Conscience — Complete. Hector Malot

      “And what would have become of us, I should like to know, if I had been melancholy and discouraged when we lost my poor papa? He was joy itself, singing all day long, laughing and joking. He brought me up, and I am like him. Mamma, as you know, is melancholy and nervous, looking on the dark side, and Florentin is like her. I obtained a place for Florentin, I found work for mamma and for myself. We all took courage, and gradually we became calm.”

      She looked at him with a smile that said:

      “Will you let me do for you what I have done for others?”

      But she did not speak these words. On the contrary, she immediately endeavored to destroy the impression which she believed her words had made upon him.

      “Go and bring some water,” she said, “and I will light the fire.”

      When he returned, carrying a carafe, the fire blazed brightly, lighting the whole room. Phillis was seated at the desk, writing.

      “What are you doing?” he asked in surprise.

      “I am writing our menu, for you know we are not going to sit down at the table like the bourgeois. How do you like it?”

      She read it to him.

      “Sardines de Nantes.”

      “Cuisse de dinde rotie.”

      “Terrine de pate de foie gras aux truffes du Perigord.”

      “But this is a feast.”

      “Did you think that I would offer you a fricandeau au jus?”

      She continued:

      “Fromage de Brie.”

      “Choux a la creme vanillge.”

      “Pomme de Normandie.”

      “Wine.”

      “Ah! Voila! What wine? I do not wish to deceive you. Let us put, ‘Wine from the wine-seller at the corner.’ And now we will sit down.”

      As he was about to seat himself, she said:

      “You do not give me your arm to conduct me to the table. If we do not do things seriously and methodically we shall not believe in them, and perhaps the Perigord truffles will change into little black pieces of anything else.”

      When they were seated opposite to each other, she continued, jesting:

      “My dear doctor, did you go to the representation of Don Juan, on Monday?”

      And Saniel, who, in spite of all, had kept a sober face, now laughed loudly.

      “Charming!” she cried, clapping her hands. “No more preoccupation; no more cares. Look into my eyes, dear Victor, and think only of the present hour, of the joy of being together, of our love.”

      She reached her hand over the table, and he pressed it in his.

      “Very well.” The dinner continued gayly, Saniel replying to Phillis’s smiles, who would not permit the conversation to languish. She helped him to each dish, poured out his wine, leaving her chair occasionally to put a piece of wood on the fire, and such shoutings and laughter had never been heard before in that office.

      However, she noticed that, little by little, Saniel’s face, that relaxed one moment, was the next clouded by the preoccupation and bitterness that she had tried hard to chase away. She would make a new effort.

      “Does not this charming little dinner give you the wish to repeat it?”

      “How? Where?”

      “As I am able to come this evening without making mamma uneasy, I shall find some excuse to come again next week.”

      He shook his head.

      “Have you engagements for the whole of next week?” she asked with uneasiness.

      “Where shall I be next week, to-morrow, in a few days?”

      “You alarm me. Explain, I beg of you. O Victor, have pity! Do not leave me in suspense.”

      “You are right; I ought to tell you everything, and not let your tender heart torment itself, trying to explain my preoccupation.”

      “If you have cares, do you not esteem me enough to let me share them with you? You know that I love you; you only, to-day, to-morrow, forever!”

      Saniel had not left her ignorant of the difficulties of his position, but he had not entered into details, preferring to speak of his hopes rather than of his present misery.

      The story that he had already told to Glady and Caffie he now told to Phillis, adding what had passed with the concierge, the wine-seller, the coal man, and Joseph.

      She listened, stupefied.

      “He took your coat?” she murmured.

      “That was what he came for.”

      “And to-morrow?”

      “Ah! to-morrow—to-morrow!”

      “Working so hard as you have, how did you come to such a pass?”

      “Like you, I believed in the virtue of work, and look at me! Because I felt within me a will that nothing could weaken, a strength that nothing could fatigue, a courage that nothing could, dishearten, I imagined that I was armed for battle in such a way that I should never be conquered, and I am conquered, as much by the fault of circumstances as by my own—”

      “And in what are you to blame, poor dear?”

      “For my ignorance of life, stupidity, presumption, and blindness. If I had been less simple, should I have been taken in by Jardine’s propositions? Should I have accepted this furniture, this apartment? He told me that the papers he made me sign were mere formalities, that in reality I might pay when I could, and that he would be content with a fair interest. That seemed reasonable, and, without inquiring further, I accepted, happy and delighted to have a home, feeling sure of having strength to bear this burden. To have confidence in one’s self is strength, but it is also weakness. Because you love me you do not know me; you do not see me as I am. In reality, I am not sociable, and I lack, absolutely, suppleness, delicacy, politeness, as much in my character as in my manners. Being so, how can I obtain a large practice, or succeed, unless it is by some stroke of luck? I have counted on the luck, but its hour has not yet sounded. Because I lack suppleness I have not been able to win the sympathy or interest of my masters. They see only my reserve; and because I stay away from them, as much through timidity as pride, they do not come to me—which is quite natural, I admit. And because I have not yielded my ideas to the authority of others, they have taken a dislike to me, which is still more natural. Because I lack politeness, and am still an Auvergnat, heavy and awkward as nature made me, men of the world disdain me, judging me by my exterior, which they see and dislike. More wary, more sly, more experienced, I should be, at least, sustained by friendship, but I have given no thought to it. What good is it? I had no need of it, my force was sufficient. I find it more easy to make myself feared than loved. Thus formed, there are only two things for me to do: remain in my poor room in the Hotel du Senat, living by giving lessons and by work from the booksellers, until the examination and admission to the central bureau; or to establish myself in an out-of-the-way quarter at Belleville, Montrouge, or elsewhere, and there practise among people who will demand neither politeness nor fine manners. As these two ways are reasonable, I have made up my mind to neither. Belleville, because I should work only with my legs, like one of my comrades whom I saw work at Villette: ‘Your tongue, good. Your arm, good.’ And while he is supposed to be feeling the pulse of the patient with one hand, with the other he is writing his prescription: ‘Vomitive, purgative, forty sous;’ and he hurries away, his diagnosis having taken less than five minutes; he had no time to waste. I object to the Hotel du Senat because I have had enough of it, and it was there that Jardine tempted me with his proposals. See what he has brought me to!”

      “And