The will to live (Les Roquevillard)

NOTHING was being talked about in all Chambéry but the clever transaction of Mr. Frasne. It was especially the favourite topic of conversation at the reception given by Mr. and Mrs. Sassenay one evening in celebration of the eighteenth birthday of their daughter Jeanne. One of the characteristics of provincial society seems to be that the men take the occupations and preoccupations of the city into company with them, clinging to the excitements of their business in the midst of social pleasures. At the Sassenays’ they one and all abandoned the ladies to the rivalries of clothes, and between the waltzes made off hastily into corners to take up the burden of their financial slanders and professional cares. On this special occasion, the family drama which had shaken the Roquevillards’ long standing social status, with its climax due to come off the day after to-morrow—it was the evening of December 4th—at the sitting of the court of assizes, was stirring public comment to its depths. Public opinion in Chambéry was tired, no doubt, of the well-founded and continuous ascendancy of the Roquevillards. It was worked up with the desire for levelling down, which is one of the modern zeals, as well as irritation at the persistent pride that refused to plead for itself or beg for sympathy even in misfortune. People, in short, were on the watch for the final collapse of a race which at other times had been considered an ornament to the city.

In the smoking-room were gathered men of law, doctors, manufacturers, capitalists; a few of them now and then, as the first strains of a waltz sounded, made for the group of girls and younger women seated in the drawing-room, like an assaulting party issuing in victorious sallies from a place besieged, to return again shortly to their masculine circle. Only one of them all knew nothing of this lucky speculation of the notary, which some found fault with and others praised, namely, the Viscount de la Mortellerie. His excuse was that he had tarried too long in the fourteenth century, with the history of the ducal castle that he was writing. In vain he tried to interest his neighbours in the ingenuity of Amedeus V, who in 1328 had wooden conduits arranged to bring water from the fountain of Saint Martri to his vast kitchens, where it gushed out in an enormous stone basin, which served also as a pool for the salmon that were destined for the ducal table. People would not listen to this babbler who was almost six hundred years behind the times. Mr. Latache, president of the Chamber of Notaries, sententious, ceremonious, bored, upholding the dignity of his life and business reputation, bore the brunt of the attack made by the little lawyer Coulanges. This latter, a scented, curled and powdered little individual, had assumed the defense of Mr. Frasne on behalf of the younger school.

“No, no,” declared Mr. Latache solemnly, “the criminal action follows the civil in such matters. Frasne should have waited for the jury’s verdict before accepting reparation for material damage. Or rather, since he has been fully indemnified, he should withdraw his complaint altogether. He ought not to mix up money matters with his vengeance.”

“Pardon me, pardon me,” parried the bubbling lawyer, fencing promptly. “Let us reason the thing out, I beg of you. Mr. Frasne made a complaint against Maurice Roquevillard of embezzlement in the sum of one hundred thousand francs, and instituted a civil suit against him. The elder Roquevillard offered to restore this sum to him before the arrest, and you blame him now for accepting it?”

“I don’t blame him for accepting it, but as he has taken it, I blame him for keeping up his suit. And I don’t understand Mr. Roquevillard.”

“Oh, he knows his son is guilty, and he buys the jury’s indulgence in this way. As for Mr. Frasne, since conviction is always uncertain at trials, he prefers a bird in the hand to two in the bush. Besides, at the hearing, he will make capital out of this payment, as if it were an admission of guilt. It’s a very strong presumption.”

“It’s a great advantage to Frasne certainly. I can’t explain Roquevillard’s motives, but just the same he’s too experienced to leave such a weapon in his adversary’s hands without having taken precaution on his own part. The receipt which he must have demanded surely provides that if he discharges the obligation of a third party, it’s irrelevant whether that third party is his son or not.”

“As a matter of fact, the receipt does make this reservation, and in the most formal terms,” announced another lawyer, Mr. Paillet, coming up at this moment and entering into the discussion without loss of time.

“I supposed as much,” said Mr. Latache triumphantly. “And rather than affix his signature to a paper containing such a restriction, Mr. Frasne would have been better advised to leave it to the decision of the court.”

