Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I am only sorry, my friend,” replied Frances, “that the daughters of General Simon will not have a better lodging than this poor room; for with Agricola’s garret—”

  “It composes our mansion,” interrupted Dagobert; “there are handsomer, it must be confessed. But be at ease; these young ladies are drilled into not being hard to suit on that score. To-morrow, I and my boy will go arm and arm, and I’ll answer for it he won’t walk the more upright and straight of the two, and find out General Simon’s father, at M. Hardy’s factory, to talk about business.”

  “To-morrow,” said Agricola to Dagobert, “you will not find at the factory either M. Hardy or Marshall Simon’s father.”

  “What is that you say, my lad?” cried Dagobert, hastily, “the Marshal!”

  “To be sure; since 1830, General Simon’s friends have secured him the title and rank which the emperor gave him at the battle of Ligny.”

  “Indeed!” cried Dagobert, with emotion, “but that ought not to surprise me; for, after all, it is just; and when the emperor said a thing, the least they can do is to let it abide. But it goes all the same to my heart; it makes me jump again.”

  Addressing the sisters, he said: “Do you hear that, my children? You arrive in Paris the daughters of a Duke and Marshal of France. One would hardly think it, indeed, to see you in this room, my poor little duchesses! But patience; all will go well. Ah, father Simon must have been very glad to hear that his son was restored to his rank! eh, my lad?”

  “He told us he would renounce all kinds of ranks and titles to see his son again; for it was during the general’s absence that his friends obtained this act of justice. But they expect Marshal Simon every moment, for the last letter from India announced his departure.”

  At these words Rose and Blanche looked at each other; and their eyes filled with tears.

  “Heaven be praised! These children rely on his return; but why shall we not find M. Hardy and father Simon at the factory to-morrow?”

  “Ten days ago, they went to examine and study an English mill established in the south; but we expect them back every day.”

  “The deuce! that’s vexing; I relied on seeing the general’s father, to talk over some important matters with him. At any rate, they know where to write to him. So to-morrow you will let him know, my lad, that his granddaughters are arrived. In the mean time, children,” added the soldier, to Rose and Blanche, “my good wife will give you her bed and you must put up with the chances of war. Poor things! they will not be worse off here than they were on the journey.”

  “You know we shall always be well off with you and madame,” said Rose.

  “Besides, we only think of the pleasure of being at length in Paris, since here we are to find our father,” added Blanche.

  “That hope gives you patience, I know,” said Dagobert, “but no matter! After all you have heard about it, you ought to be finely surprised, my children. As yet, you have not found it the golden city of your dreams, by any means. But, patience, patience; you’ll find Paris not so bad as it looks.”

  “Besides,” said Agricola, “I am sure the arrival of Marshal Simon in Paris will change it for you into a golden city.”

  “You are right, Agricola,” said Rose, with a smile, “you have, indeed, guessed us.”

  “What! do you know my name?”

  “Certainly, Agricola, we often talked about you with Dagobert; and latterly, too, with Gabriel,” added Blanche.

  “Gabriel!” cried Agricola and his mother, at the same time.

  “Yes,” replied Dagobert, making a sign of intelligence to the orphans, “we have lots to tell you for a fortnight to come; and among other things, how we chanced to meet with Gabriel. All I can now say is that, in his way, he is quite as good as my boy (I shall never be tired of saying ‘my boy’); and they ought to love each other like brothers. Oh, my brave, brave wife!” said Dagobert, with emotion, “you did a good thing, poor as you were, taking the unfortunate child — and bringing him up with your own.”

  “Don’t talk so much about it, my dear; it was such a simple thing.”

  “You are right; but I’ll make you amends for it by and by. ’Tis down to your account; in the mean time, you will be sure to see him to-morrow morning.”

  “My dear brother arrived too!” cried the blacksmith; “who’ll say, after this, that there are not days set apart for happiness? How came you to meet him, father?”

  “I’ll tell you all, by and by, about when and how we met Gabriel; for if you expect to sleep, you are mistaken. You’ll give me half your room, and a fine chat we’ll have. Spoil-sport will stay outside of this door; he is accustomed to sleep at the children’s door.”

  “Dear me, love, I think of nothing. But, at such a moment, if you and the young ladies wish to sup, Agricola will fetch something from the cook-shop.”

  “What do you say, children?”

  “No, thank you, Dagobert, we are not hungry; we are too happy.”

  “You will take a little wine and water, sweetened, nice and hot, to warm you a little, my dear young ladies,” said Frances; “unfortunately, I have nothing else to offer you.”

  “You are right, Frances; the dear children are tired, and want to go to bed; while they do so, I’ll go to my boy’s room, and, before Rose and Blanche are awake, I will come down and converse with you, just to give Agricola a respite.”

  A knock was now heard at the door.

  “It is good Mother Bunch come to see if we want her,” said Agricola.

  “But I think she was here when my husband came in,” added Frances.

  “Right, mother; and the good girl left lest she should be an intruder: she is so thoughtful. But no — no — it is not she who knocks so loud.”

  “Go and see who it is, then, Agricola.”

  Before the blacksmith could reach the door, a man decently dressed, with a respectable air, entered the room, and glanced rapidly round, looking for a moment at Rose and Blanche.

  “Allow me to observe, sir,” said Agricola, “that after knocking, you might have waited till the door was opened, before you entered. Pray, what is your business?”

  “Pray excuse me, sir,” said the man, very politely, and speaking slowly, perhaps to prolong his stay in the room: “I beg a thousand pardons — I regret my intrusion — I am ashamed—”

  “Well, you ought to be, sir,” said Agricola, with impatience, “what do you want?”

  “Pray, sir, does not Miss Soliveau, a deformed needlewoman, live here?”

  “No, sir; upstairs,” said Agricola.

  “Really, sir,” cried the polite man, with low bows, “I am quite abroad at my blunder: I thought this was the room of that young person. I brought her proposals for work from a very respectable party.”

  “It is very late, sir,” said Agricola, with surprise. “But that young person is as one of our family. Call to-morrow; you cannot see her to night; she is gone to bed.”

  “Then, sir, I again beg you to excuse—”

  “Enough, sir,” said Agricola, taking a step towards the door.

  “I hope, madame and the young ladies, as well as this gent, will be assured that—”

  “If you go on much longer making excuses, sir, you will have to excuse the length of your excuses; and it is time this came to an end!”

  Rose and Blanche smiled at these words of Agricola; while Dagobert rubbed his moustache with pride.

  “What wit the boy has!” said he aside to his wife. “But that does not astonish you — you are used to it.”

  During this speech, the ceremonious person withdrew, having again directed a long inquiring glance to the sisters, and to Agricola and Dagobert.

  In a few minutes after, Frances having spread a mattress on the ground for herself, and put the whitest sheets on her bed for the orphans, assisted them to undress with maternal solicitude, Dagobert and Agricola having previously withdrawn to their garret. Just as the blacksmith, who preceded his father with a light, passed bef
ore the door of Mother Bunch’s room, the latter, half concealed in the shade, said to him rapidly, in a low tone:

  “Agricola, great danger threatens you: I must speak to you.”

  These words were uttered in so hasty and low a voice that Dagobert did not hear them; but as Agricola stopped suddenly, with a start, the old soldier said to him,

  “Well, boy, what is it?”

  “Nothing, father,” said the blacksmith, turning round; “I feared I did not light you well.”

  “Oh, stand at ease about that; I have the legs and eyes of fifteen to night;” and the soldier, not noticing his son’s surprise, went into the little room where they were both to pass the night.

  On leaving the house, after his inquiries about Mother Bunch, the over polite Paul Pry slunk along to the end of Brise-Miche Street. He advanced towards a hackney-coach drawn up on the Cloitre Saint-Merry Square.

  In this carriage lounged Rodin, wrapped in a cloak.

  “Well?” said he, in an inquiring tone.

  “The two girls and the man with gray moustache went directly to Frances Baudoin’s; by listening at the door, I learnt that the sisters will sleep with her, in that room, to-night; the old man with gray moustache will share the young blacksmith’s room.”

  “Very well,” said Rodin.

  “I did not dare insist on seeing the deformed workwoman this evening on the subject of the Bacchanal Queen; I intend returning to-morrow, to learn the effect of the letter she must have received this evening by the post about the young blacksmith.”

  “Do not fail! And now you will call, for me, on Frances Baudoin’s confessor, late as it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him at Rue du Milieu des Ursins — he must not lose a moment. Do you come with him. Should I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will tell him it is on a matter of great moment.”

  “All shall be faithfully executed,” said the ceremonious man, cringing to Rodin, as the coach drove quickly away.

  CHAPTER XXXI. AGRICOLA AND MOTHER BUNCH.

  WITHIN ONE HOUR after the different scenes which have just been described the most profound silence reigned in the soldier’s humble dwelling. A flickering light, which played through two panes of glass in a door, betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone to sleep; for her gloomy recess, without air or light, was impenetrable to the rays of day, except by this door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage, connected with the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau, and a chair, so nearly filled this chilling abode, that two persons could not possibly be seated within it, unless one of them sat upon the side of the bed.

  The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola had given to the girl was carefully stood up in a vessel of water, placed upon the table on a linen cloth, diffusing its sweet odor around, and expanding its purple calix in the very closet, whose plastered walls, gray and damp, were feebly lighted by the rays of an attenuated candle. The sempstress, who had taken off no part of her dress, was seated upon her bed — her looks were downcast, and her eyes full of tears. She supported herself with one hand resting on the bolster; and, inclining towards the door, listened with painful eagerness, every instant hoping to hear the footsteps of Agricola. The heart of the young sempstress beat violently; her face, usually very pale, was now partially flushed — so exciting was the emotion by which she was agitated. Sometimes she cast her eyes with terror upon a letter which she held in her hand, a letter that had been delivered by post in the course of the evening, and which had been placed by the housekeeper (the dyer) upon the table, while she was rendering some trivial domestic services during the recognitions of Dagobert and his family.

  After some seconds, Mother Bunch heard a door, very near her own, softly opened.

  “There he is at last!” she exclaimed, and Agricola immediately entered.

  “I waited till my father went to sleep,” said the blacksmith, in a low voice, his physiognomy evincing much more curiosity than uneasiness. “But what is the matter, my good sister? How your countenance is changed! You weep! What has happened? About what danger would you speak to me?”

  “Hush! Read this!” said she, her voice trembling with emotion, while she hastily presented to him the open letter. Agricola held it towards the light, and read what follows:

  “A person who has reasons for concealing himself, but who knows the sisterly interest you take in the welfare of Agricola Baudoin, warns you. That young and worthy workman will probably be arrested in the course of to-morrow.”

  “I!” exclaimed Agricola, looking at Mother Bunch with an air of stupefied amazement. “What is the meaning of all this?”

  “Read on!” quickly replied the sempstress, clasping her hands.

  Agricola resumed reading, scarcely believing the evidence of his eyes:-”The song, entitled ‘Working-men Freed,’ has been declared libellous. Numerous copies of it have been found among the papers of a secret society, the leaders of which are about to be incarcerated, as being concerned in the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy.”

  “Alas!” said the girl, melting into tears, “now I see it all. The man who was lurking about below, this evening, who was observed by the dyer, was, doubtless, a spy, lying in wait for you coming home.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Agricola. “This accusation is quite ridiculous! Do not torment yourself. I never trouble myself with politics. My verses breathe nothing but philanthropy. Am I to blame, if they have been found among the papers of a secret society?” Agricola disdainfully threw the letter upon the table.

