Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 581
“Besides, you know how peculiar I am, and how, whenever I go to a strange place now, I find myself almost dazed for a day or two by the change. It seems as if I must have time to become accustomed to the new objects by which I am surrounded, to recover my mental faculties.
“The apartments set aside for my exclusive use are so magnificent and so spacious that I felt lost in them yesterday, but to-day I am becoming more accustomed to them.
“Madame de la Rochaiguë and her husband and sister have welcomed me as if I were their own child. They lavish every attention and kindness upon me, and if one could have any feeling save gratitude, for such a cordial reception, I should feel amazed that persons so much older than I am, should treat me with so much deference.
“M. de la Rochaiguë, my guardian, is kindness itself. His wife, who quite spoils me by her tenderness, is of a very gay and lively disposition. Mlle. Helena, her sister-in-law, is the gentlest and most saintly person imaginable.
“You see, my dearest mother, that you need feel no anxiety concerning your poor Ernestine’s lot. Surrounded by such devoted friends, she is as happy as she can be, now.
“My chief desire is to become better acquainted with M. de la Rochaiguë and his family, for then they will doubtless treat me with less ceremony, and cease to pay me compliments which embarrass me greatly, but which they probably feel obliged to pay me in order to make me feel at ease.
“They are so kind that each person in turn seems to be racking his or her brain for the pleasantest and most complimentary thing they can say to me. By and by, I hope that they will see they do not need to flatter me to gain my affection. One would almost suppose from their manner that they were under the greatest obligations to me for being allowed to receive me into their household. This does not surprise me much, however, my dearest mother, for how often you have told me that refined people always seem grateful for the services they are able to render others.
“I have had some very painful moments to-day, — not by any fault of my guardian or his family, however.
“This morning, a gentleman (my notary, as I learned afterwards) was introduced to me by my guardian, who said:
“‘My dear ward, I think it would be well for you to know the precise amount of your fortune, and this gentleman will now tell you.’
“Whereupon, the notary, opening a book he had brought with him, showed me the last page all covered with figures, and said:
“‘Mademoiselle, from the exact’ — he used a word here that I have forgotten— ‘your yearly income amounts to the sum of three million one hundred and twenty thousand francs, which gives you nearly eight thousand francs a day, so you are the richest heiress in France.’
“This, my poor dear mother, reminded me again of what, alas! I scarcely ever forget, — that I was an orphan, and alone in the world; and in spite of all my efforts to control my feelings, I wept bitterly.”
Ernestine was obliged to stop writing. Her tears had burst forth afresh, for to this tender-hearted, artless child, this rich inheritance meant the loss of her mother and of her father.
Becoming calmer after a few moments, she resumed her pen, and continued:
“It is difficult for me to explain it, but on learning that I had eight thousand francs a day, as the notary said, I felt a great awe, not unmixed with fear.
“‘So much money — just for myself! why is it?’ I thought.
“It seemed to me unjust.
“What had I done to be so rich?
“And then those words which had made me weep, ‘You are the richest heiress in France,’ almost terrified me.
“Yes; I know not how to explain it, but the knowledge that I possessed this immense fortune made me feel strangely uneasy. It seemed to me that I must feel as people feel who have a great treasure, and who tremble at the thought of the dangers they will incur if any one tries to rob them of it.
“And yet, no; this comparison is not a just one, for I never cared very much for the money you and my father gave me each month to gratify my fancies.
“In fact, I seem unable to analyse my feelings when I think of my wealth, as they call it. It is strange and inexplicable, but perhaps I shall feel differently by and by.
“In the meantime, I am surrounded by the kindest and most devoted of relatives. What can I have to fear? It is pure childishness on my part, undoubtedly. But to whom can I tell everything, if not to you? M. de la Rochaiguë and the other members of his household are wonderfully kind to me, but I shall never make confidants of them. You know I have always been very reserved to every one but you and my father; and I often reproach myself for not being more familiar with my good Laîné, who has been with me several years. But anything like familiarity is impossible to me, though I am far from being proud.”
Then alluding to the aversion she felt for M. de Maillefort, in consequence of Mlle. Helena’s calumnies, Ernestine added:
“I was cruelly hurt this evening, but it was such a disgraceful thing that, out of respect to you, my dear mother, I will not write it, nor do I really believe that I should have the courage.
“Good night, my darling mamma. To-morrow and the day following, I am going to nine o’clock mass with Mlle. de la Rochaiguë. She is so good and kind that I could not refuse. But my most fervent prayers, my dear mother, are those I offer up in solitude. To-morrow morning and other mornings, in the midst of the careless crowd, I shall pray for you, but it is when I am alone, as now, that my every thought and my very soul lifts itself to thee, and that I pray to thee as one prays to God — my beloved and sainted mother!”
After having replaced the book in the writing-desk, the key of which she wore always suspended around her neck, the orphan sought her couch, and slept much more calmly and peacefully now she had made these artless confessions to an — alas! — now immortal mother.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
ON THE MORNING following the day on which M. de Maillefort had been introduced to Mlle. de Beaumesnil for the first time, Commander Bernard was lying stretched out in the comfortable armchair which had been a present from Olivier.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the old sailor gazed out sadly through the window on the parched flower beds, now full of weeds, for a month before two of the veteran’s old wounds had reopened, keeping him a prisoner in his armchair, and preventing him from working in his beloved garden.
