Читать книгу Human Follies (La Bêtise Humaine.) - Jules Noriac - Страница 3

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When Eusebe Martin had attained his twenty-first year, his father, who was a man of sense, thus addressed him:—

“Eusebe, you are no longer a child: it is time to begin your education. You were but eight years old when you lost your mother, my beloved wife. This was a great misfortune, no doubt; for her heart would have been to you a treasure of affection. However, if we were permitted to believe in compensations in this world, I should think that you had been recompensed for this loss, great as it was. Your mother, had she lived, would have spoiled you, and to-day you would not have been half the man you are.

“Remember that I have been to you a father full of solicitude. Since the day of your mother’s death, I have left you as free as the bird that at this moment is singing on the linden-tree at the door. I have clothed you according to the season,—in summer in linen, in winter in wool. My table has always been abundantly supplied. As I never told you that you ate too much, you have never shown a desire to overload your stomach. I have accustomed you to running in the fields and to working with the peasants, which has rendered you strong and vigorous.

“Morally, I owed you nothing more. Nevertheless, I have taught you to read and to write. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not a thick head: instead of six months, you would have wearied me two long years,—perhaps more. What use have you made of the little learning I have given you? I have never taken the pains to inquire. I have left my library entirely at your disposal, because I knew that if it contained no good books it also contained no bad ones. Have the books you have read tended to form or deform your judgment? Little do I care; for, since no one can know where falsehood is to be found and where truth is hidden, my reflections would, probably, have been at war with reason.”

“Books generally tire me,” interrupted Eusebe. “Up to the present time I have read nothing but the adventures of a sailor named Robinson Crusoe, and of one Telemachus, son of Ulysses.”

“So much the better,” replied M. Martin; “or, perhaps, so much the worse. I would rather see you an enthusiastic admirer of Robinson, than of Paul and Virginia, or Faublas. But perhaps I am wrong; for, after all, Paul and Virginia are all tenderness, Faublas all love, and Robinson is egotism personified. However, nothing proves that egotism, which is a fault, is not alone worth as much as tenderness and love, which are considered good qualities.

“Now, my son, listen to me. You owe me your existence, for which, if I do not merit your thanks, I should not incur your displeasure. I but fulfilled a natural law. I have provided for your wants: the laws of society made it my duty. I have just paid a sum of money which exempts you from military service. You will, however, be at liberty to become a soldier at any time you may think proper. To-day I have received from my notary your mother’s fortune. Here it is: it is yours. In this belt there are forty-eight pieces of paper of the Bank of France, and one hundred pieces of gold. Each one of these pieces of paper is worth fifty pieces of gold: each piece of gold is worth twenty of those white pieces which I give you on Sunday, when you go to play with the vagabond boys of the village on the church square. In short, you possess fifty thousand francs,—that is, more twenty-sous pieces than we gather apples in ten years. Compared with some, you are rich; with others, you are poor. Do not trouble yourself either about those who are above or about those who are below you. The interest of this money will enable you to live until, after having become acquainted with the world, you decide to choose a vocation. If, however, you do not see fit to take the trouble of investing it, you have only to limit your expenses to ten francs per day, when your patrimony will last five thousand days,—that is, about fourteen years. In all probability, at the expiration of this time I shall be dead, and you will naturally be the possessor of our domain, the Capelette, the revenues of which are three thousand francs a year, in bad times as well as in good.

“You are about to set out for Paris, the city par excellence of civilization. Never will you have so good a theatre for studying the world. Profit by it. Go, Eusebe, and do not take the goods of others: you would have no excuse, since you have enough of your own. Never disguise the truth. The play is not worth the candle. Never strike the weak, and be equally careful not to defend them: you would make yourself two enemies. Try to have neither enemies nor friends: there is little to choose between them. And now, good-bye, my boy: here is the coach.”

The young man threw his arms around his father’s neck and embraced him affectionately. M. Martin was moved by this unexpected outburst of feeling. In a trembling voice, he said,—

“Farewell, my son! farewell!”

The young man started. His father, having placed himself at the window a moment afterwards, looked at him as he hurried towards the road.

“Eusebe!” cried he: “come here a moment, and tell me what put it into your head to embrace me, and who taught you to make this demonstration of affection.”

“Father,” replied the young man, “ten years ago M. Jaucourt, the curate, who died last year, seeing me divide a piece of bread with a poor idiot, embraced me as I just embraced you when you divided your fortune with me.”

At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated himself beside the postilion.

M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,—

“Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where they have no business!”