  “Read! pray read!” said the other; “read on.”

  “If you wish it,” said Agricola, “I will; no time is lost.”

  He resumed the reading of the letter:

  “A warrant is about to be issued against Agricola Baudoin. There is mo doubt of his innocence being sooner or later made clear; but it will be well if he screen himself for a time as much as possible from pursuit, in order that he may escape a confinement of two or three months previous to trial — an imprisonment which would be a terrible blow for his mother, whose sole support he is.

  “A SINCERE FRIEND, who is compelled to remain unknown.”

  After a moment’s silence, the blacksmith raised his head; his countenance resumed its serenity; and laughing, he said: “Reassure yourself, good Mother Bunch, these jokers have made a mistake by trying their games on me. It is plainly an attempt at making an April-fool of me before the time.”

  “Agricola, for the love of heaven!” said the girl, in a supplicating tone; “treat not the warning thus lightly. Believe in my forebodings, and listen to my advice.”

  “I tell you again, my good girl,” replied Agricola, “that it is two months since my song was published. It is not in any way political; indeed, if it were, they would not have waited till now before coming down on me.”

  “But,” said the other, “you forget that new events have arisen. It is scarcely two days since the conspiracy was discovered, in this very neighborhood, in the Rue des Prouvaires. And,” continued she, “if the verses, though perhaps hitherto unnoticed, have now been found in the possession of the persons apprehended for this conspiracy, nothing more is necessary to compromise you in the plot.”

  “Compromise me!” said Agricola; “my verses! in which I only praise the love of labor and of goodness! To arrest me for that! If so, justice would be but a blind noodle. That she might grope her way, it would be necessary to furnish her with a dog and a pilgrim’s staff to guide her steps.”

  “Agricola,” resumed Mother Bunch; overwhelmed with anxiety and terror on hearing the blacksmith jest at such a moment, “I conjure you to listen to me! No doubt you uphold in the verses the sacred love of labor; but you do also grievously deplore and deprecate the unjust lot of the poor laborers, devoted as they are, without hope, to all the miseries of life; you recommend, indeed, only fraternity among men; but your good and noble heart vents its indignation, at the same time, against the selfish and the wicked. In fine, you fervently hasten on, with the
ardor of your wishes, the emancipation of all the artisans who, less fortunate than you, have not generous M. Hardy for employer. Say, Agricola, in these times of trouble, is there anything more necessary to compromise you than that numerous copies of your song have been found in possession of the persons who have been apprehended?”

  Agricola was moved by these affectionate and judicious expressions of an excellent creature, who reasoned from her heart; and he began to view with more seriousness the advice which she had given him.

  Perceiving that she had shaken him, the sewing-girl went on to say: “And then, bear your fellow-workman, Remi, in recollection.”

  “Remi!” said Agricola, anxiously.

  “Yes,” resumed the sempstress; “a letter of his, a letter in itself quite insignificant, was found in the house of a person arrested last year for conspiracy; and Remi, in consequence, remained a month in prison.”

  “That is true, but the injustice of his implication was easily shown, and he was set at liberty.”

  “Yes, Agricola: but not till he had lain a month in prison; and that has furnished the motive of the person who advised you to conceal yourself! A month in prison! Good heavens! Agricola, think of that! and your mother.”

  These words made a powerful impression upon Agricola. He took up the letter and again read it attentively.

  “And the man who has been lurking all this evening about the house?” proceeded she. “I constantly recall that circumstance, which cannot be naturally accounted for. Alas! what a blow it would be for your father, and poor mother, who is incapable of earning anything. Are you not now their only resource? Oh! consider, then, what would become of them without you — without your labor!”

  “It would indeed be terrible,” said Agricola, impatiently casting the letter upon the table. “What you have said concerning Remi is too true. He was as innocent as I am: yet an error of justice, an involuntary error though it be, is not the less cruel. But they don’t commit a man without hearing him.”