Chapter XLIII: Epilogue

We began this story supposing a tourist, going from the city of Pont Brillant to the castle of the same name, would pass the humble home of Marie Bastien.

We finish this story with a like supposition.

If this tourist had travelled from Pont Brillant to the castle eighteen months after the death of Frederick and Marie, he would have found nothing changed in the farm.

The same elegant simplicity reigned in this humble abode; the same wild flowers were carefully tended by old Andre; the same century-old grove shaded the verdant lawn through which the limpid brook wound its way.

But the tourist would not have seen without emotion, under the shade of the grove, and not far from the little murmuring cascade, a tombstone of white marble on which he could read the words: "Marie and Frederick Bastien."

Before this tomb, which was sheltered by a rustic porch, already covered with ivy and climbing flowers, was placed the little boat presented to Frederick at the time of the overflow, on which could be read the inscription: "The poor people of the valley to Frederick Bastien."

If the tourist had chanced to pass this grove at sunrise or at sunset, he would have seen a man tall of stature and clad in mourning, with hair as white as snow, although his face was young, approaching this tomb in religious meditation.

This man was David.

He had not failed in the mission entrusted to him by Marie.

Nothing was changed without or within the house. The chamber of the young mother, that of Frederick, and the library, filled with the uncompleted tasks left by the son of Madame Bastien, all remained as on the day of the death of the mother and child.

The chamber of Jacques Bastien was walled up.

David continued to inhabit the garret chamber which he occupied as preceptor. Marguerite was his only servant.

Doctor Dufour came every day to see David, near whom he wished to establish himself, when he could trust his patronage to a young physician newly arrived in Pont Brillant.

As a memorial to his young brother and to Frederick, David--that his grief might not be barren of result--transformed one of the barns on the farm into a schoolroom, and there, every day, he instructed the children of the neighbouring farmers. In order to assure the benefit of his instruction, the preceptor gave a small indemnity to the parents of the pupils, inasmuch as the children forced by the poverty of their families to go out to work could not avail themselves of public education.

We will suppose that our tourist, after having paused before the modest tomb of Marie and Frederick, would meet some inhabitant of the valley.

"My good man," the tourist might have said to him, "pray, whose is that tomb down there under those old oaks?"

"It is the tomb of the good saint of our country, monsieur."

"What is his name?"

"Frederick Bastien, monsieur, and his good angel of a mother is buried with him."

"You are weeping, my good man."

"Yes, monsieur, as all weep who knew that angel mother and her son."

"They were, then, much loved by the people of the country?"

"Wait, monsieur; do you see that tall fine castle down there?"

"The Castle of Pont Brillant?"

"The young marquis and his grandmother are richer than the king. Good year or bad year, they give a great deal of money to the poor, and yet, if the name of the young marquis is mentioned among the good people of the valley once, the names of Frederick Bastien and his mother are mentioned a hundred times."

"And why is that?"

"Because, instead of money, which they did not have, the mother gave the poor her kind heart, and the half of her bread, and the son, when it was necessary, his life to save the life of others, as I and mine can testify, without counting other families whom he rescued at the risk of his own life at the great overflow two years ago. So, you see, monsieur, the name of the good saint of the country will endure longer in the valley than the grand Castle of Pont Brillant. Castles crumble to the ground, while our children's children will learn from their fathers the name of Frederick Bastien."

INDOLENCE.