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_ Society practises none of the virtues it demands from individuals:
every hour it commits crimes, but the crimes are committed in words;
it paves the way for evil actions with a jest; it degrades nobility of
soul by ridicule; it jeers at sons who mourn their fathers,
anathematizes those who do not mourn them enough, and finds diversion
(the hypocrite!) in weighing the dead bodies before they are cold.
The evening of the day on which Madame Claes died, her friends cast a
few flowers upon her memory in the intervals of their games of whist,
doing homage to her noble qualities as they sorted their hearts and
spades. Then, after a few lachrymal phrases,--the fi, fo, fum of
collective grief, uttered in precisely the same tone, and with neither
more nor less of feeling, at all hours and in every town in France,--
they proceeded to estimate the value of her property. Pierquin was the
first to observe that the death of this excellent woman was a mercy,
for her husband had made her unhappy; and it was even more fortunate
for her children: she was unable while living to refuse her money to
the husband she adored; but now that she was dead, Claes was debarred
from touching it. Thereupon all present calculated the fortune of that
poor Madame Claes, wondered how much she had laid by (had she, in
fact, laid by anything?), made an inventory of her jewels, rummaged in
her wardrobe, peeped into her drawers, while the afflicted family were
still weeping and praying around her death-bed.
Pierquin, with an appraising eye, stated that Madame Claes's
possessions in her own right--to use the notarial phrase--might still
be recovered, and ought to amount to nearly a million and a half of
francs; basing this estimate partly on the forest of Waignies,--whose
timber, counting the full-grown trees, the saplings, the primeval
growths, and the recent plantations, had immensely increased in value
during the last twelve years,--and partly on Balthazar's own property,
of which enough remained to "cover" the claims of his children, if the
liquidation of their mother's fortune did not yield sufficient to
release him. Mademoiselle Claes was still, in Pierquin's slang, "a
four-hundred-thousand-franc girl." "But," he added, "if she doesn't
marry,--a step which would of course separate her interests and permit
us to sell the forest and auction, and so realize the property of the
minor children and reinvest it where the father can't lay hands on it,
--Claes is likely to ruin them all."
Thereupon, everybody looked about for some eligible young man worthy
to win the hand of Mademoiselle Claes; but none of them paid the
lawyer the compliment of suggesting that he might be the man.
Pierquin, however, found so many good reasons to reject the suggested
matches as unworthy of Marguerite's position, that the confabulators
glanced at each other and smiled, and took malicious pleasure in
prolonging this truly provincial method of annoyance. Pierquin had
already decided that Madame Claes's death would have a favorable
effect upon his suit, and he began mentally to cut up the body in his
own interests.
"That good woman," he said to himself as he went home to bed, "was as
proud as a peacock; she would never gave given me her daughter. Hey,
hey! why couldn't I manage matters now so as to marry the girl? Pere
Claes is drunk on carbon, and takes no care of his children. If, after
convincing Marguerite that she must marry to save the property of her
brothers and sister, I were to ask him for his daughter, he will be
glad to get rid of a girl who is likely to thwart him."
He went to sleep anticipating the charms of the marriage contract, and
reflecting on the advantages of the step and the guarantees afforded
for his happiness in the person he proposed to marry. In all the
provinces there was certainly not a better brought-up or more
delicately lovely young girl than Mademoiselle Claes. Her modesty, her
grace, were like those of the pretty flower Emmanuel had feared to
name lest he should betray the secret of his heart. Her sentiments
were lofty, her principles religious, she would undoubtedly make him a
faithful wife: moreover, she not only flattered the vanity which
influences every man more or less in the choice of a wife, but she
gratified his pride by the high consideration which her family, doubly
ennobled, enjoyed in Flanders,--a consideration which her husband of
course would share.
The next day Pierquin extracted from his strong-box several thousand-
franc notes, which he offered with great friendliness to Balthazar, so
as to relieve him of pecuniary annoyance in the midst of his grief.
