CHAPTER III.
TRUE LOVE—HAPPY UNION.
The following day Victor took up his abode with us. Before a fortnight had elapsed, my mother was enchanted with her new lodger. She sounded his praises from morning till night. This may perhaps astonish you, but you must know that she and I were always in the habit of telling each other our very thoughts. This reciprocal confidence was so perfect that it might be truly said we concealed nothing from each other.
And I must confess Victor showed himself every day more worthy of my mother’s admiration. He was the most modest, amiable, industrious, and orderly of young men—a genuine model for Christian men of letters. He rose every morning at an early hour, and worked in his room till about eight o’clock. Then, unless his occupations were too pressing, he heard Mass at a neighboring church. After that, he went to the Journal office, where he remained till noon; then he returned to breakfast. He left again at one, came back at three, worked till dinnertime, then studied till ten at night, and often later.
“Why do you work so hard?” said my mother to him one day. “The life of a journalist, according to you, is that of a galley-slave. I never should have thought an editor had so hard a time. You have all the four large pages of the Journal to write yourself, then, M. Victor?”
“By no means, dear madame. I write the leading article every day, and in a short time, too, for I have the peculiarity of not writing well when I write slowly. This done, I look over the other articles for the paper. As I am responsible for them, I do not accept them till they are carefully examined. This is my whole task—apparently an easy one, but tedious and difficult in reality.”
“Yes; I see you have a great deal to do at the office; but why do you continue to work at home?”
“Two motives oblige me to study—to increase my knowledge, and prevent ennui. Having risen from a mere apothecary’s clerk to be the chief editor of an important journal, I have to apply myself to keep apace with my new profession. A journalist must be imprudent or dishonest who discusses any subject on which he has not sufficient information. And think of the multitude of questions connected with politics, political economy, legislation, literature, and religion itself which I have in turn to treat of! In the Paris newspapers, each editor writes on the subjects he understands the best. The work is thus divided, to the great advantage of the paper and its editors. Here, I alone am often responsible for everything. Nevertheless, the care of my health, as well as my indolence, would induce me to rest a few hours a day; but where shall I pass them?—At the café? I go there sometimes to extend my knowledge of human nature; but one cannot go there much without being in danger of contracting injurious habits.—With my friends? I have none, and am in no hurry to make any. The choice of a friend is such a serious thing! One cannot be too cautious about it.”
“Come and see us,” said my mother, with her habitual cordiality. “When you have nowhere else to go, and your mind is weary, come up and pass an hour in the evening with your neighbors.”
Victor came, at first occasionally, then every day. Only a few weeks elapsed before I felt that I loved him. His companionship was so delightful; he had so much delicacy in little things; he was so frank, so devoted to all that is beautiful and good! Did he love me in return? No one could have told, for he was as timid as a young girl.
But this timidity was surmounted when my feast-day arrived. He came in blushing with extreme embarrassment—poor dear friend! I can still see him—holding a bouquet in his left hand, which he concealed behind him, while with the other he presented my mother with an open paper. She took it, glanced at it, and, after reading a few words, said:
“But this is not addressed to me. Here, Agnes, these stanzas are for you, my child! And I see a bouquet!”
Victor presented it to me in an agitated manner. I myself was so confused that I longed to run away to hide my embarrassment. I concealed it as well as I could behind the sheet on which the stanzas were written, and read them in a low tone. They gracefully thanked my mother for all her kindness to him, and ended with some wishes for me—wishes that were ardent and touching. In a tremulous tone I expressed my gratitude with a sincerity which was quite natural. Our embarrassment was not of long continuance. It soon passed off, and we spent the evening in delightful conversation. One would have thought we had always lived together, and formed but one family.
The next morning, when I returned from giving my lessons, what was my astonishment to find Victor with my mother!
“Here she is to decide the question,” exclaimed the latter joyfully. “M. Victor loves you, and wishes to know if you will be his wife.”
“Mother,” I replied, “must I be separated from you?”
“Less than ever,” cried Victor.
My delightful dream was realized! I was to be united to the man I loved with all my heart—whom I esteemed without any alloy! And this without being obliged to separate from her of whom I was the sole reliance.
I extended my hand to Victor, and threw myself into my mother’s arms, thanking her as well as I could, but in accents broken by tears....
A month after, we were married, and happy—as happy, I believe, as people can be here below.