her child a shock like that of the affair at Presles, she continues in
a state of
constant fear, and, by the manner in which his wife boasted
of Oscar every time he obtained the slightest success, Clapart knew
the
extent of her secret
uneasiness, and he took pains to rouse it on
every occasion.
"Well, Madame," Clapart would say, "Oscar is doing better than I even
hoped. That journey to Presles was only a heedlessness of youth. Where
can you find young lads who do not
commit just such faults? Poor
child! he bears his privations heroically! If his father had lived, he
would never have had any. God grant he may know how to control his
passions!" etc., etc.
While all these catastrophes were
happening in the rue de Vendome and
the rue de Bethisy, Clapart, sitting in the chimney corner, wrapped in
an old dressing-gown, watched his wife, who was engaged over the fire
in their bedroom in
simultaneously making the family broth, Clapart's
"tisane," and her own breakfast.
"Mon Dieu! I wish I knew how the affair of
yesterday ended. Oscar was
to breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale and spend the evening with a
marquise--"
"Don't trouble yourself! Sooner or later you'll find out about your
swan," said her husband. "Do you really believe in that
marquise?
Pooh! A young man who has senses and a taste for
extravagance like
Oscar can find such ladies as that on every bush--if he pays for them.
Some fine morning you'll find yourself with a load of debt on your
back."
"You are always
trying to put me in despair!" cried Madame Clapart.
"You complained that my son lived on your salary, and never has he
cost you a penny. For two years you haven't had the slightest cause of
complaint against him; here he is second clerk, his uncle and Monsieur
Moreau pay all expenses, and he earns, himself, a salary of eight
hundred francs. If we have bread to eat in our old age we may owe it
all to that dear boy. You are really too
unjust--"
"You call my
foresightunjust, do you?" replied the
invalid, crossly.
Just then the bell rang loudly. Madame Clapart ran to open the door,
and remained in the outer room with Moreau, who had come to
soften the
blow which Oscar's new folly would deal to the heart of his poor
mother.
"What! he gambled with the money of the office?" she cried, bursting
into tears.
"Didn't I tell you so, hey?" said Clapart, appearing like a spectre at
the door of the salon whither his
curiosity had brought him.
"Oh! what shall we do with him?" said Madame Clapart, whose grief made
her impervious to Clapart's taunt.
"If he bore my name," replied Moreau, "I should wait composedly till
he draws for the conscription, and if he gets a fatal number I should
not provide him with a
substitute. This is the second time your son
has
committed a folly out of sheer
vanity. Well,
vanity may inspire
fine deeds in war and may advance him in the
career of a soldier.
Besides, six years of military service will put some lead into his
head; and as he has only his last legal
examination to pass, it won't
be much ill-luck for him if he doesn't become a
lawyer till he is
twenty-six; that is, if he wants to continue in the law after paying,
as they say, his tax of blood. By that time, at any rate, he will have
been
severely punished, he will have
learned experience, and
contracted habits of subordination. Before making his probation at the
bar he will have gone through his probations in life."
"If that is your decision for a son," said Madame Clapart, "I see that
the heart of a father is not like that of a mother. My poor Oscar a
common soldier!--"
"Would you rather he flung himself headforemost into the Seine after
committing a dishonorable action? He cannot now become a
solicitor; do
you think him steady and wise enough to be a barrister? No. While his
reason is maturing, what will he become? A dissipated fellow. The
discipline of the army will, at least,
preserve him from that."
"Could he not go into some other office? His uncle Cardot has promised
to pay for his
substitute; Oscar is to
dedicate his graduating thesis
to him."
At this moment carriage-wheels were heard, and a hackney-coach
containing Oscar and all his
worldlybelongings stopped before the
door. The luckless young man came up at once.
"Ah! here you are, Monsieur Joli-Coeur!" cried Clapart.
Oscar kissed his mother, and held out to Moreau a hand which the
latter refused to take. To this
rebuff Oscar replied by a reproachful
look, the
boldness of which he had never shown before. Then he turned
on Clapart.
"Listen to me,
monsieur," said the youth, transformed into a man. "You
worry my poor mother devilishly, and that's your right, for she is,