The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said to her servant:

"Leave us, Marguerite."

"Well, how are you?" said the doctor, when they were left alone.

"This cough pains me and tears my chest, my good doctor; my sleep has been disturbed by dreadful dreams, the effect of the fever, no doubt, but, we will not speak of that," added Marie with an accent of angelic resignation. "I wish to consult you upon important matters, good doctor, and I must hurry, for, two or three times since I awoke, I have felt my thoughts slipping away from me."

"Do not distress yourself about that, for it belongs to the weak state which almost always follows the excitement of fever."

"I wished to speak to you first, to you alone, before asking M. David and my son to come in, as we will have all three to confer together afterward."

"I am listening to you, madame."

"You know my husband came home yesterday evening."

"I know it," said the doctor, unable to restrain a shudder of indignation.

"I had a long and painful discussion with him on the subject of my son. In spite of my claims and my prayer, M. Bastien is resolved to enter Frederick with M. Bridou as a bailiff's clerk. That would make it necessary for me to thank M. David for his care, and separate myself from my son."

"And you cannot consent to that?"

"So long as there is a spark of life left in me, I will defend my right to my child. As to him, you know the firmness of his character. Never will he be willing to leave me or forsake M. David and enter the house of M. Bridou. M. Bastien will soon return, and he is going to claim the right to take away my son."

Marie, overcome by the emotion she was trying to combat, was obliged to pause a moment, and was attacked by such a dangerous fit of coughing, united to such a painful oppression in the chest, that the doctor involuntarily raised his eyes to Heaven with grief. After taking a drink prepared by the doctor, Marie continued:

"Such is our position, my dear doctor, and before the return of M. Bastien, we must resolve upon something decisive, or – " and Marie became deathly pale – "or something terrible will happen here, for you know how violent M. Bastien is, and how resolute Frederick is; and as to me, I feel that, sick as I am, to take away my son is to strike me with death."

"Madame, the moments are precious; permit me first to appeal to your sincerity and frankness."

"Speak."

"Yesterday evening, at the conclusion of the discussion which you had with your husband, a most atrocious thing occurred, and that night – "

"Monsieur."

"I know all, madame."

"Once more, doctor – "

"I know all, I tell you, and, with your habitual courage, you did, I am certain of it, submit to this abominable treatment, in order not to make public this outrageous deed, and to avoid a collision between your son and your husband. Oh, do not try to deny it; your safety and the safety of your son depend upon the sincerity of your confession."

"My safety! my son's safety!"

"Come, madame, do you think the law has no redress for such atrocities as those your husband has been guilty of toward you? No, no! and there are witnesses of his unreasonable brutality. And these witnesses, Marguerite and myself, to whom you have applied for medical attention, as a consequence of the injuries you have sustained, we, I say, will authorise and justify your demand for separation. This demand must be formulated to-day."

"A separation!" cried Marie, clasping her hands in a transport of joy, "will it be possible?"

"Yes, and you will obtain it; trust yourself to me, madame. I will see your judges, I will establish your rights, your illness, your grievances; but before formulating this demand," added the doctor, with hesitation, for he appreciated the delicacy of the question raised, "it is essential for David to go away."

At these words, Marie trembled with surprise and distress; with her eyes fixed on those of Doctor Dufour, she tried to divine his thought, unable to comprehend why he, David's best friend, should insist upon his going away.

"Separate us from M. David," said she finally, "at the time my son has so much need of his care?"

"Madame, believe me, the departure of David is essential. David himself realises it, because he has resolved to go."

"M. David!"

"I have his word."

"It is impossible!"

"I have his word, madame."

"He! he! abandon us at such a time!"

"In order to save you and your son."

"In order to save us?"

"His presence near you, madame, would compromise the success of your demand for a separation."

"Why is that?"

There was so much candour and sincerity in Marie's question, she revealed so thoroughly the innocence of her heart, that the doctor had not the heart to give a new pain to this angelic creature by telling her of the odious reports being circulated about herself and David, so he replied:

"You cannot doubt, madame, the devotion and affection of David. He knows all that is to be regretted in his departure, all that is most painful to Frederick, but he knows also that his departure is absolutely necessary."

