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CHAPTER XXVI

THE conversation between David and Frederick was interrupted by the brickmaker, who entered the chamber, looking very much frightened. "Monsieur," said he, hurriedly, to David, "the cart is ready. Go quick."

"What is the matter?" asked David.

"The Loire is still rising, monsieur. Before two hours all my little furniture and effects will be swept away."

"Do you fear an overflow?"

"Perhaps, monsieur, for the rising of the waters is becoming frightful, and, if the Loire overflows, to-morrow nothing will be seen of my brick-kiln but the chimneys. So, for the sake of prudence, I must move you out. The cart which takes you home, will, on its return, carry my furniture away."

"Come, my child," said David to Frederick, "have courage. You see we have not a moment to lose."

"I am ready, M. David."

"Fortunately our clothes are dry, thanks to this hot furnace. Lean on me, my child."

As they left the house, Frederick said to the brickmaker:

"Pardon me, sir, for not being able to thank you better for your kind attention, but I will return."

"May Heaven bless you, my young gentleman, and grant that you may not find a mass of rubbish when you return to this place, instead of this house."

David, without Frederick's knowledge, gave two gold pieces to the brickmaker, as he said, in a low voice:

"That is for the cart."

A few minutes elapsed, and the son of Madame Bastien left the brick-kiln with David in the rustic conveyance filled with a thick layer of straw, and covered over with a cloth, for the rain continued to fall in torrents.

The cart driver, wrapped in a wagoner's coat, and seated on one of the shafts, urged the gait of the horse, that trotted slowly and heavily.

David insisted that Frederick should lie down in the cart, and lean his head on his knees; thus seated in the back of the cart, he held the youth in a half embrace, and watched over him with paternal solicitude.

"My child," said he, carefully wrapping Frederick in the thick covering loaned by the brickmaker, "are you not cold?"

"No, M. David."

"Now, let us agree upon facts. Your mother must never know what has happened this morning. We will say, shall we not, that, surprised by a beating rain, we obtained this cart with great difficulty? The brickmaker thinks you fell in the water by imprudently venturing too near the slope of the embankment. He has promised me not to noise abroad this accident, the reports of which might frighten your mother. Now, that being agreed upon, we will think of it no more."

"What kindness! what generosity! You think of everything. You are right; my mother must not know that you have saved my life at the risk of your own, and yet – "

"What your mother ought to know, my dear Frederick, what she ought to see, is that I have kept the promise that I made to her this morning, for time presses."

"What promise?"

"I promised her to cure you."

"Cure me!" and Frederick bowed his head with grief. "Cure me!"

"And this cure must be accomplished this morning."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that in an hour, upon our arrival at the farm, you must be the Frederick of former times, the glory and pride of your mother."

"M. David!"

"My child, the moments are numbered, so listen to me. This morning, at the time you disappeared, I said to you, 'I know the cause of your illness.'"

"You did say that to me, truly, M. David."

"Well, now, the cause is envy!"

"Oh, my God!" murmured Frederick, overwhelmed with shame, and trying to slip away from David's embrace.

But the latter pressed Frederick all the more tenderly to his heart, and said, quickly:

"Lift up your head, my child, – there is no need for shame, envy is an excellent quality."

"Envy an excellent quality!" exclaimed Frederick, sitting up and staring at David with bewildered astonishment. "Envy!" repeated he, shuddering. "Ah, monsieur, you do not know what it produces."

"Hatred? so much the better."

"So much the better! but hatred in its turn – "

"Gives birth to vengeance, so much the better still."

"M. David," said the young man, falling back on his straw couch with sadness, "you are laughing at me, and yet – "

"Laughing at you, poor child!" said David, in a voice full of emotion, as he drew Frederick back to him, and pressed him to his breast with affection. "I laugh at you! do not say that. To me, more than to anyone else, grief is sacred. I laugh at you. You do not know then, at first sight of you, I was filled with compassion, with tenderness, because, you see, Frederick, I had a young brother about your age – "

And David's tears flowed, until, choked with emotion, he was obliged to keep silent.

Frederick's tears flowed also, and he in his turn embraced David, looking at him with a heart-broken expression, as if he wished to ask pardon for making him weep.

David understood him.

"Be calm, my child; these tears, too, have their sweetness. Well, the brother I speak of, this young beloved brother, who made my joy and my love, I lost. That is why I felt for you such a quick and keen interest, that is why I wish to return you to your mother as you were in the olden time, because it is to return you to happiness."

The accent, the countenance of David, as he uttered these words, were of such a melancholy, pathetic sweetness that Frederick, more and more affected, answered, timidly:

"Forgive me, M. David, for having thought you were laughing at me, but – "

"But what I said to you seemed so strange, did it not, that you could not believe that I was speaking seriously?"

"That is true."

"So it ought to be, nevertheless my words are sincere, and I am going to prove it to you."

Frederick fixed on David a look full of pain and eager curiosity.

"Yes, my child, envy, in itself, is an excellent quality; only you, up to this time, have applied it improperly, – you have envied wickedly instead of envying well."

"Envy well! Envy an excellent quality!" repeated Frederick, as if he could not believe his ears. "Envy, frightful envy, which corrodes, which devours, which kills!"

"My poor child, the Loire came near, just now, being your tomb. Had that misfortune happened, would not your mother have cried, 'Oh, the accursed river which kills, – accursed river which has swallowed up my son!'"

"Alas, M. David!"

"And if these fears of inundation are realised, how many despairing hearts will cry, 'Oh, accursed river! our houses are swept away, our fields submerged.' Are not these maledictions just?"

"Only too just, M. David."

"Yes; and yet this river so cursed fertilises its shores. It is the wealth of the cities by which it flows. Thousands of boats, laden with provisions of all sorts, plough its waves; this river so cursed accomplishes truly a useful mission, that God has given to everything he has created, because to say that God has created rivers for inundation and disaster would be a blasphemy. No, no! It is man, whose ignorance, whose carelessness, whose egotism, whose greed, and whose disdain change the gifts of the Creator into plagues."

Frederick, struck with his preceptor's words, listened to him with increasing interest.

"Just now, even," continued David, "unless heat from the fire had penetrated your benumbed limbs, you would, perhaps, have died, yet how horrible are the ravages of fire! Must we curse it and its Creator? What more shall I say to you? Shall we curse steam, which has changed the face of the earth, because it has caused so many awful disasters? No, no! God has created forces, and man, a free agent, employs those forces for good or for evil. And as God is everywhere the same in his omnipotence, it is with passions as with elements; no one of them is bad in itself, they are levers. Man uses them for good or for evil, according to his own free will. So, my child, your troubles date from your visit to the castle of Pont Brillant, do they not?"

"Yes, M. David."

"And you felt envy, keenly and deeply, did you not, when you compared the obscurity of your name and your poor, humble life with the splendid life and illustrious name of the young Marquis of Pont Brillant?"

"It is only too true."

"Up to that point, these sentiments were excellent."

"Excellent?"

"Excellent! You brought with you from the castle living and powerful forces; they ought, wisely directed, to have given the widest range to the development of your faculties. Unhappily, these forces have burst in your inexperienced hands, and have wounded you, poor dear child! Thus, to return to yourself, all your pure and simple enjoyments were destroyed by the constant remembrance of the splendours of the castle; then, in your grievous, unoccupied covetousness, you were forced to hate the one who possessed all that you desired; then vengeance."

"You know!" cried Frederick, in dismay.

"I know all, my child."

"Ah, M. David, pardon, I pray you," murmured Frederick, humiliated, "it was remorse for that base and horrible act that led me to think of suicide."

"I believe you, my child, and now that explains to me your unconquerable dejection since I arrived at your mother's house. You meditated this dreadful deed?"

"I thought of it for the first time, the evening of your arrival."

"This suicide was a voluntary expiation. There are more profitable ones, Frederick, my dear boy. Besides, I am certain that if envy was the germ of your hatred toward Raoul de Pont Brillant, the terrible scene in the forest was brought about by circumstances that I am ignorant of, and which ought to extenuate your culpable act."

Frederick hung his head in silence.

