The weight of the name

by Paul Bourget

To this remorse for having consulted, under such circumstances, not his conscience, but only his affection and compassion for that man, was added the fear that the same influence would find him weak once more in the second assault that he would have to repel. He did not suspect that, with his inheritance as a love-child, he would display far greater energy in defending his passion. In him the source of strength was not in the reasoning power, it was in the heart. He was not to learn that until he was put to the test. What he did know was that, with the most imperative motives for making an irreparable breach between M. de Claviers and himself, the opportunity had been offered him and he had not grasped it. He could not do it. Those motives were still as strong as ever. The affection by which he had allowed himself to be mastered when he was on the point of doing what would set him free, was a wounded and poisoned affection. It had made him incapable of inflicting great suffering on that man. It would make him incapable of living with him, as he would be called upon to do, every day, now that he was free. How could he fail to say to himself again and again that, even outside the binding engagement that he had entered into with Madame Olier, to throw away this second opportunity to break with the marquis was to condemn himself in the future to an endless succession of painful scenes in one of which his secret would be discovered. M. de Claviers could not fail to see that he had changed. He would be anxious about it. He would investigate.

All this Landri told himself. His conclusion was that at any cost, and at the earliest possible moment, the marquis must be informed of his betrothal. And then he doubted his courage to make that declaration, reminding himself how he had weakened, how he had suddenly lost heart on the platform of the church at Hugueville, to which he had gone up with such firm determination! Thereupon he wondered if it would not be the safer way to take advantage of his arrest to write. Colonel Charbonnier certainly would not depart from his customary severity so far as to authorize him to receive a single visit, even from his father. Consequently, if M. de Claviers were informed by letter of the marriage engagement between Landri and Valentine, he would be unable to express his dissatisfaction otherwise than by letter.

The lieutenant was too manly, despite the reflex action of a sensitiveness that was very near being morbid, and he had too much respect for his affection for Valentine, not to shrink from so cowardly a proceeding. The explanation must be, should be, by word of mouth, from man to man. It should take place the first time that he was alone with the marquis; and to cut short a state of vacillation that humiliated him, he said to himself aloud:—

"Yes, the very first time. I pledge my word of honor."

It was on Friday evening that he made this pledge, which was so definite that it procured him another interval of comparative tranquillity. Saturday passed with his mind still in a state of feverish confusion, but with his resolution unshaken.

Sunday brought three new facts in the shape of three letters, one from the marquis, one from Valentine, one from Métivier the notary. The old nobleman was not a letter-writer. He congratulated Landri, "in the name of all the Claviers-Grandchamps, past, present and future;" and then concluded: "You will exalt your old father's joy and pride to their highest point by talking to the judges as he suggested."

How like blows from a dagger were such words from him! And again, how like such blows were the words in which the gentle recluse of Rue Monsieur poured forth all her sympathy! She spoke to him whom she regarded as her fiancé of the happiness that the Hugueville incident must have afforded his father! Had she not then guessed the whole truth? The young man foresaw a new source of torture in the efforts that the dear woman would make, when they were united, to reconcile him to the marquis, and his own efforts to resist that pressure without betraying himself. Ah! he had not come to the end of his suffering!

The notary's letter was, also, very short, but it contained one line so enigmatical that Landri, under existing circumstances, could not help being disturbed by it. Maître Métivier apologized for answering somewhat tardily on the ground that he had desired first to institute a little investigation. He added that Landri's presence in Paris was not at all necessary, and that, thanks to "the unexpected incident of which he was aware," the deplorable affair was on the road to speedy and final adjustment. What incident? Was Chaffin really dishonest, as his former pupil had intuitively suspected, and as Jaubourg had declared on his death-bed? Had they detected him and discovered a way to put an end to his manœuvres? Had he confessed? Or—Already, it will be remembered, Landri had trembled at the thought that Jaubourg might have made his will in his favor.—But no; he would have been officially advised ere this. In such perplexity, the best way was to request from Métivier, at once, an explanation of that obscure passage in his letter. That was the simplest and wisest solution. But so great is the emotional strain, the anxious anticipation of misfortune, caused by a too violent shock, that Landri had not the courage to adopt it. If it did not refer to a legacy from Jaubourg, the "unexpected incident" was really a matter of indifference to him. If the contrary were true, he should know it soon enough.

In fact the Monday was not to pass before he was fully informed and found himself face to face with another problem of conscience, more painful perhaps than those of the preceding days. Tragedy engenders tragedy, by virtue of a law in which consists the hidden moral of this too truthful narrative of private life. It rarely happens that this is not the consequence of one of those deep-rooted sins whose expiation survives the person who committed it. It is one of the forms of that transmission of sin, whereof it has been said with much truth that nothing is more distasteful to us, and that "notwithstanding, but for this, the most incomprehensible of all mysteries, we should be incomprehensible to ourselves."

During the afternoon of Monday, then, Landri was alone in his salon, apparently occupied in reading, but in reality absorbed in one of those fits of melancholy meditation of which he had undergone so many during the past week, and would, he felt, undergo so many more in the months and years to come! The sound of the bell announcing a visitor roused him from his abstraction.