Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (superbooks4u txt) 📖

After a pause of a few moments, Marius de Tregars, still addressing himself apparently to his aged companion, went on: 

“I repeat it, because it is the truth, my old friend, this life of labor and privation, so new to me, was not a burden.  Calm, silence, the constant exercise of all the faculties of the intellect, have charms which the vulgar can never suspect.  I was happy to think, that, if I was ruined, it was through an act of my own will.  I found a positive pleasure in the fact that I, the Marquis de Tregars, who had had a hundred thousand a year—I must the next moment go out in person to the baker’s and the green-grocer’s to purchase my supplies for the day.  I was proud to think that it was to my labor alone, to the work for which I was paid by Marcolet, that I owed the means of prosecuting my task.  And, from the summits where I was carried on the wings of science, I took pity on your modern existence, on that ridiculous and tragical medley of passions, interests, and cravings; that struggle without truce or mercy, whose law is, woe to the weak, in which whosoever falls is trampled under feet.

“Sometimes, however, like a fire that has been smouldering under the ashes, the flame of youthful passions blazed up within me.  I had hours of madness, of discouragement, of distress, during which solitude was loathsome to me.  But I had the faith which raises mountains—faith in myself and my work.  And soon, tranquilized, I would go to sleep in the purple of hope, beholding in the vista of the distant future the triumphal arches erected to my success.

“Such was my situation, when, one afternoon in the month of February last, after an experiment upon which I had founded great hopes, and which had just miserably failed, I came here to breathe a little fresh air.

“It was a beautiful spring day, warm and sunny.  The sparrows were chirping on the branches, swelled with sap:  bands of children were running along the alleys, filling the air with their joyous screams.

“I was sitting upon a bench, ruminating over the causes of my failure, when two ladies passed by me; one somewhat aged, the other quite young.  They were walking so rapidly, that I hardly had time to see them.

“But the young lady’s step, the noble simplicity of her carriage, had struck me so much, that I rose to follow her with the intention of passing her, and then walking back to have a good view of her face.  I did so; and I was fairly dazzled.  At the moment when my eyes met hers, a voice rose within me, crying that it was all over now, and that my destiny was fixed.”

“I remember, my dear boy,” remarked the old soldier in a tone of friendly raillery; “for you came to see me that night, and I had not seen you for months before.”

Marius proceeded without heeding the remark.

“And yet you know that I am not the man to yield to first impression.  I struggled:  with determined energy I strove to drive off that radiant image which I carried within my soul, which left me no more, which haunted me in the midst of my studies.

“Vain efforts.  My thoughts obeyed me no longer—my will escaped my control.  It was indeed one of those passions that fill the whole being, overpower all, and which make of life an ineffable felicity or a nameless torture, according that they are reciprocated, or not.  How many days I spent there, waiting and watching for her of whom I had thus had a glimpse, and who ignored my very existence!  And what insane palpitations, when, after hours of consuming anxiety, I saw at the corner of the street the undulating folds of her dress!  I saw her thus often, and always with the same elderly person, her mother.  They had adopted in this square a particular bench, where they sat daily, working at their sewing with an assiduity and zeal which made me think that they lived upon the product of their labor.”

Here he was suddenly interrupted by his companion.  The old gentleman feared that Mme. Favoral’s attention might at last be attracted by too direct allusions.

“Take care, boy!” he whispered, not so low, however, but what Gilberte overheard him.

But it would have required much more than this to draw Mme. Favoral from her sad thoughts.  She had just finished her band of tapestry; and, grieving to lose a moment: 

“It is perhaps time to go home,” she said to her daughter.  “I have nothing more to do.”

Mlle. Gilberte drew from her basket a piece of canvas, and, handing it to her mother: 

“Here is enough to go on with, mamma,” she said in a troubled voice.  “Let us stay a little while longer.”

And, Mme. Favoral having resumed her work, Marius proceeded: 

“The thought that she whom I loved was poor delighted me.  Was not this similarity of positions a link between us?  I felt a childish joy to think that I would work for her and for her mother, and that they would be indebted to me for their ease and comfort in life.

“But I am not one of those dreamers who confide their destiny to the wings of a chimera.  Before undertaking any thing, I resolved to inform myself.  Alas! at the first words that I heard, all my fine dreams took wings.  I heard that she was rich, very rich.  I was told that her father was one of those men whose rigid probity surrounds itself with austere and harsh forms.  He owed his fortune, I was assured, to his sole labor, but also to prodigies of economy and the most severe privations.  He professed a worship, they said, for that gold that had cost him so much; and he would never give the hand of his daughter to a man who had no money.  This last comment was useless.  Above my actions, my thoughts, my hopes, higher than all, soars my pride.  Instantly I saw an abyss opening between me and her whom I love more than my life, but less than my dignity.  When a man’s name is Genost de Tregars, he must support his wife, were it by breaking stones.  And the thought that I owed my fortune to the woman I married would make me execrate her.

“You must remember, my old friend, that I told you all this at the time.  You thought, too, that it was singularly impertinent, on my part, thus to flare up in advance, because, certainly a millionaire does not give his daughter to a ruined nobleman in the pay of Marcolet, the patent-broker, to a poor devil of an inventor, who is building the castles of his future upon the solution of a problem which has been given up by the most brilliant minds.

“It was then that I determined upon an extreme resolution, a foolish one, no doubt, and yet to which you, the Count de Villegre, my father’s old friend, you have consented to lend yourself.

“I thought that I would address myself to her, to her alone, and that she would at least know what great, what immense love she had inspired.  I thought I would go to her and tell her, ‘This is who I am, and what I am.  For mercy’s sake, grant me a respite of three years.