CHAPTER XXX
THEN began a terrible, obstinate struggle against the dangers threatened by the elements of nature.
While Frederick rowed with incredible energy, over-excited at the sight of the canoe of the marquis, on which from time to time he would cast a look of generous emulation, David, sitting in front of the boat, guarded it from shocks with an address and presence of mind which was marvellous.
Already he had approached the farmhouse near enough to see distinctly the unfortunate family clinging to the roof, when an enormous stack of straw, carried by the waters, advanced on the right of the boat, which presented to the obstacle its breadth in cutting the current.
"Double your strokes, Frederick!" cried David. "Courage! let us avoid that stack of straw."
The son of Madame Bastien obeyed.
Already the prow of the little boat had gone beyond the stack of straw, which was not more than ten steps distant, when the young man, stiffening his arm as he threw himself violently back, so as to give more power to his stroke, made too sudden a movement, and broke his right oar. Soon, the left oar forming a lever, the boat turned about, and, instead of her breadth, presented her prow to the stack, which threatened to engulf her beneath its weight.
David, surprised by the sudden jolt, lost for a moment his equilibrium, but had time to cry:
"Row firmly with the oar left to you."
Frederick obeyed more by instinct than by reflection. The little boat turned again, presented its breadth, and, half raised by the eddy around the spheroid mass which had already touched the prow, swung on the single oar as if it had been a pivot, thus describing a half circle around the floating obstruction, and escaping from it in such a way as to receive only a slight shock.
While all this was taking place with the rapidity of thought, David, seizing a spare oar from the bottom of the boat, fixed it in the thole, saying to Frederick, who was excited by the frightful danger he had just escaped:
"Take this new oar and go forward; the canoe is gaining on us."
Frederick seized the oar, at the same time throwing a glance on the craft of the young marquis.
It was going directly toward the farmhouse, standing in the current, while the little boat was cutting it crosswise.
So, supposing they were of equal speed, the two craft, whose course formed a right angle, would meet at the farmhouse.
But, as we have said, the canoe, although it ascended the current, being managed by six vigorous oarsmen, was considerably in advance, thanks to the accident to which the little boat had nearly fallen a victim.
Frederick, seeing the marquis precede him, reached such a degree of excitement that for a given time his natural strength was raised to an irresistible power, and enabled him to accomplish wonders.
One would have said that the son of Madame Bastien had communicated his feverish ardour to inanimate objects, and that the little craft trembled with impatience in its entire frame, while the oars seemed to receive not only motion, but life, with such precision and harmony did they obey Frederick's every movement.
David himself, surprised at this incredible energy, continued to watch in front of the little boat, casting a radiant look on his pupil, whose heroic emulation he understood so well.
Suddenly Frederick uttered an exclamation of profound joy.
The little boat was only twenty-five steps from the farmhouse, while the yawl was still distant about a hundred steps.
Suddenly, prolonged cries of distress, accompanied by a terrible crash, rose above the sound of the roaring waters.
One of the gable ends of the farmhouse, undermined by the force of the current, fell down with a loud noise, and a part of the roof was giving way at the same time.
Then the family grouped around the chimney had no other support for their feet than some fragments of carpentry, the slow oscillations of which predicted their speedy fall.
In a few minutes, the gable end where the chimney was built, in its turn, sank into the abyss.
The unfortunate sufferers presented a heartrending picture, worthy of the painter of the Deluge.
The father standing half clothed, livid, his lips blue, his eye haggard, holding on to the tottering chimney with his left hand; two of the eldest children, locked in each other's arms, he bore upon his shoulders; around his right wrist was wrapped a rope, which he had been able to fasten to the opposite side of the chimney; by means of this rope, which girded the loins of his wife, he supported her, and prevented her fall into the water; for the poor woman, paralysed by cold, fatigue, and terror, had lost almost all consciousness; maternal instinct enabled her to press her nursing infant in her rigid arms to her bosom, and, in her desperation, the better to hold it, she had caught between her teeth the woollen skirt of the child's dress, to which she clung with the tenacity of a convulsion.
