"She has written or, rather, made someone else write."
"Made someone else write?"
"Ah! you will laugh at me—the poor girl I love can neither read nor write."
"What a happy mortal you are! You are spared the lengthy epistles I am forced to endure from a little shop girl whom I have robbed from a jealous banker. I amuse myself by making her the rage, and enjoy the poor creature's ecstasies immensely! It is so delightful to make others happy. Her grammar is outrageous, however. Ah! my friend, what orthography! it is of the antediluvian, innocent style; such as Mother Eve must have used—but if your Mariette cannot write, who knows but her secretary may have misinterpreted her thoughts?"
"With what object?"
"I don't know. But why not have an explanation with her?"
"She has begged me, in the name of her future happiness, not to see her again."
"Well, now that you are a prospective millionaire, I would advise you to see her in the name of that very future happiness."
"You are right, Florestan; I shall see her, and if this cruel mystery can be explained, if I find her as in the past, affectionate and devoted, what bliss shall be mine! Poor child, her life has been one of work and misery; but she will now find comfort and rest, for my father shall consent, and—Ah! my God!—"
"What is it?" asked Florestan, anxiously.
"I have forgotten to tell you that my father wishes me to marry your cousin."
"What cousin?"
"Mademoiselle Ramon."
"You don't mean it?"
"I have just returned from Dreux, where I met her; and I must admit that, even if I were not in love with Mariette, I could never marry such a woman—"
"My uncle must be still wealthy, then, though he announced his ruin many years ago," interrupted Saint-Herem. "It is evident that a marriage with my cousin would be advantageous to you, or your father would never propose it, believe me."
"My father explained our poverty in the same way; he pretended to have lost his money many years ago."
"Ah, my worthy uncle, I knew you to be disagreeable and unendurable!" resumed Florestan; "but I did not believe you capable of such superiority of conception; from this day I esteem and venerate you. I am not your heir, it is true; but the thought of a millionaire uncle is a pleasant one, nevertheless. In moments of trouble we dream of him, we form all sorts of affectionate hypotheses, even revel in thoughts of apoplexy and long for cholera, that Providence of impecunious heirs, which appears like a good fairy, robed in rosy hues."
"My dear Florestan," laughed Louis, "though I wish no one harm, I admit that I would be glad to see your uncle's fortune fall into your hands instead of going to his detestable daughter. You would know how to enjoy the money at least; and, with such wealth, I am sure you would—"
"Contract debts, my dear fellow," interrupted his friend, majestically.
"What! with that immense fortune—"
"I would most assuredly contract debts, I tell you."
"With two or three millions?"
"With ten, or twenty millions! My system is similar to that of the State: the higher the debt of a country, the higher stands her credit; therefore, what is credit?—wealth! This is elementary, not counting that it involves a high question of moral philosophy. But I shall explain my financial and philosophical ideas on a more favorable occasion. Go to Mariette, and report to me later. As for me, I have promised to take my little shop-girl out on a new saddle-horse which, by the way, cost me an outrageous price. Now don't fail to come or write to me; whatever happens, I want to share your joy or sorrow. But jump in and let me take you there."
"Thank you, I prefer to walk; it will give me time to think over all that has happened and what attitude I should assume toward my father, in view of this singular revelation."
"Good-bye, then, my dear Louis; don't forget that I shall expect you before the day is over," said Saint-Herem, jumping into his brougham, while Louis turned toward Mariette's home.
CHAPTER X.
A sad picture met the young man's eyes, as he paused for a moment on the threshold of the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother. Lying on a thin mattress in a corner of the room was the young girl, seemingly unconscious; her features were of a deathly pallor and painfully contracted, and traces of abundant tears stained her marble cheeks; one hand lay listlessly at her side, while in the other she convulsively clutched the envelope containing the debris of Louis' letter. Kneeling by the bedside, her harsh, sarcastic features softened by an expression of touching grief and cruel anxiety, Mme. Lacombe was supporting Mariette's head with her mutilated arm, while with the other hand she was endeavoring to force a few drops of water through the livid lips.
At the sight of a stranger standing in the doorway, however, her features resumed the habitual expression of harshness and moroseness.
"What do you want?" she asked roughly. "Why do you come in without rapping at the door?—I don't know you!—who are you?"
Taking no notice of these many questions, Louis rushed to the bedside and threw himself on his knees beside the unconscious girl, crying: "My God! what has happened?—Mariette, Mariette, speak to me!"
"So you are Louis Richard?" exclaimed the old woman, her eyes flashing angrily as she gazed at the young man.
"Yes; but in heaven's name, tell me what has happened to Mariette!"
"You have killed her!"
"I—great heavens!"
"And when she is dead, you will provide for me, I suppose?" sneered
Mme. Lacombe.
"Dead!—Mariette dead!" gasped Louis. "It is impossible!—But we must summon a physician, do something—her hands are icy—Mariette! Mariette!" he called wildly. "My God! my God! she does not hear me!"
"And this is all the fault of that letter of yours, you impudent scoundrel!" interposed the old woman fiercely.
"My letter?—what letter?" he asked in astonishment.
"Ah, yes; you will lie about it and deny the whole thing now, of course! But last night the poor child broke down in despair and confessed the whole thing to me."
"But what did she have to confess?"
"That she loved you and you had deserted her for another—"
"But on the contrary I wrote to Mariette that—"
"You lie!" cried the old woman vehemently. "I tell you she read your letter; there it is now, clutched in her fingers! Heavens! what a flood of tears she shed over that rag! Go out of my sight, you worthless rake! We were very stupid indeed to refuse the good offer made to us. Yet, I told Mariette virtue brought little reward in this world. And now she is dying, and I am out into the street, without fire or shelter, without bread or anything, for everything will go for back rent. Happily," she added, with a grim smile, "I have still a small measure of charcoal left—and charcoal is the deliverance of poor people from misery."
