CHAPTER XI.
EUGENIE.
A week after, Louis came to see us for the first time.
“Well,” inquired Victor, “do you like your new manner of life?”
“Yes and no, my dear friend,” replied Louis. “Yes, because I feel that the new life on which I have entered is good for me. It is just what I needed, I must confess—for I think aloud here. It is such a relief to speak to some one who understands, who loves you, and is always ready to excuse and pardon you! But I forewarn you I need, and shall need, great indulgence, though nothing ought to seem too hard to one who was on the high-road to destruction, soul and body, and would at this very instant be lost, had not God, in his mercy, sent you to my aid. This benefit has filled me, I assure you, with so much gratitude from the first that, in view of my past life and the divine goodness, I feel I ought to be a saint in order to expiate so many transgressions—I ought to prove my sincerity by some heroic sacrifice for God.”
“Oh! oh! that is somewhat ambitious.”
“I suppose it is absurd. Not that it is necessarily absurd to aspire to heroism, but the means should be taken into consideration. Now, mine are fearfully, pitifully inadequate. I am cowardly, fickle, and a lover of my ease.”
“Come, come! do not calumniate yourself. We must neither judge ourselves with too much leniency nor with too much severity. We must see ourselves as we are. This is difficult, but it is essential.”
“Well, my kind friend, that is exactly the way I regard myself.”
“I doubt it.”
“You shall judge for yourself. My duties oblige me to remain night and day at St. M——. Alas! this very necessity I find harder than I can express. There is not a day in which I do not find myself regretting the city three or four times. This is very wrong, when the city has been so pernicious to me....”
“Come, you exaggerate things. You were born and brought up in the city, and have always lived here till now. I see nothing astonishing at your finding it disagreeable at first to live in the country.”
“What a lenient judge! We shall see if you are as much so after the other acknowledgments I have to make. There are times when work seems insupportable. To rise at six o’clock and superintend workmen and machinery the live-long day irritates and fatigues me to such a degree that I am sometimes tempted to give it all up.”
“You have not yet yielded to the temptation?”
“No, indeed; that would be too despicable.”
“Since you yourself regard such a step as it deserves, pursue your occupation without being concerned about a slight disinclination for work. Even people who have always been accustomed to labor have such temptations. I assure you, in a year there will be no question of all this. You will have acquired a love for your business, and, active as you are, you will not be able to do without it.”
“You think me at the end of my confession. The worst is to come. Mr. Smithson is polite and sincere, but reserved and ceremonious, like all Englishmen. He keeps me at a distance, and appears as if my errors and loss of property, which of course he is aware of, gave him some superiority over me. I think he does wrong to make me feel this.”
“Ah! this is more serious, my dear friend. Like all people in a wrong position, you are inclined to be unduly sensitive. Watch over yourself. Endeavor to be guided by reason. I do not wish you to submit to too much haughtiness, but do not attribute to people airs, and especially intentions, they are not guilty of.”
“You are a thousand times right. I appreciate your advice, and promise to follow it. It would, indeed, be foolish to make myself needlessly unhappy. St. M——, as you know, is a lovely place. The river on which the mill stands has many charming views. During my leisure hours, I can draw and paint at my ease. I have a great deal to do, and my work is frequently burdensome, but I shall become accustomed to it, for it is a source of real interest. By an excess of good luck, I have lodgings that suit me in apartments near Mr. Smithson’s house. There I can read, meditate, and pray at my leisure. One thing only is wanting—a little society in the evening; but that will come, perhaps. I am invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s next Thursday. I hope that will be the commencement of closer intercourse with the family. Hitherto, I repeat, they have kept me at a distance. I have exchanged a few words with Mme. Smithson, who appears very affable, but I have only had a glimpse of the daughter—Eugénie, I believe her name is. As far as I could judge, she is tall, fine-looking, even dignified in her appearance, with something haughty in her air. I frankly confess it will be a treat to meet these three people. I have always had a fancy for studying different characters, and shall enjoy it particularly now, I am so unoccupied in the evening.”
