Old Raclot's million (Le million du père Raclot)

Front matter

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II

The husband and wife worked like negroes under the planter’s lash. No days of rest, no holidays. Work, work, work, from dawn to dark.

Matkurin was accustomed to working hard, and his constitution had become hardened to incessant labor. He expected his wife to work as he did, not for one moment admitting that she lacked the physical strength.

“ To make money, one must work ? ” he would exclaim to his wife.

After a short space of time he managed to mold his wife into a farm drudge, and make her as greedy for gain as he was. They both had but one object in life — that was to be rich.

When the chance offered they would keep on buying another field or a few

acres of vineyard, even if they had to 16

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\1 deprive themselves of absolute necessities. Cost what it might, — even their life blood, — they must be rich. Celine worked herself to death, poor woman.

They worked their own farm between times and early in the morning ; but regularly as the clock struck six, they went out to do the work for other farmers as day laborers. They never missed a day. Besides they were well paid and fed. In verity they were never well fed in their own house, living on small potatoes, skimmilk, black bread, and on Sundays a slice of bacon. They also had wine, such as was made from the refuse of the winepress.

During this time Mathurin still loaned money at interest. In their home, poverty was evidently at home also, for they lacked linen and clothing. Mathurin wore nothing but rags, pieced by Celine’s patient hands. Poor Celine ! Before she was married she had, for a peasant, been quite dressy. Now she dressed like a beg-

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gar, having only her black cashmere robe for Sunday’s mass.

When she would timidly say to her husband, “ Matliurin, you must really buy me some clothes ! ” he would shrug his shoulders and reply :

“ There’s plenty of time. What do we need of good clothes to wear out in the fields?”

She, poor woman, would sit up late at night, while he slept, to repair the rags they wore, doing without her much-needed rest to look tidy. She aged rapidly. All her youth vanished; lines of care and hard work came to her face. Her hair, formerly so abundant, fell out, and her skin, by constant exposure, became hard and tanned. Matliurin always looked the same. Hard work to him was joy if there was a solid five-franc piece at the end of the day’s toil.

When they had been married about six years, Celine brought into the world a baby girl, so small and frail that the

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nurse said it would be a miracle if the child lived ; but as she was in the world, they would do their best to save her life. It would have been a great pity had the child died, for she had the most perfect face — more like that of an angel than a new-born baby, so every one who saw her declared. But when the poor mother offered her breast to the babe, there was no milk to feed her on. Celine, worn out by privations and hard work, could not nourish the child.

Mathurin was very angry, but said: “We will raise her on a bottle.”

Poor Celine cried to break her heart. The nurse spoke up to Mathurin, saying : “ I tell you, Mat, it will be impossible to raise this child on a bottle, and if you wish to save her life you must get a healthy wet nurse.”

The father was very angry now.

“A wet nurse? Why, I should have to pay her at least fifteen francs a month ! ”

But the nurse insisted, and he had to

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give in, though with ill grace, to the exigency of the situation.

At Aubecourt they found a young woman who had just lost her baby, and she gladly took the Raclots’ for the fifteen francs. So little Martlie was confided to a foster mother.

A short time after this last event, Monsieur Martin died. His widow sent for Mathurin Raclot at once, for she said she needed his services and advice.

He went immediately to Paris, and put on such a doleful look as to cause the widow’s tears to start afresh. He even managed to squeeze out a few tears himself to keep her company. Probably these were the first he had ever shed since his babyhood. He only stayed three days with his wife’s aunt, but he managed to change her programme to suit himself. During the past six years he had paid most assiduous court to Madame Martin, assuming such an air of good-natured bonhomie as to completely deceive the old lady, and he had quite ingratiated himself in her favor.

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In pretending to have no object but the welfare of the widow at heart, he did not neglect to watch his own future interest.

By the will of the deceased Monsieur Martin, his wife was his sole heir to all real and personal estate. While the widow remained in Paris to settle up her affairs and invest her money in government bonds and first-class mortgages, Mathurin purchased, in his aunt’s name, a nice house, which he had repaired and painted ; the grounds were neatly laid out into flower and vegetable gardens, and he also had a little stable built. Mathurin superintended all the details, so it is not to be wondered at that the widow held her nephew Raclot in great esteem.

