Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The Cardinal stopped a moment to take another pinch of snuff, and then concluded with these words:

  “People who are divided by hatred never conspire.”

  The merciless logic of the priest repelled the Count of Plouernel. Despite his own fatuity and caste prejudices, he rather leaned towards modern thought. No doubt he would have preferred a reign of “legitimate Kings.” But he did not stop to think that he who wants the end must not object to the means, and that, in order to be lasting in the eyes of its partisans, a complete and absolute restoration could not possibly take place and maintain itself except by the frightful means that the Cardinal had just laid bare with complacent assurance. The colonel replied with a smile:

  “But, uncle, think of it! In these days of ours the idea of isolating the population is chimerical. The thing is impossible! What about the strategic highways! The railroads!”

  “The railroads?” echoed the Cardinal angrily. “A devil’s invention, good only to cause the revolutionary fever to circulate from one end of Europe to the other! For that very reason our Holy Father wants no railroads in his states, and right he is. It is incredible that the monarchs of the Holy Alliance could have allowed themselves to yield to such diabolical innovations! They may have to pay dear therefor! What did our forefathers do, at the time of the conquest, with a view to subjugate and keep the yoke riveted to the neck of this perverse Gallic race — our vassals by birth and by kind, that has so often risen in rebellion against us? Our ancestors staked them within their separate domains, forbidding them to step outside under penalty of death. Thus chained to the glebe, thus isolated and brutified, the breed is more easily kept under control — that must be the goal we should aim at returning to.”

  “But I repeat — what about the railroads? You would not tear up the highways and railroads, would you, uncle?”

  “Why not? Did not the Franks, our ancestors, in pursuit of an unerring policy, tear up the highways, the magnificent roads of communication that they found in Gaul, and which those pagans of Romans had constructed? Would it be so difficult a task to hurl against the railroads the mass of brutes whom that infernal invention threw out of their means of earning a livelihood? Anathema — anathema against those proud monuments of haughty Satan! By the blood of my race! If he is not curbed in his sacrilegious career, man will yet end — may God forefend! — by changing this valley of tears into a terrestrial paradise, wholly oblivious of the fact that original sin condemns him to perpetual suffering!”

  “Zounds! Dear uncle, not so fast!” interjected the colonel. “I am not inclined to carry out my destiny with quite such scrupulous accuracy.”

  “You big baby!” replied the Cardinal impatiently, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. “Do you not understand that, in order that the large majority of the race of Adam suffer and be meritoriously conscious of its suffering, it is requisite that there be always in evidence a neat small number of happy people in the world?”

  “Oh, I see! As a contrast; is that it, dear uncle?”

  “Necessarily. The depth of the valley is not realized but for its contrast with the mountain top. But enough of philosophy. As you know, I have an accurate eye, quick and certain. The situation is such as I have described it to you. I repeat — do as I have done. Realize all your negotiable effects in gold, or in good drafts upon London. Send in your resignation this minute, and let us depart to-morrow at the very latest. Such is the blindness of those people that they apprehend nothing. You said so yourself. There is hardly any military precaution taken. You can, accordingly, without in any way wounding your military honor, quit your regiment this instant.”

  “Impossible, my dear uncle — that would be an act of cowardice. If the Republic is to be established, the thing will not be done without the firing of some guns. I wish to do my part — I wish to be quits. Politeness for politeness, with good round discharges of muskets! My dragoons will want nothing better than a chance to charge upon the canaille.”

  “Then you propose to defend the throne of the wretches of Orleans!” exclaimed the Cardinal with a loud outburst of sardonic laughter.

  “Dear uncle, you know very well I did not wheel in line in support of the Orleans dynasty. No more than you, do I love them. I simply joined the army, because I have a military turn of mind. The army has but one opinion — discipline. In short, if your foresight is correct — and your trained experience inclines me to the belief that you are not mistaken — then a battle will be fought this very day. Under such circumstances I would be a despicable wretch to hand in my resignation on the eve of an encounter.”

  “Then you are determined to run the risk of being riddled with bullets or brained by the mob on a barricade — in the interest of the Orleans dynasty?”

  “I am a soldier — I am determined to fulfil the duties of my profession.”

  “But, you devil of a stubborn block! Suppose you are killed, our house would then fall from the lance to the distaff.”

  “I promised you I would marry at forty—”

  “But until then — think of it — these street fights are disgraceful — to die in the mud of the gutters, killed by a lot of beggars!”

