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

Too bewildered to weep, Oscar was dumb and motionless as a statue.

“Come with me and beg his Excellency’s pardon,” said Moreau.

“As if his Excellency cares for a little toad like that!” cried the furious Estelle.

“Come, I say, to the chateau,” repeated Moreau.

Oscar dropped like an inert mass to the ground.

“Come!” cried Moreau, his anger increasing at every instant.

“No! no! mercy!” cried Oscar, who could not bring himself to submit to a torture that seemed to him worse than death.

Moreau then took the lad by his coat, and dragged him, as he might a dead body, through the yards, which rang with the boy’s outcries and sobs. He pulled him up the portico, and, with an arm that fury made powerful, he flung him, bellowing, and rigid as a pole, into the salon, at the very feet of the count, who, having completed the purchase of Les Moulineaux, was about to leave the salon for the dining-room with his guests.

“On your knees, wretched boy! and ask pardon of him who gave food to your mind by obtaining your scholarship.”

Oscar, his face to the ground, was foaming with rage, and did not say a word. The spectators of the scene were shocked. Moreau seemed no longer in his senses; his face was crimson with injected blood.

“This young man is a mere lump of vanity,” said the count, after waiting a moment for Oscar’s excuses. “A proud man humiliates himself because he sees there is grandeur in a certain self-abasement. I am afraid that you will never make much of that lad.”

So saying, his Excellency passed on. Moreau took Oscar home with him; and on the way gave orders that the horses should immediately be put to Madame Moreau’s caleche.

CHAPTER VII. A MOTHER’S TRIALS

While the horses were being harnessed, Moreau wrote the following letter to Madame Clapart: —

My dear, — Oscar has ruined me. During his journey in Pierrotin’s

coach, he spoke of Madame de Serizy’s behavior to his Excellency,

who was travelling incognito, and actually told, to himself, the

secret of his terrible malady. After dismissing me from my

stewardship, the count told me not to let Oscar sleep at Presles,

but to send him away immediately. Therefore, to obey his orders,

the horses are being harnessed at this moment to my wife’s

carriage, and Brochon, my stable-man, will take the miserable

child to you to-night.

We are, my wife and I, in a distress of mind which you may perhaps

imagine, though I cannot describe it to you. I will see you in a

few days, for I must take another course. I have three children,

and I ought to consider their future. At present I do not know

what to do; but I shall certainly endeavor to make the count aware

of what seventeen years of the life of a man like myself is worth.

Owning at the present moment about two hundred and fifty thousand

francs, I want to raise myself to a fortune which may some day

make me the equal of his Excellency. At this moment I feel within

me the power to move mountains and vanquish insurmountable

difficulties. What a lever is such a scene of bitter humiliation

as I have just passed through! Whose blood has Oscar in his veins?

His conduct has been that of a blockhead; up to this moment when I

write to you, he has not said a word nor answered, even by a sign,

the questions my wife and I have put to him. Will he become an

idiot? or is he one already? Dear friend, why did you not instruct

him as to his behavior before you sent him to me? How many

misfortunes you would have spared me, had you brought him here

yourself as I begged you to do. If Estelle alarmed you, you might

have stayed at Moisselles. However, the thing is done, and there

is no use talking about it.

Adieu; I shall see you soon.

Your devoted servant and friend,

Moreau

At eight o’clock that evening, Madame Clapart, just returned from a walk she had taken with her husband, was knitting winter socks for Oscar, by the light of a single candle. Monsieur Clapart was expecting a friend named Poiret, who often came in to play dominoes, for never did he allow himself to spend an evening at a cafe. In spite of the prudent economy to which his small means forced him, Clapart would not have answered for his temperance amid a luxury of food and in presence of the usual guests of a cafe whose inquisitive observation would have piqued him.

“I’m afraid Poiret came while we were out,” said Clapart to his wife.

“Why, no, my friend; the portress would have told us so when we came in,” replied Madame Clapart.

“She may have forgotten it.”

“What makes you think so?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time she has forgotten things for us, — for God knows how people without means are treated.”

“Well,” said the poor woman, to change the conversation and escape Clapart’s cavilling, “Oscar must be at Presles by this time. How he will enjoy that fine house and the beautiful park.”

“Oh! yes,” snarled Clapart, “you expect fine things of him; but, mark my words, there’ll be squabbles wherever he goes.”

“Will you never cease to find fault with that poor child?” said the mother. “What has he done to you? If some day we should live at our ease, we may owe it all to him; he has such a good heart — ”

“Our bones will be jelly long before that fellow makes his way in the world,” cried Clapart. “You don’t know your own child; he is conceited, boastful, deceitful, lazy, incapable of — ”

“Why don’t you go to meet Poiret?” said the poor mother, struck to the heart by the diatribe she had brought upon herself.

“A boy who has never won a prize at school!” continued Clapart.

To bourgeois eyes, the obtaining of school prizes means the certainty of a fine future for the fortunate child.

“Did you win any?” asked his wife. “Oscar stood second in philosophy.”

This remark imposed silence for a moment on Clapart; but presently he began again.

“Besides, Madame Moreau hates him like poison, you know why. She’ll try to set her husband against him. Oscar to step into his shoes as steward of Presles! Why he’d have to learn agriculture, and know how to survey.”

“He can learn.”

“He — that pussy cat! I’ll bet that if he does get a place down there, it won’t be a week before he does some doltish thing which will make the count dismiss him.”

“Good God! how can you be so bitter against a poor child who is full of good qualities, sweet-tempered as an angel, incapable of doing harm to any one, no matter who.”

Just then the cracking of a postilion’s whip and the noise of a carriage stopping before the house was heard, this arrival having apparently put the whole street into a commotion. Clapart, who heard the opening of many windows, looked out himself to see what was happening.

“They have sent Oscar back to you in a post-chaise,” he cried, in a tone of satisfaction, though in truth he felt inwardly uneasy.

“Good heavens! what can have happened to him?” cried the poor mother, trembling like a leaf shaken by the autumn wind.

Brochon here came up, followed by Oscar and Poiret.

“What has happened?” repeated the mother, addressing the stable-man.

“I don’t know, but Monsieur Moreau is no longer steward of Presles, and they say your son has caused it. His Excellency ordered that he should be sent home to you. Here’s a letter from poor Monsieur Moreau, madame, which will tell you all. You never saw a man so changed in a single day.”

“Clapart, two glasses of wine for the postilion and for monsieur!” cried the mother, flinging herself into a chair that she might read the fatal letter. “Oscar,” she said, staggering towards her bed, “do you want to kill your mother? After all the cautions I gave you this morning — ”