by Eugène Sue
“And those sacred words are the symbol of the emancipation of the workers!” exclaimed Monsieur Lebrenn pointing to the inscription in front of the church:
LIBERTY — EQUALITY — FRATERNITY.
CHAPTER XII.
THE GALLEY-SLAVE AND THE GENERAL.
ABOUT EIGHTEEN MONTHS have elapsed since the memorable day of the imposing ceremonies described in the previous chapter, that were so rich with splendid promises to France — and all the world. It is after the lapse of that period that we are now to meet again Marik Lebrenn and his family.
The following scene was taking place in the early part of the month of September, in 1849, at the convict-prison of Rochefort.
The meal hour had sounded. The convicts were eating.
One of the galley-slaves, attired like all the others in the regulation red vest and red cap, with the manille, or iron ring fastened to a heavy chain, on his feet, sat on a stone, and was biting into a chunk of black bread.
The galley-slave was Marik Lebrenn.
He had been sentenced to hard labor by a council of war after the June insurrection of 1848.
The merchant’s features preserved their usual expression of serenity and firmness. The only change in him was that his face, exposed during his arduous work to the scorching heat of the sun on the water, had acquired, one might say, the color of brick.
A guard, with sword at his side and cane in hand, after having looked over several groups of convicts, stopped, as if he were in search of someone, and then, pointing with his cane in the direction of Marik Lebrenn, called out:
“Halloa, down there — number eleven hundred and twenty!”
The merchant continued to eat his black bread with a hearty appetite and did not answer.
“Number eleven hundred and twenty!” repeated the guard in a louder voice. “Don’t you hear me, scamp!”
Continued silence on the part of Lebrenn.
Grumbling and put out at being obliged to take a few more steps, the guard approached Lebrenn at a rapid pace, and touching him with the end of his cane, addressed him roughly:
“The devil! Are you deaf? Answer me, you brute!”
As Lebrenn felt himself touched by the guard’s cane his face lowered, but quickly suppressing the impulse to anger and indignation, he answered calmly:
“What do you want?”
“I called you twice — eleven hundred and twenty! And you did not answer. Do you expect to escape me in that way? Look out!”
“Come, be not so brutal!” answered Lebrenn, shrugging his shoulders. “I did not answer you because I have not yet become accustomed to hearing myself called by any but my own name — and I am always forgetting that my present name is eleven hundred and twenty.”
“Enough of argumentation! Step up, and come to the Commissioner of Marine.”
“What for?”
“None of your business. Step up! march! quick!”
“I follow you,” said Lebrenn with imperturbable calmness.
After crossing a part of the port, the guard, followed closely by the galley-slave, arrived at the door of the Commissioner in charge of the convicts.
“Will you kindly notify the Commissioner that I have brought him number eleven hundred and twenty?” said the guard to one of the keepers at the door.
A minute later the keeper returned, ordered the merchant to follow him, led him down a long corridor, and opening the door of a richly furnished room, said to Lebrenn:
“Walk in, and wait there.”
“How is that?” asked the astonished merchant. “You leave me alone?”
“The Commissioner so ordered me.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Lebrenn smiling. “This is a mark of confidence that flatters me greatly.”
The keeper closed the door and left.
“Once more, the devil!” said Lebrenn with a broader grin as his eyes alighted upon an inviting arm-chair. “This is a good opportunity for me to enjoy a more comfortable seat than the stone benches of the prison yard.”
And comfortably dropping into the soft seat he proceeded:
“No question about it, a good arm-chair is one of the comforts of life.”
At that moment a side door opened and Lebrenn saw a tall man in the uniform of Brigadier General — blue coat, gold epaulettes and dark brown trousers — enter the apartment.
At the sight of the staff officer, Lebrenn was seized with surprise, sat up straight, and cried:
“Monsieur Plouernel!”
“Who did not forget the evening of February 23, 1848, monsieur,” answered the General, stepping forward, and cordially extending his hand to Lebrenn. The latter took the proffered hand, and, while doing so, saw and considered the meaning of the two silver stars that ornamented the Count of Plouernel’s epaulettes. With a smile of good-natured irony the merchant replied:
“You have become a General in the service of the Republic, monsieur, and I a galley-slave! You must admit, this is piquant.”
The Count of Plouernel contemplated the merchant with astonishment. He had expected to see him either utterly dejected, or in a state of violent indignation. He found him calm, smiling and witty.
“Well, monsieur,” proceeded Lebrenn, keeping his seat while the General, standing before him, continued to contemplate the man with increasing wonderment. “Well, monsieur, it is almost eighteen months since that evening of February 23, which it has pleased you to recall to memory! Who would then have thought that we would have met again in the position in which we find ourselves to-day!”
“Such fortitude!” exclaimed the Count of Plouernel. “This is heroism!”
“Not at all, monsieur — it is simply a matter of a clean conscience, and of confidence.”
“Confidence!”
“Yes. I am calm because I have faith in the cause to which I devoted my life — and because my conscience assails me with no reproaches.”
