Avarice - Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

CHAPTER XIV.

ARGUMENTS FOR AND AGAINST

When Cloarek rapped at the door of his daughter's room the next morning, she promptly responded to the summons, smiling and happy.

"Well, my child, did you rest well?" he inquired.

"Splendidly, father. I had the most delightful dreams, for you bring me happiness even in my sleep."

"Tell me about these delightful dreams. I am always anxious to hear about everything that makes you happy, whether it be an illusion or reality," he responded, anxious to bring the conversation around naturally to the subject of Onésime. "Come, I am listening. What brilliant castles in Spain did you behold in your slumbers?"

"Oh, I am not ambitious, father, even in my dreams."

"Is that really so, my child?"

"It is indeed, father. My desires are very modest. Luxury and display have no charms for me. I dreamed last night that I was spending my life with you, — with you and dear Suzanne, and with Segoffin, who is so warmly attached to you."

"And who else?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot."

"Thérèse, I suppose?"

"No, not Thérèse."

"Who was it, then?"

"M. Onésime."

"M. Onésime? I do not understand that. How did M. Onésime happen to be living with us?"

"We were married."

The words were uttered in such a frank and ingenuous manner that Cloarek could not doubt the perfect truthfulness of his daughter's account; and rather in doubt as to whether he ought to congratulate himself on this singular dream or not, he asked, a little anxiously:

"So you and M. Onésime were married, you say?"

"Yes, father."

"And I had consented to the marriage?"

"You must have done so, as we were married. I don't mean that we were just married, — we seemed to have been married a long time. We were all in the parlour. Three of us, you and Onésime and I, were sitting on the big sofa. Suzanne was crocheting by the window, and Segoffin was on his knees fixing the fire. You had been silent for several minutes, father, when, suddenly taking M. Onésime's hand and mine, — you were sitting between us, — you said: 'Do you know what I have been thinking?' 'No, father,' M. Onésime and I answered (for naturally he, too, called you father). 'Well,' you continued, 'I have been thinking that there is not a happier man in the world than I am. To have two children who adore each other, and two faithful old servants, or rather two tried friends, and spend one's life in peace and plenty with them, surely this is enough and more than enough to thank the good God for now and always, my children.' And as you spoke, father, your eyes filled with tears."

"Waking as well as dreaming, you are, and ever will be, the best and most affectionate of daughters," said Cloarek, deeply touched. "But there is one thing about your dream that surprises me very much."

"And what is that?"

"Your marriage with Onésime."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How strange. It seemed so perfectly natural to me that I wasn't at all surprised at it."

"But in the first place, though this is not the greatest objection, by any means, M. Onésime has no fortune."

"But how often you have told me that all these business trips, and all these frequent absences that grieve me so much, have been made solely for the purpose of amassing a handsome dowry for me."

"That is true."

"Then, in that case, M. Onésime does not need any fortune."

"Nevertheless, though it is not absolutely indispensable that M. Onésime should possess a fortune, it is certainly very desirable. There is another objection."

"Another?"

"M. Onésime has no profession and consequently no assured social position."

"He is not to blame for that, poor fellow! Who could possibly consider his enforced idleness a crime? Will, education, capability, none of these are lacking. It is his terrible infirmity that proves such an obstacle to everything he undertakes."

"You are right, my child; this infirmity is an insuperable obstacle that will unfortunately prevent him from achieving success in any career; from creating any position for himself, and even from marrying, except in dreams, understand."

"I don't understand you at all, my dear father. I really don't."

"What! my child, don't you understand that it would be folly in any woman to marry a half-blind man who cannot see ten feet in front of him? don't you understand that in such a case the rôles would be entirely reversed, and that, instead of protecting his wife, as every man ought to do, M. Onésime will have to be protected by the woman who would be foolish enough to marry him?"

"It seems to me only right that the person who is able to protect the other should do so."

"Certainly; but this duty devolves upon the man."

"Yes, when he is able to fulfil this duty; when he is not, it devolves upon the wife."

"If she is foolish enough, I repeat, to accept such a life of self-sacrifice and weighty responsibility."

"Foolish?"

"Idiotic, rather. Don't look at me so indignantly."

"Listen to me, father."

"I am listening."

"You have reared me with the utmost kindness and devotion; you have anticipated my every wish; you have surrounded me with every comfort; and for my sake you have exposed yourself to all the fatigue and discomfort of long business trips. Am I not right?"

"It was not only a pleasure, but my duty to do these things for you, my dear child."

