الفصل الفصل 13 · 第13章

While these events were happening in Saumur, Charles was making his

fortune in the Indies. His commercial outfit had sold well. He began by

realizing a sum of six thousand dollars. Crossing the line had brushed a

good many cobwebs out of his brain; he perceived that the best means of

attaining fortune in tropical regions, as well as in Europe, was to

buy and sell men. He went to the coast of Africa and bought Negroes,

combining his traffic in human flesh with that of other merchandise

equally advantageous to his interests. He carried into this business an

activity which left him not a moment of leisure. He was governed by the

desire of reappearing in Paris with all the prestige of a large fortune,

and by the hope of regaining a position even more brilliant than the one

from which he had fallen.

By dint of jostling with men, travelling through many lands, and

studying a variety of conflicting customs, his ideas had been modified

and had become sceptical. He ceased to have fixed principles of right

and wrong, for he saw what was called a crime in one country lauded as

a virtue in another. In the perpetual struggle of selfish interests his

heart grew cold, then contracted, and then dried up. The blood of the

Grandets did not fail of its destiny; Charles became hard, and eager

for prey. He sold Chinamen, Negroes, birds’ nests, children, artists; he

practised usury on a large scale; the habit of defrauding custom-houses

soon made him less scrupulous about the rights of his fellow men.

He went to the Island of St. Thomas and bought, for a mere song,

merchandise that had been captured by pirates, and took it to ports

where he could sell it at a good price. If the pure and noble face of

Eugenie went with him on his first voyage, like that image of the Virgin

which Spanish mariners fastened to their masts, if he attributed his

first success to the magic influence of the prayers and intercessions

of his gentle love, later on women of other kinds,--blacks, mulattoes,

whites, and Indian dancing-girls,--orgies and adventures in many lands,

completely effaced all recollection of his cousin, of Saumur, of the

house, the bench, the kiss snatched in the dark passage. He remembered

only the little garden shut in with crumbling walls, for it was there he

learned the fate that had overtaken him; but he rejected all connection

with his family. His uncle was an old dog who had filched his jewels;

Eugenie had no place in his heart nor in his thoughts, though she did

have a place in his accounts as a creditor for the sum of six thousand

francs.

Such conduct and such ideas explain Charles Grandet’s silence. In the

Indies, at St. Thomas, on the coast of Africa, at Lisbon, and in the

United States the adventurer had taken the pseudonym of Shepherd, that

he might not compromise his own name. Charles Shepherd could safely

be indefatigable, bold, grasping, and greedy of gain, like a man who

resolves to snatch his fortune _quibus cumque viis_, and makes haste

to have done with villany, that he may spend the rest of his life as an

honest man.

With such methods, prosperity was rapid and brilliant; and in 1827

Charles Grandet returned to Bordeaux on the “Marie Caroline,” a fine

brig belonging to a royalist house of business. He brought with him

nineteen hundred thousand francs worth of gold-dust, from which he

expected to derive seven or eight per cent more at the Paris mint.

On the brig he met a gentleman-in-ordinary to His Majesty Charles X.,

Monsieur d’Aubrion, a worthy old man who had committed the folly of

marrying a woman of fashion with a fortune derived from the West India

Islands. To meet the costs of Madame d’Aubrion’s extravagance, he had

gone out to the Indies to sell the property, and was now returning with

his family to France.

