Collected works of eugen.., p.711
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 711
“Ah, my beloved child, I can embrace you with a thankful heart, for I can see that you are much stronger than when I went away.”
Then, addressing Dame Roberts for the first time, he said, with a friendly shake of the hand:
“I thank you with all my heart for your care and attentions, Suzanne, for I know how much you must have aided in Sabine’s restoration to health.”
And again turning to his daughter, Cloarek held out his arms.
“One more embrace, my child, one more!” he cried.
“Fathers and daughters as well as lovers like to be alone together after a long absence, my dear,” Segoffin whispered to the housekeeper.
“You are right, Segoffin,” replied Suzanne, starting toward the door.
“Ah, Suzanne, what a fine opportunity this would be for a tender interview if we wanted one,” said M. Cloarek’s clerk as he followed Dame Roberts into the adjoining room.
“Unfortunately love is blind, my poor Segoffin, and you are only half blind yet.”
“That will not prevent you from becoming Madame Segoffin,” responded our friend, in tones of the most profound conviction. “That which is to be, will be.”
CHAPTER XI.
SABINE’S CONFESSION.
WHEN YVON FOUND himself alone with his daughter, he embraced her again even more passionately than before, as if Dame Roberts’s presence had been rather a constraint upon the transports of paternal tenderness hitherto; then making Sabine seat herself on an ottoman near him and taking both her hands in his, he asked:
“And now, how have you been feeling during the last three months, months which have seemed well-nigh interminable to me?”
“Remarkably well, father.”
“You look much stronger, I think. Besides—”
“What, my dear father?”
“It may be only a doting father’s fancy, fathers have so many of them, but—”
“Let me hear what it is, father.”
“It seems to me that you are even prettier than when I went away.”
“That must be a doting father’s fancy, especially as it implies that I was pretty before you left.”
“And who ever doubted it, mademoiselle?”
“I, myself, in the first place.”
“Then you never see yourself, or your mirror is a poor one. The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that you look less childish, somehow, and that you have quite a grown-up air.”
“How absurd, father! In what does this change consist?”
“I can hardly explain, for your features have not changed, thank Heaven! but there is an air of sweet and gentle dignity about you that I never noticed before, and an expression of serene happiness on your features.”
“How could it be otherwise when you have returned, father? It is something better than joy, it is happiness I feel on seeing you again, and happiness inclines one to be rather quiet and serious, you know.”
“If you go on talking in this way my eyes will be so full of tears I shall not be able to see you at all, so let us change the subject. You have been well, you say; that is the main thing, of course, but have you not been lonely and dull here, my poor child? The winter months are so gloomy in the country.”
“I have not been lonely a single moment, father. Haven’t I my books, and my piano, and my embroidery, and my walks to occupy me?”
“And Suzanne, I scarcely need ask if she has been kind to you?”
“As you know her so well you must know that she has been kindness itself.”
“And—”
But Yvon stopped short.
He was on the point of asking Sabine if her nervousness was abating, and if the attacks to which she had been subject from childhood were becoming less frequent, but he feared he might sadden his daughter, and decided it would be better to question the housekeeper on the subject.
So, to cover his sudden pause, he said:
“So you really enjoy yourself here in the country, you say? You have but to express a wish, you know, my dearest. The sea air has been recommended for you, it is true, but the coasts of France are extensive and there is abundant room for choice, and if you prefer any other place—”
“No, father, this place suits me perfectly. The surroundings are delightful, and I feel so much at home here that it would be ungrateful in me to leave the place unless you desire it.”
“You know very well that I only desire what you desire.”
“That sounds very fine, father.”
“What do you mean, my child?”
“I mean that your actions do not always correspond with your words.”
“What actions?”
“You say that you only desire what I desire. Yet how often I have begged you to give up the journeys that keep you away from me so much of the time.”
“That is different. It is really for your sake, my darling child. I have my reasons.”
“Yes, I know, my poor, dear father. It is to enrich me that you devote so much time to your business. But what is the use of so much money? But you have told me nothing about yourself! What kind of a trip did you have this time?”
“A remarkably successful one.”
“The roads were better this time, then, and you did not take cold? I am so glad, we had so many snow-storms last month. I used to say to Suzanne again and again while we were sitting by the fire warm and comfortable, ‘I am afraid my poor dear father is shivering with cold and making only a couple of miles an hour on account of the snow.’”
“Don’t worry any more, my dear child. The trip is over now, and it was not only less fatiguing than usual, but unusually profitable.”
“Is that really so? Then why was your return so long delayed, father?”
“A complication of business interests, that is all.”
“If you knew how uneasy I always am during your absence! It is foolish, I know, but I shall be spared all these fears hereafter, for you intend to keep your promise, do you not?”
“What promise?”
“Not to travel, or, rather, not to leave me any more.”
“I promised you on condition that no unforeseen circumstance—”
“No excuses, now. You will remain with me?”
“Always.”
“Will you swear it?”
“By a father’s love.”
“Ah, I know what happiness is now,” cried Sabine, throwing herself on her father’s neck, “and yet, I have no words to tell you how happy I am, so, to reward you—”
“Well,” said Cloarek, smiling, but deeply moved by the touching expression of his daughter’s features, “so, to reward me—”
“I am going to ask a favour of you, as you are always reproaching me for never asking for anything.”
“You could not please me more, my dear child. Well, let me hear what it is. What have you to ask of me?”
“Your protection and aid.”
“For whom?”
“For a person who is worthy of it, and of whom Suzanne, too, intends to speak to you. But you see how jealous I am, I wish to be the first to recommend my protégé.”
“The protégé of both of you, then?”
“Yes, both of us.”
“Then you are tolerably certain of having your request granted. But what does the person desire?”
“Oh, he doesn’t dare to ask or even desire anything. He is so timid. That is the reason Suzanne and I both resolved to ask for him. His position is so interesting and so trying!”
“My poor, tender-hearted child, how deeply in earnest you are, and how you are blushing! I am sure the person you have in mind must be both very deserving and very unfortunate.”
“Yes, father, and when one sees a person every day, and thus learns to know and appreciate him, one’s interest naturally increases.”
“But of whom are you speaking, my child?”
“Of M. Onésime.”
“And who is M. Onésime? Onésime, Onésime, — I have heard the name before, it seems to me.”
“M. Onésime is Suzanne’s nephew.”
“Ah, yes, I recollect now. She has often spoken of him. He is the son of the sister she lost a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, my dear father, he is an orphan. He had a government clerkship at Lille, but he was obliged to give that up, and as he could not secure any other situation there, Suzanne sent for him to come here and stay until he could find something to do.”
“What, he is here?”
“Yes, father.”
“He is living here in this house?”
“He has been living here for the last two months.”
“Why are you blushing again?”
“But I am not blushing, father, I assure you.”
“Surely, my dear child, you cannot suppose that I would be displeased because our friend Suzanne, to whom we owe so much, has entertained her nephew here, especially as he must be a well-behaved boy, or Suzanne would not have kept him with her.”
“You must see him, father, and then you can judge for yourself.”
“But how did he happen to lose his place?”
“He was a copyist, but his sight is so bad that it interfered with his work, and they dismissed him. You can imagine, my dear father, how painful his present position is to him, for he has a good education, and cannot bear to be idle. His defective vision will make it very difficult for him to secure any position, I fear; so, father, I have been counting, that is to say, Suzanne and I have been counting on you to assist and advise M. Onésime. I am sure when you see him and know him, you will do anything in the world for him, he is so kind and good, and you will pity him and love him so much.”
It is impossible to describe the naïve and touching manner in which Sabine uttered these last words, her changing colour and gently heaving breast betraying the lively interest she felt in her protégé.
Cloarek stood silent and thoughtful for a moment. He was beginning to understand the change he had noticed in his daughter’s manner and expression. At last the young girl, surprised and somewhat alarmed by Yvon’s silence, asked:
“Why do you not answer me, my dear father?”
“Tell me, my child, since Suzanne’s nephew has been living here, what has he done? What kind of a life has he led?”
“The same life we have led, father. When we go out to walk, he goes with us; if we remain at home, he remains. We make him read to us a good deal, — he reads so well and with so much expression. Sometimes we play duets together, for he is an excellent musician. He is very well up, too, in history, and it is very pleasant and instructive to hear him talk on such subjects, and lastly, he is always trying to do us some little service, though he doesn’t always succeed, for his poor sight makes him very awkward. But that is his only fault, my dear father,” added Sabine, with charming ingenuousness, “and though he surely cannot be held accountable for it, Suzanne is pitiless toward it, for she is always making fun of him.”
“You do not make fun of him, I am sure.”
“It would be cruel in me to do that, father, for he tries to be the first to laugh at his mishaps, though they worry him terribly. It is so sad to be almost blind. And this very evening — you can judge from that how courageous he is — he scalded his hand nearly to the bone with boiling water. You will see, father, what a dreadful burn it was. Well, for all that, M. Onésime had self-control and courage enough not only to make no ado about it, but also to go on with his reading as if nothing had happened, so it was only by the merest chance that we discovered the accident nearly an hour afterward.”
“Really, M. Onésime seems to be quite a hero.”
“A hero; no, father, for, as we were saying this evening, only persons who kill and spill blood are called heroes, while M. Onésime—”
“Spills boiling water.”
“Why, father!”
“Why do you look at me so reproachfully?”
“It seems strange that you, too, who are always so just—”
“Why, what great injustice have I been guilty of, my child?”
“You are making light of a very serious matter, father, for even Suzanne turned pale with fright when she saw his burn, though she is always ridiculing him in the most merciless manner. And why? Because he has such a horror of everything that is cruel and bloodthirsty. Only this evening we had quite a discussion with Suzanne, and M. Onésime was on my side, and he is on my side only when I am right, so I feel sure in advance that you will agree with us.”
“What was the subject of this discussion, my child?”
“M. Onésime was reading, in that newspaper you see over there on the table, an account of the escape of a famous privateer named Captain l’Endurci. You have read it too, perhaps, father.”
“No,” replied Cloarek, repressing an involuntary movement of surprise and alarm; “no, my child. Well, what do you and M. Onésime think of the corsair?”
“His cruelty shocked us, dear father; for would you believe it? to regain his liberty he killed two men and severely wounded a third. Suzanne approved his conduct, claiming that he had behaved in a very brave and heroic manner, but M. Onésime said, and this proves the generosity of his heart—”
“Well, what did M. Onésime say?”
“That he would rather remain a prisoner all his life than owe his freedom to the death of another person. Don’t you think that M. Onésime and I are right?”
“I hardly know what to say, my child. A humdrum merchant like myself is not a very good judge of such matters. Still, it seems to me that you and M. Onésime are rather hard on the poor privateer.”
“But, father, read the frightful story, and you will see—”
“But listen, this privateer had a family, perhaps, that he tenderly loved, and that he was hoping soon to see again, and in his despair at finding himself a prisoner—”
“A family! Men who live in the midst of carnage have families that they love tenderly? Is that possible, father?”
“Why, do not even wolves love their young?”
“I don’t know anything about that; but if they do love them, they love them after the manner of wolves, I suppose, bringing them a piece of their bleeding prey when they are little, and leading them out to attack and devour the poor lambs when they get older.”
A bitter expression flitted over Cloarek’s face; then he answered, smiling:
“After all, you and M. Onésime may be right. If you would talk to me about silks and merino I might hold my own, but I am not much of a judge of privateers and privateering.”
“I was sure you would agree with us. How could a person who is as generous, compassionate, and affectionate as you are think otherwise? or, rather, I could not think differently from what you do, my dear father, for if I have a horror of everything that is cruel and wicked, if I love everything that is good and beautiful, is it not to you and your example I owe it, as well as to the precepts of my poor mother whom you loved so devotedly? for not a day passes that Suzanne does not relate some instance of your deep affection for her.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper, candle in hand, who, to Yvon’s great surprise, announced:
“I am very sorry, but it is ten o’clock, monsieur.”
“Well, what of it, Suzanne?”
“It is the hour the doctor said mademoiselle must go to bed, you know.”
“Give me just a quarter of an hour more, Suzanne?”
“Not a single minute, mademoiselle.”
“On the evening of my return, you might permit this slight dissipation, it seems to me, Suzanne.”
“Heaven be thanked, mademoiselle will have plenty of opportunity to see you now, but allowing her to sit up later than ten o’clock is not to be thought of. She would be sure to be tired out, if not ill, to-morrow.”
“In that case, I have nothing to say except good night, my dear child,” said Cloarek, taking his daughter’s face in his two hands, and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. “Sleep well, my dearest, and may the morning find you well and happy.”
“You need feel no anxiety on that score, my dear father. Now I know that you are here beside me, and that you will be with me, not only to-morrow but always, I shall go to sleep with that blissful thought on my mind, and I shall sleep on and on and on like a dormouse — that is the word, isn’t it, Suzanne? So good night, my dear father, good night, good night.”
Then she whispered:
“I am sure Suzanne is going to speak to you about M. Onésime. How glad I am I got ahead of her. Good night, dearest father, good night.”
“Good night, and pleasant dreams!”
“It will be the best night I have passed for many a month. Good night, my beloved father, good night.”
“Good night, my child.”
Then turning to the housekeeper, Cloarek added:
“Come back presently, Suzanne, I want to talk with you.”
“Very well, monsieur; I have something I wish to speak to you about, too.”
When he was left alone, Cloarek began to walk the room. As he passed the table, the Journal of the Empire attracted his attention. He picked it up and glanced over the article to which his daughter had alluded.
“How indiscreet in Verduron to make a strictly confidential letter public, and without warning me!” he exclaimed, evidently much annoyed. “I have always feared that man’s stupidity and greed would cause me trouble sooner or later. Fortunately, I have concealed my place of abode from him. To think of this happening now, when my child’s feelings and mental condition make dissimulation more imperative than ever. Poor child, such a discovery would kill her!”
At that very instant the housekeeper reëntered the room.
CHAPTER XII.
SUZANNE’S ENLIGHTENMENT.
“MY DEAR SUZANNE,” said M. Cloarek, “first of all, I want to thank you for the excellent care you have taken of my daughter.”
“Poor Mlle. Sabine, didn’t I nurse her when she was a baby, and isn’t she almost like my own child to me?”
