Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “‘Just then I caught sight of a pair of pistols near the rudder, and before either of the three sailors could make the slightest movement, I jumped for these weapons. In another moment my two bullets had struck down a man apiece. With me at the helm, and the old sailor and the boy to assist me, the boat could be handled with little or no difficulty, for the weather was superb, and we could not be more than fourteen or fifteen miles from the shores of France.

  “‘My situation thus promptly defined, I loaded my pistols again and advanced toward the three men, who were gradually recovering from their surprise.

  “‘“Go down into the hold, all three of you,” I thundered. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot two of you, and hew down the other.”

  “‘There was only the length of the hatchway — about four feet — between me and these men, so I could easily blow their brains out. They instantly jumped into the hold, where the small quantity of combustible material I had lighted was now nearly burned out. The wounded man, too, staggered down as best he could; I replaced the hatchway, securing it with the iron bars as before; then I walked to the stern of the boat.

  “‘“Give me the helm,” I said to the old sailor; “you and the boy are to manage the sail, and manage it right, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “‘As I took the rudder out of his hand, he recoiled a step and exclaimed:

  “‘“It is Captain l’Endurci, as I live!”

  “‘“You know me, then?”

  “‘“Know you, captain! I made two voyages with you on the Hell-hound.”

  “‘“And your name?”

  “‘“Simon from Dunkirk.”

  “‘“I remember you now. So you intended to deliver me, your old captain, into the hands of the English, did you?”

  “‘“May I be shot if I suspected for a single instant that it was you, captain.”

  “‘“So this smack belongs to you, I suppose.”

  “‘“No, captain, to Bezelek.”

  “‘“And where is he?”

  “‘“At the bottom of the sea. He was the man that you killed first and that fell overboard.”

  “‘“But how does it happen that you consented to have a hand in my abduction?”

  “‘“Well, captain, we’ve been doing a little smuggling.”

  “‘“That is very apparent.”

  “‘“And night before last two men came to us, — that is one of them lying there now.”

  “‘He pointed to the dead man in the bow as he spoke.

  “‘“Throw him into the sea,” I said, curtly.

  “‘“And the other man?” I inquired, as soon as this order had been obeyed.

  “‘“He is down in the hold. He is the man you wounded in the arm.”

  “‘“And how did these men induce you and Bezelek to become their accomplices?”

  “‘“They said: ‘Bezelek, there are fifty guineas ready for you if you will consent to take a man we will bring to you to England. We do not intend to injure him in any way; but if he resists, you and your men will be expected to lend a hand in gagging and binding him, and placing him in the hold of your fishing-smack. You will be paid twenty-five guineas in advance, and twenty-five more on your arrival at Folkestone.’ As there seemed to be no great harm in the proceeding, the offer tempted Bezelek and he agreed to do what the men asked. But I swear that I had no idea it was you. If I had, I would never have had anything to do with the affair.”

  “‘Four hours after I escaped from the hold we were within sight of the port of Mora, where I landed safe and sound.’

  “Our readers will, we are sure, feel grateful to us,” added the Journal of the Empire, “for having given them this extract from the brave privateer’s letter. Thanks be to God, Captain l’Endurci, by his coolness and courage, succeeded in escaping this most infamous conspiracy against him. Let us hope that his name will long remain a terror to the enemies of France.”

  The article concluded, Onésime laid the paper on the table.

  “What a wonderful man this corsair must be!” exclaimed the housekeeper, admiringly. “Alone, bound and gagged, he nevertheless found a way to escape his imminent danger.”

  “But what a quantity of blood he had to shed!” exclaimed the girl, shuddering. “And not a single word of regret or of pity for his victims. With what cruel indifference he speaks of the men he killed in cold blood; for thus taken by surprise, the poor creatures could offer no resistance.”

  “That is true,” murmured Onésime.

  But his aunt did not even hear him, for, turning to the girl, she exclaimed, warmly:

  “It is very easy to talk, my child, but in such a position one certainly has a right—”

  “Ah, yes, my dear, you are probably going to say that this man was the victim of the vilest treachery, — that he had an undoubted right to recover his liberty at any cost, and that his ferocious disregard of the lives of others is what people call courage and heroism. All this is very possible. I am a poor judge, perhaps. I only tell you how it impresses me. This account of his exploits excites only horror and aversion in me.”

  “But a corsair is a corsair, my child. You certainly don’t expect him to be a saint. Each man according to his trade.”

  “It is an executioner’s business to behead people, aunt, but that makes his trade none the less horrible,” exclaimed Onésime.

  “Ah, I felt sure M. Onésime would feel as I do about it,” said the girl, quickly.

  “He? oh, yes, I don’t doubt it! He is a regular sissy. When did you ever hear of his doing any fighting?”

  “I admit that I am no hero, aunt,” replied Onésime, smiling, “I don’t doubt in the least that if I were a prisoner, and obliged to kill somebody to regain my liberty, I should remain a prisoner.”

  “Yours is the truest, noblest kind of courage, after all,” responded the young girl, warmly, for her dislike of warriors in general was perhaps due in a great measure to the fact that Onésime, both by reason of his temperament and his infirmity, was never likely to be a man of that kind.

  “Onésime courageous!” retorted the housekeeper. “You must be jesting!” Then, turning to her nephew, she cried: “Don’t you see that mademoiselle is making fun of you, my poor boy? Oh, well, put my knitting on the table for me, my brave hero, and hand me my work-box without dropping it if you can.”

  The young man was consequently obliged to hold out both his hands in turn, one to present the work-box, the other to take the knitting, and as the light from the lamp fell full on the table, the pitiless aunt instantly discovered the terrible burn he had received.

  “Good Heavens! what is the matter with your hand?” she exclaimed.

  “Nothing of any consequence, aunt,” he replied, hastily drawing back his hand, while the young girl, whose attention had been attracted by the housekeeper’s exclamation, turned toward him anxiously.

  But the aunt sprang up, and, seizing her nephew’s hand in spite of his efforts to hide it, examined it carefully.

  “It is frightfully burned, frightfully!” she cried. “Why, you must be suffering agony with it. It was just done. How did it happen? I know. It was when you poured the boiling water in the urn, and, for fear we would laugh at you, you endured the terrible pain without a word. You even had the courage to go on reading all this time just as if nothing had happened.”

  “Ah, I told you that he was brave,” exclaimed the young girl. “His is the true courage, after all, — not the ferocious courage born of anger, that seeks only to destroy, but the courage of noble hearts who, for fear of alarming those whom they love, endure the most intense suffering without so much as a sign.”

  The girl’s emotion repaid the young man a thousand-fold for his suffering; he even had the happiness of seeing the touching expression of her features, too, this time, as she would insist upon assisting the housekeeper in dressing Onésime’s hand.

  This work had just been completed, and Onésime was regretting that he had only one burn, when the d
oor of the little parlour was suddenly thrown open, and a servant rushed in, exclaiming:

  “Dame Roberts, Dame Roberts, M. Segoffin has come!”

  “And my father, — my father has come too, has he not?” exclaimed the girl, her face radiant with joy.

  “No, mademoiselle, M. Segoffin says monsieur was detained at the post-office by some letters, but that he will be here almost immediately.”

  The girl hastened out of the room to prepare to meet her father. As the door closed behind her, Dame Roberts turned to her nephew and said:

  “Go up to your room now, Onésime. I will see you before I go to bed and tell you what M. Cloarek says in relation to you, for he must know why I took you into his house in his absence, though I know his kindness of heart well enough to feel sure that he will approve of what I have done.”

  So Onésime went up to his room oppressed by a vague uneasiness. He had scarcely left the parlour, when M. Segoffin entered it.

  CHAPTER X.

  SEGOFFIN’S DISSIMULATION.

  IT WOULD BE far from complimentary to the reader’s penetration to suppose that he had not long since recognised in Onésime’s defender Mlle. Cloarek, who lost her mother at the age of five years, in consequence of a nervous shock. We trust, too, that the reader’s penetration has served him equally well in the case of Suzanne Roberts, Sabine’s former nurse, and Madame Cloarek’s confidential attendant and housekeeper, and likewise in the case of Captain l’Endurci and his brave head gunner.

  Twelve years have elapsed since we last saw Segoffin, and he is little changed in appearance. He looks as much like a clown as ever, the only modifications which time, or rather events, have made in his grotesquely grave features being, first, a deep scar beginning at the left temple, and extending to the bottom of the cheek (a wound caused, as he affirmed, by an unfortunate fall upon a piece of broken glass).

  Second, the recent loss of an eye, an unfortunate loss indicated by a large black patch, and caused, no doubt, by some similar mishap.

  In spite of these rather grave injuries to his personal charms, M. Segoffin held his head as high as ever. A long white cravat, decorated with bright red polka dots, encircled his throat; his long redingote and knee-breeches were of the finest brown broadcloth, and his black stockings were of silk. In his right hand, from which two fingers were missing, — two fingers carelessly lost, as he declared, from having been caught in a piece of machinery, — he carried a heavy cane, for he was quite lame now, in consequence of another accident, — at least, so he said.

  On seeing Segoffin, Dame Roberts, in spite of the taunts with which she had pursued him for so many years, made no attempt to conceal her pleasure. In the delight his return caused her, she did not notice, at first, that Segoffin was all the while endeavouring to present only his profile, or as nearly a three-quarter view of his face as possible, to the object of his affections. The fact is, he wished to defer the explanation of the recent loss of his eye until the latest possible moment, but the lady, on going a little closer to him, noticed the disfiguring patch, and exclaimed:

  “Good Heavens! what is the matter with your eye, Segoffin?”

  “Which eye?”

  “Why, your right eye.”

  “My right eye?”

  “Yes. Why do you wear that big black patch over it?”

  “I know.”

  “I should suppose that you did. As for me, I am afraid to guess what the matter is.”

  “Nonsense! guess away.”

  “You have lost an eye.”

  “There is no undoing that which is done.”

  “I declare, since monsieur went into business and took you for his clerk, there is many a soldier at the Invalides that isn’t half as much battered up as you are. How on earth did you lose your eye?”

  “The fact is, my sight has been failing for some time past, so I decided to put on spectacles. I went to purchase a pair. It was at Lyons. Ah, that rascally optician!” exclaimed Segoffin, shaking his fist in a sort of retrospective rage.

  “Calm yourself, Segoffin, and go on with your story.”

  “It was a splendid day, and the optician’s shop stood in a blaze of sunlight on the Quai du Rhone, my dear, — in a blaze of sunlight, remember that.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A vast amount of difference. I asked to try some spectacles. The scoundrel handed me a pair. I put them on my nose. Just at that moment loud screams were heard on the quay, and curiosity naturally caused me to run to the door.”

  “Of course.”

  “I ran to the door, I say, with the spectacles still on my nose, and I was looking all around, first to the right, then to the left, to see where the cries came from, when, happening to look up, I had very much the same feeling in my right eye as if the ball had been pierced by a red-hot iron.”

  “Good Heavens! what caused it?”

  “One of the glasses in the pair which the optician had given me was of great magnifying power,” replied Segoffin, “and when I looked up and the noonday sun shone full on my glasses, it converted the lens I speak of into a sort of burning-glass. My eye was burned out. You could positively hear it sizzle.”

  “Is it possible?” exclaimed Dame Roberts. “Did you really lose your eye in that way?”

  “There is no undoing that which is done. But I will say this much, since I have had but one eye that one has been doing the work of two in the most remarkable manner. I have the eyes or rather the eye of fifteen, so to me you look as handsome, as handsome as if you were fifteen, my dear.”

  “I have no such juvenile eyes, my poor Segoffin, so I see you exactly as you are. I certainly regret the accident exceedingly, and I truly hope this will be the last. Did monsieur have a satisfactory trip, and is he well?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “And his fits of despondency when he thinks of madame’s death?”

  “He has them still. He shuts himself up alone for several hours, and when he appears again one can see that he has been weeping.”

  “And his disposition?”

  “I am a regular firebrand in comparison.”

  “Then he evinces no more temper while travelling than he does here?”

  “Not a bit more.”

  “And really when one remembers what monsieur was a dozen years ago, Segoffin!”

  “There is as much difference as there is between day and night.”

  “That reminds me that Mlle. Sabine had another of her nervous attacks to-day, when something reminded her of her poor mother’s death. How fortunate it is that she did not recognise monsieur in his Breton costume on that terrible night. The poor child still believes that it was a stranger who killed her mother.”

  “And she must never be allowed to suspect anything to the contrary.”

  “The complete change in monsieur’s character makes that a comparatively easy matter.”

  “All the effect of a business career. When monsieur lost his position after poor madame’s death, he said to himself: ‘I have barely enough to support my daughter for a few years. I was evidently not intended for a judicial career. I have a taste for commerce, so I will try commerce.’ And a very wise decision it has proved on his part, for he has not only accumulated a handsome fortune for his daughter, but transformed himself into the most lamb-like of men, and you have commerce to thank for it all; for you must see for yourself that if a merchant went about beating his customers over the head and kicking them in the stomach, he wouldn’t make many sales.”

  “You are and always will be the same exasperating creature, Segoffin!” exclaimed the housekeeper, impatiently. “Years of travel and business have made no change in you, mentally, understand; physically — it is different—”

  “Hold, my ungrateful friend,” said Segoffin, drawing a peculiarly shaped box from his pocket, and gallantly offering it to Suzanne. “This is the way in which I avenge myself for your abuse.”

  “What is it, Segoffin?”

  “Some littl
e tokens of friendly regard, for you know that in your secret heart you are really very fond of me.”

  But as the housekeeper opened the box, and unfolded a piece of paper in which the present was wrapped, she recoiled almost in terror.

  “The paper is burnt at one end, and stained with blood at the other,” she exclaimed, in dismay.

  “Oh, yes,” replied M. Cloarek’s clerk, imperturbably, “it is a piece of — no matter what, that I used to light my candle with, and when I was wrapping the pin and the earrings up, I pricked my finger, — awkward as usual, you see.”

  The housekeeper took out a pair of enormous gold earrings, and a large gold pin ornamented with an anchor surmounted by a crown. We will here add, for the information of the reader, that in those days sailors in the royal navy of England still wore earrings, and fastened their woollen shirts with large gold or silver pins.

  The housekeeper, more grateful for the kindly feeling than for the present itself, as she had no intention of dragging down her ears with these rings, fastened the pin in her dress.

  “Really, you are too kind,” she said. “These earrings and this pin, especially, are in perfect taste, and as we live so near the sea the selection of a pin surmounted with an anchor is extremely appropriate. But here, M. Traveller,” continued Suzanne, taking the red worsted comforter she had been knitting from the table, “you see you are not the only person who thinks of the absent.”

  “What, Suzanne, this comforter—”

  “Is intended to keep you warm and comfortable in the winter.”

  “Ah, Suzanne, Suzanne, I shall never forget—”

  But Segoffin’s protestations of gratitude were, unfortunately, interrupted by the entrance of M. Cloarek and his daughter, arm in arm.

  Yvon, who was now forty-two years of age, had changed very little in appearance. His hair was beginning to turn gray, and his skin was much sunburned; but he seemed to have gained in strength and vigour, his face was radiant, and his eyes were full of joyful tears.

  “Come and let me take a good look at you, my child,” he exclaimed, as he led his daughter to the light, and gazed at her with anxious tenderness, as if to satisfy himself that the health of this idolised child had improved since they parted; then, again enfolding her tenderly in his arms, he added: