CHAPTER XX.
A VILLAIN.
Albert called at Louis’ office about ten o’clock the next morning. This office was in the centre of the manufactory, between two large rooms always filled with workmen. Here Louis was confined ten long hours a day. If he went out from time to time, it was first to one place, and then to another, to keep an eye on everything, and remedy any slight accident that might have occurred. He everywhere replaced Mr. Smithson. He saw to everything, and gave orders about everything, and acquitted himself of these duties with an ability and zeal that his employer could not help acknowledging. He could not have wished for an assistant more capable, more energetic, or more reliable. Had it not been for one suspicion in this cold Protestant’s breast, one cause of antipathy against this overzealous Catholic, Mr. Smithson would not only have esteemed Louis, but would have taken him to his heart. As it was, he contented himself with merely esteeming him, and this against his will.
The workmen were divided into two parties with respect to Louis. The good, who were the least numerous—alas! it is so everywhere: the majority are on the wrong side—were absolutely devoted to him. The bad feared him. They knew he was inflexible when there was any question of their morals or the rules of the establishment. Louis would not tolerate drunkenness, or blasphemy, or any improper talk. The fear he excited among the bad made him extremely hated by a few.
When Albert entered the engineer’s office, the latter went forward to meet him with the ease of a man of the world receiving a visit, and with the reserve of a diplomatist who finds himself in the presence of an adversary. From the very moment these two men first saw each other, they felt they were opponents. Each one had a position to defend which the other sought for, and both were conscious of it. Before the Parisian uttered a word, Louis divined what was passing in his heart. “He has come to drive me away and marry his cousin,” thought he. “If Providence favors his plans, I shall submit. But it was God who brought me hither. I do not think I am mistaken in believing he has given me a work to do here, and I shall not leave till I clearly see I ought to give it up and go away.”
Albert had to introduce himself. “I am Mr. Smithson’s nephew,” said he, “a licentiate of the law, and an advocate at the Paris bar. My relatives have for a long time urged me to visit them, and I have profited by an interval of leisure to accept their invitation. I am aware, monsieur, of the important rôle you fill in the house, and what a useful man you are, and am desirous of making your acquaintance. Besides, I have need of your services.”
“If I can be of any service whatever to you, monsieur, I assure you it will give me great pleasure to serve you.”
“My charming cousin Eugénie tells me, monsieur, that you are engaged in things I am likewise interested in—the relief of the poor and the instruction of the ignorant around you. Eugénie has even given me to understand that she is your assistant in this work.”
Albert kept his eyes fastened on Louis’ face as he uttered these words. He thought he would betray his feelings at such a greeting—at the mere name of Eugénie. But Louis’ countenance remained impenetrable as usual. Albert felt he had before him either a very indifferent or a very shrewd man.
“I am glad to learn, monsieur,” replied Louis, “that you take an interest, as well as I, in these Christian labors, which in these times are more necessary than ever. Poverty and immorality are making great ravages. But I should remark that I am a mere novice in such matters. As Mlle. Eugénie has been so kind as to speak of me, she may have told you how little I have yet accomplished. And what I have done has only been through Mr. Smithson’s constant aid. You wish, monsieur, to be initiated into my undertakings. That will be very easy! I will show you our library, scarcely established, and our evening-school: that is all.”
“You must also introduce me to your poor. I am seriously disposed to make a practical study of the great questions of charity and instruction. They are quite the order of the day. When can I meet you?...”
“This evening, if you like; the school begins at seven o’clock.”
“And what do you do at this school?”
“I teach reading and writing to those who are ignorant of them, orthography to some, and ciphering to others. I end by reading something carefully selected, with occasional remarks easy to comprehend and to retain. This affords me a daily opportunity of giving my audience useful advice.”
Albert made a slight grimace. This manner of procedure did not suit him. He wished for exercises that afforded a more promising field for satisfying his vanity. It was well to propose being useful! He wished to shine.
They continued to converse a while longer. Louis, with the shrewdness that characterized him, led the conversation to the most serious subjects. Albert replied without suspecting the scrutiny he was undergoing. Faithful to his rôle, he affected to judge matters with the seriousness of a man armed with unfaltering convictions. But this seriousness did not blind Louis. Without appearing to observe it, he caught him a dozen times in criminal ignorance, and, what was worse, this ignorance was accompanied with a conceit that was ridiculous. At length the two young men separated. They had formed an opinion of each other at the first glance. Louis had seen through Albert’s mask, and found him a man of no depth, poorly aping a person of gravity. Albert felt he had a sagacious person to deal with. If Louis was his rival, he was a formidable one.