"Of that we will speak later," said David. "Now, let us see, my child; what did you envy the most in the young Marquis of Pont Brillant? His riches? So much the better. Envy them ardently, envy them sincerely, and in this incessant, energetic envy, you will find a lever of incalculable power. You will overcome all obstacles. By means of labour, intelligence, and probity, you will become rich. Why not? Jacques Lafitte was poorer than you are. He wished to be rich, and he became a millionaire twenty times over. His reputation is without a stain, and he always extended a hand to poverty, always favoured and endowed honest, courageous work. How many similar examples I could cite you!"

Frederick at first looked at his preceptor with profound surprise; then, beginning to comprehend the significance of his words, he put his hands on his forehead, as if his mind had been dazzled by a sudden light.

David continued:

"Let us go farther. Did the wealth of the marquis fill your heart only with covetous desire, instead of a sentiment of hatred and revolt against a society where some abound with superfluous possession, while others die for want of the necessaries of life? Very well, my child, that is an excellent sentiment; it is sacred and religious, because it inspired the Fathers of the Church with holy and avenging words. So, at the voice of great revolutions, the divine principle of fraternity, of human equality, has been proclaimed. Yes," added David, with a bitter sadness, "but proclaimed in vain. Priests, denying their humble origin, have become accomplices of wealth and power in the hands of kings, and have said to the people, 'Fate has devoted you to servitude, to misery, and to tears, on this earth.' Was not this a blasphemy against the fatherly goodness of the Creator, – a base desertion of the cause of the disinherited? But in our day this cause has valiant defenders, and blessed are these sentiments that the sight of wealth inspires in you, if it throws you among the people of courage who fight for the imperishable cause of equality and human brotherhood."

"Oh!" cried Frederick, with clasped hands, his face radiant, and his heart throbbing with generous enthusiasm, "I understand, I understand."

"Let us see," pursued David, with increasing animation; "for what else did you envy this young marquis? The antiquity of his name? Envy it, envy it, by all means. You will have what is better than an ancient name; you will make your own name illustrious, and more widely celebrated than that of Pont Brillant. Art, letters, war! how many careers are open to your ambition! And you will win reputation. I have studied your works; I know the extent of your ability, when it is increased tenfold by the might of a determined and noble emulation."

"My God! my God!" cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, his eyes filled with tears, "I cannot tell what change has come over me. The darkness of night has been turned to day, – the day of the past, and even brighter than the past. Oh, my mother! my mother!"

"Let us go on," continued David, unwilling to leave the least doubt in Frederick's mind; "does the envy you feel when you hear the ancient name of Pont Brillant manifest itself by a violent hatred of aristocratic tradition, always springing up, sometimes feudal, and sometimes among the citizenship? Exalt this envy, my child. Jean Jacques, in protesting against the inequality of material conditions, was sublimely envious, and our fathers, in destroying the privileges of the monarchy, were heroically, immortally envious."

"Oh!" exclaimed Frederick, "how my heart beats at your noble words, M. David! What a revelation! What was killing me, I realise now, was a cowardly, barren envy. Envy for me was indolence, despair, death. Envy ought to be action, hope, and life. In my impotent rage I only knew how to curse myself, others, and my own nonentity. Envy ought to give me the desire and strength to come out of my obscurity, and I will come out of it."

"Good! good! dear, brave child!" exclaimed David, in his turn, pressing Frederick to his breast. "Oh, I was certain I could cure you! An easy task with a generous nature like yours, so long cherished by the most admirable of mothers. Tender and excellent heart!" added he, no longer able to restrain his tears. "This morning, as you were about to drown, your last cry was, 'My mother! my mother!' You are born again to hope and life, and your first cry is still, 'My mother! my mother!'"

"I owe you my life," murmured Frederick, responding to the ardent embrace of his preceptor. "I owe you the life of my body as well as the life of my soul, M. David."

"Frederick, my child," said David, with inexpressible emotion, "call me your friend. That name I deserve now, do I not? It will replace the sweet and cherished name I can never hear again, – my brother!"

"Oh, my friend!" cried Frederick, with exaltation, "and you will see me worthy of the name of friend."

A moment of silence succeeded this outburst of sentiment, as David and Frederick held each other in close embrace.

The preceptor was the first to speak.