"My God! this is horrible!" moaned Louis, unable to restrain his tears. "I swear that we are the victims of some terrible mistake, madame—Mariette! Mariette! speak to me!—It is I—Louis!"
"Do you want to kill her on the spot?" cried the exasperated woman, trying to push him away. "If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her."
"Heaven be praised!" murmured Louis, resisting the woman's efforts and bending over the girl. "See, her hands are relaxing and her eyes opening—Mariette! it is I, Louis! do you hear me?"
The girl's eyes roamed around the room for a moment, then slowly turned on the young man, who still leaned anxiously over her. Soon an expression of joyful surprise spread itself over her pale features and she attempted to raise her head, supporting herself on her elbow.
"Louis!" she murmured, feebly. "Ah! I thought I would never see you again—"
Then as the sad reality returned to her mind, she threw herself in Mme.
Lacombe's arms and burst into tears.
"Ah! godmother," she sobbed, "he comes to say farewell—it is all over!"
"There now, didn't I tell you this would finish her!" cried Mme.
Lacombe, fiercely. "Go, I say! and never let me see your face again!"
"Mariette! in mercy listen to me!" pleaded Louis. "I did not come to say farewell, but to tell you that I love you more than ever."
"Heavens! can it be true?" murmured the girl, starting up.
"We have been the victims of some error, Mariette," continued the young man. "I have never ceased to love you for a single moment; no, never. During my absence, I had but one thought, one desire; it was to see you again and fix the day of our marriage, as I told you in my letter—"
"Your letter!" interrupted the girl, sadly. "Have you already forgotten what you wrote, Louis? Here—read it."
"He can deny his own writing, of course," growled Mme. Lacombe, as the young man hastily placed the torn pieces together; "and you'll be stupid enough to believe him."
"This is what I wrote, Mariette," said Louis, when he had succeeded in his difficult task.
"My Dear Mariette:
"I shall be with you the day following the receipt of this letter. What I have suffered during this short separation proves that I cannot live without you. Thank God, the day of our union is fast approaching. Tomorrow is the sixth of May, remember. I shall speak to my father the moment I reach home, and I am sure he will not refuse his consent.
"Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my darling Mariette. I love you madly, or wisely, rather; for I was wise to seek and find happiness in a heart like yours.
"Yours forever and ever. LOUIS."
"I write these few lines only, because I shall be in Paris almost as soon as my letter; and then, it is always painful to think that other eyes see what I write for you only. Were it not for this, how many things might I not say!"
Mariette was so astounded that she could find no word to say.
"I cannot understand how this letter could have produced such a sad effect on you?" said Louis, much perplexed.
"Is that really what the letter says?" asked the amazed girl.
"Certainly. Here, Madame Lacombe, read it," suggested Louis, placing the fragments before her.
"You know very well that I can't read," replied the old woman, roughly.
"How is it that the contrary was told Mariette?"
"Who read it for you, Mariette?" asked Louis.
"The public scribe," she informed him.
"A public scribe!" exclaimed the young man, a fearful suspicion flashing through his mind. "In mercy, explain yourself!"
"There is very little to explain, my dear Louis. I went in search of a public scribe, at the Charnier des Innocents, and dictated a letter for you to a very kind old gentleman. He was so kind, indeed, that he only charged me ten sous, although he was obliged to write it twice, having spilt the bottle of ink on the first copy as he was preparing to address it to Dreux. When I reached home again, I found this letter from you; then I went back to the public scribe—for he had shown much interest in me—and he read it for me. According to him, the letter said that we should never meet again; that your father's future happiness and your own depended on our separation, and that—" But she could say no more, and burst into tears.
Louis understood it all, however, from the chance meeting of Mariette with his father, to the stratagem of the latter to deceive them both. This abuse of confidence overwhelmed him with such grief and shame, that he dared not admit the tie of relationship existing between himself and the public scribe, but sought another plausible explanation of this deceit and treachery.
"Notwithstanding his apparent good nature and benevolence, this old
rascal must have been trying to amuse himself at your expense, my poor
Mariette," said the young man. "He read you just the contrary of what
I had written."
"Oh! how could he be so cruel!" cried the girl, clasping her two hands together. "He appeared so good, and expressed his sympathy so kindly for poor creatures like me, who can neither read nor write."
"One thing is evident, my dear Mariette, he certainly deceived you."
"But did you receive my letter at Dreux?"
"It must have reached that city after I had left it," he said, unwilling to admit that it had been addressed to Paris. "But never mind it now," he added, anxious to drop a conversation which pained him so deeply; "we are happy and—"
"Yes, you are happy enough," put in Mme. Lacombe, "but what about me?"
"What do you mean, godmother?" asked Mariette.
"I mean that I will never consent to such a marriage," she said harshly.
"But my dear madame—" began Louis.
"Tut, tut, tut, soft words won't blind me, young man;" she interrupted roughly. "If you are the son of a public writer, you are as penniless as Mariette; and two miseries united in marriage are worth three single ones. My goddaughter has enough of me to support, without a troop of famished children."
"But, my dear godmother—" protested the girl.
"Don't bother me!" she retorted angrily. "I know your plans; you simply want to rid yourself of me and leave me in the gutter to starve."
"How can you believe such a thing!" cried Mariette, reproachfully, her eyes full of tears.
"Your fears are groundless, I assure you," Louis hastened to say. "I have just discovered that my father is immensely wealthy, but for reasons of his own, he has kept the matter a secret until now."
