Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 651
A dozen or more superb half-open roses in a tall glass vase diffused a delightful perfume through the room, and brightened the table covered with books and papers, on either side of which the mother and son were busily writing.
Madame Bastien, though she was thirty-one years of age, did not look a day over twenty, so radiant was her enchanting face with youthful, we might almost say, virginal freshness, for the angelic beauty of this young woman seemed worthy to inspire the words so often addressed to the Virgin, “Hail, Mary, full of grace.”
Madame Bastien wore a simple dress of pale blue and white striped percaline; a broad pink ribbon encircled her slender, supple waist, which a man could have easily spanned with his two hands. Her pretty arms were bare, or rather only slightly veiled with long lace mitts which reached above her dimpled elbows. Her luxuriant chestnut hair, with frequent glints of gold entangled in its meshes, waved naturally all over her shapely head. It was worn low over her ears, thus framing the perfect oval of her face, the transparent whiteness of which was charmingly set off by the delicate rose tint of her cheeks. Her large eyes, of the deepest and tenderest blue, were fringed with long lashes, a deep brown like her beautifully arched eyebrows, while the rich coral of her lips, the brilliant whiteness of her teeth, and the firmness of her perfect arms were convincing proofs of a naturally pure, rich blood, preserved so by the regular habits of a quiet, chaste life, a life concentrated in a single passion, maternal love.
Marie Bastien’s physiognomy was singularly contradictory in expression, for if the shape of the forehead and the contour of the eyebrows indicated remarkable energy as well as uncommon strength of will combined with an unusual amount of intelligence, the expression of the eyes was one of ineffable kindness, and her smile full of sweetness and gaiety, — gaiety, as two entrancing little dimples, created by the frequency of her frank smile a little way from the velvety corners of her lips, indicated beyond a doubt. In fact this young mother fully equalled her son in joyous animation, and when the time for recreation came, the younger of the two was not always the most boisterous and gay and childish by any means, and certainly, seeing the two seated together writing, one would have taken them for brother and sister instead of mother and son.
Frederick Bastien strongly resembled his mother, though his beauty was of a more pronounced and virile type. His skin was darker, and his hair a deeper brown than his mother’s, and his jet black eyebrows imparted a wonderful charm to his large blue eyes, for Frederick had his mother’s eyes and expression, as well as her straight nose, kindly smile, white teeth, and scarlet lips, upon which the down of puberty was already visible.
Reared in the wholesome freedom and simplicity of rural life, Frederick, whose stature considerably exceeded that of his mother, was a model of health, youth, and grace, while one seldom saw a more intelligent, resolute, affectionate, and cheery face.
It was easy to see that maternal pride had presided over the youth’s toilet; though his attire was of the simplest, most inexpensive kind, yet the pretty cerise satin cravat was remarkably becoming to a person of his complexion, his shirt front was dazzling in its whiteness, there were large pearl buttons on his nankeen vest, and his hands, far from resembling the frightful paws of the average schoolboy, with dirty nails often bitten down to the quick, and grimy, ink-stained knuckles, were as well cared for as those of his young mother, and like hers were adorned with pink, beautifully kept nails of faultless colour. (Mothers of sixteen-year-old sons will understand and appreciate these apparently insignificant details.)
As we have already remarked, Frederick and his mother, seated opposite each other at the same table, were working, or rather digging away hard, as school-boys say, each having a volume of “The Vicar of Wakefield” to the left of them, and in front of them a sheet of foolscap which was already nearly filled.
“Pass me the dictionary, Frederick,” said Madame Bastien, without raising her eyes, but extending her pretty hand to her son.
“Oh, the dictionary,” responded Frederick, in a tone of mocking compassion, “the idea of being obliged to depend upon a dictionary!”
But he gave the book to his mother, not without kissing the pretty hand extended for it, however.
Marie, still without taking her eyes from her book, smiled without replying, then, placing her ivory penholder between her little teeth, which made the penholder look almost yellow in comparison, began to turn the leaves of the dictionary.