"A duty?"

"The most sacred of all duties."

"To protect me — to be my guide and my support, you mean, do you not?"

"Precisely. It is the duty of every parent."

"That is exactly what I was coming at," said Sabine, with amusing naïveté. "It is a father's duty to protect his child, you say?"

"Certainly."

"But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part of guide, support, and protector? Our rôles would be reversed, as you say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my dear father."

"But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her father. In such a case, it is very grand and noble in her to devote her life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free to choose would, I repeat, — don't glare at me so, — be a fool, yes, an idiot, to select for a husband — "

"An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest solicitude," cried Sabine, interrupting her father. "So you really believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe it, — you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every sacrifice for her, — tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote one's life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind; tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and I will believe you."

"No, my generous, noble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be lying if I did," exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine's generous enthusiasm; "no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all superior natures."

"So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after all," replied the girl, smiling.

"You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully."

"And what is that?"

"When a man loves, he loves body and soul; you must admit that. The contemplation of the charming face of a beloved wife is as sweet to a man as the realisation of her merits and virtues. Now, in a long conversation that I had last evening with M. Onésime, at your recommendation, remember, I asked him if he could see a person a few feet off, distinctly. He replied that he could not, and remarked in this connection that he had seen you plainly but once, and that was yesterday when you were assisting Suzanne in binding up his hand. The most inconceivable thing in your dream-marriage, after all, is a husband who spends his life near his wife without ever seeing her except by accident, as it were."

"Ah, well, father, I, for my part, think such a state of affairs is not without its advantages, after all."

"Really, that is going a little too far, I think."

"I will prove it to you if you wish."

"I defy you to do it."

"But, father, I have read somewhere that nothing could be more sacrilegious than to leave always exposed to view the portraits of one's loved ones; for the eye finally becomes so accustomed to these lineaments that the effect is perceptibly impaired."

"There may be some truth in this remark, but I do not perceive any special advantage to be derived from it so far as you are concerned."

"But if, on the contrary, these portraits are in a case that is opened only when one desires to contemplate the beloved features, the impression produced upon you is powerful in proportion to the rarity of the treat."

"Your reasoning is fairly good, to say the least; but how about the other party, the person that can see? She will be obliged to close her eyes, I suppose, and keep them closed, to prevent her husband's features from losing their charm."

"Are you really in earnest in making this objection?"

"Certainly I am."

"Then I will merely say in reply that, though I put myself in M. Onésime's place for a moment, that is no reason why I should renounce my own excellent eye-sight, for I am not in the least afraid that I should ever tire of looking at my husband any more than I tire of looking at you, my dear father, and I know I could gaze at your face a hundred years without growing weary of reading on your noble features all your devoted tenderness for me," added Sabine, kissing her father fondly.

"My dear, dear child," murmured Cloarek, responding to his daughter's fervent caress, "how can I hope to contend successfully with your heart and reason. I must acknowledge myself beaten, I suppose, and confess that your dream is not so unreasonable, perhaps, after all, and that a woman might perhaps marry such a terribly near-sighted man if she really loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of your romantic way of regarding poor Onésime's infirmity, I should infinitely prefer — But, now I think of it — "

"Well, father?"

"During my travels I have heard a good deal about a young and wonderfully skilful surgeon, — a terrible gourmand, too, they say he is, by the way. It is his only fault, I understand. This young surgeon established himself in Paris a few years ago, and his fame has grown, until he is now considered one of the greatest celebrities of the scientific world. It is possible that he may be able to restore this poor fellow's sight."

"Do you really suppose there is any hope of that?" cried Sabine.

"I cannot say, my child, but I know several wonderful cures that Doctor Gasterini has effected, and I will write to him this very day. I am going out for a little while, but I shall be back in an hour, and as I shall want to see you as soon as I return, you had better wait for me here."

On leaving Sabine, Cloarek went up to Onésime's room, and, desiring that their conversation should be of the most secret character and free from any possibility of interruption, he asked that young man to accompany him on a promenade he intended to take on the beach before dinner.

CHAPTER XV.

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR

Soon after M. Cloarek left the house in company with Onésime, Segoffin might have been seen standing on the garden terrace with an old spy-glass levelled on an object that seemed to be absorbing his attention and exciting his surprise and curiosity to the highest pitch.

The object was a vessel that he had just discovered in the offing and that elicited the following comments as he watched its evolutions.

"It seems preposterous! Am I dreaming, or is that really our brig? It must be! That rigging, that mast, those lines, are certainly hers, and yet it cannot be. That is not her hull. With her barbette guns she sat as low in the water as a whaler. I don't see a single gun poking its nose out of this craft, though. No, no, it is not, of course it is not. This vessel is painted a dark gray, while the Hell-hound was black with scarlet stripes. And yet that big sail perched so rakishly over the stem, that rigging fine as a spider's web, there never was a vessel built except the Hell-hound that could carry such a stretch of canvas as that. But what an ass I am! She is putting about, so there's a sure way of satisfying myself of the identity I wish to verify, as M. Yvon used to say when he wore the robes of office and amused himself by throwing chief justices out of the window, — that is to read the name on her stern, as I shall be able to do in a minute or two, and — "

But Segoffin's soliloquy was here interrupted by a familiar tap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, he found himself face to face with Suzanne.

"That which is done can not be undone, but the devil take you, my dear, for disturbing me just at this time!" exclaimed M. Cloarek's head gunner, raising his glass to his eye again.

But unfortunately he was too late. The brig had completed the evolution, and the name on her stern was no longer visible, so the verification of her identity which Segoffin contemplated had become impossible.

"So the devil may have me and welcome, may he?" responded Suzanne, tartly. "You are very polite, I must say."

"Frankness is a duty between old friends like ourselves," said Segoffin, casting a regretful glance seaward. "I came here to amuse myself by watching the passing ships, and you had to come and interrupt me."

"You are right; frankness is a duty between us, Segoffin, so I may as well tell you, here and now, that no stone-deaf person was ever harder to wake than you."

"How do you know? Unfortunately for me and for you, Suzanne, you have never had a chance to see how I sleep," responded the head gunner, with a roguish smile.

"You are very much mistaken, for I rapped at your door last night."

"Ah!" exclaimed Segoffin, winking his only remaining eye with a triumphant air, "I have often told you that you would come to it sooner or later, and you have."

"Come to what?" inquired the housekeeper, without the slightest suspicion of her companion's real meaning.

"To stealing alone and on tiptoe to my room to — "

"You are an abominably impertinent creature, M. Segoffin. I rapped at your door to ask your aid and protection."

"Against whom?"

"But you are such a coward that you just lay there pretending to be asleep and taking good care not to answer me."

"Tell me seriously, Suzanne, — what occurred last night? Did you really think you needed me?"

"Hear that, will you! They might have set fire to the house and murdered us, it wouldn't have made the slightest difference to you. M. Segoffin was snug in bed and there he remained."

"Set fire to the house and murdered you! What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that two men tried to break into this house last night."

"They were two of your lovers, doubtless."

"Segoffin!"

"You had probably made a mistake in the date — "

But the head gunner never finished the unseemly jest. His usually impassive features suddenly assumed an expression of profound astonishment, succeeded by one of fear and anxiety. The change, in fact, was so sudden and so striking that Dame Roberts, forgetting her companion's impertinent remarks, exclaimed:

"Good Heavens, Segoffin, what is the matter with you? What are you looking at in that way?"

And following the direction of Segoffin's gaze, she saw a stranger, preceded by Thérèse, advancing toward them. The newcomer was a short, stout man with a very prominent abdomen. He wore a handsome blue coat, brown cassimere knee-breeches, high top-boots, and a long white waistcoat, across which dangled a double watch-chain lavishly decorated with a number of charms. In one hand he held a light cane with which he gaily switched the dust from his boots, and in the other he held his hat, which he had gallantly removed at the first sight of Dame Roberts. This newcomer was Floridor Verduron, the owner of the brig Hell-hound, usually commanded by Captain l'Endurci.

Up to this time Cloarek had concealed from Verduron his real name as well as the motives which had led him to take up privateering. He had also taken special pains to keep his place of abode a secret from the owner of the privateer, a mutual friend having always served as an intermediary between the captain and the owner. Consequently, the dismay of the head gunner can be readily imagined when he reflected that, as the captain's real name and address had been discovered by M. Verduron, and that gentleman was wholly ignorant of the double part M. Cloarek was playing, his very first words were likely to unwittingly reveal a secret of the gravest importance. M. Verduron's presence also explained, at least in part, the arrival of the brig Segoffin had seen a short time before, and which he fancied he recognised under the sort of disguise he could not yet understand.

Meanwhile, M. Floridor Verduron was coming nearer and nearer. Suzanne noted this fact, and remarked:

"Who can this gentleman be? What a red face he has! I never saw him before. Why don't you answer me, Segoffin? Good Heavens, how strangely you look! And you are pale, very much paler than usual."