Mariette gazed at Louis with an air of mingled astonishment and delight at this unexpected information. Then she smiled through her tears and said, with a shade of defiance in her gentle voice: "You see, godmother, that the picture is not as dark as you painted it, we are quite able to take care of you as well as ourselves."
"You are quite ready to fall into the trap, of course," rejoined the old woman, with a sarcastic laugh.
"But, godmother—"
"Don't you see that he is inventing those lies to obtain my consent to your marriage—"
"Madame, I swear—"
"And I tell you there is no truth in it; or, if you are rich, you don't want Mariette. A rich man would never be stupid enough to marry a poor girl who can neither read nor write."
"You are mistaken," said Louis, with dignity; "the son of a rich man does not break the word given in his days of poverty, when his life's happiness depends on that word—"
"Bah! mere phrases and words!" interrupted the woman sharply. "Rich or poor, you shall never have Mariette, until you have assured me a living. I don't ask much; only six hundred francs a year; but I must have it in money, with a contract deposited in the hands of a reliable notary."
"Ah! godmother, why should you distrust Louis so?" protested Mariette tearfully.
"My dear child, I know all about these fine promises," declared Mme. Lacombe. "He will promise anything beforehand; then, when he is sure of you, out goes the old cripple. With you, Mariette, I have nothing to fret about. I may be a heavy burden, but you are a good girl and stand in awe of me. Once married, however, you will both defy me and throw me out of the house. What will become of me, then? Is it my fault if I am a cripple? No! no! I tell you there shall be no marriage unless an income of six hundred francs is placed in the hands of a notary!"
While giving away to these bitter recriminations, the poor creature rocked to and fro, looking furtively at the two young people and watching the effect of her words.
"Poor Mariette," thought Louis, "how she must have suffered! To think of so much affection and devotion rewarded with so much ingratitude!"
"Madame," he said aloud, when she had ceased speaking, "you may rest assured that neither Mariette nor myself will ever forget that you have been as a mother to her; and you shall always be treated with the consideration that you deserve—I swear it."
"Thank you, Louis!" cried the girl gratefully, "I am glad to see that you share my sentiments for my poor godmother, who has indeed been as a mother to me."
"Don't you see that he is laughing at us!" exclaimed the old woman harshly. "He has no intention of marrying you and giving me a pension, I can tell you. If he is really rich, he will cajole you and entice you into a trap; then some fine morning, you will hear of his marriage with another woman—go, I say, and never set foot in this house again!"
"Madame," said Louis, "I shall come with my father to beg the honor of Mariette's hand in marriage, and will at the same time inform you of the advantages I shall be able to give you."
"Yes, yes, those fine propositions will come when I am in my grave," she muttered, as she climbed into her bed and turned her face to the wall.
"It shall be no later than to-morrow," declared Louis. "Good-bye,
Mariette. I shall call with my father to-morrow."
"Can it really be true that, after so much sorrow, we should at last know happiness—happiness forever," murmured the young girl, as Louis clasped her hand tenderly in his.
"Will you ever get done? you are driving me wild with your happiness!" came sharply from the bed. "Go, and leave me in peace!—and don't you dare to move from the room, Mariette! You are dying to go down with that gay deceiver, I know; but when I say no, I mean no!"
The young couple exchanged one last loving glance and, with a whispered: "Good-bye, my darling," Louis was gone, while Mariette returned slowly to the bedside of her godmother.
CHAPTER XI.
Louis at once proceeded to his father's business place, anxious to get over the inevitable explanation which had become necessary between them. But to his great astonishment and alarm, he found the door and shutters still closed, and was informed by the neighbors that the old man had not made his appearance that day. This break in his regular habits seemed so unusual and inexplicable, that the young man felt a vague uneasiness invading him as he hurried toward home, and all sorts of wild conjectures flashed through his mind. He soon reached the Rue de Grenelle, however, and was running up the first flight of stairs when the concierge called him from his door.
"Monsieur Louis," he said, "your father went out a couple of hours ago and left a letter for you. I was to take it to your office if you did not return before two o'clock."
The young man grasped the letter and tore it open. It ran thus:
"My dear child:
"I have just received a few lines from my friend Ramon, informing me that he and his daughter will arrive in Paris to-day.
"As he has never traveled in a railway train and anticipates much pleasure in that mode of conveyance, he will stop at Versailles, where he begs us to meet him. We shall visit the palace, and return together by the last train.
"I shall wait for you at the Hotel du Reservoir; but if you are late, you can join us at the palace. Remember, that this interview with Mademoiselle Ramon will compromise you in no way. My only desire is that you should take advantage of this opportunity to study that young person's character and see the injustice of your groundless prejudices. You will moreover understand that, whatever may be your projects, it would be most ungracious on your part to fail at a rendezvous given by one of my oldest and dearest friends.
"Your father, who loves you deeply, and whose sole desire is your happiness.
"A. RICHARD."
Notwithstanding his habitual deference to the wishes of his father, Louis thought it unnecessary to go to Versailles and face Mademoiselle Ramon a second time; so he hastened to his employer's office instead, and resumed his usual work, undeterred by the astounding revelation of his father's wealth. Owing to the numerous distractions caused by the various events of the day, however, it was late when he finished his day's task and put away his papers.
He had just closed his desk and was taking his hat from its accustomed peg, when one of his comrades burst into the room and cried excitedly: "My God! what a terrible thing!"
"What is it," asked the clerks in chorus.
"I have just met a friend on his way back from the Versailles station—"
"Versailles station!" echoed Louis, with a sudden start. "Well, what has happened?"
"A frightful accident!"
"Great Heavens!" cried Louis, turning deathly pale. "But go on."
