The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

"Yes, and it was very clever in you to think of putting these accomplishments to some practical use."

"I think so myself, particularly as I often made, in that way, four or five francs a day, or rather a night, over and above my other earnings."

"Your other earnings, and what were they, pray?"

"Well, to resume the account of my day: At four o'clock, I started for the market."

"Great Heavens! for the market? You? And what took you there, pray?"

"I tended the stall of a dairywoman, who was too fine a lady to get up so early. Can you imagine anything more pastoral than a traffic in cream and butter and eggs? I received a small commission on my sales, in addition to my regular salary, so every year I derived an income of two hundred francs, more or less, from this source."

"You, Florence, the Marquise de Luceval, in such a rôle?"

"But how about Michel?"

"Michel? What did he do?"

"Oh, he had all sorts of avocations, one of them being the office of inspector of goods at the market. In return for his services, he received a salary of fifteen hundred francs, and the profound respect and consideration of all the market women and hucksters. His duties were over at nine o'clock, after which he went to his office, and I to my store."

"Your store?"

"Yes, on the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, at the sign of the Corbeille d'Or, I was forewoman in that large and well-known lingerie establishment, and as I can, with reason, boast of both taste and skill in such matters, and haven't a peer in the confection of dressing sacks, bathing suits, peignoirs, etc., I demanded a good price for my services, – it is never well to undervalue oneself, – fifteen hundred francs a year, and found, – 'you can take me or not, as you please, at that figure.' It was also understood that I was never to enter the salesroom. I was afraid, you see, of being recognised by some customer, and that might have prevented me from securing employment for the rest of the day."

"What! wasn't your day's work ended when you left the store?"

"Ended at eight o'clock in the evening! What are you thinking of? – for I had stipulated that I was to be free at eight o'clock so I could utilise the rest of the time. For a year I worked at home in the evening, on tapestry work or on my water-colours, or copying music, but after that a friend of Michel's recommended me to a very aristocratic, but rather misanthropical, blind lady, who, being unable to go into society, preferred to pass her evenings in listening to reading; so, for three years, I acted as reader for her at a salary of eight hundred francs a year. I went to her house at nine o'clock, I read to her awhile, and then we talked and drank tea by turn. This lady lived on the Rue de Tournon, so Michel could call for me about midnight, on his return from his theatre."

"From his theatre?"

"Yes, from the Odéon."

"Good Heavens! has he turned actor?"

"You are mad!" cried Florence, laughing heartily. "Nothing of the sort. I told you that we both did anything we could find to do, and Michel was controller at the Odéon, performing his duties there after he had left his desk, where he earned two thousand four hundred francs a year as an entry clerk."

"Michel, who was so indolent that he would not pay the slightest attention to his own business affairs, in years gone by!"

"And take notice that, after he returned home at night, he used to post books and straighten up people's accounts, thus adding considerably to his earnings in the course of a year. In this fashion, my dear Valentine, and by living with the most rigid economy, going without a fire in winter, waiting on ourselves, and even working on Sunday, we accumulated the amount we needed in four years. Well, was I wrong when I boasted of the wonders indolence could accomplish?"

"I can't get over my astonishment. This seems incredible."

"Ah, but Valentine, as Michel says, 'A love of idleness is often the real cause of some of the most laborious lives. Why do so many persons, who are neither ambitious nor avaricious, toil with such untiring ardour? In order that they may cease work as soon as possible, is it not?'"

"You are right, perhaps. At least, I see now that the love of idleness may impart wonderful energy to one's efforts, at least for a time. But tell me, Florence, why were your rooms and Michel's so close together and yet separated?"

"Oh, that arrangement was convincing proof of the most sublime and heroic wisdom on our part!" exclaimed Florence, triumphantly. We said to ourselves, 'What is our object? To accumulate as quickly as possible the amount of money needed to enable us to lead an idle life. That being the case, time is money, so the less time we waste the more money we shall earn, and the surest way of losing a great deal of time is for us to be together. Nor is this all. We used, it is true, to hold in holy horror all love that caused one trouble and pain; but now that we are free, and there would be no cause for anxiety or self-reproach in our love, who knows, – the devil is very cunning, and we might succumb. Then what would become of our good resolutions, and all the work we are planning to do? All that time, that is to say all that money, lost! For how could we hope to muster up the necessary courage to tear ourselves from indolence, and from love as well? No, no, we must be inexorable towards ourselves, so as not to imperil our future, and swear, in the name of Indolence, our divinity, not to speak a word, a single word, to each other until our little fortune has been made.'"