It may be supposed that, loving Eugénie to such a degree, Louis felt, as an impartial observer would have done in his place, that it would be sad to see a woman of so much worth united to a superficial man. He could not help feeling that he himself was more worthy of Eugénie than Albert; that he was more capable of making her happy. He was not mistaken; he had a right to think so.
A few days after this first interview, I sent Louis word that Victor was very much worse. His disease had made alarming progress. Victor had hitherto struggled courageously against it, but, the evening before, he took me by the hand, and, fixing his large melancholy eyes on mine, said:
“My dear, my beloved wife, I have kept up till now, and continued to work as usual. But the hour has come for me to lay aside all earthly thoughts and cares.... It is time to collect my thoughts.... Death is approaching ...”
At these words, I began to weep and sob. He waited till this natural explosion of grief was over.
“I can realize your distress, my good Agnes,” said he. “I, too, feel how painful it is to leave you. But we are both Christians. Our religion is a source of never-failing consolation.... See how good God has been to us! I might have died months ago: God has left me with you till now. He has given me time to prepare to enter his presence. And I truly believe that, by the help of his grace, I have made a good use of these last days. I have found and trained a man to succeed me in the journal. He will defend the good cause as well as I; perhaps better. I have saved the life of a young man who is and always will be a consistent Christian such as we need more of. I shall, I hope, have a share in all the good Louis will accomplish; and he will do a great deal.... Of course, my dear Agnes, it is hard to separate from you, but we shall meet again on high. The longest life is but brief. How happy we shall be to meet again far from this wretched world, which I should not regret were it not for leaving you. [P2 added period missing in orig] Every day it gives less room to God: the impious and the hypocritical are fearfully multiplying. This is a sad age! If the very thought of leaving those we love were not so painful to the heart, ah! how sweet it would be to soar away from so much wickedness to the pure radiance of heaven. Why cannot I carry you with me, my poor darling? Oh! how glad I should then be to go.... But, no; it is not the will of God. He wishes me to precede you, alone. So be it. When in yonder world, I shall pray for you!... And now, let us give up all worldly things to those who have a longer time to live. As for me, I must cease to labor, and henceforth think of nothing but God and my salvation....”
The following morning, I sent Louis word of what had taken place. He hastened to see us that afternoon. When he saw our dear Victor, he was exceedingly affected. My husband had changed every way within a fortnight, without my being conscious of it, having been constantly with him.
“Oh! how glad I am to see you!” said he to Louis. “Well, well, we shall not meet many times more, ... here below, I mean, but we shall meet again in heaven never more to separate.”
Louis burst into tears.
“You great child!” continued he. “If it were not for my sweet Agnes there, I would beg you to congratulate me: I am going home to God! But the idea of leaving that dear soul, who has made me so happy, hangs like a cloud between me and heaven. Oh! you will, you will watch over her as I would myself, will you not?”
“Yes; as your very self, I solemnly promise you,” cried Louis. Then, falling on his knees beside the bed, he said: “My friend, assure me once more that you forgive me. It is I who have killed you!”
Victor drew him towards him, and embraced him. Louis then begged my forgiveness also. I could not answer him, but I held out my hand, which he respectfully kissed.
“One favor more,” said Louis: “I hope you will not leave us so soon as you suppose, but it is better to make the request now, as I can do it to-day without troubling you: give me your blessing!”
Victor excused himself, but Louis insisted so long that he yielded. Victor then extended his hand over his friend’s head: “O my God!” said he, “I am only a sinner, with no right to bless in thy name; but I have given my heart to thee, and I also love this soul to whom thou has permitted me to do some good. Watch over him!... Make him happy here below, or, if it is thy will he should suffer, grant him the necessary courage to find joy in sorrow itself.”
This scene was deeply affecting. For some time we remained silent. Victor, unwilling to leave us so painfully impressed, began to smile and say the liveliest things he could imagine. Addressing Louis, he said:
“How are your love affairs? You cannot imagine how I long for your union with a woman so calculated to make you happy. The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that Mlle. Smithson is the very person.”
Louis replied with a sigh. He related what had taken place at the great dinner, and the wrong impression Mr. Smithson had derived from the curé’s imprudence. He also told us of Albert’s arrival, and gave a brief account of their interview.
“This man’s unexpected appearance has caused me sincere pain,” he said. “It has excited a thousand fears only too well grounded. Is it because I think him capable of destroying my most cherished hopes?... No; not if it depends merely on him. His meaningless face, his affected and pretentious manners, and his vacant mind, are not calculated to fascinate Mlle. Eugénie. Her nature is entirely different from his. His defects must shock her. But the man, from what I am told, has the luck of being in his aunt’s good graces. Who knows but Mme. Smithson herself induced him to come, with the positive intention of giving him her daughter’s hand in marriage?...”
