The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence. Эжен Сю

hearing this repentant cry, Madame Bastien reproached herself for her tears. She even reproached herself for the painful impression the incident had made upon her, for was it not due to Frederick's unfortunate condition? so, covering her son's face with passionate kisses, she, in her turn, implored his forgiveness.

      "My poor child, you are not well," she exclaimed, tenderly, "and your suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were hardly accountable."

      "No, oh, no, mother, I swear it."

      "Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear Frederick."

      "I tore out the pages, mother," continued the lad with no little embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, "I tore out the pages because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst thing I have written since this – this sort of – of despondency seized me."

      "And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a critic."

      "No, mother, I assure you – "

      "Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk."

      "It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don't feel as if I had energy enough to take a single step."

      "It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good."

      "I don't feel equal to it, really, mother."

      "Well, you haven't heard, I think, that André said he saw a big flock of plover this morning. Take your gun, and we will go over to Sablonnière heath. You will enjoy it and so shall I. You are such a good shot, it is a pleasure to see you handle a gun."

      "I don't take any pleasure in hunting now."

      "Yet you used to be so fond of it."

      "I don't care for anything now," replied Frederick, almost involuntarily, in a tone of intense bitterness.

      Again the young mother felt the tears spring to her eyes, and Frederick, seeing his mother's distress, exclaimed:

      "I love you always, mother, you know that."

      "Oh, yes, I know that, but you have no idea how despondently you said, 'I don't care for anything now.'"

      Then trying to smile in order to cheer her son, Marie added:

      "Really, I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day. I seem to be continually saying and doing the wrong thing, and here you are crying again, my dear child."

      "Never mind, mother, never mind. It is a long time since I have cried, and I really believe it will do me good."

      He spoke the truth. These tears did indeed seem to relieve his overburdened heart, and when he at last looked up in the face of the mother who was tenderly bending over him, and saw her beautiful features wearing such an expression of infinite tenderness, he thought for an instant of confessing the feelings that tortured him.

      "Yes, yes," he said to himself, "I was wrong to fear either scorn or anger from her. In her angelic goodness of heart I shall find only pity, compassion, consolation, and aid."

      The mere thought of confessing all to his mother comforted him, and seemed even to restore a little of his former courage, for after a moment he said to Madame Bastien:

      "You proposed a walk a few minutes ago, mother. I believe you are right in thinking that the open air would do me good."

      This admission on her son's part seemed to Madame Bastien a good omen, and hastily donning her hat and a silk mantle, she left the house in company with her son.

      But now the time for the confession had come, the youth shrank from it. He could think of no way to broach the subject, or to excuse himself to his mother for having concealed the truth from her so long.

      As they were walking along, the sky, which had been so lowering all the morning, suddenly cleared, and the sun shone out brightly.

      "What a delightful change!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, in the hope of cheering her son. "One might almost think that the radiant sun had emerged from the clouds to give you a friendly greeting. And how pretty that old juniper looks in this flood of sunlight. That old juniper over there at the end of the field, you remember it, of course?"

      Frederick shook his head.

      "What! you have forgotten those two long summer days when I sat in the shade of that old tree while you finished that poor labourer's work?"

      "Oh, yes, that is true," replied Frederick, quickly.

      The recollection of that generous act seemed to make the thought of the painful confession he must make to his mother less painful, and his growing cheerfulness showed itself so plainly in his face that Madame Bastien said to him:

      "I was right to insist upon your coming out, my child. You look so much brighter that I am sure you must be feeling better."

      "I am, mother."

      "How glad I am, my son," exclaimed Madame Bastien, clasping her hands, thankfully. "What if this should be the end of your malady, Frederick!"

      As the young mother made this gesture of thankfulness, the light silk mantle she was wearing slipped from her shoulders unnoticed either by her or by Frederick, who replied:

      "I don't know why it is, but I too hope like you, mother, that I shall soon be myself again."

      "Ah, if you too hope so, we are saved," exclaimed his mother, joyfully. "M. Dufour told me that this strange and distressing malady which has been troubling you often disappears as suddenly as it came, like a bad dream, and health returns as if by enchantment."

      "A dream!" exclaimed Frederick, looking at his mother with a strange expression on his face; "yes, mother, you are right. It was a bad dream."

      "What is the matter, my child? You seem greatly excited, but it is with pleasurable emotion. I know that by your face."

      "Yes, mother, yes! If you knew – "

      But Frederick did not have time to finish the sentence. A sound that was coming nearer and nearer, but that Marie and her son had not noticed before, made them both turn.

      A few yards behind them was a man on horseback, holding Madame Bastien's mantle in his hand.

      Checking his horse, which a servant who was in attendance upon him hastened forward to hold, the rider sprang lightly to the ground, and with his hat in one hand and the mantle in the other he advanced toward Madame Bastien, and bowing low, said, with perfect grace and courtesy of manner:

      "I saw this mantle slip from your shoulders, madame, and deem myself fortunate in being able to return it to you."

      Then with another low bow, having the good taste to thus evade Madame Bastien's thanks, the rider returned to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. As he passed Madame Bastien he deviated considerably from his course, keeping near a hedge that bordered the field, as if fearing the close proximity of his horse might alarm the lady, then bowed again, and continued on his way at a brisk trot.

      This young man, who was about Frederick's age, and who had a remarkably handsome face and distinguished bearing, had evinced so much grace of manner and politeness, that Madame Bastien innocently remarked to her son:

      "It is impossible to conceive of any one more polite or better bred, is it not, Frederick?"

      Just as Madame Bastien asked her son this question, a small groom in livery, who was following the horse-man, and who, like his master, was mounted upon a superb blooded horse, passed, the lad, who was evidently a strict observer of etiquette, having waited until his master was the prescribed twenty-five yards in advance of him before he moved from his place.

      Madame Bastien motioned him to stop. He did so.

      "Will