Urged by a mind that seemed as aggressive as the heart was lovable, the truly chivalrous2 feelings of the poor secretary gave themselves free play in these suppressed letters, which seem, perhaps, more beautiful than they really are, because the imagination is charmed by a sense of the communion of two free souls. Ernest’s whole life was now wrapped up in these sweet scraps3 of paper; they were to him what banknotes are to a miser4; while in Modeste’s soul a deep love took the place of her delight in agitating5 a glorious life, and being, in spite of distance, its mainspring. Ernest’s heart was the complement6 of Canalis’s glory. Alas7! it often takes two men to make a perfect lover, just as in literature we compose a type by collecting the peculiarities8 of several similar characters. How many a time a woman has been heard to say in her own salon9 after close and intimate conversations:—
“Such a one is my ideal as to soul, and I love the other who is only a dream of the senses.”
The last letter written by Modeste, which here follows, gives us a glimpse of the enchanted10 isle11 to which the meanderings of this correspondence had led the two lovers.
To Monsieur de Canalis — Be at Havre next Sunday; go to church;
after the morning service, walk once or twice round the nave12, and
go out without speaking to any one; but wear a white rose in your
button-hole. Then return to Paris, where you shall receive an
answer. I warn you that this answer will not be what you wish;
for, as I told you, the future is not yet mine. But should I not
indeed be mad and foolish to say yes without having seen you? When
I have seen you I can say no without wounding you; I can make sure
that you shall not see me.
This letter had been sent off the evening before the day when the abortive13 struggle between Dumay and Modeste had taken place. The happy girl was impatiently awaiting Sunday, when her eyes were to vindicate14 or condemn15 her heart and her actions — a solemn moment in the life of any woman, and which three months of close communion of souls now rendered as romantic as the most imaginative maiden16 could have wished. Every one, except the mother, had taken this torpor17 of expectation for the calm of innocence18. No matter how firmly family laws and religious precepts19 may bind20, there will always be the Clarissas and the Julies, whose souls like flowing cups o’erlap the brim under some spiritual pressure. Modeste was glorious in the savage21 energy with which she repressed her exuberant22 youthful happiness and remained demurely23 quiet. Let us say frankly24 that the memory of her sister was more potent25 upon her than any social conventions; her will was iron in the resolve to bring no grief upon her father and her mother. But what tumultuous heavings were within her breast! no wonder that a mother guessed them.
On the following day Modeste and Madame Dumay took Madame Mignon about mid-day to a seat in the sun among the flowers. The blind woman turned her wan26 and blighted27 face toward the ocean; she inhaled28 the odors of the sea and took the hand of her daughter who remained beside her. The mother hesitated between forgiveness and remonstrance29 ere she put the important question; for she comprehended the girl’s love and recognized, as the pretended Canalis had done, that Modeste was exceptional in nature.
“God grant that your father return in time! If he delays much longer he will find none but you to love him. Modeste, promise me once more never to leave him,” she said in a fond maternal30 tone.
Modeste lifted her mother’s hands to her lips and kissed them gently, replying: “Need I say it again?”
“Ah, my child! I did this thing myself. I left my father to follow my husband; and yet my father was all alone; I was all the child he had. Is that why God has so punished me? What I ask of you is to marry as your father wishes, to cherish him in your heart, not to sacrifice him to your own happiness, but to make him the centre of your home. Before losing my sight, I wrote him all my wishes, and I know he will execute them. I enjoined31 him to keep his property intact and in his own hands; not that I distrust you, my Modeste, for a moment, but who can be sure of a son-inlaw? Ah! my daughter, look at me; was I reasonable? One glance of the eye decided32 my life. Beauty, so often deceitful, in my case spoke33 true; but even were it the same with you, my poor child, swear to me that you will let your father inquire into the character, the habits, the heart, and the previous life of the man you distinguish with your love — if, by chance, there is such a man.”
“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 truce34 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 vessel35 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
indigo36, one third in safe London securities, and another third in
good solid gold. Your remittances37 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 competence38 for myself.
I have been engaged in the opium39 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
Minor40 and purchased opium at low prices, and from thence to Canton
where I delivered my cargoes41 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 deserted43 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 entail44 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-inlaw 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-inlaw is
worthy45 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 discretion46 to tell
what you think best to my wife and daughters; I rely upon your
prudence47. 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 lieutenant48 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 cargo42 is worth, he tells me, eight or nine hundred thousand francs. But he requires secrecy49 from all of us; his heart is still wrung50 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 rapacity51 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.”
Modeste was so afraid that Canalis and Dumay would meet that she started hastily for the house to write to her poet and put off the rendezvous52.
“Mademoiselle,” said Dumay, in a very humble53 manner and barring Modeste’s way, “may your father find his daughter with no other feelings in her heart than those she had for him and for her mother before he was obliged to leave her.”
“I have sworn to myself, to my sister, and to my mother to be the joy, the consolation54, and the glory of my father, and I shall keep my oath!” replied Modeste with a haughty55 and disdainful glance at Dumay. “Do not trouble my delight in the thought of my father’s return with insulting suspicions. You cannot prevent a girl’s heart from beating — you don’t want me to be a mummy, do you?” she said. “My hand belongs to my family, but my heart is my own. If I love any one, my father and my mother will know it. Does that satisfy you, monsieur?”
“Thank you, mademoiselle; you restore me to life,” said Dumay, “but you might still call me Dumay, even when you box my ears!”
“Swear to me,” said her mother, “that you have not engaged a word or a look with any young man.”
“I can swear that, my dear mother,” said Modeste, laughing, and looking at Dumay who was watching her and smiling to himself like a mischievous56 girl.
“She must be false indeed if you are right,” cried Dumay, when Modeste had left them and gone into the house.
“My daughter Modeste may have faults,” said her mother, “but falsehood is not one of them; she is incapable57 of saying what is not true.”
“Well! then let us feel easy,” continued Dumay, “and believe that misfortune has closed his account with us.”
“God grant it!” answered Madame Mignon. “You will see him, Dumay; but I shall only hear him. There is much of sadness in my joy.”
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1
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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7
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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8
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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9
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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10
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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12
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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13
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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14
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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15
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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16
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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17
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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18
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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19
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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20
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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21
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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22
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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23
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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24
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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25
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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26
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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27
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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28
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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30
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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31
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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33
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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34
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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35
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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37
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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38
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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40
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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45
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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46
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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48
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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50
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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51
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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52
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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53
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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54
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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55
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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56
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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