The Wandering Jew, v2
by
Eugene Sue
Part 3 out of 4
The following scenes occur in Paris, on the morrow of the day when the
shipwrecked travellers were received in Cardoville House.
Nothing can be more gloomy than the aspect of the Rue Brise-Miche, one
end of which leads into the Rue Saint-Merry, and the other into the
little square of the Cloister, near the church. At this end, the street,
or rather alley--for it is not more than eight feet wide--is shut in
between immense black, muddy dilapidated walls, the excessive height of
which excludes both air and light; hardly, during the longest days of the
year, is the sun able to throw into it a few straggling beams; whilst,
during the cold damps of winter, a chilling fog, which seems to penetrate
everything, hangs constantly above the miry pavement of this species of
oblong well.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening; by the faint, reddish light of
the street lamp, hardly visible through the haze, two men, stopping at
the angle of one of those enormous walls, exchanged a few words together.
"So," said one, "you understand all about it. You are to watch in the
street, till you see them enter No. 5."
"All right!" answered the other.
"And when you see 'em enter so as to make quite sure of the game, go up
to Frances Baudoin's room--"
"Under the cloak of asking where the little humpbacked workwoman lives--
the sister of that gay girl, the Queen of the Bacchanals."
"Yes--and you must try and find out her address also--from her humpbacked
sister, if possible--for it is very important. Women of her feather
change their nests like birds, and we have lost track of her."
"Make yourself easy; I will do my best with Hump, to learn where her
sister hangs out."
"And, to give you steam, I'll wait for you at the tavern opposite the
Cloister, and we'll have a go of hot wine on your return."
"I'll not refuse, for the night is deucedly cold."
"Don't mention it! This morning the water friz on my sprinkling-brush,
and I turned as stiff as a mummy in my chair at the church-door. Ah, my
boy! a distributor of holy water is not always upon roses!"
"Luckily, you have the pickings--"
"Well, well--good luck to you! Don't forget the Fiver, the little
passage next to the dyer's shop."
"Yes, yes--all right!" and the two men separated.
One proceeded to the Cloister Square; the other towards the further end
of the street, where it led into the Rue Saint-Merry. This latter soon
found the number of the house he sought--a tall, narrow building, having,
like all the other houses in the street, a poor and wretched appearance.
When he saw he was right, the man commenced walking backwards and
forwards in front of the door of No. 5.
If the exterior of these buildings was uninviting, the gloom and squalor
of the interior cannot be described. The house No. 5 was, in a special
degree, dirty and dilapidated. The water, which oozed from the wall,
trickled down the dark and filthy staircase. On the second floor, a wisp
of straw had been laid on the narrow landing-place, for wiping the feet
on; but this straw, being now quite rotten, only served to augment the
sickening odor, which arose from want of air, from damp, and from the
putrid exhalations of the drains. The few openings, cut at rare
intervals in the walls of the staircase, could hardly admit more than
some faint rays of glimmering light.
In this quarter, one of the most populous in Paris, such houses as these,
poor, cheerless, and unhealthy, are generally inhabited by the working
classes. The house in question was of the number. A dyer occupied the
ground floor; the deleterious vapors arising from his vats added to the
stench of the whole building. On the upper stories, several artisans
lodged with their families, or carried on their different trades. Up
four flights of stairs was the lodging of Frances Baudoin, wife of
Dagobert. It consisted of one room, with a closet adjoining, and was now
lighted by a single candle. Agricola occupied a garret in the roof.
Old grayish paper, broken here and there by the cracks covered the crazy
wall, against which rested the bed; scanty curtains, running upon an iron
rod, concealed the windows; the brick floor, not polished, but often
washed, had preserved its natural color. At one end of this room was a
round iron stove, with a large pot for culinary purposes. On the wooden
table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature house made
of iron--a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of Agricola
Baudoin, Dagobert's son.
A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several
branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very
coarsely colored, bore witness to the habits of the soldier's wife.
Between the windows stood one of those old walnut-wood presses, curiously
fashioned, and almost black with time; an old arm-chair, covered with
green cotton velvet (Agricola's first present to his mother), a few rush-
bottomed chairs, and a worktable on which lay several bags of coarse,
brown cloth, completed the furniture of this room, badly secured by a
worm-eaten door. The adjoining closet contained a few kitchen and
household utensils.
Mean and poor as this interior may perhaps appear, it would not seem so
to the greater number of artisans; for the bed was supplied with two
mattresses, clean sheets, and a warm counterpane; the old-fashioned press
contained linen; and, moreover, Dagobert's wife occupied all to herself a
room as large as those in which numerous families, belonging to honest
and laborious workmen, often live and sleep huddled together--only too
happy if the boys and girls can have separate beds, or if the sheets and
blankets are not pledged at the pawnbroker's.
Frances Baudoin, seated beside the small stove, which, in the cold and
damp weather, yielded but little warmth, was busied in preparing her son
Agricola's evening meal.
Dagobert's wife was about fifty years of age; she wore a close jacket of
blue cotton, with white flowers on it, and a stuff petticoat; a white
handkerchief was tied round her head, and fastened under the chin. Her
countenance was pale and meagre, the features regular, and expressive of
resignation and great kindness. It would have been difficult to find a
better, a more courageous mother. With no resource but her labor, she
had succeeded, by unwearied energy, in bringing up not only her own son
Agricola, but also Gabriel, the poor deserted child, of whom, with
admirable devotion, she had ventured to take charge.
In her youth, she had, as it were, anticipated the strength of later
life, by twelve years of incessant toil, rendered lucrative by the most
violent exertions, and accompanied by such privations as made it almost
suicidal. Then (for it was a time of splendid wages, compared to the
present), by sleepless nights and constant labor, she contrived to earn
about two shillings (fifty sous) a day, and with this she managed to
educate her son and her adopted child.
At the end of these twelve years, her health was ruined, and her strength
nearly exhausted; but, at all events, her boys had wanted for nothing,
and had received such an education as children of the people can obtain.
About this time, M. Francois Hardy took Agricola as an apprentice, and
Gabriel prepared to enter the priest's seminary, under the active
patronage of M. Rodin, whose communications with the confessor of Frances
Baudoin had become very frequent about the year 1820.
This woman (whose piety had always been excessive) was one of those
simple natures, endowed with extreme goodness, whose self-denial
approaches to heroism, and who devote themselves in obscurity to a life
of martyrdom--pure and heavenly minds, in whom the instincts of the heart
supply the place of the intellect!
The only defect, or rather the necessary consequence of this extreme
simplicity of character, was the invincible determination she displayed
in yielding to the commands of her confessor, to whose influence she had
now for many years been accustomed to submit. She regarded this
influence as most venerable and sacred; no mortal power, no human
consideration, could have prevented her from obeying it. Did any dispute
arise on the subject, nothing could move her on this point; she opposed
to every argument a resistance entirely free from passion--mild as her
disposition, calm as her conscience--but, like the latter, not to be
shaken. In a word, Frances Baudoin was one of those pure, but
uninstructed and credulous beings, who may sometimes, in skillful and
dangerous hands, become, without knowing it, the instruments of much
evil.
For some time past, the bad state of her health, and particularly the
increasing weakness of her sight, had condemned her to a forced repose;
unable to work more than two or three hours a day, she consumed the rest
of her time at church.
Frances rose from her seat, pushed the coarse bags at which she had been
working to the further end of the table, and proceeded to lay the cloth
for her son's supper, with maternal care and solicitude. She took from
the press a small leathern bag, containing an old silver cup, very much
battered, and a fork and spoon, so worn and thin, that the latter cut
like a knife. These, her only plate (the wedding present of Dagobert)
she rubbed and polished as well as she was able, and laid by the side of
her son's plate. They were the most precious of her possessions, not so
much for what little intrinsic value might attach to them, as for the
associations they recalled; and she had often shed bitter tears, when,
under the pressure of illness or want of employment, she had been
compelled to carry these sacred treasures to the pawnbroker's.
Frances next took, from the lower shelf of the press, a bottle of water,
and one of wine about three-quarters full, which she also placed near her
son's plate; she then returned to the stove, to watch the cooking of the
supper.
Though Agricola was not much later than usual, the countenance of his
mother expressed both uneasiness and grief; one might have seen, by the
redness of her eyes, that she had been weeping a good deal. After long
and painful uncertainty, the poor woman had just arrived at the
conviction that her eyesight, which had been growing weaker and weaker,
would soon be so much impaired as to prevent her working even the two or
three hours a day which had lately been the extent of her labors.
Originally an excellent hand at her needle, she had been obliged, as her
eyesight gradually failed her, to abandon the finer for the coarser sorts
of work, and her earnings had necessarily diminished in proportion; she
had at length been reduced to the necessity of making those coarse bags
for the army, which took about four yards of sewing, and were paid at the
rate of two sous each, she having to find her own thread. This work,
being very hard, she could at most complete three such bags in a day, and
her gains thus amounted to threepence (six sous)!
It makes one shudder to think of the great number of unhappy females,
whose strength has been so much exhausted by privations, old age, or
sickness, that all the labor of which they are capable, hardly suffices
to bring them in daily this miserable pittance. Thus do their gains
diminish in exact proportion to the increasing wants which age and
infirmity must occasion.
Happily, Frances had an efficient support in her son. A first-rate
workman, profiting by the just scale of wages adopted by M. Hardy, his
labor brought him from four to five shillings a day--more than double
what was gained by the workmen of many other establishments. Admitting
therefore that his mother were to gain nothing, he could easily maintain
both her and himself.
But the poor woman, so wonderfully economical that she denied herself
even some of the necessaries of life, had of late become ruinously
liberal on the score of the sacristy, since she had adopted the habit of
visiting daily the parish church. Scarcely a day passed but she had
masses sung, or tapers burnt, either for Dagobert, from whom she had been
so long separated, or for the salvation of her son Agricola, whom she
considered on the high-road to perdition. Agricola had so excellent a
heart, so loved and revered his mother, and considered her actions in
this respect inspired by so touching a sentiment, that he never
complained when he saw a great part of his week's wages (which he paid
regularly over to his mother every Saturday) disappear in pious forms.
Yet now and then he ventured to remark to Frances, with as much respect
as tenderness, that it pained him to see her enduring privations
injurious at her age, because she preferred incurring these devotional
expenses. But what answer could he make to this excellent mother, when
she replied with tears: "My child, 'tis for the salvation of your father
and yours too."
To dispute the efficacy of masses, would have been venturing on a,
subject which Agricola, through respect for his mother's religious faith,
never discussed. He contented himself, therefore, with seeing her
dispense with comforts she might have enjoyed.
A discreet tap was heard at the door. "Come in," said Frances. The
person came in.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE SISTER OF THE BACCHANAL QUEEN.
The person who now entered was a girl of about eighteen, short, and very
much deformed. Though not exactly a hunchback, her spine was curved; her
breast was sunken, and her head deeply set in the shoulders. Her face
was regular, but long, thin, very pale, and pitted with the small pox;
yet it expressed great sweetness and melancholy. Her blue eyes beamed
with kindness and intelligence. By a strange freak of nature, the
handsomest woman would have been proud of the magnificent hair twisted in
a coarse net at the back of her head. She held an old basket in her
hand. Though miserably clad, the care and neatness of her dress revealed
a powerful struggle with her poverty. Notwithstanding the cold, she wore
a scanty frock made of print of an indefinable color, spotted with white;
but it had been so often washed, that its primitive design and color had
long since disappeared. In her resigned, yet suffering face, might be
read a long familiarity with every form of suffering, every description
of taunting. From her birth, ridicule had ever pursued her. We have
said that she was very deformed, and she was vulgarly called "Mother
Bunch." Indeed it was so usual to give her this grotesque name, which
every moment reminded her of her infirmity, that Frances and Agricola,
though they felt as much compassion as other people showed contempt for
her, never called her, however, by any other name.
Mother Bunch, as we shall therefore call her in future, was born in the
house in which Dagobert's wife had resided for more than twenty years;
and she had, as it were, been brought up with Agricola and Gabriel.
There are wretches fatally doomed to misery. Mother Bunch had a very
pretty sister, on whom Perrine Soliveau, their common mother, the widow
of a ruined tradesman, had concentrated all her affection, while she
treated her deformed child with contempt and unkindness. The latter
would often come, weeping, to Frances, on this account, who tried to
console her, and in the long evenings amused her by teaching her to read
and sew. Accustomed to pity her by their mother's example, instead of
imitating other children, who always taunted and sometimes even beat her,
Agricola and Gabriel liked her, and used to protect and defend her.
She was about fifteen, and her sister Cephyse was about seventeen, when
their mother died, leaving them both in utter poverty. Cephyse was
intelligent, active, clever, but different to her sister; she had the
lively, alert, hoydenish character which requires air, exercise and
pleasures--a good girl enough, but foolishly spoiled by her mother.
Cephyse, listening at first to Frances's good advice, resigned herself to
her lot; and, having learnt to sew, worked like her sister, for about a
year. But, unable to endure any longer the bitter privations her
insignificant earnings, notwithstanding her incessant toil, exposed her
to--privations which often bordered on starvation--Cephyse, young,
pretty, of warm temperament, and surrounded by brilliant offers and
seductions--brilliant, indeed, for her, since they offered food to
satisfy her hunger, shelter from the cold, and decent raiment, without
being obliged to work fifteen hours a day in an obscure and unwholesome
hovel--Cephyse listened to the vows of a young lawyer's clerk, who
forsook her soon after. She formed a connection with another clerk, whom
she (instructed by the examples set her), forsook in turn for a bagman,
whom she afterwards cast off for other favorites. In a word, what with
changing and being forsaken, Cephyse, in the course of one or two years,
was the idol of a set of grisettes, students and clerks; and acquired
such a reputation at the balls on the Hampstead Heaths of Paris, by her
decision of character, original turn of mind, and unwearied ardor in all
kinds of pleasures, and especially her wild, noisy gayety, that she was
termed the Bacchanal Queen, and proved herself in every way worthy of
this bewildering royalty.
From that time poor Mother Bunch only heard of her sister at rare
intervals. She still mourned for her, and continued to toil hard to gain
her three-and-six a week. The unfortunate girl, having been taught
sewing by Frances, made coarse shirts for the common people and the army.
For these she received half-a-crown a dozen. They had to be hemmed,
stitched, provided with collars and wristbands, buttons, and button-
holes; and at the most, when at work twelve and fifteen hours a day, she
rarely succeeded in turning out more than fourteen or sixteen shirts a
week--an excessive amount of toil that brought her in about three
shillings and fourpence a week. And the case of this poor girl was
neither accidental nor uncommon. And this, because the remuneration
given for women's work is an example of revolting injustice and savage
barbarism. They are paid not half as much as men who are employed at the
needle: such as tailors, and makers of gloves, or waistcoats, etc.--no
doubt because women can work as well as men--because they are more weak
and delicate--and because their need may be twofold as great when they
become mothers.
Well, Mother Bunch fagged on, with three-and-four a week. That is to
say, toiling hard for twelve or fifteen hours every day; she succeeded in
keeping herself alive, in spite of exposure to hunger, cold, and poverty-
-so numerous were her privations. Privations? No! The word privation
expresses but weakly that constant and terrible want of all that is
necessary to preserve the existence God gives; namely, wholesome air and
shelter, sufficient and nourishing food and warm clothing. Mortification
would be a better word to describe that total want of all that is
essentially vital, which a justly organized state of society ought--yes--
ought necessarily to bestow on every active, honest workman and
workwoman, since civilization has dispossessed them of all territorial
right, and left them no other patrimony than their hands.
The savage does not enjoy the advantage of civilization; but he has, at
least, the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, the fish of the
sea, and the fruits of the earth, to feed him, and his native woods for
shelter and for fuel. The civilized man, disinherited of these gifts,
considering the rights of property as sacred, may, in return for his hard
daily labor, which enriches his country, demand wages that will enable
him to live in the enjoyment of health: nothing more, and nothing less.
For is it living, to drag along on the extreme edge which separates life
from the grave, and even there continually struggle against cold, hunger,
and disease? And to show how far the mortification which society imposes
thus inexorably on its millions of honest, industrious laborers (by its
careless disregard of all the questions which concern the just
remuneration of labor), may extend, we will describe how this poor girl
contrived to live on three shillings and sixpence a week.
Society, perhaps, may then feel its obligation to so many unfortunate
wretches for supporting, with resignation, the horrible existence which
leaves them just sufficient life to feel the worst pangs of humanity.
Yes: to live at such a price is virtue! Yes, society thus organized,
whether it tolerates or imposes so much misery, loses all right to blame
the poor wretches who sell themselves not through debauchery, but because
they are cold and famishing. This poor girl spent her wages as follows:
Six pounds of bread, second quality . . . . . . . .0 8 1/2
Four pails of water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 2
Lard or dripping (butter being out of the question)0 5
Coarse salt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 0 3/4
A bushel of charcoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 4
A quart of dried vegetables . . . . . . . . . . . .0 3
Three quarts of potatoes. . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 2
Dips. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 3 1/4
Thread and needles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .0 2 1/2
_____
2 7
To save charcoal, Mother Bunch prepared soup only two or three times a
week at most, on a stove that stood on the landing of the fourth story.
On other days she ate it cold. There remained nine or ten pence a week
for clothes and lodging. By rare good fortune, her situation was in one
respect an exception to the lot of many others. Agricola, that he might
not wound her delicacy, had come to a secret arrangement with the
housekeeper, and hired a garret for her, just large enough to hold a
small bed, a chair, and a table; for which the sempstress had to pay five
shillings a year. But Agricola, in fulfilment of his agreement with the
porter, paid the balance, to make up the actual rent of the garret, which
was twelve and sixpence. The poor girl had thus about eighteenpence a
month left for her other expenses. But many workwomen, whose position is
less fortunate than hers, since they have neither home nor family, buy a
piece of bread and some other food to keep them through the day; and at
night patronize the "twopenny rope," one with another, in a wretched room
containing five or six beds, some of which are always engaged by men, as
male lodgers are by far the most abundant. Yes; and in spite of the
disgust that a poor and virtuous girl must feel at this arrangement, she
must submit to it; for a lodging-house keeper cannot have separate rooms
for females. To furnish a room, however meanly, the poor workwoman must
possess three or four shillings in ready money. But how save this sum,
out of weekly earnings of a couple of florins, which are scarcely
sufficient to keep her from starving, and are still less sufficient to
clothe her? No! no! The poor wretch must resign herself to this
repugnant cohabitation; and so, gradually, the instinct of modesty
becomes weakened; the natural sentiment of chastity, that saved her from
the "gay life," becomes extinct; vice appears to be the only means of
improving her intolerable condition; she yields; and the first "man made
of money," who can afford a governess for his children, cries out against
the depravity of the lower orders! And yet, painful as the condition of
the working woman is, it is relatively fortunate. Should work fail her
for one day, two days, what then? Should sickness come--sickness almost
always occasioned by unwholesome food, want of fresh air, necessary
attention, and good rest; sickness, often so enervating as to render work
impossible; though not so dangerous as to procure the sufferer a bed in
an hospital--what becomes of the hapless wretches then? The mind
hesitates, and shrinks from dwelling on such gloomy pictures.
This inadequacy of wages, one terrible source only of so many evils, and
often of so many vices, is general, especially among women; and, again
this is not private wretchedness, but the wretchedness which afflicts
whole classes, the type of which we endeavor to develop in Mother Bunch.
It exhibits the moral and physical condition of thousands of human
creatures in Paris, obliged to subsist on a scanty four shillings a week.
This poor workwoman, then, notwithstanding the advantages she unknowingly
enjoyed through Agricola's generosity, lived very miserably; and her
health, already shattered, was now wholly undermined by these constant
hardships. Yet, with extreme delicacy, though ignorant of the little
sacrifice already made for her by Agricola, Mother Bunch pretended she
earned more than she really did, in order to avoid offers of service
which it would have pained her to accept, because she knew the limited
means of Frances and her son, and because it would have wounded her
natural delicacy, rendered still more sensitive by so many sorrows and
humiliations.
