Array The griffin classics - The Collected Works of Honore de Balzac

“I will never marry without the consent of my father,” answered Modeste.

“You see, my darling,” said Madame Mignon after a long pause, “that if I am dying by inches through Bettina’s wrong-doing, your father would not survive yours, no, not for a moment. I know him; he would put a pistol to his head, — there could be no life, no happiness on earth for him.”

Modeste walked a few steps away from her mother, but immediately came back.

“Why did you leave me?” demanded Madame Mignon.

“You made me cry, mamma,” answered Modeste.

“Ah, my little darling, kiss me. You love no one here? you have no lover, have you?” she asked, holding Modeste on her lap, heart to heart.

“No, my dear mamma,” said the little Jesuit.

“Can you swear it?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Modeste.

Madame Mignon said no more; but she still doubted.

“At least, if you do choose your husband, you will tell your father?” she resumed.

“I promised that to my sister, and to you, mother. What evil do you think I could commit while I wear that ring upon my finger and read those words: ‘Think of Bettina?’ Poor sister!”

At these words a truce of silence came between the pair; the mother’s blighted eyes rained tears which Modeste could not check, though she threw herself upon her knees, and cried: “Forgive me! oh, forgive me, mother!”

At this instant the excellent Dumay was coming up the hill of Ingouville on the double-quick, — a fact quite abnormal in the present life of the cashier.

Three letters had brought ruin to the Mignons; a single letter now restored their fortunes. Dumay had received from a sea-captain just arrived from the China Seas the following letter containing the first news of his patron and friend, Charles Mignon: —

To Monsieur Jean Dumay:

My Dear Dumay, — I shall quickly follow, barring the chances of the

voyage, the vessel which carries this letter. In fact, I should

have taken it, but I did not wish to leave my own ship to which I

am accustomed.

I told you that no new was to be good news. But the first words of

this letter ought to make you a happy man. I have made seven

millions at the least. I am bringing back a large part of it in

indigo, one third in safe London securities, and another third in

good solid gold. Your remittances helped me to make the sum I had

settled in my own mind much sooner than I expected. I wanted two

millions for my daughters and a competence for myself.

I have been engaged in the opium trade with the largest houses in

Canton, all ten times richer than ever I was. You have no idea, in

Europe, what these rich East India merchants are. I went to Asia

Minor and purchased opium at low prices, and from thence to Canton

where I delivered my cargoes to the companies who control the

trade. My last expedition was to the Philippine Islands where I

exchanged opium for indigo of the first quality. In fact, I may

have half a million more than I stated, for I reckoned the indigo

at what it cost me. I have always been well in health; not the

slightest illness. That is the result of working for one’s

children. Since the second year I have owned a pretty little brig

of seven hundred tons, called the “Mignon.” She is built of oak,

double-planked, and copper-fastened; and all the interior fittings

were done to suit me. She is, in fact, an additional piece of

property.

A sea-life and the active habits required by my business have kept

me in good health. To tell you all this is the same as telling it

to my two daughters and my dear wife. I trust that the wretched

man who took away my Bettina deserted her when he heard of my

ruin; and that I shall find the poor lost lamb at the Chalet. My

three dear women and my Dumay! All four of you have been ever

present in my thoughts for the last three years. You are a rich

man, now, Dumay. Your share, outside of my own fortune, amounts to

five hundred and sixty thousand francs, for which I send you

herewith a check, which can only be paid to you in person by the

Mongenods, who have been duly advised from New York.

A few short months, and I shall see you all again, and all well, I

trust. My dear Dumay, if I write this letter to you it is because

I am anxious to keep my fortune a secret for the present. I

therefore leave to you the happiness of preparing my dear angels

for my return. I have had enough of commerce; and I am resolved to

leave Havre. My intention is to buy back the estate of La Bastie,

and to entail it, so as to establish an estate yielding at least a

hundred thousand francs a year, and then to ask the king to grant

that one of my sons-in-law may succeed to my name and title. You

know, my poor Dumay, what a terrible misfortune overtook us

through the fatal reputation of a large fortune, — my daughter’s

honor was lost. I have therefore resolved that the amount of my

present fortune shall not be known. I shall not disembark at

Havre, but at Marseilles. I shall sell my indigo, and negotiate

for the purchase of La Bastie through the house of Mongenod in

Paris. I shall put my funds in the Bank of France and return to

the Chalet giving out that I have a considerable fortune in

merchandise. My daughters will be supposed to have two or three

hundred thousand francs. To choose which of my sons-in-law is

worthy to succeed to my title and estates and to live with us, is

now the object of my life; but both of them must be, like you and

me, honest, loyal, and firm men, and absolutely honorable.

My dear old fellow, I have never doubted you for a moment. We have

gone through wars and commerce together and now we will undertake

agriculture; you shall be my bailiff. You will like that, will you

not? And so, old friend, I leave it to your discretion to tell

what you think best to my wife and daughters; I rely upon your

prudence. In four years great changes may have taken place in

their characters.

Adieu, my old Dumay. Say to my daughters and to my wife that I

have never failed to kiss them in my thoughts morning and evening

since I left them. The second check for forty thousand francs

herewith enclosed is for my wife and children.

Till we meet. — Your colonel and friend,

Charles Mignon.

“Your father is coming,” said Madame Mignon to her daughter.

“What makes you think so, mamma?” asked Modeste.

“Nothing else could make Dumay hurry himself.”

“Victory! victory!” cried the lieutenant as soon as he reached the garden gate. “Madame, the colonel has not been ill a moment; he is coming back — coming back on the ‘Mignon,’ a fine ship of his own, which together with its cargo is worth, he tells me, eight or nine hundred thousand francs. But he requires secrecy from all of us; his heart is still wrung by the misfortunes of our dear departed girl.”

“He has still to learn her death,” said Madame Mignon.

“He attributes her disaster, and I think he is right, to the rapacity of young men after great fortunes. My poor colonel expects to find the lost sheep here. Let us be happy among ourselves but say nothing to any one, not even to Latournelle, if that is possible. Mademoiselle,” he whispered in Modeste’s ear, “write to your father and tell him of his loss and also the terrible results on your mother’s health and eyesight; prepare him for the shock he has to meet. I will engage to get the letter into his hands before he reaches Havre, for he will have to pass through Paris on his way. Write him a long letter; you have plenty of time. I will take the letter on Monday; Monday I shall probably go to Paris.”