Profiting by this moment of inattention, Frederick rose from his chair, and placing his two hands upon the table, leaned over to see now far his mother had proceeded with her translation.
“Ah, ah, Frederick, you are trying to copy,” said Marie, gaily, dropping the dictionary and placing her hands on the paper as if to protect it from her son’s eyes. “I have caught you this time.”
“No, nothing of the kind,” replied Frederick, dropping into his chair again. “I only wanted to see if you were as far along as I am.”
“All I know is that I have finished,” responded Madame Bastien, with a triumphant air.
“What, already?” exclaimed Frederick, humbly.
As he spoke, the tall clock in the corner, after an ominous creaking and groaning, began to strike five.
“Good, it is time for recess!” exclaimed Marie, joyfully. “Do you hear, Frederick?”
And springing up, the young woman ran to her son.
“Give me ten minutes, and I will be done,” pleaded Frederick, writing for dear life; “just ten minutes!”
But with charming petulance the young mother placed a paper-weight on the unfinished translation, slammed her son’s books together, took his pen out of his hand, and half led, half dragged him out into the grove.
It must be admitted that Frederick offered no very determined resistance to his mother’s despotic will, however.
CHAPTER II.
FIVE MINUTES AFTERWARD an exciting game of shuttlecock was going on between Frederick and his mother.
It was a charming picture upon which the few rays of sunshine that succeeded in making their way through the dense canopy of green shone, for every movement and attitude of the participants was instinct with agility and grace.
Marie, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her red lips wreathed with a charming smile, the rose tint in her cheeks deepening, one shapely foot extended, but with her supple form thrown well back from her slim waist upward, met the shuttlecock with her racket, then sent it flying off in an entirely different direction from what Frederick had anticipated; but not in the least discomfited, the youth, throwing back the curling locks of brown hair from his brow by a sudden toss of the head, with a quick, lithe bound skilfully intercepted the winged messenger as it was about to touch the earth, and sent it flying back to his mother, who intercepted it in her turn, and with a no less adroit blow despatched it swiftly through space again. When, after describing its parabola, it made straight for Frederick’s nose, whereupon the youth, in a violent effort to interpose his racket between the rapidly descending shuttlecock and his upturned face, lost his balance and fell headlong on the thick turf, after which the laughter and oft repeated bursts of hilarity on the part of the two players necessarily put an end to the game.
After their mirth had partially subsided, the mother and son, with crimson cheeks, and eyes still swimming with the tears their merriment had evoked, walked to a rustic bench in front of the waterfall to rest.
“Goodness, how absurd it is to laugh in this fashion!” exclaimed Frederick.
“You must admit that it does one good, though. It may be absurd to laugh so, as you say, but it consoles one to feel that only happy people like ourselves can ever give way to such mad fits of merriment.”
“Yes, mother, you are right,” said Frederick, resting his head on his mother’s shoulder, “we are happy. As I sit here in the shade, this beautiful summer evening, with my head on your shoulder, gazing with half-closed eyes through the golden sunlight at our pretty home, while the soft murmur of the cascade fills the air, it seems to me it would be delightful to remain here just as we are for a hundred years.”
And Frederick settled his head still more comfortably on his mother’s shoulder, as if he would indeed like to spend an eternity there. The young mother, taking care not to disturb Frederick, bent her head a little to one side in order to lay her cheek upon his, and taking one of his hands in hers, replied:
“It is true that this corner of the earth has always been a sort of paradise for us, and but for the recollection of the month that you were so ill, I think we should find it difficult to recollect a single unhappy moment. Is that not so, Frederick?”
“You have always spoiled me so.”
“M. Frederick doesn’t know what he is talking about, evidently,” responded Madame Bastien, with an affectation of grave displeasure. “There is nothing more disagreeable, and above all more unhappy, than a spoiled child. I should like to know what idle fancies and caprices I have ever encouraged in you, monsieur. Mention one if you can.”
