for this earthly paradise is not simply the mania of an idle landowner."
"I began in that way, however. My house had become distasteful to me;
nothing gratifies indolence and disgust like immutable order, and that
is why the house is so carefully kept and orderly. But I care for
nothing that it contains, and I may tell you in confidence that I have
not slept in it for fifteen years. The chalet where we took our coffee
is my real home. There is a bedroom there and a study, which I did not
show you and which no one has entered since they were built, not even
Martin. Please not mention this to anybody, for perhaps public
inquisitiveness would follow me there. It already besieges the park
persistently enough on Sundays. All the idlers of the neighborhood stay
here until eleven o'clock at night, and I stay away until the closing of
the gates compels them to leave. On Monday I rise very late so that the
workmen may have time to remove all traces of the invasion before I have
seen them. Martin looks out for that. Don't accuse me of misanthropy,
although perhaps I deserve the charge to some extent. Try rather to
explain the anomaly of a man thoroughly imbued with the necessity of
life in common, and yet compelled by his instincts to shun the presence
of his fellow-men. I belong to this generation of individual egotists,
and that which is a vice in others is a disease in me. There are reasons
for this. But I prefer not to discuss them in order that I may not have
to recall them."
Emile dared not ask any direct questions, although he resolved that he
would discover one by one all Monsieur de Boisguilbault's secrets, or at
least all those in which the Châteaubrun family was interested. But he
considered that he had won enough victories for one day, and that he
must win the marquis's esteem and affection, if possible, before
obtaining his full confidence.
He desired simply to obtain access to the library, and the marquis
promised to throw it open to him at their next interview, for which,
however, they appointed no time. Monsieur de Boisguilbault, perhaps
because of a return of his former distrust, wished to see if Emile would
come again soon of his own motion.
XVIII
STORM
From that day Emile no longer lived at his parents' house. He was there
in the body at night, to be sure, and during some hours of the day; but
his mind was more frequently at Boisguilbault and his heart almost
always at Châteaubrun.
He went frequently to Boisguilbault, more frequently than he would have
done, perhaps, had it not been for the proximity of Châteaubrun and the
pretexts afforded by his first visit.
In the first place there were books to carry to Gilberte, and although
the marquis gave him permission to draw upon the library at his
discretion, he was careful to carry them one by one, so that he might
always have an excuse for calling upon her.
It did not occur to Monsieur Antoine or Janille to be surprised at the
pleasure which Gilberte derived from reading, or to superintend her
choice of books; for Janille could not read, and prudence was not
Monsieur Antoine's forte. But the maid's guardian angel was no more
heedful of the purity of her thoughts than was Emile. His love enveloped
Gilberte with an inviolable respect, and the child's saintlike innocence
was a treasure of which he showed himself a more jealous guardian than
her father, to whom, as Janille expressed it, good fortune had always
come when he was asleep.
How carefully therefore did he turn the leaves of a volume before
handing it to her,--whatever its subject,--history, morals, poetry or
romance,--lest it should contain some word that might make her blush!
If, in her trustful ignorance, she asked him to procure her some book in
which he remembered that there were certain passages that ought not to
be put before the eyes of a young virgin, he would reply that he had
looked through the collection at Boisguilbault in vain; that it was not
there.
A mother could have acted no more wisely under such circumstances than
Gilberte's young lover, and in proportion as the father, in his
affectionate heedlessness, unwittingly smoothed the way for attempts at
corruption, Emile made it his sacred and cherished duty to justify the
confidence of those ingenuous hearts.
Emile's opportunities for talking with Gilberte as to what took place
between himself and Monsieur de Boisguilbault were very rare and brief,
for Janille almost never left them; and when they were with Monsieur
Antoine, Gilberte instinctively and from habit clung to her father's
side.
However she soon learned that the friendship between young Cardonnet and
the old marquis was making great strides, and that it was based upon a
remarkable harmony of principles and ideas. But Emile did his best to
conceal from her the ill success of his attempts to bring about a
reconciliation between the two families: we shall set forth, in due
time, the result of his efforts in that direction.
Hoping always to succeed in time, Emile dissembled his frequent rebuffs;
and Gilberte, divining the embarrassments and the delicate nature of the
mission he had accepted, did not press him in the fear of displaying too
great eagerness and persistence.
And then, it should be said that Gilberte gradually became less
interested in the success of the enterprise, while Emile, for his part,
felt that his resolution became day by day more earnest.
Love absorbs every other thought; and these two young people, by dint of
thinking of each other soon had no leisure to think of anything else.
Their whole existence became sentiment, that is to say passion, and the
hours flew by in the intoxication of being together, or dragged heavily
in anticipation of the moment which was to bring them together.
It was a strange thing to Monsieur Cardonnet, who was watching his son
closely, and to Emile, who no longer realized what was going on within
him, and yet it was entirely natural, inevitable indeed, that the
passion which had absorbed our hero's first youth,--that is to say, the
desire to acquire knowledge, to understand and take part in general
life,--gave place to a gentle slumber of the intellect and to something
like forgetfulness of his favorite theories.
In a society where all things were in harmony, love would surely become
a stimulant to patriotism and to social virtue. But when bold and
generous impulses are doomed to maintain a painful conflict with the men
and things that surround us, the personal affections capture us and
dominate us to the point of producing a sort of numbness of the other
faculties.
The common people seek in intoxication by alcohol oblivion of their
privations, and the lover finds in the intoxication produced by his
mistress's eyes a sort of philter that induces oblivion of everything
else. Emile was too young to know how to suffer and to desire to suffer,
but he had already suffered much. Now that happiness had come in search
of him, how could he think of eluding it? Let us admit, without too much
shame for the poor boy, that he no longer thought of laws or facts or
the future, of the past of the world, of the vices of society, or the
means of saving it, of human misery or the divine will, of Heaven or
earth. Earth, Heaven, God's law, destiny, the world--his love was all of
these; and provided he could see Gilberte and read his fate in her eyes,
it mattered little to him if the universe crumbled about his ears.
He could not open a book or sustain a discussion. When he had tired
himself out scouring all the paths that led in the direction of his
beloved, he dozed beside his mother's chair or read the newspapers to
her without understanding a word of what his voice said; and when he was
alone in his chamber, he would undress very hurriedly so that he could
put out his light and avoid the sight of external objects.
Then the darkness would be illuminated by the inward fire which gave him
life, and his radiant vision would appear before him. In that ecstatic
state he ceased to have the sensations of sleep or of waking. He dreamed
with his eyes open, he saw with his eyes closed.
A word of playful affection, a smile from Gilberte, the touch of her
dress brushing against him as she passed, a blade of grass which she had
broken and which he had seized upon,--any one of these was enough to
occupy his mind during the night; and no sooner did the first rays of
dawn appear than he ran to groom his horse himself so that he might
start the earlier. He forgot to eat and considered it perfectly natural
that he should live on the morning dew and the breeze that blew from
Châteaubrun.
He dared not go there every day, although he might have done so without
fear that Monsieur Antoine would receive him less warmly. But there is
in love a shrinking modesty which takes fright at happiness at the
moment of grasping it. So he wandered about in every direction, and hid
in the woods, where he could gaze at the ruins of Châteaubrun through
the branches, as if he were afraid of being caught in the act of
adoration.
At night, when Jean Jappeloup had finished his day's work, as he did not
as yet earn enough to hire a house and did not choose to be a burden to
his friends, and as the nights were warm and pleasant, he repaired to a
small abandoned chapel, on the hill which formed the centre of the
village, and before lying down on the straw with which he had made a
bed, went to say his prayers at the pretty little church of Gargilesse.
He went down, from preference, into the Roman crypt which still bears
traces of the curious frescoes of the fifteenth century. From the
daintily-carved window of that underground apartment one overlooks walls
of rock and the green ravines through which the Gargilesse flows.