"It is the redness of this man's face that makes me look pale by contrast, I suppose," replied Segoffin, seeing himself confronted by a danger he was powerless to avert.

The servant, who was a few steps in advance of the visitor, now said to Suzanne:

"Dame Roberts, here is a gentleman who wishes to see the master on very important business, he says."

"You know very well that monsieur has gone out."

"That is what I told the gentleman, but he said he would wait for his return, as he must see monsieur."

As Thérèse finished her explanation of the intrusion, M. Verduron, who prided himself upon his good manners, and who had won fame in his earlier days as a skilful dancer of the minuet, paused about five yards from Dame Roberts and made her a very low bow, with his elbows gracefully rounded, his heels touching each other, and his feet forming the letter V.

Dame Roberts, flattered by the homage rendered to her sex, responded with a ceremonious curtsey, saying sotto voce to Segoffin the while, with a sarcastically reproachful air:

"Notice how a polite gentleman ought to accost a lady."

M. Floridor Verduron, advancing a couple of steps, made another profound bow, to which Suzanne responded with equal deference, murmuring to Segoffin as if to pique him or arouse his emulation:

"These are certainly the manners of a grandee, — of an ambassador, in fact."

The head gunner, instead of replying, however, tried to get as much out of sight as possible behind an ever-green. M. Verduron's third and last salute (he considered three bows obligatory) was too much like the others to deserve any especial mention, and he was about to address Suzanne when he caught sight of the head gunner.

"What! you here?" he exclaimed, with a friendly nod. "I didn't see you, you old sea-wolf. And how is your eye getting along?"

"I have no use of it, as you see, M. Verduron, but don't let's talk about that, I beg of you. I have my reasons."

"I should think so, my poor fellow, for it would be rather making light of misfortune, wouldn't it, madame?" asked the visitor, turning to Suzanne, who bowed her assent with great dignity, and then said:

"The servant tells me you wish to see M. Cloarek on pressing business, monsieur."

"Yes, my dear madame, very pressing," replied the ship owner, gallantly. "It is doubtless to monsieur's wife I have the honour of speaking, and in that case, I — "

"Pardon me, monsieur, I am only the housekeeper."

"What! the cap — "

But the first syllable of the word captain had not left the ship owner's lips before the head gunner shouted at the top of his voice, at the same time seizing Suzanne suddenly by the arm:

"In Heaven's name, look! See there!"

The housekeeper was so startled that she uttered a shrill cry and did not even hear the dread syllable the visitor had uttered, but when she had partially recovered from her alarm, she exclaimed, sharply:

"Really, this is intolerable, Segoffin. You gave me such a scare I am all of a tremble now."

"But look over there," insisted the head gunner, pointing toward the cliffs; "upon my word of honour, one can hardly believe one's eyes."

"What is it? What do you see?" asked the ship owner, gazing intently in the direction indicated.

"It seems impossible, I admit. I wouldn't have believed it myself if anybody had told me."

"What is it? What are you talking about?" demanded Suzanne, her curiosity now aroused, in spite of her ill-humour.

"It is unaccountable," mused the head gunner, to all appearance lost in a sort of admiring wonder. "It is enough to make one wonder whether one is awake or only dreaming."

"But what is it you see?" cried the ship owner, no less impatiently than the housekeeper. "What are you talking about? Where must we look?"

"You see that cliff there to the left, don't you?"

"To the left?" asked the ship owner, ingenuously, "to the left of what?"

"To the left of the other, of course."

"What other?" demanded Suzanne, in her turn.

"What other? Why, don't you see that big white cliff that looks like a dome?"

"Yes," answered the ship owner.

"Well, what of it?" snapped Suzanne.

"Look, high up."

"High up, Segoffin?"

"Yes, on the side."

"On the side?"

"Yes, don't you see that bluish light playing on it?"

"Bluish light?" repeated the ship owner, squinting up his eyes and arching his hand over them to form a sort of shade.

"Yes, high up, near the top! The deuce take me if it isn't turning red now! Look, will you! Isn't it amazing? But come, M. Verduron, come, let's get a closer look at it," added Segoffin, seizing the ship owner by the arm and trying to drag him away.

"One moment," exclaimed M. Verduron, releasing himself from the head gunner's grasp, "to take a closer look at anything one must first have seen it at a distance, and the devil take me if I can see anything at all. And you, madame?"