was still at the château, and he was about to walk in that direction
when a gust of wind blew a window violently open, also a door at the end
of the room. He turned toward the door, expecting to see Monsieur de
Boisguilbault, but no one appeared, and Emile found himself looking into
a small study, the disorderly arrangement of which was as noticeable as
the scrupulous neatness of the apartments at the château.
He would have considered it an impertinence on his part to enter the
room or even to scrutinize from a distance the cheap, common furniture
and the mass of old books and papers which he saw confusedly at the
first glance. But there was one thing that arrested his attention in
spite of himself--a life-size portrait of a woman, hung at the farther
end of that den, directly opposite him, so that it was impossible for
him not to see it, to say nothing of the fact that it would have been
difficult not to gaze at so fine a painting and so charming a face.
[Illustration: _EMILE EXAMINES THE PORTRAIT OF
THE MARQUISE DE BOISGUILBAULT._
_Nothing could be more refined and charming than that youthful face;
doubtless it was Madame de Boisguilbault, and our hero forgot himself
altogether as he gazed with deep interest at the features of that woman,
whose life and death must have had so vast an influence on the destiny
of the recluse._]
The lady was dressed in the style of the Empire; but a sky-blue shawl
richly embroidered and draped over her shoulders, concealed the apparent
deformity produced by the fashionable short waist of that period. The
arrangement of her hair, in so-called natural curls, was most becoming,
and the hair itself was of a magnificent golden hue.
Nothing could be more refined and charming than that youthful face;
doubtless it was Madame de Boisguilbault, and our hero forgot himself
altogether as he gazed with deep interest at the features of that woman,
whose life and death must have had so vast an influence on the destiny
of the recluse.
But it rarely happens that a portrait gives us a just idea of the
original; indeed, in the majority of cases one may say that nothing
resembles the person so little as his image.
Emile had thought of the marchioness as a pale, melancholy creature; he
saw a fashionable beauty, with a proud, sweet smile, with a noble and
triumphant bearing. Was she like that before or after her marriage? Or
was hers a nature entirely different from what he had supposed?
One thing of which he was certain was that he had before him a most
fascinating face, and, as it was impossible for him to look upon the
image of youth and beauty without thinking instantly of Gilberte, he
began to compare the two types, in which it seemed to him that he
discovered points of resemblance. The light was rapidly failing, and, as
Emile dared not take a step toward the mysterious study, the outlines of
the portrait soon became very indistinct. The white flesh and golden
hair, standing forth from the shadow, produced so powerful an illusion
upon him, that he thought that he had a portrait of Gilberte before him,
and when he could no longer see aught but a sort of mist filled with
dancing sparks, he had to make a strong effort of his will to remember
that in his first impression, the only reliable one under such
circumstances, there had been no thought of a resemblance between Madame
de Boisguilbault's face and Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun's.
He left the chalet, and, meeting no one in the park, went on to the
château.
The same silence and solitude reigned in the courtyard. He mounted the
stairs in the turret, but did not as usual meet Martin coming to
announce him in that ceremonious tone from which he never departed, even
with the only habitué of the house.
At last he reached the salon, which was always very dark, the blinds
being closed night and day; and, seized with a vague alarm, as if death
had entered that house in which there was so little life at the best, he
ran through the other rooms and at last found Monsieur de Boisguilbault
lying on a bed. He was as pale and motionless as a corpse. The last rays
of daylight cast a vague and melancholy reflection into the room, and
old Martin, whose deafness prevented him from hearing Emile's approach,
had every appearance of a statue as he sat at his master's pillow.
Emile darted to the bed and seized the marquis's hand. It was burning;
and as the two old men awoke, one from the troubled sleep of fever, the
other from the drowsiness of fatigue or inaction, the young man soon
satisfied himself that the marquis's indisposition was in itself of
little consequence. However, the ravages which two days of illness had
wrought in that feeble, worn out frame were most disquieting for the
future.
"Ah! you have done well to come!" said Monsieur de Boisguilbault,
pressing Emile's hand feebly; "ennui would soon have consumed me if you
had abandoned me!"
