The House by Henry Bordeaux

A FEW days after this disappointing walk -- perhaps even the next day -- I went to my mother's room to get a forgotten school book. I was already turning the latch of the door when I heard two voices. One, my mother's, was familiar to my ear, but its tones were almost new to me, by reason of the firmness now mingled with its habitual gentleness; when we were little she had sometimes spoken to us in that tone to require more attention and earnestness in our little duties, or our lessons. As for the other, it must have been that of a stranger, even of some one asking for alms, for it came to my ear hushed, veiled, melancholy. What visitor was this whom my mother received in her room and not in the drawing-room? I dared neither go in nor let go of the latch, lest in falling it should betray my presence. Hooted to the spot, at once by timidity and curiosity, I listened to the dialogue going on within.

"I am sure you are mistaken," my mother was saying. "The child is going through a crisis, but he is not different from his brothers and sisters; he is not estranged from us."

"The chasm is deeper than you think, Valentine," replied the other voice. "I feel that I am losing him. If you had seen him at Malpas, how inflexible he was, how he resisted my exhortations, almost my entreaties."

"He is only a child."

"Too mature a child. I can not yet be sure what it is that estranges him from us, but I shall find out. Ah, poor dear, there is no use in trying to reassure me; three years ago my father completed his cure by keeping him out of doors, but he did not give back to us the same child that we had entrusted to him: he has changed his heart, and it is in childhood that the heart is formed. This child is no longer ours."

_This child is no longer ours_. The statement lifted me up with a sort of vanity. I belonged to no one. I was free. That liberty which grandfather had not been able to command, even in the blood of the days of June, had all of a sudden become mine!

I had recognised my father's voice, and my parents were talking of me. But why had they so interchanged their attitudes that I had not at first recognised them? I had always supposed that they could not change. Mother was always anxious about nothing at all -- when the wind blew or the thunder growled, even far away, she never failed to light the blessed candle; or her shadow behind her chamber window told us that she was watching for the return of the absent ones. She was never wholly at peace, unless we were all grouped around her, except, indeed, when praying, for she lived very near to God. It sometimes happened that father would laugh at her for her endless anxieties. During my illness, and longer ago, when the house had been put up for sale, it was he, always he, who kept up her woman's courage, who assured her of the future, reminded her of the constant protection of Providence. I had never imagined them otherwise, and now behold they had changed parts, -- it was mother who was uplifting father in his discouragement.

I should have been disgusted with myself if I had listened at doors. Urged by self-esteem, mingled with a sense of honour, I should not have hesitated to enter the room but for the next words, which were uttered by my father, and which nailed me to the spot, the latch still in my hand, powerless to go in or to draw back, so greatly was I impressed and captivated.

"The same thing took place between him and me that long ago took place between me and my father -- the same family tragedy."

"Oh, Michel, what do you mean?"

"Yes, my father was right when he recalled it the day that I found Francis in his room, the day when Francis took his part against me -- unhappy child! When I was little, I, too, had felt the influence of my grandfather. Only it was exercised in the other direction. He had been president of the Chamber at the Court. Returning home at the age of retirement, he amused himself with cultivating the garden. It was he who planted the rose-garden. He taught me the importance, the beauty, yes, the beauty of the order to which man may subject not only himself, but nature. Perhaps it is to him that I owe it that I have been able to direct my life, to dominate it. But my father, who was interested only in his music and his utopias, used to laugh at us. ‘He will turn that child into a geometrician,' he used to say. It is he who has turned my child into a rebel."

He added, bitterly, "A father, in his own house, should never yield his own authority to any one. To withdraw Francis from that influence which has gained the upper hand of mine, I should not hesitate even to send him to boarding school. It would only be anticipating by a year or two the method we adopted for the older children. And in fact our school is hardly advanced enough for him now."

"It would be one more expense," objected mother.

"Money is a small thing compared with education."

Thus I learned that they were proposing to arrange my future without consulting me! Boarding school -- prison -- was to punish me for my independence. For the moment I was crushed, -- then, in my pride I refused to admit that I was crushed. Would not that be to admit the attractions of the house? Since they were considering the possibility of sending me away I would get ahead of them, and would myself ask to go. Yes, that should be the punishment I would inflict upon my parents. Upon my parents only?

But I could not remain there at the door and be surprised -- and besides, I was ashamed! I therefore finally turned the latch and went in. I went in like an important personage, steeling myself against the emotion which was getting the better of me.

"I have come for my book," said I, by way of justifying my entrance.

Father and mother, sitting opposite one another, looked at me and then exchanged a glance. I found my book -- which a careful hand had put in order upon the table, seized it hastily and turned to go.

"Francis," said my mother.