Popular Tales

by Madame Guizot

M. de Flaumont.—It is under such circumstances that duties may be compared and weighed one against the other. But if you were assured, that by exposing your children to some slight inconvenience,—such, for example, as being worse fed or clothed for a time,—you would thereby save the life of another, do you not think that you ought to do so?

Clementine.—Certainly.

M. de Flaumont.—Impossible as it is for us to discover what will be the result of things subjected to chance, we ought I think to lean to that side which seems to offer the greatest probability of producing the greatest good, and to regard a slight danger as a slight inconvenience, to which we subject our children in order to secure to another a very great advantage. Are you satisfied, Henry?

Henry.—Well, papa, I shall try to become very expert, so that the danger may always be slight.

M. de Flaumont.—That is quite right; but now let me conclude my story.

Clementine.—What! is it not finished?

Gustavus.—Oh, go on, then, papa.

M. de Flaumont.—Paul, as I have already told you, had the utmost difficulty in overcoming his distress. He sometimes said to himself, "The river was not so very much swollen; I took fright too easily; we might both have escaped;" and he had not the courage to return to the side of that river,—he preferred making wide circuits in order to avoid going near it. He often heard of persons being drowned while bathing in this river, a thing by no means unusual; for those who did not know it well, imprudently ventured too near the whirlpool under the arch, and were ingulfed. At these times, Paul's conscience smote him, and he felt almost degraded. But what was most singular was, that his last adventure had given him a dread of the water—he who had hitherto been so courageous; but he constantly thought, "It would be a terrible thing, if, now that I have done so much for my children, I were to be taken away from them;" and thus he avoided every danger with extreme care. He scarcely seemed to be the same man, so timid and cautious had he become. His neighbours said among themselves, "How extraordinary! Paul has become a coward!" and they imagined that it was from fear that he had not plunged into the water. In other respects, he was more industrious than ever, and lost no opportunity of putting his children in a condition to earn their own living, as if he was afraid of dying before the completion of his task. He succeeded in bringing them up remarkably well. His eldest son became a clever workman, and was about to marry and establish himself in another town; his daughter became the wife of a shopkeeper with a good trade; and the schoolmaster of the town, who became attached to the youngest boy, because he was diligent in his studies, requested his father to allow him, when fifteen years of age, to aid him in the duties of his school, and promised, if he conducted himself well, to give it up to him in the course of a few years.

The day on which Paul had established his son with the schoolmaster, and on which he could consequently say that his children no longer stood in need of his assistance, that they would no longer be exposed to misery if he were taken from them, he felt his mind relieved from a heavy burden, and in the joy which he experienced, he seemed to have recovered all the courage which for twelve years had deserted him; for twelve years had now elapsed since the occurrence of the accident which had rendered him so unhappy. He left his work at an earlier hour than usual, and went for a solitary ramble. For the first time these twelve years he directed his steps towards the river, recalling to mind the different persons whom he had saved from it, before the fatal day which had deprived him of his daring. It was an autumn evening; the weather was dull and cold; the river, swollen by the rains, was agitated by a violent wind, and appeared in much the same condition as when he had last beheld it. He approached, and considered it attentively. "The river is much swollen," he said; "nevertheless, if I were to throw myself into it to-day, I am sure I should escape;" and he said this because, having no longer the dread of failing in his duty to his children, he did not think of the danger, but only of the means of overcoming it. On raising his eyes mechanically towards the bridge, to the spot whence he had seen the poor man whom he had been unable to aid, fall, he saw, as it was not yet dark, some one approach the parapet, who appeared to him a very young man. This young man stood gazing at the water for some time, and all the while Paul kept his eye fixed upon him. At last, seeing him climb the parapet, and observing him totter, he cried out, "You will fall," but at the same moment the young man took a spring and dashed into the water. Paul, as if he had a presentiment of what would happen, had already his hand upon his coat; he tore it off, dashed it from him, and was in the river almost as soon as the young man, and, swimming towards the spot where he had seen him fall, he endeavoured to catch him before he reached the whirlpool, where he knew they must both perish. He reached him while he was still struggling under the water: he plunged; but by a movement natural to those who are drowning, even when they drown themselves intentionally, the young man seized hold of him, grasping his legs so tightly, that he prevented his swimming. They must both have perished, had not Paul happily succeeded in disengaging one of his legs, with which he gave the other such a violent kick, that he was forced to relax his hold. Paul then seized him by the hair, and remounted to the surface of the water. The young man was insensible, but Paul dragged him on while swimming with one hand. At that moment the wind was terrible, and with it was mingled a violent rain, which intercepted his sight. The wind and the current of the river hurried them towards the whirlpool. He redoubled his efforts: he felt animated by an extraordinary vigour. At last, he succeeded in escaping the danger, reached the bank, landed, and they were saved.