“And your workmen—what do you make of them?”
“I am constantly observing them, and assure you they are as interesting to study as any one else. What a source of reflection! We have, you must know, workmen of every grade, good and bad—yes, fearfully bad. There are four hundred and fifty people—men, women, and children—who represent every phase of humanity.”
“To study mankind, my dear friend, to confine one’s self to that, is an amusement suitable for a philosopher. But a Christian has higher views: he studies human nature in order to be useful.”
“That idea has occurred to me. I have even formed a series of fine projects; but I am so poor a Christian, and so inexperienced!”
“No false modesty! Excuse my bluntness; but false modesty is the shield of the indolent, or their couch, whichever you please. Have you any desire to benefit the people among whom you live?”
“Yes, certainly, if I can.”
“You can. You only need zeal and prudence; the one ought always to guide the other. Come, what plans have occurred to you?”
“I should like to found an evening-school, and take charge of it. Those who are the best instructed might serve as monitors.”
“Perfect! That would be a means of keeping the young men, and even those of riper years, from idleness and the wine-shops, and afford you an opportunity of giving them good advice. What else?”
“I should also like to establish a fund of mutual aid.”
“Excellent!... Reflect on these two projects till Sunday. I will do the same. Consult Mr. Smithson also about them, and come and dine with us in a week. We will talk it over, and you can tell me how you like the family you are about to become acquainted with. I hope you will be pleased with them.”
“I hope so too, but have my fears. If they were all like Mme. Smithson, everything would be propitious. I took a fancy to her from the first. But Mr. Smithson is frigid, and his daughter seems equally unapproachable. It is singular, but I had met her once or twice before I entered her father’s employ. I thought her beautiful and intelligent, and heard her very highly spoken of. But really, I begin to believe that she, like many others, is brilliant rather than solid.”
“Come, come! no rash judgments!”
“What can I say? I was deceived in her. I thought her an uncommon woman—one capable of comprehending all the delicacy of my position, and of coming to my assistance. She ought to realize that I am out of my element there. You must confess that Mlle. Smithson’s coolness does not tend to console me.”
“Why, my dear friend, you are very exacting!... Would you expect as much from every one?”
“No; but this young lady occupies an important place in the house, without trying, I confess, to take advantage of it.”
“And an important place in your thoughts ...,” said Victor, with the friendly, significant smile so natural to him.
Louis blushed.
“I am inclined to think your opinion of her will be less severe in a week. I, too, have heard her highly spoken of.”
These words seemed to afford Louis great satisfaction. Victor did not continue the subject.
If you have carefully followed the conversation I have just related, you must see that Louis, though unaware of his sister’s hopes, already thought more of Mlle. Eugénie than he confessed or even acknowledged to himself. I think I shall only anticipate your wishes in making you acquainted at once with that young lady, who is to fill an important rôle in my story. And this cannot be done better than in her own home.
Eugénie is in her chamber. It is the morning of the day Louis and some other acquaintances are to dine with her father. She is engaged in completing her toilet. A more charming room cannot be imagined. It is furnished in exquisite style. Nothing is lacking. The pictures are all rare, and arranged with artistic taste. The book-case contains, not so many books, but solid works that will bear reading over and over again. What, above all, completes the charm of this young girl’s bower is the view to be seen from the two windows, which are like frames to a picture. They afford a glimpse of a terrestrial paradise through which flow the limpid waters of a deep stream. A breeze, playing through the poplars that stand on its banks, softly rustles the leaves. Directly across, on the opposite shore, is a broad meadow, bright with flowers, with here and there clumps of trees. As far as the eye can reach are objects on every side to satisfy the soul, and excite it to reverie: a windmill with its long wings of white canvas swaying in the air; a villa with its gardens; a little hamlet, and, overlooking it, a church, the slated belfry of which is glistening in the sun.
The world is full of material souls whom it would be a kind of profanation to introduce into a place so attractive. They would be unable to appreciate the charm. What is nature, however beautiful, to a man eaten up with avarice and ambition?—to a woman who only dreams of pleasure?... To such degenerate souls, nature is a sealed book—a divine picture before a sightless eye.
