In Search of a Son

CHAPTER V.

FIRE AT SEA

"At this moment, a moment that I shall never forget, I heard a sudden crackling noise, strange and unexpected, coming from a point seemingly close to me. I turned around and saw nothing. Nevertheless, I still heard that sound in my ears. It was a strange sound. One might have thought that an immense punch had been lighted in the interior of the ship, and that the liquid, stirred up by invisible hands, was tossed up and down, hissing and crackling. The quick movement of my head had arrested George in the midst of his caresses. Now he looked up at me with astonished eyes. The uneasiness which I felt in spite of the absence of any cause must have appeared upon my face, for my wife, standing beside me, leaned over to ask, in a subdued voice,—

"'What is the matter?'

"I think I answered, 'Nothing.' But my mind had dwelt upon an awful danger,—that danger of which the most hardened seamen speak with a beating heart,—fire at sea. Alas! my fears were to be realized. From one of the hatches there suddenly leaped up a tongue of flame. At the same instant we heard the awful cry, 'Fire!' To add to our distress, the wind had increased, and had become so violent that it fanned the flames with terrible rapidity, and had enveloped the state-rooms in the rear, whence the passengers were running, trembling and crying. In a few minutes the back of the ship was all on fire. My wife had snatched George from my arms, and held him closely against her breast, ready to save him or die with him. The captain, in the midst of the panic of the passengers, gave his orders. The boats were being lowered into the sea,—those at least which remained, for two had already been attacked by the fire. Accident threw the captain between me and my wife at the very moment when he was crying out to his men to allow none but the women and children in the boats. He recognized me. I had been introduced to him by a common friend, and he said, in a voice choked with emotion, pointing to my wife and my son,—

"'Embrace them!'

"Then he tore them both from my arms and pushed and carried them to the last boat, which was already too full. Night had come. With the rise of the wind, clouds had collected, obscuring the sky. By the light of the fire I saw for the last time—yes, for the last time—my wife and my child in the boat, shaken by an angry sea. Both were looking towards me. Did they see me also for the last time? And in my agony I cried out, 'George! George!' with a voice so loud that my son must surely have heard that last cry. Yes, he must have heard it. I stood rooted to the spot, looking without seeing anything, stupefied by this hopeless sorrow, not even feeling the intense heat of the flames, which were coming towards me. But the captain saw me. He ran towards me, drew me violently back, and threw me in the midst of the men, who were beginning a determined struggle against the fire which threatened to devour them. The instinct of life, the hope to see again my loved ones, gave me courage. I did as the others. Some of the passengers applied themselves to the chain; the pumps set in motion threw masses of water into the fire; but it seemed impossible to combat it, for it was alcohol which was burning. They had been obliged to repack part of the hold, where there were a number of demijohns of alcohol which the bad weather the first days had displaced. During the work one of these vast stone bottles had fallen and broken. As ill luck would have it, the alcohol descended in a rain upon a lamp in the story below, and the alcohol had taken fire. So I had not been mistaken when the first sound had made me think of the crackling of a punch. We worked with an energy which can only be found in moments of this sort. The captain inspired us with confidence. At one time we had hope. The flames had slackened, or at least we supposed so; but in fact they had only gone another way, and reached the powder-magazine. A violent explosion succeeded, and one of the masts was hurled into the sea. Were we lost? No; for the engineer had had a sudden inspiration. He had cut the pipes, and immediately directed upon the flames torrents of steam from the engine. A curtain of vapor lifted itself up between us and the fire, a curtain which the flames could not penetrate. Then the pumps worked still more effectually. We were saved."

CHAPTER VI.