He alone understood how to conduct her business affairs, she thought, and she believed implicitly in all he told her. Mathurin was a Delphian oracle to her. She was ready to leave Paris on receipt of his letter telling her that the house was ready. She was going to make her home in Aube-

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court, forgetting, or trying to forget, that she had left a brother in Paris, who soon would no longer be able to earn his daily bread, and also relatives who were often pinched with hunger. These relations were just as near to her as Celine Raclot.

Madame Martin was not a hard-hearted woman, but she had so often assisted her brother and his numerous family, that perhaps she had had her generosity abused ; and their frequent demands, had she always acceded to them, would have left her no better off than they.

Twelve years passed.

Thanks to the good care and nursing which little Marthe received at the hands of her foster mother, she had grown into a fine, healthy girl. She was very pretty, and her beauty increased with her years. Her character was gentle and amiable, and she was very tender and affectionate. Her great-aunt Marie adored her, and nothing gave as much pleasure as to fill Marthe’s

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pockets up with goodies, and give her francs to buy candies for lier playfellows. Marthe was so generous that she often went without herself to give her friends her share.

“ My ! What a sweet child ! What a kind heart she has ! ” Madame Martin would exclaim.

Certainly, Marthe did not resemble her father.

When old enough, she was sent to one of the best and most exclusive convent schools in the neighboring town. Her great-aunt insisted that her niece should be well educated. Mathurin did not raise any objections, as Madame Martin paid all the bills. Marthe had been at school two years, and had just received her first communion, when Madame Martin died. As you already know, my readers, Madame Martin left all her property to her grandniece Marthe at the death of her mother.

Jules Bertrand and his family were astounded, after having lived in hope of

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one day receiving at least some portion of lier wealth, to find themselves absolutely forgotten ? What could they do or say ? They could have disputed the will, but on what grounds ?

The will had beeu drawn up by a first-class lawyer, and all was formally and legally done. The unfortunate Bertrands were disinherited — without a word. They could only bow their heads over their lost castles in Spain.

In Aubecourt and Ligoux there were some of the better class of peasants indignant at the duplicity of Mathurin.

“ It was wrong, very wrong, his making the widow Martin leave all to his child, when she ought to have divided it and given her poor brother half ! ”

But this was only whispered ; no one had the courage to take Mathurin Baclot to task, or indeed was it any one’s business, but everybody’s, so no one interfered.

For a long time, previous to this affair, Mathurin had been no longer counted in

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the odor of sanctity. Several of his transactions would not have stood the light of day, and this last coup quite completed his evil reputation.

He did not care one iota what people thought or said. He was in possession of the money for which he had so long and patiently worked. He was rich now, and could laugh at the opinion of his neighbors. Madame Martin’s two hundred and fifty thousand francs in cash made him, as he had the use of it, one of the richest farmers in the county.

Two years later his faithful wife died.

This did not cause him much grief, and as his own health was robust, death had no terror for him individually, and for his consolation he had money; yes, loads of it in coin. Hidden in boxes, safes, and old bureaus. A woman ! What is that in comparison to the possession of gold and silver ? Bah !

His fortune kept on increasing, and as he still retained his love for landed prop-

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erty, lie bought all he could, not only from vanity, but a desire to own more land than even the Count Aubecourt.

He no longer worked, as he had no need to. The old farm hand now employed laborers. He had worked for others; now let them work for him.

Children, especially female ones, are generally curious, and want to know the ins and outs of everything, and occasionally ask most difficult questions. Marthe felt that her father neglected her, but she had lots of little friends in school, and the Sisters all loved her for her amiable character, and this consoled her for her father’s coldness.

She was one of the best pupils in the school. Her education had been carefully attended to, and she had profited by it. She spoke English, Italian, and German fluently. She was a fine musician and sang like a bird. At the age of sixteen and a half she graduated with the highest honors, receiving her diploma as teacher.

Though very avaricious, Pere Raclot was, as we have said, vaiu and proud of his present position. He found the house of Madame Martin not fine enough for him, so he decided to purchase the old Chateau d’Aubecourt, and have it remodeled and put into habitable condition. He bought it cheap, almost for a song.

A few years before, he had made up his mind to have a million. He had it. And now people took off their hats and called him Monsieur Raclot !

Marthe was just eighteen, when her father summoned her to come and act as chatelaine of the Chateau of Aubecourt.