Touched by this delicate attention, Balthazar would, he thought,
praise his goodness and his personal qualities to Marguerite. In this
he was mistaken. Monsieur Claes and his daughter thought it was a very
natural action, and their sorrow was too absorbing to let them even
think of the lawyer.
Balthazar's despair was indeed so great that persons who were disposed
to blame his conduct could not do otherwise than forgive him,--less on
account of the Science which might have excused him, than for the
remorse which could not undo his deeds. Society is satisfied by
appearances: it takes what it gives, without considering the intrinsic
worth of the article. To the world real suffering is a show, a species
of enjoyment, which inclines it to absolve even a criminal; in its
thirst for emotions it acquits without judging the man who raises a
laugh, or he who makes it weep, making no inquiry into their methods.
Marguerite was just nineteen when her father put her in charge of the
household; and her brothers and sister, whom Madame Claes in her last
moments exhorted to obey their elder sister, accepted her authority
with docility. Her mourning attire heightened the dewy whiteness of
her skin, just as the sadness of her expression threw into relief the
gentleness and patience of her manner. From the first she gave proofs
of feminine courage, of inalterable serenity, like that of angels
appointed to shed peace on suffering hearts by a touch of their waving
palms. But although she trained herself, through a premature
perception of duty, to hide her personal grief, it was none the less
bitter; her calm exterior was not in keeping with the deep trouble of
her thoughts, and she was destined to undergo, too early in life,
those terrible outbursts of feeling which no heart is wholly able to
subdue: her father was to hold her incessantly under the pressure of
natural youthful generosity on the one hand, and the dictates of
imperious duty on the other. The cares which came upon her the very
day of her mother's death threw her into a struggle with the interests
of life at an age when young girls are thinking only of its pleasures.
Dreadful discipline of suffering, which is never lacking to angelic
natures!
The love which rests on money or on vanity is the most persevering of
passions. Pierquin resolved to win the heiress without delay. A few
days after Madame Claes's death he took occasion to speak to
Marguerite, and began operations with a cleverness which might have
succeeded if love had not given her the power of clear insight and
saved her from mistaking appearances that were all the more specious
because Pierquin displayed his natural kindheartedness,--the
kindliness of a notary who thinks himself loving while he protects a
client's money. Relying on his rather distant relationship and his
constant habit of managing the business and sharing the secrets of the
Claes family, sure of the esteem and friendship of the father, greatly
assisted by the careless inattention of that servant of science who
took no thought for the marriage of his daughter, and not suspecting
that Marguerite could prefer another,--Pierquin unguardedly enabled
her to form a judgment on a suit in which there was no passion except
that of self-interest, always odious to a young soul, and which he was
not clever enough to conceal. It was he who on this occasion was
naively above-board, it was she who dissimulated,--simply because he
thought he was dealing with a defenceless girl, and wholly
misconceived the privileges of weakness.
"My dear cousin," he said to Marguerite, with whom he was walking
about the paths of the little garden, "you know my heart, you
understand how truly I desire to respect the painful feelings which
absorb you at this moment. I have too sensitive a nature for a lawyer;
I live by my heart only, I am forced to spend my time on the interests
of others when I would fain let myself enjoy the sweet emotions which
make life happy. I suffer deeply in being obliged to talk to you of
subjects so discordant with your state of mind, but it is necessary. I
have thought much about you during the last few days. It is evident
that through a fatal delusion the fortune of your brothers and sister
and your own are in jeopardy. Do you wish to save your family from
complete ruin?"
"What must I do?" she asked, half-frightened by his words.
"Marry," answered Pierquin.
"I shall not marry," she said.
"Yes, you will marry," replied the notary, "when you have soberly
thought over the critical position in which you are placed."
"How can my marriage save--"
"Ah! I knew you would consider it, my dear cousin," he exclaimed,
interrupting her. "Marriage will emancipate you."
"Why should I be emancipated?" asked Marguerite.
"Because marriage will put you at once into possession of your
property, my dear little cousin," said the lawyer in a tone of
triumph. "If you marry you take your share of your mother's property.
To give it to you, the whole property must be liquidated; to do that,
it becomes necessary to sell the forest of Waignies. That done, the
proceeds will be capitalized, and your father, as guardian, will be
compelled to invest the fortune of his children in such a way that
Chemistry can't get hold of it."
"And if I do not marry, what will happen?" she asked.
"Well," said the notary, "your father will manage your estate as he
pleases. If he returns to making gold, he will probably sell the
timber of the forest of Waignies and leave his children as naked as
the little Saint Johns. The forest is now worth about fourteen hundred
thousand francs; but from one day to another you are not sure your
father won't cut it down, and then your thirteen hundred acres are not
worth three hundred thousand francs. Isn't it better to avoid this
almost certain danger by at once compelling the division of property
on your marriage? If the forest is sold now, while Chemistry has gone
to sleep, your father will put the proceeds into the Grand-Livre. The
Funds are at 59; those dear children will get nearly five thousand
francs a year for every fifty thousand francs: and, inasmuch as the
property of minors cannot be sold out, your brothers and sister will
find their fortunes doubled in value by the time they come of age.
Whereas, in the other case,--faith, no one knows what may happen: your
father has already impaired your mother's property; we shall find out
the deficit when we come to make the inventory. If he is in debt to
her estate, you will take a mortgage on his, and in that way something
may be recovered--"
"For shame!" said Marguerite. "It would be an outrage on my father. It
is not so long since my mother uttered her last words that I have
forgotten them. My father is incapable of robbing his children," she
continued, giving way to tears of distress. "You misunderstand him,
Monsieur Pierquin."
"But, my dear cousin, if your father gets back to chemistry--"
"We are ruined; is that what you mean?"
"Yes, utterly ruined. Believe me, Marguerite," he said, taking her
hand which he placed upon his heart, "I should fail of my duty if I
did not persist in this matter. Your interests alone--"
"Monsieur," said Marguerite, coldly withdrawing her hand, "the true
interests of my family require me not to marry. My mother thought so."
"Cousin," he cried, with the earnestness of a man who sees a fortune
escaping him, "you commit suicide; you fling your mother's property
into a gulf. Well, I will prove the devotion I feel for you: you know
not how I love you. I have admired you from the day of that last ball,
three years ago; you were enchanting. Trust the voice of love when it
speaks to you of your own interests, Marguerite." He paused. "Yes, we
must call a family council and emancipate you--without consulting
you," he added.
"But what is it to be emancipated?"
"It is to enjoy your own rights."
"If I can be emancipated without being married, why do you want me to
marry? and whom should I marry?"
Pierquin tried to look tenderly at his cousin, but the expression
contrasted so strongly with his hard eyes, usually fixed on money,
that Marguerite discovered the self-interest in his improvised
tenderness.
"You would marry the person who--pleases you--the most," he said. "A
husband is indispensable, were it only as a matter of business. You
are now entering upon a struggle with your father; can you resist him
all alone?"
"Yes, monsieur; I shall know how to protect my brothers and sister
when the time comes."
"Pshaw! the obstinate creature," thought Pierquin. "No, you will not
resist him," he said aloud.
"Let us end the subject," she said.
"Adieu, cousin, I shall endeavor to serve you in spite of yourself; I
will prove my love by protecting you against your will from a disaster
which all the town foresees."
"I thank you for the interest you take in me," she answered; "but I
entreat you to propose nothing and to undertake nothing which may give
pain to my father."