"The return train to Paris ran off the track, throwing the cars in a heap; and it is reported that all the passengers have either been crushed or burnt to death, and—"
But Louis stopped to hear no more. Rushing out, bareheaded as he was, he dashed down the street to the first corner, where he leaped into a cab, crying: "Twenty francs if you take me to the Versailles station at breakneck speed—and from there somewhere else—I don't know where; but in mercy, go!"
"Which side of the river, monsieur," asked the coachman, as he lashed his horse.
"What do you mean?"
"There are two stations. One on the right, the other on the left bank."
"I want to go where that terrible accident occurred."
"This is the first I hear of it, monsieur."
Louis was forced to return to the office for information; but he found the place already deserted, and returned to the cab in despair.
"I have just learned it was on the left bank," the coachman informed him from his seat.
"To the left bank then!" he ordered, sinking back on the cushions with a moan.
There he learned that the sad news was unfortunately but too true, and was directed how to reach the scene of the accident.
It was nightfall when he finally reached Bas-Meudon; and, guided by the flames of the burning debris, he soon found himself on the sinister spot, where he spent the night in a fruitless search for the charred remains of his father among the mass of crushed and burnt flesh piled on the roadside or pinioned in the wreck. Worn out in body and spirits, he returned to Paris at dawn, hoping his father might have been one of the small number that had escaped with slight injuries.
"Has my father returned?" were his first words to the concierge.
"No, monsieur Louis," replied the man.
"There is no doubt possible then—he perished in the accident," he moaned, sinking into a chair and bursting into sobs.
In a few moments he had recovered his self-possession however; and, without stopping to hear the concierge's words of condolence, he slowly ascended to the fifth landing and entered the dreary room. At sight of this gloomy home, so long shared with his beloved father, the young man's grief again became uncontrollable; and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in his hands and gave free scope to his overwhelming sorrow.
He had sobbed thus for half an hour, absorbed wholly in his bitter despair, when he was startled by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of some one into the room.
"What is it?" asked Louis, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, Monsieur Louis," said the concierge timidly, "but the coachman—"
"What coachman?" questioned the young man in surprise, having entirely forgotten the cab in his grief.
"Why, the coachman you retained all night. It seems you promised him twenty extra francs if he would lash his horse to the utmost speed. This, with his night's run, comes to forty-nine francs, and he claims his money."
"Well, give him the money and tell him to go!" rejoined Louis impatiently.
"But, forty-nine francs is an enormous sum, Monsieur Louis; and I can't pay it."
"My God! what shall I do!" cried the young man, recalled to the material interests of life by this request. "I have no money!"
"Then why in the deuce do you hire cabs by the hour and in the night, too, besides promising twenty extra francs for speed? You must have taken leave of your senses!" cried the astounded man. "What will you do now? See if you can't find a little money in your father's chest."
These last words recalled what he had forgotten in his paroxysm of grief. His father was rich, and there must surely be some money about the place. Not wishing to prosecute his search in the presence of a stranger, however, he said carelessly: "Tell the man to wait, as may need the cab again this morning. If I am not down in half an hour, come up and I shall give you the money."
"But this will increase the bill, and if you cannot pay—" the man began to remonstrate.
"I know what I am doing," interrupted Louis, coldly; "you may go."
Once alone, he shrank from the task imposed upon him; this investigation, at such a moment, seemed almost a sacrilege. But necessity forced him to resign himself to it, and he stifled his scruples as best he might.
The furniture of the room Was composed of a writing table, a dresser, and an old black-walnut chest divided into two compartments, such as we find in the houses of well-to-do peasants. After a fruitless search of the table and dresser, Louis turned to the old chest. A few pieces of worn clothes lay scattered about, but nothing else; and in the long drawer that separated the compartments, he found a bundle of unimportant papers only. Thinking this drawer might contain a secret hiding place, however, he drew it out completely, and was rewarded for his trouble by finding a small brass button beneath it. As he pressed this button, he was astonished to see the bottom of the first compartment drop slowly down, revealing a space of about six inches in depth, with diverging shelves lined in garnet velvet. Symmetrically arranged between these shelves were innumerable piles of gold pieces, representing all countries and epochs. Each piece had evidently been frequently and vigorously rubbed and cleaned, for the whole glittered with almost dazzling brilliancy.
Notwithstanding his overwhelming grief, Louis was completely dazzled for a moment at sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be considerable; and it was not until the first impression had passed over, that he remarked a piece of folded paper almost beneath his fingers. Recognizing his father's hand-writing, he picked it up eagerly and read these words:
"This collection of gold coins was begun September 7, 1803; its actual value is 287,634 francs. (See paragraph IV. in my last will and testament, confided to M. Marainville, notary, Rue Sainte-Anne, No. 28, who also has all papers, deeds and titles. See also sealed envelope, behind Spanish coin, fifth shelf.)"
Removing several piles of the large, heavy coins, Louis at last found an envelope, sealed in black and bearing these words in big letters:
"TO MY WELL-BELOVED SON."
Before he could open it, however, there was a knock on the door; and, remembering that he had told the concierge to return in half an hour, he grasped one of the Spanish coins under his hand and quickly pressed the button that closed the treasure box.
"What a fine gold piece!" exclaimed the amazed concierge, when the young man handed him the coin. "It looks like new, and I never saw one like it! How much is it worth?"
"More than the sum I owe," replied Louis, impatiently; "take it to a money broker and pay the coachman."
"Did your father leave you many of these pretty coins, Monsieur Louis?" queried the man in a mysterious whisper. "Who would have believed that the poor old man—"
"Go!" cried Louis, irritated at the cynicism of this question. "Pay the coachman, and don't let me see you again."