The carpenter had been deprived longer than he liked of the sight of his
dear native place, and he often interrupted his placid, pensive prayer
to gaze on the landscape, still half-praying, half-musing, in that
peculiar frame of mind characteristic of simple-hearted folk, peasants,
especially after the fatigue of the day.
It was then that Emile, when he had dined and walked a while with his
mother, came to join the carpenter, to admire the pretty structure with
him, and then to chat on the hill-top of everything that he could not
talk about at home--of Châteaubrun, Monsieur Antoine, Janille, and,
lastly, of Gilberte.
There was one person who loved Gilberte almost as dearly as Emile, but
with another kind of love: that person was Jean. He did not precisely
look upon her as his daughter, for, blended with the paternal sentiment,
there was a sort of respect for a nature so adorable, a sort of
unpolished enthusiasm which he would not have had for his own children.
But he was proud of her beauty, of her goodness, of her common sense and
of her courage, like a man who knows the value of those qualities, and
feels keenly the honor of a noble attachment.
The familiarity with which he expressed himself concerning her, dropping
the title of mademoiselle in accordance with his habit of calling every
one by his or her name, in no wise detracted from his instinctive
veneration for her, and Emile's ears were not wounded thereby, although
he would never have dared do the same.
The young man took keen delight in hearing of Gilberte's childish sports
and pretty ways, of her kindly impulses, of her generous and delicate
attentions to the friend who, but for her, would have lacked everything.
"When I was wandering in the mountains not long ago," said Jappeloup, "I
was pressed so close sometimes that I dared not leave the hole in the
cliff or the branches of some tree with dense foliage, in which I had
hidden in the morning. At such times hunger took hold of me, and one
night when I was thoroughly done up with weakness and fatigue, and was
creeping round the mountain, saying to myself that it was a long, long
way to Châteaubrun, and if I should happen to meet gendarmes on the way
I shouldn't have the strength to run, I saw a little wagon on the road
with several bundles of straw, and Gilberte walking alongside and making
signs to me. She had come all that distance with Sylvain Charasson,
looking for me everywhere, and watching like a little quail under a
bush. I lay down and hid in the straw. Gilberte sat down by my side, and
Sylvain led us back to Châteaubrun, where I went in under the noses of
the gendarmes, who were hunting for me not two steps away.
"Another time we had agreed that Sylvain should bring me something to
eat and put it in the hollow trunk of an old willow about a league from
Châteaubrun. It was horrible weather, pelting rain, and I had a strong
suspicion that the little rascal, who likes to be comfortable, would
pretend to forget me or would eat my dinner on the road. However, I went
there at the time agreed upon, and I found the little basket well filled
and well out of sight. But what do you suppose I spied near the willow?
The print of a cunning little foot on the damp sand, and I was able to
follow the poor little foot along the ground, where it had sunk in more
than once over the ankle. The dear child had got wet through, dirty and
tired, because she wouldn't trust anyone but herself to look after her
old friend!
"And still another day she saw the bloodhounds marching straight for an
old ruin, where, thinking that I was perfectly safe, I was calmly taking
a nap at midday. It was terribly hot that day! It was the very day you
arrived in the neighborhood. Well, Gilberte took the short cut, a very
rough and dangerous path, where the horsemen could not have followed
her, and arrived a quarter of an hour ahead of them, all red and all out
of breath, to wake me and tell me to make tracks. She was sick
afterward, poor dear heart, and her people knew nothing about it. That
was what made me particularly anxious that evening, when we took supper
at Châteaubrun and Janille told us that she had gone to bed.
"Ah! yes, the little one has always had a great heart. If the King of
France knew her worth he would be too much honored to obtain her hand
for the best of his sons. When she was no bigger than my fist, any one
could see that she would be as pretty and lovable a creature as ever
was. You may seek as you will among the greatest and richest ladies, my
boy, you will never find a Gilberte like Gilberte de Châteaubrun!"
Emile listened with delight, asked him innumerable questions, and made
him repeat the same stories ten times over.