III

Mathukest Raclot had enriched himself, not through any honest scheme, but through the wants and miseries of his fellow-men. It is true he had a million, but that million was earned through the tears and anguish of many an honest heart. What regard had he for his fellow creatures when he wanted a farm or a vineyard ? Now that people recognized him in his right colors, he was not quoted as a model, by any means, but a villain, whom no one loved or respected. He w^as cursed, sotto voce , on all sides ; but the very people who denounced his methods of getting rich, would humbly bow to Monsieur Raclot and say: “ Bon jour. Monsieur Raclot ” ; or, “ Bonsoir, Monsieur Raclot ! ”

Oh, riches ! Before the possession of 28

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wealth, men bow and become sycophants and curs !

Until his daughter came, Monsieur lived alone in the chateau, like a bear in his hole. He was not on social terms with his neighbors, nor did he visit any one. He was quite content to sit at the kitchen window, and gaze over his possessions, and the fat cattle he had in the home meadows ; and he would chuckle as he muttered, “ It’s all mine, mine, mine ! ”

Marthe’s arrival made a little bustle and life, and the house became almost gay. The young girl knew that her father was rich, but she had no idea of the size of his fortune, or dream how it had been made; nor did she know that her father was execrated in the village. She was the same as when she left home; neither vain, proud, nor giddy. She was astonished at the cool reception that she received in her native place. Her heart was heavy when she saw how her old playmates avoided her, as though afraid

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to look or speak. When slie made her first advance to her girl friends of her own age and quondam playfellows, she remarked that they timidly replied to her salutations, as if afraid. What could it mean ? Marthe felt ready to like every one, and felt hurt at this strange reception. Many times tears would come unbidden to her eyes when she saw herself so badly welcomed. One woman alone greeted her with her usual affection and tenderness, as in the bygone days. This was her foster mother. She did not hesitate to take Marthe to her breast and kiss her fervently, as of yore. When with her old nurse, whom she still called “mamma,” she would tell her of the petty slights she daily received. The nurse was very much embarrassed at the questions Marthe put to her, not daring to say that * she was included in the hatred that the villagers had for her father.

“You see, my pet,” the nurse would say, “it’s because you have been brought

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up like a young lady, and are so fine a miss that your old friends are afraid to speak to you.”

“ But,” replied Martlie, “ I always speak to them, and want to shake hands or kiss them, as the case may be.”

“ That makes no difference. They realize the immense distance that separates you, and they are afraid to permit themselves to be familiar.”

Marthe hung her head and sighed. The dear old nurse took her on her lap and kissed her devotedly, and said to herself : “ If they only knew my darling ! ”

Among her young friends at school there was one with whom Marthe was quite intimate. This was Mademoiselle Mathilde de Santenay, the only daughter of a general now on half pay. She was about the same age as Mademoiselle Raclot. These two girls loved each other dearly; more like twin sisters than anything else. General Santenay was a widower and lived five miles from the town ; not in a magnificent chateau like Mathurin

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Baclot, but a plain house. Monsieur de Santenay had only a small income besides his half pay, and he had never been able to save, as the expense of educating his son and daughter had been great. His son was now a young man of twenty-six years of age. He was a civil engineer and held a good position under the government, with bright prospects of advancement, as he was a favorite with the chief of his Department.

The general did not begrudge the sacrifices he had made to educate his son, for the young man was all that a devoted parent could desire. George de Santenay had a good position and his future was assured.

Besides the old general was not at all uneasy on that score either for George or Mathilde’s future, for his dear wife’s sister was an old maid and possessed a large fortune. This old lady, after having been Court dressmaker to Louis XVIII’s court, and amassed a fortune, sold her business and had come to live in a neighboring village where she had purchased a splendid property. Mademoiselle Lormeau was her name, and the only blood relations she had were the children of her deceased sister, and she had made them her heirs and declared that when either of them married she would settle two hundred thousand francs on each of them. Thinking that it would be more beneficial to give the money when it was most needed, and that they might not wish for her demise so that they would inherit her fortune.

Marthe had often seen George when he would call to see his sister at the convent, and she had been introduced to him, and when they were allowed to take a walk in the convent grounds, as on fete days, George often accompanied Mathilde and Marthe. They had often met also at Mathilde’s home. General de Santenay knew that his daughter’s friend never left school even during the summer vacation or at Easter. He felt pity for Marthe’s solitude and the semi-cloistered life she led, and he asked the Reverend Mother to allow Mademoiselle Raclot to accompany his daughter when she went out.