The man withdrew without another word; and, having bolted the door to save himself from further intrusion, the miser's son returned to the chest. For a moment he stood contemplating the dazzling treasure before him, and though he reproached himself for thinking of his own happiness in that terrible hour, he could not help feeling a thrill of delight at the thought that one-fourth that sum would insure comfort and independence to his Mariette for a whole lifetime.
Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem employed by his father toward the poor girl, and even succeeded in convincing himself that he would have obtained his consent to their union; and that, though he might not have admitted his wealth, he would at least have amply provided for them.
The discovery of these riches did not inspire him with that covetous, revengeful joy usually experienced by the heirs of a miser, when they remember the cruel privations to which they were subjected through the avarice of the owner; it was, on the contrary, with a feeling of touching pious respect, and with a hand trembling with emotion, that he unfolded the sheet containing the last wishes of his beloved father.
CHAPTER XII.
The testament had been written two months previous and was in these terms:
"MY BELOVED SON:"
"When you read these lines I shall have ceased to live."
"You have always believed me poor; but I leave you an immense fortune accumulated by my avarice.
"I have been miserly, and do not attempt to excuse my fault; far from it, I am proud of it and glory in it.
"And this is why:
"Until the day of your birth, which robbed me of your mother, I was unmindful of augmenting my patrimony and the dowry brought me by my wife; the moment I had a son, however, that sentiment of foresight, which becomes a sacred duty to a father, took possession of me, developing slowly into a love of economy, then into parsimony, and finally into avarice.
"Moreover, you never suffered through the privations I imposed upon myself. Born sound and robust, the virile simplicity of your education has, I believe, aided the development of your excellent constitution.
"When you reached the age of instruction, I sent you to a school opened to the children of poor parents; to begin with, it was a means of economy; and besides, this mode of education was calculated to form and develop habits of a modest, laborious life. The success of this plan surpassed my expectations. Raised among poor children, you never acquired those factitious, expensive tastes; never experienced those bitter envies or vain jealousies which often influence our fate fatally.
"I also spared you many griefs which, though childish, are none the less cruel.
"You have never had to compare your condition to others more elevated or more opulent than your own.
"You have never felt the pangs of that envious hatred inspired by comrades in speaking of the splendor of their homes, boasting of the antique nobility of their race, or the wealth they would enjoy some day.
"It is generally believed that because children of dissimilar conditions wear the same uniform, eat at the same table, and follow the same course of study, a sentiment of equality exists between them.
"This is a deep error.
"Social inequality is as well understood among children as it is among their elders.
"The son of a rich bourgeois or of a nobleman, almost invariably betrays at the age of ten the arrogance, or haughtiness he will display in fifteen years later.
"Whether children are little men, or men are grown children matters little; all have the consciousness of their condition.
"As for you, surrounded as you were by children of the poor, you heard them continually speak of the hard labors of their parents; the indispensable necessity of work was therefore early impressed on your mind.
"Others of your companions dwelt on the privations and miseries endured by their families; you thus became accustomed to the idea of our poverty.
"Lastly, you saw the greater number of these children resigned and courageous—two of the greatest virtues in the world—and until now, my beloved son, courage and resignation have never failed you.
"At fifteen you competed for a scholarship in one of the high schools, where you finished your studies. Your first education had already borne excellent fruits; for, although many of your new companions belonged to the aristocratic world, their contact never altered your precious qualities, and you never knew the meaning of either jealousy or envy.
"Later, you entered as junior clerk in a notary's office, with a man who has long been my friend, and who alone holds the secret and administers my fortune. Until now, the discretion of this friend has equaled his devotion. Near him, you have acquired a perfect knowledge of business; and, thanks to my foresight, you shall be in a position to skilfully and advantageously administer the considerable wealth I have amassed.
"My conscience does not reproach me; and yet, I admit that I sometimes fear you will address this reproach to my memory:
"While you accumulated these riches, my father, you condemned me without mercy to the most cruel privations.
"Reflection drives this fear from my heart, however; I remember how frequently you have assured me that you were satisfied with your condition, and that if you desired luxuries it was only for my sake.
"In fact, your inexhaustible humor and gentleness, your natural gaiety of spirits and tender affection for me sufficiently prove that you are contented. Moreover, do I not share your privations? Your own economies, added to my earnings as a public scribe, have permitted us to live without touching my revenues. The capital has thus been growing for twenty years in the hands of my prudent administrator.
"On the day on which I pen these lines, my fortune amounts to about two millions and a half.
"I know not how many years of life may still be allotted to me, but in ten years I shall have attained the average length of human life; you shall then be thirty-five years of age; and since a capital doubles itself in ten years, my wealth shall have attained the enormous sum of four or five millions.
"Unless I am stricken down suddenly, you shall therefore, in all probability, attain your complete maturity before entering into possession of these riches. Your sober, modest, industrious habits, contracted in childhood, shall be as a second nature to you; and your knowledge of business will be still more developed by practice. Add to these advantages your uprightness of mind, your strong physical constitution—unimpaired by early excesses—and you will find yourself in the best possible condition to inherit the wealth I have amassed, as well as to enjoy it according to your own tastes which, I am sure, can be nothing but generous and honorable.
"You may, perhaps, ask why I simply left my capital to multiply by itself, instead of attempting some great financial operation or enjoying the delights of luxury?
"I shall tell you why, my dear child.
"Although my avarice had its origin in a sentiment of paternal foresight, it has now assumed all the inherent characteristics of a violent passion.
