Chapter XLII

It will be remembered, perhaps, that at the moment of departure for Blemur, Bridou put on Jacques Bastien's greatcoat, made of goatskin. Bastien, half drunk, had, in spite of old Andre's advice to the contrary, persisted in fording a place inundated by the pond as well as by the waters of the Loire; the horse lost his footing, and the carriage was dragged down the current. Bridou succeeded in getting out of the carriage, but was swept by the torrent under the wheels of the mill and crushed to death. A part of the goatskin coat was caught in one of the wheels. In the pocket of the garment were found several letters addressed to M. Bastien. Hence the fatal error. It was supposed that M. Bastien had been crushed under the wheels, and that the body of the bailiff had disappeared under the water.

Jacques Bastien, incommoded by his great corpulence, had not, in spite of his efforts, succeeded in getting out of the carriage; this circumstance saved him. The horse, after having been dragged some distance with the drift, regained his footing, but soon, exhausted by fatigue, and attempting to ascend a very steep hill, he tumbled down. Jacques, thrown forward, received a deep wound in the head, and lay insensible for some time, when, at the break of day, some labourers going to the fields found him, picked him up and carried him to an isolated farm quite distant from the scene of the disaster.

Jacques remained a long time in this farmhouse, seriously ill from the results of his wound, and a dangerous attack produced by fright and prolonged immersion in the ice-cold water. When he was in a condition to write to his wife, he intentionally neglected to do so, promising himself--as no doubt rumours of his death were current--to make his resurrection a stupid and brutal joke, for he well understood with what sentiments his household would receive the news of his tragic end.

In his project, Jacques, as we have seen, did not fail.

When, however, he saw his wife fall, overwhelmed at the sight of him, he thought he had killed her, and fled from his house in a terror which partook of the nature of frenzy.

Marie was not the only one overcome by this terrible blow.

Frederick was not less shocked by the sudden appearance of Bastien, and, seeing his mother fall dead as it were on the floor, fell fainting in the arms of Doctor Dufour.

The poor boy was not borne to his own chamber, but to the library, and a bed was there prepared for him, as Doctor Dufour feared, with reason, that the removal of Frederick to his own chamber, which opened into his mother's, might be followed by consequences disastrous to both.

The doctor could not give his attention to both at the same time, and occupied himself first with Marie, who, scarcely convalescent from her previous illness, was alas! struck with a mortal blow.

When Doctor Dufour returned to Frederick he found him prostrated by cerebral congestion, and soon his condition was desperate.

When Marie regained consciousness she realised that her end was approaching, and asked to see her son immediately.

The embarrassment of Marguerite, her pallor and tears, her look of despair, and the excuses and evasions she made to explain the absence of Frederick in that solemn moment were a revelation to the young mother.

She felt, so to speak, that, like herself, her son was about to die; then she asked to see David.

Marguerite ushered the preceptor into the room and left him alone with Madame Bastien, whose angelic features already bore the impress of death. With her cold white hand she made a sign to David to sit down at her bedside and said to him:

"How is my son?"

"Madame--"

"He is not in his chamber; they are hiding him from me."

"Do not think--"

"I understand all; he is in a desperate state I know, but as my end is near, too, I wish to say farewell to him, Henri."

For the first and the last time, alas! Marie called David by his baptismal name.

"Farewell!" repeated he, with a heartrending sob "you wish to say farewell!"

"But I cannot die without telling you how much I have loved you. You knew it, did you not, my friend?"

"And you say that you are going to die! No, no! Marie, the power of my love will give new life to you!" cried David, under a sort of aberration of mind. "Die! Oh, why will you die? We love each other so much."

"Yes, our love is great, my friend, and for me it began from the day you restored the life of my son's soul."

"Oh, woe! woe!"

"No, Henri, my death is not a woe for us. It seems to me, you understand, that, in the moment of leaving this life, my soul, freed from terrestrial ties, can read the future. Henri, do you know what would have been our fate?"

"You ask me to tell you that, when this morning our plans were so--"

"Listen to me, my friend; there are profound mysteries of maternal love which, perhaps, are never unveiled but in supreme moments. As long as I felt myself free, the future appeared radiant to me, as it did to you, Henri, and perhaps for a few months, you and my son and myself would have mingled our lives in the same bliss."

"Oh, that dream! that dream!"

"The dream was beautiful, Henri; perhaps the awakening would have been cruel."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how much my son loves me. You know that all passionate affection has its jealousy; sooner or later, he would have been jealous of my love for you, Henri."

"He, he jealous of me?"

"You can believe a mother's heart; I am not mistaken."

"Alas, you only wish to make my sorrow less grievous; brave and generous to the last!"

"Say I am a mother to the last. Listen to me still, Henri. In uniting myself to you, I would have lost my name, that humble name that my son wanted above everything to make illustrious, because that name was mine, because everything in the poor child had reference to me."

"Oh, yes, you were in all his thoughts; when he thought he was dying, he cried, 'My mother!' and his first cry, as he began his march to a glorious destiny, was still, 'My mother!'"

"My friend, let us not deceive ourselves. What would have been our grief, if, just when we were about to be united, the fear of arousing my son's jealousy, perhaps would have stopped me? And however painful to have renounced our love, think how much more horrible it would have been to see, perhaps, the development of Frederick's jealousy after our union. What could we have done then? What would have become of us?"

"No, no, Marie, do not believe that. Frederick loves me, too, and he would have sacrificed himself to your happiness and mine."

"Sacrificed? Yes, my friend, he would have sacrificed himself. Oh, I know it, not a word, not a complaint would have passed his lips. Always loving, always tender, he would have smiled on us sadly, and then by degrees, we would have seen him at last wasting away."

"Oh, my God, that is dreadful! Woe to me!" murmured David, with bitter lamentation. "Woe to me!"

"Joy to you, Henri, because you have been the most generous of men," cried Marie, with an exaltation which imparted a superhuman expression to her dying features, "Joy to you, Henri, for you have been loved, oh, passionately loved, without costing a tear or one moment of shame to the loyal heart which adores you. Yes, Henri, I have loved you without hesitation, without resistance. I have loved you with pride, with serenity, because my love for you, Henri, had all the sacred sweetness of duty. Courage, then, my friend, let the memory of Marie and Frederick Bastien sustain you and console you."

"What do you mean? Frederick! Oh, he at least will remain to me!"

"My son will not survive me."

"Frederick?"

"I feel it here, yes, Henri, here in my heart; I tell you he will die."

"But, a little while ago, Pierre came out of the chamber where your son is lying, and told me he had not given up all hope. No, no, for him to die, too, would be more than I could bear."

"Why do you say that, Henri?"

"Great God! you--you, his mother, ask that question!"

"I told you, my friend, there are profound mysteries in maternal love. I think it would be a dreadful evil to survive my son, and Frederick thinks as I do; he loves me as much as I love him, and he does not desire to survive me."

"Oh, what misery for me to lose you both!"

"Marie and Frederick cannot be separated; neither in this world nor in the other, my friend."

"Ah, you and he are happy!"

"Henri, my strength is gone, the chill of death is on me. Give me your hand, your dear and faithful hand."

David threw himself on his knees at the bedside of the young woman, covering her hand with tears and kisses; he burst into sobs.

Marie continued talking, her voice growing more and more feeble.

"One last request, Henri; you will grant it, if it is possible. M. Bastien has spoken to me of his desire to sell this house; I would not like to have strangers profane this home, where my life has been passed, as well as the life of my son; for my life dates from the day I became a mother. Doctor Dufour, your best friend, dwells near here, you would like to live near him some day. Hasten that day, Henri; you will find great consolation in a heart like his."

"Oh, Marie, this house will be the object of a religious care--but--"

"Thank you, Henri, oh, thank you, that thought consoles me. A last prayer: I do not wish to be separated from my son; you understand me, do you not?"

Scarcely had Marie uttered these words when a great noise was heard in the corridor.

Marguerite in terror called the doctor.

Suddenly Madame Bastien's door was thrown open violently. Frederick entered, livid as a corpse, dragging after him a piece of the bed linen, like a winding-sheet, while Marguerite was trying in vain to hold him back.

A last ray of intelligence, the filial instinct perhaps, led this child to die near his mother.

David, who was kneeling at the bedside of the young woman, rose, bewildered, as if he had seen a spectre.

"Mother! mother!" cried Frederick, in an agonising voice, throwing himself on Marie's bed, and enfolding her in his arms, as the doctor ran to them in dismay.

"Oh, come, my child, come!" murmured Marie, embracing her son in a last embrace with convulsive joy, "now it is for ever!"

These were the last words of the young mother.

Frederick and Marie breathed out their souls in a supreme embrace.