But to this number Eugénie did not belong. The daughter of a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, she had been educated in one of the best schools in Paris. Shall I call her pious? No; that would be exaggerating. Eugénie did not lack faith. Her religious instincts were well developed, but checked by her father’s coldness and her mother’s frivolity. She was by no means insensible to all the beautiful and true in religion. They filled her with admiration. She always fulfilled the obligations rigorously imposed by the church, but avoided going any farther through indifference as well as calculation. She had a horror of what she called petty religion and little practices of piety. Poor girl! she, too, closed her eyes in this respect to the light. The practices she disdained—frequent prayers, the raising of the soul to God, visits to the church, and assiduous frequentation of the sacraments—are they not what truly constitute religion, such as it ought to be, in order to be the companion, friend, and guide of the whole life?... This is what Eugénie did not comprehend, or rather, what she did not wish to comprehend. In short, she was religious in her own way—half-way religious—quite so in theory, but in reality much less so than she should have been.
The somewhat indirect influence her parents exercised over her in a religious point of view also affected her in other ways. Eugénie possessed two natures: she was cold like her father, and kind like her mother, but without displaying it. Let us also add another characteristic by way of completing her portrait—she was romantic. In everything, she had a repugnance to what she called commonplace. An object, an individual, or an action, to please her, must have a peculiar stamp, an original turn, which she wished might be more frequently met with. She only liked what was out of the common course, according to the elevated standard of a certain ideal she had formed in her own mind.
Eugénie’s exterior, her distinguished manners, her fluency in conversation, and the tone of her calm, well-modulated voice, all inspired a respect bordering on admiration. She was beautiful without being bewitching. She was kind, but in so inexpressive a way as to inspire at first fear rather than confidence. As has been said, she possessed a character not easily read, and, though only twenty-one years old, she passed for what is called, and with reason, a person of ability. Her father and mother doted on her: she was their only child. Yet there was a difference in their affection. Mr. Smithson tenderly loved her as a daughter: Mme. Smithson loved her with a shade of fear, as we love a companion or friend whose superiority we feel.
Her toilet otherwise completed, Eugénie rang for her waiting-maid to arrange her hair. Fanny did not keep her waiting. There was a striking contrast between mistress and maid. Fanny was towards forty years of age. She was of ordinary height, neat in person, but plain and unattractive in appearance. She had a bad complexion, large eyes hidden under thick lashes, a wide mouth, and a large fleshy nose, which made up one of those vulgar faces that are never observed except to laugh at. She was beloved by no one except her employers. This was not strange. She had an observing eye and a keen, sarcastic tongue. Her nature was soured, rather than instinctively bad. She was selfish and bitter—a good deal so. This selfishness and bitterness sprang from two causes which she would by no means have acknowledged. She was no longer young, she knew she was homely, and she had no hope of being married. Such a hope she had once, and a few days of happiness was the result. Fanny would have been so glad to be, in her turn, mistress over her own house! But her dream had vanished, and under circumstances not calculated to sweeten her temper.
For some years, Fanny was a servant at Mme. Smithson’s sister’s. That lady was in the commercial line at Paris. There Fanny made the conquest of a smart young man from the country employed by her mistress as head clerk. He was an excellent person, but, like many others, wished to reconcile his affections with his interests. He said to himself that, by waiting awhile, he might, some fine day, find a wife richer, prettier, and younger than Fanny. As he was bound to her by no actual promise, he finally obtained another situation, and disappeared without any warning. The poor girl regarded such conduct as infamous. She felt that all hope of ever marrying was now lost, and the disappointment made her ill. Unbeknown to her, her mistress had followed all the scenes of this little domestic drama. She nursed Fanny with a care that was quite motherly. When the girl recovered, she expressed her gratitude, but begged permission to go away. The house had too many cruel associations. Her mistress willingly consented, and Fanny entered Mme. Smithson’s service. When the latter left Paris, Fanny accompanied her to St. M——, and had now been in the family several years.
