The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

"Ah!" interrupted Marie Bastien, suddenly enlightened by this revelation, and shuddering, so to speak, with retrospective fear. "Ah, now I understand all, unhappy child!"

"Happy child, mother, because this envy, for want of culture, has been a long time as black and cruel as the thorn of which we were speaking. Just now, our friend," added Frederick, turning to David, with an ineffable smile of tenderness and gratitude, "yes, our friend has grafted this envy with brave emulation, generous ambition, and you shall see the fruits of it, mother; you shall see that by dint of courage and labour, I will make your and my name illustrious, – this humble name whose obscurity is galling to me. Oh, glory! renown! my mother, what a brilliant future! To enable you to say with joy, with pride, 'This is my son!'"

"My child, oh, my beloved child!" exclaimed Marie, in a transport of joy. "I now comprehend the cure, as I have comprehended the disease."

Then turning to the preceptor she could only say:

"M. David! Oh, M. David!"

And tears, sobs of joy, forbade her utterance.

"Yes, thank him, mother," continued Frederick, carried away by emotion. "Love him, cherish him, bless him, for you do not know what goodness, what delicacy, what lofty and manly reason, what genius he has shown in accomplishing the cure of your son. His words are engraven upon my heart ineffaceably; they have recalled me to life, to hope, and to all the elevated sentiments I owe to you. Oh! thanks should be given to you, mother, for it is your hand still which chose my saviour, this good genius who has returned me to you, worthy of you."

There are joys impossible to describe. Such was the end of this long day for David, Marie, and her son.

Frederick was too full of gratitude and admiration toward his friend not to wish to share his sentiments with his mother; the words of his preceptor were so present to his thought that he repeated to her, word for word, all their long conversation.

Very often Frederick was on the point of confessing to his mother that he owed to David, not only the life of his soul, but the life of his body. He was prevented only by the promise made to his friend, and the fear of undue excitement in the mind of his mother.

As to Marie, taking in at one glance the conduct of David, from the first hour of his devotion to the hour of unhoped for triumph; recalling his gentleness, his simplicity, his delicacy, his generous perseverance, crowned with such dazzling success, – a success obtained only by the ascendency of a great heart, and an elevated mind, – what she felt for David would be difficult to express; it was mingled affection, tenderness, admiration, respect, and especially a passionate gratitude, for she owed to David, not only the cure of Frederick, but that future to which she looked forward, as illustrious and glorious, nothing doubting, now, that Frederick, excited by the ardour of his own ambition, directed by the wisdom and skill of David, would one day achieve a brilliant destiny.

From this moment, David and Frederick became inseparable in Marie's heart, and without taking precise account of her feelings, the young woman felt that her life and that of her son were identified with the life of David.

We leave to the imagination the delightful evening that passed in the library with the mother, the son, and the preceptor. Only as certain joys as much as grief oppress the heart, and demand, so to speak, digestion in reflection, Marie and her son and David, separated earlier than usual, saying "to-morrow" with the sweet anticipation of a joyous day.

David went to his little chamber. He had need of being alone.

The words that Frederick had uttered in the transport of his gratitude, as he spoke to his mother of the preceptor, – "Love him, cherish him, bless him," – words to which Marie Bastien had responded by a glance of inexpressible gratitude, became the joy and the sorrow of David.

He had felt the inmost fibres of his heart thrill many times, in meeting the large blue eyes of Marie, as they welled over with maternal solicitude; he had trembled in seeing her lavish caresses upon her son, and he could but dream of the wealth of ardent affection which this pure and at the same time passionate nature possessed.

"What love like hers," said he to himself, "if there is a place in her heart for any other sentiment besides that of maternity! How beautiful she was to-day, what bewitching expressions animated her face! Oh! I feel it, now is my hour of peril, of struggle, and of suffering! Yes, the tears of Marie are consecrated! I felt it was a sacrilege to lift my eyes to this young weeping mother, so beautiful in her tears. Yet she is now radiant with the joy she owes to me, and in her ingenuous gratitude, her tender eyes sought me whenever she looked upon Frederick. And think of what her son said to her, – 'Love him, cherish him, bless him,' – and the expressive silence, the pathetic glance of this adorable woman, perhaps, may make me believe some day – "

David, not daring to pursue this thought, resumed with sadness:

"Oh, yes, the hour of suffering, the hour of resignation has come. Confess my love, or let Marie suspect it, when she owes so much to me? Lead her to believe that my devotion to her concealed another design? Lead her to believe that, instead of yielding spontaneously to the interest this poor child inspired, – thanks to the memory of my lamented brother, – I made a cloak, a pretext of this interest to surprise the maternal confidence of a young woman? In fact, to lose, in her eyes, the only merit of my devotion, my sudden loyalty, – indiscreet, yes, very indiscreet, I see it all now, – alas, shall I degrade myself in the eyes of Marie? never! never!

"Between her and me will be always her son.

"To fly from this love, shall I leave the house where this love is always growing?

"No, I cannot do so yet.

"Frederick to-day, in the intoxication of this revelation which has changed his gloomy despair into a will full of faith and enthusiasm, – Frederick, suddenly lifted from the abyss where he had fallen, experiences the delight of the prisoner all at once restored to liberty and light, yet does not this cure need to be established? Will it not be necessary to moderate the impetuosity of this young and ardent imagination in its enthusiastic conceptions of the future?

"And then, it may be, the first exultation passed, – to-morrow perhaps, – Frederick, on the other hand, more self-reliant, and better comprehending the generous efforts necessary to reach the fountainhead of envy, will remember with more bitterness than ever the dreadful deed that he wished to commit, – his desire to murder Raoul de Pont Brillant. A fruitful and generous expiation, then, is the only thing which can appease this remorse which has tempted Frederick to commit suicide.

"No, no, I cannot abandon this child yet; I love him too sincerely, I have the completion of my work too much at heart.

"I must remain.

"Remain, and each day live this intimate, solitary life with Marie, – she who came so innocently to this chamber in the middle of the night in a dishevelled state, the recollection of which thrills me, even in the sleep where I vainly seek for rest."

To this dangerous sleep David yielded, nevertheless, as the emotions and fatigues of the day had been very exhausting.

The day was just breaking.

David started out of sleep, as he heard several violent knocks at his door, and recognised the voice of Frederick, who said:

"My friend, open, open your door, please!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

DAVID hastened to put on his clothes and opened the door. He saw Frederick, his face pale and distorted with fright.

"My child, what is the matter?"

"Ah, my friend, what a misfortune!"

"A misfortune?"

"The Loire – "

"Well?"

"The inundation we were speaking of yesterday at the brickmaker's – "

"An overflow, – that is frightful! What a disaster, my God, what a disaster!"

"Come, come, my friend, you can no longer see the valley at the edge of the forest; it is all a lake of water!"

David and Frederick descended precipitately, and found Madame Bastien in the library. She also had risen in haste. Marguerite and the gardener were groaning in terror.

"The water is gaining on us."

"The house will be swept away," they cried.

"And the poor farmers in the valley," said Madame Bastien, her eyes filled with tears. "Their houses, so isolated, are perhaps already submerged, and the miserable people in them, surprised in the night by the overflow, cannot get away."

"Then, madame," said David, "we must at once go to the rescue of the valley people. Here there is no danger."

"But the water is already within a mile and a half, M. David," cried old Marguerite.

"And it continues to rise," added André.

"Be calm, madame," answered David. "I have, since my stay here, gone through the country enough to be certain that the overflow will never reach this house, – the level of the land is too high. You can set your mind at rest."

"But the farmhouses in the valley," cried Frederick.