"I could, and can still, deprive myself of everything to accumulate riches upon riches, happy in the thought that it is all for you, and that you will enjoy this gold some day; but to release my hold on any part of my belongings, for any object whatever, or risk anything in financial operations is impossible—no! not while I live! It would be tearing my heart out by the core; for the possession of his treasure is life itself to a miser. Without spending or risking one farthing, I can give myself up in imagination to the most hazardous or magnificent operations. And this is neither a vain desire nor an empty dream. No! no! with what I possess, those magnificences and splendors are realizable to-day, to-morrow, this very hour, if I choose.
"How then can you expect that a miser should have the courage or will to release his hold on such a talisman? What! for one project, one realized dream, would I sacrifice a thousand projects, a thousand realizable dreams? Besides, is not my son happy as he is? Would he not be the pride of the proudest of fathers? And is it not for him, for him only, that I hoard up these treasures?
"Had I acted differently, what would have been the result?
"Had I been lavish, my prodigality would have left you in misery; and had I spent my income only, we would doubtless have lived in idleness and enjoyed a few physical joys or vain satisfactions, but what would we have gained?
"Should we have become better? I know not. But at my death I would have left you a reasonable income only, and not sufficient to realize any large and generous undertaking.
"One last word, my dear son, in answer to a reproach you may address my memory.
"Believe me, if you have been left in ignorance of my riches, it was not through a sentiment of dissimulation or distrust of you.
"These were my reasons:
"Had you known of my riches, though you might perhaps have accepted the humble existence I imposed on you without a murmur, you would have accused me in your heart of harshness and egotism; and, who knows, the certainty of future riches might perhaps also have impaired your precious qualities.
"This is not all—-forgive me this foolish fear, this apprehension which is so unjust to your excellent heart—but to enjoy your filial affection in all its purity and disinterestedness during my life, it was necessary that you should have no thought of an opulent inheritance after my death.
"Another reason, the gravest of all, perhaps, has led me to conceal my riches—I love you so tenderly, that it would have been impossible for me to see you undergo any privation if you had known that I could provide the most sumptuous existence for you.
"Notwithstanding the apparent contradiction that seems to exist between this sentiment and my avaricious conduct toward you, I hope, my dear child, that you will understand my thought.
"And now, I place myself in spirit face to face with death, which may strike me to-day, to-morrow, or this very hour; and I declare, in this supreme and solemn moment, that I bless you from the depth of my soul, my dear beloved child, you who have given me joy and happiness only in this world.
"Be a hundred times blessed, Louis, my good, affectionate son; be happy according to your merits, and my last wishes will be accomplished.
"Your father, A. RICHARD.
"Written and copied in Paris, February 25, 18—"
CHAPTER XIII.
Louis was deeply moved by the reading of this singular testament, and wept long as he reflected on the eccentricities of his beloved father. The day was drawing to a close, when he was finally aroused from his grief by a knock at his door and the well known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem.
Quickly unbolting the door of the gloomy attic chamber, he found himself in his friend's arms, who cried sympathetically:
"Louis! my poor Louis! I know all. The concierge has just told me of your father's death. Ah! what a cruel, frightful accident!"
"Bead this, Florestan," said Louis, with tears in his eyes, giving his friend the testament left by his father, "and you will understand my bitter grief."
Saint-Herem took the paper and, seating himself by the window, read it to the end.
"Do you think I can now blame his avarice?" asked Louis, when his friend had finished. "Was not his only aim to enrich me, to place me in a position to gain more wealth, or to make a generous use of the possessions he left me? He imposed the hardest privations on himself that he might hoard up treasures for me!"
"Nothing surprises me on the part of a miser," returned Florestan. "They are capable of great things—and this applies to all who are a prey to that powerful and prolific passion."
"Don't exaggerate, Florestan."
"This may seem a paradox to you, but there is nothing more true. We have always been stupidly unjust to misers," went on Florestan, with growing enthusiasm. "The genius and zeal they display in inventing inconceivable, impossible economies is prodigious. Altars should be raised in their honor! Thanks to their wise, obstinate parsimony, they possess a wonderful knack of turning everything into gold; careful saving of matches, picking up stray pins, a centime carefully invested; in fact, the most trifling of economies bring in returns. And yet, the world denies the existence of alchemists, the inventors of the philosophical stone! Once more, I repeat it, do they not turn into gold what is nothing in other hands!"
"You are right enough on that score," laughed Louis.
"On that and on all other scores," rejoined Florestan, seriously. "Now, my dear fellow, follow well my comparison; it is worthy of my most brilliant days of rhetoric! Take a dry, sterile land, and dig a well into it; what happens? The smallest springs, the thinnest stream of subterranean water, the invisible tears of the earth, evaporated or lost until then without profit to anyone, will concentrate, drop by drop, into the bottom of this well; little by little the water will increase and rise, the reservoir will fill; then, if a beneficent hand spreads this salutary spray liberally, verdure and blossoms will appear as if by enchantment on that hitherto unfruitful, desolate soil. Now, Louis, is not my comparison good? Is not the miser's hidden treasure like this deep well, where, thanks to his obstinate and courageous savings, riches accumulate drop by drop, forming a reservoir from which may spring luxury, splendors, magnificence and prodigalities of all sorts?"
"My dear Florestan," said Louis, drawn from his grief by his friend's enthusiasm, "though my judgment of my father's conduct may have been influenced by filial affection, your course of reasoning on the subject of economy proves that I was not far wrong, at least."
"You are indeed right, Louis; for if we take a philosophical view of avarice, the miser is still more admirable."
"This appears less just."
"Do you not admit that, sooner or later, these riches, so laboriously amassed by the miser, will almost inevitably shower magnificences of all sorts; for the proverb says: A miserly father makes a prodigal son."
"I admit that prodigality is the usual dispenser of these long-hoarded treasures; but where do you see philanthropy in that?"