But Mr. Coulanges was not ready to surrender yet.

“What does such a receipt prove?” he objected. “Would you give up one hundred thousand francs for some one you didn’t know?”

The lookers-on agreed that he was right, and testified to their opinion by a flattering murmur of approval, as much as to say that indeed such a piece of generosity must have come from some imperious necessity. Nevertheless, his success was short-lived. Mr. Paillet swept it away for him like a conjurer making a nutmeg disappear before their eyes. He was a gay, round, fat man, who knew everything, poking in everywhere and telling everything he knew.

“I see,” he said, “that you don’t, any of you, know of Mr. Frasne’s finest stroke.”

“Tell us about it.”

“Well, well.”

He held his company by the importance of the news he brought. But the orchestra tuned up for an everlasting set of landers, and he abandoned his scandalised hearers in a craven manner, rolling off like a ball to the feet of the lady whom he had asked to be his partner. From the recess of the window the gentlemen who remained behind, for lack of anything better, watched the evolutions of the various couples, assuming a detached and judicial air as the dancers of both sexes advanced and retreated, saluted or turned according to the rhythm of the music and the various figures. Among the dancers was Jeanne Sassenay, her cheeks like roses, her hair rebelling against its neat and careful dressing. Quite graceful and childlike in a pale blue dress cut slightly low in the neck and showing a bit of white flesh caressed by the crystal lights, she was putting her whole mind on keeping the figures straight. Her whole being glowed with her pleasure and the importance of the evening.

She excited a variety of comments from the lookers-on:

“Not bad looking, that little girl,” said one.

“Very thin: look at her shoulder blades,” said another.

“Only eighteen,” remarked a third.

“Oh, she’ll marry soon.”

“Why?”

“She has a large dot.”

“Yes, but her brother has piled up debts.”

“Whom will she marry?”

“No one knows yet. They talk of Raymond Bercy.”

“Who was engaged to Miss Roquevillard?”

“He’s just beginning his doctor’s practice.”

“Exactly; he hasn’t killed any one yet.”

After the final galop the lawyer Paillet, finding himself thirsty, conducted his companion to the refreshment-room, where he drank some champagne and ate a pâté de foie gras sandwich; and thus restored, condescended to reappear before the circle, where his desertion was severely appreciated. But he held out against them laughingly.

“If you scold me you shan’t learn anything.”

“Well, then, we’re listening.”

“You were still at the point where Mr. Roquevillard had restored one hundred thousand francs to Mr. Frasne.”

“It was interesting, wasn’t it?”

“Not very, compared with what you’re going to hear next.”

The first notes of a polka sounded, and he turned his head. His hearers trembled lest he should have the heart to leave them a second time with their mouths watering. Quite a group decided to mass themselves near the door and bar his passage.

“You’re warm. It wouldn’t be wise,” observed Mr. Latache.

And the lawyer Coulanges, adopting a different method, began to cast doubts upon the famous piece of news that had been promised them. Thereupon the news gatherer opened his mouth to let loose his prey.

“Very well, then. You don’t know that Mr. Frasne acquires for nothing the fine estate of La Vigie, worth about two hundred thousand francs.”

Exclamations of incredulity met him on all sides.

“You don’t say so!”

“You’re laughing at us.”

Mr. Battard and Mr. Vallerois, the district attorney, who had been chatting at a distance, came up at this moment, their ears alert for news.

“Exactly,” said the orator. “For nothing.”

“But how?”

“Like this: Mr. Roquevillard, in order to secure the money he wanted, advertised La Vigie for sale. Mr. Doudan, the notary, offered him one hundred thousand francs for it, payable immediately, but reserving the right to keep the name of the true purchaser secret for a fortnight. A fortnight—bear this in mind. Mr. Roquevillard, who hadn’t much time or choice before the trial, accepted. He could not hope for anything better in so brief an interval. Now, through the indiscretion of a clerk, it has leaked out—I learned it just now—that the real purchaser was Mr. Frasne. Mr. Frasne, if you please, spends one hundred thousand francs with one hand and receives it back with the other, and finds himself to boot, by a simple trick the proprietor of a magnificent estate for nothing.”

