by Eugène Sue
“But they arrest him first, and hear him afterwards,” said Mother Bunch, bitterly; “and then, after a month or two, they restore him his liberty. And if he have a wife and children, whose only means of living is his daily labor, what becomes of them while their only supporter is in prison? They suffer hunger, they endure cold, and they weep!”
At these simple and pathetic words, Agricola trembled.
“A month without work,” he said, with a sad and thoughtful air. “And my mother, and father, and the two young ladies who make part of our family until the arrival in Paris of their father, Marshal Simon. Oh! you are right. That thought, in spite of myself, affrights me!”
“Agricola!” exclaimed the girl impetuously; “suppose you apply to M. Hardy; he is so good, and his character is so much esteemed and honored, that, if he offered bail for you, perhaps they would give up their persecution?”
“Unfortunately,” replied Agricola, “M. Hardy is absent; he is on a journey with Marshal Simon.”
After a silence of some time, Agricola, striving to surmount his fear, added: “But no! I cannot give credence to this letter. After all, I had rather await what may come. I’ll at least have the chance of proving my innocence on my first examination: for indeed, my good sister, whether it be that I am in prison or that I fly to conceal myself, my working for my family will be equally prevented.”
“Alas! that is true,” said the poor girl; “what is to be done! Oh, what is to be done?”
“My brave father,” said Agricola to himself, “if this misfortune happen to-morrow, what an awakening it will be for him, who came here to sleep so joyously!” The blacksmith buried his face in his hands.
Unhappily Mother Bunch’s fears were too well-founded, for it will be recollected that at that epoch of the year 1832, before and after the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, a very great number of arrests had been made among the working classes, in consequence of a violent reaction against democratical ideas.
Suddenly, the girl broke the silence which had been maintained for some seconds. A blush colored her features, which bore the impressions of an indefinable expression of constraint, grief, and hope.
“Agricola, you are saved!”
“What say you?” he asked.
“The young lady, so beautiful, so good, who gave you this flower” (she showed it to the blacksmith) “who has known how to make reparation with so much delicacy for having made a painful offer, cannot but have a generous heart. You must apply to her—”
With these words which seemed to be wrung from her by a violent effort over herself, great tears rolled down her cheeks. For the first time in her life she experienced a feeling of grievous jealousy. Another woman was so happy as to have the power of coming to the relief of him whom she idolized; while she herself, poor creature, was powerless and wretched.
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Agricola surprised. “But what could be done with this young lady?”
“Did she not say to you,” answered Mother Bunch, “‘Remember my name; and in all circumstances address yourself to me?’”
“She did indeed!” replied Agricola.
“This young lady, in her exalted position, ought to have powerful connections who will be able to protect and defend you. Go to her to morrow morning; tell her frankly what has happened, and request her support.”
“But tell me, my good sister, what it is you wish me to do?”
“Listen. I remember that, in former times, my father told us that he had saved one of his friends from being put in prison, by becoming surety for him. It will be easy for you so to convince this young lady of your innocence, that she will be induced to become surety; and after that, you will have nothing more to fear.”
“My poor child!” said Agricola, “to ask so great a service from a person to whom one is almost unknown is hard.”
“Believe me, Agricola,” said the other sadly, “I would never counsel what could possibly lower you in the eyes of any one, and above all — do you understand? — above all, in the eyes of this young lady. I do not propose that you should ask money from her; but only that she should give surety for you, in order that you may have the liberty of continuing at your employment, so that the family may not be without resources. Believe me, Agricola, that such a request is in no respect inconsistent with what is noble and becoming upon your part. The heart of the young lady is generous. She will comprehend your position. The required surety will be as nothing to her; while to you it will be everything, and will even be the very life to those who depend upon you.”
“You are right, my good sister,” said Agricola, with sadness and dejection. “It is perhaps worth while to risk taking this step. If the young lady consent to render me this service, and if giving surety will indeed preserve me from prison, I shall be prepared for every event. But no, no!” added he, rising, “I’d never dare to make the request to her! What right have I to do so? What is the insignificant service that I rendered her, when compared with that which I should solicit from her?”
“Do you imagine then, Agricola, that a generous spirit measures the services which ought to be rendered, by those previously received? Trust to me respecting a matter which is an affair of the heart. I am, it is true, but a lowly creature, and ought not to compare myself with any other person. I am nothing, and I can do nothing. Nevertheless, I am sure — yes, Agricola, I am sure — that this young lady, who is so very far above me, will experience the same feelings that I do in this affair; yes, like me, she will at once comprehend that your position is a cruel one; and she will do with joy, with happiness, with thankfulness, that which I would do, if, alas! I could do anything more than uselessly consume myself with regrets.”