The agony of these wretched beings had already lasted five hours. Overcome by terror, they seemed no longer to see or to hear.
When David, arriving within the range of the voice, called out to them, "Try to seize the rope that I throw to you!" there was no response. Those whom he had come to save seemed absolutely petrified.
Realising that the shipwrecked were often incapable of assisting in their own rescue, David acted promptly, for the gable end, as well as the remainder of the roof, threatened to sink in the abyss every moment.
The little boat, pushed by the current, was managed in such a way as to touch the ruins of the building on the side opposite to that most likely to fall; then, while Frederick, hanging on with both hands to a projecting beam, held the craft on the side of the roof, David, one foot on the prow, and the other on the unsteady rafters, took hold of the mother with a strong arm, and placed her and the child in the bottom of the boat. Then the intelligence of the poor people, stupefied by cold and fright, seemed suddenly to awaken.
Jean François, holding by one hand to the rope, handed his two children over into the arms of David and Frederick, and then descended himself into the little boat, and stretched himself out by the side of his wife and children under the warm covering, – all remaining as motionless as possible for fear of upsetting the craft in its passage to the dead waters. Scarcely had Frederick taken up his oars to row away from the ruins of the farmhouse, when the whole mass was engulfed.
The reflux caused by the sinking of this mass of ruins was so violent, that a tremendous surge lifted the little boat a moment, then, when it sank, Frederick discovered, about ten steps from him in the middle of a wave of spouting foam, the yawl of the marquis, turned half-way, on its gunwale, and ready to capsize under the weight of an entanglement of carpentry and stones, for the canoe had touched the farmhouse ruins just about the time of the final wreck.
Frederick, at the sight of the canoe's danger, suspended the motion of his oars an instant, and cried, as he turned around to David:
"What is to be done to help them? Must I – "
He did not finish.
He left his oars, and leaped to the front of the little boat, and plunged into the water.
To seize the oars so imprudently abandoned by Frederick and row with desperate energy to the spot where the young man had just disappeared was David's first movement; at the end of two minutes of inexpressible anguish, he saw Frederick rise above the gulf, swimming vigorously with one hand, and dragging a body after him.
With a few strokes of the oar, David joined his pupil.
The latter, seizing the prow of the little boat with the hand with which he had been swimming, sustained with the other hand, above the water, Raoul de Pont Brillant, pale, inanimate, and his face covered with blood.
The marquis, struck on the head by a piece of the wreck which came near sinking the yawl, had been, by the same violent blow, thrown into the water, while the frightened oarsmen were occupied in relieving the craft from the timber which encumbered it. The canoe had hardly recovered her equilibrium, when the coxswain, seeing that his master had disappeared, looked around the craft in consternation, and at last discovered the marquis as he was held by the rescuing hand of Frederick.
The six oarsmen soon gained the spot where the little boat lay, and took on board Raoul de Pont Brillant, who had fainted.
Frederick, with David's assistance, came out of the water, and entered the little boat, when the oarsmen from the castle cried out to him in terror:
"Take care! a float of wood!"
In fact, the floating mass, coming rapidly behind the little boat, had not been seen by David, who was entirely occupied with Frederick.
At this new danger the preceptor recovered his presence of mind; he threw his boat-hook on the canoe of the marquis, and by means of this support drew himself to her, and thus escaped the shock threatened by the float of wood.
"Ah, monsieur," said the coxswain of the oarsmen, while the little boat was lying some seconds by the side of the canoe, "what is the name of the courageous young man who has just saved the marquis?"
"The wound of the Marquis de Pont Brillant may be serious," said David, without answering the coxswain's question. "It is the most prudent thing to return to the castle without delay."
Then, disengaging the boat-hook from the canoe, so as to give freedom of action to the little boat, David said to Frederick, who with radiant countenance was throwing back his long hair dripping with water:
"To your oars, my child. God is with us. When we once reach the dead waters, we are safe."
God, as David had said, was protecting the little boat. They reached the dead waters without further accident. There danger ceased almost entirely.
The preceptor, finding his watch at the prow no longer necessary, took the oars from the weary hands of Frederick, who hastened to make the unfortunate sufferers drink a little wine.
Ten minutes after, the little boat landed upon the shore.
CHAPTER XXXI
AT their disembarking David and Frederick found Madame Bastien.
The young woman had assisted at a few of the episodes of this courageous salvage, by the aid of David's field-glass, leaving the scene, and taking another view by turns, as the danger seemed imminent or surmounted.
Sometimes Marie found her strength unequal to the sight of the heroic struggle of her son, whom she could not encourage by word or gesture.
Again, she would yield to the irresistible desire to know if Frederick had escaped the dangers which threatened him every moment.
During this period of admiration, tears, transports, hope, and agonies of terror, Marie had more than one opportunity of judging of David's brave solicitude for Frederick, and it would be hardly possible to describe the joy of the young mother when she saw the little boat land, and welcomed not only David and her son, but the unfortunate sufferers whom they had so courageously rescued.
But Marie's happiness became a sort of religious meditation when she learned from David that Raoul de Pont Brillant owed his life to Frederick.
Thus had the unhappy child providentially expiated the crime of his attempted homicide.
Thus disappeared from his life the only stain which his restoration had not been able utterly to efface.
The farmer and his family, loaded with favours and the sympathetic care of Madame Bastien, were installed at the farm, for the miserable beings had nothing left in the world.
Nor did that day or that night see the end of Madame Bastien's provident care.
The highways, cut off by this sudden inundation against which it was impossible to provide, rendered the means of salvage very scarce, and within the radius of country called the Valley, the little boat belonging to Frederick was the sole resource.
The lowland, almost entirely submerged, contained a great number of isolated farmhouses; some were completely destroyed and their inmates drowned, other houses resisted the impetuosity of the waters, but were so near as to be invaded by the rising of the overflow, and Frederick and David in the afternoon of the same day and in the next day accomplished the salvage of many families, and carried clothing and provisions to other victims of the disaster who had taken refuge in their garrets while the waters held possession of the lower story.
In these numerous expeditions Frederick and David displayed indefatigable perseverance, which was the means of rescue for many, and won the admiration of those people whom the advancing waters had driven back on the upland, where the farm of Madame Bastien was situated.
David's instructions did indeed bear good fruit.
The valour and generosity of Frederick were excited to almost incredible deeds by his envy of the more exalted position of the Marquis de Pont Brillant.
"I am only a half peasant; I am not rich and am not a marquis; I have no bark painted crimson and no oarsmen in livery, nor ancestors to look back to. I have only the encouragement of my mother, the support of my friend, my two arms, and my energy," said the young man to himself, "but by means of my devotion to the victims of this scourge, my obscure and plebeian name may become one day as well known in this country as the illustrious name of Pont Brillant. All my regret is that the wound of the marquis keeps him at the castle. I would have so much liked to rival him in zeal and courage before the face of everybody!"
In fact the wound which Raoul de Pont Brillant had received was serious enough to confine him to the bed, to his own great regret, for at the first news of the inundation he had valiantly jumped into his yawl and ordered it to the spot where it would prove the most useful.
But when the marquis became incapable of taking command and directing and inspiring his people his own inaction extended to the rest of the house, and the dowager of Pont Brillant, interested only in the suffering of her grandson, gave herself no further concern about the disaster, and roundly rebuked the cockswain of the bark for not having opposed the foolish temerity of Raoul.
Madame Bastien understood the duties of a mother otherwise. With a firm eye she saw her son go to brave new perils; she sought distraction from her own fears only in the care and comfort which she administered with adorable zeal to those whom Providence threw in her way.
Thus did she spend her long days of anxious concern for her son.
The day after the overflow, when it had somewhat abated, the roads were rendered practicable, and a few bridges repaired by carpenters permitted the organisation of more efficient means of aid to the sufferers.
As the waters retired, the unfortunate people whom the deluge had driven away from their homes returned broken in heart, and hastening in bitter impatience to see the extent of their disasters.
