The two friends walked on a long time in silence. Clamens, rather disappointed by the provincial’s obstinate peculiarities, said to himself, “Eusebe is a simpleton.” On his part, the provincial reflected, “Daniel is a sage.” And, as they were both profoundly in error, each remained convinced that he had hit upon the truth. At the moment of separation, Daniel said to his refractory pupil,—
“I will see you again, my friend. At a later day you will regret that you have not heeded my counsel. Do not forget, however, that I am always ready to resume my course of instruction.”
“Thank you,” responded Eusebe. “Your goodness touches me nearly, and——” The remainder of the sentence was lost in a sudden murmur.
Dropping the hand of his friend, young Martin passed rapidly on to where a group of young men were seated before the door of the Café Tortoni.
“What is the matter?” asked Daniel, who followed him.
“Do you not hear?” said Eusebe, apparently agitated.
“Yes,” said one of the young men; “Adéonne is a fascinating creature. During the week that I have enjoyed her acquaintance, I have been able to comprehend the desperate love that has inspired that old fool Fontournay.”
“Did you say, monsieur,” demanded Eusebe, pale and trembling, “that you have lived with Adéonne for a week?”
“I have said what I pleased,” haughtily responded the young man. “I do not know that I am accountable to you for what I say.”
“I ask nothing of you,” rejoined Eusebe. “I only wish you to repeat your words, in order that I may tell you that you lie. If you do not repeat your words, it is of no consequence. I say that you have lied.”
And, taking Clamens by the arm, the indignant provincial moved away.
“This is a bad business,” said the poet.
“Why?”
“You will soon see.”
At this moment a young man of irreproachable elegance advanced to the lover of Adéonne.
“Monsieur,” said he to Eusebe, saluting him with exquisite politeness, “my friend the Count de la Soulaye deputes me to remind you that you have given him the lie in public, and have omitted to leave your card.”
Eusebe was about to reply, when Clamens stepped before him. “Monsieur,” said the poet, “oblige me by giving my address to M. de la Soulaye. My friend M. Eusebe Martin, of the Capelette, in the fury of anger, has forgotten to leave his card. Here is mine. Until to-morrow at noon we shall be at your disposal.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, exchanging cards with the dramatist; and then, bowing politely, he rejoined his friends.
“And now,” said Eusebe, “will you tell me, my good Clamens, what this exchange of cards signifies?”
“Alas! It means that you will fight M. de la Soulaye to-morrow.”
“I fight? How?”
“With swords, sabres, or pistols, as he may see fit. He has the choice of weapons, since you gave the insult.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my friend, do not mock me!”
“Nothing can be more serious. Unfortunately, I am not joking,” replied Clamens, sadly. “I foresaw that you would do something of which you knew not the consequences. Now that the evil is done, there is no help for it: you must fight: the laws of honor, or rather the laws of society, oblige you to do so.”
“What!” exclaimed Eusebe, with vehemence; “I encounter in my walk a wretch who slanders in the most infamous style a woman whom I love and whom I had quitted but a moment previous. I could pulverize this fellow with my fists, but refrain, because his shameful conduct awakens only contempt. I am content to tell him that he lies. And now I am forced to fight with this infamous scoundrel, and, as you say, to put myself at his disposal, and accept the weapons with which he is familiar, but which I have never used! Really, this cannot be so! it is barbarous!”
“But it is so, my dear fellow. I repeat, the laws of honor are inflexible.”
“The laws of honor! What honor? It is not I who have broken these laws, if any such exist: he is the guilty party.”
“Listen, Eusebe,” rejoined Clamens, gravely. “You have defended the reputation of Adéonne; and in so doing you have acted nobly, not only because she is your mistress, but because she is a noble creature who loves you with all her heart. Yes, you have acted nobly. I also am convinced that La Soulaye has lied like a pickpocket. But in telling him so you did him an injury for which he has a right to demand reparation in the field. If you refuse to fight, you will be regarded as a coward, and the world will believe that he has truth and right on his side. I have made myself your second in this affair. I do not regret the step thus taken, and, if you refuse to fight, I will take your place.”
“Why so?”
“The laws of honor force me to do so.”
“I will fight,” said Eusebe, resolutely; “but may the devil fly away with me if I can comprehend what you call the laws of honor!”
After a long discussion, during which Clamens talked a great deal and Eusebe comprehended very little, the necessity for securing another second for the duel occurred to them, and the provincial started to hunt up his old friend Paul Buck, the painter. Paul had broken up his modest establishment some time previous, and it was not without extreme difficulty and much wearisome search that Eusebe found him, located in a wretched garret in the Rue Neuve Coquenard.
Alas! Paul Buck was sadly changed. He was no longer the joyous artist with a contented heart and merry countenance. His woebegone features, neglected hair, ragged garments, and ventilated boots made him a sorry shadow of his former self.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, upon seeing Eusebe, “I was thinking of you this morning. I said to myself, ‘If I knew the address of the barbarian, I would go to him and borrow ten francs?’”
“Here are twenty,” said Eusebe. “Are you ill?”
“Not at all. You find me much changed, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“It is from grief.”
“Have you been unfortunate?”
“Yes.”
“The cause? You have talent, love art, and are persevering.”
“As for talent, I no longer possess it. Art I despise, since I see fame bestowed upon fellows without merit. As for my strength, it vanished with Virginie,—a girl who left me to follow a waiter of a café.”
“Did you love the girl?” asked Eusebe, with an air of surprise.
“She was all that remained to console me. There is no denying that I was attached to her. But, tell me, how do you come on?”
“I fight to-morrow.”
“Ah!”
Eusebe then related to his friend all that had occurred to him since they had seen one another. At the conclusion, he said,—
“Well, what do you think of the affair?”
“I think you have done right to come in search of me, and that you acted bravely in giving the lie to this gentleman of the card. But it is quite possible, nevertheless, that he spoke the truth.”
Eusebe became pale, and Paul continued:—
“You see, women are very strange creatures. Why may not Adéonne have deceived you for the sake of a count, since Virginie has deceived me for the sake of a waiter?”
“Adéonne has too much heart for that.”
“Mon Dieu! It is always the woman who has too much heart who experiences the need of sharing it. Do you know how to shoot?”
“No.”
“You are not afraid, I hope?”
“Yes,” replied Eusebe, “I am afraid,—very much afraid.”
“It is not possible!” exclaimed Buck, dropping his pipe: “you mistake your own nature.”
“No: I know what I say. I have no fear of being wounded, or of being forced to suffer pain: I have none of that ignoble shrinking from danger which characterizes cowards. Yet I fear to die while still so young: I fear to die and leave Adéonne, whom I love. I fear to die without having seen my father and the dear old trees of the Capelette once more. For the last two hours, the thought that I may be slain to-morrow has given me a fit of home-sickness. I no longer seek to read the future. My eyes are turned to the past, where it seems to me I have never known any thing but happiness. The most humble creatures for whom I have cherished affection appear to have taken a firmer hold upon my heart. There remain to me, perhaps, not more than fifteen hours of life. I would give seven of them to once more behold big Katy, a peasant who nursed me when an infant, and to embrace my poor dog Medor, who is blind.”
“Bah! All will go well,” said Paul. “Courage! You can count upon my services. To-morrow, at the hour indicated, I will visit your friend Clamens.”
Eusebe shook the hand of the painter, and departed. Paul, as soon as he found himself alone, thus soliloquized:—
“Poor fellow! He is right. It is hard to die at his age, when one has so many reasons to regret life. But who says he will die? It is hardly probable. If he should escape with a wound, he can go see his father and the dear old trees again, and continue to love his mistress. My father, now, is dead. When he was alive, we never had any other trees than those of the road. My mistress has fled. I do not possess even an old blind dog; and—I have just broken my pipe.”
And then, as the painter’s eyes fell upon the piece of gold left by Eusebe, he exclaimed,—
“However, I have no right to complain while I possess twenty francs,—the means to live well for one day, or to keep me from starving for at least two weeks.”
As chance or destiny would have it, four persons met at the lodgings of Clamens, whose opinions in regard to the approaching duel were widely different. (These were the four individuals who, according to the French code, acted as “seconds” for Eusebe and his antagonist.)
Paul Buck contended, with the utmost simplicity, that the duel was a piece of stupidity.
Daniel Clamens maintained that such combats were a necessary evil.
The Commandant de Vic, who was the premier témoin (principal second) of the Count de la Soulaye, affirmed that the duel was the judgment of God.
As for M. de Buffières, the young gentleman who had exchanged cards with Clamens, he confessed that his opinion was governed by the laws and customs of society.
Notwithstanding the disparity of their ideas, the quartette soon came to an understanding. Only one—Paul Buck—thought of extending the olive-branch of peace.
“Messieurs,” said the painter, “I believe that, as the honor of our principals is not in peril, our duty dictates that we should arrange this foolish difficulty.”
“Monsieur,” replied M. de Buffières, “we—that is, myself and the Commandant de Vic—are not authorized to entertain such a proposition from anybody.”
“You are perfectly free to listen or not, messieurs, and I am just as free to make known my impressions. If I speak, it is not idly, but because I feel that I am in some measure responsible for the lives of two men, one of whom is my friend. If any thing serious should occur, I wish to enjoy my rest afterwards.”
“If speaking will insure you easy slumbers hereafter, proceed.”
“If I seek to insure the tranquillity of my nights,” said the artist, “it is because, up to the present, my days have not been too happy. Come, gentlemen, let us talk little, but let us speak to the point. We ought to be able to come to an understanding. I am certain that each of us regrets what has occurred.”
“Certainly,” rejoined the Commandant de Vic. “As for myself, I have been engaged in ten duels, and am not yet dead. Nevertheless, I never take pleasure in seeing two men cross swords with a deadly purpose. I will even go further, and say that the spectacle is very disagreeable to me. But, you know, there are circumstances—you understand me.”
“Youth must be broken in,” observed Clamens, humorously, which caused M. de Buffières to smile. Paul Buck thought this a favorable moment for renewing his attempt at reconciliation.