And Martin, who had not heard his master's words, but seemed to receive
his thoughts on the rebound, repeated in a louder voice than he
supposed:
"Ah! Monsieur Emile, you did well to come! Monsieur le marquis was
suffering terribly from ennui because you didn't come."
Thereupon he told him that monsieur le marquis had been taken with the
fever as he was about to go to the park two nights before, and had
tranquilly made up his mind that he was going to die. He had insisted on
going to bed in that very room, although he was not accustomed to sleep
there, and he had given him instructions as if he never expected to get
up again. He had a very restless night and the next morning he said to
him:
"I feel much better; this will not amount to anything; but I feel as
tired as if I had made a long journey and I need to rest a little.
Perfect silence, Martin; little light, little nursing and no doctor;
those are my orders. Don't be alarmed about me."
"And as I couldn't help being frightened," continued the old retainer,
"monsieur le marquis said to me:
"'Never fear, my dear fellow, my time hasn't come yet.'"
"Is monsieur le marquis subject to such attacks?" Emile inquired; "are
they serious? do they last long?"
But he had forgotten that Martin could hear nobody but his master, and,
at a signal from the latter, he had already left the room.
"I allowed the poor old deaf fellow to have his say," said Monsieur de
Boisguilbault, "for it would have been of no use to try to interrupt
him. But don't take me for a coward from his story. I am not afraid of
death, Emile; I used to long for it; now I await it calmly. I have been
conscious of its approach for a long time; but it comes slowly, and I
shall die as I have lived, without haste. I am subject to intermittent
fevers which take away my appetite and my sleep, but which no one ever
discovers because they leave me enough strength for the little I have to
do. I do not believe in medicine; thus far it has found no means of
curing disease without attacking the vital principle. In whatever form
it assumes, it is empiricism, and I prefer bending under God's hand to
leaping and capering under the hand of a man. This time I was harder hit
than usual; I felt weaker mentally, and I will confess without shame,
Emile, that I realized that I could no longer live alone. Old men are
like children for falling in love with a new pleasure; but when it comes
to losing it, they are not easily consoled like children. They become
old men again and die. Don't be embarrassed by what I say: it is the
fever that makes me so talkative. When I am cured, I shall not say it, I
shall not even think it; but I shall always feel it as an instinct
beneath my apathy. Do not feel that you are chained henceforth to my sad
old age. It is of little importance whether I live a year more or less,
or whether a friendly hand closes the eyes of him who has lived alone.
But I thank you for coming again. Let us talk no more of me, but of you.
What have you been doing during these sad days?"
"I have been sad myself because I have passed them away from you," Emile
replied.
"Is it possible! Such is life, such is man. To make oneself suffer by
making others suffer! That is a convincing proof of the brotherhood of
souls."
Emile passed two hours with the marquis, and found him more confidential
and more affectionate than he had ever been. He felt that his attachment
to him became stronger, and he determined that he would cause him no
more suffering. And when, upon taking his leave, he expressed some
anxiety because he had allowed him to talk so earnestly, the marquis
replied:
"Never fear. Come again to-morrow and you will find me on my feet. That
is not the kind of thing that tires one; it is the absence of
opportunities for pouring out one's heart that dries up and kills."
XX
THE FORTRESS OF CROZANT
The marquis was in fact almost well on the following day, and
breakfasted with Emile. Thenceforth nothing disturbed that curious
friendship between an old man and a very young man; and, thanks to
Monsieur de Châteaubrun's final declarations, the painful apprehensions
of insanity no longer impaired the pleasure which Emile took in Monsieur
de Boisguilbault's society. He refrained, as he had promised Antoine,
from ever mentioning his name, and made up for it by opening his heart
to the marquis concerning all his other secrets; for it was impossible
for him not to describe his past life, not to impart to him his plans
for the future, and, as a consequence thereof, the suffering, allayed
for a time, but inevitably lasting, which his father's opposition had
caused him and was certain to cause him at the first provocation.