So it happened that the evening of the third day the farm of Madame Bastien, which had served as a place of refuge for all, became as solitary as in the past, the family of Jean François being the only ones left in the house, because they had no other shelter.
When the route of Pont Brillant became free again Doctor Dufour, whose anxiety had been extreme, hastened to the farm, to learn with joy and surprise that, notwithstanding the fatigues and excitements of these two terrible days, not one of the three friends had need of his attention. He learned also from Marie of Frederick's wonderful cure, and after two hours of delightful confidences he left the happy home, whose inmates were about to take that repose so nobly bought.
Raoul de Pont Brillant soon learned that the young man who had snatched him from an almost certain death was Frederick Bastien.
The dowager had not renounced her project of giving this charming little commoner, so near her castle, and whose husband was always absent, to her grandson as a mistress; so, finding, as she said to Zerbinette, an excellent opportunity for undertaking the affair, she went again to see Madame Bastien, at whose house she had twice before presented herself in vain, taking her maid with her in her elegant carriage.
This time it was not necessary for Marguerite to lie in order to declare to the dowager that Madame Bastien was not at home. In fact, for several days the young woman was continually absent from her home, occupied in lavishing on all sides her blessings of material comfort and spiritual consolation.
The marquise, provoked at the futility of this visit, said to her faithful Zerbinette, as she entered:
"This is bad luck; by my faith one would say this little fool is trying not to meet me. These obstacles make me impatient, and I must finish my undertaking without considering Raoul, whether he knows how to go about it. It is an excellent beginning to be fished up by this blockhead. Indeed, in the name of gratitude to her son, Raoul has the right not to stir from his mother's house until he has everything in hand. It is a famous opportunity. I must give this dear boy a lesson."
It was the 31st of December, fifteen days after the overflow. The damage had been incalculable, especially for a multitude of unfortunate sufferers, who, returning to their ruined hovels, covered with mud and slime, found only the walls, saturated with water and barely protected by a broken roof.
The ruin was general.
One had lost all his little store of grain gathered from the gleaning, or bought by great privation for the winter's nourishment.
Another had seen the waters carry away his pig or his cow, treasures of the proletary of the fields; again, there were those who had lost the only bed upon which the family slept; in fact, almost all had to deplore the sand-banks strewn over the little field from which they lived and paid the rent of the farm.
Besides, the vines were torn up by the roots, and the wine, carefully preserved to pay the hire, was carried off with the casks that contained it; in short, all those labourers, who, from the rising to the setting sun, worked with the indefatigable energy of necessity, and could hardly make both ends meet, felt bitterly that this scourge of forty-eight hours would last for many years upon their lives, and render their existence still more miserable.
The Marquis of Pont Brillant and his grandmother acted more than royally; they sent twenty thousand francs to the mayor, and twenty thousand to the parson, the day after the inundation.
Marie, as we have said, never possessed any other money than the small monthly allowance given to her by M. Bastien, for the maintenance of herself and her son; a sum from which she had little to spare for alms. She wrote then immediately to her husband, who was detained by business in Berri, and besought him to send her at once two or three thousand francs, that she might come to the assistance of the sufferers.
M. Bastien replied by asking his wife if she was making a jest of him, because he had, as he said, ten acres of the best land in the valley ruined by the sand; so far from coming to the assistance of others, he hoped to be included among those sufferers who would be the most largely indemnified, and as soon as his business was ended he was coming to the farm to draw up a statement of his losses so as to estimate the amount of his claim upon the government.
Madame Bastien, more distressed than surprised at her husband's reply, had recourse to other expedients.
She possessed a few jewels, inherited from her mother; there were at the farm about fifteen plates and a few other pieces of silver; the young woman sent Marguerite to sell this silver and jewels at Pont Brillant; the whole brought about two thousand francs; David asked Marie's permission to double the amount, and this money, employed with rare intelligence, proved the salvation of a large number of families.