“And yet — you are in this place, monsieur.”
“I pity the error of my judges.”
“You — the incarnation of honor, in the livery of infamy!”
“Bah! That does not affect me.”
“Far from your wife, from your children!”
“They are as often here with me as I am with them. The body is chained and separated, but the spirit laughs at chains and space.”
And interrupting himself, Lebrenn added:
“But, monsieur, kindly inform me by what accident I see you here. The Commissioner of the prison sent for me. Was it only to afford me the honor of receiving your visit?”
“You would misjudge me, monsieur,” answered the General, “were you to believe that, after owing my life to you, I could come here with no other motive than that of idle and offensive curiosity.”
“I shall not do you such an injustice, monsieur. You are, I presume, on a tour of inspection?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I presume you learned I was here in prison, and you came, perhaps, to offer me your good offices?”
“Better yet, monsieur.”
“Better yet? Pray, what do you mean? You seem to feel embarrassed.”
“Indeed — I am; very much so—” replied the General, visibly put out of countenance by the calmness and easy manners of the galley-slave. “Revolutions often bring about bizarre situations.”
“Bizarre situations?”
“Yes,” replied the General; “the situation in which we two find ourselves at this moment, for instance.”
“Oh, we already have exhausted the obvious bizarreness of fate, monsieur!” remarked the merchant smiling. “That, under the Republic, I, an old republican, should be found on the galley-bench, while you, a republican of recent date, should have been promoted to the rank of General — that is, no doubt, bizarre, we are agreed upon that. What else?”
“My embarrassment proceeds from another reason, monsieur.”
“Which?”
“It happens — that—” answered the General, hesitatingly.
“It happens that?”
“I applied—”
“You applied — for what, monsieur?”
“And obtained—”
“A pardon for me!” cried Lebrenn. “Why, that’s charming!”
And the situation brought about by the whirligig of politics was so droll that the merchant could not refrain from laughing heartily.
“Yes, monsieur,” the General proceeded, “I have asked and obtained your pardon — you are free. Mine has been the honor of carrying the news to you personally.”
“One word of explanation, monsieur,” said the merchant in a tone of lofty seriousness. “I do not accept pardon; but, however tardy, I do accept atoning justice.”
“What do you mean?”
“If, at the time of the fatal June insurrection, I had shared the views of those of my brothers who are here in prison with me, I would decline to accept a pardon. After having done like them, I would remain here as they, and with them!”
“Nevertheless, monsieur, your conviction—”
“Was iniquitous. I shall prove it to you in a few words. At the time of the June insurrection, last year, I was a captain in my legion. I responded without arms to the call issued by the National Guard. There I declared loudly, very loudly, that it was only without arms that I would march at the head of my company, my purpose being not to engage in a bloody conflict, but to endeavor to convince my brothers, that, notwithstanding they were exasperated by misery, by a deplorable misunderstanding, and above all by atrocious deceptions, they should never forget that the people’s sovereignty was inviolable, and that, so long as the power which represented the same had not been legally impeached and convicted of treason, to revolt against that power, to attack it with arms instead of overthrowing it by means of the universal suffrage, was a suicidal act, and was an impeachment of popular sovereignty itself. About one-half of my company shared my views and followed my example. While other citizens were charging us with treason, bare-headed, unarmed, our hands fraternally linked, we advanced towards the first barricade in our path. The guns were raised at our approach — we were heard. Already our brothers understood that, however legitimate their grievances, an insurrection would mean the immediate triumph of the enemies of the Republic. At that juncture a hail of bullets rained down upon the barricade behind which we were parleying. Ignorant, no doubt, of this circumstance, a battalion of the line had attacked the position. Taken by surprise, the insurgents defended themselves heroically. The larger number were slain, a few were made prisoners. Confounded among the latter, several others of my own company and myself were seized and treated as insurgents. If I, thrown along with several friends of mine, into the underground dungeons of the Tuileries and kept there three days and nights, did not go crazy; if I preserved my reason, it was that, in the spirit, I was with my wife and children. Dragged before the military tribunal I there told the truth; they did not believe me. I was sent to this place. So you see, monsieur, it is not pardon that is granted to me, but tardy justice. Nevertheless, that does not prevent me from being grateful to you for the efforts you have put forth in my behalf. Well, then, I am free?”
“The Commissioner of Marine will be here presently; he will confirm what I have said to you. You can leave this place to-day — this hour.”
“Now, monsieur, finding you so well entrenched at court — the republican court,” the merchant proceeded to say, smiling, “I wish you would be kind enough to use your good offices with the Commissioner that he grant me a favor which he may be inclined to refuse.”
“I am at your service, monsieur.”
“You see this iron ring that I carry on my leg, and to which my chain is fastened? Now, then, I would like to be allowed to take this ring with me. I shall pay for it, of course.”
“How! That ring! You would like to preserve it?”