“After all, to what does this affair amount? Nothing. A young gentleman, jesting with his friends, boasts of possessing a woman to whom he has never spoken,—at least so we are assured; the real proprietor of the lady overhears this vaunt, and tells the young boaster that he has spoken falsely: that seems rather rough. But, between ourselves, what else could he have done? He could not very well invite the young gentleman to dinner. Well, then, let M. de la Soulaye, who, I am sure, is a man of courage, acknowledge that he was wrong, and let the affair drop. Parbleu! We do not seek the life of the offender.”
“You forget,” said M. de Buffières, “that it is the man who gave the insult, and not the one who was insulted, who ought to make the apology.”
“There is another way,” resumed the painter, “of terminating this absurd difficulty. Let M. de la Soulaye prove that he spoke the truth when he referred to the lady. We will prevent our friend from fighting for a woman who is not worth the trouble.”
“M. de la Soulaye,” replied the commandant, “will prove all that is required, after he has obtained reparation for the outrage perpetrated upon him.”
“Precisely so,” added M. de Buffières.
“If,” continued Paul, “by an unfortunate chance, M. de la Soulaye should kill M. Martin, or M. Martin should kill M. de la Soulaye, would that prove that the one did wrong, or that the other lied? Or would the reputation of Adéonne be in the least benefited?”
“Probably not,” said M. de Buffières, dryly.
Paul Buck, seeing that his efforts to effect a reconciliation would be fruitless, withdrew to a corner, and seemed absorbed in thought. At length, M. de Vic arose and said,—
“Well, is it understood? To-morrow, at seven o’clock, at the Pecq, Avenue de la Grotte; each to bring swords.”
Paul and Clamens conducted Eusebe to a renowned maître d’armes, named Grisier, or Gate-chair.
“Professor,” said Clamens, “I have the honor to introduce to you one of my best friends, M. Eusebe Martin, who is to fight to-morrow, and who does not know how to hold a sword. I have persuaded him that you will be kind enough to give him the benefit of your valuable counsel.”
“I can give him only one piece of advice,” replied the professor; “and that is, not to kill himself. I tender him that, with all my heart: it is all I can do for him.”
“How? Do you mean to say that you cannot teach him how to make some passes with the weapon?”
“Fencing is not to be learned in an hour.”
“Doubtless; but are there not some special mysteries of the art in which you can instruct him?”
“All the movements are mysteries to one who does not know how to parry them.”
“But can you not at least show my friend the manner of putting himself on guard? He is to fight with a man of the world, and he ought to be able to show that he knows as well how to kill as to live.”
“That is easy enough,” said the professor. “I am at your disposal.”
The professor then put Eusebe in position, explained to him how to hold his weapon, how to make passes, how to break the force of a stroke, and many other things pertaining to the art of fencing. The quickness with which Eusebe comprehended the demonstrations and followed the instructions, as well as his graceful attitude and manly vigor, excited the interest of the professor. Eusebe thanked him, and was about to withdraw, when the master of the sword recalled him.
“Resume your guard,” said he, “and listen to me attentively. In order to give you a correct idea of duelling, I am going to charge upon you with this sword, which, you see, is very sharp. Observe my movements, and endeavor to parry; for, while I am sure of not giving you dangerous thrusts, the vigor of my attack, or your lack of skill, may result in your receiving some severe scratches. Now protect yourself.”
The professor suddenly precipitated himself upon Eusebe with extreme violence. His sword menaced the breast of the young man, who, however, retreated and parried so adroitly as not to be touched. The professor stopped as soon as the provincial had reached the wall. Eusebe was perfectly calm. The professor scrutinized him closely, and, seeing his entire self-possession, said,—
“That will do, monsieur: you will return from the field, I promise you.”
“God grant that I may!” solemnly responded Eusebe.
On the following day the three friends were the first to reach the appointed rendezvous. A convenient spot was chosen, the swords were measured, and the Commandant de Vic pronounced the word “Go!”
Eusebe attacked his adversary furiously. Surprised by a vigor which he had by no means anticipated, and not recognizing in the passes of the provincial any of those movements usually taught in the schools of fencing, the count manifested an embarrassment which only served to encourage Eusebe. Suddenly M. de la Soulaye was touched in the hand. The seconds immediately interposed, and Clamens hastily cried,—
“Messieurs, the combat is finished.”
“How so?” inquired Eusebe.
“Honor has been satisfied,” responded the Commandant de Vic.
The young provincial thought that this honor was not difficult to satisfy; but he said nothing, and, in company with his two friends, took the road back to Paris.
Eusebe thought proper not to say a word about this affair to her who had been the involuntary cause of the quarrel. In this matter his native delicacy served him admirably. Adéonne would have thrown herself upon her knees and implored him not to fight, or she would have turned him out-of-doors if he had refused.
About three-quarters of an hour after the combatants had quitted the Bois du Vésinet, two gendarmes arrived in the Avenue de la Grotte. They looked about them for a moment, and their attitude betokened disappointment.
“We have arrived too late,” said one.
“I doubt it,” rejoined the other.
“Good gentlemen, charity, if you please; for the love of God and the Holy Virgin, a little charity, if you please,” murmured a dolorous voice.
“Brigadier, suppose we seek information of the beggar.”
“It is our duty to push our inquiries to the furthest limit.”