MISS MIETTE'S FORTUNE

"The rudder no longer guided us. What a night we passed! We made a roll-call: how many were wanting? and the boats which contained our wives, our children,—had those boats found a refuge? had they reached land anywhere? The ocean was still rough, and, notwithstanding the captain's words of hope, I was in despair,—anticipating the sorrow that was to overwhelm me. Every one remained on deck. At daybreak a new feeling of sadness seized us at the sight of our steamer, deformed and blackened by the fire. The deck for more than forty yards was nothing but a vast hole, at the bottom of which were lying, pell-mell, half-consumed planks and beams, windlasses blackened by fire, bits of wood, and formless masses of metal over which the tongues of flame had passed. Notwithstanding all this the steamer was slowly put in motion. We were able to reach Havana. There we hoped we might hear some news. And we did hear news,—but what news! A sailing-vessel had found on the morrow of the catastrophe a capsized boat on the coast of the island of Andros, where the boat had evidently been directed. A sailor who had tied himself to the boat, and whom they at first thought dead, was recalled to life, and told his story of the fire. From Havana, where the sailing-vessel had stopped, a rescuing-party was at once sent out. They found and brought back with them the débris of boats broken against the rocks and also many dead bodies. These were all laid out in a large room, where the remaining passengers of the Britannic were invited. We had to count the dead; we had to identify them. With what agony, with what cruel heart-beats I entered the room. I closed my eyes. I tried to persuade myself that I would not find there the beings that were so dear to me. I wished to believe that they had been saved, my dear ones, while my other companions in misfortune were all crying and sobbing. At last I opened my eyes, and, the strength of my vision being suddenly increased to a wonderful degree, I saw that in this long line of bodies there was no child. That was my first thought. May my poor wife forgive me! She also was not there; but it was not long before she came. That very evening a rescuing-party brought back her corpse with the latest found."

Monsieur Roger ceased speaking. He looked at his friends, Monsieur and Madame Dalize, who were silently weeping; then his eyes travelled to Miette. She was not crying; her look, sad but astonished, interested, questioned Monsieur Roger. He thought, "She cannot understand sorrow, this little girl, who has not had any trials."

And the eyes of Miette seemed to answer, "But George? George? did they not find him?"

At last Monsieur Roger understood this thought in the mind of Miette without any necessity on her part to express it by her lips, and, as if he were answering to a verbal question, he said, shaking his head,—

"No, they never found him."

Miette expected this answer; then she too began to weep.

Monsieur Dalize repeated the last words of Monsieur Roger.

"They did not find him! I do not dare to ask you, my dear friend, if you preserve any hope."

"Yes, I hope. I forced myself to hope for a long time. But the ocean kept my child in the same way that it buried in its depths many other victims of this catastrophe, for it was that very hope that made me remain in America. I might have returned to France and given up my engagements; but there I was closer to news, if there were any; and, besides, in work, in hard labor to which I intended to submit my body, I expected to find, if not forgetfulness, at least that weariness which dampens the spirit. I remained ten years in Texas, and I returned to-day without ever having forgotten that terrible night."

There was a silence. Then Monsieur Dalize, wishing to create a diversion, asked,—

"How does it happen that you did not announce to me beforehand your return. It was not until I received your telegram this morning that we learned this news which made us so happy. I had no reason to expect that your arrival would be so sudden. Did you not say that you were to remain another six months, and perhaps a year, in Texas?"

"Yes; and I did then think that I should be forced to prolong my stay for some months. My contract was ended, my work was done. I was free, but the mining-company wished to retain me. They wanted me to sign a new contract, and to this end they invented all sorts of pretexts to keep me where I was. As I did not wish to go to law against the people through whom I had made my fortune, I determined to wait, hoping that my patience would tire them out; and that, in fact, is what happened. The company bowed before my decision. This good news reached me on the eve of the departure of a steamer. I did not hesitate for a moment; I at once took ship. I might indeed have given you notice on the way, but I wished to reserve to myself the happiness of surprising you. It was not until I reached Paris that I decided to send you a despatch; and even then I did not have the strength to await your reply."

"Dear Roger!" said Monsieur Dalize. "And then your process, your discovery, succeeded entirely?"