"Now, my dear child, I must appeal to your candour on a last and important matter. It may be severe, even relentless to me, but not unjust. Tell me, if – "

David could not finish. Entirely absorbed in their conversation, the preceptor and his pupil had not noticed the route, until the cart suddenly stopped a short distance from the farm gate.

Marie Bastien, greatly distressed at the prolonged absence of her son, had been standing long under the rustic porch of her house, eagerly looking for his return.

At the sight of the covered cart, as it approached the farm, an inexplicable presentiment told the young woman that her son was there. Then, divided between fear and joy, she ran to meet the cart, and exclaimed:

"Frederick, is it you?"

David was interrupted in his remarks, and the cart stopped.

With one bound, the son of Madame Bastien leaped from the cart, threw himself on his mother's neck, covered it with kisses and tears, as he cried, with a voice broken by sobs:

"Mother, saved! No more trouble! saved, mother, saved!"

CHAPTER XXVII

AT these words of Frederick, "Saved, mother, saved," Marie Bastien looked at her son with mingled feelings of joy and surprise; already he seemed another person, almost transfigured, his head lifted, his smile radiant, his look inspired; his beautiful eyes were illuminated by an inward joy; the young mother was amazed. Scarcely had her son cried, "Saved," when Marie divined by David's attitude, his countenance, and the serenity of his face, that he had brought Frederick back to her, truly regenerated.

What means, what miracle could have produced so rapid and so unexpected a result? Marie did not question herself. David had given Frederick back to her as he used to be, so she said. Then, in an almost religious outburst of gratitude, she threw herself at David's feet; when he extended his hands to raise her, Marie seized them, pressed them passionately in her own, and cried in a voice trembling with all the emotions of maternal love:

"My life, my whole life, M. David, you have given me back my son!"

"Oh, my mother! Oh, my friend!" cried Frederick.

And, with an irresistible embrace, he pressed both Marie and David to his heart; David, sharing the impulsive joy of the young man, united with him in the same long caress.

Madame Bastien was not informed of the danger which her son had incurred that morning. Frederick and David removed their damp clothing, and then rejoined Madame Bastien, who, plunged in a sort of ecstasy, was wondering how David had wrought the miracle of Frederick's cure.

At the sight of each other, the mother and son renewed their demonstrations of affection, and in this ineffable embrace, the young woman sought the glance of David, almost involuntarily, as if to associate him with her maternal caresses, and to render him thanks for the happiness she enjoyed.

Frederick, looking around him, appeared to contemplate every object in the little library with affection.

"Mother," said he, after a moment of silence, with a smile full of charm, "you will think I am silly, but it seems to me I cannot tell the time since I entered this room, so long it seems, since the evening we went to the castle of Pont Brillant. Our books, our drawings, our piano, even my old armchair in which I used to work, seem like so many friends that I have met again after a long absence."

"I understand you, Frederick," said Madame Bastien, smiling. "We are like the sleepers in the story of the 'Sleeping Beauty.' Our sleep, not so long as hers, has lasted five months. Bad dreams have disturbed it, but we awake as happy as we were before we went to sleep, do we not?"

"Happier, mother!" added Frederick, taking David's hand. "At our awakening, we found one friend more."

"You are right, my child," said the young mother, giving David a look beaming with rapture.

Then, seeing Frederick open the glass door which led to the grove, she added:

"What are you going to do? The rain has stopped, but the weather is still overcast and misty."

"The weather overcast and misty?" cried Frederick, going out of the house and looking at the century-old grove, with delight. "Oh, mother, can you say the weather is gloomy? Well, I must seem foolish to you, but our dear old grove looks to me as bright and smiling as it does under the sun of springtime."

The young man did appear to be born again; his features expressed such true, radiant happiness, that his mother could only look at him in silence. She saw him again as handsome, as sprightly, as joyous as formerly, although he was pale and thin, and yet every moment his cheeks would flush with some sweet emotion.

David, for whom every word of Frederick had a significance, enjoyed this scene intensely.

Suddenly the young man stopped a moment as if in a dream, before a group of wild thorns which grew on the edge of the grove; after some moments of reflection, he sought his mother's eyes, and said to her, no longer cheerful, but with a sweet melancholy:

"Mother, in a few words, I am going to tell you of my cure. So," added he turning to David, "you will see that I have profited from your teaching, my friend."

For the first time, Marie noticed that her son called David his friend. The satisfaction she felt at this tender familiarity was easily read on her countenance, as Frederick continued:

"Mother, it was M. David who asked me to call him, hereafter, my friend. He was right; it would have been difficult for me to have said 'M. David' any longer; now, mother, listen to me well, – do you see that clump of blackthorn?"

"Yes, my child."

"Nothing seems more useless than this thorn with its darts as sharp as steel, – does it, mother?"

"You are right, my child."

"But let our good old André, our gardener and chief of husbandry, insert under the bark of this wild bush a little branch of a fine pear-tree, and you will see this thorn soon transformed into a tree laden with flowers, and afterward with delicious fruit. And yet, mother, it is always the same root, sucking the same sap from the same soil. Only this sap, this power, is utilised. Do you comprehend?"

"Admirably, my child. It is important that forces or powers should be well employed, instead of remaining barren or injurious."

"Yes, madame," answered David, exchanging a smile of intelligence with Frederick, "and to follow this dear child's comparison, I will add that it is the same with those passions considered the most dangerous and most powerful, because they are the most deeply implanted in the heart of man. God has put them there; do not tear them out; only graft this thorny wild stock, as Frederick has said, and make it flower and fructify by means of the sap which the Creator has put in them."

"That reminds me, M. David," said the young woman, impressed with this reasoning, "that in speaking of hatred, you have told me that there were hatreds which were even noble, generous, and heroic."

"Well, mother," said Frederick, resolutely, "envy, like hatred, can become fruitful, heroic, – sublime."

"Envy!" exclaimed Marie Bastien.

"Yes, envy, because the malady which was killing me was envy!"

"You, envious, you?"

"Since our visit to the castle of Pont Brillant, the sight of those wonders – "

"Ah!" interrupted Marie Bastien, suddenly enlightened by this revelation, and shuddering, so to speak, with retrospective fear. "Ah, now I understand all, unhappy child!"

"Happy child, mother, because this envy, for want of culture, has been a long time as black and cruel as the thorn of which we were speaking. Just now, our friend," added Frederick, turning to David, with an ineffable smile of tenderness and gratitude, "yes, our friend has grafted this envy with brave emulation, generous ambition, and you shall see the fruits of it, mother; you shall see that by dint of courage and labour, I will make your and my name illustrious, – this humble name whose obscurity is galling to me. Oh, glory! renown! my mother, what a brilliant future! To enable you to say with joy, with pride, 'This is my son!'"

"My child, oh, my beloved child!" exclaimed Marie, in a transport of joy. "I now comprehend the cure, as I have comprehended the disease."

Then turning to the preceptor she could only say:

"M. David! Oh, M. David!"

And tears, sobs of joy, forbade her utterance.

"Yes, thank him, mother," continued Frederick, carried away by emotion. "Love him, cherish him, bless him, for you do not know what goodness, what delicacy, what lofty and manly reason, what genius he has shown in accomplishing the cure of your son. His words are engraven upon my heart ineffaceably; they have recalled me to life, to hope, and to all the elevated sentiments I owe to you. Oh! thanks should be given to you, mother, for it is your hand still which chose my saviour, this good genius who has returned me to you, worthy of you."

There are joys impossible to describe. Such was the end of this long day for David, Marie, and her son.

Frederick was too full of gratitude and admiration toward his friend not to wish to share his sentiments with his mother; the words of his preceptor were so present to his thought that he repeated to her, word for word, all their long conversation.

Very often Frederick was on the point of confessing to his mother that he owed to David, not only the life of his soul, but the life of his body. He was prevented only by the promise made to his friend, and the fear of undue excitement in the mind of his mother.