“I should think I could. In the first place you never give me the time to be bored, but take quite as much interest in my diversions and pleasures as I do. I really don’t know how you manage it, but time passes so quickly in your company that I cannot believe that this is the last of June, and when the first of January comes, I know I shall say the same thing.”
“Oh, you needn’t try to get out of answering my question by flattering me, monsieur. Just tell me when I ever spoiled you unduly, and if I am not, on the contrary, very severe and exacting, especially in relation to your hours of study?”
“Ah, you do well to boast of being exacting in that particular. Don’t you share my studies as well as my play, so study has always been as amusing as recreation to me? Consequently, I maintain that if I am happy, it is due to you. If I know anything, if I am of account, in short, it is all due to you and solely to you. Have I ever left you? Everything that is good in me, I owe to you; all that is bad, my obstinacy, for example—”
“Yes, it is true that this dear little head has a will of its own,” said Madame Bastien, interrupting him and kissing him on the forehead. “I don’t know any one who has a stronger will than yours, but so long as you will to be the tenderest and best of sons, as you have up to the present time, why, I am not disposed to complain. Each day brings some fresh proof of the kindness and generosity of your heart, and if I needed any auxiliary to convince you, I should invoke the testimony of the friend I see coming over there,” she added, pointing out some one to Frederick. “He knows you almost as well as I do, and you must admit that his sincerity is beyond all question.”
The newcomer to whom Madame Bastien had alluded, and who was now advancing through the grove, was about forty years of age, a small, delicate-looking man, very carelessly dressed. He was singularly ugly, too, but his ugliness was of the clever, good-humoured type. His name was Dufour; he practised medicine at Pont Brillant, and, by dint of skill and unremitting attention, he had cured Frederick of a serious illness the year before.
“How do you do, my dear Madame Bastien?” he said, cheerfully, as he approached the pair. “How do you do, my boy?” he added, pressing Frederick’s hand cordially.
“Ah, doctor, you came just in time to get scolded,” exclaimed Madame Bastien, with affectionate gaiety.
“Scolded?”
“Certainly. Isn’t it more than a fortnight since you came to see us?”
“Fie! fie!” cried M. Dufour, “you must be egotistical to demand a doctor’s visits with health as flourishing as yours.”
“Fie!” retorted Madame Bastien, no less gaily, “and what right have you, pray, to so disdain the gratitude of those you have saved as to deprive them of the pleasure of saying to him often, very often,’Thank you, my preserver, thank you’?”
“Yes, my mother is right, M. Dufour,” added Frederick. “You think because you have restored me to life that all is over between us. How ungrateful you are!”
“If mother and son have both declared war upon me, there is nothing left for me but to beat a retreat,” exclaimed the doctor, drawing back a step or two.
“Oh, well, we will not take an unfair advantage; but only upon one condition, doctor. That is that you will dine with us.”
“I left home with that very laudable intention,” replied the doctor, quite seriously this time, “but just as I was leaving Pont Brillant, a woman stopped me and begged me to come at once to her son. I did so, but unfortunately his malady is of such a serious character that I shall not feel easy in mind if I do not see my patient again before seven o’clock.”
“Of course I can make no protest under circumstances like these, my dear doctor,” replied Madame Bastien, “and I am doubly grateful to you for granting us a few moments.”
“And I have been looking forward to such a delightful evening,” remarked the doctor. “It would have rounded out my day so well, for this morning I had a most delightful surprise.”
“So some unexpected piece of good fortune has befallen you, my dear doctor. How glad I am!”
“Yes,” replied the doctor; “for some time past I have been extremely uneasy about my best friend, an inveterate traveller, who had undertaken a dangerous journey through some of the least known portions of South America. Having heard nothing from him for more than eight months, I was beginning to feel very much alarmed, when this morning I received a letter from him written in London, where he had stopped for a few days on his return from Lima. He promises to come and spend some time with me, so you can judge how delighted I am, my dear Madame Bastien. He is like a brother to me, and not only has the best heart in the world, but is one of the most interesting as well as the most gifted men I know. What a pleasure it will be to have him all to myself!”