This machiavellian ruse was too far beyond the common run of bourgeois artifice not to provoke astonishment. They did not hunt for the moral point of it, neither did they sound the depths of the Roquevillards’ sacrifice of the family patrimony. Mr. Frasne had gone through a sorry crisis; his home, if not his fortune, had been ruined, and he had devoted his energies to the only thing that was still susceptible of diverting him—business—as an artist finds his consolation in art or a rich woman hers in charity. Interesting combinations of contracts or figures established an alibi for his sad thoughts. He forgot his own weariness for the moment in unravelling the affairs of his clients, with a satisfaction like that of a skilful fighter in the battle of interests. The case of La Vigie had inspired him to a bit of audaciously clever tactics that he could not resist. He had hoped the secret of it would be guarded until after the assizes. But what secret can be kept in a town of less than twenty thousand inhabitants, where it is regarded as pretentious and original to lead one’s personal life as one likes?

Mr. Latache was the first to give his views on the transaction, in two words, which, coming from the President of the Chamber of Discipline, were worth a speech.

“It’s not just.”

“Why do you say that?” retorted Mr. Coulanges. “An estate was for sale. Some one bought it. It’s the law.”

Nevertheless, the sagacious manœuvre of Mr. Frasne won, after all, only a small measure of approbation, and this from the youthful camp, which plays its enthusiasm to-day, like its funds, on solid wickets. He had succeeded too well in his material enterprise, and the gallery, severe in manners and practical in its good sense, was more sorry about his conduct now than it had been diverted by his wife’s flight with Maurice.

Besides, he came from Dauphiné, and in the eyes of a community accustomed to particularise, that made a stranger of him, whom such gains enriched at the expense of their own province. People had not been vexed, to be sure, by the humiliation of the Roquevillards, because the high esteem in which the family was generally held irritated the mediocrities, but they were surprised to find the Roquevillards making the disaster worse, astonished to think they consummated their ruin with their own hands. Why this disinterestedness if Maurice was not guilty, and if he was, why this admission? For they were not aware of the resolution the young man had taken. Mr. Hamel was very secretive, and as for Mr. Battard, his silence was calculated: an epicure of cases that made talk, he still hoped that his support would be called for.

At the same time he was excited by these revelations, and could not refrain from talking in his turn. The special circle where the affair had been under discussion was now disturbed, the dance being finished, by new arrivals. Conversation began again here and there, breaking out in little separate groups, like smothered fire that sparkles and scatters. The district attorney, Mr. Vallerois, rejoined Mr. Battard in the embrasure of a window.

“You will hold the cards when you plead now,” he said. “You can riddle Mrs. Frasne’s husband with sarcasm.”

“It isn’t certain yet that I shall make the argument,” replied the lawyer.

“What! You are not to make the argument?”

Mr. Battard had to explain his confidences, which had escaped him without thinking, by going further into the thing.

“That young duffer Maurice doesn’t wish to be seriously defended. He prefers to look out for his mistress’s honour.”

He pronounced these last words with disdainful irony, explaining to the attentive magistrate that the accused man threatened to contradict in advance any reference to Mrs. Frasne as the guilty party.

“If you don’t argue, then who will?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Hamel doubtless.”

His tone showed hardly any more respect for the aged lawyer than for the guilty woman. The former’s age and feebleness were thrown into high relief by the single mocking mention of his name.

After some moments of silence Mr. Vallerois concluded:

“I understand what Roquevillard’s driving at now. He’s suppressing the theft to save his son. It’s his last chance. He doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice his fortune. It’s very fine.”

Not very much interested in this praise, Mr. Battard sketched a vague gesture that was susceptible of various interpretations.

“All this is between you and me,” he said, to recapture his professional secret.

And with his beard carefully displayed against his shirt front, he made his way up to a group of ladies, stepping slowly and majestically, like a peacock preparing himself for a promenade with his mates.

Left alone, the magistrate made no haste to search out another guest to talk with. He still thought admiringly of Mr. Roquevillard, recalling the man’s sorrowful and valiant life since that day in the office when he had been told of Mr. Frasne’s complaint. Even then he had shown himself unselfish and proudly prepared for sacrifices.