"He, depart!"

At the heartrending tone with which Marie uttered the two words, "He, depart," the doctor realised the depth of Marie's love for David for the first time, and as he thought of this deep and pure affection, the outcome of the noblest sentiments and the holiest feelings, his heart sank. He knew well Marie's virtue and David's delicacy, and hence he saw no end to this fatal passion.

Marie, after weeping silently turned her pale, sad, and tear-stained face to the doctor, and said to him, sorrowfully:

"M. David thinks it is best to go away, and my son and I will resign ourselves to it. Your friend has given too many proofs of his devotion to permit us to question his heart for a moment, but I must tell you his departure will be a terrible blow to my son."

"But you will remain with him, madame, for I do not doubt that once your separation is obtained, you will be allowed to keep your son."

"You hope then they will leave me my son?"

"Without doubt."

"How," replied Marie, clasping her hands and looking at the doctor with inexpressible anguish, "could there be a doubt that they will leave me my son?"

"He is more than sixteen years old, and in a case of separation, the son follows the father; a daughter would be given to you."

"But, then," replied Marie, all excited with fear, "what good is this separation, if I am not sure of keeping my son?"

"First, to assure your peace, your life perhaps, because your husband – "

"But my son, my son?"

"We will do everything in the world to have him given to you."

"And if they do not give him to me?"

"Alas! madame."

"Let us think no more of this separation, Doctor Dufour."

"Think, then, madame, what it is to remain at the mercy of a wretch who will kill you some day."

"But at least, before that happens, he will not have taken my son away from me."

"He will take him away from you, madame. Did he not wish to do so yesterday?"

"Oh, my God!" cried Marie, falling back on her pillow with such an expression of grief and despair that the doctor ran to her, exclaiming:

"In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?"

"Doctor Dufour," said Marie, in a feeble voice, closing her eyes and overcome by grief, "I am utterly exhausted. No matter which way I look at the future, it is horrible; what shall I do, my God! what shall I do? The hour approaches when my husband will return and take away my son with him. Oh, for my sake, put yourself between Frederick and his father! Oh, if you only knew what I dread, I – "

And the words expired on her lips, for the unhappy woman again sank into unconsciousness.

The doctor hastened to ring the bell violently, then he returned to the help of Madame Bastien.

The servant not replying to the bell, the doctor opened the door and called:

"Marguerite! Marguerite!"

At the alarmed voice of the doctor, Frederick, who had remained in the library, rushed to his mother's chamber, followed by David, who, forgetting all propriety, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, wished to see the woman he was about to leave, for the last time.

"Frederick, support your mother," cried Doctor Dufour, "and you, Henri, go quick for some cold water in the dining-room – somewhere. I do not know where Marguerite is."

David ran to execute the doctor's orders, while Frederick, supporting his mother in his arms, for she was almost without consciousness, said to the doctor, in a broken voice:

"Oh, my God! this fainting fit, how long it lasts! how pale she is! Help, help!"

Marguerite suddenly appeared; her distorted features presented a singular expression of astonishment, terror, and satisfaction.

"Doctor," cried she, almost breathless, "if you only knew!"

"Pierre, here is what you asked me for," said David, running and giving him a bottle filled with fresh water, of which the doctor poured out several spoonfuls in a cup.

Then addressing the servant in a low voice, he said:

"Marguerite, give me that vial, there on the chimneypiece. But what is the matter with you?" added Doctor Dufour, as he saw the old servant standing still and trembling in every limb. "Speak, do speak!"

"Ah! monsieur," replied the servant, in a whisper, "it is what takes my breath away. If you only knew!"

"Well, finish, what is it?"

"Master is dead!"

At these words the doctor stepped back, forgot Marie, stood petrified, and looked at the servant, unable to utter a word.

David experienced such a violent commotion of feeling that he was obliged to lean against the wainscoting.

Frederick, holding his mother in his arms, turned abruptly toward Marguerite, murmuring:

"Oh, my God! Dead – dead – my father!"

And he hid his face in his mother's bosom.

Marie, although in a swoon, caused by complete prostration of her strength, was sufficiently conscious to hear.

Marguerite's words, "Master is dead," reached her ears, but dimly and vague as the thought of a dream.

The doctor broke the solemn silence which had greeted the servant's words and said to her:

"How do you know? Explain yourself."

"This night," replied the servant, "master, about six miles from here, wanted to cross a ford on a route covered by the overflow. The horse and carriage were dragged into the water. They have not found the body of M. Bridou, but they recognised master's body by his goatskin cloak; it was ground under the wheels of the mill at the pond; they found half his coat in one of the wheels; one of the pockets contained several letters addressed to master. It is by that the mayor of Blémur, who is there with a gendarme, knew that it was master who was drowned, and he has drawn up the act of death."

When the servant had finished her recital in the midst of a religious silence, Madame Bastien recalled to herself entirely by the profound and violent reaction produced by this unexpected news, clasped her son to her bosom passionately, and said:

"We will never leave each other, never!"

Marie was about to seek David's eyes, instinctively, but an exquisite delicacy forbade it; she turned her eyes away, her pallor was replaced by a faint colour, and she pressed her son in a new embrace.

CHAPTER XLI

ABOUT three weeks had elapsed since the death of M. Bastien had been announced.

So many violent and contrary emotions had complicated Marie's disease, and rendered it still more dangerous. For two days her condition had been almost desperate, then by degrees it improved, thanks to the skill of Doctor Dufour and the ineffable hope from which the young woman drew enough force, enough desire to live, to combat death.

At the end of a few days the convalescence of Marie began, and although this convalescence was necessarily tedious and demanded the most careful attention, for fear of a relapse more to be dreaded than the disease itself, all alarm had ceased.

Is it necessary to say that since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien, David and Marie had not uttered one word which made allusion to their secret and assured hopes?

These two pure souls had the exquisite bashfulness of happiness, and although the death of Jacques Bastien could not be regretted, David and Marie respected religiously his ashes, which were scarcely cold, however unworthy of respect the man had been.

The illness of Madame Bastien, and the fears entertained so many days for her life, produced a sincere sorrow in the country, and her recovery a universal joy; these testimonials of touching sympathy, addressed as much to Frederick as to his mother, and the consciousness of a future which had, so to speak, no fault save that of being too bright, confirmed and hastened the convalescence of Marie, who, at the end of three weeks, felt only an excessive weakness which prevented her leaving her chamber.

As soon as her condition was no longer critical, she desired Frederick to undertake the studies planned for him by David, and to receive a part of them in her apartment, and she experienced an indescribable delight in seeing, united under her eyes, those two beings so much loved, and from whom she had so dreaded to be separated. Her presence at these lessons gave her a thousand joys. First the tender, enlightened interest of David, then the indomitable enthusiasm of the young man, who longed for a glorious, illustrious destiny, that he might be the pride and joy of his mother, and satisfy his ambitious envy, whose purified flame burned within him more than ever.

It had been decided by common consent that Frederick should first enter the Polytechnic School, and that from there, according to his inclination, he should follow one of those numerous careers opened to him by this encyclopaedical school, – war, the navy, art, letters, or science.

These few words will give an insight, somewhat incomplete, into the ideal felicity in which these three tender and noble creatures lived from the moment that Marie's condition ceased to inspire fear; a felicity altogether new to all, since, even in the happy days which followed Frederick's recovery, the coming of M. Bastien, often forgotten, yet always imminent, would appear on their bright horizon like a threatening cloud.

At this time, on the contrary, as far as the view of Marie and David and Frederick could extend, they beheld an azure sky of such serene splendour that its almost limitless magnificence sometimes dazzled them.

Three weeks had elapsed since the announcement of the death of M. Bastien.