“That is also my way of doing business, if I may say so without offence to you.”
“Ho! woman!” cried the first officer, addressing an old woman as wrinkled as a dried pear, “didn’t you see two men pass this way?”
“I could not see any such persons,” responded the beggar, “because I could not see any thing, having been blind for now twenty years; for twenty years I have been deprived of the light of heaven.”
“Ah! that alters the case.”
“I have not seen them; but, my good sir, I certainly heard them.”
“Then they have gone this way?”
“They have gone and returned. By this time they ought to be in Paris, for they arrived in time for the train.”
The gendarmes expressed their disappointment in the phraseology peculiar to their calling.
“My good woman,” said one, “you can perhaps give us some information. Speak without fear.”
The gendarme spoke majestically, as the representative of the law.
“There were seven in the party of young gentlemen,—three on one side and four on the other.”
“How do you know there were seven?” inquired the officer.
“Because they stopped to give me a little charity. Five gave me something. Of the two others, one said, ‘I have no money,’ and the other, ‘I am not superstitious.’”
“How do you know they were young?”
“Because they walked quickly; and, you see, when one is old, one is not in a hurry to die.”
“How? to die?”
“Yes; since they came to fight.”
“Who told you that?”
“I learned that from their alms. Four of them gave me twenty sous each. They supposed that bit of charity would bring good luck to their friends. The fifth, a fine young man, who was going to fight, gave me a five-franc piece. One is generous when one is either very unfortunate or very fortunate, when one weeps or when one laughs. The sixth said, ‘I have no money:’ he was the surgeon. The doctors never give any thing to beggars, because it is of no importance to them whether we live or die. The seventh said, ‘It is a superstition:’ he is the one who committed the wrong.”
“Of course,” said one of the gendarmes, laughing, “you think the one who gave you the five-franc piece was in the right. I understand that.”
“You do not understand it at all, my dear sir, I can assure you. I understand it, I do. I have seen so many persons pass here on their way to fight. Those who have not the right on their side never give any thing, not on account of their avarice, but because they know very well that it is not with a hundred sous they can turn aside the hand of God.”
“Well?”
“They did not go very far into the woods, for they did not remain more than ten minutes. They fought with swords, for I did not hear any pistol-shots. They returned, without either party being badly wounded.”
“Until now, your sagacity has not been at fault,” said one of the officers. “But how do you know that the wound was slight?”
“Ah, my son, I am quite certain of what I tell you. If the wound had been dangerous, they would have given me much greater alms upon their return.”
Eusebe had forgotten this “adventure,” as the Commandant de Vic would have called it, when, one morning, Adéonne, pale and trembling, embraced him tenderly, and handed him a document bearing an official stamp.
“You have fought, my dear Eusebe,” she cried, “you have fought, and you have not told me!”
“It is true.”
“Oh, it was wrong, very wrong, not to tell me!”
“What is this paper?”
“Read!”
The document was a “summons,” in which the sieur Eusebe Martin, perpetrator of sundry strokes and wounds on the person of the sieur Ravaud, calling himself De la Soulaye, &c. &c. was summoned to appear on the following Wednesday before Monsieur De la Varade, juge d’instruction, at Versailles. It was also set forth that, in default of his appearance at the time specified, a warrant would be issued for his arrest.
Eusebe took the official document to Clamens, for the purpose of asking an explanation. The dramatist reassured him, saying that he also had been summoned, but that the affair was of no importance.
“We will be sentenced to pay a few hundred francs as a fine, and to spend a few months in prison: that’s all. Do not alarm yourself.”
“So!” said Eusebe, “a fellow is pleased to slander a lady; I have risked my life against his, when I ought to have simply strangled him; and now it is necessary that I should pay a fine and be subjected, with you and Paul, to imprisonment!”
“All very natural,” replied the poet.
“But he will be condemned also, I hope?” said Eusebe, with some vehemence of tone.
“Not at all. He will be acquitted,—first, because he was insulted, and second, because he has suffered at your hands.”
“But if I had killed him?”
“As the combat was honorably conducted, we should have been exonerated from all blame.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Eusebe, “my father said wisely that we should never do things by halves.”
On the appointed Wednesday, Eusebe, Daniel Clamens, and Paul Buck arrived at Versailles. As the hour fixed for the hearing had not yet come, the three friends took a stroll through the city before repairing to the court-room.
“Is that what you call the Palais de Justice?” inquired Eusebe, pointing to a building of rather pitiful appearance.
“Yes,” responded Clamens.
“You said to me, on the way,” rejoined the lover of Adéonne, “that justice was the first of established powers. One could have very little reason to question that, if he compared the palace of justice with that of a king.”
“We have in France,” said Paul, “but ten palaces for kings, while for justice there are more than five hundred, in which she condemns more in a day than a monarch could pardon in a year.”
“Fortunately for society, messieurs,” said the Commandant de Vic, who had just arrived, and who was followed by MM. de la Soulaye and de Buffières.
The first step Justice takes in the punishment of duellists is to bring them together in her ante-chamber. But for the profound respect the French profess for her, conflicts might be renewed there. It is true, nevertheless, that the custom, which might be attended with grave consequences, has often a wholesome effect. Adversaries often shake hands at the moment they are about to appear before the judge.