“Why am I the only one here,” Mr. Vallerois asked himself, “to appreciate this great force of character? There isn’t a man here can hold a candle to him, yet these gentlemen just now treated him so loftily, as if misfortune had made him small and insignificant. The provinces are vindictive and envious.”

Along these simple lines that were being laid down, he reflected, the drama would be a moving one, very entertaining for the spectators. Young Maurice, appearing disarmed before the jury, betrayed his family, and his father was sacrificing the old estate for a song to save the prodigal son. But if the counsel for the accused had his lips sealed, another voice, more powerful than his, could make itself heard instead. After the prosecutor’s speech for the plaintiff, was it not the duty of the public minister to present the case in his turn? Instead of relying upon “justice,” according to the formula sacred to this sort of business, more private than public, was it not his duty to intervene with some effect and set forth once and for all the luckless preponderating rôle, the unique rôle, of Mrs. Frasne, the only one who had been guilty of any abuse of confidence, even though she could not be condemned for it? What a fine opportunity to serve truth, to render unto each according to his works, to carry a little joy into this so sorely tried household of the Roquevillards.

All these reflections crowded through Mr. Vallerois’s brain, but he himself was disposed of by the circumstances of the thing: a general advocate would occupy the place of the public minister at the assizes, and not he. The case of Maurice Roquevillard did not properly concern him further. Besides, he had been blamed for the unusual measure he had taken with the notary last year, for it had not been kept a secret very long. What was the use of mixing in an affair that did not concern him, from which nothing but unpleasantness could arise? For the sake of peace his sympathy was well enough trained to be content with doing nothing.

Rather than sound the whole depth of his egotism, or pass harsh judgment on it, he hastily rejoined the throng of guests, happy to feel that there were people round him. The presence of our fellow creatures is a comfort to us when we have been tempted to take the measure of our pettiness. That is a kind of temptation which is always reserved for the best of us to yield to.

The movement toward the refreshment tables had now begun, and there was a coming and going through the two drawing-rooms, the ante-chamber and the dining-room, prolonging itself, with frequent delays as the young people found opportunities for flirtation. Some of them, all for dancing, called noisily for the orchestra again. Some of the young girls showed already that they were clever and happy in the tricks and coquetry that land a husband some day. Some of them, though only a few, so far as a cursory glance could tell, did not bother to see whether a man wore an engagement ring or not before they trained their artful batteries on him. The eyes of youth flashed under the chandeliers, as sparkling as the jewels which shone in hair or corsage, on wrists or fingers. Among the men’s black coats the clear bits of colour and mellow outlines of the women’s frocks stood out like water-colours.

In which category did Miss Jeanne Sassenay belong, determinedly making off with Raymond Bercy, the fiancé last year of Miss Roquevillard, while her mother’s vigilant eye followed her with solicitude and some surprise? Her little head was like a Greek statue’s, borne so elegantly and easily above its stone shoulders: was it so scatter-brained it could not even cherish the memory of her abandoned friend? Were her cool blue eyes, with their clear glances, only indifferent and not sincere? Her cheeks glowed with the exercise of dancing, but she was not smiling, she was wrinkling her eyebrows, and shut her lips tight, as if she were making some important decision. It was an air that contrasted quaintly with her pretty, childlike manner.

“I haven’t danced with you yet,” the young man was saying. “Won’t you give me a waltz?”

“No,” she replied emphatically, first looking round to see that they were quite alone.

“Why not? Are all your waltzes taken?”

“No, not all.”

He did not think her serious, and was not chilled by her coolness.

“I’m warned, then. Many thanks,” he laughed.

She gave one of those tired “ughs,” like workmen lifting a heavy weight, and then began to talk all at once, full of her subject:

“Indeed I must warn you, sir. Your mother has talked to mamma. And mamma has no secrets from me. If she ever has any, I guess them. Very well, then, I’ll never, do you hear, never consent to marry you.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I have not asked for your hand,” the young man retorted in astonishment.

