The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence Part 32

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

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

Frederick hung his head in silence.

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

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

David continued:

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!" exclaimed Frederick, "how my heart beats at your n.o.ble words, M.

David! What a revelation! What was killing me, I realise now, was a cowardly, barren envy. Envy for me was indolence, despair, death. Envy ought to be action, hope, and life. In my impotent rage I only knew how to curse myself, others, and my own nonent.i.ty. Envy ought to give me the desire and strength to come out of my obscurity, and I will come out of it."

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

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

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

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

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

The preceptor was the first to speak.

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

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

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

At the sight of the covered cart, as it approached the farm, an inexplicable presentiment told the young woman that her son was there.

Then, divided between fear and joy, she ran to meet the cart, and exclaimed:

"Frederick, is it you?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXVII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, seeing Frederick open the gla.s.s door which led to the grove, she added:

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

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

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

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

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

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