  “Before it came to that I would have treated myself to the sport of hewing several of them down with my saber,” coolly replied the colonel. “In that event it will not be difficult for you to find some sturdy Plouernel bastard of my own making — whom you will then adopt, uncle. He will perpetuate my name. Bastards often have brought good luck to great houses.”

  “Triple fool! To play with your life in that manner! And that at the very moment when the future smiles upon us as it never smiled before! At the moment when, after having been beaten, kicked and cuffed by the descendants of the men who for fourteen centuries were our vassals and serfs, we are about to wipe out at a single stroke these last fifty years of shame! At the moment when, instructed by experience, and aided by the course of events, we are about to resume our power and become even mightier than we were in 1789! Go to — I pity you! You are right, races degenerate!” exclaimed the intractable old man, rising. “I would despair of our cause if all our people were like you.”

  The valet, stepping in again after rapping at the door, said to the Count of Plouernel:

  “Monsieur Count, the linendraper of St. Denis Street has arrived. He is waiting in the ante-chamber.”

  “Take him to the salon of the portraits.”

  The valet left; the colonel said to the Cardinal, whom he saw angrily picking up his hat and moving towards the door:

  “For God’s sake, uncle, do not go away angry, in that way—”

  “I am not going away angry; I am going away ashamed.”

  “Come, dear uncle, you will think better of me.”

  “Will you, yes or no, depart with me for England?”

  “Impossible, uncle.”

  “Then go to the devil!” was the rather uncanonical shout with which the Cardinal furiously took his leave, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER VI.

  JOEL AND NEROWEG.

  MARIK LEBRENN HAD been taken by order of the Count of Plouernel into a richly furnished salon. From the walls hung a number of family portraits.

  Some wore the cuirass of knights, others the white cross and red cloak of the Templars, others the civilian dress of noblemen, still others the ermine of a peer of France, or the purple of the Princes of the Church.

  It was likewise with the women. They wore monastic garbs, and court costumes. But, whether it was that each painter had scrupulously reproduced nature, or that they yielded to the requirements of a family who held it a point of honor to make manifest an uninterrupted racial affiliation in their line of descent, the generic type of the several faces was reproduced in all. Some in beauty, others in ugliness, all by the marked distance between the eyes, together with the pronounced hook of the nose, recalled the bird of prey. Similarly, what by common accord has been called the Bourbon type, which bears some resemblance to the ovine breed, i
s visibly perpetuated in the house of the Capets. Similarly, also, almost all the descendants of the house of Rohan had, it is said, an erect tuft of hair that was long spoken of as the Rohan crest.

  As with almost all ancient family paintings, the Plouernel coat-of-arms and the name of the original represented in the picture were designed in a corner of the canvas. For instance, there were the names of Gonthram V, Sire of Plouernel; Gonthram IX, Count of Plouernel; Hildeberta, Lady of Plouernel; Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel; and so on, the names of the descendants, men and women, of the Plouernel lineage.

  As he contemplated these family portraits Marik Lebrenn experienced a singular mixture of curiosity, bitterness, and sentiments rather sad than wrathful. He moved from one to the other of the portraits as if they awakened a thousand memories within him. His eyes would rest meditatively upon the motionless faces, mute as those of specters. Several of the personages seemed to draw his attention violently. One of them, evidently painted from indications or traditions transmitted subsequent to the date — the year 297 — that the portrait bore, must have been the founder of this old house. The corner of the canvas bore the name Gonthram Neroweg.

  This personage was of colossal stature. His copper-red hair, combed back Chinese style and held together on the top of his head with a gold band, fell backward over his shoulders like the plume of a helmet. His cheeks and chin were closely shaven, but a long moustache, as red as his hair, drooped down to his chest, which was tattooed in blue and was partly covered by a species of plaid or mantle barred yellow and red. A more savage and ferocious face than that of this first of the Nerowegs can not be easily imagined.

  Undoubtedly, at the sight of this portrait, cruel thoughts agitated the linendraper. After long contemplating it Marik Lebrenn could not refrain from shaking his fist at him. It was an involuntary and childish gesture, that he quickly felt ashamed of.

  The second portrait that likewise seemed to impress the linendraper keenly represented a woman clad in monastic garb. The picture bore the date of 729, and the name of Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel. It seemed a singular detail, but this woman held, in one hand, an abbatial crosier, and, in the other, a naked and bloodstained sword, meant, undoubtedly, to convey the idea that the weapon did not always rest inactive in its sheath. The woman was handsome, but of a haughty and sinister beauty, a beauty that betrayed a violent temperament. Her features bore the stamp of that lassitude that excesses leave in their train. Her head was enveloped in long white and black veils. Her large grey-green eyes sparkled under their thick red brows. Her blood-red lips expressed at once wickedness and sensuousness. Finally, the crosier and the bloody sword in the hands of an abbess imparted to the portrait a weird, almost shocking appearance.