Going through the country with her son, while David was busy making purchases, Marie saw for herself and doubled the value of her benefits by her kind words, a sack of grain for some, a few pieces of furniture for others, and for others still, linen and clothing. All was distributed by the young woman with as much discretion as discernment, and all was suitable to the needs of each.
Jacques Bastien owned a large and beautiful forest of fir-trees. The young woman, although she expected nothing less than the fury of her husband at the dreadful outrage, resolved to diminish by one thousand the number of these splendid firs, and many houses without roofs were at least solidly covered for the winter with beams and rafters of this rustic material, on which was extended a thick layer of wild broom, woven together with long and supple twigs of willow.
It was David, who had seen in his travels through the Alps shelters thus constructed so as to resist the winds and snows of the mountains, who gave the peasants these ideas for the construction of roofs; directing and sharing their work, he was able to apply and utilise a number of facts acquired in his extensive peregrinations.
As the overflow had swept away many mills and the greater part of the ovens belonging to the isolated houses, – these ovens being built outside and projecting from the gable end, – the peasants were compelled to buy bread in the town, at some distance from the houses scattered through the valley. They bought it dearly, since almost a whole day was required to go and return, and time was precious after such a disaster. David had seen the Egyptian nomads crushing corn, after they had moistened it, between two stones, and preparing cakes of it, which they cooked in the hot ashes. He taught this process to the families whose ovens had been destroyed, and they had at least, during the first days, sufficient and comfortable food.
But, in everything, David was admirably seconded by Frederick, and took pains to efface himself so as to attract gratitude toward his pupil, that he might be more and more encouraged in the noble way in which he was walking.
And besides, even when David had neglected this delicate solicitude for his pupil, Frederick displayed such courage, such perseverance, and showed himself so affectionate and so compassionate toward those whose sufferings he and his mother were relieving by every means in their power, that his name was in every mouth and his memory in every heart.
During the fortnight which followed the overflow, every day was employed by Madame Bastien, her son, and David in benevolent work.
When night came they returned home much fatigued, sometimes wet and covered with snow, and each made a toilet whose cleanliness was its only luxury.
Marie Bastien then would return to the library, her magnificent hair beautifully arranged, and according to her custom almost always dressed in a gown of coarse, shaded blue cloth, marvellously fitting her nymph-like figure. The dazzling whiteness of two broad cuffs, and a collar fastened by a little cravat of cherry or orange coloured silk, relieved the dark shade of this gown, which sometimes permitted one to see a beautiful foot, always freshly clad in Scotch thread stockings, white as snow, over which were crossed the silk buskins of a little shoe made of reddish brown leather.
This active life passed continually in the open air, the cheerfulness of spirit, the gaiety of heart, the habitual expression of charitable sentiments, the serenity of soul, had not only effaced from the lovely features of Marie Bastien the last trace of past suffering, but, like certain flowers, which, after having languished somewhat, often revive to greater freshness, the beauty of Marie became dazzling, and David frequently forgot himself as he contemplated it in silent adoration.
The same causes produced the same results in Frederick; he was more charming than ever, in youth, vigour, and grace.
Marie, her son, and David were accustomed to assemble in the library after these long days of active and courageous devotion, in order to talk over the events of the morning while waiting for dinner, to which they cheerfully did honour, without reflecting that the modest silver had been replaced by a brilliant imitation. After the repast, they went to visit a workroom, where Marie joined several women who were employed to prepare linen and clothing. This economy enabled her to double her gifts. This last duty accomplished, they returned to spend the long winter evenings in the library around a glowing fireside, while the bitter north wind whistled out of doors.
The days thus spent passed delightfully to these three persons united by sacred indissoluble ties.
Sometimes they discussed plans for Frederick's future, for after these fifteen days of arduous labour, he was about to begin new studies under David's direction.
The preceptor had travelled over two hemispheres, and often spoke of his voyages, and replied to the untiring questioning of his associates, with interesting accounts of cities, armies, and costumes which he sometimes portrayed with an accurate pencil.
An appropriate reading or the execution of some piece of music terminated the evening, for David was an excellent musician, and frequently entertained his hearers with the national airs of different countries, and romances charming in their freshness and simplicity.