Having, to her great regret, no prospect of marrying, forced to acknowledge to herself that she should never have a house of her own to manage, Fanny had but one desire, but this was an ardent one—to be installed in a family which, if not her own, might prove as pleasant, and where she could rule while appearing to obey. But where find this ideal home?... She resolved to create it. And in this way: her old mistress, Mme. Smithson’s sister, had a son named Albert, who was five years older than Eugénie. Fanny had known him from his childhood. She was attached to him, and, above all, she understood his disposition. No one knew better than she that Albert would be the easiest, the most manageable, in short, the mildest of masters. On the other hand, she knew that Eugénie, energetic as she was, would not be difficult to please. “Mademoiselle lives in the clouds,” she said to herself; “she will be glad enough to have some one manage the house for her.”
Fanny, therefore, resolved to make a match between the two cousins. There is reason to believe she made skilful overtures to her former mistress and to the young man himself, and that these overtures were well received. Albert was now preparing his thesis with a view to the law. As he was not rich, his cousin’s fortune was a very pleasant prospect, and still more so to his mother. Besides, Albert had always known Eugénie and loved her, as is natural to love a cousin that is pretty and intelligent. He and his mother, therefore, made Fanny their intermediary, without committing themselves to too great an extent.
But Fanny had a good deal to overcome. Mr. Smithson was not partial to lawyers. The profession was not, in his estimation, clearly enough defined or very elevated. As to Eugénie, no one knew what her sentiments were with regard to her cousin. Fanny thought she had, if not a very strong attachment to him, at least an incipient affection. But she was not sure. Thence resulted continual fears. Every young man who entered the house was to her an object of alarm. Perhaps her prospects, so slowly ripening and so dear, would be again overthrown by this one!
It may be imagined that Fanny looked with an unfavorable eye on Louis’ connection with the manufactory. If Mr. Smithson had chosen another kind of a man to aid him, one who was obscure, a mere common man of business, she would not have minded it. But in the course of a week, she was fully informed as to the history of the new-comer. She knew he belonged to one of the best families of the city; that he had been rich, and might become so again; that, till recently, he had been regarded as one of the most brilliant young men in society; and he was intelligent, well-educated, and of irreproachable morals. “I am lost!” thought she. “All these people are linked together to ruin my plans. This M. Louis comes here as an engineer?... Nonsense! it is an arrangement between his father and Mr. Smithson. They wish him to marry mademoiselle. What a contrivance! And that poor Albert, what will become of him?...”
These suspicions quite upset her. She resolved to make inquiries, in order to relieve her mind, if by chance she was mistaken. But whom should she question?... Mr. Smithson?... That must not be thought of. Eugénie? Fanny made the attempt. Eugénie, with her usual coolness and wit, replied in such a way that Fanny retreated every time more uncertain than before.
The day of which I am speaking—the notable day of the dinner—Fanny, out of patience, could endure it no longer. She resolved to carry matters so far that, whether she liked it or not, her mistress would be forced to revive her hopes, or utterly destroy them. Hardly had she entered the chamber before she opened fire:
“How shall I arrange mademoiselle’s hair?”
“As usual.”
“Then we will dress it differently this afternoon with ribbons and flowers.”
“Why such a display?”
“Can mademoiselle have forgotten it is the day of the great dinner?”
“Great dinner? What do you mean by such nonsense, Fanny? Why, whom are we to have at our table of so much importance? Nobody is invited that I have not known a long time: our neighbor, M. Daumier, with his wife and daughter, Dr. Ollivier, and M. Dupaigne. Really, it would be singular for me to receive them with any ceremony.”
“Mademoiselle has not named all the guests.”
“Whom have I forgotten?”
“M. Louis Beauvais.”
“Ah! that is true. I overlooked him. But his coming will not change my intention to remain as I am.”