“It is merely a collector’s mania, monsieur. I already own several small historic curiosities — among others the casque which you so kindly presented to me as a souvenir. I would like to join to them the iron ring of the political galley-slave. You will understand, monsieur, that, to me and my family, the two curiosities together will mean a good deal.”
“Nothing easier, I believe, monsieur, than to meet your wishes. I shall so notify the Commissioner. But allow me a question — it may be indiscreet.”
“What is it, monsieur?”
“I remember that eighteen months ago — and many a time and oft have I recalled the incident — I remember that, when I asked you to keep my casque as a memento of your generous conduct towards me, you answered—”
“That that would not be the only article from your family that my collection contained; not so?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I told you the truth.”
“You also told me, I believe, monsieur, that the Nerowegs of Plouernel—”
“Had several times, in the course of the ages and of events, encountered several members of my obscure slave, serf, vassal or plebeian family,” the merchant put in, completing the sentence of the Count of Plouernel. “That is also true, monsieur.”
“And what were the occasions? What the circumstances? How come you to be informed on events that took place so very long ago?”
“Permit me, monsieur, to keep that secret, and pardon me for having so thoughtlessly awakened in you a curiosity that I may not satisfy. Still laboring under the intoxicating influence of that day of triumphant civil war, and of the singular fatality that brought us, you and me, face to face, an allusion to the past escaped my lips. I regret it, because, I repeat — there are family remembrances that must never go outside of the domestic hearth.”
“I shall not insist, monsieur,” said the Count of Plouernel.
And after a moment’s hesitation he added:
“I have another question, also, I presume, indiscreet—”
“I listen, monsieur.”
“What do you think of seeing me serve the Republic?”
“Such a question demands a frank answer.”
“I know you are incapable of making any other, monsieur.”
“Well, I think you have no faith in the continuance of the Republic. Your policy is to turn to the best use you can, in the interest of your own party, the authority that the present government entrusts to you and many others. In short, you expect, at a given moment, to utilize your position in the army in favor of the return of your master, as you call, I believe, that big boy, the last of the Capets and of the Frankish Kings by the right of conquest. The government is placing in your hands weapons against the Republic. You accept them; it is all fair in war, from your viewpoint. As to me, I hate the monarchy of divine right by reason of the ills with which it has scourged my country. I have fought it with all my strength; nevertheless, never would I have served it with the intention of ruining it. Never would I have worn its livery, or its colors.”
“Monsieur, I do not wear the livery of the Republic,” answered General Plouernel warmly. “I wear the uniform of the Army.”
“Come, monsieur,” replied the merchant, smiling, “admit it, without reproach, that, for a soldier, what you have just said is, perhaps, a little — a little priestlike. But let that pass — everyone serves his cause in his own fashion. Besides, as you see, here we are, we two — you decked in the insignia of power and of force; I, a poor man, dragging a galley-slave’s chain, the very same as, fifteen hundred years ago, my forefathers wore the slave’s iron ring. Your party is powerful and influential. It enjoys the good wishes and would, at a pinch, enjoy the material support of the monarchists of Europe. It owns wealth; it has the clergy on its side; furthermore, the waverers, the camp-followers, the cynics, the ambitious of all previous regimes, have rallied to your side in the fear that popular sovereignty inspires them with. They proclaim aloud that, rather than democracy, they prefer the monarchy of divine right and absolute such as existed before 1789, even if it be necessary to have it supported by a permanent army of Cossacks. On th
e other hand, those of my party and I have implicit faith in the triumph of democracy.”
The entrance of the Commissioner of Marine put an end to the conversation between the General and the merchant. The latter obtained without difficulty, thanks to the intervention of his “protector,” permission to take with him his iron ring, his manille as the thing is called in the galleys.
That same evening Marik Lebrenn proceeded to Paris.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOME AGAIN.
ON THE 10TH of September, 1849, two days after General Plouernel brought to Marik Lebrenn his pardon and complete restitution to civic and political rights, the merchant’s family was gathered in a modest apartment on the second floor of their house.
The shop had been closed two hours before. A lamp, placed upon a large round center table, lighted the several personages who sat around it.
Madam Lebrenn was busy with the mercantile books of the establishment; her daughter, dressed in mourning, gently rocked on her knees a babe asleep; while George, also in mourning, like his wife, on account of the death of his grandfather Morin a few months previous, sketched on a sheet of paper the draft of a wainscot. Immediately upon his marriage, and agreeable to the wishes of Lebrenn, George had established upon the profit-sharing principle a large joiner’s shop on the ground floor of a house contiguous to that of his father-in-law.
Sacrovir Lebrenn was reading a treatise on the mechanics of cloth weaving, and from time to time inserted some notes in the margin of his book.
Jeanike was busy ironing some napkins, while Gildas, who sat before a little table with a heap of articles of linen belonging to the shop, was labeling and folding them in shape for exhibition in the show window.
Madam Lebrenn’s face was pensive and sad. So also would surely have been the expression on the face of her daughter, then in the full bloom of her beauty, had she not at that moment exchanged a sweet smile with her babe, which stretched out its arms to her.