“It is possible,” said Victor, “but you have one good cause for hope in spite of everything. You acknowledge yourself that such a man cannot please Mlle. Eugénie. Now, she is a woman with a mind of her own, and her parents are very indulgent to her. These two reasons induce me to believe she will never marry him.”
“She is different from most women,” replied Louis. “Her filial devotion may lead her to accept the husband her parents propose.... Ah! if she loved me, I should not be alarmed on that score. For an instant, I thought she did; but the longer I study things calmly, the more inclined I am to believe I was lulled by a sweet illusion.... She does not love me yet. It is possible she might, had things remained as they were. Everything will take a new turn now. This young relative’s arrival will absorb her attention, and how do I know but she will even end by taking him for what he pretends to be—a grave, thoughtful man?”
“I have no fears on that point,” said Victor. “If this intruder is the superficial person you suppose—and he is, I believe—he will not deceive a person so observing as Mlle. Smithson.”
“He is her cousin.... Every one in the house treats him with great affection.... Mlle. Eugénie is young and without experience, ... and the man in question does not lack a certain ability.... He has already annoyed me in more than one way.”
“Is it possible! How?”
“I told you that at our first interview he immediately expressed a wish to aid me in the work I had undertaken. I promised to introduce him to my school that evening. He was so urgent that he excited my suspicions at once. My fears were only too well founded, as you will see. I had scarcely been a quarter of an hour in the schoolroom, before he came in with Mr. Smithson. I am anxious not to exaggerate anything; above all, I do not wish to calumniate him. It is, therefore, with all sincerity I tell you that this designing man, at his first visit, so arranged everything as to take the precedence of me before my scholars. With his arm passed familiarly through his uncle’s, he entered with a mere salutation of condescending patronage. Then, after going to the door with Mr. Smithson, who had business elsewhere, he remained as if to superintend and direct me, as the master of the house might have done, had he wished to assert his rights. I repeat it: this fellow only came there to make the workmen feel that he was, even in my night-school, if not the master, at least his representative, and I the humble agent. In fact, without consulting me, he began to give advice to one and another, making a great deal of noise, and meddling with everything, so that, thanks to him, nothing was done. He disturbed everybody, and was of no assistance.
“Of course, the idle and talkative, as well as those disposed to flattery, took to the new-comer. As to me, I frankly confess he had a singular effect on my nerves. However, I restrained myself, and said nothing to him that evening. The next morning, he called on me, and announced his intention of beginning a series of lessons on political economy. As you know, I am in the habit of reading aloud every evening from some good book—a historical incident, an anecdote, or a moral extract calculated to interest the workmen. To this I join some familiar explanations and reflections of a moral and even religious nature. This exercise, as simple as it is beneficial in its results, was not to his liking. He wished to replace it advantageously, as he said, by instructions apparently learned, but in reality useless and even pernicious. Nothing is worse than to waste great words on people absolutely destitute of elementary knowledge. But the very ignorance of his audience attracted Albert. He thought he should dazzle them without much effort, and without running the risk of their finding out how little he really knows. I listened very coldly to his proposal. When he left, he gave me a slight glance of spitefulness which was ominous of evil.
“That night the young man did not appear in the schoolroom, but the following evening he presented himself. This time he made so much confusion that I could not conceal my annoyance. He perceived it, and left the room. I regretted not having, perhaps, restrained my feelings sufficiently. I followed him into the next room. He received me with insolent haughtiness, and took my explanations unkindly. When I had finished, he thus addressed me:
“‘Monsieur, there are some who do good out of love of being useful: to such I belong. There are others who do it from motives of self-love and interest: you may know of some.... You have instituted this school; you direct it in your own way; you wish to be the sole master. What your reason is for all this I do not know, but I can certify one thing: you wish to have your workmen to yourself. It is not my practice to intrude anywhere, even when I have a perfect right. Consequently I withdraw.’
“I stopped him to ask what motive of interest I could have.
“‘O monsieur!’ said he, ‘the name of a philanthropist is not to be despised. It leads to many things. You know better than I what use you wish to make of it; it is not for me to tell you. It remains to be seen if you succeed.’
“He evidently wished to insinuate that I had taken this indirect way of gaining the esteem of the Smithson family, and perhaps Eugénie’s affections. I felt my anger rise. I was about to reply in a way I should have regretted, but he prevented it by going out without giving me an opportunity.