Here the doctor was interrupted by an elderly servant woman, who was leading a poorly clad child of seven or eight years by the hand, and who, from the threshold of the door where she was standing, called to the youth:
“It is six o’clock, M. Frederick.”
“I’ll see you again presently, mother,” said the lad, kissing his young mother on the forehead.
Then, turning to the doctor, he added:
“I shall see you, too, doctor, before you go, shall I not?”
After which he hastily joined the child and old servant, and entered the house in company with them.
“Where is he going?” asked the doctor.
“To give his lesson. Didn’t you see his scholar?”
“What scholar?”
“That child is the son of a day labourer who lives too far from Pont Brillant to be able to send his child to the village school, so Frederick is teaching the little fellow to read. He gives him two lessons a day, and I assure you that I am as well pleased with the teacher as with the pupil, doctor, for Frederick displays in his teaching a zeal, patience, and sweetness of disposition that delights me.”
“It is certainly a very nice thing for him to do.”
“We are obliged to do good in these small ways, you see, doctor,” said Madame Bastien, with a rather sad smile. “You know with what rigid parsimony my son and I are treated in regard to money matters. Still, I should not complain. Thanks to this parsimony, Frederick devises all sorts of expedients. Some of them are, I assure you, very touching, and if I were not afraid of showing too much pride, I would tell you something that occurred last week.”
“Go on, my dear Madame Bastien; surely you are not going to try to play the mock modest mother with me.”
“No, I am not, so listen. Last Thursday Frederick and I walked over to Brevan heath—”
“Where they are clearing up some land. I noticed that fact as I passed there this morning.”
“Yes, and you know that is pretty hard work, doctor.”
“I should say that it was. Digging up roots and stumps that have been there three or four centuries.”
“Well, while I was walking about with Frederick, we saw a poor, hungry-looking woman, with a little girl about ten years old, as pale and emaciated-looking as her mother, working there on the heath.”
“A woman and a child of that age! Why, such work was entirely beyond their strength.”
“You are right, doctor, and in spite of their courage, the poor creatures were making little or no headway. It was almost as much as the poor mother could do to lift the heavy spade, much less to force it into the hard earth, and when the root of a sapling at which she must have been digging a long time became partially uncovered, the woman and child, now using the spade as a lever, now digging in the ground with their hands, endeavoured to loosen the root, but in vain. Seeing how utterly futile their efforts were, the poor woman made an almost despairing movement, then threw herself down on the ground as if overcome with grief and fatigue, and covering her head with her tattered apron, she began to sob bitterly, while the child, kneeling beside her, also wept pitifully.”
“Ah! such poverty as that!”
“I looked at my son. There were tears in his eyes as well as my own. I approached the poor woman and asked her how it happened that she was trying to do work so much beyond her strength, and she told me that her husband had contracted to clear up one quarter of the land, that he had become ill from overwork a couple of days before, that some of the work was still to be done, but that if the job was not finished by Saturday night, he would lose the fruit of nearly a fortnight’s labour, for it was on these terms that her husband had undertaken the job, the work being urgent.”
“Such contracts are frequently made, and unless the conditions are scrupulously complied with, the poor delinquents have to suffer, I am sorry to say. So the poor woman was trying to take her husband’s place, I suppose.”
“Yes, for it was a question of making or losing thirty-five francs upon which they were counting to pay the yearly rental of their miserable hovel, and purchase a little rye to live upon until the next harvest. After a few minutes’ reflection Frederick said to the poor woman: ‘I should think a good worker could finish the job in a couple of days, my good woman.’ ‘Yes, monsieur, but my husband is too ill to do it,’ she replied. ‘These poor people mustn’t lose their thirty-five francs, mother,’ Frederick said to me. ‘They must have the money and we cannot afford to give it to them, so let me off from my studies on Friday and Saturday and I will finish the work for them. The poor woman won’t run the risk of making herself ill. She can stay at home and nurse her husband, and Sunday she will get her money.’”