M. de la Soulaye, perceiving the lover of Adéonne, saluted him courteously, and offered his hand.
Eusebe bowed, but did not respond to the advance made by his late antagonist.
“Monsieur,” said the Commandant de Vic, frowning, “I have the honor to call your attention to the fact that M. de la Soulaye offers you his hand.”
“I do not wish to offer him mine,” replied Eusebe, “and am sorry that you compel me to say so.”
The officer, fired by this curt repulse, advanced, as if he meditated a quarrel; but M. de Buffières restrained him.
“You are too condescending, commandant,” said the latter, “in paying any attention to this rustic.”
On their part, Paul Buck and Daniel Clamens reproached Eusebe with his want of courtesy.
At this moment, three gendarmes entered, escorting three men with villainous countenances, who were seated near the actors in the duel at Peck.
“What!” exclaimed Eusebe; “you wish to persuade me that I would act like a well-bred man in giving my hand to a rogue who has slandered a lady, who has tried to kill me, and, in addition, is the cause of our being brought to this disagreeable place, here to await condemnation, in company with three thieves? I cannot credit such a monstrosity of meanness; and I would rather pass for the worst blackguard in the world than touch a finger of the villain.”
MM. de la Soulaye, de Vic, and de Buffières were first called into the presence of the magistrate, who kept them away for nearly three hours.
Eusebe bit his nails with fierce impatience during this vexatious delay. Clamens, pencil in hand, occupied himself in composing couplets upon the incidents in which he had recently figured. Paul Buck speculated with one of the gendarmes on the philosophy of history.
“Monsieur,” said one of the thieves to Eusebe, “won’t you please to give me a little tobacco? I have not smoked for more than four months.”
“I have no tobacco,” responded Martin, “but I have some cigars, which, if these gentlemen will permit me, I will give you willingly.”
“Give them to him, if you wish,” said one of the gendarmes. “It ought not to be allowed; but”——and the officer shrugged his shoulders.
The three young men then emptied their cigar-cases, and slipped some money into the hands of the malefactors. The ice was broken.
“Why were you arrested?” asked Paul Buck of a thief who had just been gladdened with three cigars and two francs.
“Oh, I have been jugged by mistake,” replied the bandit, with a voice of sinister tone.
“It was the seventh time that Justice was deceived in your case,” dryly observed a gendarme.
“As for the other times,” rejoined the rogue, “I have nothing to say; but for this, as true as you are an honest man, monsieur, I am innocent. I didn’t do it.”
“If it was not you, it was your brother,” said the gendarme, sententiously.
“By my faith,” said the man, “that’s worth thinking of: it might be so. I will just mention that to the judge.”
“And you,” said Eusebe to a second rogue, “are you also charged with robbery?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Who or what could have led you to rob?”
“You shall hear. My story is a very simple one. I was only nineteen years old when I fell in love with a young girl residing in my native province. One day she asked me to bring her some flowers; it was the day after the festival of Sainte-Marie, and she wished to cover the altar with flowers, so that the Blessed Virgin would be favorable to us. Her parents troubled themselves but little about our union. I had neither garden nor flowers. Night came, and I took a stroll. When all the village was sound asleep, I reached the wall of a garden adjoining that of the Maire——”
“Robbery, with escalade, at midnight, in an inhabited house: five years in irons,” interrupted a gendarme.
“That is the penalty,” resumed the bandit; “but as I was young, had good antecedents, and the booty was only a few roses, which, sooner or later, would have been offered to the Virgin, I was let off with imprisonment for three years. When the term of my sentence expired, I found my mistress a wife. While in prison I had learned the theory of crime; and, as I was now an outcast on account of having been a convict, I was forced to commence its practice.”
“And you, old fellow,” demanded Clamens of the third criminal, “why did you steal?”
“From taste,” was the laconic reply.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the gendarme, “there are all sorts of taste in human nature.”
Notwithstanding his cold and rigid aspect, M. de la Varade was not a malicious or a severe man.
From the time of Francis I. to the Revolution of ’93, the family of la Varade had always held office in a judicial capacity. The first of the judges was ennobled because he labored to please the beautiful Diana, Countess de Brézé; one of the latest was guillotined because he had displeased the fair Manon Ladri, who had considerable influence with the Revolutionary authorities.
The father of the present juge d’instruction died, after the Restoration, attorney-general of the provinces.
M. de la Varade spoke with extreme difficulty. Naturally mild and indolent, the magistracy had few charms for him. His profession caused him many torments and vexations; but he would have thought himself wanting in self-respect and regard for the memory of his ancestors had he not continued to exercise the functions of the office.
“A la Varade,” said he to his son, “must be a magistrate: his nobility demands it.”
When the magistrate was alone, he bitterly regretted that he was not able to pursue a more congenial career, and expend in the gratification of his tastes his income of sixty thousand livres. He often asked himself if a citizen was not justified in withdrawing from such severe duties, when the State possessed many thousands of persons quite competent to fill the vacancy. His wife said “yes,” but his conscience said “no.”