Monsieur and Madame d’Aubrion, of the house of d’Aubrion de Buch, a

family of southern France, whose last _captal_, or chief, died before

1789, were now reduced to an income of about twenty thousand francs, and

they possessed an ugly daughter whom the mother was resolved to marry

without a _dot_,--the family fortune being scarcely sufficient for the

demands of her own life in Paris. This was an enterprise whose success

might have seemed problematical to most men of the world, in spite of

the cleverness with which such men credit a fashionable woman; in

fact, Madame d’Aubrion herself, when she looked at her daughter, almost

despaired of getting rid of her to any one, even to a man craving

connection with nobility. Mademoiselle d’Aubrion was a long, spare,

spindling demoiselle, like her namesake the insect; her mouth was

disdainful; over it hung a nose that was too long, thick at the end,

sallow in its normal condition, but very red after a meal,--a sort of

vegetable phenomenon which is particularly disagreeable when it appears

in the middle of a pale, dull, and uninteresting face. In one sense she

was all that a worldly mother, thirty-eight years of age and still

a beauty with claims to admiration, could have wished. However, to

counterbalance her personal defects, the marquise gave her daughter

a distinguished air, subjected her to hygienic treatment which

provisionally kept her nose at a reasonable flesh-tint, taught her the

art of dressing well, endowed her with charming manners, showed her the

trick of melancholy glances which interest a man and make him believe

that he has found a long-sought angel, taught her the manoeuvre of the

foot,--letting it peep beneath the petticoat, to show its tiny size,

at the moment when the nose became aggressively red; in short, Madame

d’Aubrion had cleverly made the very best of her offspring. By means

of full sleeves, deceptive pads, puffed dresses amply trimmed,

and high-pressure corsets, she had obtained such curious feminine

developments that she ought, for the instruction of mothers, to have

exhibited them in a museum.

Charles became very intimate with Madame d’Aubrion precisely because she

was desirous of becoming intimate with him. Persons who were on board

the brig declared that the handsome Madame d’Aubrion neglected no means

of capturing so rich a son-in-law. On landing at Bordeaux in June, 1827,

Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle d’Aubrion, and Charles lodged at the same

hotel and started together for Paris. The hotel d’Aubrion was hampered

with mortgages; Charles was destined to free it. The mother told him how

delighted she would be to give up the ground-floor to a son-in-law. Not

sharing Monsieur d’Aubrion’s prejudices on the score of nobility, she

promised Charles Grandet to obtain a royal ordinance from Charles

X. which would authorize him, Grandet, to take the name and arms

of d’Aubrion and to succeed, by purchasing the entailed estate for

thirty-six thousand francs a year, to the titles of Captal de Buch and

Marquis d’Aubrion. By thus uniting their fortunes, living on good terms,

and profiting by sinecures, the two families might occupy the hotel

d’Aubrion with an income of over a hundred thousand francs.

“And when a man has a hundred thousand francs a year, a name, a

family, and a position at court,--for I will get you appointed as

gentleman-of-the-bedchamber,--he can do what he likes,” she said to

Charles. “You can then become anything you choose,--master of the

rolls in the council of State, prefect, secretary to an embassy, the

ambassador himself, if you like. Charles X. is fond of d’Aubrion; they

have known each other from childhood.”

Intoxicated with ambition, Charles toyed with the hopes thus cleverly

presented to him in the guise of confidences poured from heart to heart.

Believing his father’s affairs to have been settled by his uncle, he

imagined himself suddenly anchored in the Faubourg Saint-Germain,--that

social object of all desire, where, under shelter of Mademoiselle

Mathilde’s purple nose, he was to reappear as the Comte d’Aubrion, very

much as the Dreux reappeared in Breze. Dazzled by the prosperity of the

Restoration, which was tottering when he left France, fascinated by the

splendor of aristocratic ideas, his intoxication, which began on the

brig, increased after he reached Paris, and he finally determined to

take the course and reach the high position which the selfish hopes of

his would-be mother-in-law pointed out to him. His cousin counted for

no more than a speck in this brilliant perspective; but he went to see

Annette. True woman of the world, Annette advised her old friend to

make the marriage, and promised him her support in all his ambitious

projects. In her heart she was enchanted to fasten an ugly and

uninteresting girl on Charles, whose life in the West Indies had

rendered him very attractive. His complexion had bronzed, his manners

had grown decided and bold, like those of a man accustomed to make sharp

decisions, to rule, and to succeed. Charles breathed more at his ease in

Paris, conscious that he now had a part to play.

Des Grassins, hearing of his return, of his approaching marriage and

his large fortune, came to see him, and inquired about the three hundred

thousand francs still required to settle his father’s debts. He found

Grandet in conference with a goldsmith, from whom he had ordered jewels

for Mademoiselle d’Aubrion’s _corbeille_, and who was then submitting

the designs. Charles had brought back magnificent diamonds, and the

value of their setting, together with the plate and jewelry of the new

establishment, amounted to more than two hundred thousand francs. He

received des Grassins, whom he did not recognize, with the impertinence

of a young man of fashion conscious of having killed four men in as many

duels in the Indies. Monsieur des Grassins had already called several

times. Charles listened to him coldly, and then replied, without fully

understanding what had been said to him,--

“My father’s affairs are not mine. I am much obliged, monsieur, for the

trouble you have been good enough to take,--by which, however, I really

cannot profit. I have not earned two millions by the sweat of my brow to

fling them at the head of my father’s creditors.”

“But suppose that your father’s estate were within a few days to be

declared bankrupt?”

“Monsieur, in a few days I shall be called the Comte d’Aubrion; you will

understand, therefore, that what you threaten is of no consequence to

me. Besides, you know as well as I do that when a man has an income of

a hundred thousand francs his father has _never failed_.” So saying, he

politely edged Monsieur des Grassins to the door.

* * * * *

At the beginning of August in the same year, Eugenie was sitting on the

little wooden bench where her cousin had sworn to love her eternally,

and where she usually breakfasted if the weather were fine. The poor

girl was happy, for the moment, in the fresh and joyous summer air,

letting her memory recall the great and the little events of her love

and the catastrophes which had followed it. The sun had just reached

the angle of the ruined wall, so full of chinks, which no one, through

a caprice of the mistress, was allowed to touch, though Cornoiller often

remarked to his wife that “it would fall and crush somebody one of these

days.” At this moment the postman knocked, and gave a letter to Madame

Cornoiller, who ran into the garden, crying out:

“Mademoiselle, a letter!” She gave it to her mistress, adding, “Is it

the one you expected?”

The words rang as loudly in the heart of Eugenie as they echoed in sound

from wall to wall of the court and garden.

“Paris--from him--he has returned!”

Eugenie turned pale and held the letter for a moment. She trembled

so violently that she could not break the seal. La Grande Nanon stood

before her, both hands on her hips, her joy puffing as it were like

smoke through the cracks of her brown face.

“Read it, mademoiselle!”

“Ah, Nanon, why did he return to Paris? He went from Saumur.”

“Read it, and you’ll find out.”

Eugenie opened the letter with trembling fingers. A cheque on the house

of “Madame des Grassins and Coret, of Saumur,” fluttered down. Nanon

picked it up.

My dear Cousin,--

“No longer ‘Eugenie,’” she thought, and her heart quailed.

You--

“He once said ‘thou.’” She folded her arms and dared not read another

word; great tears gathered in her eyes.

“Is he dead?” asked Nanon.

“If he were, he could not write,” said Eugenie.

She then read the whole letter, which was as follows:

My dear Cousin,--You will, I am sure, hear with pleasure of the

success of my enterprise. You brought me luck; I have come back

rich, and I have followed the advice of my uncle, whose death,

together with that of my aunt, I have just learned from Monsieur

des Grassins. The death of parents is in the course of nature, and

we must succeed them. I trust you are by this time consoled.

Nothing can resist time, as I am well aware. Yes, my dear cousin,

the day of illusions is, unfortunately, gone for me. How could it

be otherwise? Travelling through many lands, I have reflected upon

life. I was a child when I went away,--I have come back a man.

To-day, I think of many I did not dream of then. You are free, my

dear cousin, and I am free still. Nothing apparently hinders the

realization of our early hopes; but my nature is too loyal to hide

from you the situation in which I find myself. I have not

forgotten our relations; I have always remembered, throughout my

long wanderings, the little wooden seat--

Eugenie rose as if she were sitting on live coals, and went away and sat

down on the stone steps of the court.

--the little wooden seat where we vowed to love each other

forever, the passage, the gray hall, my attic chamber, and the

night when, by your delicate kindness, you made my future easier

to me. Yes, these recollections sustained my courage; I said in my

heart that you were thinking of me at the hour we had agreed upon.

Have you always looked at the clouds at nine o’clock? Yes, I am

sure of it. I cannot betray so true a friendship,--no, I must not

deceive you. An alliance has been proposed to me which satisfies

all my ideas of matrimony. Love in marriage is a delusion. My

present experience warns me that in marrying we are bound to obey

all social laws and meet the conventional demands of the world.

Now, between you and me there are differences which might affect

your future, my dear cousin, even more than they would mine. I

will not here speak of your customs and inclinations, your

education, nor yet of your habits, none of which are in keeping

with Parisian life, or with the future which I have marked out for

myself. My intention is to keep my household on a stately footing,

to receive much company,--in short, to live in the world; and I

think I remember that you love a quiet and tranquil life. I will

be frank, and make you the judge of my situation; you have the

right to understand it and to judge it.

I possess at the present moment an income of eighty thousand

francs. This fortune enables me to marry into the family of

Aubrion, whose heiress, a young girl nineteen years of age, brings

me a title, a place of gentleman-of-the-bed-chamber to His

Majesty, and a very brilliant position. I will admit to you, my

dear cousin, that I do not love Mademoiselle d’Aubrion; but in

marrying her I secure to my children a social rank whose

advantages will one day be incalculable: monarchical principles

are daily coming more and more into favor. Thus in course of time

my son, when he becomes Marquis d’Aubrion, having, as he then will

have, an entailed estate with a rental of forty thousand francs a

year, can obtain any position in the State which he may think

proper to select. We owe ourselves to our children.

You see, my cousin, with what good faith I lay the state of my

heart, my hopes, and my fortune before you. Possibly, after seven

years’ separation, you have yourself forgotten our youthful loves;

but I have never forgotten either your kindness or my own words. I

remember all, even words that were lightly uttered,--words by

which a man less conscientious than I, with a heart less youthful

and less upright, would scarcely feel himself bound. In telling

you that the marriage I propose to make is solely one of

convenience, that I still remember our childish love, am I not

putting myself entirely in your hands and making you the mistress

of my fate? am I not telling you that if I must renounce my social

ambitions, I shall willingly content myself with the pure and

simple happiness of which you have shown me so sweet an image?

“Tan, ta, ta--tan, ta, ti,” sang Charles Grandet to the air of _Non piu

andrai_, as he signed himself,--

Your devoted cousin, Charles.

“Thunder! that’s doing it handsomely!” he said, as he looked about him

for the cheque; having found it, he added the words:--

P.S.--I enclose a cheque on the des Grassins bank for eight

thousand francs to your order, payable in gold, which includes the

capital and interest of the sum you were kind enough to lend me. I

am expecting a case from Bordeaux which contains a few things

which you must allow me to offer you as a mark of my unceasing

gratitude. You can send my dressing-case by the diligence to the

hotel d’Aubrion, rue Hillerin-Bertin.

“By the diligence!” said Eugenie. “A thing for which I would have laid

down my life!”

Terrible and utter disaster! The ship went down, leaving not a spar, not

a plank, on a vast ocean of hope! Some women when they see themselves

abandoned will try to tear their lover from the arms of a rival, they

will kill her, and rush to the ends of the earth,--to the scaffold, to

their tomb. That, no doubt, is fine; the motive of the crime is a great

passion, which awes even human justice. Other women bow their heads

and suffer in silence; they go their way dying, resigned, weeping,

forgiving, praying, and recollecting, till they draw their last breath.

This is love,--true love, the love of angels, the proud love which lives

upon its anguish and dies of it. Such was Eugenie’s love after she had

read that dreadful letter. She raised her eyes to heaven, thinking of

the last words uttered by her dying mother, who, with the prescience

of death, had looked into the future with clear and penetrating eyes:

Eugenie, remembering that prophetic death, that prophetic life, measured

with one glance her own destiny. Nothing was left for her; she could

only unfold her wings, stretch upward to the skies, and live in prayer

until the day of her deliverance.

“My mother was right,” she said, weeping. “Suffer--and die!”