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The nuns asked Mathurin Kaclot’s permission. He replied that he thanked the general and Mademoiselle de Santenay for their interest in his daughter, and he gladly accepted the invitation they extended for her to visit them during the summer vacation. This reply was impatiently awaited, and received with great joy by the two girls.

From this day forward, Marthe’s life was less dull, and she often visited at the general’s house. He received her like another daughter, and Marthe felt entirely at home with this charming family.

Mathilde left the convent a year before Marthe, but still their friendship for each other in no way diminished. On holidays and religious fete days, Mathilde would come and fetch Marthe to spend the day with her. Through these frequent visits, Marthe and the young engineer became well acquainted, as each time Marthe was expected Mathilde would manage to let her brother know, so that he could be of the party.

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Must we tell our readers that George was not insensible to the radiant beauty and lovely disposition of his sister’s friend. For the past year, Love, the love of youth and the hope of making her his wife, had consumed him. He only lived for Marthe, and for her he would have gladly given his life.

Hot daring to speak to the young girl of the love she had inspired in his breast, fearing also that she would refuse to listen and spurn his love, he kept his secret buried in his own heart as a precious jewel. & . )

When he heard that Marthe Raclot was going to leave the convent, he imagined perhaps that lie would not see her again, and knowing that she was old enough to be married, he thought that perhaps her father had already a husband in view for her. This thought gave him so much pain that he decided to do away with his reserve and speak. Nervous and frightened, as all real love is apt to be, he had not

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tlie courage to speak to Martlie direct, to tell lier that lie loved and adored her, so lie took his sister into his confidence, and begged her to find out if he might hope.

“ Va ! mon cher frere” replied Matliilde, laughing, “ I have guessed your secret a long time, and I am of the opinion that papa also thinks as I do. You betrayed yourself when you requested me to tell you always when Martlie was expected to visit us. To-day I will interrogate Martlie, and I am sure she will answer me candidly, for she cannot stoop to subterfuge; she is too good. My brother, if she does love you, I shall be so happy ! I want nothing better than to see my dearest friend transformed into a beloved sister. I am sure she must love you ! If she possesses such qualities as to inspire your love, you have enough to make her love you too ! ”

George spoke to his sister early in the morning, before breakfast. In the after-

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noon the two girls went for a walk, and Mathilde suggested that they make a tour among the rose bushes.

“ Marthe,” said Mathilde, when they were in a quiet spot, “ I have a secret to tell you.”

“Well, dear, I am all attention.”

“ With you, Marthe, it’s no use my beating about the bush, so I am going to speak openly and plainly. Now, Marthe, my brother opened his heart to me this morning. His heart is burning with ardent love for you.”

Marthe became scarlet and trembled violently.

“ I must say,” continued Mathilde, “ that George has loved you for over a year, and until to-day he has hidden his secret, as though it was a crime to love you, my dearest and best friend.”

Marthe placed her hand on her heart to stop its beating, and looked at Mathilde joyfully.

“ Now, Marthe,” said Mathilde, “ what

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reply shall I make to George? Shall I bring him happiness or sorrow?”

Marthe tried to speak, but her voice trembled with the violence of her emotion ; her eyes shown with a light of perfect love, and she threw her arms around Mathilde’s neck and whispered in her ear:

“ Mathilde ! I love your brother ! ”

Mademoiselle de Santenay could not restrain her joy at this avowal.

“ Ah ! you will be my dear sister ! ”

Then they both cried and kissed each other. What tears of joy they shed !

Later, when his happiness was made known to him, George told his sister that had she brought him bad news he would have killed himself.

That afternoon the general was told the state of affairs.

“ I am delighted ! ” said the old soldier. “I greatly appreciate the good equalities of Mademoiselle Raclot, and I know her value. George could not have selected any one more pleasing to me. But there is Mon-

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sieur Raclot to be considered. He knows nothing as yet, and he might have other prospects in view for his daughter. However, until everything is arranged definitely one way or the other •”

“ Happily, she has only a short time longer to remain in school,” interrupted Mathilde.

“Very well, daughter, when Mademoiselle Marthe is under her father’s roof, I am sure he will invite us to visit him, and we will all go. And if he has not already been informed that George and Marthe are lovers, I shall inform him and respectfully ask his daughter’s hand for my son. So, until then, we will let the matter rest.”

Both George and Mathilde approved of their father’s wise plan of action. Marthe had not been invited to assist at this conversation, but Mathilde took good care to tell her all about it.

