Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  This worthy lad, on the contrary, was but poorly refreshed, after a hard day’s toil, with this paltry stew, — a little burnt as it had been, too, during his story; but he knew he pleased his mother by observing the fast without complaining. He affected to enjoy his meal; and the good woman accordingly observed with satisfaction:

  “Oh, I see you like it, my dear boy; Friday and Saturday next we’ll have some more.”

  “Thank you, mother, — only not two days together. One gets tired of luxuries, you know! And now, let us talk of what we shall do to-morrow — Sunday. We must be very merry, for the last few days you seem very sad, dear mother, and I can’t make it out — I fancy you are not satisfied with me.”

  “Oh, my dear child! — you — the pattern of—”

  “Well, well! Prove to me that you are happy, then, by taking a little amusement. Perhaps you will do us the honor of accompanying us, as you did last time,” added Agricola, bowing to Mother Bunch.

  The latter blushed and looked down; her face assumed an expression of bitter grief, and she made no reply.

  “I have the prayers to attend all day, you know, my dear child,” said Frances to her son.

  “Well, in the evening, then? I don’t propose the theatre; but they say there is a conjurer to be seen whose tricks are very amusing.

  “I am obliged to you, my son; but that is a kind of theatre.”

  “Dear mother, this is unreasonable!”

  “My dear child, do I ever hinder others from doing what they like?”

  “True, dear mother; forgive me. Well, then, if it should be fine, we will simply take a walk with Mother Bunch on the Boulevards. It is nearly three months since she went out with us; and she never goes out without us.”

  “No, no; go alone, my child. Enjoy your Sunday, ’tis little enough.”

  “You know very well, Agricola,” said the sempstress, blushing up to the eyes, “that I ought not to go out with you and your mother again.”

  “Why not, madame? May I ask, without impropriety, the cause of this refusal?” said Agricola gayly.

  The poor girl smiled sadly, and replied, “Because I will not expose you to a quarrel on my account, Agricola.”

  “Forgive me,” said Agricola, in a tone of sincere grief, and he struck his forehead vexedly.

  To this Mother Bunch alluded sometimes, but very rarely, for she observed punctilious discretion. The girl had gone out with Agricola and his mother. Such occasions were, indeed, holidays for her. Many days and nights had she toiled hard to procure a decent bonnet and shawl, that she might not do discredit to her friends. The five or six days of holidays, thus spent arm in arm with him whom she adored in secret, formed the sum of her happy days.

  Taking their last walk, a coarse, vulgar man elbowed her so rudely that the poor girl could not refrain from a cry of terror, and the man retorted it by saying,-”What are you rolling your hump in my way for, stoopid?”

  Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary to avenge an insult. Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola left his mother’s arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age, size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face. The villain attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of hisses. This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel. We may conceive the blacksmith’s regret at having thus unwittingly revived the memory of this circumstance, — more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch than Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her infirmity had been the cause of that quarrel. Notwithstanding his strength and resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and, thinking how painful that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear filled his eyes, and, holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly tone, “Forgive my heedlessness! Come, kiss me.” And he gave her thin, pale cheeks two hearty kisses.

  The poor girl’s lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the table.

  “Come, you forgive me, do you not?” said Agricola.

  “Yes! yes!” she said, trying to subdue her emotion; “but the recollection of that quarrel pains me — I was so alarmed on your account; if the crowd had sided with that man!”

  “Alas!” said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl’s relief, without knowing it, “I was never so afraid in all my life!”

  “Oh, mother,” rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, “for the wife of a horse grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage. Oh, my brave father; I can’t believe he is really coming! The very thought turns me topsy-turvy!”

  “Heaven grant he may come,” said Frances, with a sigh.

  “God grant it, mother. He will grant it, I should think. Lord knows, you have had masses enough said for his return.”

  “Agricola, my child,” said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking her head sadly, “do not speak in that way. Besides, you are talking of your father.”

  “Well, I’m in for it this evening. ’Tis your turn now; positively, I am growing stupid, or going crazy. Forgive me, mother! forgive! That’s the only word I can get out to-night. You know that, when I do let out on certain subjects, it is because I can’t help it; for I know well the pain it gives you.”

  “You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy.”

  “It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend one’s mother; and, with respect to what I said about father’s return, I do not see that we have any cause to doubt it.”

  “But we have not heard from him for four months.”