But, singular as it may appear, this deformed body contained a loving and
generous soul--a mind cultivated even to poetry; and let us add, that
this was owing to the example of Agricola Baudoin, with whom she had been
brought up, and who had naturally the gift. This poor girl was the first
confidant to whom our young mechanic imparted his literary essays; and
when he told her of the charm and extreme relief he found in poetic
reverie, after a day of hard toil, the workwoman, gifted with strong
natural intelligence, felt, in her turn, how great a resource this would
be to her in her lonely and despised condition.
One day, to Agricola's great surprise, who had just read some verses to
her, the sewing-girl, with smiles and blushes, timidly communicated to
him also a poetic composition. Her verses wanted rhythm and harmony,
perhaps; but they were simple and affecting, as a non-envenomed complaint
entrusted to a friendly hearer. From that day Agricola and she held
frequent consultations; they gave each other mutual encouragement: but
with this exception, no one else knew anything of the girl's poetical
essays, whose mild timidity made her often pass for a person of weak
intellect. This soul must have been great and beautiful, for in all her
unlettered strains there was not a word of murmuring respecting her hard
lot: her note was sad, but gentle--desponding, but resigned; it was
especially the language of deep tenderness--of mournful sympathy--of
angelic charity for all poor creatures consigned, like her, to bear the
double burden of poverty and deformity. Yet she often expressed a
sincere free-spoken admiration of beauty, free from all envy or
bitterness; she admired beauty as she admired the sun. But, alas! many
were the verses of hers that Agricola had never seen, and which he was
never to see.
The young mechanic, though not strictly handsome, had an open masculine
face; was as courageous as kind; possessed a noble, glowing, generous
heart, a superior mind, and a frank, pleasing gayety of spirits. The
young girl, brought up with him, loved him as an unfortunate creature can
love, who, dreading cruel ridicule, is obliged to hide her affection in
the depths of her heart, and adopt reserve and deep dissimulation. She
did not seek to combat her love; to what purpose should she do so? No
one would ever know it. Her well known sisterly affection for Agricola
explained the interest she took in all that concerned him; so that no one
was surprised at the extreme grief of the young workwoman, when, in 1830,
Agricola, after fighting intrepidly for the people's flag, was brought
bleeding home to his mother. Dagobert's son, deceived, like others, on
this point, had never suspected, and was destined never to suspect, this
love for him.
Such was the poorly-clad girl who entered the room in which Frances was
preparing her son's supper.
"Is it you, my poor love," said she; "I have not seen you since morning:
have you been ill? Come and kiss me."
The young girl kissed Agricola's mother, and replied: "I was very busy
about some work, mother; I did not wish to lose a moment; I have only
just finished it. I am going down to fetch some charcoal--do you want
anything while I'm out?"
"No, no, my child, thank you. But I am very uneasy. It is half-past
eight, and Agricola is not come home." Then she added, after a sigh: "He
kills himself with work for me. Ah, I am very unhappy, my girl; my sight
is quite going. In a quarter of an hour after I begin working, I cannot
see at all--not even to sew sacks. The idea of being a burden to my son
drives me distracted."
"Oh, don't, ma'am, if Agricola heard you say that--"
"I know the poor boy thinks of nothing but me, and that augments my
vexation. Only I think that rather than leave me, he gives up the
advantages that his fellow-workmen enjoy at Hardy's, his good and worthy
master--instead of living in this dull garret, where it is scarcely light
at noon, he would enjoy, like the other workmen, at very little expense,
a good light room, warm in winter, airy in summer, with a view of the
garden. And he is so fond of trees! not to mention that this place is so
far from his work, that it is quite a toil to him to get to it."
"Oh, when he embraces you he forgets his fatigue, Mrs. Baudoin," said
Mother Bunch; "besides, he knows how you cling to the house in which he
was born. M. Hardy offered to settle you at Plessy with Agricola, in the
building put up for the workmen."
"Yes, my child; but then I must give up church. I can't do that."
"But--be easy, I hear him," said the hunchback, blushing.
A sonorous, joyous voice was heard singing on the stairs.
"At least, I'll not let him see that I have been crying," said the good
mother, drying her tears. "This is the only moment of rest and ease from
toil he has--I must not make it sad to him."
CHAPTER XXIX.
AGRICOLA BAUDOIN.
Our blacksmith poet, a tall young man, about four-and-twenty years of
age, was alert and robust, with ruddy complexion, dark hair and eyes, and
aquiline nose, and an open, expressive countenance. His resemblance to
Dagobert was rendered more striking by the thick brown moustache which he
wore according to the fashion; and a sharp-pointed imperial covered his
chin. His cheeks, however, were shaven, Olive color velveteen trousers,
a blue blouse, bronzed by the forge smoke, a black cravat, tied
carelessly round his muscular neck, a cloth cap with a narrow vizor,
composed his dress. The only thing which contrasted singularly with his
working habiliments was a handsome purple flower, with silvery pistils,
which he held in his hand.
"Good-evening, mother," said he, as he came to kiss Frances immediately.
Then, with a friendly nod, he added, "Good-evening, Mother Bunch."
"You are very late, my child," said Frances, approaching the little stove
on which her son's simple meal was simmering; "I was getting very
anxious."
"Anxious about me, or about my supper, dear mother?" said Agricola,
gayly. "The deuce! you won't excuse me for keeping the nice little
supper waiting that you get ready for me, for fear it should be spoilt,
eh?"
So saying, the blacksmith tried to kiss his mother again.
"Have done, you naughty boy; you'll make me upset the pan."
"That would be a pity, mother; for it smells delightfully. Let's see
what it is."
"Wait half a moment."
"I'll swear, now, you have some of the fried potatoes and bacon I'm so
fond of."
"Being Saturday, of course!" said Frances, in a tone of mild reproach.
"True," rejoined Agricola, exchanging a smile of innocent cunning with
Mother Bunch; "but, talking of Saturday, mother, here are my wages."
"Thank ye, child; put the money in the cupboard."
"Yes, mother!"
"Oh, dear!" cried the young sempstress, just as Agricola was about to put
away the money, "what a handsome flower you have in your hand, Agricola.
I never saw a finer. In winter, too! Do look at it, Mrs. Baudoin."
"See there, mother," said Agricola, taking the flower to her; "look at
it, admire it, and especially smell it. You can't have a sweeter
perfume; a blending of vanilla and orange blossom."
"Indeed, it does smell nice, child. Goodness! how handsome!" said
Frances, admiringly; "where did you find it?"
"Find it, my good mother!" repeated Agricola, smilingly: "do you think
folks pick up such things between the Barriere du Maine and the Rue
Brise-Miche?"
"How did you get it then?" inquired the sewing girl, sharing in Frances's
curiosity.
"Oh! you would like to know? Well, I'll satisfy you, and explain why I
came home so late; for something else detained me. It has been an
evening of adventures, I promise you. I was hurrying home, when I heard
a low, gentle barking at the corner of the Rue de Babylone; it was just
about dusk, and I could see a very pretty little dog, scarce bigger than
my fist, black and tan, with long, silky hair, and ears that covered its
paws."
"Lost, poor thing, I warrant," said Frances.
"You've hit it. I took up the poor thing, and it began to lick my hands.
Round its neck was a red satin ribbon, tied in a large bow; but as that
did not bear the master's name, I looked beneath it, and saw a small
collar, made of a gold plate and small gold chains. So I took a Lucifer
match from my 'bacco-box, and striking a light, I read, 'FRISKY belongs
to Hon. Miss Adrienne de Cardoville, No. 7, Rue de Babylone.'"
"Why, you were just in the street," said Mother Bunch.
"Just so. Taking the little animal under my arm, I looked about me till
I came to a long garden wall, which seemed to have no end, and found a
small door of a summer-house, belonging no doubt to the large mansion at
the other end of the park; for this garden looked just like a park. So,
looking up I saw 'No. 7,' newly painted over a little door with a grated
slide. I rang; and in a few minutes, spent, no doubt, in observing me
through the bars (for I am sure I saw a pair of eyes peeping through),
the gate opened. And now, you'll not believe a word I have to say."
"Why not, my child?"
"Because it seems like a fairy tale."
"A fairy tale?" said Mother Bunch, as if she was really her namesake of
elfish history.
"For, all the world it does. I am quite astounded, even now, at my
adventure; it is like the remembrance of a dream."
"Well, let us have it," said the worthy mother, so deeply interested that
she did not perceive her son's supper was beginning to burn.
"First," said the blacksmith, smiling at the curiosity he had excited, "a
young lady opened the door to me, but so lovely, so beautifully and
gracefully dressed, that you would have taken her for a beautiful
portrait of past times. Before I could say a word, she exclaimed, 'Ah!
dear me, sir, you have brought back Frisky; how happy Miss Adrienne will
be! Come, pray come in instantly; she would so regret not having an
opportunity to thank you in person!' And without giving me time to
reply, she beckoned me to follow her. Oh, dear mother, it is quite out
of my power to tell you, the magnificence I saw, as I passed through a
small saloon, partially lighted, and full of perfume! It would be
impossible. The young woman walked too quickly. A door opened,--Oh,
such a sight! I was so dazzled I can remember nothing but a great glare
of gold and light, crystal and flowers; and, amidst all this brilliancy,
a young lady of extreme beauty--ideal beauty; but she had red hair, or
rather hair shining like gold! Oh! it was charming to look at! I never
saw such hair before. She had black eyes, ruddy lips, and her skin
seemed white as snow. This is all I can recollect: for, as I said
before, I was so dazzled, I seemed to be looking through a veil.
'Madame,' said the young woman, whom I never should have taken for a
lady's-maid, she was dressed so elegantly, 'here is Frisky. This
gentleman found him, and brought him back.' 'Oh, sir,' said the young
lady with the golden hair, in a sweet silvery voice, 'what thanks I owe
you! I am foolishly attached to Frisky.' Then, no doubt, concluding from
my dress that she ought to thank me in some other way than by words, she
took up a silk purse, and said to me, though I must confess with some
hesitation--'No doubt, sir, it gave you some trouble to bring my pet
back. You have, perhaps, lost some valuable time--allow me--' She held
forth her purse."
