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Page 39
They were not less dissimilar in a moral point of view; the former a jolly
companion, an absolute and settled skeptic, the careless possessor of a
danseuse; the latter always agitated despite his outer calm, romantic,
passionate, tormented with love and theology. Pierre de Moras, on their
return from America, had presented Lucan to his cousin Clotilde, and from
that moment there were at least two points upon which they agreed
perfectly; profound esteem for Clotilde, and deep-seated antipathy for her
husband.
They appreciated, however, each in his own way, Monsieur de Trecoeur's
character and conduct. For the Count Pierre, Trecoeur was simply a
mischievous being; in Monsieur de Lucan's eyes, he was a criminal.
"Why criminal?" Pierre said. "Is it his fault if he was born with the
eternal flames on the marrow of his bones? I admit that I feel quite
disposed to break his head when I see Clotilde's eyes red; but I would
not feel any more angry about it, than if I were crushing a serpent under
my heel. Since it is his nature, the poor man can't help it."
"That little system of yours would simply suppress all merit, all will,
all liberty; in a word, the whole moral world. If we are not the masters
of our own passions, at least to a great extent, and if, on the contrary,
it is our passions that fatally control us; if a man is necessarily good
or bad, honest or a knave, loyal or a traitor, at the mercy of his
instincts, tell me, if you please, why you honor me with your esteem and
your friendship? I have no right to them any more than any one else, any
more than Trecoeur himself."
"I beg your pardon, my friend," said Pierre gravely; "in the vegetable
world I prefer a rose to a thistle; in the moral world, I prefer you to
Trecoeur. You were born a gallant fellow; I rejoice at it, and I make the
best of it."
"Well, _mon cher_, you are laboring under a complete mistake," rejoined
Lucan. "I was born, on the contrary, with the most detestable instincts,
with the germ of all vices."
"Like Socrates?"
"Like Socrates, exactly. And if my father had not chastised me in time, if
my mother had not been a saint, finally, if I had not myself placed, with
the utmost energy, my will at the service of my conscience, I would be
to-day, a faithless and lawless scoundrel."
"But nothing proves that you will not turn out a scoundrel one of these
days, my dear friend. There is no one but may become a scoundrel at the
proper time. Everything depends upon the extent and strength of the
temptation. Whatever may be your instinct of honor and dignity, are you
yourself quite sure never to meet with a temptation sufficiently powerful
to overcome your principles? Can you not conceive, for instance, some
circumstance in which you might love a woman enough to commit a crime?"
"No," said Lucan; "do you?"
"I!--I deserve no credit. I have no passions. It is extremely mortifying,
but I have none. I was born to be an exemplary man. You remember my
childhood; I was a little model. Now I am a big model, that's all the
difference--and it does not cost me any effort whatever. Shall we go and
see Clotilde?"
"Let us go!"
And they went to Clotilde's, very worthy herself of the friendship of
these two excellent fellows.
There they were received with marked consideration, even by Mademoiselle
Julia, who seemed to feel, to a certain degree, the prestige of these
superior natures. Both had, moreover, in their manners and language an
elegant correctness that apparently satisfied the child's delicate taste
and her artistic instincts.
During the early period of her mourning, Julia's disposition had assumed a
somewhat shy and somber cast; when her mother received visitors, she left
the parlor abruptly, and went to lock herself up in her own room, not,
however, without manifesting toward the indiscreet guests a haughty
displeasure. Cousin Pierre and his friend had alone the privilege of a
kindly greeting; she even deigned to leave her apartment and come and join
them at her mother's side when she knew that they were there.
Clotilde had therefore good reasons to believe that her preference for
Monsieur de Lucan would obtain her daughter's approbation; she
unfortunately had better ones still to doubt that Monsieur de Lucan's
disposition corresponded with her own. Not only, indeed, had he always
maintained toward her the terms of the most reserved friendship, but,
since she had been a widow, that reserve had become perceptibly
aggravated. Lucan's visits became fewer and briefer; he even seemed to
take particular care in avoiding all occasions of finding himself alone
with Clotilde, as if he had penetrated her secret feelings, and had
affected to discourage them. Such were the sadly significant symptoms
which Clotilde had communicated in confidence to her mother.
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