  “You know, mother, in his letter — that is, in the letter which he dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier, he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write); well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive, that I might go and meet him.”

  “True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet.”

  “The greater reason why we should wait patiently. But I’ll tell you more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back about the same time. His last letter from America makes me hope so. What pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!”

  “Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me.”

  “And that day will soon come, trust me.”

  “Do you remember your father, Agricola?” inquired Mother Bunch.

  “To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier’s shako and moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what is the matter? You are weeping!”

  “Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at his age — sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Alas! I earn nothing now.”

  “Why, what’s become of me? Isn’t there a room here for you and for him; and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of domestic affairs,” added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, “when he and Gabriel come home, you won’t want to have any more masses said, and tapers burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we will take a nice dinner at the eating-house.”

  A knocking at the do
or disturbed Agricola.

  “Come in,” said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the blacksmith.

  “’Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers,” said Agricola; “come in, Daddy, no ceremony.”

  “Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should cover missus’s floor with green.”

  “So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much.”

  “Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately.”

  “About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what’s he to us?”

  “No; I think he’s gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can’t see him. But that’s not it — come, come quickly! It is very important,” said the dyer, with a mysterious look; “and only concerns you.”

  “Me, only?” said Agricola, with surprise. “What can it be.

  “Go and see, my child,” said Frances.

  “Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out.”

  And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.

  CHAPTER XXX. THE RETURN.

  IN FIVE MINUTES Agricola returned; his face was pale and agitated — his eyes glistened with tears, and his hands trembled; but his countenance expressed extraordinary happiness and emotion. He stood at the door for a moment, as if too much affected to accost his mother.

  Frances’s sight was so bad that she did not immediately perceive the change her son’s countenance had undergone.

  “Well, my child — what is it?” she inquired.

  Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more discernment, exclaimed: “Goodness, Agricola — how pale you are! Whatever is the matter?”

  “Mother,” said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying to the sempstress,— “mother, expect news that will astonish you; but promise me you will be calm.”

  “What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was right — you are quite pale.”

  “My kind mother!” and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her hands in his— “you must — you do not know, — but—”

  The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.

  “You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. ‘What is the matter? — you terrify me!”

  “Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary,” said Agricola, drying his eyes— “you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and command your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much grief.”

  “What?”

  “Did I not say true, when I said he would come?”

  “Father!” cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and assisted her to sit down.

  Mother Bunch, till now, had stood discreetly apart, witnessing from a distance the scene which completely engrossed Agricola and his mother. But she now drew near timidly, thinking she might be useful; for Frances changed color more and more.

  “Come, courage, mother,” said the blacksmith; “now the shock is over, you have only to enjoy the pleasure of seeing my father.”

  “My poor man! after eighteen years’ absence. Oh, I cannot believe it,” said Frances, bursting into tears. “Is it true? Is it, indeed, true?”

  “So true, that if you will promise me to keep as calm as you can, I will tell you when you may see him.”

  “Soon — may I not?”

  “Yes; soon.”

  “But when will he arrive?”

  “He may arrive any minute — to-morrow — perhaps to-day.”

  “To-day!”

  “Yes, mother! Well, I must tell you all — he has arrived.”

  “He — he is—” Frances could not articulate the word.

  “He was downstairs just now. Before coming up, he sent the dyer to apprise me that I might prepare you; for my brave father feared the surprise might hurt you.”

  “Oh, heaven!”

  “And now,” cried the blacksmith, in an accent of indescribable joy— “he is there, waiting! Oh, mother! for the last ten minutes I have scarcely been able to contain myself — my heart is bursting with joy.” And running to the door, he threw it open.

  Dagobert, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, stood on the threshold. Instead of rushing to her husband’s arms, Frances fell on her knees in prayer. She thanked heaven with profound gratitude for hearing her prayers, and thus accepting her offerings. During a second, the actors of this scene stood silent and motionless. Agricola, by a sentiment of respect and delicacy, which struggled violently with his affection, did not dare to fall on his father’s neck. He waited with constrained impatience till his mother had finished her prayer.

  The soldier experienced the same feeling as the blacksmith; they understood each other. The first glance exchanged by father and son expressed their affection — their veneration for that excellent woman, who in the fulness of her religious fervor, forgot, perhaps, too much the creature for the Creator.