"Oh, Agricola," said Mother Bunch, sadly; "how people may be deceived!"
"Hear the end, and you will perhaps forgive the young lady. Seeing by my
looks that the offer of the purse hurt me, she took a magnificent
porcelain vase that contained this flower, and, addressing me in a tone
full of grace and kindness, that left me room to guess that she was vexed
at having wounded me, she said--'At least, sir, you will accept this
flower.'"
"You are right, Agricola," said the girl, smiling sadly; "an involuntary
error could not be repaired in a nicer way.
"Worthy young lady," said Frances, wiping her eyes; "how well she
understood my Agricola!"
"Did she not, mother? But just as I was taking the flower, without
daring to raise my eyes (for, notwithstanding the young lady's kind
manner, there was something very imposing about her) another handsome
girl, tall and dark, and dressed to the top of fashion, came in and said
to the red-haired young lady, 'He is here, Madame.' She immediately rose
and said to me, 'A thousand pardons, sir. I shall never forget that I am
indebted to you for a moment of much pleasure. Pray remember, on all
occasions, my address and name--Adrienne de Cardoville.' Thereupon she
disappeared. I could not find a word to say in reply. The same young
woman showed me to the door, and curtseyed to me very politely. And
there I stood in the Rue de Babylone, as dazzled and astonished as if I
had come out of an enchanted palace."
"Indeed, my child, it is like a fairy tale. Is it not, my poor girl?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Mother Bunch, in an absent manner that Agricola did
not observe.
"What affected me most," rejoined Agricola, "was, that the young lady, on
seeing her little dog, did not forget me for it, as many would have done
in her place, and took no notice of it before me. That shows delicacy
and feeling, does it not? Indeed, I believe this young lady to be so
kind and generous, that I should not hesitate to have recourse to her in
any important case."
"Yes, you are right," replied the sempstress, more and more absent.
The poor girl suffered extremely. She felt no jealousy, no hatred,
towards this young stranger, who, from her beauty, wealth, and delicacy,
seemed to belong to a sphere too splendid and elevated to be even within
the reach of a work, girl's vision; but, making an involuntary comparison
of this fortunate condition with her own, the poor thing had never felt
more cruelly her deformity and poverty. Yet such were the humility and
gentle resignation of this noble creature, that the only thing which made
her feel ill-disposed towards Adrienne de Cardoville was the offer of the
purse to Agricola; but then the charming way in which the young lady had
atoned for her error, affected the sempstress deeply. Yet her heart was
ready to break. She could not restrain her tears as she contemplated the
magnificent flower--so rich in color and perfume, which, given by a
charming hand, was doubtless very precious to Agricola.
"Now, mother," resumed the young man smilingly, and unaware of the
painful emotion of the other bystander, "you have had the cream of my
adventures first. I have told you one of the causes of my delay; and now
for the other. Just now, as I was coming in, I met the dyer at the foot
of the stairs, his arms a beautiful pea-green. Stopping me he said, with
an air full of importance, that he thought he had seen a chap sneaking
about the house like a spy, 'Well, what is that to you, Daddy Loriot?'
said I: 'are you afraid he will nose out the way to make the beautiful
green, with which you are dyed up to the very elbows?'"
"But who could that man be, Agricola?" said Frances.
"On my word, mother, I don't know and scarcely care; I tried to persuade
Daddy Loriot, who chatters like a magpie, to return to his cellar, since
it could signify as little to him as to me, whether a spy watched him or
not." So saying, Agricola went and placed the little leathern sack,
containing his wages, on a shelf, in the cupboard.
As Frances put down the saucepan on the end of the table, Mother Bunch,
recovering from her reverie, filled a basin with water, and, taking it to
the blacksmith, said to him in a gentle tone--
"Agricola--for your hands."
"Thank you, little sister. How kind you are!" Then with a most
unaffected gesture and tone, he added, "There is my fine flower for your
trouble."
"Do you give it me?" cried the sempstress, with emotion, while a vivid
blush colored her pale and interesting face. "Do you give me this
handsome flower, which a lovely rich young lady so kindly and graciously
gave you?" And the poor thing repeated, with growing astonishment, "Do
you give it to me?"
"What the deuce should I do with it? Wear it on my heart, have it set as
a pin?" said Agricola, smiling. "It is true I was very much impressed by
the charming way in which the young lady thanked me. I am delighted to
think I found her little dog, and very happy to be able to give you this
flower, since it pleases you. You see the day has been a happy one."
While Mother Bunch, trembling with pleasure, emotion, and surprise, took
the flower, the young blacksmith washed his hands, so black with smoke
and steel filings that the water became dark in an instant. Agricola,
pointing out this change to the sempstress, said to her in a whisper,
laughing,--
"Here's cheap ink for us paper-stainers! I finished some verses
yesterday, which I am rather satisfied with. I will read them to you."
With this, Agricola wiped his hands naturally on the front of his blouse,
while Mother Bunch replaced the basin on the chest of drawers, and laid
the flower against the side of it.
"Can't you ask for a towel," said Frances, shrugging her shoulders,
"instead of wiping your hands on your blouse?"
"After being scorched all day long at the forge, it will be all the
better for a little cooling to-night, won't it? Am I disobedient,
mother? Scold me, then, if you dare! Come, let us see you."
Frances made no reply; but, placing her hands on either side of her son's
head, so beautiful in its candor, resolution and intelligence, she
surveyed him for a moment with maternal pride, and kissed him repeatedly
on the forehead.
"Come," said she, "sit down: you stand all day at your forge, and it is
late."
"So,--your arm-chair again!" said Agricola.--"Our usual quarrel every
evening--take it away, I shall be quite as much at ease on another."
"No, no! You ought at least to rest after your hard toil."
"What tyranny!" said Agricola gayly, sitting down. "Well, I preach like
a good apostle; but I am quite at ease in your arm-chair, after all.
Since I sat down on the throne in the Tuileries, I have never had a
better seat."
Frances Baudoin, standing on one side of the table, cut a slice of bread
for her son, while Mother Bunch, on the other, filled his silver mug.
There was something affecting in the attentive eagerness of the two
excellent creatures, for him whom they loved so tenderly.
"Won't you sup with me?" said Agricola to the girl.
"Thank you, Agricola," replied the sempstress, looking down, "I have only
just dined."
"Oh, I only ask you for form's sake--you have your whims--we can never
prevail on you to eat with us--just like mother; she prefers dining all
alone; and in that way she deprives herself without my knowing it."
"Goodness, child! It is better for my health to dine early. Well, do
you find it nice?"
"Nice!--call it excellent! Stockfish and parsnips. Oh, I am very fond
of stockfish; I should have been born a Newfoundland fisherman."
This worthy lad, on the contrary, was but poorly refreshed, after a hard
day's toil, with this paltry stew,--a little burnt as it had been, too,
during his story; but he knew he pleased his mother by observing the fast
without complaining. He affected to enjoy his meal; and the good woman
accordingly observed with satisfaction:
"Oh, I see you like it, my dear boy; Friday and Saturday next we'll have
some more."
"Thank you, mother,--only not two days together. One gets tired of
luxuries, you know! And now, let us talk of what we shall do to-morrow--
Sunday. We must be very merry, for the last few days you seem very sad,
dear mother, and I can't make it out--I fancy you are not satisfied with
me."
"Oh, my dear child!--you--the pattern of--"
"Well, well! Prove to me that you are happy, then, by taking a little
amusement. Perhaps you will do us the honor of accompanying us, as you
did last time," added Agricola, bowing to Mother Bunch.
The latter blushed and looked down; her face assumed an expression of
bitter grief, and she made no reply.
"I have the prayers to attend all day, you know, my dear child," said
Frances to her son.
"Well, in the evening, then? I don't propose the theatre; but they say
there is a conjurer to be seen whose tricks are very amusing.
"I am obliged to you, my son; but that is a kind of theatre."
"Dear mother, this is unreasonable!"
"My dear child, do I ever hinder others from doing what they like?"
"True, dear mother; forgive me. Well, then, if it should be fine, we
will simply take a walk with Mother Bunch on the Boulevards. It is
nearly three months since she went out with us; and she never goes out
without us."
"No, no; go alone, my child. Enjoy your Sunday, 'tis little enough."
"You know very well, Agricola," said the sempstress, blushing up to the
eyes, "that I ought not to go out with you and your mother again."
"Why not, madame? May I ask, without impropriety, the cause of this
refusal?" said Agricola gayly.
The poor girl smiled sadly, and replied, "Because I will not expose you
to a quarrel on my account, Agricola."
"Forgive me," said Agricola, in a tone of sincere grief, and he struck
his forehead vexedly.
To this Mother Bunch alluded sometimes, but very rarely, for she observed
punctilious discretion. The girl had gone out with Agricola and his
mother. Such occasions were, indeed, holidays for her. Many days and
nights had she toiled hard to procure a decent bonnet and shawl, that she
might not do discredit to her friends. The five or six days of holidays,
thus spent arm in arm with him whom she adored in secret, formed the sum
of her happy days.
Taking their last walk, a coarse, vulgar man elbowed her so rudely that
the poor girl could not refrain from a cry of terror, and the man
retorted it by saying,--
"What are you rolling your hump in my way for, stoopid?"
Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give
to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary
to avenge an insult. Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola
left his mother's arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age,
size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge
fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face. The villain
attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the
amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of
hisses. This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with
Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel. We may
conceive the blacksmith's regret at having thus unwittingly revived the
memory of this circumstance,--more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch than
Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her infirmity
had been the cause of that quarrel. Notwithstanding his strength and
resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and, thinking how painful
that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear filled his eyes, and,
holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly tone, "Forgive my
heedlessness! Come, kiss me." And he gave her thin, pale cheeks two
hearty kisses.
The poor girl's lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart
beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the
table.
"Come, you forgive me, do you not?" said Agricola.
"Yes! yes!" she said, trying to subdue her emotion; "but the recollection
of that quarrel pains me--I was so alarmed on your account; if the crowd
had sided with that man!"
"Alas!" said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl's relief, without knowing
it, "I was never so afraid in all my life!"
"Oh, mother," rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which
had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, "for the wife of a horse
grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage. Oh, my brave
father; I can't believe he is really coming! The very thought turns me
topsy-turvy!"
"Heaven grant he may come," said Frances, with a sigh.
"God grant it, mother. He will grant it, I should think. Lord knows,
you have had masses enough said for his return."
"Agricola, my child," said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking her
head sadly, "do not speak in that way. Besides, you are talking of your
father."
"Well, I'm in for it this evening. 'Tis your turn now; positively, I am
growing stupid, or going crazy. Forgive me, mother! forgive! That's the
only word I can get out to-night. You know that, when I do let out on
certain subjects, it is because I can't help it; for I know well the pain
it gives you."
"You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy."
"It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend
one's mother; and, with respect to what I said about father's return, I
do not see that we have any cause to doubt it."
"But we have not heard from him for four months."
"You know, mother, in his letter--that is, in the letter which he
dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier, he
told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write); well,
in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that he
expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us word,
three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive, that I
might go and meet him."
"True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet."
"The greater reason why we should wait patiently. But I'll tell you
more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back
about the same time. His last letter from America makes me hope so.
What pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!"
"Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me."
"And that day will soon come, trust me."
"Do you remember your father, Agricola?" inquired Mother Bunch.
"To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier's shako and
moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon
of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the
shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what
is the matter? You are weeping!"
"Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at
his age--sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think
that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another."
"What do you mean?"
"Alas! I earn nothing now."
"Why, what's become of me? Isn't there a room here for you and for him;
and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of
domestic affairs," added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness
to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, "when he and Gabriel
come home, you won't want to have any more masses said, and tapers burned
for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have tobacco
to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we will
take a nice dinner at the eating-house."
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
"Come in," said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the door,
and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the
blacksmith.
"'Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers," said Agricola; "come in, Daddy,
no ceremony."
"Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should
cover missus's floor with green."
"So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much."
"Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately."
"About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what's he to us?"
"No; I think he's gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can't see him.
But that's not it--come, come quickly! It is very important," said the
dyer, with a mysterious look; "and only concerns you."
"Me, only?" said Agricola, with surprise. "What can it be.
"Go and see, my child," said Frances.
"Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out."
And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE RETURN.
In five minutes Agricola returned; his face was pale and agitated--his
eyes glistened with tears, and his hands trembled; but his countenance
expressed extraordinary happiness and emotion. He stood at the door for
a moment, as if too much affected to accost his mother.
Frances's sight was so bad that she did not immediately perceive the
change her son's countenance had undergone.
"Well, my child--what is it?" she inquired.
Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more
discernment, exclaimed: "Goodness, Agricola--how pale you are! Whatever
is the matter?"
"Mother," said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying to the
sempstress,--"mother, expect news that will astonish you; but promise me
you will be calm."
"What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was
right--you are quite pale."
"My kind mother!" and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her
hands in his--"you must--you do not know,--but--"
The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.
"You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. 'What is the matter?--
you terrify me!"
"Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary," said Agricola, drying
his eyes--"you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and command
your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much grief."
"What?"
"Did I not say true, when I said he would come?"
"Father!" cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and
emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its
beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and
assisted her to sit down.
Mother Bunch, till now, had stood discreetly apart, witnessing from a
distance the scene which completely engrossed Agricola and his mother.
But she now drew near timidly, thinking she might be useful; for Frances
changed color more and more.
"Come, courage, mother," said the blacksmith; "now the shock is over, you
have only to enjoy the pleasure of seeing my father."
"My poor man! after eighteen years' absence. Oh, I cannot believe it,"
said Frances, bursting into tears. "Is it true? Is it, indeed, true?"
"So true, that if you will promise me to keep as calm as you can, I will
tell you when you may see him."
"Soon--may I not?"
"Yes; soon."
"But when will he arrive?"
"He may arrive any minute--to-morrow--perhaps to-day."
"To-day!"
"Yes, mother! Well, I must tell you all--he has arrived."
"He--he is--" Frances could not articulate the word.
"He was downstairs just now. Before coming up, he sent the dyer to
apprise me that I might prepare you; for my brave father feared the
surprise might hurt you."
"Oh, heaven!"
"And now," cried the blacksmith, in an accent of indescribable joy--"he
is there, waiting! Oh, mother! for the last ten minutes I have scarcely
been able to contain myself--my heart is bursting with joy." And running
to the door, he threw it open.
Dagobert, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, stood on the threshold.
Instead of rushing to her husband's arms, Frances fell on her knees in
prayer. She thanked heaven with profound gratitude for hearing her
prayers, and thus accepting her offerings. During a second, the actors
of this scene stood silent and motionless. Agricola, by a sentiment of
respect and delicacy, which struggled violently with his affection, did
not dare to fall on his father's neck. He waited with constrained
impatience till his mother had finished her prayer.
The soldier experienced the same feeling as the blacksmith; they
understood each other. The first glance exchanged by father and son
expressed their affection--their veneration for that excellent woman, who
in the fulness of her religious fervor, forgot, perhaps, too much the
creature for the Creator.
Rose and Blanche, confused and affected, looked with interest on the
kneeling woman; while Mother Bunch, shedding in silence tears of joy at
the thought of Agricola's happiness, withdrew into the most obscure
corner of the room, feeling that she was a stranger, and necessarily out
of place in that family meeting. Frances rose, and took a step towards
her husband, who received her in his arms. There was a moment of solemn
silence. Dagobert and Frances said not a word. Nothing could be heard
but a few sighs, mingled with sighs of joy. And, when the aged couple
looked up, their expression was calm, radiant, serene; for the full and
complete enjoyment of simple and pure sentiments never leaves behind a
feverish and violent agitation.
"My children," said the soldier, in tones of emotion, presenting the
orphans to Frances, who, after her first agitation, had surveyed them
with astonishment, "this is my good and worthy wife; she will be to the
daughters of General Simon what I have been to them."
"Then, madame, you will treat us as your children," said Rose,
approaching Frances with her sister.
"The daughters of General Simon!" cried Dagobert's wife, more and more
astonished.
"Yes, my dear Frances; I have brought them from afar not without some
difficulty; but I will tell you that by and by."
"Poor little things! One would take them for two angels, exactly alike!"
said Frances, contemplating the orphans with as much interest as
admiration.
"Now--for us," cried Dagobert, turning to his son.
"At last," rejoined the latter.
We must renounce all attempts to describe the wild joy of Dagobert and
his son, and the crushing grip of their hands, which Dagobert interrupted
only to look in Agricola's face; while he rested his hands on the young
blacksmith's broad shoulders that he might see to more advantage his
frank masculine countenance, and robust frame. Then he shook his hand
again, exclaiming, "He's a fine fellow--well built--what a good-hearted
look he has!"
From a corner of the room Mother Bunch enjoyed Agricola's happiness; but
she feared that her presence, till then unheeded, would be an intrusion.
She wished to withdraw unnoticed, but could not do so. Dagobert and his
son were between her and the door; and she stood unable to take her eyes
from the charming faces of Rose and Blanche. She had never seen anything
so winsome; and the extraordinary resemblance of the sisters increased
her surprise. Then, their humble mourning revealing that they were poor,
Mother Bunch involuntarily felt more sympathy towards them.
"Dear children! They are cold; their little hands are frozen, and,
unfortunately, the fire is out," said Frances, She tried to warm the
orphans' hands in hers, while Dagobert and his son gave themselves up to
the feelings of affection, so long restrained.
As soon as Frances said that the fire was out, Mother Bunch hastened to
make herself useful, as an excuse for her presence; and, going to the
cupboard, where the charcoal and wood were kept, she took some small
pieces, and, kneeling before the stove, succeeded, by the aid of a few
embers that remained, in relighting the fire, which soon began to draw
and blaze. Filling a coffee-pot with water, she placed it on the stove,
presuming that the orphans required some warm drink. The sempstress did
all this with so much dexterity and so little noise--she was naturally so
forgotten amidst the emotions of the scene--that Frances, entirely
occupied with Rose and Blanche, only perceived the fire when she felt its
warmth diffusing round, and heard the boiling water singing in the
coffee-pot. This phenomenon--fire rekindling of itself--did not astonish
Dagobert's wife then, so wholly was she taken up in devising how she
could lodge the maidens; for Dagobert as we have seen, had not given her
notice of their arrival.
Suddenly a loud bark was heard three or four times at the door.
"Hallo! there's Spoil-sport," said Dagobert, letting in his dog; "he
wants to come in to brush acquaintance with the family too."
The dog came in with a bound, and in a second was quite at home. After
having rubbed Dagobert's hand with his muzzle, he went in turns to greet
Rose and Blanche, and also Frances and Agricola; but seeing that they
took but little notice of him, he perceived Mother Bunch, who stood
apart, in an obscure corner of the room, and carrying out the popular
saying, "the friends of our friends are our friends," he went and licked
the hands of the young workwoman, who was just then forgotten by all. By
a singular impulse, this action affected the girl to tears; she patted
her long, thin, white hand several times on the head of the intelligent
dog. Then, finding that she could be no longer useful (for she had done
all the little services she deemed in her power), she took the handsome
flower Agricola had given her, opened the door gently, and went away so
discreetly that no one noticed her departure. After this exchange of
mutual affection, Dagobert, his wife, and son, began to think of the
realities of life.
"Poor Frances," said the soldier, glancing at Rose and Blanche, "you did
not expect such a pretty surprise!"
"I am only sorry, my friend," replied Frances, "that the daughters of
General Simon will not have a better lodging than this poor room; for
with Agricola's garret--"
"It composes our mansion," interrupted Dagobert; "there are handsomer, it
must be confessed. But be at ease; these young ladies are drilled into
not being hard to suit on that score. To-morrow, I and my boy will go
arm and arm, and I'll answer for it he won't walk the more upright and
straight of the two, and find out General Simon's father, at M. Hardy's
factory, to talk about business."
"To-morrow, said Agricola to Dagobert, "you will not find at the factory
either M. Hardy or Marshall Simon's father."
"What is that you say, my lad?" cried Dagobert, hastily, "the Marshal!"
"To be sure; since 1830, General Simon's friends have secured him the
title and rank which the emperor gave him at the battle of Ligny."
"Indeed!" cried Dagobert, with emotion, "but that ought not to surprise
me; for, after all, it is just; and when the emperor said a thing, the
least they can do is to let it abide. But it goes all the same to my
heart; it makes me jump again."
Addressing the sisters, he said: "Do you hear that, my children? You
arrive in Paris the daughters of a Duke and Marshal of France. One would
hardly think it, indeed, to see you in this room, my poor little
duchesses! But patience; all will go well. Ah, father Simon must have
been very glad to hear that his son was restored to his rank! eh, my
lad?"
"He told us he would renounce all kinds of ranks and titles to see his
son again; for it was during the general's absence that his friends
obtained this act of justice. But they expect Marshal Simon every
moment, for the last letter from India announced his departure."
At these words Rose and Blanche looked at each other; and their eyes
filled with tears.
"Heaven be praised! These children rely on his return; but why shall we
not find M. Hardy and father Simon at the factory to-morrow?"
"Ten days ago, they went to examine and study an English mill established
in the south; but we expect them back every day."
"The deuce! that's vexing; I relied on seeing the general's father, to
talk over some important matters with him. At any rate, they know where
to write to him. So to-morrow you will let him know, my lad, that his
granddaughters are arrived. In the mean time, children," added the
soldier, to Rose and Blanche, "my good wife will give you her bed and you
must put up with the chances of war. Poor things! they will not be worse
off here than they were on the journey."
"You know we shall always be well off with you and madame," said Rose.
"Besides, we only think of the pleasure of being at length in Paris,
since here we are to find our father," added Blanche.
"That hope gives you patience, I know," said Dagobert, "but no matter!
After all you have heard about it, you ought to be finely surprised, my
children. As yet, you have not found it the golden city of your dreams,
by any means. But, patience, patience; you'll find Paris not so bad as
it looks."
"Besides," said Agricola, "I am sure the arrival of Marshal Simon in
Paris will change it for you into a golden city."
"You are right, Agricola," said Rose, with a smile, "you have, indeed,
guessed us."
"What! do you know my name?"
"Certainly, Agricola, we often talked about you with Dagobert; and
latterly, too, with Gabriel," added Blanche.
"Gabriel!" cried Agricola and his mother, at the same time.
"Yes," replied Dagobert, making a sign of intelligence to the orphans,
"we have lots to tell you for a fortnight to come; and among other
things, how we chanced to meet with Gabriel. All I can now say is that,
in his way, he is quite as good as my boy (I shall never be tired of
saying 'my boy'); and they ought to love each other like brothers. Oh,
my brave, brave wife!" said Dagobert, with emotion, "you did a good
thing, poor as you were, taking the unfortunate child--and bringing him
up with your own."
"Don't talk so much about it, my dear; it was such a simple thing."
"You are right; but I'll make you amends for it by and by. 'Tis down to
your account; in the mean time, you will be sure to see him to-morrow
morning."
"My dear brother arrived too!" cried the blacksmith; "who'll say, after
this, that there are not days set apart for happiness? How came you to
meet him, father?"
"I'll tell you all, by and by, about when and how we met Gabriel; for if
you expect to sleep, you are mistaken. You'll give me half your room,
and a fine chat we'll have. Spoil-sport will stay outside of this door;
he is accustomed to sleep at the children's door."
"Dear me, love, I think of nothing. But, at such a moment, if you and
the young ladies wish to sup, Agricola will fetch something from the
cook-shop."
"What do you say, children?"
"No, thank you, Dagobert, we are not hungry; we are too happy."
"You will take a little wine and water, sweetened, nice and hot, to warm
you a little, my dear young ladies," said Frances; "unfortunately, I have
nothing else to offer you."
"You are right, Frances; the dear children are tired, and want to go to
bed; while they do so, I'll go to my boy's room, and, before Rose and
Blanche are awake, I will come down and converse with you, just to give
Agricola a respite."
A knock was now heard at the door.
"It is good Mother Bunch come to see if we want her," said Agricola.
"But I think she was here when my husband came in," added Frances.
"Right, mother; and the good girl left lest she should be an intruder:
she is so thoughtful. But no--no--it is not she who knocks so loud."
"Go and see who it is, then, Agricola."
Before the blacksmith could reach the door, a man decently dressed, with
a respectable air, entered the room, and glanced rapidly round, looking
for a moment at Rose and Blanche.
"Allow me to observe, sir," said Agricola, "that after knocking, you
might have waited till the door was opened, before you entered. Pray,
what is your business?"
"Pray excuse me, sir," said the man, very politely, and speaking slowly,
perhaps to prolong his stay in the room: "I beg a thousand pardons--I
regret my intrusion--I am ashamed--"
"Well, you ought to be, sir," said Agricola, with impatience, "what do
you want?"
"Pray, sir, does not Miss Soliveau, a deformed needlewoman, live here?"
"No, sir; upstairs," said Agricola.
"Really, sir," cried the polite man, with low bows, "I am quite abroad at
my blunder: I thought this was the room of that young person. I brought
her proposals for work from a very respectable party."
"It is very late, sir," said Agricola, with surprise. "But that young
person is as one of our family. Call to-morrow; you cannot see her to-
night; she is gone to bed."
"Then, sir, I again beg you to excuse--"
"Enough, sir," said Agricola, taking a step towards the door.
"I hope, madame and the young ladies, as well as this gent, will be
assured that--"
"If you go on much longer making excuses, sir, you will have to excuse
the length of your excuses; and it is time this came to an end!"
Rose and Blanche smiled at these words of Agricola; while Dagobert rubbed
his moustache with pride.
"What wit the boy has!" said he aside to his wife. "But that does not
astonish you--you are used to it."
During this speech, the ceremonious person withdrew, having again
directed a long inquiring glance to the sisters, and to Agricola and
Dagobert.
In a few minutes after, Frances having spread a mattress on the ground
for herself, and put the whitest sheets on her bed for the orphans,
assisted them to undress with maternal solicitude, Dagobert and Agricola
having previously withdrawn to their garret. Just as the blacksmith, who
preceded his father with a light, passed before the door of Mother
Bunch's room, the latter, half concealed in the shade, said to him
rapidly, in a low tone:
"Agricola, great danger threatens you: I must speak to you."
These words were uttered in so hasty and low a voice that Dagobert did
not hear them; but as Agricola stopped suddenly, with a start, the old
soldier said to him,
"Well, boy, what is it?"
"Nothing, father," said the blacksmith, turning round; "I feared I did
not light you well."
"Oh, stand at ease about that; I have the legs and eyes of fifteen to-
night;" and the soldier, not noticing his son's surprise, went into the
little room where they were both to pass the night.
On leaving the house, after his inquiries about Mother Bunch, the over-
polite Paul Pry slunk along to the end of Brise-Miche Street. He
advanced towards a hackney-coach drawn up on the Cloitre Saint-Merry
Square.
In this carriage lounged Rodin, wrapped in a cloak.
"Well?" said he, in an inquiring tone.
"The two girls and the man with gray moustache went directly to Frances
Baudoin's; by listening at the door, I learnt that the sisters will sleep
with her, in that room, to-night; the old man with gray moustache will
share the young blacksmith's room."
"Very well," said Rodin.
"I did not dare insist on seeing the deformed workwoman this evening on
the subject of the Bacchanal Queen; I intend returning to-morrow, to
learn the effect of the letter she must have received this evening by the
post about the young blacksmith."
"Do not fail! And now you will call, for me, on Frances Baudoin's
confessor, late as it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him at
Rue du Milieu des Ursins--he must not lose a moment. Do you come with
him. Should I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will tell him
it is on a matter of great moment."
"All shall be faithfully executed," said the ceremonious man, cringing to
Rodin, as the coach drove quickly away.
CHAPTER XXXI.
AGRICOLA AND MOTHER BUNCH.
Within one hour after the different scenes which have just been described
the most profound silence reigned in the soldier's humble dwelling. A
flickering light, which played through two panes of glass in a door,
betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone to sleep; for her gloomy
recess, without air or light, was impenetrable to the rays of day, except
by this door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage, connected with
the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau, and a chair, so
nearly filled this chilling abode, that two persons could not possibly be
seated within it, unless one of them sat upon the side of the bed.
The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola had given to the girl
was carefully stood up in a vessel of water, placed upon the table on a
linen cloth, diffusing its sweet odor around, and expanding its purple
calix in the very closet, whose plastered walls, gray and damp, were
feebly lighted by the rays of an attenuated candle. The sempstress, who
had taken off no part of her dress, was seated upon her bed--her looks
were downcast, and her eyes full of tears. She supported herself with
one hand resting on the bolster; and, inclining towards the door,
listened with painful eagerness, every instant hoping to hear the
footsteps of Agricola. The heart of the young sempstress beat violently;
her face, usually very pale, was now partially flushed--so exciting was
the emotion by which she was agitated. Sometimes she cast her eyes with
terror upon a letter which she held in her hand, a letter that had been
delivered by post in the course of the evening, and which had been placed
by the housekeeper (the dyer) upon the table, while she was rendering
some trivial domestic services during the recognitions of Dagobert and
his family.
After some seconds, Mother Bunch heard a door, very near her own, softly
opened.
"There he is at last!" she exclaimed, and Agricola immediately entered.
"I waited till my father went to sleep," said the blacksmith, in a low
voice, his physiognomy evincing much more curiosity than uneasiness.
"But what is the matter, my good sister? How your countenance is
changed! You weep! What has happened? About what danger would you
speak to me?"
"Hush! Read this!" said she, her voice trembling with emotion, while she
hastily presented to him the open letter. Agricola held it towards the
light, and read what follows:
"A person who has reasons for concealing himself, but who knows the
sisterly interest you take in the welfare of Agricola Baudoin, warns you.
That young and worthy workman will probably be arrested in the course of
to-morrow."
"I!" exclaimed Agricola, looking at Mother Bunch with an air of stupefied
amazement. "What is the meaning of all this?"
"Read on!" quickly replied the sempstress, clasping her hands.
Agricola resumed reading, scarcely believing the evidence of his eyes:--
"The song, entitled 'Working-men Freed,' has been declared libellous.