The housekeeper was seated near the commander, busy with some sewing, but for several minutes she must have been indulging in her usual recriminations against “Bû-û-onaparte,” for she was now saying to the veteran, in tones of bitter indignation:
“Yes, monsieur, raw, raw; I tell you he ate it raw!”
The veteran, when his acute suffering abated a little, could not help laughing at the housekeeper’s absurd stories, so he said:
“What was it that this diabolical Corsican ogre ate raw, Mother Barbançon?”
“His beef, monsieur! Yes, the night before the battle he ate his meat raw! And do you know why?”
“No,” answered the veteran, turning himself with difficulty in his armchair; “I can not imagine, I am sure.”
“The wretch did it to render himself more ferocious, so he would have the courage to see his soldiers exterminated by the enemy, — above all, the conscripts,” added the indignant housekeeper. “His sole object in life was to provide food for cannon, as he said, and so to depopulate France by conscriptions that there would not be a single Frenchman left. That was his diabolical scheme!”
Commander Bernard replied to this tirade by another loud burst of laughter.
“Let me ask just this one question,” he said. “If Bonaparte desired that there shouldn’t be another Frenchman left in France, who the devil would he have had to reign over, then?”
“Why, negroes, of course,” snapped the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders impatiently, and acting quite as if an absurdly easy question had been put to her.
It was such a ridiculous answer, and so entirely unexpected, that a moment of positive stupefaction preceded a fresh outburst of hilarity on the part of the commander, who, as soon as he could control his mirth a little, inquired:
“Negroes, what negroes?”
“Why, those American negroes with whom he was always plotting, and who, while he was on his rock, began a tunnel which, starting at Champ-d’Asile, and passing under St. Helena, was intended to transport to the capital of the empire other negroes, friends of the American negroes, so Bû-û-onaparte, in company with his odious Roustan, could return to ravage all France.”
“Really, Mother Barbançon,” exclaimed the veteran, admiringly, “I never knew your imagination to soar to such sublime heights before.”
“I don’t see that there is anything to laugh at, monsieur. Would you like to have conclusive proof that the monster always intended to replace the French by negroes?”
“I should indeed, Mother Barbançon,” exclaimed the veteran, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Come, let us have the proof.”
“Ah, well, monsieur, hasn’t everybody said for years that your Bû-û-onaparte treated the French like so many negroes?”
“Bravo, Mother Barbançon, bravo!”
“Well, isn’t that proof enough that he would like to have had all negroes instead of Frenchmen under his thumb?”
“Thanks, Mother Barbançon!” exclaimed the poor commander, fairly writhing with merriment. “But this is too much, really too much!”
Two loud and imperious peals of the bell made the housekeeper spring from her chair and hurry out of the room, exclaiming:
“There is some one who rings in a lordly way, I must say.”
And closing the door of the veteran’s chamber behind her, Madame Barbançon flew to admit the visitor.
This proved to be a stout man about fifty years of age, wearing the uniform of a second lieutenant in the National Guard, — a uniform that gaped in a ridiculous manner behind, and disclosed to view in front an enormous stomach, over which dangled a big gold chain. This personage, who wore an immense bearskin hat that nearly covered his eyes, had a pompous and extremely self-important air.
On beholding him, Madame Barbançon knit her brows, and, evidently not very deeply impressed by the dignity of this citizen soldier, asked, in a decidedly sharp tone:
“What, you here again?”
“It would be very strange if an owner” — the word owner was uttered with the majestic air of a ruling sovereign— “if an owner could not come into his own house, when—”
“You are not in your own house, for you have rented it to the commander.”
“This is the seventeenth of the month, and my porter has sent me a printed notice that my rent has not been paid, so I—”
“We all know that. This is the third time in the last two days that you have been here to dun us. Do you expect us to give you our last cent for the rent? We’ll pay you when we can, and that is all there is about it.”
“When you can? A house owner is not to be paid in promises.”
“House owner! You can boast of being a house owner only because for the last twenty years you’ve been putting pepper in your brandy and chicory in your coffee, as well as dipping your candles in boiling water to melt off the tallow without anybody’s discovering it, and with the proceeds of this cheating you’ve perhaps bought a few houses. I don’t see anything to be so proud of in that, do you?”
“I have been a grocer, it is true. It is also true that I made money in my business, and I am proud of the fact, madame.”
“You have no reason to be. Besides, if you are rich, how can you have the heart to torment a worthy man like the commander merely because he is a little behind in his rent — for the first time, too, in over three years.”
“I don’t care anything about that. Pay me my money, or out you go! It is very astonishing; people can’t pay their rent, but they must have gardens and every modern convenience, these fastidious tenants of mine!”
