Part 128 (1/2)

”Compelled by almost universal opprobrium to retire from office, he left behind him animosities which will be extinguished only with life.”

But what this article does not state is this: if Martial was wrong--and that depends entirely upon the point of view from which his conduct is regarded--he was doubly wrong, since he was not possessed of those ardent convictions verging upon fanaticism which make men fools, heroes, and martyrs.

He was not even ambitious.

Those a.s.sociated with him, witnessing his pa.s.sionate struggle and his unceasing activity, thought him actuated by an insatiable thirst for power.

He cared little or nothing for it. He considered its burdens heavy; its compensations small. His pride was too lofty to feel any satisfaction in the applause that delights the vain, and flattery disgusted him.

Often, in his princely drawing-rooms, during some brilliant fete, his acquaintances noticed a shade of gloom steal over his features, and seeing him thus thoughtful and preoccupied, they respectfully refrained from disturbing him.

”His mind is occupied with momentous questions,” they thought. ”Who can tell what important decisions may result from this revery?”

They were mistaken.

At the very moment when his brilliant success made his rivals pale with envy--when it would seem that he had nothing left to wish for in this world, Martial was saying to himself:

”What an empty life! What weariness and vexation of spirit! To live for others--what a mockery!”

He looked at his wife, radiant in her beauty, wors.h.i.+pped like a queen, and he sighed.

He thought of her who was dead--Marie-Anne--the only woman whom he had ever loved.

She was never absent from his mind. After all these years he saw her yet, cold, rigid, lifeless, in that luxurious room at the Borderie; and time, far from effacing the image of the fair girl who had won his youthful heart, made it still more radiant and endowed his lost idol with almost superhuman grace of person and of character.

If fate had but given him Marie-Anne for his wife! He said this to himself again and again, picturing the exquisite happiness which a life with her would have afforded him.

They would have remained at Sairmeuse. They would have had lovely children playing around them! He would not be condemned to this continual warfare--to this hollow, unsatisfying, restless life.

The truly happy are not those who parade their satisfaction and good fortune before the eyes of the mult.i.tude. The truly happy hide themselves from the curious gaze, and they are right; happiness is almost a crime.

So thought Martial; and he, the great statesman, often said to himself, in a sort of rage:

”To love, and to be loved--that is everything! All else is vanity.”

He had really tried to love his wife; he had done his best to rekindle the admiration with which she had inspired him at their first meeting.

He had not succeeded.

Between them there seemed to be a wall of ice which nothing could melt, and which was constantly increasing in height and thickness.

”Why is it?” he wondered, again and again. ”It is incomprehensible.

There are days when I could swear that she loved me. Her character, formerly so irritable, is entirely changed; she is gentleness itself.”

But he could not conquer his aversion; it was stronger than his own will.

These unavailing regrets, and the disappointments and sorrow that preyed upon him, undoubtedly aggravated the bitterness and severity of Martial's policy.

But he, at least, knew how to fall n.o.bly.