Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  In an instant, Frederick, his mother, and David followed by the gardner and Marguerite arrived at the edge of the forest, a spot much higher than the valley.

  What a spectacle!

  As far as the eye could reach in the north and the east, one saw only an immense sheet of yellow, muddy water, cut at the horizon by a sky overcast with dark clouds rapidly hurried along by a freezing wind. At the west the forest of Pont Brillant was half submerged, while the tops of a few poplars on the plain could be discerned here and there in the middle of a motionless and limitless sea.

  This devastation, slow and silent as the tomb, was even more terrible than the brilliant ravages of a conflagration.

  For a moment the spectators of this awful disaster stood still in mute astonishment.

  David, the first to recover from this unavailing grief, said to Madame Bastien:

  “Madame, I will return in a moment.”

  Some minutes after he ran back, bringing an excellent field-glass that had served him in many a voyage.

  “The fog on the water prevents my distinguishing objects at a great distance, madame,” said David to Marie. “In what direction is the farmhouse you spoke of just now?”

  “In the direction of those poplars down there on the left, M. David.”

  The preceptor directed his field-glass toward the point designated, carefully observing the scene for some minutes, then he cried:

  “Ah! the unfortunate creatures!”

  “Heaven, they are lost!” said Marie, quickly.

  “The water has reached half-way up the roof of the house,” said David. “They are on the roof clinging to the chimney. I see a man, a woman, and three children.”

  “My God!” cried Marie with clasped hands, falling on her knees with her eyes raised to heaven, “My God, help them, have pity on them!”

  “And no means of saving them!” cried Frederick; “we can only groan over such a disaster.”

  “Poor Jean François, a good man,” said André”.

  “To see his three little children die with him,” sobbed Marguerite.

  David, calm, grave, and silent, as was his habit in the hour of danger, struck his field-glass convulsively in the palm of his hand, and seemed to be lost in thought; all eyes were turned to him. Suddenly his brow cleared, and with that authority of accent and promptness of decision which distinguish the man made to command, he said to Marie:

  “Madame, permit me to give orders here, the moments are precious.”

  “They will obey you as they obey me, M. David.”

  “André,” called the preceptor, “get the cart and horse at once.”

  “Yes, M. David.”

  “On the pond not far from the house, I have seen a little boat; is it there still?”

  “Yes, M. David.”

  “Is it light enough to be carried on the cart?”

  “Certainly, M. David.”

  “Frederick and I will assist you in placing it there. Run and hitch up; we will join you.”

  André hurried to the stable.

  “Now, madame,” said David to Marie, “please have prepared immediately some bottles of wine and two or three coverings. We will carry them in the boat; for these poor people, if we succeed in saving them, will be dying of cold and want. Have some beds and a fire made ready, too, that every care can be given to them when we arrive. Now, Frederick, we will assist André, and go as quickly as possible to the pond.”

  While David hastily disappeared with Frederick, Madame Bastien and Marguerite eagerly executed David’s orders.

  The horse, promptly hitched to the cart, took David and Frederick to the pond.

  “My friend,” said the young man to his preceptor, his eyes glowing with ardour and impatience, “we will save these unfortunate people, will we not?”

  “I hope so, my child, but the danger will be great; when we pass this stagnant water, we will enter the current of the overflow, and it must be as rapid as a torrent.”

  “Well, what matters danger, my friend?”

  “We must know it to triumph over it, my child. Now, tell me,” added David, with emotion, “do you not think that, in thus generously exposing your own life, you will more worthily expiate the dreadful deed you wished to commit, than by seeking a fruitless death in suicide?”

  A passionate embrace on the part of Frederick made David see that he was understood.

  The cart just at this moment crossed a highway in order to reach the pond in time.

  A gendarme, urging his horse to a galop, arrived at full speed.

  “Is the overflow still rising?” cried David to the soldier, making a sign to him with his hand to stop.

  “The water is rising all the time, sir,” replied the gendarme, panting for breath; “the embankments are just broken. There is thirty feet of water in the valley — the route to Pont Brillant is cut off — the only boat that we had for salvage has just capsized with those who manned it. All have perished, and I am hurrying to the castle for more men and boats.”

  And the soldier plunged his rowels into the horse, which was covered with foam, and galloped away.

  “Oh!” cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, “we will arrive before the people from the castle, will we not?”

  “You see, my child, envy has some good in it,” said David, who penetrated the secret thought of Frederick.

  The cart soon arrived at the pond. André, Frederick, and David easily placed the little boat on the conveyance. At the same time David, with that foresight which never forsook him, carefully examined the oars, and the tholes which serve to keep the oars in place.

  “André,” said he to the gardener, “have you a knife?”

  “Yes, M. David.”

  “Give it to me. Now, you, Frederick, return to the house with André; hasten the speed of the horse as much as possible, for the water rises every minute, and will swallow up the poor people below.”

  “But you, my friend?”

  “I see here some young branches of oak; I am going to cut them so as to repair the tholes of the boat; they are old, the green wood is stronger and more pliant. Go, go, I will join you in haste.”

  The cart drove away; the old horse, vigorously belaboured with the whip, and smelling the house, as they say, began to trot. David chose the wood necessary for his work, soon joined the cart, which he followed on foot, as did Frederick, not willing to overburden the horse. As they walked, the preceptor gave the tholes a suitable shape; Frederick looked at him with surprise.

  “You think of everything,” said he.

  “My dear child, when on my travels over the great lakes of America, I frequently saw terrible inundations. I have helped the Indians in several salvages and I learned then that a little precaution often spares one many perils. So I have prepared three sets of tholes, for it is probable we may break some, and as the sailor’s proverb says: ‘A broken thole, a dead oar.’”

  “It is true that when an oar lacks a solid support, it becomes almost useless.”

  “And what would become of us in the middle of the gulf with one oar? We should be lost.”

  “That is true, my friend.”

  “Now we must prepare to row vigorously, for we shall encounter trees, and steep banks in roads and other obstructions which may give a violent jolt to our oars and perhaps break them. Have you no spare oars?”

  “There is another one at the house.”

  “We will carry it with us, because, if we should lack an oar, the rescue of these poor people would become impossible and our loss certain. You row well, do you?”

  “Yes, my friend, one of my greatest pleasures was to row mother across the pond.”

  “You will be at home with the oars then; I will sound the water and direct the boat by means of a boat-hook. I explain to you now my child, every essential point, as I shall not have time to address a word to you, when we are on the water. Do not let your oars drag. After each stroke of the oar, lift them horizontally; they might become entangled or break on s
ome obstacle between wind and water, which renders navigation so dangerous on these submerged lands.”

  “I will forget nothing, my friend; make yourself easy,” replied Frederick, to whom the coolness and experience of David gave unlimited courage.

  When the cart reached the house, David and Frederick met a great number of peasants weeping bitterly, and driving before them all kinds of animals. Some were walking by the side of wagons laden with furniture piled pell-mell, kitchen utensils, mattresses, clothing, barrels, sacks of grain, all snatched in haste from the devouring waves of the overflow.

  Some women carried nursing children, others had little boys and girls on their backs, while the men were trying to guide the frightened beasts.

  “Does the water continue to rise, my poor people?” asked David, without stopping, and walking along by their side.

  “Alas, monsieur, it is still rising; the bridge of Blémur has been carried off by the waves,” said one.

  “There was already four feet of water in the village when we left it,” said another.

  “The great floats of wood in the basin of St. Pierre have been swept into the current of the valley,” said a third.

  “They came down like a thunderbolt, struck two large boats manned with sailors coming to aid the people, and capsized them.”

  “All those brave men were drowned,” said another, “for the Loire at its highest water is not half as rapid as the current of the overflow.”

  “And those unhappy people below!” said Frederick, impatiently. “Shall we arrive in time? My God! Oh, if the men from the castle get there before we do!”

  The cart was at the farm; while they were putting provisions and coverings in the little boat, David asked André for a hedging knife, and went to select a long branch of the ash-tree, from which he cut about ten feet, light, supple, and easily handled. An iron hook, which had served as a pulley for a bucket, was solidly fastened to the end of this improvised instrument, which would answer to tow the boat from apparent obstacles, or to sustain it along the roof of the submerged house; the long well-rope was also laid in the little boat, as well as two or three light planks, solidly bound together, and capable of serving as a buoy of salvage in a desperate case.

  David occupied himself with these details, with thoughtful activity, and a fruitfulness in expedients, which surprised Madame Bastien as much as it did her son. When all was ready, David looked attentively at each article, and said to André:

  “Drive now as quick as possible to the shore; Frederick and I will join you, and will help you in unloading the boat and setting it afloat.”

  The cart, moving along the edge of the forest where stood David, Frederick, and his mother, took the direction of the submerged plain, which could be seen at a great distance. The slope being quite steep, the horse began to trot.

  While the cart was on its way, David took the field-glass that he had left on one of the rustic benches in the grove, and looked for the farmhouse. The water was within two feet of the comb of the roof, where the farmer’s family had taken refuge.

  David laid his field-glass on the bench, and said in a firm voice to Frederick:

  “My child, embrace your mother, and let us go; time presses.”

  Marie trembled in every limb, and turned deadly pale.

  For a second there was in the soul of the young woman a terrible struggle between duty, which urged her to allow Frederick to accomplish a generous action at the risk of his life, and the voice of nature, which urged her to prevent her son’s braving the danger of death. This struggle was so painful that Frederick, who had not taken his eyes from his mother, saw her grow weak, frightened at the thought of losing the son now so worthy of her love.

  So Marie, holding Frederick in her arms to prevent his departure, cried, with a heartrending voice:

  “No, no, I cannot let him go!”

  “Mother,” said Frederick to her, in a low voice, “I once wished to kill, and there are people there whom I can save from death.”

  Marie was heroic.

  “Go, my child; we will go together,” said she.

  And she took a step which indicated her desire to go with the boat.

  “Madame,” cried David, divining her purpose, “this is impossible!”

  “M. David, I will not abandon my son.”

  “Mother!”

  “Where you go, Frederick, I will go.”

  “Madame,” answered David, “the boat can only hold five persons. There is a man, a woman, and three children to save; to accompany us in the boat is to force us to leave to certain death the father, the mother, and the children.”

  At these words, Madame Bastien said to her son, “Go then alone, my child.”

  And the mother and son mingled their tears and their kisses in a last embrace.

  Frederick, as he left his mother’s arms, saw David, in spite of his firmness, weeping.

  “Mother!” said Frederick, showing his friend to her. “Look at him.”

  “Save his body as you have saved his soul!” cried the young woman, pressing David convulsively against her palpitating bosom. “Bring him back to me or I shall die.”

  David was worthy of the chaste and sacred embrace of this young woman, who saw her son about to brave death.

  It was a weeping sister that he pressed to his heart.

  Then, taking Frederick by the hand, he darted in the direction of the cart; both gave a last look at Madame Bastien, whose strength was exhausted, as she sank upon one of the rustic benches in the grove.

  This attack of weakness past, Marie rose and stood, following her son and David with her eyes as long as she could see them.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  IN A QUARTER of an hour the little boat was lifted from the cart, and soon after was set afloat on the dead waters of the inundation.

  “André, stay there with the cart,” said the preceptor, “because the miserable people, to whose rescue we are going, will be altogether too feeble to walk to Madame Bastien’s house.”

  “Well, M. David,” said the old man.

  And he added with emotion:

  “Good courage, my poor M. Frederick.”

  “My child,” said David, just as the boat was leaving the shore, “in order to be prepared for any emergency, do as I do. Take off your shoes and stockings, your coat and your cravat; throw your coat over your shoulders to prevent your taking cold. Whatever happens to me, do not concern yourself about me. I am a good swimmer, and in trying to save me, you would drown us both. Now, my child, at your oars, and row hard, but not too fast; husband your strength. I will be on the watch in front, and will sound the waters. Come now, with calmness and presence of mind, all will go well.”

  The boat now had left the shore.

  Courage, energy, and the consciousness of the noble expiation he was about to attempt, supplied Frederick with all the strength that he had lost during his long illness of mind and body.

  His beautiful features animated with enthusiasm, his eyes fixed on David, watching for every order, the son of Madame Bastien rowed with vigour and precision. At each stroke of the oar, the little boat advanced rapidly and without obstruction.

  David, standing in front, straightening his tall form to its utmost height, his head bare, his black hair floating in the wind, his eye sometimes fixed on the almost submerged farmhouse, and sometimes on objects which might prove an obstacle in their course, — cool, prudent and attentive, showed a calm intrepidity. For some moments the progress of the boat was unimpeded, but suddenly the preceptor called: “Hold oars!”

  Frederick executed this order, and after a few seconds the boat stopped.

  David, leaning over the craft in front, sounded with his boat-hook the spot where he had seen light bubbles rising to the surface, for fear the boat might break against some obstacle under the water.

  In fact, David discovered that the boat was almost immediately over a mass of willow branches, in which the little craft might have become entangled if it had be
en going at its highest speed. Leaning then his boat-hook against a log he met in the water, David turned his boat out of the way of this perilous obstruction.

  “Now, my child,” said he, “row in front of you, turning a little to the left, so as to reach those three tall poplars you see down there, half submerged in the water. Once arrived there, we will enter the middle of the overflow’s current, which we feel even here, although we are still in dead water.”

  At the end of a few minutes David called again:

  “Hold oars!”

  And with these words David hooked his boat-hook among the branches of one of the poplars toward which Frederick was rowing; these trees, thirty feet in height, were three-quarters submerged. Sustained by the boat-hook, the little craft remained immovable.

  “What! we are going to stop, M. David?” cried Frederick.

  “You must rest a moment, my child, and drink a few swallows of this wine.”

  Then David, with remarkable coolness, uncorked a bottle of wine, which he offered to his pupil.

  “Stop to rest!” cried Frederick, “while those poor people are waiting for us!”

  “My child, you are panting for breath, your forehead is covered with perspiration, your strength is being exhausted; I perceived it by the shaking of your oars. We will reach these people in time; the water is not rising any longer, I have seen by sure signs. We are going to need all our energy and all our strength. Now, five minutes’ rest taken at the right time may ensure those persons’ safety as well as our own. Come, drink a few swallows of wine.”

  Frederick followed this advice, and realised the benefit of it, for already, without having dared confess it to David, he felt in the joints of his arms that numbness and rigidity which always succeed too much fatigue and muscular tension.

  During this period of enforced delay the preceptor and his pupil looked upon the scene around them with silent horror.

  From the point where they were they commanded an immense extent of water, no longer dead, such as they had just passed over, but rapid, foaming, impetuous as the course of a torrent.

  From this vast expanse of water arose such a roar that from one end of the little boat to the other Frederick and David were obliged to shout aloud, in order to hear each other.