"Norbert is an unhappy lad," they would say."He who ought to be able to command all the pleasures of life is worse off than our own children."He also recollected that one day, as his father was talking to the Marquis de Laurebourg, an old lady, who was doubtless the Marchioness, had said, "Poor boy! he was so early deprived of a mother's care!"What did that mean unless it was a reflection upon the arbitrary behavior of his father? Norbert saw that these people always had their children with them, and the sight of this filled him with jealousy, and brought tears of anguish to his eyes.Sometimes, as he trudged wearily behind his yoke of oxen, goad in hand, he would see some of these young scions of the aristocracy canter by on horseback, and the friendly wave of the hand with which they greeted him almost appeared to his jaundiced mind a premeditated insult.What could they find to do in Paris, to which they all took wing at the first breath of winter? This was a question which he found himself utterly unable to solve.To drink to intoxication offered no charms to him, and yet this was the only pleasure which the villagers seemed to enjoy.Those young men must have some higher class of entertainment, but in what could it consist? Norbert could hardly read a line without spelling every word;but these new thoughts running through his mind caused him to study, so as to improve his education.His father had often told him that he did not like lads who where always poring over books; and so Norbert did not discontinue his studies, but simply avoided bringing them under his father's notice.He knew that there was a large collection of books in one of the upstairs rooms of the Chateau.He managed to force the lock of the door, and he found some thousands of volumes, of which at least two hundred were novels, which had been the solace of his mother's unhappy life.With all the eagerness of a man who is at the point of starvation and finds an unexpected store of provisions, Norbert seized upon them.At first he had great difficulty in dividing fact from fiction.
He arrived at two conclusions from perusing this heterogeneous mass of literature--one was, that he was most unhappy; and the other was, that he hated his father with a cold and determined loathing.Had he dared, he would have shown this feeling openly, but the Duke de Champdoce inspired him with an unconquerable feeling of terror.This state of affairs continued for some months, and at the end of that time the Duke felt that he ought to make his son acquainted with his projects.
One Sunday, after supper, he commenced this task.Norbert had never seen his father so animated as he was at this moment, when all his ancestral pride blazed in his eyes.He explained at length the acts and deeds of those heroes who had been the ornament of their house, and enumerated the influential marriages which had been made by them in the days when their very name was a power in the land.And what remained of all their power and rank, save their Parisian domicile, their old Chateau, and some two hundred thousand francs of income?
Norbert could hardly credit what he heard; he had never believed that his father possessed such enormous wealth."Why, it is inconceivable!"he muttered.And yet, as he looked round, he saw that the surroundings were those of a peasant's cottage.How could he endure so many discomforts and wounds to his pride? In his anger he absolutely started to his feet with the intention of reproaching his father, but his courage failed him, and he fell back into a chair, quivering with emotion.
The Duke de Champdoce was pacing up and down the room.
"Do you think it so little?" asked he angrily.