It was not long before Monsieur Cardonnet discovered the cause of the
change that had taken place in Emile. There was no more melancholy, no
more painful reticence, no more indirect reproof. It seemed as if Emile
had never been in opposition to him on any subject whatever, or at least
had never noticed that his father had different ideas from his own. He
had become a child once more in many respects. He did not heave sighs at
this or that plan of study; he seemed not to see things which might have
offended his principles; he dreamed of naught but lovely, sunny
mornings, long walks, precipices to climb, solitudes to explore; and yet
he brought back neither sketches, nor plants, nor mineralogical
specimens, as he would have done at other times.
Country life pleased him above all things. It was the loveliest region
in the world; the open air and exercise in the saddle did him a vast
amount of good; in a word, everything was for the best, provided that he
was allowed to have his way; and if he fell into a fit of musing, he
would come out of it with a smile that seemed to say:
"I have things within me to occupy my mind, and what you say to me is
nothing compared to what I think."
If Monsieur Cardonnet, by some artifice, succeeded in keeping him at
home, he seemed distressed for a moment, then, suddenly assuming an air
of resignation, like a man whom it is impossible to dispossess of his
stock of happiness, he made haste to obey, and set about his task in
order to have done with it the sooner.
"There's a pretty girl at the bottom of all this," said Monsieur
Cardonnet to himself, "and it is love that makes this rebellious mind so
docile. It's a very good thing to know. So the philosophical,
argumentative fever may give way to thirst for pleasure or to
sentimental reveries! I was very foolish not to reckon on his youth and
the passions of youth! I must let this storm rage--it will blow away the
obstacle upon which I should have gone to pieces; and when it is time to
stay the storm, I will see what it is best to do. Make haste with your
riding about the country and your loving, my poor Emile! It's the same
with you as with this mountain stream that has declared war on me: you
will both submit when you feel the hand of the master!"
Monsieur Cardonnet was not conscious of his cruelty. He believed neither
in the force nor duration of love, and attached no more importance to a
young man's despair than to a child's tears. If he had thought that
Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun could become the victim of his plan of
waiting, he might perhaps have been conscience-stricken. But the spirit
of a proprietor and of _everyone for himself_, prevented him from
foreseeing the danger of another.
"It's old Antoine's business to look out for his daughter," he thought.
"If the old sot sleeps on his own perils, he has at all events a
servant-mistress who has nothing better to do than put the key of the
famous pavilion in her pocket at night. I can open the duenna's eyes
when the time comes."
With this persuasion he left Emile almost free, both as to his time and
his acts. He confined himself to ridiculing and bitterly decrying the
family of Châteaubrun when opportunity offered, in order to protect
himself from the reproach of having openly encouraged his son's suit.
In his opinion, Antoine de Châteaubrun was really a poor creature, a
man of no consideration, whom poverty had degraded and idleness
brutalized. He saw with vainglorious pleasure the former lords of the
soil, thus fallen from their high estate, take refuge in the arms of the
people, not daring to have recourse to the protection and companionship
of the newly rich.
Monsieur de Boisguilbault found no favor in his eyes, although it was
difficult to reproach him with dissipation and impropriety of conduct.
The wealth which he had succeeded in retaining gave much more umbrage to
Cardonnet than the name of Châteaubrun, and while he despised the
count, he had a sort of hatred for the marquis. He declared that he was
a fit subject for the lunatic hospital, and he blushed for him, he said,
because of the idiotic use he had made of so long a life and so vast a
fortune.
Emile took pains to defend Monsieur de Boisguilbault, but without
avowing that he saw him two or three times a week. He was afraid that
his father, by suggesting to him that he must make his visits more
infrequent, would deprive him of the excuse he had for making a short
call on the family at Châteaubrun as he rode by. He needed that excuse
particularly on Gilberte's account, for he was confident that Monsieur
Antoine would make no comment; but he was afraid that Janille might
convince Mademoiselle that her dignity demanded that she should keep at
a respectful distance a young man who was too wealthy to marry her,
according to worldly ideas.
He foresaw clearly enough that the day would come when his assiduity
would be observed.