"Where do I see it? Why, in everything! Do not the consequences of luxury and magnificence bring ease and comfort to the hundreds of families that weave silks and laces, chisel gold and silver, carve precious stones, build palaces, sculpture the ebony of furniture, varnish carriages, breed thoroughbred horses, and cultivate rare flowers? Have not artists, architects, musicians, singers, danseuses, all that is art, pleasure, poetry, enchantment, a large share of the gold shower that produces these wonders? And does not this gold shower spring from that magical reservoir so slowly and perseveringly filled by the miser? Therefore, without the miser, we should have no reservoir, no gold shower, and none of the marvels which this sparkling, beneficent dew alone can produce—Now, let us look at the miser from a catholic point of view—"
"Look at the miser from a catholic point of view!" echoed Louis, in astonishment.
"That is exactly where he is truly admirable," rejoined Saint-Herem, imperturbably.
"I confess that this theory seems to me difficult to sustain."
"On the contrary, it is most simple. Is not abnegation one of the greatest virtues known?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to cite me a monastic order whose members practice the renouncement of worldly pleasures more absolutely and sincerely than the miser. And his renouncement is truly the more heroic, because he has within his grasp all the delights and enchantments of soul, mind and senses, and possesses the incredible courage to refuse them all. There is strength, there is the triumph of an energetic will."
"But you must take into consideration that avarice almost invariably stifles all other passions, and the renunciation is less difficult to a miser than to another. In depriving himself, he satisfies his predominant passion."
"Just so! And is not a power a great passion that will lead to such renunciation? But where the miser is truly sublime, is in his disinterestedness."
"The miser's disinterestedness? You must be jesting, Florestan!"
"Yes, I repeat it, he is truly sublime in his disinterestedness! The miser is perfectly aware that he is despised and execrated during life, and that his death will be greeted with delight by his heirs; yet, you cannot name a single one who has tried to make his treasure disappear with him, with a view of avenging his wrongs. Two millions in bank notes may be turned to ashes in five minutes, and leave no trace; but no, these good-natured misers, full of magnanimity and forgiveness, forget their injuries and enrich their heirs. I know of nothing comparable to the martyrdom of a miser; and it is not the torture of an hour, but of a lifetime. He knows that the treasure, amassed so painfully and with so many privations, will never be enjoyed by himself; that the fatal hour will come when this gold, which he loves more than life, shall be dissipated in riotous living, in foolish orgies, in the midst of which his name and memory shall, perhaps, be scoffed and insulted—and by his own son, alas! And yet he has no thought of punishing such insolent cupidity by destroying his treasure! Ah! believe me, Louis, avarice is a strong, mighty passion; and nothing that is strong and great can be useless. God, in His infinite wisdom, did not create passions without an aim—that is, a power without its use. If he endowed misers with incredible concentration of will, it is because they have some mysterious purpose to achieve. I repeat it, all forces have and must have their expansion, all well-directed passions their fruitful issues. Let us suppose, for instance, that a minister of finance should bring to the management and economy of public affairs that inflexibility which characterizes the miser; would not many wonders result from such avarice? Though Fouquet ruined the finances of France, never was the country more flourishing than under Colbert; without this avaricious minister, the prodigalities of Louis XIV would have been impossible; and all those marvels of magnificence, of art and poetry, would have remained unknown. As you see, all is linked, enchained together; each cause produces its effect; the prodigality of Louis XIV is the consequence of the avarice of Colbert."
"Remember, Florestan," said Louis, sadly, "that while this great king, whose memory I have always abhorred, was ruining the country by his insolent prodigalities, the heavily-taxed people were living in atrocious servitude to provide for the bold ostentations of Louis XIV, his mistresses and their children. And what misery still exists in our days! Ah! if you knew what a life of wretchedness Mariette has endured! Although the poor child is strong and courageous, the sight of such frightful destitution would fill your heart with bitter resentment."
"What will you, I am a philanthropist in my own way; I take things as they come, and, as I cannot do better, I spend to my last farthing. None can accuse me of encouraging the idleness of luxurious industries."
"I do not accuse your generous heart, my friend; the man who spends his money liberally or foolishly, provides work for the poor, and work is bread—yet, you laud avarice."
"My dear fellow, who would appreciate the excellence of arms, if not the warrior? The excellence of a horse, if not the cavalier? The excellence of a lute, if not the player? Paganini, as pope, would have canonized Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins, which the great artist plays so admirably. Therefore, as I have the presumption of playing admirably with millions, I would canonize my uncle, that heroic martyr of avarice, if distributive justice would only place in my hands the wonderful instruments of prodigality he is manufacturing by hoarding his money."
"Ah! heavens!" cried Louis, suddenly gazing at his friend with a horrified expression.
"What is it?" asked Saint-Herem, quietly.
"Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"True enough, M. Ramon decided to come to Paris very suddenly."
"Is my uncle in Paris?"
"Ah! Florestan, what strange things happen in this world—"
"What do you mean?"
"And to think that I should be the one to announce it, after the conversation we have just had together!—It is, indeed, most strange!"
"But what in the deuce have you to announce? And what is there so strange about it?"
"I have told you that my father had arranged a marriage between your cousin and myself."
"Yes, what then?"
"Being in ignorance of my refusal, and wishing to hasten a marriage he desired as ardently as my father, your uncle and his daughter left Dreux yesterday and arrived this morning—"
"In Paris. Well, what of it? Why this hesitation and embarrassment on your part, my dear Louis?"
"They did not come directly to Paris, but stopped at Versailles—at
Versailles—where my poor father went—"
At this thought, which revived all his grief for his father's terrible death, Louis again broke into sobs.
