Avarice - Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

"M. Onésime? I do not understand that. How did M. Onésime happen to be living with us?"

"We were married."

The words were uttered in such a frank and ingenuous manner that Cloarek could not doubt the perfect truthfulness of his daughter's account; and rather in doubt as to whether he ought to congratulate himself on this singular dream or not, he asked, a little anxiously:

"So you and M. Onésime were married, you say?"

"Yes, father."

"And I had consented to the marriage?"

"You must have done so, as we were married. I don't mean that we were just married, — we seemed to have been married a long time. We were all in the parlour. Three of us, you and Onésime and I, were sitting on the big sofa. Suzanne was crocheting by the window, and Segoffin was on his knees fixing the fire. You had been silent for several minutes, father, when, suddenly taking M. Onésime's hand and mine, — you were sitting between us, — you said: 'Do you know what I have been thinking?' 'No, father,' M. Onésime and I answered (for naturally he, too, called you father). 'Well,' you continued, 'I have been thinking that there is not a happier man in the world than I am. To have two children who adore each other, and two faithful old servants, or rather two tried friends, and spend one's life in peace and plenty with them, surely this is enough and more than enough to thank the good God for now and always, my children.' And as you spoke, father, your eyes filled with tears."

"Waking as well as dreaming, you are, and ever will be, the best and most affectionate of daughters," said Cloarek, deeply touched. "But there is one thing about your dream that surprises me very much."

"And what is that?"

"Your marriage with Onésime."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How strange. It seemed so perfectly natural to me that I wasn't at all surprised at it."

"But in the first place, though this is not the greatest objection, by any means, M. Onésime has no fortune."

"But how often you have told me that all these business trips, and all these frequent absences that grieve me so much, have been made solely for the purpose of amassing a handsome dowry for me."

"That is true."

"Then, in that case, M. Onésime does not need any fortune."

"Nevertheless, though it is not absolutely indispensable that M. Onésime should possess a fortune, it is certainly very desirable. There is another objection."

"Another?"

"M. Onésime has no profession and consequently no assured social position."

"He is not to blame for that, poor fellow! Who could possibly consider his enforced idleness a crime? Will, education, capability, none of these are lacking. It is his terrible infirmity that proves such an obstacle to everything he undertakes."

"You are right, my child; this infirmity is an insuperable obstacle that will unfortunately prevent him from achieving success in any career; from creating any position for himself, and even from marrying, except in dreams, understand."

"I don't understand you at all, my dear father. I really don't."

"What! my child, don't you understand that it would be folly in any woman to marry a half-blind man who cannot see ten feet in front of him? don't you understand that in such a case the rôles would be entirely reversed, and that, instead of protecting his wife, as every man ought to do, M. Onésime will have to be protected by the woman who would be foolish enough to marry him?"

"It seems to me only right that the person who is able to protect the other should do so."

"Certainly; but this duty devolves upon the man."

"Yes, when he is able to fulfil this duty; when he is not, it devolves upon the wife."

"If she is foolish enough, I repeat, to accept such a life of self-sacrifice and weighty responsibility."

"Foolish?"

"Idiotic, rather. Don't look at me so indignantly."

"Listen to me, father."

"I am listening."

"You have reared me with the utmost kindness and devotion; you have anticipated my every wish; you have surrounded me with every comfort; and for my sake you have exposed yourself to all the fatigue and discomfort of long business trips. Am I not right?"

"It was not only a pleasure, but my duty to do these things for you, my dear child."

"A duty?"

"The most sacred of all duties."

"To protect me — to be my guide and my support, you mean, do you not?"

"Precisely. It is the duty of every parent."

"That is exactly what I was coming at," said Sabine, with amusing naïveté. "It is a father's duty to protect his child, you say?"

"Certainly."

"But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part of guide, support, and protector? Our rôles would be reversed, as you say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my dear father."

"But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her father. In such a case, it is very grand and noble in her to devote her life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free to choose would, I repeat, — don't glare at me so, — be a fool, yes, an idiot, to select for a husband — "

"An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest solicitude," cried Sabine, interrupting her father. "So you really believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe it, — you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every sacrifice for her, — tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote one's life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind; tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and I will believe you."

"No, my generous, noble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be lying if I did," exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine's generous enthusiasm; "no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all superior natures."

"So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after all," replied the girl, smiling.

"You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully."

"And what is that?"

"When a man loves, he loves body and soul; you must admit that. The contemplation of the charming face of a beloved wife is as sweet to a man as the realisation of her merits and virtues. Now, in a long conversation that I had last evening with M. Onésime, at your recommendation, remember, I asked him if he could see a person a few feet off, distinctly. He replied that he could not, and remarked in this connection that he had seen you plainly but once, and that was yesterday when you were assisting Suzanne in binding up his hand. The most inconceivable thing in your dream-marriage, after all, is a husband who spends his life near his wife without ever seeing her except by accident, as it were."

"Ah, well, father, I, for my part, think such a state of affairs is not without its advantages, after all."

"Really, that is going a little too far, I think."