"Yes, I have made a fortune,—a large fortune. I have told you that the enterprise was at my risk, but that the company would give me ten per cent. on all the ore that I would succeed in saving. Now, the mines of Texas used to produce four million dollars' worth a year. Thanks to my process, they produce nearly a million more. In ten years you can well see what was my portion."

"Splendid!" said Monsieur Dalize; "it represents a sum of–"

Madame Dalize interrupted her husband.

"Miette," said she, "cannot you do that little sum for us, my child?"

Miette wiped her eyes and ceased crying. Her mother's desire had been reached. The little girl took a pencil, and, after making her mother repeat the question to her, put down some figures upon a sheet of paper. After a moment she said, not without hesitation, for the sum appeared to her enormous,—

"Why! it is a million dollars that Monsieur Roger has made!"

"Exactly," said Monsieur Roger; "and, my dear child, you have, without knowing it, calculated pretty closely the fortune which you will receive from me as your wedding portion."

Monsieur and Madame Dalize looked up with astonishment. Miette gazed at Monsieur Roger without understanding.

"My dear friends," said Roger, turning to Monsieur and Madame Dalize, "you will not refuse me the pleasure of giving my fortune to Miss Miette. I have no one else in the world; and does not Mariette represent both of you? Where would my money be better placed?"

And turning towards Miss Miette, he said to her,—

"Yes, my child, that million will be yours on your marriage."

Miette looked from her mother to her father, not knowing whether she ought to accept, and seriously embarrassed. With a sweet smile, Monsieur Roger added,—

"And so, you see, you will be able to choose a husband that you like."

Then, quietly and without hesitation, Miss Miette said,—

"It will be Paul Solange."

CHAPTER VII.

VACATION

Monsieur and Madame Dalize could not help smiling in listening to this frank declaration of their daughter: "It will be Paul Solange."

Monsieur Roger smiled in his turn, and said,—

"What! has Miss Miette already made her choice?"

"It is an amusing bit of childishness," answered Madame Dalize, "as you see. But, really, Miss Miette, although she teases him often, has a very kindly feeling for our friend Paul Solange."

"And who is this happy little mortal?" asked Monsieur Roger.

"A friend of Albert's," said Monsieur Dalize.

"Albert, your son?" said Monsieur Roger, to whom this name and this word were always painful. Then he added,—

"I should like very much to see him, your son."

"You shall soon see him, my dear Roger," answered Monsieur Dalize. "Vacation begins to-morrow morning, and to-morrow evening Albert will be at Sainte-Gemme."

"With Paul?" asked Miss Miette.

"Why, certainly," said Madame Dalize, laughing; "with your friend Paul Solange."

Monsieur Roger asked,—

"How old is Albert at present?"

"In his thirteenth year," said Monsieur Dalize.

Monsieur Roger remained silent. He was thinking that his little George, if he had lived, would also be big now, and, like the son of Monsieur Dalize, would be in his thirteenth year.

Next day the horses were harnessed, and all four went down to the station to meet the five-o'clock train. When Albert and Paul jumped out from the train, and had kissed Monsieur and Madame Dalize and Miss Miette, they looked with some surprise at Monsieur Roger, whom they did not know.

"Albert," said Monsieur Dalize, showing Monsieur Roger to his son, "why don't you salute our friend Roger?"

"Is this Monsieur Roger?" cried Albert, and the tone of his voice showed that his father had taught him to know and to love the man who now, with his eyes full of tears, was pressing him to his heart.

"And you too, Paul, don't you want to embrace our friend?" said Monsieur Dalize.

"Yes, sir," answered Paul Solange, with a sad and respectful gravity, which struck Monsieur Roger and at once called up his affection.

On the way, Monsieur Roger, who was looking with emotion upon the two young people, but whose eyes were particularly fixed upon Paul, said, in a low voice, to Monsieur Dalize,—

"They are charming children."

