by Eugène Sue
“And it returns the compliment to yours.”
“Very true — my arm was broken in 1830 by a Swiss ball. But, monsieur, listen to reason: Why should there be feud, ever feud, ever bloodshed, useful blood poured out by both sides? Why ever dream of a past that is no more, and can nevermore be? You vanquished, despoiled, dominated, exploited and tortured us fifteen centuries at a stretch! Have you not had enough? Do we contemplate oppressing you, in turn? No, no, a thousand times no! Liberty has cost us too dear to conquer; we prize it too highly to seek to deprive others of it. It is not our fault, it is yours; since 1789 your foreign alliances, civil war instigated by yourselves, your constant attempts at counter-revolution, your intimate relations with the clerical party — all that keeps thoughtful people in alarm and afflicts them, while it irritates and exasperates the men of action. I ask you again — what does it boot? Has mankind ever retrograded? No, monsieur, never. You can, no one questions that, do mischief; much mischief; but your divine right and your privileges are done for. Let your party learn that lesson. You would then save the nation, and yourself, perhaps, who knows what new disasters, because, I tell you, the future belongs to democracy.”
The linendraper’s voice and accent were so impressive that, although not convinced, the Count of Plouernel was touched by his words. His indomitable race pride struggled with his impulse to acknowledge to the merchant that he at least saw in him a generous adversary.
That moment the door was abruptly thrown open by an officer, the major-adjutant of the Count’s regiment, who, rushing in, hastily made the military salute and said hurriedly:
“I beg your pardon, colonel, for coming in without being announced, but orders have just been issued to have the regiment mount horse forthwith, and remain ready for action on the square of the quarter.”
The linendraper was about to leave the salon when the Count of Plouernel said to him:
“Well, monsieur, to judge by the course things are taking, together with your republican opinions, it is quite possible that I may have the honor of meeting you to-morrow on a barricade.”
“I know not what may happen, monsieur,” answered the linendraper; “but I neither fear nor desire such an encounter.”
And then, with a smile, he added:
“I think, monsieur, that the order for linen may be canceled.”
“I think so, too, monsieur,” replied the colonel, bowing stiffly to Lebrenn, who left the salon.
CHAPTER VII.
“THE SWORD OF BRENNUS.”
WHILE MARIK LEBRENN was holding the conversation, just reported, with the Count of Plouernel, the merchant’s wife and daughter were, as was their custom, busy in the shop, over which hung the sign — The Sword of Brennus.
While her daughter was engaged with her needle, Madam Lebrenn saw to the books of the establishment. She was a tall woman of forty. Her face, at once serious and kind, preserved the traces of extraordinary beauty. In the cadence of her voice, her carriage, and her countenance there was a certain calmness and firmness that conveyed a high opinion of her nature. A glance at her was enough to remind one that our mothers, the Gallic women, took part in the councils of the nation on critical occasions, and that such was the valor of those matrons that Diodorus Siculus expresses himself in these terms:
“The women of Gaul vie with the men not in tallness only, they also match them by their moral strength.”
And Strabo adds these significant words:
“The Gallic women are fertile and good teachers.”
Mademoiselle Velleda Lebrenn sat by the side of her mother. So marked was the girl’s exceptional beauty that none could behold her without being struck by its radiance. Her mien was at once proud, ingenuous and thoughtful. Nothing more limpid than the blue of her eyes; nothing more dazzling than her complexion; nothing loftier than the carriage of her charming head, crowned with long tresses of brown hair that here and there gleamed in gold. Tall, lithesome and strong without masculinity, the sight and nature of the beauty explained the paternal whim that caused the merchant to give his child the name Velleda, the name of an illustrious heroine in the patriotic annals of the Gauls. Mademoiselle Lebrenn could be readily imagined with her brow wreathed in oak leaves, clad in a long white robe belted with brass, and vibrating the gold harp of the female druids, those wonderful teachers of our forefathers who, exalting them with the thought of the immortality of the soul, taught them to die with so much grandeur and serenity! In Mademoiselle Lebrenn the type was reproduced of those Gallic women, clad in black, with arms “so wonderfully white and nervy,” as Ammienus Marcellinus expresses it, who followed their husbands to battle, with their children in their chariots of war, encouraged the combatants with word and gesture, and mingled among them in the hour of victory or of defeat, ever preferring death to slavery and shame.
Those whose minds were not stored with these tragic and glorious remembrances of the past saw in Mademoiselle Lebrenn a beautiful girl of eighteen, coiffed in her magnificent head of brown hair, and whose elegant shape outlined itself under a pretty high-necked robe of light blue poplin, which set off a little orange cravat tied around her neat, white collar.
While Madam Lebrenn was casting up her accounts and her daughter sewed, occasionally exchanging a few words with her mother, Gildas Pakou, the shop-boy, stood at the door. The youngster was uneasy and greatly disturbed in mind, so very much disturbed that it never occurred to him, as was otherwise his wont, to recite promiscuously favorite passages from his beloved Breton songs.
The worthy fellow was preoccupied with just one thought — the strange contrast that he found between the reality and his mother’s promises, she having informed him that St. Denis Street in general, and the house of Monsieur Lebrenn in particular, were particularly quiet and peaceful spots.
Gildas suddenly turned about and said to Madam Lebrenn in a high state of alarm:
“Madam! Madam! Listen!”
“What is it, Gildas?” asked Madam Lebrenn, proceeding unperturbed to make her entries in the large ledger.
“But, madam, it is the drum! Listen! Besides — Oh, good God! — I see some men running!”
“What of it, Gildas,” returned Madam Lebrenn; “let them run.”
“Mother,” put in Velleda after listening a few seconds, “it is the call to arms. There must be some fear that the agitation that has reigned in Paris since yesterday may spread.”
“Jeanike,” Madam Lebrenn called out to the maid servant, “Monsieur Lebrenn’s National Guard uniform must be got ready. He may want it on his return home.”
“Yes, madam, I shall see to it,” answered Jeanike, going to the rear room.
“Gildas,” Madam Lebrenn proceeded, “can you see the St. Denis Gate from where you are?”
“Yes, madam,” answered Gildas, all in a tremble; “would you want me to go there?”
“No; be at ease; only let me know whether there is much of a crowd gathering at that end of the street.”
“Oh! yes, madam,” answered Gildas, craning his neck. “It looks like an ant-hill. Oh, good God! Madam! Madam! Oh, my God!”
“What is it now, Gildas?”
“Oh, madam! Down there — the drums — they were about to turn the corner—”
“Well?”
“A lot of men in blouses stopped them — they have broken the drums. Listen! Madam! Look! The whole crowd is running this way. Do you hear them screaming, madam? Should we not close the shop?”
“It is very evident, Gildas, you are none too brave,” said Mademoiselle Lebrenn without raising her eyes from her needlework.
At that moment a man clad in a blouse and dragging with difficulty a small handbarrow that seemed to be heavily loaded, stopped before the door, pulled the barrow up alongside the sidewalk, stepped into the shop, and accosted the merchant’s wife:
“Monsieur Lebrenn, madam?”
“This is his place.”
“I have here four bales for him.”
“Linen, I supp
ose?” asked Madam Lebrenn.
“Well, madam, I think so,” answered the messenger with a smile.
“Gildas,” she resumed, addressing the good fellow, who was casting ever more uneasy glances into the street, “help monsieur carry the bales to the rear of the shop.”
The messenger and Gildas raised the bales out of the barrow. They were long and thick rolls, and were wrapped in coarse grey cloth.
“This must be fiercely close-packed linen,” remarked Gildas as, with great effort, he was helping the barrowman to carry in the last of the four rolls. “This thing is as heavy as lead.”
“Do you really think so, my friend?” said the man in the blouse, fixedly looking at Gildas, who modestly lowered his eyes and blushed.
The barrowman thereupon addressed himself to Madam Lebrenn, saying:
“There, my errand is done, madam. I must, above all things, recommend to you that the bales be kept in a dry place, and no fire near, until Monsieur Lebrenn arrives. That linen is very — very delicate.”
And the barrowman mopped the sweat from his forehead.
“You must have had work to wheel those bales here all alone,” remarked Madam Lebrenn kindly; and opening the drawer in which she kept the small change, she took out a ten-sou piece, which she pushed over the desk to the barrowman. “Take this for your pains.”
“Thank you very much, madam,” answered the man, smiling. “I have been paid.”
“A messenger thanks very much, and refuses a tip!” said Gildas to himself. “A puzzling — a very puzzling house this is!”
Herself considerably surprised at the manner in which the barrowman formulated his declination, Madam Lebrenn raised her eyes and saw a man of about thirty years, of an agreeable face, and who, an exceptional thing with package carriers, had remarkably white hands, carefully trimmed nails, and a neat gold ring on his little finger.
“Could you tell me, monsieur,” asked the merchant’s wife, “whether the excitement in Paris is on the increase?”
“Very much so, madam. One can hardly move on the boulevard. Troops are pouring in from all sides. Artillerymen are posted in front of the Gymnasium with their fuses lighted. I came across two squadrons of dragoons on patrol duty, with loaded carbines. Everywhere the roll of the drum is calling to arms — although, I must say, the National Guard does not seem to be in any great hurry. But you must excuse me, madam,” added the barrowman, bowing politely to Madam Lebrenn and her daughter. “It will be soon four o’clock. I am in a hurry.”
He went out, took his handbarrow and wheeled it rapidly away.
On hearing of artillerymen stationed in the neighborhood with lighted fuses in hand, Gildas was overwhelmed with a fresh flood of misgivings. Nevertheless, rocked between fear and curiosity, he risked another peep into the fearful St. Denis Street, which lay so near to the artillery station.
At the moment that Gildas stretched his neck outside of the shop again, the young girl who had taken breakfast with the Count of Plouernel that very morning, and who improvised such giddy-headed ditties, emerged from the alley of the house where George Duchene lodged, and which, as was stated before, stood opposite the linendraper’s shop.
Pradeline looked sad and uneasy. After taking a few steps on the sidewalk, she approached the shop of Lebrenn as near as she dared, in order to cast an inquisitive look within. Unfortunately, the shade over the window intercepted the sight. True enough, the door was ajar. But Gildas, who stood before it, entirely obstructed the passage. Nevertheless, Pradeline, believing herself unobserved, persevered in her efforts to obtain a look at the interior of the place. For some time Gildas watched with increasing curiosity the suspicious manoeuvres of the young girl. Appearances deceived him; he took himself to be the object of Pradeline’s obstinate glances. The prudish youngster lowered his eyes and blushed till his ears tingled. His alarmed modesty ordered him to go into the shop in order to prove to the brazen girl how little he cared for her blandishments. Nevertheless certain promptings of self-esteem held him nailed to the threshold, and more than ever he muttered to himself:
“A puzzling town this is, where, not far from the artillery where fuses are held lighted, young girls come to devour shop-boys with their eyes!”
He noticed that Pradeline crossed the street once more and stepped into a neighboring cafe.
“The unfortunate girl! She surely means to drown her disappointment in several glasses of wine. If she does she will be capable of coming out again and pursuing me straight into the shop. Good God! What would Madam Lebrenn and mademoiselle think of that!”
A new incident cut short, for a while, the chaste apprehensions of Gildas. A four-wheeled truck, drawn by a strong horse, and containing three large, flat chests about two meters high and inscribed Glass, drew up before the shop. The vehicle was in charge of two men in blouses. One of these, named Dupont, was the same who had been to the shop early that morning in order to recommend to Monsieur Lebrenn not to inspect his supply of grain. The other wore a thick grey beard. They alighted from their seat, and Dupont, the driver, stepping into the shop, greeted Madam Lebrenn and said:
“Has Monsieur Lebrenn not yet returned, madam?”
