The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

"Ah, well, madame, when I went into the dining-room to give to monsieur the bottle of brandy he ordered, M. Bridou said to him, with a surprised and alarmed expression, 'Jacques, you will never do that.' Monsieur seeing me enter, made a sign to M. Bridou to hush, but when I went out, I – madame will excuse me perhaps on account of my intention – "

"Go on, Marguerite."

"I went out of the dining-room, but I stopped a moment behind the door, and I heard M. Bridou say to monsieur, 'Jacques, I say again, you will not do that.' Then monsieur replied, 'You will see.' I did not dare to listen to more of the conversation, and – "

"You were right, Marguerite; you had already been guilty of an indiscretion which only your attachment to me can excuse."

"What! What monsieur said does not frighten you?"

"The words of M. Bastien which you have reported to me prove nothing, Marguerite; you are, I think, needlessly alarmed."

"God grant it, madame."

"Go and see, I pray you, if M. Bastien and M. Bridou are still at the table. If they have left it, you can go to bed, I have no further need of you."

Marguerite returned in a few moments, and said to her mistress:

"I have just given a light to monsieur and to M. Bridou, madame, they bade each other good night; but, wait, madame," said Marguerite, interrupting herself, "do you hear? that is M. Bridou now going up-stairs."

In fact the steps of Bastien's boon companion resounded over the wooden staircase which conducted to the chamber formerly occupied by David.

"Has M. Bastien entered his chamber?" asked Marie of the servant.

"I can see from the outside if there is a light in monsieur's chamber," replied Marguerite.

The servant went out again, returned in a few moments, and said to her mistress, as she shivered with the cold:

"Monsieur is in his chamber, madame; I can see the light through the blinds. My God, how bitter the cold is; it is snowing in great heaps, and I forgot to make your fire, madame. Perhaps you wish to sit up."

"No, Marguerite, thank you, I am going to bed immediately." Marie added, after a moment's reflection: "My shutters are closed, are they not?"

"Yes, madame."

"And those of my son's chamber also?"

"Yes, madame."

"Good night, Marguerite, come to me to-morrow at the break of day."

"Madame has need of nothing else?"

"No, thank you."

"Good night, madame."

Marguerite went out.

Marie locked her door, went to see if her shutters were closed, and slowly undressed, a prey to the most poignant anxiety, thinking of the various events of the evening, the mysterious words uttered by the bailiff, Bridou on the subject of Frederick, and especially of those words which passed between Jacques and his friend, which Marguerite had overheard:

"Jacques, you will not do that?"

"You will see."

The young woman, wrapped in her dressing-gown, prepared as usual to embrace her son before going to bed, when she heard heavy walking in the corridor which opened into her apartment.

No doubt it was the step of Jacques Bastien.

Marie listened.

The steps discontinued.

Soon the sound of this heavy walking was succeeded by the noise of two hands, outside the door, groping in the darkness for the lock and key.

Jacques Bastien wished to enter his wife's apartment.

She, knowing the door was locked, at first felt assured, but soon, reflecting that if she did not open the door to her husband, he might in his brutal violence make a loud noise, or perhaps break the door, and by this uproar waken her son and call David down-stairs, and thus bring about a collision, the possible consequences of which filled her with alarm, she decided to open the door. Then, remembering that her son was in the next chamber, and that but a few minutes before all her maternal authority and tenderness were required to prevent an expression of his indignation against Jacques Bastien, she recalled his bitter words, and the resolution with which he uttered them:

"To make an attempt on our happiness, would be to attempt your life, mother, and your life I will defend even against my father."

Marie felt that no human power, not even her own, could prevent Frederick's interposition this time, if Jacques Bastien, intoxicated as in all probability he was, should enter her chamber, and attack her with invective and threatening.

The alternative was terrible.

Not to open the door would be to expose herself to a deplorable scandal. To open it was to set the son and father face to face, one drunk with anger and wine, the other exasperated by the sense of his mother's wrongs.

These reflections, as rapid as thought, Marie had scarcely ended, when she heard Jacques Bastien, who had found the key, turn it in the lock and, finding an obstacle inside, shake the door violently.

Then Marie took a desperate resolution; she ran to the door, removed the bolt, and standing on the threshold as if to forbid entrance to Jacques Bastien, she said to him in a low, supplicating voice:

"My son is sleeping, monsieur; if you have something to say to me, come, I beseech you, in the library."

The unhappy woman paused a moment.

Her courage failed her, so terrible was the expression of Bastien's countenance.

The rays of the lamp placed upon the chimneypiece in Marie's bedchamber shone full upon the face of M. Bastien, which, thus brilliantly lighted, seemed to glare upon the darkness of the corridor.

This man, who had the breadth of Hercules, was now frightfully pale in consequence of the reaction of long continued drink and anger. He was about half drunk; his coarse, thick hair fell low on his forehead and almost concealed his little, wicked gray eyes. His bull-like neck was naked and his blouse open, as well as his great coat and vest, exposing a part of a powerful and hairy chest.

At the sight of this man, Marie, as we have said, felt for a moment her courage give way.

But, reflecting that the excited state in which M. Bastien was, only rendered him more passionate, and more intractable, that he would not hesitate at any violence or outburst of temper, and that then the intervention of David and Frederick would, unfortunately, become inevitable, the young woman, brave as she always was, thanked Heaven that her son had heard nothing, seized the lamp on the chimneypiece, returned to her husband, who stood immovable on the threshold, and said to him in a low voice:

"Let us go in the library, monsieur. I am afraid, as I told you, of waking my son."

M. Bastien appeared to take counsel with himself before yielding to Marie's desire.

After several minutes' hesitation, during which the young woman almost died of anguish, the Hercules replied: