Avarice-Anger Part 51

"Oh, monsieur, have pity on him, have pity on him, I beseech you!" cried Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly. "I swear to you that it was not his fault. The poor boy is innocent of any wrong-doing, even in thought.

He hasn't the slightest suspicion of all this, I am sure. Have pity on him, I implore you!"

"Send him to me, I say."

"He shall leave the house this very night, monsieur, I swear it!"

"And my daughter! You want her to die of grief, perhaps!"

"One word, monsieur. It may be that mademoiselle's affection for Onesime is only a youthful fancy that time and absence will soon cause her to forget."

"But what if she does not forget it? What if this love is really deep and true, as it must be, if it has once really taken root in a heart like Sabine's? No, no, it would be an insult to the poor child to believe her capable of loving in that way. She is her mother over again, I tell you."

"Alas! monsieur, what you say nearly breaks my heart, and yet I am forced to admit that you are right. I never realised, until this very moment, all the possible consequences of this deplorable intimacy; for, unfortunately, this is not the only thing that must be considered."

"What do you mean?"

"Monsieur--"

"Speak, speak, I say."

"What if,--and it would not be his fault, remember, monsieur,--what if he should not share the affection he has inspired in mademoiselle--"

"d.a.m.nation!" exclaimed Cloarek.

Then after a moment's silence he said, sternly:

"Send your nephew here."

"Do not ask me to do that, monsieur!" pleaded Suzanne, in terror.

"Obey me, do you hear?"

"Not if you kill me, monsieur," replied Suzanne, resolutely; "no, he shall not come. I will make him leave the house. I will not expose him to--"

"To what? To my violence, my anger, I suppose you mean. Don't you see that my daughter's love for him renders him sacred in my eyes?"

"But if he does not love her, monsieur?"

"If he does not love her?" exclaimed Cloarek, becoming frightfully pale; then, without adding a word, and before the housekeeper, overcome with consternation, could make so much as a movement to prevent it, he rushed out of the parlour and into the room where Onesime was waiting to hear the result of his aunt's interview with the master of the house.

To open the door of this room, and close and lock it behind him, to prevent Suzanne from entering and Onesime from leaving it, was only the work of an instant, and he thus found himself alone with Suzanne's nephew.

CHAPTER XIII.

ONeSIME'S CONQUEST.

On hearing the violent opening and closing of the door, Onesime sprang up surprised and alarmed, for he was expecting to see only his aunt, and the heavy tread of the person who had just entered so boisterously indicated the presence of a stranger.

Cloarek, who had recovered the composure which had momentarily deserted him, scrutinised Onesime with anxious curiosity. At the first glance the countenance of the young man seemed gentle and prepossessing, but soon, forgetting the infirmity that prevented him from gaining more than a vague idea of objects a few feet from him, and seeing him gaze at him intently without giving any sign of recognition, he began to consider Onesime's manner extremely insolent, even audacious.

Suzanne's nephew, surprised at the prolonged silence, advanced a step or two in the hope of recognising the intruder, and at last asked, hesitatingly:

"Who is it?"

Cloarek, still forgetting the young man's infirmity, thought the question impertinent, and replied:

"Who is it! It is the master of the house, I would have you know."

"M. Cloarek!" exclaimed Onesime, recoiling a little, for the speaker's manner and tone indicated only too plainly that his, Onesime's, presence in the house was unwelcome to Sabine's father, so after a moment he said, in a trembling, almost timid voice:

"In complying with the wishes of my aunt, I believed, monsieur, that her request was made with your approval, or at least that you would not disapprove her kindness to me. But for that, I should not have thought of accepting her invitation."

"I hope so, indeed."

"I must therefore beg you to excuse an indiscretion of which I have been the involuntary accomplice, monsieur. I will leave your house to-morrow."

"And where will you go? What will you do?" demanded Cloarek, abruptly.

"What will become of you afterward?"

"Not understanding the feeling that prompts these questions, you cannot be surprised that I hesitate to answer them," responded Onesime, with gentle dignity.

"My feeling may be kindly, and it may be the opposite,--that depends upon circ.u.mstances. I shall know presently, however."

"You seem to const.i.tute yourself the sole arbiter of my destiny, monsieur!" exclaimed Onesime, with respectful firmness. "By what right, may I ask?"

"On the contrary, you seem to have made yourself the arbiter of my destiny," exclaimed Cloarek, impetuously.

"I do not understand you, monsieur."

"Do you dare to look me in the face and answer me in that way?"

"Look you in the face, monsieur? I wish that I could, but alas! at this distance I am utterly unable to distinguish your features."

"True, monsieur," replied Cloarek, with much less brusqueness, "I had forgotten your infirmity. But though you cannot see, you may rest a.s.sured that I have an eye that nothing escapes. It is one advantage that I have over you, and one that I shall profit by, I a.s.sure you."

"I a.s.sure you that this advantage will be of very little service to you so far as I am concerned. I have never had anything to conceal in my life."

This odd mixture of frankness and gentleness, of melancholy and dignity, touched Cloarek; nevertheless he tried to resist its softening influence.

"I am blessed with a very small amount of penetration, monsieur,"

continued Onesime, "but your questions and the tone in which they are asked, as well as some of your remarks, lead me to suppose that you have a grievance against me, though I am unfortunately ignorant of the cause."

"You love my daughter?" said Cloarek, gazing searchingly at the youth as if resolved to read his inmost thoughts.