"But by that time," he said to himself, "perhaps she will love me, and I
can explain the seriousness of my attentions."
This thought naturally led him to anticipate a long and vehement
opposition on Monsieur Cardonnet's part; but thereupon there rose in him
a sort of well-spring of courage and determination; his heart beat like
that of a soldier rushing forward to the assault, burning to plant his
flag on the breach with his own hand; he felt that he quivered like the
war-horse intoxicated by the smell of powder.
Sometimes, when his father overwhelmed one of his workmen with his cold,
concentrated wrath, he would fold his arms and involuntarily measure him
with his eye.
"We shall see," he would say to himself, "if such things will terrify
me, and if such a blast will make me bend when he raises his hand
against the sacred ark of my love.--O father! you have succeeded in
turning me aside from the studies to which I was devoted, in stifling
all my aspirations in my bosom, in wounding my self-esteem with impunity
and trampling on my sympathies. If you demand the sacrifice of my
intelligence and my inclinations, why, I will submit once more. But the
sacrifice of my love! Ah! you are too prudent, too discerning to demand
it, for if you did, you would see that, while I am your son to love you,
I have your blood in my veins to resist you. We should shatter ourselves
against each other, like two machines of equal strength, and you would
have to become a parricide in order to win the victory."
Awaiting that terrible day, which Emile accustomed himself to
contemplate, he allowed his father's secret rancor to vent itself in
empty words against the worthy Antoine and his faithful Janille. It had
even become a matter of indifference whether he did or did not allude to
the doubtful parentage of the count's daughter. It mattered little to
him whether she had plebeian blood in her veins, and he hardly heard
what Monsieur Cardonnet said on that subject.
It seemed to him, furthermore, that it would have been an insult to
Gilberte's father to seek to defend him against the other accusations of
his father. He smiled almost like a martyr, who receives a wound and
defies pain.
Thus, despite all his shrewdness, Cardonnet was on the wrong road and
was dragging his son with him into the abyss, flattering himself that he
could readily hold him back when they had reached the brink. He thought
that he knew the human heart, because he knew the secret of human
weaknesses; but he who knows only the weak and miserable side of men and
things, knows only half of the truth.
"I have made him submit on more important occasions," he said to
himself; "an _amourette_ is of no account."
He was right as to _amourettes_; perhaps he had had experience of them;
but a great passion was to him an inaccessible ideal, and he had no
conception of the sublime or disastrous resolutions it can inspire.
It may be that Monsieur de Boisguilbault contributed in some degree to
allay Emile's tempestuous ardor in regard to social questions; sometimes
his tone of glacial security had aroused the impetuous youth's
impatience; but more frequently he realized that tranquil prophet was
right in submitting patiently to the present, in view of what the future
was certain to bring forth.
When the marquis discoursed to him in the name of the logic of
ideas--sovereign of all worlds and mother of human destinies--instead of
irritating him as Monsieur Cardonnet did by invoking the false and
clumsy logic of facts, he succeeded in pacifying and convincing him.
If the contrast between the two sometimes caused a sort of generous
irritability in the least patient of the two, the more tranquil soon
recovered his influence and disclosed the power that was concealed
within him and that made him, so to speak, superior to himself.
Monsieur Cardonnet's raillery had wounded Emile deeply, and had almost
driven him to the exaggeration of fanaticism. Monsieur de
Boisguilbault's exalted good sense reconciled him to himself, and he
felt proud to have the sanction of an old man so enlightened and so
rigid in his deductions. As they were in perfect accord as to the
fundamental points, their discussions could not last long, and as
communism was the only subject capable of rousing the marquis from his
usual taciturnity, it often happened that they were silent for a long
while in a sort of reverie _à deux_.
But Emile was never bored at Boisguilbault. The beauty of the park, the
library, and, above all, the reserved but indubitable pleasure which the
marquis derived from his society, made his visits agreeably restful and
delightful to him as a relief from more intense emotions. He created for
himself there, unconsciously, a second home, much more in conformity
with his tastes than the noisy factory and his father's household,
managed as it was with military strictness.