holes, did she say? She has a worse hole in the temper of that
madame than any thing I can mend for her. Ah, my cap!--my boy, my boy,
there, in the gutter! that white thing! What a torment of a wind! Stop
it! Ah, my child, you are a treasure; come and let me embrace you."