Marguerite stood thoughtfully watching Pierquin as he departed; she
compared his metallic voice, his manners, flexible as a steel spring,
his glance, servile rather than tender, with the mute melodious poetry
in which Emmanuel's sentiments were wrapped. No matter what may be
said, or what may be done, there exists a wonderful magnetism whose
effects never deceive. The tones of the voice, the glance, the
passionate gestures of a lover may be imitated; a young girl can be
deluded by a clever comedian; but to succeed, the man must be alone in
the field. If the young girl has another soul beside her whose pulses
vibrate in unison with hers, she is able to distinguish the
expressions of a true love. Emmanuel, like Marguerite, felt the
influence of the chords which, from the time of their first meeting
had gathered ominously about their heads, hiding from their eyes the
blue skies of love. His feeling for the Elect of his heart was an
idolatry which the total absence of hope rendered gentle and
mysterious in its manifestations. Socially too far removed from
Mademoiselle Claes by his want of fortune, with nothing but a noble
name to offer her, he saw no chance of ever being her husband. Yet he
had always hoped for certain encouragements which Marguerite refused
to give before the failing eyes of her dying mother. Both equally
pure, they had never said to one another a word of love. Their joys
were solitary joys tasted by each alone. They trembled apart, though
together they quivered beneath the rays of the same hope. They seemed
to fear themselves, conscious that each only too surely belonged to
the other. Emmanuel trembled lest he should touch the hand of the
sovereign to whom he had made a shrine of his heart; a chance contact
would have roused hopes that were too ardent, he could not then have
mastered the force of his passion. And yet, while neither bestowed the
vast, though trivial, the innocent and yet all-meaning signs of love
that even timid lovers allow themselves, they were so firmly fixed in
each other's hearts that both were ready to make the greatest
sacrifices, which were, indeed, the only pleasures their love could
expect to taste.
Since Madame Claes's death this hidden love was shrouded in mourning.
The tints of the sphere in which it lived, dark and dim from the
first, were now black; the few lights were veiled by tears.
Marguerite's reserve changed to coldness; she remembered the promise
exacted by her mother. With more freedom of action, she nevertheless
became more distant. Emmanuel shared his beloved's grief,
comprehending that the slightest word or wish of love at such a time
transgressed the laws of the heart. Their love was therefore more
concealed than it had ever been. These tender souls sounded the same
note: held apart by grief, as formerly by the timidities of youth and
by respect for the sufferings of the mother, they clung to the
magnificent language of the eyes, the mute eloquence of devoted
actions, the constant unison of thoughts,--divine harmonies of youth,
the first steps of a love still in its infancy. Emmanuel came every
morning to inquire for Claes and Marguerite, but he never entered the
dining-room, where the family now sat, unless to bring a letter from
Gabriel or when Balthazar invited him to come in. His first glance at
the young girl contained a thousand sympathetic thoughts; it told her
that he suffered under these conventional restraints, that he never
left her, he was always with her, he shared her grief. He shed the
tears of his own pain into the soul of his dear one by a look that was
marred by no selfish reservation. His good heart lived so completely
in the present, he clung so firmly to a happiness which he believed to
be fugitive, that Marguerite sometimes reproached herself for not
generously holding out her hand and saying, "Let us at least be
friends."
Pierquin continued his suit with an obstinacy which is the
unreflecting patience of fools. He judged Marguerite by the ordinary
rules of the multitude when judging of women. He believed that the
words marriage, freedom, fortune, which he had put into her mind,
would geminate and flower into wishes by which he could profit; he
imagined that her coldness was mere dissimulation. But surround her as
he would with gallant attentions, he could not hide the despotic ways
of a man accustomed to manage the private affairs of many families
with a high hand. He discoursed to her in those platitudes of
consolation common to his profession, which crawl like snails over the
suffering mind, leaving behind them a trail of barren words which
profane its sanctity. His tenderness was mere wheedling. He dropped
his feigned melancholy at the door when he put on his overshoes, or
took his umbrella. He used the tone his long intimacy authorized as an
instrument to work himself still further into the bosom of the family,
and bring Marguerite to a marriage which the whole town was beginning
to foresee. The true, devoted, respectful love formed a striking
contrast to its selfish, calculating semblance. Each man's conduct was
homogenous: one feigned a passion and seized every advantage to gain
the prize; the other hid his love and trembled lest he should betray
his devotion.