These words were uttered in a tone of perfect indifference. Fanny was overjoyed, but careful not to manifest it. Then, as she continued to busy herself about her mistress, she began to reflect. “She does not care for him,” she said to herself. “There is nothing to fear for the moment, then. But who knows how it may be by-and-by?... I must at once find out if, under favorable circumstances, she might not conceive an affection for him, and try to prevent such a misfortune. I will take the other side to find out the truth.”
“A charming young man, this M. Louis, and quite worthy of interest,” said she, without appearing to attach any importance to her words.
“What do you find so charming in him?”
“He has a serious air, which I like.”
“Yes; it might even be called gloomy.”
“He may well have.”
“Really! Ah! Fanny, then you know his history?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; and a very curious one it is.”
“Well, relate it to me. Only suppress the details; you always give too many.”
“Three months ago, M. Louis was the finest dancer and the gayest young man in the city. Unfortunately, these young men are not always remarkable for uniformity. He lived like a prince for six years, and one fine morning found himself penniless.”
“And what did he do then?”
“They say—I am unwilling to believe it, but everybody says so—that he tried to drown himself.”
“A weak brain. That is not to his credit.”
“They also say that M. Barnier, the journalist, saved him at the risk of his life, and converted him so thoroughly that the poor fellow came near entering a monastery.”
“A queer idea! That shows he has more imagination than reason!”
“But he did not stick to his first intention. He is now established here, and will remain, I feel sure, ... and this alarms me!...”
“Why are you so sure? And how can this assurance cause you any alarm?”
“That is a secret. Mademoiselle will excuse me from replying. Though I have known mademoiselle from her childhood, she intimidates me.”
“Not much, Fanny.”
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I do not understand you.”
“You understand me perfectly, but I have to dot your i’s for you. Well, I will do so. I do not intimidate you much, I say. You dare not tell me what you mean, but you give me a hint of it. What are you afraid of? Tell me. I insist upon it.”
“As mademoiselle insists upon it, I feel obliged to tell her what she wishes to know. Mademoiselle is not to be resisted. But I should prefer keeping it to myself. If it were to displease mademoiselle ...”
“No; go on.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, I have everything to fear! This young man has lost his property.... He passes himself off here as a creditable person.... He has secret designs ...”
“What designs?”
“Mademoiselle puts me in an awkward position.... It is such a delicate point to speak to mademoiselle about.”
“That M. Beauvais aspires to my hand through interested motives?”
“I should not have dared say so.”
“Well, that would be audacious! I accept a man for a husband whom poverty, disgraceful poverty, alone inclines towards me!”
“Without doubt, he has committed many faults, but there is mercy for the greatest sinner, and he is so pious just now!”
“I know—he goes to church often, even during the week. That is his own affair. That is enough, Fanny. Let there be no further question of this between us. You take too much interest in what concerns me, as I have told you before. I am astonished you should force me to repeat it.”
Fanny, thus dismissed, went away furious and more uneasy than ever. But if she could have read Eugénie’s inmost thoughts, her fury would have turned to joy. As soon as she was gone, Eugénie seated herself in a low arm-chair, and began, as she sometimes laughingly said, to put her thoughts in order.
“That malicious girl is no fool,” she said to herself. “This young man may have entered my father’s service from secret motives, perhaps suggested by his family. Who knows but my parents themselves smile on his projects? My father seems to be on the best of terms with his father. Perhaps they have come to an understanding with a mere word, or even without speaking at all. That would be too much! Well, if it is so, if the whole world conspires against me, I will defeat their calculations.... In the first place, I do not fancy this M. Louis, and I will soon let him see it, as well as those who favor him. The mere supposition that I could ever be his wife makes me indignant and angry. I marry a man who has ruined himself, who only aimed at my fortune, and would squander it in a few years! I give my heart to a man who does not love me, and, even if he sincerely vowed he loved me, would be in such a position that I should always have reason to doubt it! And, besides, what a weak mind this hare-brained fellow must have to play so many rôles one after the other! I wish my husband to have purer motives and a stronger head. This man must have a false heart. He is an intriguer, and that includes everything....”