“Come, come, M. Bouffard, don’t go too far or you may be sorry for it! Of course he must have a garden, this brave man, crippled with wounds, for a garden is his only pleasure in life. If, instead of sticking to your counter, you had gone to the wars like the commander, and shed your blood in the four quarters of the globe, and in Russia, you wouldn’t own any more houses than he does! Go, and see if you do!”
“Once, twice, I ask, will you pay me to-day?”
“Three times, a hundred times, and a thousand times, no! Since the commander’s wound reopened, he can sleep only with the aid of opium. That drug is as costly as gold itself, and the one hundred and fifty francs he has received has had to go in medicine and doctor’s visits.”
“I don’t care anything about your reasons. House owners would be in a nice fix if they listened to their tenants’ excuses. It was just the same at one of my houses on the Rue de Monceau where I’ve just been. My tenant there is a music teacher, who can’t pay her rent because she’s been sick, she says, and hasn’t been able to give lessons as usual. The same old story! When a person is sick, he ought to go to the hospital, and give you a chance to find another tenant.”
“The hospital! Commander Bernard go to the hospital!” cried the now thoroughly exasperated housekeeper. “No, not even if I have to go out as a ragpicker at night, and nurse him in the daytime, he sha’n’t go to the hospital, understand that, but you run a great risk of going there yourself if you don’t clear out, for M. Olivier is coming back, and he’ll give you more kicks in your miserable stomach than you have hairs in your bearskin cap.”
“I would like to see any other house owner who would allow himself to be abused in this fashion in his own house. But enough of this. I’ll be back at four o’clock, and if the hundred and fifty francs are not ready for me, I’ll seize your furniture.”
“And I’ll seize my fire-shovel and give you the reception you deserve!”
And the housekeeper slammed the door in M. Bouffard’s face, and went back to the commander. His fit of hilarity was over, but he was still in a very good humour, so, on seeing Madame Barbançon return with cheeks blazing with anger, the old sailor said to her:
“Well, it seems that you didn’t expend all your wrath upon Bonaparte, Mother Barbançon. Who the devil are you in such a rage with now?”
“With some one who isn’t a bit better than your Emperor, I can tell you that. The two would make a pretty pair. Bah!”
“And who is it that is such a good match for the emperor, Mother Barbançon?”
“It is—”
But the housekeeper suddenly checked herself.
“Poor, dear man,” she thought, “it would almost kill him if I should tell him that the rent isn’t paid, that the expenses of his illness have eaten up every penny of his money, as well as sixty francs of my own. I’ll wait until M. Olivier comes. He may have some good news for us.”
“What the deuce are you mooning about there instead of answering me, Mother Barbançon? Is it some new atrocity of the little corporal’s that you are going to treat me to?”
“How glad I am! That must be M. Olivier,” cried the housekeeper, hearing the bell ring again, gently this time.
And again leaving her employer, Madame Barbançon ran to the door. It was, indeed, the commander’s nephew this time.
“Well, M. Olivier?” asked the housekeeper, anxiously.
“We are saved,” replied the young man, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “My worthy friend, the mason, had some difficulty in getting the money he owed me, for I had not told him I should want it so soon, but here are the two hundred francs at last,” said Olivier, handing a little bag of coin to the housekeeper.
“What a relief it is, M. Olivier.”
“Why, has the landlord been here again?”
“He just left, the scoundrel! I told him pretty plainly what I thought of him.”
“But, my dear Madame Barbançon, when one owes a man money, one must pay it. But my poor uncle suspects nothing, does he?”
“No, not a thing, I’m glad to say.”
“So much the better.”
“Such a capital idea has just struck me!” exclaimed the vindictive housekeeper, as she counted the money the young man had just handed her. “Such a capital idea!”
“What is it, Mother Barbançon?”
“That scoundrel will be back here at four o’clock, and I’m going to make up a hot fire in my cook-stove and put thirty of these five-franc pieces in it, and when that monster of a M. Bouffard comes, I’ll tell him to wait a minute, and then I’ll go and take the money out with my tongs and pile the coins up on the table, and then I’ll say to him, ‘There’s your money; take it.’ That will be fine, M. Olivier, won’t it. The law doesn’t forbid that, does it?”
“So you want to fire red-hot bullets at all the rich grocers, do you?” laughed Olivier. “Do better than that. Save your charcoal, and give the hundred and fifty francs to M. Bouffard cold.”
“You are entirely too good-natured, M. Olivier. Let me at least spoil his pretty face with my nails, the brigand.”
“Nonsense! He’s much more stupid than wicked.”
“He’s both, M. Olivier, he’s both, I tell you!”
“But how is my uncle this morning? I went out so early that he was still asleep, and I didn’t like to wake him.”
“He is feeling better, for he and I just had a fine dispute about his monster. And then your return, why, it is worth more to him than all the medicines in the world, and when I think that but for you that frightful Bouffard might have turned us out in three or four days! And Heaven knows that our belongings wouldn’t have brought much, for our six tablespoons and the commander’s watch went when he was ill three years ago.”
“My good Mother Barbançon, don’t talk of that, or you will drive me mad, for when my furlough is over I shall not be here, and what happened to-day may happen again at any time. But I won’t even think of it. It is too terrible!”
