I should have been disgusted with myself if I had listened at doors. Urged by self-esteem, mingled with a sense of honour, I should not have hesitated to enter the room but for the next words, which were uttered by my father, and which nailed me to the spot, the latch still in my hand, powerless to go in or to draw back, so greatly was I impressed and captivated.
“The same thing took place between him and me that long ago took place between me and my father—the same family tragedy.”
“Oh, Michel, what do you mean?”
“Yes, my father was right when he recalled it the day that I found Francis in his room, the day when Francis took his part against me—unhappy child! When I was little, I, too, had felt the influence of my grandfather. Only it was exercised in the other direction. He had been president of the Chamber at the Court. Returning home at the age of retirement, he amused himself with cultivating the garden. It was he who planted the rose-garden. He taught me the importance, the beauty, yes, the beauty of the order to which man may subject not only himself, but nature. Perhaps it is to him that I owe it that I have been able to direct my life, to dominate it. But my father, who was interested only in his music and his utopias, used to laugh at us. ‘He will turn that child into a geometrician,’ he used to say. It is he who has turned my child into a rebel.”
He added, bitterly, “A father, in his own house, should never yield his own authority to any one. To withdraw Francis from that influence which has gained the upper hand of mine, I should not hesitate even to send him to boarding school. It would only be anticipating by a year or two the method we adopted for the older children. And in fact our school is hardly advanced enough for him now.”
“It would be one more expense,” objected mother.
“Money is a small thing compared with education.”
Thus I learned that they were proposing to arrange my future without consulting me! Boarding school—prison—was to punish me for my independence. For the moment I was crushed,—then, in my pride I refused to admit that I was crushed. Would not that be to admit the attractions of the house? Since they were considering the possibility of sending me away I would get ahead of them, and would myself ask to go. Yes, that should be the punishment I would inflict upon my parents. Upon my parents only?
But I could not remain there at the door and be surprised—and besides, I was ashamed! I therefore finally turned the latch and went in. I went in like an important personage, steeling myself against the emotion which was getting the better of me.
“I have come for my book,” said I, by way of justifying my entrance.