"What, during these four years – "

"We have kept our oath."

"Not one word?"

"Not one word from the day we began to work."

"Florence, you must be exaggerating. Such self-restraint is an impossibility."

"I promised to tell you the truth, and I am telling it. We have never spoken a word to each other during these four years. When any important matter or any question affecting our interests was to be decided, we wrote to each other; that is all. I must also admit that we invented a way to communicate with each other through the wall between our rooms. It was a very brief telegraphic code, however. Only extensive enough to permit us to say to each other, 'Good night, Michel' – 'Good night, Florence;' and in the morning, 'Good morning, Michel' – 'Good morning, Florence;' or, 'It is time to start,' or now and then: 'Courage, Michel' – 'Courage, Florence; let us think of paradise, and endure purgatory as cheerfully as possible!' But even this mode of correspondence had to be strictly tabooed now and then; for would you believe it? Michel sometimes wasted so much time in tapping upon the wall with the handle of his pocket-knife that I was obliged to silence the hot-headed creature in the most peremptory manner."

"And did this meagre correspondence satisfy you?"

"Perfectly. Did we not have a life in common, in spite of the wall that separated us? Were not our minds concentrated upon the same aim, and was not our pursuance of this aim exactly the same thing as always thinking of each other? Besides, we saw each other every morning and evening. As we were not lovers, that sufficed. If we had been, a single look might have been enough to destroy all our good resolutions. Well, a fortnight ago, our object was accomplished. In four years we had accumulated forty-two thousand eight hundred francs! We might have 'retired,' as merchants say, several months earlier; but we said, or, rather, we wrote to each other, 'It is not well for persons to crave any more than is required to provide them with the necessaries of life; still, we ought to have enough to supply the needs of any poor and hungry stranger who may knock at our door. Nothing gives greater peace to the soul than the consciousness of having always been kind and humane.' This being the case, we prolonged our purgatory a little. And now, Valentine, confess that there is nothing like well-directed indolence to imbue persons with energy, courage, and virtue."

"Farewell, Florence," said Madame d'Infreville, in a voice husky with tears, and throwing herself in her friend's arms, "farewell for ever!"

"What do you mean, Valentine?"

"A vague hope impelled me to come here, – a foolish, senseless hope. Once more, farewell! Be happy with Michel. Heaven created you for each other, and your happiness has been nobly earned."

The garden gate closed noisily.

"Madame, madame," cried the old nurse, hastening towards them with an unsealed letter, which she handed to Valentine, "the gentleman that remained in the carriage told me to give this to you at once. He came from over there," added the old woman, pointing to the same clump of shrubbery in which Valentine had fancied that she heard a suspicious sound, some time before.

Florence watched her friend with great surprise, as Valentine opened the missive, which contained another note, and read the following words, hastily scrawled in pencil:

"Give the enclosed to Florence, and rejoin me immediately. There is no hope. Let us depart at once."

Involuntarily Madame d'Infreville turned as if to comply with the request.

"Where are you going, Valentine?" cried Florence, hastily seizing her friend by the hand.

"Wait for me a moment," replied Madame d'Infreville, pressing her friend's hands convulsively, "wait for me, and read this."

Then giving the note to Florence, she darted away, while her friend, more and more astonished as she perceived that the writing was her husband's, read these lines:

"Concealed behind a clump of shrubbery, I have heard all. A vague hope brought me here, and I confess that, when I saw this hope blighted, my first thought was of revenge. But I renounce both the hope and the revenge. Be happy, Florence! I can feel for you henceforth only esteem and respect.

"My only regret is that I am unable to give you your entire liberty. The law prevents that, so you must resign yourself to bearing my name.

"Once more farewell, Florence; you will never see me again, but, from this day on, remember me as your most sincere and devoted friend,

    A. DE LUCEVAL."

Madame de Luceval was deeply touched by this letter, which she had scarcely finished when she heard the sound of carriage wheels becoming fainter and fainter in the distance.

Florence felt that Valentine would never return, and when, just before nightfall, Michel came in search of Madame de Luceval, she handed him her husband's letter.

Michel, like Florence, was deeply touched by this letter, but after a little he remarked, with a smile: