Chapter XVIII

A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM.

A week after, Louis was again invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s, whose birthday they were to celebrate. The only people invited out of the family were the doctor and the Curé of St. M——. The curé’s invitation was an affair of importance, as you will see.

Mr. Smithson, as I have remarked, was an Englishman by birth. He had been induced by two motives to settle permanently in France when about thirty years of age: the climate suited his constitution better than that of his own country, and he could live more at his ease on the same income than he could in England.

Taking a house in Paris occupied by several tenants, his attention was drawn towards a young girl employed in a mercer’s shop on the ground floor of the same building. This girl was no other than the present Mme. Smithson. She lived with her mother, who was in comfortable circumstances, but made no pretensions. They were very estimable people, and gave the rich Englishman to understand that he could only be admitted as a visitor on condition of acknowledged serious intentions. Mr. Smithson at first hesitated. The girl was not rich, she belonged to a class he considered inferior to his own, and, what was more, they were of different religions. But it was too late to call reason to his aid. For six months he had felt a constantly increasing love for her. He therefore offered her his hand, merely requiring one concession on her part before he could marry her: she must embrace the religion he professed himself. Neither of the women who listened to this proposition was pious, but they did not lack faith, and they fulfilled the absolute commands of the church. They therefore replied, without a moment’s hesitation, that Mlle. Suzanne could not give up her religion for the sake of marrying him. At this, Mr. Smithson hesitated anew, but, as before, love carried the day. He renewed his offer, promising not to interfere with Suzanne’s religious belief if she would become his wife. He only made one condition to their marriage: they should respectively practise their religion without making any attempt to convert each other. As to the children, the boys must be brought up in their father’s belief, the daughters in that of their mother. Deplorable arrangement! showing the shameful indifference of both parties, or their foolish and culpable inconsistency. You know the church expressly forbids such concessions. It only tolerates mixed marriages on a precisely contrary condition: the parties to be married must pledge themselves that their offspring shall be brought up in the Catholic religion. I do not know how Mlle. Suzanne, in becoming Mme. Smithson, found means to evade this new difficulty. It is possible that, through ignorance or culpable weakness, she yielded to the terms without acknowledging it to any one. She doubtless hoped, when the time came for testing the arrangement, to find some means of extricating herself from it. At all events, they were married. Mr. Smithson remained an Anglican, and, astonishing to say, a thorough one. His attachment to the Church of England was easily explained by those who knew him. He still cherished an ardent love for his country, and almost reproached himself for leaving it. His fidelity to the English Church was a last testimony of attachment to the country he had abandoned.

When Eugénie was born, her father manifested a temporary sullenness and ill humor at her baptism that frightened Mme. Smithson. Nevertheless, she was firm. Eugénie was brought up very strictly, and her father gradually became accustomed to her being a Catholic, to see her practise her religion, and even hear her speak of it with enthusiasm, for she was enthusiastic on all great themes.

These were, it must be said, the only concessions Mr. Smithson made to the true faith. He never entered a Catholic church. He even refused to acknowledge that which its very enemies are forced to concede—the grandeur and utility of the enterprises she alone successfully achieves; the efficacious assistance she renders each one of us at critical moments in our lives; and the happiness—earthly happiness even—that she bestows on all who are faithful to her teachings. But the decided stand Mr. Smithson took against the true faith was specially manifested by his antipathy to the priesthood. Though he had lived a year and a half at St. M——, he had never had any intercourse with the Abbé Bonjean, the curé of the commune. Mme. Smithson and her daughter went to High Mass every Sunday, made the curé a brief call on New Year’s Day, and went to confession at Easter—that was all. I had some reason, therefore, to say it was a thing of no small importance to see the abbé at Mr. Smithson’s table. What had effected such a change in the mind of this dogmatic Englishman?... Had his daughter begged it as a favor?... By no means. Eugénie was not pious enough to care for the society of the curé.... Had Mme. Smithson ventured to break the compact which forbade her broaching, even remotely, the subject of religion to her husband? Still less likely. Madame had not the courage unless forced to revolt against some enormity like apostasy. What led Mr. Smithson to invite the abbé was the result of his own reflections. Since he had taken charge of a manufactory, and been brought in contact with a large number of workmen, some poor and others corrupt, he had felt an increasing desire of being useful to them, both morally and physically. Mr. Smithson had really a noble heart. Catholic benevolence excited his admiration more than he confessed. It caused him to reflect, though he was careful not to reveal his thoughts. These salutary reflections had gradually convinced him that, if he wished to reform the place, he must obtain the aid of some one not only of good-will like Louis, but of incontestable moral authority.... Where find a person with more means than the curé?... With the extreme prudence habitual to him—and he was more cautious now than ever, as it was a question of a priest—he was desirous of studying his future co-laborer. He could not help it; this black-robed man inspired him with distrust. “I will begin by studying him,” he said to himself; “and, for that, he must come to my house.” This plan decided upon, he acted accordingly. Without telling any one of his secret intention, without even giving a hint of it, except to his wife and daughter at the last moment, he invited the abbé.

Louis had already begun to understand his employer’s prejudices, and was therefore extremely astonished when he arrived to find the curé had been invited. But his astonishment was mingled with joy. He had already become acquainted with the abbé, and had been to confession to him more than once, and had more than one conversation with him. The curé was even aware of all Louis’ plans, and, as may be supposed, gave them his entire approbation.

There was some stiffness and embarrassment as the guests seated themselves at table, and looked at one another; but, after a few moments, the genuine simplicity of the abbé, who was no fool, and the doctor’s facetiousness, broke the ice. Mr. Smithson alone maintained his usual reserve. He had sent for the abbé that he might study his character, and he was not neglecting it. As to Louis, seated opposite Eugénie, he seemed to emulate the wise man of the Scriptures who had made a compact with his eyes and his tongue. He tempered the fire of his eye, restrained his flow of words, and courageously filled the part he had imposed on himself—that of a man serious unto coldness, calm unto insensibility.

Everything passed off very well till the dessert. Mr. Smithson then directed the conversation to the condition of his workmen, and spoke of his desire to ameliorate it. Eugénie warmly applauded what her father said; she spoke of some visits she had made, and gave many interesting details respecting the families she had assisted.

The good abbé had, alas! one fault. Priests have their faults as well as we—fewer, without doubt, but still they have some. The curé’s defect was a want of prudence. He was agreeable in conversation, and had the best intentions in the world, but he did not weigh his words sufficiently. He never troubled himself about the interpretation, malevolent or otherwise, that certain people might give to them. He was a good man, but not sufficiently mindful of our Saviour’s counsel to be wise as a serpent and simple as a dove. He was amiable and sincere, but lacking in discretion: that was a misfortune. At a time of religious indifference and of impiety like ours, more than usual prudence is necessary for all who love their religion: the impious are so glad to find a pretext for their calumnies! The abbé now began in the heartiest manner, and very sincerely too, to compliment Mr. Smithson for all he had said, and Mlle. Eugénie for all she had done. He gave a thrilling but true sketch of the ravages want and immorality were making among the working-classes, and dwelt on the necessity of an immediate and efficacious remedy. All this was proper. There was nothing so far to criticise. But the abbé should have stopped there. He had, however, the indiscretion to keep on, adding many things ill adapted to those before whom he was speaking. “I know what remedies are necessary,” said he; “and who of us does not? They are—instruction to a certain degree, visiting the poor in their houses, dropping a good word, and, above all, the infinite service of leading them back to the holy Catholic religion, which alone knows how to influence the heart of man, and inspire benevolent souls with the wisdom and perseverance necessary for perfecting their noble enterprises. I hope I wound no one’s feelings in expressing myself thus. What I have said is only a well-known truth, readily acknowledged by a multitude of upright souls who have not, however, the happiness of belonging to us.”

Mr. Smithson said nothing. He felt the shaft, however blunted, that was aimed so directly at him. The curé himself seemed conscious of having gone too far in the ardor of his untimely zeal. The Englishman was one of those men who only retort when obliged to: he remained silent. The poor curé hurt himself still more by enthusiastically eulogizing Louis a few minutes after in these words: “M. Louis, by another year, you will have shown yourself the good angel of the whole country around.”

This appeared exaggerated to Mr. Smithson. It excited his jealousy, already awakened. He imagined he saw proofs of an understanding between the curé and the engineer in this unfortunate remark. Their understanding had an evident aim, in Mr. Smithson’s eyes, to diminish his moral influence, and even suppress it. “That is the way with Catholic priests,” he said to himself. “They are ambitious, scheming, eager to rule, and knowing how to find accomplices everywhere.” The curé and Louis thenceforth became objects of suspicion, though he was careful not to show it outwardly.

Louis had begun to understand human nature, and at once realized all the imprudence of the curé’s remarks. He foresaw the bad effect they would have on the master of the house. He tried in vain, by some adroit turn in the conversation, to lessen, if not to annul, the unfortunate impression the abbé’s conversation might have produced. The curé persisted in his opinion, and only added to his previous blunder. Louis felt he should not gain anything, and stopped short with so distressed an air that it was pitiful to see him.