Two o'clock had just sounded, and Frederick, assisted by Marguerite and old André, was filling the vases on the chimneypiece in the library with snowdrops, pale Bengal roses, winter heliotropes, and holly branches, ornamented with their coral berries. In the middle of the mantel, a portrait of Frederick, an admirable likeness done in pastel by David, was placed on an easel; a bright fire burned in the chimney, and on a table were preparations for a simple and rustic collation.

The three accomplices, as they were jestingly called, who presided at the preparations for this little festivity, or, in a word, this surprise party, were walking about on tiptoe and whispering, for fear Madame Bastien might suspect what was taking place. That day, for the first time since her illness, the young woman was to come out of her chamber and remain several hours in the library. Frederick also, and the two old servants, tried to give an air of mirth to this room, and David, without Marie's knowledge, was busy with Frederick's portrait, which she was to see that day for the first time.

During the mysterious coming and going, Marie was alone in her chamber with David.

The young woman clothed in mourning, half recumbent on a sick-chair, with silent happiness contemplated David, seated at a work-table and occupied in correcting one of Frederick's exercises.

Suddenly David, pursuing his reading, said, in a low voice:

"It is incomprehensible!"

"What is incomprehensible, M. David?"

"The really remarkable progress of this child, madame. We have been studying geometry only three weeks, and his aptitude for the exact sciences develops with the same rapidity as his other faculties."

"If I must tell you, M. David, this aptitude in Frederick astonishes me; it seems to me that those studies which require imagination and sentiment are what he would prefer."

"And that, madame, is what surprises and charms me. In this dear child everything obeys the same impulse, everything develops visibly, and nothing is injured. I read to you yesterday his last efforts, which were really eloquent, really beautiful."

"The fact is, M. David, that there is a striking difference between this last production and the best things he wrote before this terrible malady, which, thanks to you will lead to Frederick's regeneration. All that I now dread for him is excess of work."

"And for that reason, I moderate, as much as I can, his eagerness to learn, his impatient and jealous enthusiasm, his passionate longing for the future which he wishes to make illustrious and glorious, and that future will be his."

"Ah, M. David, what joy, what transport for us, if our anticipations are realised!"

It is impossible to reproduce the tenderness Marie expressed in those words, "we – our anticipations," which in themselves revealed the secret projects for happiness, tacitly formed by Marie and David.

The latter continued:

"Believe me, madame, we will see him great in heart and in intellect. There is in him an extraordinary energy, which has developed twofold through this dreaded envy which has so much alarmed us."

"Indeed, on yesterday, M. David, he said to me, cheerfully:

"'Mother, now when I see the castle of Pont Brillant rising in the distance, – that once made me so unhappy, – I throw upon it only a glance of friendly regard and defiance.'"

"And you will see, madame, if, in eight or ten years, the name of Frederick Bastien will not resound more gloriously than that of the young marquis."

"I have the pride to share your hope, M. David. Guided by us, I do not know to what height my son may not attain."

"Then after a short silence Marie added:

"But do you know it all seems like a dream? When I think that it is scarcely two months ago, the evening of your arrival, you were there at that table, looking over Frederick's exercises, and deploring, like me, the veil which lay over the mind of this unhappy child."

"Do you recollect, madame, that gloomy, frozen silence, against which all our efforts proved unavailing?"

"And that might when, crazy with terror, I ran up-stairs to you, to beseech you not to abandon my son, as if you could have abandoned him."

"Say, madame, is there not a sort of charm in these painful memories, now that we are in perfect security and happiness?"

"Yes, there is a sad charm in them, but how much I prefer certain hopes! So, M. David, I will tell you that I have made many plans to-night."

"Let us hear them, madame."

"There is one, very foolish, – really impossible."

"So much the better, they are usually the most charming."

"When our Frederick enters the Polytechnic School, we must be separated from him. Oh, make yourself easy, I will be brave, on one condition."

"And what is that condition?"

"You are going to laugh at it, because it is so childish, perhaps ridiculous. Ah, well, I wish we could dwell near him. And if I must confess all to you, my desire would be to take lodgings opposite the school, if that is possible. Now you are going to laugh at me."

"I do not laugh at this idea at all, madame; I think it is an excellent one, because, thanks to this proximity, you will be able to see our dear boy twice a day, and, besides visits, there will be two long days when we will have him all to ourselves."

"Really," answered Marie, smiling, "you do not think I am too fond a mother?"

"My reply is very short, madame. As it is always necessary to provide for things in the distance, I am going to write to Paris to-day to a reliable person who will watch for a convenient lodging opposite the school and engage it for us."

"How good you are!"

"Very easy kindness, really, to share with you the joy of being near our dear boy."

Marie remained silent a moment; then tears of gratitude filled her eyes and she said, with inexpressible emotion, as she turned toward David:

"How sweet happiness is!"

And her tearful eyes sought and met the eyes of David; for a long time they gazed at each other in silent, divine ecstasy. The door of the chamber opened and Marguerite said to the preceptor, with an air at the same time joyous and mysterious:

"M. David, will you come, if you please?"

"And my son," asked Marie, "where is he?"

"M. Frederick is busy, madame, very busy," replied Marguerite, exchanging a glance of intelligence with the preceptor, who was going out of the door.

"If madame will permit it," said Marguerite, "I will stay with her, in case she may need something."

"Ah, Marguerite, Marguerite," said the young wife, smiling and shaking her head, "they are plotting something here."

"Why do you think that, madame?"

"Oh, I am very discerning! Since this morning, such goings and comings I have heard in the corridor, Frederick is absent during his study hour, and an unusual noise in the library; so you see – "

"I can assure you, madame, that – "

"Good! good! you are taking advantage of my condition," said Marie, smiling. "They all know that I cannot walk about and see myself what is happening out there."

"Oh, madame, what do you think?"

"Well, Marguerite, I think it is a surprise."

"A surprise, madame?"

"Come, my good Marguerite, tell me all about it, I beg you; then I shall be happier sooner, and so I shall be happier a longer time."

"Madame," said Marguerite, heroically, "that would be treason."

At that moment old André opened the door half-way, put his head in, looking very radiant and mysterious, and said to the servant:

"Marguerite, they want to know where is the thing that – that – "

"Ah, my God! he is going to say some foolishness; he never does anything else!" cried Marguerite, running to the door, where she conversed some moments with André in a low tone, after which she came back to her mistress, who said to her, smiling:

"Come, Marguerite, since you are relentless, I am going to see for myself."

"Madame, you think so? You are not able yet to walk after such an illness."

"Do not scold me, I submit; I will not spoil the surprise, but how impatient I am to know!"

The door of the library opened again.

It was David, Frederick, and Doctor Dufour.

Marguerite went away, after having whispered to Frederick:

"M. Frederick, when you hear me cough behind the door, all will be ready."

And the old servant went out.

At the sight of the doctor, Madame Bastien said, cheerfully:

"Oh, now that you are here, my good doctor, I do not doubt any longer that there is a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy?" answered Doctor Dufour, affecting astonishment, while David and Frederick exchanged a smile.

"Yes, yes," replied Marie. "A surprise they are preparing for me. But I warn you that surprises are very dangerous to poor invalids like me, and you had a great deal better tell me beforehand."

"All that I can tell you, my dear impatient and beautiful invalid, is that we have agreed that to-day is the day when you must make an attempt to walk alone for the first time, and that it is my duty, yes, madame, my duty to assist this exertion of your powers."

Scarcely had the doctor uttered these words, when they heard Marguerite cough with great affectation behind the door.

"Come, mother," said Frederick to his mother, tenderly, "have courage now, we are going to take a long walk in the house."

"Oh, I feel so strong that you will be astonished," replied Marie, smiling and trying to rise from her sick-chair, and succeeding with great difficulty, for she was very weak.

It was a beautiful and pathetic picture.

Marie, having risen, advanced with an uncertain step, David at her right, the doctor at her left, ready to sustain her if she fainted, while Frederick, in front of her, was slowly walking backward, holding out his arms, as one does to a child that is attempting his first steps.