"You are right, while the thing is going on; but at our ages a man can talk of anything, and you are not like the idiots who can see nothing but a cause for laughter in the greatest misfortune with which their neighbor can be afflicted. You are neither sneering nor unkind, and I want you to tell me whether I behaved badly, whether I acted like a man or a brute—in short, whether you would have done as I did; for everybody blamed me more or less at the time, and if I had not had a strong arm and a sharp tongue at the end of it, everybody would have laughed in my face. You are to judge! My wife, my poor Nannie, loved one of my friends, a handsome fellow—yes, and a good fellow—and yet she loved me too. I don't know how the devil it came about, but I discovered one fine morning that my son looked more like Pierre than like Jean. Anybody could see it, monsieur! and there were times when I longed to beat Nannie, to strangle the child and knock out Pierre's brains. And then—and then—I said nothing at all. I wept and prayed. Oh! how I suffered! I beat my wife on the pretext that she didn't keep the house in order; I pulled the little one's ears on the pretext that he made too much noise in mine; I picked a quarrel with Pierre over a game of tenpins, and I nearly broke both his legs with the ball. And then, when everybody else wept, I wept, too, and looked on myself as a villain. I brought up the child and I wept for him; I buried my wife and I still weep for her; I kept the friend and I still love him. And that's how matters ended with me. What do you say to it?"
Monsieur de Boisguilbault did not reply. He was pacing the room and making the floor creak under his feet.
"You think me a great coward and a great fool, I'll be bound," said the carpenter, rising; "but, at all events, you see that your troubles are nothing like mine."
The marquis dropped into a chair and said nothing. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.
"Well, well, Monsieur de Boisguilbault, why are you weeping?" continued Jean, with artless candor. "Are you trying to make me weep too? You can't do it, I promise you! I shed so many tears of anger and grief in those days that there wasn't a single one left in my body, I'll be bound. Come, come! think of your past with patience and offer your present to God; for there are people more badly treated than you, as you see. You had for your wife a beautiful woman, virtuous, well educated and quiet. Perhaps she didn't give you quite so many kisses and caresses as I received from mine, but, at all events, she didn't deceive you, and you proved that you had no fears of her by letting her go to Paris without you whenever she wanted to. You were not jealous, and had no reason to be; while I had a thousand devils in my brain every hour of the day and night. I watched, I played the spy, I hid, because I was jealous; I blushed for it, but I suffered martyrdom; and the more I watched, the more I was convinced that she was very cunning about deceiving me. I never was able to take her by surprise. Nannie was shrewder than I was; and, when I had wasted my time watching her, she would make a scene because I suspected her. When the child was old enough to resemble anybody—and I saw that I wasn't the one—what could you expect? I thought that I should go mad; but I got accustomed to loving him, petting him, working to support him, trembling when he bumped his head, seeing him caper round my bench, ride horseback on my timber and amuse himself dulling my tools. I had only that one! I had thought he was mine—no others came—and I couldn't get along without a child, you see. And he loved me so dearly, the little rascal! He was so bright! and, when I scolded him, he wept as if his heart would break. At last I set about forgetting my suspicions, and I succeeded so well in persuading myself that I was his father, that when he was shot in the war, I longed to shoot myself. He was handsome and brave, a good workman and as good a soldier, and it wasn't his fault if he wasn't my son! He would have made my life happy; he would have helped me with my work, and I shouldn't have had to grow old all alone. I should have had some one to keep me company, to talk with me in the evening after my day's work, to take care of me when I am sick, to put me to bed when I am tipsy, to talk to me about his mother, whom I never dare to mention to anybody, because everybody except him knew all about my unhappiness. I tell you, Monsieur de Boisguilbault, you haven't had so much to bear! You didn't have a contraband heir given you; and if you haven't had the pleasure, neither have you had the shame!"
"And I should not have had the courage you had," said the marquis. "Open that door again, Jean, and let me look at the marchioness's portrait. You have given me courage. I was insane the day I turned you out of my house. You would have saved me from becoming weak and mad. I thought that I was getting rid of an enemy, and I deprived myself of a friend."
"But why in the devil did you take me for your enemy?"
"Have you no idea?" replied the marquis, fixing his eyes upon him in a piercing glance.
"Not the least," said the carpenter emphatically.
"On your honor?" added Monsieur de Boisguilbault, wringing his hand fiercely.