“At first, I congratulated myself on my victory. I am ashamed to say that my pride, which I thought I had conquered, again reappeared in my heart. ‘He is afraid of me!’ I said to myself. ‘He feels my superiority, and has gone away through mortification.’ Subsequent reflection convinced me of my mistake. Albert, in withdrawing, was not vanquished, but really the conqueror. He had successfully achieved his perfidious design. He was tired of the school, and felt he should soon cut a sorry figure in it. He sought the means of getting out of it, which I unwittingly furnished him, so that his very retreat could be used as a plea against me. All my subsequent observations have confirmed my suspicions. I have not met him since, but I can see he has been secretly plotting against me. Mr. Smithson is colder than ever towards me. As to Mlle. Eugénie, I have met her only once, walking with Albert. She saw me, and might have spoken, but pretended not to observe me.... Ah! my dear friend, I am, I confess, down-hearted. For days, I have seen that my course and my principles excite Mr. Smithson’s suspicions, but I had some reason to believe I was no longer indifferent to his daughter. Now she herself has turned, or rather, has been turned, against me. In a month, she will no longer be able to endure me.... What shall I do?”
“Keep straight on: continue the work you have begun. If an opportunity occurs for explanation either with the father or daughter, convince them that you are an honest man.”
Our poor friend was very gloomy when he left us. We participated in his sadness, for we did not doubt but this cousin, who had come so inopportunely, was slyly doing him some ill-turn. We were not wrong in thinking so. I will relate what had taken place.
As Louis rightly conjectured, Albert had willingly allowed himself to be excluded from the school. He immediately presented himself in the salon with an air of discouragement, but triumphing in the bottom of his heart.
“You have returned early this evening,” said Eugénie. “Are you tired of the school already?”
“I am not tired of it, but they can no longer endure me there.”
“Have you made yourself insupportable?” asked Eugénie. She really did not love her cousin, and under the appearance of teasing him, as is the way with young people, she told him some pretty plain truths as often as she could. Mr. Smithson was reading a newspaper. Hearing what Eugénie and Albert said, he looked up, and said to his nephew, in his usual grave tone:
“What has happened?”
“I have been dismissed from the school.”
“Impossible!” said Eugénie.
Albert was astonished at the persistency with which his cousin defended Louis. He felt his hatred redouble against the engineer.
“You may well think it impossible,” said he, in an insinuating tone.... “Really, if this gentleman has a right to figure in the school he has founded with my uncle’s aid, I, his nephew, and almost a child of the house, have a right to take a part in it also. But such is not the opinion of our imperious co-laborer. There is a certain routine about his instructions that I mildly criticised. For example, he tries, however awkward it may be, to give a religious turn to everything, which I, though a great friend to religion, find ridiculous.”
In this underhand way, Albert skilfully aroused his uncle’s anger and distrust. Mr. Smithson murmured to himself, with that voice of the soul inaudible to others: “I thought so: he is fanatical and ambitious. My nephew, fool as he is, has found it out, and has unmasked him! That is why the other has got rid of him.”
Albert partly guessed what was passing in his uncle’s mind, and saw he had made a good hit. He ended his recriminations in these terms: “The little advice of a humble nature I gave him; my course so different from his, and, I may say without vanity, better....”
Here Eugénie burst into a loud laugh.
“Eugénie,” said Mr. Smithson gravely, “what your cousin is saying merits attention. You are far too giddy this evening.”
Eugénie never resisted her father, except in a case of absolute necessity; she became silent, and appeared to take no further interest in the conversation.
“At last,” said Albert, “I clearly saw this gentleman wished to have his school to himself, so much at home does he feel even there.... He rudely ... made me feel that ... I was in the way. I withdrew, but not without letting him know, in my turn, that I regarded his course as it merited.”
“There was no quarrel between you?” inquired Mr. Smithson, who had a horror of contention.
“No, uncle.”
Mme. Smithson thereupon proceeded to console her nephew as well as she could. The remainder of the evening passed in an uncomfortable manner. Each of the four persons in the room was absorbed in serious reflection without wishing it to be obvious, and all felt that they would not like to communicate what was passing in their hearts. This caused a want of ease which became more and more awkward as it grew more perceptible in spite of the efforts each made to conceal it. The two who were the most troubled, however, were Mme. Smithson and Albert. The latter no longer doubted Eugénie’s love for the engineer. He ought to have seen that, as usual, she merely took the side of the oppressed.
As to Mr. Smithson, it was quite different. A few days previous, he merely suspected Louis might be fanatical and ambitious, and linked with the curé to undermine his authority among the workmen. Now he began to be sure of it. He even went so far as to suspect his daughter of favoring Louis’ designs. This Catholic league, established in his own house and at his own hearth, filled him with a terror and anger as lively as they were ridiculous.