Monsieur de Boisguilbault encouraged Emile in his projects of respect
and submission; but he was amazed at the pains Monsieur Cardonnet had
always taken to stifle the legitimate instincts of a son so well
inclined to work and so richly endowed.
The liking for agriculture and the intelligent understanding of it
displayed by Emile seemed to point to a noble and generous vocation for
him, and the marquis said to himself that if he had had the good fortune
to possess such a son, he would have been able to make use in his
lifetime of the great fortune which he had destined for the poor, but of
which he had been unable to make any use in the present.
He could not refrain from saying with a sigh that a man was blessed of
heaven who found in a son, in a friend, in another self, a mind fertile
in invention and the means of completing in all seriousness the work of
his destiny. In his heart he accused Cardonnet of seeking to consecrate
to evil purposes the forces and the instruments which God had given him
to assist him in doing good, and he looked upon him as a blind and
obstinate tyrant, who placed money above the happiness of his fellows
and his own, as if man were the slave of material things and not the
servant of truth before all else.
Monsieur de Boisguilbault was not however essentially religious. Emile
found him always too indifferent in that respect. When the marquis had
said: "I believe in God," he thought that he could dispense with saying:
"I adore Him." When his thoughts, taking the highest flight of which he
was capable, rose to a sort of invocation which was not so much prayer
as homage, he said to God: "Thy name is wisdom!" Emile added: "Thy name
is love!" Whereupon the old man would reply: "It is the same thing;" and
he was right.
Emile could hardly contradict him; but in that disposition to insist
upon the sublime character of the divine logic and rectitude, one could
but be conscious of the absence of that exalted passion for the
inexhaustible loving-kindness of the Omnipotent, which Emile bore in his
bosom. But, when the facts, the miseries of life, human weakness, and
all the evil that is done on earth seemed to give the lie to that theory
of a merciful Providence, and Emile became in a measure discouraged, the
old logician triumphed in the superiority of his faith.
He never doubted, he could not doubt. He did not need to see in order to
know, he said, and the coming and going of the plagues of this world no
more disturbed in his eyes the moral order of eternal affairs than the
passing of a cloud over the sun disturbed their physical order. His
resignation was not due to a feeling of humility or affection; for he
admitted that he had never been able to reconcile himself to his own
sorrows except outwardly; but he believed in a well-spring of optimistic
fatalism for the universe at large which was in striking contrast with
his personal pessimism, and which formed the most unique feature of his
mind and his character.
"Just see," he would say, "logic is everywhere! It is infinite in the
works of God; but it is incomplete and intangible in everything, because
everything is finite, even man himself, although he is the most
impressive reflection of the infinite on this little earth. No man can
understand infinite wisdom except as an abstract idea; for, if he looks
within himself and about him, he cannot grasp it or fix it in his mind
in any way. You often call me a logician; I accept the name: I love
logic and cultivate it. I have a tremendous craving for it and I care
for nothing that is not akin to it. But am I logical in my acts and my
instincts? Less than any one on earth. The more I test myself, the more
conscious I am of the abyss of contradictions, the chaotic confusion
within me. Very good; I am a special example of what man is in general;
and the more illogical I am in my own eyes, the more strongly I feel
that the logic of God is soaring over my poor feeble head, which would
go astray without that celestial compass and would foolishly hold the
earth responsible for its own weakness."
Once he took Emile into the country and they explored, on horseback, the
marquis's vast estates. Emile was struck by the small income produced by
such territorial wealth.
"All these farms are let at the lowest possible price," said the
marquis; "when one is unable to escape from the present economical
notions, the best he can do is to bear as lightly as possible on the
hard-working cultivator of the soil. These people are grateful to me, as
you see, and wish me long life. God save the mark! They consider me very
kind, although they do not much like my face. They do not know that I do
not care for them as they understand the word, and that I see in them
only victims whom I cannot save, but whose executioner I do not choose
to be. I know very well that, under logical legislation, this estate
should produce a hundred times as much as it does. My dissatisfaction is
allayed when I think of it; but in order to think of it and to sustain
myself with the certainty that it will some day be the instrument of the
voluntary labor of a multitude of prudent men, I must avoid seeing it in
its present state, for this spectacle saddens me and turns me cold; for
this reason I very rarely expose myself to it."
It was in fact about two years since Monsieur de Boisguilbault had
visited his farms and made the circuit of his domain. He could make up
his mind to do it only in case of absolute necessity. He was greeted
everywhere with demonstrations of respect and affection which were not
without a touch of superstitious terror; for his solitude and eccentric
habits had given him the reputation of a sorcerer with many peasants.
Many a time, during a storm, they had said sadly: "Ah! if Monsieur de
Boisguilbault chose to prevent the hail, he could do it! but, instead of
doing what he can, he is always looking for something else that nobody
knows and that he will never find perhaps!"
"Well, Emile, what would you do with all this, if it were yours?" said
the marquis as they rode home; "for in asking you to make this tiresome
round of visits with me, I had no other purpose than to question you."
"I would try!" Emile replied, warmly.
"Of course," said the marquis, "I would try to found a genuine _commune_
if I could. But I should try in vain, I should fail. And you, too,
perhaps!"
"What does it matter?"
"That is the generous, insane cry of youth: what does it matter if you
fail, providing only that you are doing something, eh? You yield to a
craving for activity and do not see the obstacles. There are obstacles,
however, and the worst of all is this: that there are no men. In that
sense your father is right in appealing to a brutal but none the less
powerful fact. Men's minds are not ripe, their hearts are not
well-disposed; I see much land and many arms, but I do not see a single
mind detached from the _ego_ which governs the earth. A little more
time, Emile, for the idea to bloom and spread; it will not be so long as
people think; I shall not see it, but you will. Be patient, therefore!"
"What do you mean? does time do anything without us?"
"No, but it will do nothing without us _all_. There are times when one
should be consoled for not being at work, if one is learning; then comes
the time when one can learn and work at the same time. Do you feel that
you are strong?"
"Very!"
"So much the better! And I believe it!--Well, Emile, we will talk some
day--soon perhaps, in my next attack of fever, when my pulse beats a
little faster than it does to-day."
In such conversations as this Emile found strength to live through the
hours that he could not pass with Gilberte. There was something lacking
in his friendship with Monsieur de Boisguilbault: it was the being able
to speak to him of her and to tell him of his love. But there is in
happy love a something superb which can do very well without advice of
others, and the time when Emile would feel the need of complaining and
of seeking a support under the burden of despair had not yet arrived.
In what did this happiness consist, do you ask? In the first place, he
was in love--that is almost enough for him who loves dearly. And then he
knew that he was loved, although he had never dared to ask the question
and she would have dared even less to tell him so.
Meanwhile clouds were gathering on the horizon and Emile was destined to
feel the approach of the storm. One day Janille said to him as he was
leaving Châteaubrun: "Don't come again for three or four days; we have
some business to attend to in the neighborhood and we shall be away."
Emile turned pale: he thought that he was receiving his sentence, and he
hardly had strength to ask what day the family would have returned to
its penates. "Oh! toward the end of the week, I suppose," said Janille.
"Indeed it is probable that I shall stay here; I am too old to run about
over mountains, and you might come in as you ride by and ask if Monsieur
Antoine and his daughter have returned."
"You will allow me then to call upon you?" said Emile, striving to
conceal his mortal suffering.
"Why not, if your heart bids you?" replied the little old woman, drawing
herself up with an air in which the distrustful Emile fancied that he
could detect a touch of malice. "I am not afraid of being compromised!"
"It's all over," thought Emile. "My assiduity has been observed, and
although Monsieur Antoine and his daughter have no suspicion as yet,
Janille has made up her mind to turn me out. Her power here is absolute
and the critical moment has arrived. Well, Mademoiselle Janille," he
said, "I will come to see you to-morrow. I shall take great pleasure in
talking with you."
"How well that happens," said Janille; "I am very anxious to talk too!
