第73章

"In the life to which you condemn me, my father, the joys are as terrible as the sorrows."The Count said to Gilbert:

"Console her, calm her emotion.She is yours.I have given her to you.Do not fear that I shall take her back again." Then, turning again to the bed, he exclaimed: "What a terrible thorn death has just drawn from my heart!"In the midst of so many tragic sensations, who was happy? Father Alexis was, and he had no desire to hide it.He went and came, moved the furniture, passed his hand over his beard, struck his chest with all his might, and presently in his excess of joy threw himself upon Stephane and then upon Gilbert, caressing and embracing them.At last, kneeling down by the bed of death, under the eyes of the Count, he took the head of the dead man between his hands and kissed him upon the mouth and cheeks, saying:

"My poor brother, thou hast perhaps been more unfortunate than guilty.May God, in the unfathomable mystery of his infinite mercy, give thee one day, as I have, the kiss of peace! Then raising his clasped hands, he said: "Holy mother of God: blessed be thy name.Thou hast done more than I dared to ask."At that moment Ivan, roused at last from his long lethargy, appeared at the threshold of the door.For some minutes he remained paralyzed by astonishment, and looked around distractedly;then, throwing himself at his master's feet and tearing his hair, he cried:

"Seigneur Pere, I am not a traitor! That man mixed some drug in my tea which put me to sleep.Seigneur Pere, kill me, but do not say that I am a traitor.""Rise," returned the Count gayly, "rise, I say.I shall not kill thee.I am not going to kill anybody.My son, thou'rt a rusty old tool.Dost know what I shall do with thee? I shall slip thee in among the wedding presents of Madame Gilbert Saville."Paul Bourget Andre Cornelis I

I was nine years old.It was in 1864, in the month of June at the close of a warm, bright afternoon.I was at my studies in my room as usual, having come in from the Lycee Bonaparte, and the outer shutters were closed.We lived in the Rue Tronchet, near the Madeleine, in the seventh house on the left, coming from the church.Three highly-polished steps (how often have I slipped on them!) led to the little room, so prettily furnished, all in blue, within whose walls I passed the last completely happy days of my life.Everything comes back to me.I was seated at my table, dressed in a large black overall, and engaged in writing out the tenses of a Latin verb on a ruled sheet divided into several compartments.All of a sudden I heard a loud cry, followed by a clamor of voices; then rapid steps trod the corridor outside my room.Instinctively I rushed to the door and came up against a man-servant, who was deadly pale, and had a roll of linen in his hand.I understood the use of this afterwards.I had not to question this man, for at sight of me he exclaimed, as though involuntarily:

"Ah! M.Andre, what an awful misfortune!"

Then, regaining his presence of mind, he said:

"Go back into your room--go back at once!"

Before I could answer, he caught me up in his arms, rather threw than placed me on the upper step of my staircase, locked the door of the corridor, and walked rapidly away.

"No, no," I cried, flinging myself against the door, "tell me all;I will, I must know." No answer.I shook the lock, I struck the panel with my clenched fists, I dashed my shoulder against the door.Vain was my frenzy! Then, sitting upon the lowest step, Ilistened, in an agony of fear, to the coming and going of people outside, who knew of "the awful misfortune," but what was it they knew? Child as I was, I understood the terrible signification which the servant's exclamation bore under the actual circumstances.Two days previously, my father had gone out after breakfast, according to custom, to the place of business which he had occupied for over four years, in the Rue de la Victoire.He had been thoughtful during breakfast, indeed for some months past he had lost his accustomed cheerfulness.When he rose to go out, my mother, myself, and one of the habitual frequenters of our house, M.Jacques Termonde, a fellow student of my father's at the Ecole de Droit, were at table.My father left his seat before breakfast was over, having looked at the clock, and inquired whether it was quite right.

"Are you in such a hurry, Cornelis?" asked Termonde.