Mr. Smithson, led away by his prejudices, thought Louis’ depression the consequence of his accomplice’s betraying so awkwardly the secret tie between them. “The engineer is, perhaps, the more dangerous of the two,” he said to himself. “I should never have suspected their plan, had it not been for the abbé’s imprudent frankness.” Hence he concluded there would be more need than ever of keeping an eye on his subordinate.

Eugénie, though not pious, understood her religion too well, and loved it, or rather, admired it too much, to be astonished at what the curé had said. She thoroughly agreed with him, but, as the conversation became serious, she only attended to the most important points, and paid but little attention to the abbé’s imprudent remarks. The praise he bestowed on Louis did not seem to her excessive. She rather approved than condemned it. She did not, therefore, suspect the cause of Louis’ sadness, but attributed it to a want of ease naturally occasioned by the inferior position into which he had been thrown by his misfortunes. More than once she came to his aid, politely addressing the conversation to him. Seeing him still preoccupied, she ended by proposing after dinner that he should sing something to her accompaniment. Louis excused himself. “I insist upon it,” she said, in a tone of sweet authority that instantly transported him into a new world. He forgot the curé’s imprudence, its probable effect on Mr. Smithson, and his own difficult position. The first time for a long while—ten years, perhaps—he had one of those moments of cloudless happiness that rarely falls to man’s lot, and can never be forgotten. It seemed as if a mysterious, ravishing voice whispered that Eugénie was beginning to love him. At least, he no longer doubted for the moment the possibility of her loving him some day. Louis had the soul of an artist, and possessed undoubted talent, and he sang that evening as he had never sung in his life.

When the song was ended, he turned toward Eugénie, and read in her eyes sincere astonishment and admiration, but nothing else. All his doubts, all his sadness, revived. An instant before, his heart overflowed with joy: now he was so cast down that he was alarmed, and wondered what misfortune was going to happen to him. I am not exaggerating: ardent natures often pass through such alternations of extreme joy and sadness. The evening passed away without any new incident. Before midnight, the guests returned home, and were free to yield to their own thoughts. The few hours just elapsed had modified the sentiments of all who had dined together at Mr. Smithson’s.

Eugénie, without allowing it to appear outwardly, had also had one of those sudden revelations that like a flash reveal everything with unexpected clearness. For the first time, she fully realized the possibility of loving one whom she at first despised. Louis’ dignified, melancholy air, his grave, earnest manner of conversing, his remarkable musical talent, and the sympathetic tone of his voice, all produced an effect on Eugénie she had never experienced before. Not that she loved him yet, but she asked herself how long her indifference would last. First impressions are hard to efface from ardent souls. Eugénie was alarmed at the idea of loving one who had at first inspired her with so much distrust. She resolved to watch more carefully over herself, and keep an observant eye on one who might take a place in her heart she did not wish to give, unless for ever.

This was wise. One cannot take too much precaution when there is reason to fear the heart is disposed to yield. The heart is the best or the worst of counsellors, according as it is guided or abandoned by reason. Besides, Eugénie was wholly ignorant of Louis’ feelings towards her.

Poor Louis ended the evening in disheartening reflections. He began by dwelling on a painful alternative: either Eugénie did not suspect his love for her, or, if she perceived it, her only response was a coldness that was discouraging. “And yet,” thought he, “if I am mistaken!... If she already loves me in her heart!... If at least she could some day love me!” ... He smiled. Then another fear, still worse than the rest, crossed his mind. “Well, if it were so, there would be another obstacle in the way more dangerous than the indifference of Mlle. Eugénie herself—the opposition of her father. He would never consent to the marriage. His antipathy to me has always been evident. The abbé has completed my ruin. I am henceforth a dangerous man—a fanatic—in Mr. Smithson’s eyes!”

“What shall I do?” added Louis, by way of conclusion. “Shall I give up the work I have undertaken? Ought I to practise my religion secretly, in order to give no offence?... No, indeed; that would be cowardly, unworthy of a man of courage, and criminal ingratitude towards God, who has been so merciful to me.... No hateful concessions! With the divine assistance, I will do what I think is for the best. Whatever happens will be the will of God.... Whatever it may be, I shall be sure of having nothing to repent of....”

To be serious, I should add that Louis, in forming this resolution, was not so heroic as he really believed himself to be. He was young, he was in love: and youth and love have always some hope in store.

It is useless to speak of Mr. Smithson. We are aware of his sentiments. Louis was not wrong in his fears respecting him. And yet, however sad Louis’ position might be, it was soon to become still more so. A new cloud was rising without his suspecting it.

TO BE CONTINUED.