But I have some flax to pick to-morrow and I shall not expect you until
the next day. That is understood; I shall be at home all day; don't fail
to come. Good-night, Monsieur Emile, we will have a good friendly talk.
Oh! you see I too am very fond of you!"
There was no longer any doubt in Emile's mind; the housekeeper at
Châteaubrun had opened her eyes to his love. Some officious neighbor
was beginning to be surprised to see him so often on the road to the
ruins. Antoine knew nothing as yet, nor Gilberte; for the latter, when
she told him that her father was going away for a few days, could not
have foreseen that Janille would arrange for her to go with him. The
shrewd housekeeper had laid her plans well: first to get Emile out of
the way, and then to arrange for Gilberte to go away unexpectedly, thus
making sure of a few days in which to avert the little outbreak which
she anticipated on the young man's part.
"Well, then, I must speak," said Emile to himself; "and why should I
recoil from the inevitable end of my secret aspirations? I will tell her
loyal governess and her excellent father that I love her and aspire to
her hand. I will ask for a little time to broach the subject to my
father and come to an understanding with him as to my choice of a
career, for I have made none as yet, and my fate must be decided. There
will be a fierce struggle, but I shall be strong, for I love. It is not
a question of myself alone, so I shall have invincible courage, I shall
have the gift of persuasion, I shall carry the day!"
Despite all this confidence, Emile passed the night in horrible
perplexity. He imagined the conversation he was about to have with
Janille, and he could have written out the questions and answers, so
well he knew the little woman's self-possession and outspokenness.
"Ah! but you must speak to your father first of all, monsieur,"--she
would surely say,--"and have an understanding with him; for it is quite
useless to disturb Monsieur Antoine's mind with a conditional request,
with projects that may not be realized. Meanwhile, do not come here any
more, or come very little, for no one is supposed to be aware of your
intentions, and Gilberte is not the girl to listen to you unless she is
sure that she can be your wife."
Then, too, he feared that Janille, who was very matter-of-fact, would
treat the possibility of Monsieur Cardonnet's consent as a pure
delusion, and would forbid him to make frequent visits unless he should
produce satisfactory proof that he was at liberty to choose for himself.
Thus was it fully demonstrated that Emile must enter upon the conflict
with his father first of all, and must govern his actions accordingly;
that is to say, go infrequently to Châteaubrun until he had reason to
entertain a strong hope of victory, or, if he had no ground for hope, to
abstain forever from destroying the happiness of the family of
Châteaubrun by fruitless overtures--in a word, he must go away and
renounce Gilberte.
But it was utterly impossible for Emile to include that alternative
among the possibilities. The idea of death would find its way more
easily into an infant's head than that of renouncing the woman he loves
into the head of a man who is deeply in love.
Thus Emile could more readily conceive the possibility of blowing out
his brains before his father's eyes than of yielding to his will. "Very
well!" he said to himself, "I will speak to-morrow to this terrible
master, and I will speak to him in such a way that I shall be able to
appear at Châteaubrun with my head erect."
And yet, when the morrow came, Emile, instead of feeling inspired by all
the force of his determination, felt so exhausted by insomnia, and so
overwhelmed by sadness, that he feared his own weakness and did not
speak. Indeed, what can be more painful, when the heart has revelled in
a blissful dream, than to find oneself brought suddenly face to face
with a cruel reality? When one has enjoyed all by oneself the delicious
secret of a chastely hidden passion, to be forced to reveal it in cold
blood to those who do not understand it or who scorn it?
Whether Emile should make the avowal to his father or to Janille, he
must lay bare his heart, filled as it was with a modest languor and a
holy ecstasy, to hearts that had never known or had long been closed to
sentiments of that nature. And he had dreamed of such a sublime
_dénouement_! Should not Gilberte, alone with him under the eye of God,
be the first to receive in her heart the sacred word love when it should
escape from his lips?
The world and the laws of honor, so unfeeling in such cases, were to
deprive the virginity of his passion of all that was purest and most
ideal about it! He suffered intensely, and it seemed to him that a
century of bitter sorrow had elapsed between his dreams of the day
before and the gloomy day that was beginning.