  Lebrenn contemplated the image with disgust and horror, and muttered to himself:

  “Oh, Meroflede! Noble Abbess, consecrated by Satan! Messalina and Fredegonde were immaculate virgins beside you, Marshal Retz a lamb, and his infamous castle a sanctuary beside your damnable cloister!”

  Emitting a sigh of sorrow and raising his eyes to heaven as if invoking its mercy for the victims of Meroflede, he exclaimed:

  “Poor Septimine! And you — ill-starred Broute-Saule!”

  Lebrenn turned away his head in sadness, and long remained pensive. When he again raised his eyes they fell upon another portrait. That one was dated 1237. It represented a warrior with close-clipped hair, a long red beard, and armed cap-a-pie. From his shoulders hung the red cloak with the white cross of the Crusaders.

  “Ah!” came from the linendraper with a fresh gesture of disgust and indignation— “the Red Monk!”

  And he passed his hand over his eyes as if to drive away the hideous vision.

  Soon, however, Lebrenn’s face brightened up. He heaved a sigh of relief, as if pleasant thoughts had succeeded the painful ones of just before. His eyes rested delighted, almost moved with affection upon a portrait dated 1463, and bearing the name of Gonthram XII, Sire of Plouernel.

  This portrait represented a young man of thirty years of age. He was clad in black velvet and wore the gold collar of the Order of St. Michael. A more sympathetic face it would be difficult to conceive. The looks, and the smile that flitted over the lips of this personage, were expressive of touching melancholy.

  “Oh!” said Lebrenn, “the sight of this one rests my mind — calms it — consoles it. Thanks to God, he is not the only one who fell short of the hereditary wickedness of his stock!”

  Lebrenn’s meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the Count of Plouernel.

  Lebrenn was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he started at the entrance of the Count into the hall. Despite his self-control, the linendraper, the descendant of Joel, whose family had, across the ages, so often encountered that of Neroweg in deadly feud, could not help betraying a certain degree of emotion at finding himself face to face with a descendant of this ancient family. Moreover, it should be stated that Lebrenn had been informed by Jeanike of the colonel’s frequent peering through the glass windows of his shop. Nevertheless, so far from seeming concerned or irritated, Lebrenn assumed an air of naive and embarrassed simplicity, which the Count of Plouernel attributed to the respectful deference that he would naturally inspire in a resident of St. Denis Street.

  The Count, accordingly, addressed the merchant in an accent of patronizing familiarity, pointing him to an easychair, while he let himself down in another.

  “Oh, monsieur,” said Lebrenn, bowing clumsily, “indeed, you do me great honor—”

  “Come, come; no ceremonies, my dear sir,” interjected the Count, and he added interrogatingly; “my dear monsieur — Lebrenn — I believe?”

  “Lebrenn,” answered the merchant, with a bow. “Lebrenn, at your service.”

  “Very good. I yesterday had the pleasure of seeing Madam Lebrenn, and of mentioning to her a large order I have for linen goods for my regiment.”

  “Very happy, indeed, we are, monsieur, that you have honored our poor shop with your custom. I came to learn from you how many meters of linen you want, and of what quality. I have here some samples with me,” he added, affecting to be busily engaged rummaging in his coat pockets after the samples. “Will it please you to choose — I shall give you the price, monsieur — the exact price — the lowest figure—”

  “That’s not necessary, dear Monsieur Lebrenn. I can tell you in a few words what I want. I have four hundred and fifty dragoons. I want a supply of four hundred and fifty shirts for them, of good quality. I also wish you to attend to the sewing. Your price shall be mine. You see, dear Monsieur Lebrenn, that I know you to be the very cream of honesty.”

  “Oh, monsieur!”

  “The flower of linendrapers.”

  “Monsieur, monsieur, you embarrass me. I do not deserve—”

  “You do not deserve! Come, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn; on the contrary, you deserve that, and a good deal more.”

  “Monsieur, I shall hot venture to contradict you. When will you want the shirts?” asked the merchant, rising. “If the matter is urgent, the labor will come somewhat higher.”

  “Do me the favor, first of all, to resume your seat, my good man! Do not take your leave from me so abruptly. I may have some other orders for you.”