In these familiar conversations, mingled with intimate confidences, David learned to appreciate more and more the exquisite character and loftiness of Madame Bastien's soul. Freed from all preoccupation, she had regained her liberty of mind, while the preceptor observed with renewed pleasure the influence he had exercised over Frederick's ideas, and prepared new plans of study which he cheerfully submitted to the mother and son.
Indeed, every day increased David's affection for his pupil, and he bestowed upon him all the treasure of tenderness which had filled his heart since the lamented death of his young brother. In thus loving passionately the son of Madame Bastien, David deceived himself by these fraternal memories, just as one is often deceived by vain regrets in falling in love with a resemblance.
Not infrequently midnight sounded, and the happy trio looked at each other in surprise, deploring the rapid flight of time, as they exclaimed:
"Already!"
And they would always say to each other in parting:
"To-morrow!"
Marie would retire to her own room, but Frederick would conduct David to his chamber, and there, how many times, standing within the embrasure of the door, the preceptor and pupil forgot themselves in the charm of a long friendly chat; one listening with faith, responding with eagerness, questioning with the ardour of his age, the other speaking with the tender solicitude of the mature man, who smiles compassionately on youth, impatient to try the mysterious path of destiny.
How many times old Marguerite was obliged to ascend to the floor upon which David's chamber was situated, and say to Frederick:
"Indeed, monsieur, it is midnight, it is one o'clock in the morning, and you know very well that madame never goes to bed before you do."
And Frederick would press David's hand and descend to his mother's chamber.
There, David would still be the subject of long conversations between the young woman and her son.
"Mother," Frederick would say, "how interesting was his account of his travels in Asia Minor."
"Oh, yes, nothing could be more so," Marie would answer. "And besides, Frederick, what curious things M. David has taught us about the vibrations of sound, and all that, too, by a few chords on this broken old piano."
"Mother, what a charming account he gave us, in comparing the properties of sound and light."
"And that delightful strain from Mozart that he played. Do you remember the choir of spirits in the 'Enchanted Flute?' It was so aerial, so light. What a pleasure for poor savages like us, who have never known anything of Mozart; it is like discovering a treasure of harmony."
"And how touching his anecdote about the old age of Haydn. And what he told us of the association of the Moravian brethren in America. How much less misery, how much benefit to poor people if those ideas could be applied in our country!"
"And, mother, did you notice that his eyes filled with tears when he spoke of the happiness which might be the portion of so many people who are now in want?"
"Ah, my poor child, his is the noblest heart in the world."
"Yes, mother, and how we ought to cherish it! Oh, we must love him so much, you see; yes, so very much that it will be impossible for him to leave us. He has no family; his best friend, Doctor Dufour, is our neighbour. Where could M. David find a better home than with us?"
"Leave us!" exclaimed Marie, "leave us! why, it is he who gives us our strength, our faith, our confidence in the future. Is it possible he can abandon us now?"
Then old Marguerite was obliged to interpose again.
"For the love of God, madame, do go to bed; why, it is two o'clock in the morning," said the old servant. "You rose at six o'clock, and so did M. Frederick, and then so must work all day long! Besides, it is not good sense to sit up so late!"
"Marguerite is right to scold us, my child," said Marie, smiling, and kissing her son on the forehead, "we are foolish to go to bed so late."
And the next day, again Marguerite's recriminations cut short the conversations of the mother and son.
Two or three times Marie went to bed in a sweetly pensive mood.
One evening, while Frederick was reading, his friend, thoughtful and sedate, his elbows on the table, was leaning over with his forehead on his hand; the light of the lamp, concentrated by the shade, shone brightly upon the noble and expressive face of David.
Marie, a moment distracted from the reading, directed her gaze to the guardian of her son, and looked at him a long time. By degrees, the young woman felt her eyes grow moist, her beautiful bosom palpitate suddenly, while a delicate blush mounted her snowy brow.
Just at this moment, David accidentally raised his eyes and met Marie's glance.