Numerous copies of it have been found among the papers of a secret
society, the leaders of which are about to be incarcerated, as being
concerned in the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy."
"Alas!" said the girl, melting into tears, "now I see it all. The man
who was lurking about below, this evening, who was observed by the dyer,
was, doubtless, a spy, lying in wait for you coming home."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Agricola. "This accusation is quite ridiculous!
Do not torment yourself. I never trouble myself with politics. My
verses breathe nothing but philanthropy. Am I to blame, if they have
been found among the papers of a secret society?" Agricola disdainfully
threw the letter upon the table.
"Read! pray read!" said the other; "read on."
"If you wish it," said Agricola, "I will; no time is lost."
He resumed the reading of the letter:
"A warrant is about to be issued against Agricola Baudoin. There is mo
doubt of his innocence being sooner or later made clear; but it will be
well if he screen himself for a time as much as possible from pursuit, in
order that he may escape a confinement of two or three months previous to
trial--an imprisonment which would be a terrible blow for his mother,
whose sole support he is.
"A SINCERE FRIEND, who is compelled to remain unknown."
After a moment's silence, the blacksmith raised his head; his countenance
resumed its serenity; and laughing, he said: "Reassure yourself, good
Mother Bunch, these jokers have made a mistake by trying their games on
me. It is plainly an attempt at making an April-fool of me before the
time."
"Agricola, for the love of heaven!" said the girl, in a supplicating
tone; "treat not the warning thus lightly. Believe in my forebodings,
and listen to my advice."
"I tell you again, my good girl," replied Agricola, "that it is two
months since my song was published. It is not in any way political;
indeed, if it were, they would not have waited till now before coming
down on me."
"But," said the other, "you forget that new events have arisen. It is
scarcely two days since the conspiracy was discovered, in this very
neighborhood, in the Rue des Prouvaires. And," continued she, "if the
verses, though perhaps hitherto unnoticed, have now been found in the
possession of the persons apprehended for this conspiracy, nothing more
is necessary to compromise you in the plot."
"Compromise me!" said Agricola; "my verses! in which I only praise the
love of labor and of goodness! To arrest me for that! If so, justice
would be but a blind noodle. That she might grope her way, it would be
necessary to furnish her with a dog and a pilgrim's staff to guide her
steps."
"Agricola," resumed Mother Bunch; overwhelmed with anxiety and terror on
hearing the blacksmith jest at such a moment, "I conjure you to listen to
me! No doubt you uphold in the verses the sacred love of labor; but you
do also grievously deplore and deprecate the unjust lot of the poor
laborers, devoted as they are, without hope, to all the miseries of life;
you recommend, indeed, only fraternity among men; but your good and noble
heart vents its indignation, at the same time, against the selfish and
the wicked. In fine, you fervently hasten on, with the ardor of your
wishes, the emancipation of all the artisans who, less fortunate than
you, have not generous M. Hardy for employer. Say, Agricola, in these
times of trouble, is there anything more necessary to compromise you than
that numerous copies of your song have been found in possession of the
persons who have been apprehended?"
Agricola was moved by these affectionate and judicious expressions of an
excellent creature, who reasoned from her heart; and he began to view
with more seriousness the advice which she had given him.
Perceiving that she had shaken him, the sewing-girl went on to say: "And
then, bear your fellow-workman, Remi, in recollection."
"Remi!" said Agricola, anxiously.
"Yes," resumed the sempstress; "a letter of his, a letter in itself quite
insignificant, was found in the house of a person arrested last year for
conspiracy; and Remi, in consequence, remained a month in prison."
"That is true, but the injustice of his implication was easily shown, and
he was set at liberty."
"Yes, Agricola: but not till he had lain a month in prison; and that has
furnished the motive of the person who advised you to conceal yourself!
A month in prison! Good heavens! Agricola, think of that! and your
mother."
These words made a powerful impression upon Agricola. He took up the
letter and again read it attentively.
"And the man who has been lurking all this evening about the house?"
proceeded she. "I constantly recall that circumstance, which cannot be
naturally accounted for. Alas! what a blow it would be for your father,
and poor mother, who is incapable of earning anything. Are you not now
their only resource? Oh! consider, then, what would become of them
without you--without your labor!"
"It would indeed be terrible," said Agricola, impatiently casting the
letter upon the table. "What you have said concerning Remi is too true.
He was as innocent as I am: yet an error of justice, an involuntary error
though it be, is not the less cruel. But they don't commit a man without
hearing him."
"But they arrest him first, and hear him afterwards," said Mother Bunch,
bitterly; "and then, after a month or two, they restore him his liberty.
And if he have a wife and children, whose only means of living is his
daily labor, what becomes of them while their only supporter is in
prison? They suffer hunger, they endure cold, and they weep!"
At these simple and pathetic words, Agricola trembled.
"A month without work," he said, with a sad and thoughtful air. "And my
mother, and father, and the two young ladies who make part of our family
until the arrival in Paris of their father, Marshal Simon. Oh! you are
right. That thought, in spite of myself, affrights me!"
"Agricola!" exclaimed the girl impetuously; "suppose you apply to M.
Hardy; he is so good, and his character is so much esteemed and honored,
that, if he offered bail for you, perhaps they would give up their
persecution?"
"Unfortunately," replied Agricola, "M. Hardy is absent; he is on a
journey with Marshal Simon."
After a silence of some time, Agricola, striving to surmount his fear,
added: "But no! I cannot give credence to this letter. After all, I had
rather await what may come. I'll at least have the chance of proving my
innocence on my first examination: for indeed, my good sister, whether it
be that I am in prison or that I fly to conceal myself, my working for my
family will be equally prevented."
"Alas! that is true," said the poor girl; "what is to be done! Oh, what
is to be done?"
"My brave father," said Agricola to himself, "if this misfortune happen
to-morrow, what an awakening it will be for him, who came here to sleep
so joyously!" The blacksmith buried his face in his hands.
Unhappily Mother Bunch's fears were too well-founded, for it will be
recollected that at that epoch of the year 1832, before and after the Rue
des Prouvaires conspiracy, a very great number of arrests had been made
among the working classes, in consequence of a violent reaction against
democratical ideas.
Suddenly, the girl broke the silence which had been maintained for some
seconds. A blush colored her features, which bore the impressions of an
indefinable expression of constraint, grief, and hope.
"Agricola, you are saved!"
"What say you?" he asked.
"The young lady, so beautiful, so good, who gave you this flower" (she
showed it to the blacksmith) "who has known how to make reparation with
so much delicacy for having made a painful offer, cannot but have a
generous heart. You must apply to her--"
With these words which seemed to be wrung from her by a violent effort
over herself, great tears rolled down her cheeks. For the first time in
her life she experienced a feeling of grievous jealousy. Another woman
was so happy as to have the power of coming to the relief of him whom she
idolized; while she herself, poor creature, was powerless and wretched.
"Do you think so?" exclaimed Agricola surprised. "But what could be done
with this young lady?"
"Did she not say to you," answered Mother Bunch, "'Remember my name; and
in all circumstances address yourself to me?'"
"She did indeed!" replied Agricola.
"This young lady, in her exalted position, ought to have powerful
connections who will be able to protect and defend you. Go to her to-
morrow morning; tell her frankly what has happened, and request her
support."
"But tell me, my good sister, what it is you wish me to do?"
"Listen. I remember that, in former times, my father told us that he had
saved one of his friends from being put in prison, by becoming surety for
him. It will be easy for you so to convince this young lady of your
innocence, that she will be induced to become surety; and after that, you
will have nothing more to fear."
"My poor child!" said Agricola, "to ask so great a service from a person
to whom one is almost unknown is hard."
"Believe me, Agricola," said the other sadly, "I would never counsel what
could possibly lower you in the eyes of any one, and above all--do you
understand?--above all, in the eyes of this young lady. I do not propose
that you should ask money from her; but only that she should give surety
for you, in order that you may have the liberty of continuing at your
employment, so that the family may not be without resources. Believe me,
Agricola, that such a request is in no respect inconsistent with what is
noble and becoming upon your part. The heart of the young lady is
generous. She will comprehend your position. The required surety will
be as nothing to her; while to you it will be everything, and will even
be the very life to those who depend upon you."
"You are right, my good sister," said Agricola, with sadness and
dejection. "It is perhaps worth while to risk taking this step. If the
young lady consent to render me this service, and if giving surety will
indeed preserve me from prison, I shall be prepared for every event. But
no, no!" added he, rising, "I'd never dare to make the request to her!
What right have I to do so? What is the insignificant service that I
rendered her, when compared with that which I should solicit from her?"
"Do you imagine then, Agricola, that a generous spirit measures the
services which ought to be rendered, by those previously received? Trust
to me respecting a matter which is an affair of the heart. I am, it is
true, but a lowly creature, and ought not to compare myself with any
other person. I am nothing, and I can do nothing. Nevertheless, I am
sure--yes, Agricola, I am sure--that this young lady, who is so very far
above me, will experience the same feelings that I do in this affair;
yes, like me, she will at once comprehend that your position is a cruel
one; and she will do with joy, with happiness, with thankfulness, that
which I would do, if, alas! I could do anything more than uselessly
consume myself with regrets."
In spite of herself, she pronounced the last words with an expression so
heart-breaking--there was something so moving in the comparison which
this unfortunate creature, obscure and disdained, infirm and miserable,
made of herself with Adrienne de Cardoville, the very type of resplendent
youth, beauty, and opulence--that Agricola was moved even to tears; and,
holding out one of his hands to the speaker, he said to her, tenderly,
"How very good you are; how full of nobleness, good feeling, and
delicacy!"
"Unhappily," said the weeping girl, "I can do nothing more than advise."
"And your counsels shall be followed out, my sister dear. They are those
of a soul the most elevated I have ever known. Yes, you have won me over
into making this experiment, by persuading me that the heart of Miss de
Cardoville is perhaps equal in value to your own!"