Madame de la Varade, who ardently desired to reside in Paris, sometimes said to her lord,—
“Please to explain, mon ami, what society gains by substituting a la Varade for a Rabauel—for example—to instruct the big thieves how to draw the little ones to Versailles. Do you imagine that with your name and fortune you could not render service to your country in any other way? A pleasant duty, truly, that which you have chosen. You will exercise your functions for about twenty-five years, and then, as a reward, you will be made President of the Court in some out-of-the-way province.”
“As my fathers have done,” replied the husband, “I will do; and, God willing, I hope my sons will imitate my example.”
The wife shrugged her shoulders; the mother sighed.
Eusebe entered the cabinet of this magistrate, bowed, and waited the examination.
“Will you, monsieur,” said the magistrate, after some preliminary formalities, “narrate the circumstances which led to the rencontre between you and M. de la Soulaye?”
“But first,” replied Eusebe, eagerly, “I am accused of having inflicted blows and wounds upon my adversary. I desire you to take note that I did not hurt him at all.”
“That does not signify,” said the magistrate. “It is a mere form. Come to the facts of the case.”
“Is it possible that you are ignorant of them? These gentlemen say that they have told you all.”
“No matter: I must needs learn them from you.”
“Well, if you desire it,” rejoined Eusebe. And he then narrated his story of the quarrel and the duel.
“Sir,” said the magistrate, “it was you who gave the lie.”
“Certainly; and in my place you would have done the same.”
“I am not here to say what I should have done: I am here only to question you. Was the affair honorably conducted?”
“No.”
“With what do you reproach your adversary?”
“With having lied.”
“That is not the point. I speak of his conduct on the field of combat. I have nothing to do with the rest.”
“On the field, we were seven in number. My adversary could not have behaved dishonorably had we been but two. I have an arm equal to his own. I do not fear him.”
“You are doubtless skilful with the sword?”
“I do not know. Until this affair, I had never held a sword on guard.”
“Then there is nothing with which you can reproach your adversary?”
“Yes: with having lied.”
“And are you quite sure?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“Then why did you fight?”
“Indeed, I don’t know. They told me that honor demanded that I should fight.”
“Then, if they had not represented honor as being so exacting, you would not have fought?”
“No: I would have told the man that he was an impostor, and that would have sufficed.”
The frankness of Eusebe evidently made an impression on the magistrate.
“Monsieur Martin,” said he, “I am a father. Permit me to address you as a man.”
Eusebe bowed, and the magistrate continued.
“Do you think that an actress cares for those who get themselves killed in her defence?”
“Yes,” replied the provincial, “when she is honorable and when she knows she is beloved.”
“And you love this creature?”
“Ah! monsieur, with all my heart!”
“Where and how did you make her acquaintance?”
Eusebe then related how his father had sent him to Paris to study life, admire civilization, and learn to distinguish the false from the true. His journey, his arrival, his illusions, his meeting with Adéonne, his mode of life since then, his grief, his humiliation,—all,—were told with perfect candor and simplicity.
“My son,” said M. de la Varade, “I know something of human nature, and I feel sure that you are sincere. Your affair here will not be followed up. Now it is no longer the judge who speaks: it is the man. Listen! Up to the present time you have not followed the injunctions of your father: you are on the wrong road. Are you not conscious that your present pleasures are entirely factitious and forced? Have you never thought of the hollowness of such fancied enjoyments? Are you not ashamed of being absolutely nothing in a society where each individual has a mission?”
“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed the young man. “I have experienced all the sensations you describe. But what can I do, powerless as I am to discover the true path, and with no counsellor to point the way?”
“The true is synonymous with one word, which is the religion of society: that word is Duty.”
Eusebe, upon quitting the cabinet of the magistrate, rejoined his two friends, who were glad to learn that the affair of the duel would be dropped. All three then returned to Paris.
Adéonne fairly wept with joy on seeing Eusebe return. But, while the cantatrice did not try to conceal her delight, the provincial seemed abstracted, and paid little attention to this evidence of affection.
On the following morning, Eusebe arose at an early hour, hastily completed his toilet, and left the house, much to the astonishment of Adéonne, who did not venture to interrogate him as to the cause of his hasty departure.
“He did not close his eyes during the night,” said she to herself, “and he leaves me at this early hour. What can be the matter with him, and where is he going?”
Eusebe had taken but a few steps when he returned, as if he had forgotten something. After embracing his mistress, he said,—
“Adéonne, my sweet queen, do you know what duty is?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well?”
“My duty,” replied the comédienne, “consists in not being hissed off the stage, and in being faithful to the man I love,—to you, my dear Eusebe.”
“Then the duty of a woman is not like that of a man.”
“The same precisely. Your duty is to love me as I love you.”
Eusebe then left the house, and directed his steps towards the residence of Clamens. When he entered the apartment of the poet, he found him snoring in a most unpoetical manner.
“My friend,” said Eusebe, “I ask pardon for disturbing you at so early an hour, but there is an important question I wish to have answered. Have the goodness to tell me what duty is.”
Daniel opened his eyes with difficulty, stared at his provincial visitor for a moment, and then responded,—
“As for me, my duty is to get a piece in five acts accepted at the Théâtre Français.”