  Rose and Blanche, confused and affected, looked with interest on the kneeling woman; while Mother Bunch, shedding in silence tears of joy at the thought of Agricola’s happiness, withdrew into the most obscure corner of the room, feeling that she was a stranger, and necessarily out of place in that family meeting. Frances rose, and took a step towards her husband, who received her in his arms. There was a moment of solemn silence. Dagobert and Frances said not a word. Nothing could be heard but a few sighs, mingled with sighs of joy. And, when the aged couple looked up, their expression was calm, radiant, serene; for the full and complete enjoyment of simple and pure sentiments never leaves behind a feverish and violent agitation.

  “My children,” said the soldier, in tones of emotion, presenting the orphans to Frances, who, after her first agitation, had surveyed them with astonishment, “this is my good and worthy wife; she will be to the daughters of General Simon what I have been to them.”

  “Then, madame, you will treat us as your children,” said Rose, approaching Frances with her sister.

  “The daughters of General Simon!” cried Dagobert’s wife, more and more astonished.

  “Yes, my dear Frances; I have brought them from afar not without some difficulty; but I will tell you that by and by.”

  “Poor little things! One would take them for two angels, exactly alike!” said Frances, contemplating the orphans with as much interest as admiration.

  “Now — for us,” cried Dagobert, turning to his son.

  “At last,” rejoined the latter.

  We must renounce all attempts to describe the wild joy of Dagobert and his son, and the crushing grip of their hands, which Dagobert interrupted only to look in Agricola’s face; while he rested his hands on the young blacksmith’s broad shoulders that he might see to more advantage his frank masculine countenance, and robust frame. Then he shook his hand again, exclaiming, “He’s a fine fellow — well built — what a good-hearted look he has!”

  From a corner of the room Mother Bunch enjoyed Agricola’s happiness; but she feared that her presence, till then unheeded, would be an intrusion. She wished to withdraw unnoticed, but could not do so. Dagobert and his son were between her and the door; and she stood unable to take her eyes from the charming faces of Rose and Blanche. She had never seen anything so winsome; and the extraordinary resemblance of the sisters increased her surprise. Then, their humble mourning revealing that they were poor, Mother Bunch involuntarily felt more sympathy towards them.

  “Dear children! They are cold; their little hands are frozen, and, unfortunately, the fire is out,” said Frances, She tried to warm the orphans’ hands in hers, while Dagobert and his son gave themselves up to the feelings of affection, so long restrained.

  As soon as Frances said that the fire was out, Mother Bunch hastened to make herself useful, as an excuse for her presence; and, going to the
cupboard, where the charcoal and wood were kept, she took some small pieces, and, kneeling before the stove, succeeded, by the aid of a few embers that remained, in relighting the fire, which soon began to draw and blaze. Filling a coffee-pot with water, she placed it on the stove, presuming that the orphans required some warm drink. The sempstress did all this with so much dexterity and so little noise — she was naturally so forgotten amidst the emotions of the scene — that Frances, entirely occupied with Rose and Blanche, only perceived the fire when she felt its warmth diffusing round, and heard the boiling water singing in the coffee-pot. This phenomenon — fire rekindling of itself — did not astonish Dagobert’s wife then, so wholly was she taken up in devising how she could lodge the maidens; for Dagobert as we have seen, had not given her notice of their arrival.

  Suddenly a loud bark was heard three or four times at the door.

  “Hallo! there’s Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert, letting in his dog; “he wants to come in to brush acquaintance with the family too.”

  The dog came in with a bound, and in a second was quite at home. After having rubbed Dagobert’s hand with his muzzle, he went in turns to greet Rose and Blanche, and also Frances and Agricola; but seeing that they took but little notice of him, he perceived Mother Bunch, who stood apart, in an obscure corner of the room, and carrying out the popular saying, “the friends of our friends are our friends,” he went and licked the hands of the young workwoman, who was just then forgotten by all. By a singular impulse, this action affected the girl to tears; she patted her long, thin, white hand several times on the head of the intelligent dog. Then, finding that she could be no longer useful (for she had done all the little services she deemed in her power), she took the handsome flower Agricola had given her, opened the door gently, and went away so discreetly that no one noticed her departure. After this exchange of mutual affection, Dagobert, his wife, and son, began to think of the realities of life.

  “Poor Frances,” said the soldier, glancing at Rose and Blanche, “you did not expect such a pretty surprise!”