CHAPTER VII

A MOTHER’S TRIALS

While the horses were being harnessed, Moreau wrote the following letter to Madame Clapart:—­

My dear,—­Oscar has ruined me.  During his journey in Pierrotin’s coach, he spoke of Madame de Serizy’s behavior to his Excellency, who was travelling incognito, and actually told, to himself, the secret of his terrible malady.  After dismissing me from my stewardship, the count told me not to let Oscar sleep at Presles, but to send him away immediately.  Therefore, to obey his orders, the horses are being harnessed at this moment to my wife’s carriage, and Brochon, my stable-man, will take the miserable child to you to-night.

We are, my wife and I, in a distress of mind which you may perhaps imagine, though I cannot describe it to you.  I will see you in a few days, for I must take another course.  I have three children, and I ought to consider their future.  At present I do not know what to do; but I shall certainly endeavor to make the count aware of what seventeen years of the life of a man like myself is worth.  Owning at the present moment about two hundred and fifty thousand francs, I want to raise myself to a fortune which may some day make me the equal of his Excellency.  At this moment I feel within me the power to move mountains and vanquish insurmountable difficulties.  What a lever is such a scene of bitter humiliation as I have just passed through!  Whose blood has Oscar in his veins?  His conduct has been that of a blockhead; up to this moment when I write to you, he has not said a word nor answered, even by a sign, the questions my wife and I have put to him.  Will he become an idiot? or is he one already?  Dear friend, why did you not instruct him as to his behavior before you sent him to me?  How many misfortunes you would have spared me, had you brought him here yourself as I begged you to do.  If Estelle alarmed you, you might have stayed at Moisselles.  However, the thing is done, and there is no use talking about it.

  Adieu; I shall see you soon.

Your devoted servant and friend,

Moreau

At eight o’clock that evening, Madame Clapart, just returned from a walk she had taken with her husband, was knitting winter socks for Oscar, by the light of a single candle.  Monsieur Clapart was expecting a friend named Poiret, who often came in to play dominoes, for never did he allow himself to spend an evening at a cafe.  In spite of the prudent economy to which his small means forced him, Clapart would not have answered for his temperance amid a luxury of food and in presence of the usual guests of a cafe whose inquisitive observation would have piqued him.

“I’m afraid Poiret came while we were out,” said Clapart to his wife.

“Why, no, my friend; the portress would have told us so when we came in,” replied Madame Clapart.