Some time after the death of her mother, and, as it happened, on the
same day, Marguerite was enabled to compare the only two men of whom
she had any opportunity of judging; for the social solitude to which
she was condemned kept her from seeing life and gave no access to
those who might think of her in marriage. One day after breakfast, a
fine morning in April, Emmanuel called at the house just as Monsieur
Claes was going out. The aspect of his own house was so unendurable to
Balthazar that he spent part of every day in walking about the
ramparts. Emmanuel made a motion as if to follow him, then he
hesitated, seemed to gather up his courage, looked at Marguerite and
remained. The young girl felt sure that he wished to speak with her,
and asked him to go into the garden; then she sent Felicie to Martha,
who was sewing in the antechamber on the upper floor, and seated
herself on a garden-seat in full view of her sister and the old
duenna.
"Monsieur Claes is as much absorbed by grief as he once was by
science," began the young man, watching Balthazar as he slowly crossed
the court-yard. "Every one in Douai pities him; he moves like a man
who has lost all consciousness of life; he stops without a purpose, he
gazes without seeing anything."
"Every sorrow has its own expression," said Marguerite, checking her
tears. "What is it you wish to say to me?" she added after a pause,
coldly and with dignity.
"Mademoiselle," answered Emmanuel in a voice of feeling, "I scarcely
know if I have the right to speak to you as I am about to do. Think
only of my desire to be of service to you, and give me the right of a
teacher to be interested in the future of a pupil. Your brother
Gabriel is over fifteen; he is in the second class; it is now
necessary to direct his studies in the line of whatever future career
he may take up. It is for your father to decide what that career shall
be: if he gives the matter no thought, the injury to Gabriel would be
serious. But then, again, would it not mortify your father if you
showed him that he is neglecting his son's interests? Under these
circumstances, could you not yourself consult Gabriel as to his
tastes, and help him to choose a career, so that later, if his father
should think of making him a public officer, an administrator, a
soldier, he might be prepared with some special training? I do not
suppose that either you or Monsieur Claes would wish to bring Gabriel
up in idleness."
"Oh, no!" said Marguerite; "when my mother taught us to make lace, and
took such pains with our drawing and music and embroidery, she often
said we must be prepared for whatever might happen to us. Gabriel
ought to have a thorough education and a personal value. But tell me,
what career is best for a man to choose?"
"Mademoiselle," said Emmanuel, trembling with pleasure, "Gabriel is at
the head of his class in mathematics; if he would like to enter the
Ecole Polytechnique, he could there acquire the practical knowledge
which will fit him for any career. When he leaves the Ecole he can
choose the path in life for which he feels the strongest bias. Thus,
without compromising his future, you will have saved a great deal of
time. Men who leave the Ecole with honors are sought after on all
sides; the school turns out statesmen, diplomats, men of science,
engineers, generals, sailors, magistrates, manufacturers, and bankers.
There is nothing extraordinary in the son of a rich or noble family
preparing himself to enter it. If Gabriel decides on this course I
shall ask you to--will you grant my request? Say yes!"
"What is it?"
"Let me be his tutor," he answered, trembling.
Marguerite looked at Monsieur de Solis; then she took his hand, and
said, "Yes"--and paused, adding presently in a broken voice:--
"How much I value the delicacy which makes you offer me a thing I can
accept from you. In all that you have said I see how much you have
thought for us. I thank you."
Though the words were simply said, Emmanuel turned away his head not
to show the tears that the delight of being useful to her brought to
his eyes.
"I will bring both boys to see you," he said, when he was a little
calmer; "to-morrow is a holiday."
He rose and bowed to Marguerite, who followed him into the house; when
he had crossed the court-yard he turned and saw her still at the door
of the dining-room, from which she made him a friendly sign.
After dinner Pierquin came to see Monsieur Claes, and sat down between
father and daughter on the very bench in the garden where Emmanuel had
sat that morning.
