Chapter XXIII: Victor’s Death.—plots Against Louis (1)

For ten long months, Victor had suffered from a terrible malady that never lets go. Every remedy had been tried in vain. His disease was phthisis of a peculiar kind and of the most alarming character. The two physicians we consulted could only reply when their patient insisted on knowing the truth: “Your illness is of an extremely serious nature; but you are young, and at your age nature often finds unexpected resources in a time of danger.”

It was impossible to cure him. They could only prolong his life, and this was the aim of the physicians. By dint of care, they succeeded in keeping him alive till the beginning of September. Then the disease, whose ravages we had not realized, suddenly came to a crisis. Throughout the whole course of his sufferings, I had, in spite of everything, cherished a secret hope in the depths of my heart. When one of those favorable turns came peculiar to such complaints, I flattered myself that he would get well, and abandoned myself to a foolish joy. This joy, so natural, and yet so unreasonable, gave Victor pain. He endeavored to moderate it in a thousand ingenious and delicate ways. He himself was never under any illusion. His illness was fatal: he knew it, and calmly prepared himself for what he called the great journey. He was greatly afflicted to see I was not, like himself, preparing for our separation, the thought of which became more painful in proportion to the horror with which I regarded it. He tried to banish all my false hopes, but his efforts were in vain. I clung to them without owning it. I only gave them up at the time I have arrived at in my sad story. Then I began to realize the frightful truth, and, as I saw his alarming symptoms increase, I thought I should die.

Victor at length succeeded in restoring somewhat of calmness to my soul. With a strength of mind that increased in proportion to the nearness of that awful moment, he made his final preparations. He gave himself up to the contemplation of eternal things. His friend, the good Abbé Merlin, administered the last consolations of religion. Louis received them with a faith that edified every one, and a joy that showed how he had profited by his illness to prepare for heaven. He was already there in spirit, and longed to be there in reality. This touched me, and I confess, to my great shame, I reproached him in my excessive grief with some expressions of bitterness. This was the last sorrow I caused my poor husband. Such reproaches could only come from a selfish soul. I now blush at the remembrance.

All these necessary steps having been taken, Victor told me I must send for Louis. As you know, he received my note in the evening. That very night he arrived. It was high time. We all three passed the night together talking, praying, and weeping by turns. Victor consoled us. He even forced himself to express anxiety as to Louis’ affairs. The latter spoke of them very unwillingly, for his grief overpowered his sense of love. When Victor learned the trials he was undergoing, he said:

“My friend, I fear they are contriving some new plot against you. Eugénie loves you; there is no doubt of that in my mind; but does she love you well enough to withstand all the difficulties that are rising up around you? I know not. If, with her knowledge of you, she allows herself to be influenced by people of evil intentions, it seems to me you will have a right to judge her severely.”

“Even then I could not,” said Louis.

“Your answer does not surprise me. It proves I was right in my impressions. You love her as much as a good man ought to love. You even love her too well; for I believe your affection would render you insensible to the truth rather than blame the object of your love.”

“That is true.”

“I cannot approve of that. It is not right. There is only one thing, there is only one Being, a noble and well-balanced soul, a soul thoroughly imbued with piety, allows itself to love above all things—that thing is truth, that Being is God. Believe me, if Eugénie allows herself to be alienated from you, it will be a proof she has not the worth you give her credit for, and also that it is not the will of God she should become your wife. Well, I will not oppose the indulgence you feel towards her. I consent to it. Say to yourself she has been deceived, that she is innocent, but submit to the divine will. Do not attempt impossibilities to link together the chain God himself breaks, however dear she may be to you.”

Victor seemed to have recalled all the energy of his manly nature to utter these words. His firmness and judicious counsel were not lost on Louis.

“I will follow your advice,” said he; “but promise to pray this sorrow may be spared me. God has endowed the one I love with a soul so elevated that it would be easy to make her as pious as an angel.... And I love her so much!”

“My poor friend! I do not know that I shall be permitted to pray at once for you in yonder world. If I can, I will pray God you may be united with her, if this union will render you happy—happy, understand me, in the Christian sense of the word; that is to say, happy and better, both of you.”

In the middle of the night, Victor requested me to go into the next chamber for some papers he wanted. He availed himself of this opportunity to recommend me to Louis’ care, as I afterwards learned.

“Agnes,” said he, “has exhausted her strength in taking care of me so many months. Her physical and mental strength are now merely factitious. It is the very excess of her grief that sustains her. As soon as I am gone, she will be sensible of her weakness. I fear the reaction may prove fatal to her. I implore you to take her and her mother to some place near you in the country. Find them a temporary residence that is healthy and pleasant. Change of scene and pure country air will do her more good than anything else, especially if you add the benefit of your efforts to console her, on which I depend.”

Louis made the required promise.... But these recollections are still too painful. Alas! they will always be so. You will excuse me from dwelling on them.

The next day, I lost the companion of my life. That pure soul, so full of intelligence, sweetness, and energy, took flight for heaven, leaving me for ever sad and desolate upon earth.... Oh! how happy are those women who to the very hour of death are permitted by God to retain the companionship of a husband tenderly loved, and worthy of being so!...

The first moments of overpowering grief had scarcely passed before that which Victor had foreseen took place. All at once I lost my apparent strength. I was weighed down with a dull despair. My poor mother trembled for my life. Throughout the day I sat motionless in an arm-chair, interested in no person or subject. My lips alone made an effort from time to time to murmur the words at once so bitter and so sweet: “O Lord! thou gavest him to me; thou hast taken him away; thy will be done!” That was my only prayer. I repeated it from morning till night. Thus lifting my soul heavenward, I found strength to resist the temptation to rebel which constantly assailed me.

During that sad time, Louis’ sister joined him in unceasing attentions to me. Louis gave himself entirely up to my service, and notified Mr. Smithson he should be absent several days longer from the manufactory. You can realize how generous this was in him. To absent himself at a time his dearest interests were at stake, and leave the field clear for his enemies, was making an heroic sacrifice to friendship. It was not till a subsequent period I fully appreciated it. At that time, I was wholly absorbed in myself. Extreme grief becomes a kind of passion, and, like all passions, it renders us selfish.

When Louis at last saw me a little calmer, he told me of Victor’s wish. “His last request was,” said he, “that you should go into the country awhile with your mother. The air is purer there, and you will regain your strength.”

I exclaimed against the proposition. I declared I would not leave the house in which Victor died—where everything recalled his presence. Louis insisted, urged on by the physicians, who declared the change indispensable.

“Victor himself implores you through me to consent,” said he. “Remember you will be still obeying him in so doing.”

I ended by yielding to their persuasions. “But where shall I go?” said I.

“To St. M——, where you will be near me. My sister went there yesterday, and found you pleasant lodgings. You can easily go that far with your mother and sister.”

We went there the next day. It was Louis who made all the arrangements, and with how much solicitude and affection I need not say. At length he left us to resume his duties at the mill. The last favor I begged of him was to come and see me often, but not to mention to any one the place of my retirement. Like all who are in real affliction, solitude alone pleased me. The first time for a week, Louis’ thoughts, after leaving me, recurred to the subjects that had absorbed his mind previous to Victor’s death. He began to be alarmed. He wondered if Eugénie had not forgotten him, if she really loved him, if Mr. Smithson was disposed to regard him with more or with less favor, and if Albert had not profited by his absence to injure him in the estimation of Eugénie’s family. But he could only form conjectures as to all this.

Now that these events have passed away, I can seize all the details at a glance. I shall therefore tell you many things Louis was necessarily ignorant of when he returned to the manufactory. He would have trembled had he been aware of them. He had scarcely left his post in order to be with Victor during his last moments, when his enemies, thinking the time propitious, resolved to profit by his absence to effect his ruin. They all set to work at once.

The deceitful Adams, who had sought to be enlightened as to his religious doubts, went around telling everybody the engineer had convinced him of the falseness of his religion, which he resolved to abjure, and only waited for Louis’ return. People began by laughing at what he said. They had no great opinion of the fellow. They suspected his connection with Durand, who was regarded with fear. Some even thought it was all a trick. But Adams returned to the charge; he spoke with an air of conviction, he seemed changed. To carry out the scheme, he apparently broke off with his former friend, Durand.

All these things were repeated from one to another till they reached Mr. Smithson’s ears. He had been obliged to superintend the workmen during Louis’ absence from the manufactory. Already inclined to be suspicious of the engineer, and ignorant of the ties that bound him to Victor, Mr. Smithson interiorly accused him of first manifesting an ultra, I may say, fanatical zeal, and then falling into an indifference and carelessness unworthy of a consistent man. “Because one of his friends is ill,” he said, “is that a sufficient reason for abandoning his post, leaving me overwhelmed with work, and interrupting the school he had begun?... And all this without making any arrangement beforehand!... The man is inconsistent!”

Mr. Smithson was therefore unfavorably disposed towards Louis, when, to complete his dissatisfaction, came the news, at first doubtful, then certain, of Adams’ intended abjuration. He became so angry that he could not contain himself, though generally so capable of self-control. The interests of his national religion were at stake. He at once became furious, and made no effort to conceal it.

Mme. Smithson and Albert of course took Mr. Smithson’s part against Louis. He was berated as a man of no discretion, deceitful, fanatical, and a Jesuit in disguise. Mme. Smithson was one of those people who boldly say: “I don’t think much of a person who changes his religion!” As if it were not merely reasonable for a man to give up error for truth when the truth is revealed to him. Albert was influenced by motives you are already aware of. He was triumphant. He had never expected such success from so simple a trick. Circumstances had indeed favored him but too well. Seeing Mr. Smithson in such a frame of mind, he had no doubts of his dismissing Louis as soon as he returned.

But his joy was strangely diminished by an unexpected incident. They were discussing the affair one evening in the _salon_. “Excuse me, father,” said Eugénie, “for meddling with what does not concern me, but you know I always was the advocate of a bad cause.”

Every one looked up at this unexpected interruption. Eugénie was not a woman to be intimidated when she foresaw opposition: rather, the contrary. She continued, without being troubled in the least: “I find a great many are disposed to attack M. Louis, but no one thinks of defending him. It were to be wished some one would be his defender, though I do not say his conduct is irreproachable.”

“Very far from that,” said Mr. Smithson.

“But if he is not innocent, is he as culpable as he may have appeared? What is he accused of? He has been absent several days from the mill. This adds greatly to your labors, my dear father, but his absence is justifiable to a certain degree. Do you know M. Louis’ history?”

“As well as you, I suppose, child.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Has he related it to you?”

“No; Fanny took pains to do that. Fanny is at once curious and a gossip.”

“My cousin is very severe towards so devoted a servant. Is she indulgent only to the culpable?”

This ill-timed interruption gave Eugénie a glimpse of light. “There is an understanding between them,” she said to herself, “and that explains many things.” She continued, addressing her father: “M. Louis made an attempt at his own life. He was drowning, when a brave man and an invalid—M. Barnier—at the risk of his own life, threw himself into the river, and saved him. This was the origin of their friendship, which does honor to M. Louis and to the person so devoted to him. This M. Barnier is dying to-day.”

“Who told you so, my child?” asked Mr. Smithson.

“The newspapers from town allude to it. M. Barnier is a well-known man, and esteemed by his very enemies themselves. It is to be with him M. Louis is gone. Does not such a motive justify his absence?”

Mr. Smithson had attentively listened to what his daughter said. If we except what related to religious subjects, he was an impartial and even kindly disposed man. “With such a reason for his absence,” he replied, “I shall cease to regard it as inexcusable. Nevertheless, he ought to have made me aware of what had taken place. He simply said he was going to stay with a sick friend: that was not a sufficient explanation. What I dislike in the man is his dissimulation.”

“I acknowledge there may be some reason for distrust,” resumed Eugénie, “but he has given no proofs of duplicity since he came here that I am aware of. He certainly has done nothing without consulting you, father.”

“He did, to be sure, propose several things he wished to do; but did he reveal his real aim, his ultimate object?”

“Had he any?”

“Had he any?... The Adams affair proves it. The evening-school and the library were only founded to propagate Catholicism.”

“With what object?”

“The aim of these enthusiasts is always the same. They wish to impart their belief to others, that they may afterwards exercise authority over their disciples. Louis and the _curé_ are linked together. Their project is to make my manufactory like a convent, where they can reign in spite of me. But I will settle that matter.”

“And you will do right, uncle,” said Albert. “There is no tyranny more artful and more encroaching than that of the priesthood.”

“I did not know my cousin detested the clergy to such a degree,” said Eugénie, with an air of mockery and disdain which convinced Albert he had made a fresh blunder. “I thought, on the contrary, you had a sincere respect for priests. It seems I was deceived....”

“Enough on this point,” said Mr. Smithson. “I will see Adams, and learn from him what has occurred. And I will speak to the engineer accordingly when he returns.”

This conversation took place in the evening. Mme. Smithson was present. She did not speak, but was extremely irritated. Eugénie little thought she had caused her mother as great an affliction as she had ever experienced in her life. For ten, perhaps fifteen, years, Mme. Smithson had clung to the idea of a match between her daughter and nephew. She had taken comfort in the thought of uniting the two beings she loved best on earth. Besides, it was a good way, and the only one in her power, of securing to Albert a fortune he had need of; for the career he had embraced, and the tastes he had imbibed, made it necessary he should be wealthy, which was by no means the case. This plan till lately had been confined to Mme. Smithson’s own breast; but, since Albert’s arrival, she had ventured to allude to it in her conversations with him. The latter responded with enthusiastic gratitude, expressing an ardent desire to have the proposed union realized. Alas! from the beginning there had been one difficulty which fretted Mme. Smithson. Would her husband approve of her scheme? As Albert approached manhood, this consent became more and more doubtful. Mr. Smithson treated his nephew kindly, but had no great opinion of him, and did not like him. How overcome this obstacle? There was only one way: Eugénie herself must desire the marriage. Mr. Smithson never opposed his daughter, and would then overlook his antipathy to the object of her choice. Things were having a very different tendency. Mme. Smithson had long tried to hide the fact from herself, but she must at last acknowledge it: Eugénie manifested no partiality for her cousin. This evening’s occurrence banished all illusion. She not only saw Eugénie had not the least thought of marrying Albert, but she suspected her of loving another, ... a man Mme. Smithson could no longer endure. He had in her eyes three faults, any one of which would have set her against him: he was her dear nephew’s rival, he had no property, and he was grave and pious to a degree that could not fail to be repulsive to a trivial woman and a half-way Christian like her. To complete her despair, Albert came secretly to see her that very same evening.

“Aunt,” said he, “our affairs are getting on badly!... Confess that I had more penetration than you were willing to allow.”

“What! what! what do you mean? Do you think Eugénie loves that spendthrift, that bigot?... Nonsense! she only wishes to tease you.”

“I am of a different opinion. I have long been aware of her fancy for him. What she said in his favor this evening was very judicious and moderate, but there was in the tone of her voice, ... in her look, a something I could not mistake. For the first time, she betrayed her feelings. I tell you she loves him!”

“Why, that would be dreadful!”

“I foresaw it.”

“Foresaw!—such a thing?”

“Eugénie is romantic, and the rogue puts on the air of a hero of romance.”

“Set your heart at rest, Albert. I promise to watch over your interests. I assure you, in case of need, I will bring your uncle himself to your aid.”

“I will talk to Eugénie to-morrow morning,” she said to herself. “I shall never believe in such presumption till she confesses it herself.”

The next morning, Mme. Smithson went, full of anxiety, to her daughter’s chamber. Eugénie was that very moment thinking of Louis. The more she examined her own heart, the more clearly she saw herself forced to acknowledge her esteem for him. She had inwardly condemned him many times, but had as often found her suspicions were groundless. Without showing the least partiality for Louis, she could not help seeing he was intelligent, energetic, and sincerely pious. She even acknowledged that, of all the men she had ever met, not one was to be compared to him; he was superior to them all in every respect. From this, it was not a long step to confess him worthy of her affection. But he—did he love her?... Not a word, not a sign, had escaped him to indicate such a thing, and yet there was in his bearing towards her, in the tone of his voice, and in the value he attached to her good opinion, a something that assured her she had made a profound impression on him. But, then, why this coldness so rigorously maintained?... He was poor—and through his own fault—while she was rich. His coldness perhaps resulted from extreme delicacy.

Eugénie cut short her reflections by repeating: “Does he love me?... It may be. Do I love him?... I dare not say no. But we are in a peculiar position. If I find him, at the end of the account, worthy of being my husband, doubtless I should have to make the advances! But I like originality in everything. My father alone excites my fears. M. Louis would not be his choice. Why does he show himself so zealous a Catholic at present? Why not wait till he is married—if married we ever are? Then he could be as devoted to the church as he pleases.”

Mme. Smithson was hardly to be recognized when she entered her daughter’s room. She was generally affable and smiling, but now her face was lowering and agitated. She was evidently very nervous, as was usually the case when she had some disagreeable communication to make to her daughter. Eugénie at once divined what was passing in her mother’s heart. She was careful, however, not to aid her in unburdening herself.

After speaking of several things of no importance, Mme. Smithson assumed an unconcerned air—a sign of her extreme embarrassment—and broached the subject with a boldness peculiar to timid people when they see there is no way of receding.

“I must confess that was a strange notion of yours last evening.”

“What notion do you refer to, mother?” said Eugénie, in a tone at once dignified and ingenuous. She felt the storm was coming. As usual on such occasions, she laid aside the familiar _thou_ for the respectful _you_. There was a spice of mischief in her tactics which I do not intend to applaud. She thus redoubled her mother’s embarrassment, and by the politeness of her manner increased her hesitation.

“What notion do I refer to?... You need not ask that. You know well enough what I allude to.... Yes; why should you, without any obligation, set yourself up to defend a man who is no relation of ours or even one of our friends, but a mere employé of your father’s; one who suits him certainly, but who is likely to cause trouble in the house; ... who is, in short, a dangerous man?...”

“You astonish me to the last degree, mother! I never, no, never should have suspected M. Louis of dangerous designs, or that he even had the power to disturb us.”

“Raillery, my dear, is in this case quite out of place. What secret motive have you for undertaking his defence?”

“I? I have none. What motive could I have?”

“Then, why take sides against us?”

“Why, I have not taken sides against you!”

“How can you deny it?”

“I do deny it, mother, with your permission. My father imputed intentions to M. Louis which perhaps he never had. I merely observed it would be more just to wait for proofs before condemning him. That is all, and a very small affair.”

“Wait for proofs before condemning him, do you say?... Well, he has them. Adams has confessed everything.... He acknowledges that M. Louis endeavored to convert him, lent him books, taught him the catechism, and, what was worse, dwelt a great deal on hell as a place he could not fail to go to if he, Adams, remained a Protestant. The poor fellow has not recovered from his terror yet!... Your father has talked to him very kindly, given him good advice, mingled with kind reproaches. Adams was affected, and ended by saying he never wished to see M. Louis again; and he did a lucky thing!”

“It seems to me that Adams is either a simpleton or a hypocrite.”

“Eugénie, that is altogether too much!”

“I do not see anything very astonishing in what I have said. Please listen to me a moment, mother. To hesitate between two creeds, without being able to decide on either, seems to me a proof of weakness. But if, on the contrary, Adams invented this story of his conversion in order to yield at a favorable moment and gain the good-will of my father more than ever, would not this show a duplicity and artfulness that could only belong to a hypocrite?...”

“Adams could not have invented such a thing. It would have rendered him liable to dismissal.”

“I beg your pardon, mother. Adams did not risk anything. The course he has taken proves it. And that is precisely what makes me distrust him.”

“How can you impute such motives to anybody!... Adams has renounced his intention, because he was convinced by your father’s arguments. He has behaved like an honest man!”

“Excuse me, mother; we are in more danger than ever of not understanding each other. Why! you seem to rejoice that Adams has returned to his errors! You appear to think his course very natural, and to approve of it!”

“Yes, I do approve of it; people ought not to change their religion.”

“You might as well say a person ought not to acknowledge his error when he is mistaken. I am by no means of your opinion, though I am not very religious.”

“_A propos_ of religion, my dear, you seem to have taken a strange turn. You have grown so rigorous as to astonish me; there is not an ultra notion you do not approve of. You have completely changed since.... But I will not make you angry.”

“Since M. Louis came here?... A pretty idea. But I am not surprised.”

“You said it yourself, but it is true. Since that man came here, you have changed every way. I know not why or wherefore, but it is a fact. Your cousin himself has observed it, and it grieves him. You are no longer towards him as you once were. You keep him at a distance. You are not lively as you used to be. You only talk of things serious enough to put one asleep.”

“It is nearly ten years since I was brought in such close contact with my cousin as now. I was very young then. I have grown older and more sensible. Why has not he done the same?”

“Your sarcasm is malicious and unmerited. Albert is a charming fellow.”

“Oh! I agree with you! But this very fact injures him in my estimation. A charming fellow is one who requires an hour to dress; is skilled in paying a multitude of compliments he does not mean; has a petty mind that only takes interest in trifles; in short, a useless being it is impossible to rely on. When Albert came, he seemed to be conscious of the absurdity of being a charming fellow. He tried to put on a semblance of gravity, but it did not last long. Once more the proverb held good: _Chasser le naturel, il revient au galop_.”[197]

“Wonderful, my dear. You have every qualification for a _dévote_: especially one characteristic—maliciousness. Poor Albert! how you have set him off! Happily, there is not a word of truth in all you have said. He a man on whom you cannot rely! He has a heart of gold.”

“I do not dispute the goodness of his heart. I have never put it to the proof.”

“What a wicked insinuation! How dreadful it is to always believe the worst of everybody.”

“Well, let it be so: he has a kind heart!... But is there any depth to him?”

“As much as is necessary. This would be a sad world if we were always obliged to live with moody people like some one I know of. I really believe he is your beau ideal.”

“I do not say that; but, if he is really what he appears to be, he merits my good opinion. I wish all I live with resembled him.”

“Well done! A little more, and you will tell me he is the realization of all your dreams.”

“I do not know him well enough to accord him all your words seem to imply.”

“At all events, you know him well enough to take an interest in him, and much more than would suit your father.... Your cousin even was scandalized at your daring to defend him against your father, who had good reason to blame him.”

“My cousin would do well to attend to his own affairs, and not meddle with mine. If he came here to watch me, sneer at me, and give me advice, he had better have remained in Paris.”

“He came here hoping to find the friend of his childhood glad to see him, and ready to show him the affection he merits. Everybody does not judge him as severely as you do. I know many girls who....”

“Who would be glad to marry him! Well, they may have him!”

“That is too much! The son of my sister whom I love with all my heart! A child whom I brought up and love almost as much as I do you!”

“But, mother, I am not displeased because you love him. I do not dislike him. I wish him well, and would do him all the good in my power. But when I make choice of a husband, I shall choose one with qualities Albert will never possess.”

“I have suspected it for a long time. Yes; I thought long ago, seeing the turn your mind was taking, that, when you married, it would be foolishly.”

“What do you mean by foolishly?”

“Marrying a man without property, or one with eccentric notions, or some prosy creature of more or less sincerity. I am very much afraid you are infatuated about an individual who has all these defects combined. Fortunately.... You understand me....”

“What, mother?”

“Yes; we shall watch over your interests, your father and I, and if you are disposed to make a foolish match, like one that occurs to me, we shall know how to prevent it. We shall not hesitate if obliged to render you happy in spite of yourself.”

“Render me happy?... At all events, it would not be by forcing me to marry Albert.”

“Anyhow, you shall marry no one else.... It is I who say so, and your father will show you he is of my opinion.”

Upon this, Mme. Smithson went out, violently shutting the door after her. Like all people of weak character, she must either yield or fall into a rage. It was beyond her ability to discuss or oppose anything calmly.

It was all over! All her plans were overthrown! She must bid farewell to her dearest hopes! She must no longer think of retaining Albert and sending for his mother—for Mme. Smithson’s desires went as far as that! Her dream was to unite the two families by marrying Eugénie and Albert. Instead of that, what a perspective opened before her!—a marriage between her daughter and Louis, which roused all her antipathies at once! She was beside herself at the bare thought of seeing herself connected with a son-in-law she could not endure, and who was no less repulsive to Mr. Smithson.... Her maternal heart was kind when no one contradicted her, but there was in its depths, as often happens in weak natures, a dash of spitefulness. Having returned to her chamber, Mme. Smithson began to reflect. She seldom gave herself up to reflection, and then only when she was troubled, as is the case with some people. As might be supposed, she was too excited to reflect advantageously.

“Oh! oh!” she said to herself, “Eugénie dares resist me the only time I ever asked her to obey! She despises Albert. She speaks scornfully of him! And that is not sufficient: she carries her audacity so far as to sing the praises of a man I detest!... See what it is to be indulgent to one’s children! The day comes when, for a mere caprice, they tread under foot what was dearest to you.... Well, since she will do nothing for me, I will do nothing for her.... She rejects Albert. I will have the other one driven away.... Since that meddler came, everything has gone wrong here.... What a nuisance that man is! If he had not come here, everything would have gone on as I wished.... I will go in search of my husband. It will be easy to have the engineer sent off, after committing so many blunders. When he is gone, we shall have to endure my daughter’s ill-humor, but everything comes to an end in this world. The time will come when, realizing her folly, Eugénie will listen to reason.”

The interview between Mr. Smithson and his wife took place a little while after. What was said I never knew. Mme. Smithson alluded to it once or twice at a later day, but merely acknowledged she did very wrong. The remembrance was evidently painful, and she said no more.

Eugénie at once foresaw this private interview between her parents. The conversation she had just had with her mother only served to enlighten her more fully as to the state of her feelings. Forced to express her opinion of Albert and Louis, she had spoken from her heart. She was herself in a measure astonished at seeing so clearly she did not love Albert—that there was a possibility of loving Louis—that perhaps she already loved him.... And she also comprehended more clearly all the difficulties such an attachment would meet with. Her mother’s opposition had hitherto been doubtful. It was now certain, and the consequence was to be feared.

“My mother is so much offended,” she said to herself, “that she will try to unburden her mind to my father at once, and perhaps influence him against me. Before the day is over, she will tell him all I said, and the thousand inferences she has drawn from it. This interview fills me with alarm! I wish I knew what they will decide upon, if they come to any decision....”

Eugénie tried in vain to get some light on the point, but was not able to obtain much. The interview took place. Mr. Smithson seemed vexed and thoughtful after his wife left the office. Mme. Smithson went directly to give the porter orders to send the engineer to her husband as soon as he arrived. Louis had sent word the evening before he should return the following day.

TO BE CONTINUED.

SONNET.

THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?
Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—
Emania’s palace, festive as a bride
For centuries six, had found its wormy bed
When Patrick lifted here his royal head,
And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighed
Even then, to note the fall of mortal pride—
Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!
Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;
Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;
Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,
Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,
Making her rounds; while from the daisied sod
The undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.

APPEAL TO WORKINGMEN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LEON GAUTIER IN THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

DISCOURSE PRONOUNCED JANUARY 13, 1873, TO INAUGURATE THE LECTURES INTENDED FOR THE WORKING-CLASSES.[198]

TO-DAY we inaugurate the lectures specially consecrated to workingmen. We are full of joyous hopes, and believe that this work of light will be at the same time a work of reconciliation, of love, and of peace. The cross, which we have placed conspicuously in all our places of reunion—the cross, that we elevate and display everywhere as a magnificent standard—the cross, that we will never consent to hide, indicates clearly what is our faith and what is our aim. We wish to enlighten your understandings, dilate your hearts, direct your wills in the way of the good, the beautiful, and the true. In a word, we wish to conquer you for Christ, and we say it here with a frankness which profoundly abhors all cunning of speech. You will give us credit for sincerity, which you have always loved; for, as has been said by a great contemporary orator,[199] “The people are not deceived; they feel when they are approached with faith in them and in their eminent dignity.”

We come, then, to you with this cross of Constantine, which has converted the world. This glorious sign we have surrounded with rays, to show you that light proceeds from Christianity, as the stream flows from its source, and the beams radiate from a star. If possible, we would have adopted as a flag the beautiful cross in the catacomb of S. Pontian, from which spring roses—symbols of joy. We would have chosen it, to show you that in Christ is found not only the repose of the enlightened understanding, but also the repose, the joy, and the alleluia of the satisfied heart. It is by this sign we will conquer.

In this first lecture, which will serve as an humble preface to the discourses of so many eminent orators, we intend only to take up the working question, to tell you our entire thought on the subject, to open to you our whole heart. Do not hope to hear an academic speech; do not expect those vain compliments to which you have been accustomed from flatterers who did not love you. We say at first and without circumlocution that between Christian society and the working world there exists to-day a certain misunderstanding, and it is this misunderstanding we would wish to dissipate, and we beg of the divine Workman of Nazareth to direct our words, blessed by him, to the understanding and heart of the workmen of Paris.

In the first part of this discourse, which will be brief, we will say what we are; in the second, what we wish; and in the third, we will reply to certain objections to the church which are current among workingmen, and cause the deplorable misunderstanding from which we wish to deliver your minds and hearts, equally oppressed. It is time that the truth should free you.

I.

In order that you may better understand what we are, we wish to commence by showing you what we are not.

We are not politicians; this we desire to declare openly. Never, never will there be pronounced in this precinct one word that may even remotely touch upon our old or recent discords. We will never deserve to be called partisans. Whatever may be our intimate convictions (and we have the right to have them), we only wish to be and we will only be Christians. We suppose there may be in the bosom of all the avowed parties sincere Catholics who are by no means _independents_. When we tread upon the threshold of her basilicas, the church, which rises before us, does not ask if we are monarchists or republicans, but only if we believe in the eternal Word, who created heaven and earth, who became man in the crib of Bethlehem, and who saved us on a cross. Thus will we do, and the only popular song you will hear in this place will be the Credo; come, come, and sing it with us.

Thank God, we do not belong to the group, too numerous, of pretended conservatives, who only see in the labor question a painful preoccupation which might trouble the calm of their digestion; who do not wish to impose upon themselves any real sacrifice, and are easily astonished that the working-classes complain of their sufferings. We are not like the fashionable and delicate egoists who for several centuries have given the fatal example of indifference, of doubt, and of negation in religion, who have followed Voltaire, who have wickedly laughed in the face of outraged truth, who have torn God from the heart of the workman, and who nevertheless persist in affirming that “religion is good for the people”—men of refinement, who to-day edit journals full of talent, where on the first page is offered ultra-conservative articles, and on the second ultra-obscene romances. No; we are not of this class. Away with those sceptics whose fears make them pretend to have the faith! Away with those who doubt the people, and who do not love them!

We are not of those who are led to you by this vile fear or by a still viler interest; we are not of those who see in you an armed force before which they must tremble, or an electoral majority before whom they must kneel. We will never come to solicit your votes, and we are bent upon serving you with absolute disinterestedness. Briefly, we are for you and will always be your friends and servants, but will never condescend to court you. Besides, the victory which we desire is not that which can be gained by force, consequently we do not count on force. We only wish to win your understandings with our faith, your hearts with our love.

We do not place the golden age in a past too superstitiously loved. Whatever affection I may feel in my heart for those dear middle ages, to which I have consecrated all my studies and all my life, I do not find them sufficiently Christian to be the only ideal. We know that those centuries, so differently judged, were the theatre of a gigantic struggle between paganism, more and more conquered, and the church, more and more victorious; and we draw a fundamental distinction between the chivalry that so heroically defended the truth and the feudality that did it such injury. We do not ignore the fact that paganism, in dying, left to the Christian ages, as a frightful legacy, the traditions of slavery, impurity, and violence; and we confess that Christianity could not in one day decapitate the hundred-headed hydra.

If we regard especially the workmen’s guilds or corporations, we will go so far as to own that their organization, so admirably Christian in some respects, nevertheless left too much room for certain abuses that we hate; and, as a decisive example, we assert that the material condition of the members was not then what a Christian heart would wish to-day. We have the religion, not the superstition, of the middle ages; of that epoch so unworthily calumniated we preserve all the elements truly Christian, and reject the others. We recognize in that rude and laborious age the dawn, the beautiful dawn, of Catholic civilization so scandalously interrupted by the Renaissance. In those centuries, so slighted and misunderstood, we salute above all the cycle of the saints.

We ardently love the sublime period when S. Benedict gave to a hundred thousand men and to twenty generations the order and signal to clear the minds and the fields, equally sterile; when S. Francis conversed with the birds of the air, reconciled all nature with humanity Christianized, and gave to his contemporaries the love of “our lady, poverty!” We love the period made joyful by the death of slavery under the font of the church; when all the institutions of the state and of the family were energetically Catholic; when royalty was represented by a S. Louis, love by a S. Elizabeth, science by a S. Thomas of Aquinas. But our soul has still stronger wings, and would fly still higher. We wish still more, we wish still better, and we will build up the future with two kinds of materials—with the past undoubtedly, but also with our desires, which are vast.

We are not of those who ingenuously think the world at present is organized as one would wish. Doubtless there are in the working-class of our time illegitimate desires, guilty jealousies, unrighteous thirsts; but we also know all that the world of laborers can offer to the eyes of God, of cruel sufferings, of noble sighs, and of honest tears. God preserve us from ever laughing at one of those griefs, even should they be merited! On the contrary, we hope that Christian society will one day come, through peace and prayer, the sacraments and love, to a better disposition, a more profound pacification, a happier distribution of riches, a wider-spread prosperity, and to something more resembling the reign of God. But, alas! we are convinced that the definitive repartition and equality will only be consummated in eternity. Those who do not believe in a future life will never see their desire of infinite justice satisfied—they condemn themselves to this punishment.

We do not despise the work of the hands; far from it, we seek to place the mechanic close to the artist. For centuries, there have been Pyrenees between art and industry; these Pyrenees we wish to remove, and we will succeed. In truth, the workman is an august being; and the title of his nobility will be easily found in the depths of faith and of theology. Listen: the eternal type, the adorable type, of the workman is the Heavenly Father, the _Faber divinus_, who, not content with making obedient matter spring from nothing, like a sublime goldsmith chiselled it into a splendid jewel. Beauty, Goodness, personal and living Truth—such, to the letter, was the first Workman. God joined, framed, hewed, cemented, carved the whole universe, the firmament, the stars. His gracious and magnificent hand, armed with an invisible chisel, is discovered in every part of the creation which has been wonderfully sculptured by this marvellous Workman. Workmen of every condition, here contemplate the work of your Model, of your Master, of your divine Patron. The sombre forests, the transparent foliage, the flowers whose wonders are only revealed by the microscope, the mountains, the ocean, the infinite depths—all, all were made by the great Workman.

Incomparable Artificer! he conceived the plan of all these beings in His eternal Word, and one day, to realize this design, he pronounced these words: “Be they!” and they were. But it was not enough to show himself the workman; God feared, if I may be allowed so to speak, that his calling might be despised; and he desired so truly to be a workman that of a God he made himself a carpenter as well as man. He chose a noble position, perfectly characteristic, and, with his divine hands, sawed, planed, polished, worked the wood that in the first hour of the world he had worked in the design of the creation. Workmen, my brethren, it is not a fable, it is not a symbol: Jesus, the Son of God, was the apprentice, the companion, the workman, the carpenter; and the venerable monuments of tradition show him to us making ploughs, perhaps crosses. What can I not say to you of the Holy Ghost, considered as the Workman of the spiritual world, which he had really cemented, hewed, and framed? What can I not explain of the beautiful realities of symbolism? With regret I leave this workshop of the church, and now content myself with the workshop of the creation, and with that of Nazareth.

But you question me more earnestly, and ask what I think of the contemporary workman. And I reply that, notwithstanding his faults and errors, I feel for him a great love, invincibly aroused by Christ. Yes; I close my eyes, I abstract myself. I forget so many ignoble flames, so much blood, the pure blood so sacrilegiously shed. I wish to separate my thoughts from so many ruins, so many scandals. I come to you, pagan workman, rebellious to God, and, in the midst of your rebellious and Satanic orgies, I approach you, who formerly were baptized, and place my hand upon your heart, that I may not despair. Your mind is darkened, your will misled; but there are yet some pulsations which allow me still to hope, and I willingly repeat the words of that great bishop who has devoted so much time to the social question: “The people love that which is beautiful, they understand what is great; know that they have high aspirations, and that they seek to rise.” And again: “The workman of our day has eliminated the generous ideas from the Gospel, and yet borrows from Christianity his noble and holy sentiments.”

Nothing is truer; if chemistry could analyze souls, what Christian elements would be found in those of workmen! I readily see in each the admirable material of one of those poor men so powerfully sketched by Victor Hugo. He speaks of a miserable fisherman on the sea-shore, who already has five children, perishing from hunger; when one day at market, he sees and adopts two orphans poorer than he, and thus he reasons: “We have five children, these will make seven; we will mingle them together, and they will climb at night on our knees. They will live, and will be brother and sister to the five others. When God sees that we must feed this little boy and this little girl with the others, he will make us catch more fish, that is all!” Workmen of Paris, read these lines; they are worth more than those of the _Année terrible_, and paint you exactly. You are capable of this sublime devotion, and I recall you to the true nobility of your nature.

You know now what we are not, and I think that we have never failed for an instant to be truly sincere. On the contrary, we have designedly multiplied all the difficulties with perfect frankness. It is scarcely necessary to add that we are not of those who disdain the social and labor questions, and who, while hiding themselves in the graceful domain of fancy, repeat with Alfred de Musset:

“If two names by chance mingle in my song,
They will always be Ninette or Ninon.”

This charming indifference is but a form of selfishness. Let us go further, and although in our quality of Catholics (the only nobility, the only title to which we are really attached) we place a higher estimate on the future life than the present, we do not think only of the heavenly destiny of the workman. For more than eighteen hundred years, the church has not ceased for an instant to occupy herself with the temporal condition of all the working-classes. In her firmament, there are fourteen magnificent constellations, which are called the seven corporal works of mercy, and the seven spiritual. She has made them all shine on the brow of the workman, and it is for him, above all, that she preserves the light. This example of our mother, the church, we always wish to imitate. We know, besides, and it is a powerful argument, that misery is a poor counsellor, and, if it is badly accepted, turns souls from duty and eternity.

Therefore, we declare a mortal war against want and misery, and it is thus that, in ameliorating the earth, we hope to prepare heaven.

We wish at this moment our heart were an open book, written in large characters, and readable for all. Our brothers, the workmen, would see that we do not blindly accuse them of all the crimes and mistakes of modern society, and that we very well know how to comment severely on the other classes. They would there read the programme of our work, as recently sketched by a great bishop of the holy church: “We should believe in the people, hope in them, love them.” For you must not imagine that alms will here suffice, and that the people will accept them; they exact all our heart, our esteem, our respect. He who does not respect the workman can do nothing. Thus, this doctrine of respect for the workman, the truly Christian doctrine, is the base upon which the Catholic Circle of Workingmen has erected its edifice: may God prosper and bless it!

Ask us now with frankness what we are, what is our faith, and listen well to our reply, which will not be less sincere.