“Your mother has been over the ground, as they say so prettily,” she resumed.

“Mothers make a great many plans for their sons. This one, however flattering it is, doesn’t correspond with my intentions.”

“Oh, so much the worse,” said Jeanne.

“I’m not thinking of marrying,” he said.

“You’re wrong there,” said the girl, the reproach sounding queer and almost funny from her childish mouth.

“When one has the luck in life to meet a young girl like Margaret Roquevillard,” she added, “one oughtn’t to wreck such happiness one’s self.”

So this was what she had been driving at. He understood. She should have known from the change in his face that she had struck home, but at her tender age vision is not clear enough to read the inner feelings through the features. She was accordingly hardly moderate in heaping up her boarding-school disdain upon him.

“It’s always shabby, my dear sir, to desert a fiancée. And when she is in trouble it’s perfectly abominable.”

What right had she to scold him so violently? Raymond Bercy was irritated by it all, and yet, at the bottom of his heart, was conscious of a bitter-sweet pleasure in hearing Margaret spoken of. His anger and bitterness crept into his retort.

“I didn’t appoint you to judge me, mademoiselle,” he said, “but if you talk to me in the name of another, my reply is that——”

“I’m not speaking in any one’s name——”

“That you are misinformed. It wasn’t I who broke our engagement. I would gladly have kept it.”

“You would have kept it? Oh, when the sun is shining, you men, all of you, are always on hand; and when it rains, there isn’t a soul of you about.”

“But you are too unjust, after all. I shall lose my patience with you.”

She was as far as ever from keeping still, going on to worry him, like a wasp that hovers round you and tries to sting.

“It’s a great mistake for a man to get cross,” she said.

“I don’t have to report to you, Miss Sassenay. Let me tell you, however, that Miss Roquevillard broke our engagement of her own free will.”

“Out of generosity.”

“Without any consideration for my feelings or the pain it gave me.”

“In such circumstances you shouldn’t have let her break it,” declared Jeanne. Her cheeks had grown quite red, and her self-possession was gone. She was contradicting herself furiously, and he, too, was scarcely more calm than she was.

“And if her brother is convicted?” he demanded.

“’Tis a fine case, isn’t it?”

“Oh, really, do you think so, Miss Sassenay?”

“Yes, really. As for me, if I were in love it would be all the same to me if my fiancé were sent to the galleys. I’d follow him, do you hear, sir. And if I had to commit some crime to be sent after him, I’d commit it. Biff, boom! Just like that!”

“You’re a child,” he commented; then brusquely he changed his tone, and whispered in a heavy voice:

“Do you think I have no regrets for her?”

She changed as quickly as he had, triumphantly, and was almost on the point of falling on his neck. Mrs. Sassenay, surprising this by-play from a distance, was distressed by what she saw, and blamed herself for her neglect.

“Oh, I knew quite well, sir,” said Jeanne, “that you couldn’t want to marry me. Good, then, be off with you. Run and tell Margaret. Beg her for my sake to forgive you. Take your place again quickly in the family before the trial comes on. Afterwards it will be too late. It will do more good than prescribing all sorts of nasty medicines for your sick people.”

“Thanks.”

“Be off then, at once.”

“But it’s half-past eleven,” argued Raymond.

“To-morrow, then.”

Mrs. Sassenay, meanwhile, making her way toward her daughter, was stopped by a group of people in animated conversation. The group was growing larger every minute.

“Are you sure?” asked Mr. Vallerois of a young officer whose uniform bore the epaulettes of the general staff.

“Quite sure,” said the officer. “The news reached our division at six o’clock. The general went in person to call on Mr. Roquevillard.”

“In person,” corroborated Mr. Coulanges, who had been astonished and impressed by this official step toward one who was down and out like Mr. Roquevillard.

Mrs. Sassenay turned to her neighbour, Mr. Latache, for information.

“What news are they talking about?” she inquired.

“Of the death of Lieutenant Roquevillard,” was the reply. “He died of yellow fever in the Soudan.”

“How unfortunate that family is!” murmured Mrs. Sassenay, moved with pity.

“Are they not, indeed!” said Mr. Latache.

So cruel a grief centred all the women’s sympathy on the Roquevillards, and removed the hostility of the men, though people had been complacent witnesses of the family’s material and moral decadence. They had merely wanted to take the Roquevillards down a peg or two, but fate was crushing them with no compassion or reprieve. The partisans of Mr. Frasne and his clever operation were silent, the district attorney expressing the sentiment of them all in the phrase:

“Poor things!”

Shortly after this colloquy Jeanne Sassenay disappeared. In vain her mother searched for her through the rooms. In the vestibule she perceived Raymond Bercy hastily getting into his overcoat.

“Are you going already?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Sassenay,” he replied, with no further explanation of his precipitate departure.

She thought she guessed the young man’s trouble, and connected the circumstances with her daughter’s disappearance, beginning to be seriously worried.

“Have you seen Jeanne?” she asked of her husband, whom she met at the entrance to the drawing-room.

“No. Are you looking for her?”

Mr. Sassenay was a frankly active and loyal man, but quite destitute of psychology; he could overcome the greatest material obstacles, but was incapable of stopping to analyse sentiments. His wife judged it useless to tell him of her fears, and contented herself with enjoining him to look after their guests. For her own part she went straight to her daughter’s room. She entered, and the moment she turned the switch of the electric light she discovered Jeanne there—all crumpled up and shrunken in an armchair, weeping regardless of her rumpled frock.

“Jeanne, what’s the matter?” she asked at once, beginning to pet her.

“Oh, mamma,” wailed the girl.

It was the cry of a little child that is soon quieted.

“Why are you crying, Jeanne?” asked her mother.

“I keep thinking of Margaret’s troubles while I’m dancing,” she explained.

Mrs. Sassenay breathed more freely. She knew how fond her daughter was of Margaret Roquevillard. But as the sobs did not stop she asked gently:

“Are you thinking of Lieutenant Hubert?”

“Yes. He was nice ... we used to play tennis together. He was always the best player.”

The cause of the girl’s grief did not lie in that quarter.

“Poor Margaret!” she added, changing her subject half unconsciously. “I liked Maurice, who is in prison, better than Hubert. He’ll be acquitted, won’t he?”

“I hope so, dear.”

“An innocent man who is acquitted, or even one who is condemned—there’s something fine about it, isn’t there, mamma?”

“Are you sure he’s innocent?”

“Margaret’s brother? How can you ask it?”

Mrs. Sassenay smiled at this assurance and indignation, which she had provoked on purpose. All the time she was petting and soothing her daughter, her memory was recalling a long-ago talk she had had with Mrs. Roquevillard on the subject of their children. “One day perhaps,” the saintly woman had said to her, “if Maurice is worthy of it, I will ask your child’s hand for him. She will be near you.”

Maurice had not been worthy, but his prestige of other days was still potent over this too generous little girl. That was the danger. It must be looked out for. And while she promised herself to be careful, Jeanne’s mother thought in spite of herself of those other Roquevillards, the dead and the living; so deserving, and so sorely tried.

The noise of the orchestra came up to the room half muffled.

“Dry your eyes, Jeanne. Gently, so. A little powder. There. You’re looking very well this evening. Now let’s go back quickly to the drawing-room. People will notice our absence.”

“That’s true, mamma, and I promised this waltz.”

And growing suddenly serene again, the girl preceded her mother down the hall.

At that very hour Raymond Bercy, completely upset by the death of his friend Hubert, was pacing the hundred steps opposite the Roquevillards’ house, to and fro. The roof of the castle, covered with snow, showed vaguely in the starlight. The tower of the archives and the turret seemed to watch like sentinels over the sleeping town. Through the four windows of the study which he knew so well a thin light filtered between the blinds. In there Margaret and her father were suffering together, struck once more to their very hearts.

He longed to go in and join them, but he dared not. His broken engagement, his parents’ objections, what the world would think, all sorts of obscure and selfish motives, had held him back. But in the cold night, in the course of this walk which he kept up so late, he came to know his heart better, knew that sorrow and pity, more than joy, make love increase.