Old Mathias listened to Paul with an expression of surprise and doubt.
“You have no children?” said he.
“Happily!” replied Paul.
“Well, I view marriage in a different light,” replied the old notary quite simply. “In my opinion, a wife ought to share her husband’s lot for good or ill. I have heard that young married people who are too much like lovers have no families. Is pleasure then the only end of marriage? Is it not rather the happiness of family life? Still, you were but eight-and-twenty, and the Countess no more than twenty; it was excusable that you should think only of lovemaking. At the same time, the terms of your marriage-contract, and your name—you will think me grossly lawyer-like—required you to begin by having a fine handsome boy. Yes, Monsieur le Comte, and if you had daughters, you ought not to have stopped till you had a male heir to succeed you in the entail.
“Was Mademoiselle Evangelista delicate? Was there anything to fear for her in motherhood?—You will say that is very old-fashioned and antiquated; but in noble families, Monsieur le Comte, a legitimate wife ought to have children and bring them up well. As the Duchesse de Sully said—the wife of the great Sully—a wife is not a means of pleasure, but the honor and virtue of the household.”
“You do not know what women are, my dear Mathias,” said Paul. “To be happy, a man must love his wife as she chooses to be loved. And is it not rather brutal to deprive a woman so early of her charms and spoil her beauty before she has really enjoyed it?”
“If you had had a family, the mother would have checked the wife’s dissipation; she would have stayed at home—”
“If you were in the right, my good friend,” said Paul, with a frown, “I should be still more unhappy. Do not aggravate my misery by moralizing over my ruin; let me depart without any after bitterness.”
Next day Mathias received a bill payable at sight for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, signed by de Marsay.
“You see,” said Paul, “he does not write me a word. Henri’s is the most perfectly imperfect, the most unconventionally noble nature I have ever met with. If you could but know how superior this man—who is still young—rises above feeling and interest, and what a great politician he is, you, like me, would be amazed to find what a warm heart he has.”
Mathias tried to reason Paul out of his purpose, but it was irrevocable, and justified by so many practical reasons, that the old notary made no further attempt to detain his client.
Rarely enough does a vessel in cargo sail punctually to the day; but by an accident disastrous to Paul, the wind being favorable, the Belle-Amélie was to sail on the morrow. At the moment of departure the landing-stage is always crowded with relations, friends, and idlers. Among these, as it happened, were several personally acquainted with Manerville. His ruin had made him as famous now as he had once been for his fortune, so there was a stir of curiosity. Everyone had some remark to make.
The old man had escorted Paul to the wharf, and he must have suffered keenly as he heard some of the comments.
“Who would recognize in the man you see there with old Mathias the dandy who used to be called Peas-blossom, and who was the oracle of fashion here at Bordeaux five years since?”
“What, can that fat little man in an alpaca overcoat, looking like a coachman, be the Comte Paul de Manerville?”
“Yes, my dear, the man who married Mademoiselle Evangelista. There he is ruined, without a sou to his name, going to the Indies to look for the roc’s egg.”
“But how was he ruined? He was so rich!”
“Paris—women—the Bourse—gambling—display—”
“And besides,” said another, “Manerville is a poor creature; he has no sense, as limp as papier-maché, allowing himself to be fleeced, and incapable of any decisive action. He was born to be ruined.”
Paul shook his old friend’s hand and took refuge on board. Mathias stood on the quay, looking at his old client, who leaned over the netting, defying the crowd with a look of scorn.
Just as the anchor was weighed, Paul saw that Mathias was signaling to him by waving his handkerchief. The old housekeeper had come in hot haste, and was standing by her master, who seemed greatly excited by some matter of importance. Paul persuaded the captain to wait a few minutes and send a boat to land, that he might know what the old lawyer wanted; he was signaling vigorously, evidently desiring him to disembark. Mathias, too infirm to go to the ship, gave two letters to one of the sailors who were in the boat.
“My good fellow,” said the old notary, showing one of the letters to the sailor, “this letter, mark it well, make no mistake—this packet has just been delivered by a messenger who has ridden from Paris in thirty-five hours. Explain this clearly to Monsieur le Comte, do not forget. It might make him change his plans.”
“And we should have to land him?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer rashly.
The sailor in most parts of the world is a creature apart, professing the deepest contempt for all landlubbers. As to townsfolk, he cannot understand them; he knows nothing about them; he laughs them to scorn; he cheats them if he can without direct dishonesty. This one, as it happened, was a man of Lower Brittany, who saw worthy old