"And it is especially Paul whom you think charming; acknowledge it," answered Monsieur Dalize, in the same tone.

"Why should Paul please me more than Albert?" asked Monsieur Roger.

"Ah, my poor friend," replied Monsieur Dalize, "because the father of Albert is here and the father of Paul is far away."

Monsieur Dalize was right. Monsieur Roger, without wishing it, had felt his sympathies attracted more strongly to this child, who was, for the time being, fatherless. He bent over to Monsieur Dalize, and asked,—

"Where is Paul's father?"

"In Martinique, where he does a big business in sugar-cane and coffee. Monsieur Solange was born in France, and he decided that his son should come here to study."

"I can understand that," replied Monsieur Roger; "but what a sorrow this exile must cause the mother of this child!"

"Paul has no mother: she died several years ago."

"Poor boy!" murmured Monsieur Roger, and his growing friendship became all the stronger.

That evening, after dinner, when coffee was being served, Miss Miette, who was in a very good humor, was seized with the desire to tease her little friend Paul.

"Say, Paul," she asked, from one end of the table to the other, "how many prizes did you take this year?"

Paul, knowing that an attack was coming, began to smile, and answered, good-naturedly,—

"You know very well, you naughty girl. You have already asked me, and I have told you."

"Ah, that is true," said Miette, with affected disdain: "you took one prize,—one poor little prize,—bah!"

Then, after a moment, she continued,—

"That is not like my brother: he took several prizes, he did,—a prize for Latin, a prize for history, a prize for mathematics, a prize for physical science, and a prize for chemistry. Well, well! and you,—you only took one prize; and that is the same one you took last year!"

"Yes," said Paul, without minding his friend's teasing; "but last year I took only the second prize, and this year I took the first."

"You have made some progress," said Miss Miette, sententiously.

Monsieur Roger had been interested in the dialogue.

"May I ask what prize Master Paul Solange has obtained?"

"A poor little first prize for drawing only," answered Miette.

"Ah, you love drawing?" said Monsieur Roger, looking at Paul.

But it was Miette who answered: "He loves nothing else."

Monsieur Dalize now, in his turn, took up the conversation, and said,—

"The truth is that our friend Paul has a passion for drawing. History and Latin please him a little, but for chemistry and the physical sciences he has no taste at all."

Monsieur Roger smiled.

"You are wrong," replied Monsieur Dalize, "to excuse by your smile Paul's indifference to the sciences.—And as to you, Paul, you would do well to take as your example Monsieur Roger, who would not have his fortune if he had not known chemistry and the physical sciences. In our day the sciences are indispensable."

Miss Miette, who had shoved herself a little away from the table, pouting slightly, heard these words, and came to the defence of the one whom she had begun by attacking. She opened a book full of pictures, and advanced with it to her father.

"Now, papa," she said, with a look of malice in her eyes, "did the gentleman who made that drawing have to know anything about chemistry or the physical sciences?"

CHAPTER VIII.

A DRAWING LESSON

For a moment Monsieur Dalize was disconcerted, and knew not what to say in answer. Happily, Monsieur Roger came to his aid. He took the book from Miette's hands, looked at the engraving, and said, quietly,—

"Why, certainly, my dear young friend, the gentleman who made that drawing ought to know something about chemistry and physical science."

"How so?" said Miette, astonished.

"Why, if he did not know the laws of physical science and of chemistry, he has, none the less, and perhaps even without knowing it himself, availed himself of the results of chemistry and physical science."

Miette took the book back again, looked at the drawing with care, and said,—

"Still, there are not in this drawing instruments or apparatus, or machines such as I have seen in my brother's books."

"But," answered Monsieur Roger, smiling, "it is not necessary that you should see instruments and apparatus and machines, as you say, to be in the presence of physical phenomena; and I assure you, my dear child, that this drawing which is under our eyes is connected with chemistry and physical science."