"My dear cousin," he said to Balthazar, "I have come to-night to talk
to you on business. It is now forty-two days since the decease of your
wife."
"I keep no account of time," said Balthazar, wiping away the tears
that came at the word "decease."
"Oh, monsieur!" cried Marguerite, looking at the lawyer, "how can
you?"
"But, my dear Marguerite, we notaries are obliged to consider the
limits of time appointed by law. This is a matter which concerns you
and your co-heirs. Monsieur Claes has none but minor children, and he
must make an inventory of his property within forty-five days of his
wife's decease, so as to render in his accounts at the end of that
time. It is necessary to know the value of his property before
deciding whether to accept it as sufficient security, or whether we
must fall back on the legal rights of minors."
Marguerite rose.
"Do not go away, my dear cousin," continued Pierquin; "my words
concern you--you and your father both. You know how truly I share your
grief, but to-day you must give your attention to legal details. If
you do not, every one of you will get into serious difficulties. I am
only doing my duty as the family lawyer."
"He is right," said Claes.
"The time expires in two days," resumed Pierquin; "and I must begin
the inventory to-morrow, if only to postpone the payment of the
legacy-tax which the public treasurer will come here and demand.
Treasurers have no hearts; they don't trouble themselves about
feelings; they fasten their claws upon us at all seasons. Therefore
for the next two days my clerk and I will be here from ten till four
with Monsieur Raparlier, the public appraiser. After we get through
the town property we shall go into the country. As for the forest of
Waignies, we shall be obliged to hold a consultation about that. Now
let us turn to another matter. We must call a family council and
appoint a guardian to protect the interests of the minor children.
Monsieur Conyncks of Bruges is your nearest relative; but he has now
become a Belgian. You ought," continued Pierquin, addressing
Balthazar, "to write to him on this matter; you can then find out if
he has any intention of settling in France, where he has a fine
property. Perhaps you could persuade him and his daughter to move into
French Flanders. If he refuses, then I must see about making up the
council with the other near relatives."
"What is the use of an inventory?" asked Marguerite.
"To put on record the value and the claims of the property, its debts
and its assets. When that is all clearly scheduled, the family
council, acting on behalf of the minors, makes such dispositions as it
sees fit."
"Pierquin," said Claes, rising from the bench, "do all that is
necessary to protect the rights of my children; but spare us the
distress of selling the things that belonged to my dear--" he was
unable to continue; but he spoke with so noble an air and in a tone of
such deep feeling that Marguerite took her father's hand and kissed
it.
"To-morrow, then," said Pierquin.
"Come to breakfast," said Claes; then he seemed to gather his
scattered senses together and exclaimed: "But in my marriage contract,
which was drawn under the laws of Hainault, I released my wife from
the obligation of making an inventory, in order that she might not be
annoyed by it: it is very probable that I was equally released--"
"Oh, what happiness!" cried Marguerite. "It would have been so
distressing to us."
"Well, I will look into your marriage contract to-morrow," said the
notary, rather confused.
"Then you did not know of this?" said Marguerite.
This remark closed the interview; the lawyer was far too much confused
to continue it after the young girl's comment.
"The devil is in it!" he said to himself as he crossed the court-yard.
"That man's wandering memory comes back to him in the nick of time,--
just when he needed it to hinder us from taking precautions against
him! I have cracked my brains to save the property of those children.
I meant to proceed regularly and come to an understanding with old
Conyncks, and here's the end of it! I shall lose ground with
Marguerite, for she will certainly ask her father why I wanted an
inventory of the property, which she now sees was not necessary; and
Claes will tell her that notaries have a passion for writing
documents, that we are lawyers above all, above cousins or friends or
relatives, and all such stuff as that."
He slammed the street door violently, railing at clients who ruin
themselves by sensitiveness.
Balthazar was right. No inventory could be made. Nothing, therefore,
was done to settle the relation of the father to the children in the
matter of property. _
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