At this charming and sincere assimilation of herself to Miss Adrienne,
the sempstress forgot almost everything she had suffered, so exquisitely
sweet and consoling were her emotions. If some poor creatures, fatally
devoted to sufferings, experience griefs of which the world knows naught,
they sometimes, too, are cheered by humble and timid joys, of which the
world is equally ignorant. The least word of true tenderness and
affection, which elevates them in their own estimation, is ineffably
blissful for these unfortunate beings, habitually consigned, not only to
hardships and to disdain, but even to desolating doubts, and distrust of
themselves.
"Then it is agreed that you will go, to-morrow morning to this young
lady's house?" exclaimed Mother Bunch, trembling with a new-born hope.
"And," she quickly added, "at break of day I'll go down to watch at the
street-door, to see if there be anything suspicious, and to apprise you
of what I perceive."
"Good, excellent girl!" exclaimed Agricola, with increasing emotion.
"It will be necessary to endeavor to set off before the wakening of your
father," said the hunchback. "The quarter in which the young lady
dwells, is so deserted, that the mere going there will almost serve for
your present concealment."
"I think I hear the voice of my father," said Agricola suddenly.
In truth, the little apartment was so near Agricola's garret, that he and
the sempstress, listening, heard Dagobert say in the dark:
"Agricola, is it thus that you sleep, my boy? Why, my first sleep is
over; and my tongue itches deucedly."
"Go quick, Agricola!" said Mother Bunch; "your absence would disquiet
him. On no account go out to-morrow morning, before I inform you whether
or not I shall have seen anything suspicious."
"Why, Agricola, you are not here?" resumed Dagobert, in a louder voice.
"Here I am, father," said the smith, while going out of the sempstress's
apartment, and entering the garret, to his father.
"I have been to fasten the shutter of a loft that the wind agitated, lest
its noise should disturb you."
"Thanks, my boy; but it is not noise that wakes me," said Dagobert,
gayly; "it is an appetite, quite furious, for a chat with you. Oh, my
dear boy, it is the hungering of a proud old man of a father, who has not
seen his son for eighteen years."
"Shall I light a candle, father?"
"No, no; that would be luxurious; let us chat in the dark. It will be a
new pleasure for me to see you to-morrow morning at daybreak. It will be
like seeing you for the first time twice." The door of Agricola's garret
being now closed, Mother Bunch heard nothing more.
The poor girl, without undressing, threw herself upon the bed, and closed
not an eye during the night, painfully awaiting the appearance of day, in
order that she might watch over the safety of Agricola. However, in
spite of her vivid anxieties for the morrow, she sometimes allowed
herself to sink into the reveries of a bitter melancholy. She compared
the conversation she had just had in the silence of night, with the man
whom she secretly adored, with what that conversation might have been,
had she possessed some share of charms and beauty--had she been loved as
she loved, with a chaste and devoted flame! But soon sinking into belief
that she should never know the ravishing sweets of a mutual passion, she
found consolation in the hope of being useful to Agricola. At the dawn
of day, she rose softly, and descended the staircase with little noise,
in order to see if anything menaced Agricola from without.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE AWAKENING.
The weather, damp and foggy during a portion of the night, became clear
and cold towards morning. Through the glazed skylight of Agricola's
garret, where he lay with his father, a corner of the blue sky could be
seen.
The apartment of the young blacksmith had an aspect as poor as the
sewing-girl's. For its sole ornament, over the deal table upon which
Agricola wrote his poetical inspirations, there hung suspended from a
nail in the wall a portrait of Beranger--that immortal poet whom the
people revere and cherish, because his rare and transcendent genius has
delighted to enlighten the people, and to sing their glories and their
reverses.
Although the day had only begun to dawn, Dagobert and Agricola had
already risen. The latter had sufficient self command to conceal his
inquietude, for renewed reflection had again increased his fears.
The recent outbreak in the Rue des Prouvaires had caused a great number
of precautionary arrests; and the discovery of numerous copies of
Agricola's song, in the possession of one of the chiefs of the
disconcerted plot, was, in truth, calculated slightly to compromise the
young blacksmith. His father, however, as we have already mentioned,
suspected not his secret anguish. Seated by the side of his son, upon
the edge of their mean little bed, the old soldier, by break of day, had
dressed and shaved with military care; he now held between his hands both
those of Agricola, his countenance radiant with joy, and unable to
discontinue the contemplation of his boy.
"You will laugh at me, my dear boy," said Dagobert to his son; "but I
wished the night to the devil, in order that I might gaze upon you in
full day, as I now see you. But all in good time; I have lost nothing.
Here is another silliness of mine; it delights me to see you wear
moustaches. What a splendid horse-grenadier you would have made! Tell
me; have you never had a wish to be a soldier?"
"I thought of mother!"
"That's right," said Dagobert: "and besides, I believe, after all, look
ye, that the time of the sword has gone by. We old fellows are now good
for nothing, but to be put in a corner of the chimney. Like rusty old
carbines, we have had our day."
"Yes; your days of heroism and of glory," said Agricola with excitement;
and then he added, with a voice profoundly softened and agitated, "it is
something good and cheering to be your son!"
"As to the good, I know nothing of that," replied Dagobert; "but as for
the cheering, it ought to be so; for I love you proudly. And I think
this is but the beginning! What say you, Agricola? I am like the
famished wretches who have been some days without food. It is but by
little and little that they recover themselves, and can eat. Now, you
may expect to be tasted, my boy, morning and evening, and devoured during
the day. No, I wish not to think that--not all the day--no, that thought
dazzles and perplexes me; and I am no longer myself."
These words of Dagobert caused a painful feeling to Agricola. He
believed that they sprang from a presentiment of the separation with
which he was menaced.
"Well," continued Dagobert; "you are quite happy; M. Hardy is always good
to you."
"Oh!" replied Agricola: "there is none in the world better, or more
equitable and generous! If you knew what wonders he has brought about in
his factory! Compared to all others, it is a paradise beside the
stithies of Lucifer!"
"Indeed!" said Dagobert.
"You shall see," resumed Agricola, "what welfare, what joy, what
affection, are displayed upon the countenances of all whom he employs;
who work with an ardent pleasure.
"This M. Hardy of yours must be an out-and-out magician," said Dagobert.
"He is, father, a very great magician. He has known how to render labor
pleasant and attractive. As for the pleasure, over and above good wages,
he accords to us a portion of his profits according to our deserts;
whence you may judge of the eagerness with which we go to work. And that
is not all: he has caused large, handsome buildings to be erected, in
which all his workpeople find, at less expense than elsewhere, cheerful
and salubrious lodgings, in which they enjoy all the advantages of an
association. But you shall see--I repeat--you shall see!"
"They have good reason to say, that Paris is the region of wonders,"
observed Dagobert.
"Well, behold me here again at last, never more to quit you, nor good
mother!"
"No, father, we will never separate again," said Agricola, stifling a
sigh. "My mother and I will both try to make you forget all that you
have suffered."
"Suffered!" exclaimed Dagobert, "who the deuce has suffered? Look me
well in the face; and see if I have a look of suffering! Bombs and
bayonets! Since I have put my foot here, I feel myself quite a young man
again! You shall see me march soon: I bet that I tire you out! You must
rig yourself up something extra! Lord, how they will stare at us! I
wager that in beholding your black moustache and my gray one, folks will
say, behold father and son! But let us settle what we are to do with the
day. You will write to the father of Marshal Simon, informing him the
his grand-daughters have arrived, and that it is necessary that he should
hasten his return to Paris; for he has charged himself with matters which
are of great importance for them. While you are writing, I will go down
to say good-morning to my wife, and to the dear little ones. We will
then eat a morsel. Your mother will go to mass; for I perceive that she
likes to be regular at that: the good soul! no great harm, if it amuse
her! and during her absence, we will make a raid together."
"Father," said Agricola, with embarrassment, "this morning it is out of
my power to accompany you."
"How! out of your power?" said Dagobert; "recollect this is Monday!"
"Yes, father," said Agricola, hesitatingly; "but I have promised to
attend all the morning in the workshop, to finish a job that is required
in a hurry. If I fail to do so, I shall inflict some injury upon M.
Hardy. But I'll soon be at liberty."
"That alters the case," said Dagobert, with a sigh of regret. "I thought
to make my first parade through Paris with you this morning; but it must
be deferred in favor of your work. It is sacred: since it is that which
sustains your mother. Nevertheless, it is vexatious, devilish vexatious.
And yet no--I am unjust. See how quickly one gets habituated to and
spoilt by happiness. I growl like a true grumbler, at a walk being put
off for a few hours! I do this! I who, during eighteen years, have only
hoped to see you once more, without daring to reckon very much upon it!
Oh! I am but a silly old fool! Vive l'amour et cogni--I mean--my
Agricola!" And, to console himself, the old soldier gayly slapped his
son's shoulder.
This seemed another omen of evil to the blacksmith; for he dreaded one
moment to another lest the fears of Mother Bunch should be realized.
"Now that I have recovered myself," said Dagobert, laughing, "let us
speak of business. Know you where I find the addresses of all the
notaries in Paris?"
"I don't know; but nothing is more easy than to discover it."
"My reason is," resumed Dagobert, "that I sent from Russia by post, and
by order of the mother of the two children that I have brought here, some
important papers to a Parisian notary. As it was my duty to see this
notary immediately upon my arrival, I had written his name and his
address in a portfolio, of which however, I have been robbed during my
journey; and as I have forgotten his devil of a name, it seems to me,
that if I should see it again in the list of notaries, I might recollect
it."
Two knocks at the door of the garret made Agricola start. He
involuntarily thought of a warrant for his apprehension.
His father, who, at the sound of the knocking turned round his head, had
not perceived his emotion, and said with a loud voice: "Come in!" The
door opened. It was Gabriel. He wore a black cassock and a broad-
brimmed hat.
To recognize his brother by adoption, and to throw himself into his arms,
were two movements performed at once by Agricola--as quick as thought.--
"My brother!" exclaimed Agricola.
"Agricola!" cried Gabriel.
"Gabriel!" responded the blacksmith.
"After so long an absence!" said the one.
"To behold you again!" rejoined the other.
Such were the words exchanged between the blacksmith and the missionary,
while they were locked in a close embrace.
Dagobert, moved and charmed by these fraternal endearments, felt his eyes
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