Miette now looked up at Monsieur Roger to see if he was not making fun of her. Monsieur Roger translated this dumb interrogation, and said,—

"Come, now! what does this drawing represent? Tell me yourself."

"Why, it represents two peasants,—a man and a woman,—who have returned home wet in the storm, and who are warming and drying themselves before the fire."

"It is, in fact, exactly that."

"Very well, sir?" asked Miette.

And in this concise answer she meant to say, "In all that, what do you see that is connected with chemistry or physical science?"

"Very well," continued Monsieur Roger; "do you see this light mist, this vapor, which is rising from the cloak that the peasant is drying before the fire?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is physical science," said Monsieur Roger.

"How do you mean?" asked Miette.

"I will explain in a moment. Let us continue to examine the picture. Do you see that a portion of the wood is reduced to ashes?"

"Yes."

"Do you also remark the flame and the smoke which are rising up the chimney?"

"Yes."

"That is chemistry."

"Ah!" said Miss Miette, at a loss for words.

Every one was listening to Monsieur Roger, some of them interested, the others amused. Miette glanced over at her friend Paul.

"What do you think of that?" she asked.

Paul did not care to reply. Albert wished to speak, but he stopped at a gesture from his father. Monsieur Dalize knew that the real interest of this scene lay with Monsieur Roger, the scientist, who was already loved by all this little world. Miette, as nobody else answered, returned to Monsieur Roger.

"But why," she asked, "is that physical science? Why is it chemistry?"

"Because it is physical science and chemistry," said Monsieur Roger, simply.

"Oh, but you have other reasons to give us!" said Madame Dalize, who understood what Monsieur Roger was thinking of.

"Yes," added Miette.

And even Paul, with unusual curiosity, nodded his head affirmatively.

"The reasons will be very long to explain, and would bore you," said Monsieur Dalize, certain that he would in this way provoke a protest.

The protest, in fact, came.

Monsieur Roger was obliged to speak.

"Well," said he, still addressing himself to Miss Miette, "this drawing is concerned with physical science, because the peasant, in placing his cloak before the heat of the fire, causes the phenomenon of evaporation to take place. The vapor which escapes from the damp cloth is water, is nothing but water, and will always be water under a different form. It is water modified, and modified for a moment, because this vapor, coming against the cold wall or other cold objects, will condense. That is to say, it will become again liquid water,—water similar to that which it was a moment ago; and that is a physical phenomenon,—for physical science aims to study the modifications which alter the form, the color, the appearance of bodies, but only their temporary modifications, which leave intact all the properties of bodies. Our drawing is concerned with chemistry, because the piece of wood which burns disappears, leaving in its place cinders in the hearth and gases which escape through the chimney. Here there is a complete modification, an absolute change of the piece of wood. Do what you will, you would be unable, by collecting together the cinders and gases, to put together again the log of wood which has been burned; and that is a chemical phenomenon,—for the aim of chemistry is to study the durable and permanent modifications, after which bodies retain none of their original properties. Another example may make more easy this distinction between physical science and chemistry. Suppose that you put into the fire a bar of iron. That bar will expand and become red. Its color, its form, its dimensions will be modified, but it will always remain a bar of iron. That is a physical phenomenon. Instead of this bar of iron, put in the fire a bit of sulphur. It will flame up and burn in disengaging a gas of a peculiar odor, which is called sulphuric acid. This sulphuric-acid gas can be condensed and become a liquid, but it no longer contains the properties of sulphur. It is no longer a piece of sulphur, and can never again become a piece of sulphur. The modification of this body is therefore durable, and therefore permanent. Now, that is a chemical phenomenon."

Monsieur Roger stopped for a moment; then, paying no apparent attention to Paul, who, however, was listening far more attentively than one could imagine he would, he looked at Miette, and said,—

"I don't know, my child, if I have explained myself clearly enough; but you must certainly understand that in their case the artist has represented, whether he wished to or not, the physical phenomenon and the chemical phenomenon."