So saying, he turned his face to the wall, and was soon snoring as vigorously as ever. Eusebe departed, and, not long afterwards, ascended to the attic apartment of Paul Buck, the painter.
“Welcome!” exclaimed the artist, upon the entrance of his provincial friend. “Happiness has again taken up her abode under my roof. Gredinette has returned, and I have pardoned her. You are about to censure me,—to tell me that I have been weak. But could I do otherwise? My happiness is attached to the ribbons of her bonnet. Besides, why should not clemency, which is a virtue in kings, be exercised by artists?”
“Who could blame you for seeking to be happy? Not I, assuredly. My visit here has quite another purpose.”
“Ah?”
“I wish you to tell me what duty is.”
“Duty is the only thing that Gredinette ignores.”
“Your definition is very vague.”
“Duty! Oh, there are many interpretations of the word.”
“Give me the best.”
“In my opinion, the duty of a man is to smoke his pipe in peace under the eye of Heaven, and to do no wrong to his neighbor.”
“Thank you,” was the sole response of Eusebe, as he abruptly quitted his artist friend.
Once more in the street, the poor provincial strolled about, at the mercy of chance, more embarrassed and perplexed than ever. The sight of the old store of Lansade, before which he passed, reminded him of the honest merchant who had assisted him in an emergency of a more serious character. He decided to go at once to Lansade and ask his advice. On the way he met the stage-manager of the theatre, who saluted him politely.
“M. Sainval,” said Eusebe, hurrying towards him, “you can perhaps save me a long walk.”
“I am at your service.”
“Please explain to me what you understand by duty.”
“That is very easy, M. Martin. My duty is to first please the director, then the public.”
“Thank you,” said Eusebe; and he continued his walk.
On reaching Viroflay, the young man had great difficulty in recognizing the house he went to seek. The garden was no longer there,—the space being filled with boxes and packages. The house, formerly so white and neat, had become gray, and the walls were nearly covered by the gigantic letters of a sign, reading as follows:—
F. B. LANSADE,
Formerly of the Boulevard Saint-Denis, at Paris.
DEPOT OF PORCELAIN AND CRYSTAL,
THE BEST IN FRANCE.
MANUFACTURED FOR EXPORT.
A man, wearing a blue blouse, his brow dropping perspiration, appeared before the astonished provincial.
“Ah! M. Martin,” he exclaimed, “is this indeed you? I did not expect to see you again. I thought you had left Paris. I have often intended to inquire for you, but I am so busy when I go to the city that I have not a minute to spare.”
“You have then resumed business?” asked Eusebe.
“Oh, no; far from it. I was so fortunate as to acquire enough to satisfy my modest desires; I live now quite at my ease. Now and then, ’tis true, I do a little something in the way of trade, just to kill time.”
“One would suppose to see your house that it had been turned into a factory.”
“Would you not? But such is by no means the case. I furnish a few of the merchants in the neighborhood: indeed, I sell almost as much as I did in Paris. This is the only pastime I have. Formerly I employed a salesman and a porter; now I am entirely alone. To tell the truth, I do the work of four; but, you know, it is necessary for a man to be occupied.”
Without taking any further notice of his visitor, Lansade resumed his work among the glass and porcelain. After a few moments he said,—
“Sans cérémonie, M. Martin. Of course you remain to breakfast.”
“Thank you,” said Eusebe: “it is absolutely necessary that I should be at Versailles before noon. I came to ask a favor.”
A sudden change of expression was visible in Lansade’s features, and it was evident that he felt uncomfortable.
“I should be glad,” continued the young man, “if you would tell me in what, in your opinion, duty consists.”
“That is very easy, M. Martin,” replied the porcelain-merchant, his features resuming their usual expression. “Duty consists in working when one is young, in always honoring one’s signature, and in giving way to others when one has acquired a sufficiency.”
Eusebe then took leave of the merchant.
“I hope to see you again, M. Martin,” said Lansade. “Come breakfast with me one of these days. Let it be some Sunday.”
The weather was fine; the shrubbery along the road was in bloom. Eusebe, who had not seen the country for a long time, felt, in spite of his preoccupation, the reviving influence of natural beauty, and resolved to pursue his journey afoot.
“I have done wrong,” said he, “in questioning all these people, each of whom regards duty from a different point of view. The only man who can give me any light on the subject is the honorable magistrate, who kindly pointed out my error in living without an object.”
An hour afterwards, the young man knocked at the door of M. de la Varade, who, unfortunately, was absent. A servant conducted the visitor into the magistrate’s study, and asked him to await the return of the master of the house.
Eusebe had waited for something more than ten minutes, and, becoming impatient, was about to retire, when among the books on the table he observed a dictionary.
“Ah!” thought he, “I was sure that here my expectations would be realized. Now I shall certainly find what I seek.”
He turned over the leaves of the dictionary, and found,—
“Duty.—Subst. That which conscience, reason, law, or custom demands that one should do.”
Eusebe dropped the book, with an expression of bitter disappointment.
“Now,” thought he, “I am more perplexed than ever; since the things which law and custom oblige one to do are directly contrary to those dictated by conscience and reason.”
Eusebe was absorbed in reflection, when a young lady, with a sparkling eye, appeared at the door of the study. It was Madame de la Varade.
“My husband,” said she, “told me that he would not return until late in the day. I regret that you have been kept waiting uselessly.”
“And I, madame, regret having disturbed you.”
“Will you oblige me with your name?”
“Eusebe Martin.”
The wives of magistrates generally know more about any matters of interest that are transacted at their husbands’ offices than the procureur-général. M. de la Varade had related to his wife the particulars of the late duel, and imparted to her the curiosity he felt in regard to the young man who possessed the love of a woman comparatively celebrated. After a protracted silence, Madame de la Varade observed,—
“If you are particularly desirous to speak to my husband, and wish to await his return——”
“No, madame,” interrupted Eusebe, “I have nothing of importance to say to Monsieur de la Varade. Yesterday he was so kind as to give me some good advice. But, unfortunately, I did not entirely comprehend his meaning; and to-day I have come to beg him to define a word which he said was the religion of society.”
“And what is the word?”
“Duty.”
Madame de la Varade burst into a laugh,—which enabled Eusebe to note that she had pearly teeth and rosy lips.
“And so, monsieur, it is for this you have come all the way from Paris?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Well, I can satisfy you.”
“I shall be very grateful for the favor, indeed, madame.”
“You have, doubtless, heard of the ancient Hydra?”
“But,” stammered the provincial, “I thought that was a fabulous monster.”
“Precisely so:—a vile beast, with seven heads. If one were cut off, seven others appeared in its stead. Monsieur, duty is a moral monster. While you may accomplish one, seven others will rise to demand your attention.”
One morning, about a month after his visit to Versailles, Eusebe, with an enormous bouquet in his hand, entered the boudoir of Adéonne.
“Why do you bring these flowers?” inquired the comédienne. “This is not my birthday, if I remember rightly.”
“No,” responded the young man: “it is only the birthday of the bouquet.”
“It is one of those days on which both flowers and compliments are of bad augury. I will wager that these camellias conceal some bad news.”
“That is true.”
“The nature of it?”
“I hardly know how to inform you.”
“You are about to be married: is it not so?”
“Yes. Who could have told you?”
“I have known it for more than two weeks. I found a letter from your father in the pocket of your coat. You need not attempt to excuse yourself. I know all you could say.”
“I shall not attempt to justify myself,” replied Eusebe, affecting a tranquillity of mind which he was far from possessing. “I take a wife because a man must discharge the duties he owes to society.”
“You see, my dear Eusebe,” continued the actress, “we are thought to be hardened, to have no heart,—we women of the theatre. Nothing could be further from the truth. I loved you because I thought you a man of sense and of courage. How grossly I was deceived! You are a fool and a coward!”
“Adéonne!”
“Do not become excited: you see that I am perfectly calm. I repeat that you are both a fool and a coward. The first duty of a man is to live for the woman whom he loves and who loves him. The characteristic of a man of intelligence is to prefer that happiness he knows to that which is untried. Of what importance is it to me that you are going to be married, since you love me no longer? I should only ask time to avenge myself, if I did not love you still. It is a great misfortune for me; for my love will kill me, if I cannot succeed in crushing it, which would be little better than death itself.”
“Do you desire me to break off this marriage?” demanded Eusebe. “There is yet time.”
“No, Eusebe. If you were to revoke your promise, I could not recall my illusions.”
“M.——
“Monsieur and Madame Bonnaud, rentiers, have the honor to notify you of the marriage of their daughter, Mademoiselle Louise Clementine Bonnaud, with Monsieur Eusebe Martin.
“The nuptial benediction will be pronounced on the 27th instant, at eleven o’clock in the morning, in the Church of Marly-le-Roi.”
This notice was addressed to Adéonne by Bonnaud, who, like a prudent father, wished to advise the cantatrice of the approaching nuptials, in case Eusebe had failed to do so, and thereby prevent the occurrence of an unpleasant scene at Marly-le-Roi. After having read the note, Adéonne said to Marie Bachu, who had come to console her,—
“If Heaven did not appear to favor me so little, I would have a mass said for my happiness, which on that day will be buried.”
“Mine was long since entombed, and I am not yet dead,” was the response of Marie.
On the eve of the day fixed for the marriage, Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Bonnaud, with their friends, Eusebe Martin, assisted by Lansade and Monsieur de la Varade, went to sign, in the official presence of Monflor, the notary, two important documents. The first was a contract of marriage; the second was a deed of partnership between Eusebe Martin and Isidore Boncain, manufacturer of chemicals, and successor of Bonnaud. Isidore Boncain brought to the firm of E. Martin & Co. his commercial information and experience. Eusebe brought the money which constituted the dowry of his wife.
The notary read the two documents in a loud tone. Then Eusebe arose and said, “Will you add that I also bring into the partnership the sum of forty-eight thousand francs, which I now deposit in your hands?”
Bonnaud and Lansade uttered an exclamation which could not be rendered by any known assemblage of letters.
“What!” exclaimed the first: “the actress has, then, restored your money?”
“Read!” said Eusebe, offering the astonished merchants a letter, the contents of which they immediately began to devour. The epistle ran as follows:—