"My dear friend, I understand your bitter grief," said Florestan, moved by his friend's emotion, "but try to be more courageous."
"If I hesitate in speaking more clearly," resumed the young man, when he had wiped away his tears, "it is because, in this hour of sorrow and mourning, I feel to be painfully affected in seeing the satisfaction—very excusable perhaps—which the announcement I have to make will no doubt cause you."
"In heaven's name, Louis, explain yourself!" entreated Saint-Herem, in alarm.
"As I have already told you, my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and his daughter."
"And then?"
"They must have taken the train together, entered the same compartment—and—"
"My God!—it would be too horrible!" cried Florestan, burying his face in his hands.
The cry of horror and compassion was so spontaneous and sincere, that Louis was touched by this proof of kindness of heart on the part of his friend, whose first impulse had been a sentiment of generous commiseration, and not of cynical, covetous joy.
CHAPTER XIV.
A long interval of silence followed, which Louis was the first to break.
"I cannot tell you how your grief touches me, Florestan," he said, with effusion, "it is so much in sympathy with what I feel at this sad moment."
"What will you, my friend; as you are aware, I had but little affection for my uncle, and could jest concerning his inheritance when I believed him in perfect health. But it would require a heart of stone and an outrageous cupidity to feel no sorrow at the terrible fate which my uncle and his daughter may have met. As to what I have said of avarice, that passion whose consequences are so fruitful, I retract nothing; only I might have treated the subject more seriously had I known it to be a personal question. But I have, at least, proved that I am not of those who receive an inheritance with cynical joy. Now, my dear Louis, forgive me if I ask a question which may revive your grief. In the painful researches made by you to recover your father's remains, did anything lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped?"
"All I can say, Florestan, is, that I did not see them among the injured or dying. As to the victims whose fate they and my father must have shared, their features are unrecognizable."
"As they must have been with your father, they probably shared his fate. However, I shall write to Dreux and make active researches. If you hear of anything new, let me know—But, in the midst of all these sad incidents, I am forgetting Mariette—"
"It was only a cruel misunderstanding, as you suspected. I found her more affectionate and devoted than ever."
"Her love will be a precious consolation in your sorrow—Now, good-bye, my poor Louis. Remember that you may always trust in my affection and friendship for you."
"Ah! Florestan, were it not for your friendship and Mariette's love, I know not how I could bear this crushing blow. Good-bye, my friend, and let me know all you can discover concerning your uncle."
Once alone, Louis pondered long over what he should do. Finally, coming to a determination, he placed the gold he had discovered into a traveling bag, thrust the will into his pocket, and at once proceeded to the office of his employer, the notary and friend mentioned by his father.
The notary was much affected by the details of the probable death of his client and, having expressed his sympathy to Louis, promised to fulfill all the legal formalities necessary to establish the death of the old miser.
"There remains one question I wish to ask," said Louis, when all the arrangements had been agreed upon. "When all these sad formalities have been gone through, can I dispose of my father's possessions?"
"Most assuredly, my dear Louis," replied the notary.
"These, then, are my intentions. I have brought you a sum of money amounting to over two hundred thousand francs, which I found hidden in a drawer; with this gold I wish to assure a pension of twelve hundred francs to the godmother of my fiance."
"But is the young girl in a position that—" interrupted the notary.
"The young girl in question earns her own bread," broke in Louis in his turn. "But I love her, and no power on earth can prevent me from marrying her," he concluded, in a firm, resolute tone.
"Very well," assented the notary, realizing the uselessness of his observations; "the pension shall be paid to the person indicated by you."
"Besides, I will take about fifteen thousand francs to fit up a suitable home," added Louis.
"Only fifteen thousand francs!" exclaimed the notary, astonished at the modest request. "Will it be sufficient?"
"My fiance and myself have been accustomed to a life of labor and poverty, and our ambitions have never gone beyond an existence of modest comfort. An income of a thousand crowns per annum, joined to our own earnings, will therefore amply suffice for our wants."
"Joined to your earnings! What do you mean to do?"
"Remain in your office, if I have not derogated in your estimation."
"What! Work, with an income of over a hundred thousand livres?"
"I cannot yet believe that this large fortune is mine, my dear friend; and even though my poor father's death may be established according to legal formalities, I shall always retain a hope that I may again see him."
"My poor Louis, your hope is an illusion."
"It is an illusion I shall retain as long as possible, monsieur; and while it lasts I shall never feel free to dispose of my father's money, save within the limits I have mentioned."
"No son could act with more perfect, and honorable reserve, my dear
Louis. But what will you do with the rest of the inheritance?"
"So long as there remains the slightest hope of finding my father among the living, you will remain the trustee of his possessions."
"I can only express my admiration for you, my dear Louis. You could not better honor the memory of your father than in acting thus. Everything shall be as you desire; I accept your trust, and will manage the estate as in the past; and I shall this very day make out the contract for the life pension you have mentioned."
"Speaking of that subject, my dear friend, I must enter into details that will seem trifling to you, but which, nevertheless, have their painful side."
"Well?"
"The poor woman to whom this pension is to be given has been so cruelly tried during her long existence, that her character, though naturally generous, has become embittered and distrustful; a promise of happiness would be vain in her eyes, unless accompanied by palpable, material proof—therefore, to convince this unfortunate creature of the reality of the pension promised, I shall take with me the sum of fifteen thousand francs in gold, which represents the capital of her life income. It is the only means of convincing her of my good intentions toward her."
"Nothing is more simple, my dear Louis," acquiesced the notary. "Take what you desire, and rest assured that the papers will be drawn this very day."
After a cordial pressure of the hand, Louis left the old notary and turned in the direction of Mariette's home.