“No, monsieur.”
“We have brought him three cases of looking glasses.”
“Very well, monsieur,” answered Madam Lebrenn. And calling Gildas, she added:
“Help these gentlemen to bring in the looking glasses.”
The shop-assistant obeyed, saying to himself:
“A puzzling house! Three chests with looking glasses — and so heavy! Master, his wife and daughter must be very fond of looking at themselves!”
Dupont and his grey-bearded companion had helped Gildas to place the chests in the room behind the shop, as directed by Madam Lebrenn, when she said to them:
“What is the news, messieurs? Is the agitation in Paris subsiding?”
“On the contrary, madam, ’tis getting hotter — and still hotter,” answered Dupont with barely concealed satisfaction. “They have commenced to throw up barricades in the St. Antoine quarter. To-night the preparations — to-morrow, battle.”
Hardly had Dupont uttered these words, when a formidable clamor was heard from the distance, the words “Long live the Reform!” being distinctly audible.
Gildas ran to the door.
“Let’s hurry,” said Dupont to his companion. “Our truck may be taken for the center of a barricade; it would be premature — we have still several errands to attend to;” and bowing to Madam Lebrenn, he added, “Our regards to your husband, madam.”
The two men leaped upon the seat of their truck, gave their horse the whip, and drove away in the direction opposite to that whence the clamor proceeded.
Gildas had closely followed with his eyes and with renewed uneasiness the new concourse of people near the St. Denis Gate. Suddenly he saw Pradeline emerge from the cafe which she had entered a few minutes before, and direct her steps towards the shop, holding a letter in her hand.
“What a persistent minx! She has been writing to me!” thought Gildas. “The wretched woman is bringing me the letter herself! A declaration! I am going to be disgraced in the eyes of my employers!”
The bewildered Gildas stepped in quickly, closed the door, turned the key, and cuddled up quiet as a mouse close to the desk.
“Well,” said Madam Lebrenn, “why do you lock the door, Gildas?”
“Madam, it is more prudent. I saw coming up from down below a band of men — whose frightful faces—”
“Go to, Gildas, you are losing your head! Open the door.”
“But madam—”
“Do as I tell you. Listen, there is someone trying to come in. Open the door.”
“It is that devil of a girl with her letter,” thought Gildas to himself, more dead than alive. “Oh, why did I leave my quiet little village of Auray!”
And he opened the door with his heart thumping against his ribs. Instead, however, of seeing before him the young girl with he
r letter, he stood face to face with Monsieur Lebrenn and his son.
CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE EVE OF BATTLE.
MADAM LEBRENN WAS agreeably surprised at seeing her son, whom she did not expect, thinking he was at the College. Velleda tenderly embraced her brother, while the merchant himself pressed the hand of his wife.
The resolute carriage of Sacrovir Lebrenn suggested the thought that he was worthy of bearing the glorious name of the hero of ancient Gaul, one of the greatest patriots of the land recorded in history.
Marik Lebrenn’s son was a strapping lad of slightly over nineteen years. He had an open, kind and bold countenance. A sprouting beard shaded his lip and chin. His full cheeks were rosy, and looked bright with animation. He very much resembled his father.
Madam Lebrenn embraced her son, saying:
“I did not expect the pleasure, son, of seeing you here to-day.”
“I went to the College for him,” explained the merchant. “You will presently know the reason, my dear Henory.”
“Without being exactly uneasy about you,” said Madam Lebrenn to her husband, “Velleda and I were beginning to wonder what kept you away so long. It seems that the commotion in Paris is on the increase. Do you know they sounded the call to arms?”
“Oh! Mother,” cried Sacrovir with eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm, “Paris has the fever — it follows that all hearts must be beating more strongly. Without knowing one another, people look for and understand at a glance. On all the streets the words you hear are ardent, patriotic appeals to arms. In short, it smells of gunpowder. Oh, mother! mother!” added the young man with exaltation, “what a beautiful sight is the awakening of a people!”