As to Marie, taking in at one glance the conduct of David, from the first hour of his devotion to the hour of unhoped for triumph; recalling his gentleness, his simplicity, his delicacy, his generous perseverance, crowned with such dazzling success, – a success obtained only by the ascendency of a great heart, and an elevated mind, – what she felt for David would be difficult to express; it was mingled affection, tenderness, admiration, respect, and especially a passionate gratitude, for she owed to David, not only the cure of Frederick, but that future to which she looked forward, as illustrious and glorious, nothing doubting, now, that Frederick, excited by the ardour of his own ambition, directed by the wisdom and skill of David, would one day achieve a brilliant destiny.

From this moment, David and Frederick became inseparable in Marie's heart, and without taking precise account of her feelings, the young woman felt that her life and that of her son were identified with the life of David.

We leave to the imagination the delightful evening that passed in the library with the mother, the son, and the preceptor. Only as certain joys as much as grief oppress the heart, and demand, so to speak, digestion in reflection, Marie and her son and David, separated earlier than usual, saying "to-morrow" with the sweet anticipation of a joyous day.

David went to his little chamber. He had need of being alone.

The words that Frederick had uttered in the transport of his gratitude, as he spoke to his mother of the preceptor, – "Love him, cherish him, bless him," – words to which Marie Bastien had responded by a glance of inexpressible gratitude, became the joy and the sorrow of David.

He had felt the inmost fibres of his heart thrill many times, in meeting the large blue eyes of Marie, as they welled over with maternal solicitude; he had trembled in seeing her lavish caresses upon her son, and he could but dream of the wealth of ardent affection which this pure and at the same time passionate nature possessed.

"What love like hers," said he to himself, "if there is a place in her heart for any other sentiment besides that of maternity! How beautiful she was to-day, what bewitching expressions animated her face! Oh! I feel it, now is my hour of peril, of struggle, and of suffering! Yes, the tears of Marie are consecrated! I felt it was a sacrilege to lift my eyes to this young weeping mother, so beautiful in her tears. Yet she is now radiant with the joy she owes to me, and in her ingenuous gratitude, her tender eyes sought me whenever she looked upon Frederick. And think of what her son said to her, – 'Love him, cherish him, bless him,' – and the expressive silence, the pathetic glance of this adorable woman, perhaps, may make me believe some day – "

David, not daring to pursue this thought, resumed with sadness:

"Oh, yes, the hour of suffering, the hour of resignation has come. Confess my love, or let Marie suspect it, when she owes so much to me? Lead her to believe that my devotion to her concealed another design? Lead her to believe that, instead of yielding spontaneously to the interest this poor child inspired, – thanks to the memory of my lamented brother, – I made a cloak, a pretext of this interest to surprise the maternal confidence of a young woman? In fact, to lose, in her eyes, the only merit of my devotion, my sudden loyalty, – indiscreet, yes, very indiscreet, I see it all now, – alas, shall I degrade myself in the eyes of Marie? never! never!

"Between her and me will be always her son.

"To fly from this love, shall I leave the house where this love is always growing?

"No, I cannot do so yet.

"Frederick to-day, in the intoxication of this revelation which has changed his gloomy despair into a will full of faith and enthusiasm, – Frederick, suddenly lifted from the abyss where he had fallen, experiences the delight of the prisoner all at once restored to liberty and light, yet does not this cure need to be established? Will it not be necessary to moderate the impetuosity of this young and ardent imagination in its enthusiastic conceptions of the future?

"And then, it may be, the first exultation passed, – to-morrow perhaps, – Frederick, on the other hand, more self-reliant, and better comprehending the generous efforts necessary to reach the fountainhead of envy, will remember with more bitterness than ever the dreadful deed that he wished to commit, – his desire to murder Raoul de Pont Brillant. A fruitful and generous expiation, then, is the only thing which can appease this remorse which has tempted Frederick to commit suicide.

"No, no, I cannot abandon this child yet; I love him too sincerely, I have the completion of my work too much at heart.

"I must remain.

"Remain, and each day live this intimate, solitary life with Marie, – she who came so innocently to this chamber in the middle of the night in a dishevelled state, the recollection of which thrills me, even in the sleep where I vainly seek for rest."

To this dangerous sleep David yielded, nevertheless, as the emotions and fatigues of the day had been very exhausting.

The day was just breaking.

David started out of sleep, as he heard several violent knocks at his door, and recognised the voice of Frederick, who said:

"My friend, open, open your door, please!"