IV

Le Peke Kaclot loved nothing but money, so we need not wonder at liis lack of affection for his daughter ; nevertheless he treated her very kindly, and had an immense amount of pride in her personal appearance and cleverness. Ignorant as he was, he appreciated her learning, and regarded her as a superior being. Martlie had been well brought up, and it flattered his vanity to be the father of a real young lady, not a peasant wench. Though very stingy toward the whole world, to Martlie he refused nothing. She did not nsk for any large expenditure either on her amusement or clothes ; modest in both tastes and dress, used to the utmost simplicity in the convent, she asked for no more, now that she was chatelaine of the Chateau d’Aubecourt. In a small country village there was no occasion for either dress or style.

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The father was delighted to see that his daughter was very much more economical than he had expected. One day, having realized more than he anticipated on a sale of cattle, he bought Marthe three thousand francs’ worth of jewelry. This was a most unheard-of extravagance.

The girl thanked her father with astonishment, mingled with gratitude. Now she could replace the earrings she had always worn since her first communion, costing at the outside twenty-five francs, with a pair of solitaires worth two thousand. And for the first time in her life she had a bracelet and a finger ring. Ill-natured folk said that her father only gave her the jewels for pride’s sake, not because he loved her. Marthe knew it perfectly well — she felt it — that this mark of paternal regard was not caused through love. She knew that he did not love her. It pained her sensitive heart to see that all her love was wasted on her father, and he only responded briefly to her caresses.

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She wondered if she could melt this glacial heart by the warmth of her affection. That delightful intimacy which ought to exist between father and child was missing here. During the two months that she had been home, she had not found the courage to tell her father of her love for George de Santenay, and that she was beloved in return.

One morning, after talking of the general and his family, and their extreme kindness to her, she told her father that the least they could do would be to invite the Santenay family to visit them for a few days at the chateau.

At first Monsieur Raclot did not attempt to hide his dislike to her proposition, but Marthe insisted, and tears came to her lovely eyes. To see his daughter in tears did not affect Monsieur Raclot, but when she suggested that it would look well for him to be on terms of intimacy with a general and his family, why, Mathurin succumbed at once.

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The invitation was sent, and impatiently Marthe awaited the reply.

A few days later, the general, with his son and daughter, arrived at the chateau.

It is useless for us to attempt to describe the joyful reunion of the young people. The two girls seemed never tired of kissing each other, to George’s disgust.

It is true the old peasant was completely under his daughter’s directions, and he acted the seigneur to perfection. Still, he was a peasant, and no one could expect more than he was able to do.

The Santenays came on a three days’ visit. The first day passed delightfully. As they had never visited the chateau before, Marthe took them all over both the ancient and modern parts, even to the feudal keep, where her father’s pigs now lived. Mathilde discreetly went ahead to allow George and Marthe to talk without the embarrassment of a third party.

Monsieur Raclot, swelled with importance, like the frog of JEsop’s Fables, showed the general all liis property, — fields and vineyards, — and under the pretense of showing his other farms where the cattle were, he walked the Santenays through the main street of the village, where the red button in the general’s coat would show how illustrious his guests were. If he could only have had the general in his full uniform ! How proud he would have been !

On the next day, after breakfast, while George and the two girls were walking in the park, the general remained alone with Pere Raclot. He thought it was a good opportunity to broach the subject of marriage.

“ Cher Monsieur Raclot,” he said, “ do you know that my son George is a civil engineer engaged on government pontoon bridges, and it’s not my place as his father to speak of his excellent qualities, but I can truthfully repeat what his chief says, that in a short space of time he will be in a fine position.”

“Very gratifying to you, sir,” replied Monsieur Raclot.

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“ Eh Men, Monsieur Raclot, I am going to tell you something that I hope will not displease you.”

The peasant showed that he was all attention.

“ My son,” continued the general, “ loves your daughter, and he will consider himself one of the most fortunate of individuals if you will accept him as your future son-in-law.”

Mathurin remained dumb. He had never given a thought that some day his daughter’s hand would be asked in marriage, and that he would be obliged to divide his immense fortune with her, besides rendering an account of his stewardship.

“ Your pardon, General,” he murmured. “ What have you just said to me ? I am astounded ! — I had not expected any offers for my daughter’s hand yet. You say your son, Monsieur George de Santenay, loves my girl. I don’t understand such an honor for her — and me, I am only a poor peasant ! But I do not thiuk my child has any idea