In spite of herself, she pronounced the last words with an expression so heart-breaking — there was something so moving in the comparison which this unfortunate creature, obscure and disdained, infirm and miserable, made of herself with Adrienne de Cardoville, the very type of resplendent youth, beauty, and opulence — that Agricola was moved even to tears; and, holding out one of his hands to the speaker, he said to her, tenderly, “How very good you are; how full of nobleness, good feeling, and delicacy!”
“Unhappily,” said the weeping girl, “I can do nothing more than advise.”
“And your counsels shall be followed out, my sister dear. They are those of a soul the most elevated I have ever known. Yes, you have won me over into making this experiment, by persuading me that the heart of Miss de Cardoville is perhaps equal in value to your own!”
At this charming and sincere assimilation of herself to Miss Adrienne, the sempstress forgot almost everything she had suffered, so exquisitely sweet and consoling were her emotions. If some poor creatures, fatally devoted to sufferings, experience griefs of which the world knows naught, they sometimes, too, are cheered by humble and timid joys, of which the world is equally ignorant. The least word of true tenderness and affection, which elevates them in their own estimation, is ineffably blissful for these unfortunate beings, habitually consigned, not only to hardships and to disdain, but even to desolating doubts, and distrust of themselves.
“Then it is agreed that you will go, to-morrow morning to this young lady’s house?” exclaimed Mother Bunch, trembling with a new-born hope. “And,” she quickly added, “at break of day I’ll go down to watch at the street-door, to see if there be anything suspicious, and to apprise you of what I perceive.”
“Good, excellent girl!” exclaimed Agricola, with increasing emotion.
“It will be necessary to endeavor to set off before the wakening of your father,” said the hunchback. “The quarter in which the young lady dwells, is so deserted, that the mere going there will almost serve for your present concealment.”
“I think I hear the voice of my father,” said Agricola suddenly.
In truth, the little apartment was so near Agricola’s garret, that he and the sempstress, listening, heard Dagobert say in the dark:
“Agricola, is it thus that you sleep, my boy
? Why, my first sleep is over; and my tongue itches deucedly.”
“Go quick, Agricola!” said Mother Bunch; “your absence would disquiet him. On no account go out to-morrow morning, before I inform you whether or not I shall have seen anything suspicious.”
“Why, Agricola, you are not here?” resumed Dagobert, in a louder voice.
“Here I am, father,” said the smith, while going out of the sempstress’s apartment, and entering the garret, to his father.
“I have been to fasten the shutter of a loft that the wind agitated, lest its noise should disturb you.”
“Thanks, my boy; but it is not noise that wakes me,” said Dagobert, gayly; “it is an appetite, quite furious, for a chat with you. Oh, my dear boy, it is the hungering of a proud old man of a father, who has not seen his son for eighteen years.”
“Shall I light a candle, father?”
“No, no; that would be luxurious; let us chat in the dark. It will be a new pleasure for me to see you to-morrow morning at daybreak. It will be like seeing you for the first time twice.” The door of Agricola’s garret being now closed, Mother Bunch heard nothing more.
The poor girl, without undressing, threw herself upon the bed, and closed not an eye during the night, painfully awaiting the appearance of day, in order that she might watch over the safety of Agricola. However, in spite of her vivid anxieties for the morrow, she sometimes allowed herself to sink into the reveries of a bitter melancholy. She compared the conversation she had just had in the silence of night, with the man whom she secretly adored, with what that conversation might have been, had she possessed some share of charms and beauty — had she been loved as she loved, with a chaste and devoted flame! But soon sinking into belief that she should never know the ravishing sweets of a mutual passion, she found consolation in the hope of being useful to Agricola. At the dawn of day, she rose softly, and descended the staircase with little noise, in order to see if anything menaced Agricola from without.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE AWAKENING.
THE WEATHER, DAMP and foggy during a portion of the night, became clear and cold towards morning. Through the glazed skylight of Agricola’s garret, where he lay with his father, a corner of the blue sky could be seen.
The apartment of the young blacksmith had an aspect as poor as the sewing-girl’s. For its sole ornament, over the deal table upon which Agricola wrote his poetical inspirations, there hung suspended from a nail in the wall a portrait of Beranger — that immortal poet whom the people revere and cherish, because his rare and transcendent genius has delighted to enlighten the people, and to sing their glories and their reverses.
Although the day had only begun to dawn, Dagobert and Agricola had already risen. The latter had sufficient self command to conceal his inquietude, for renewed reflection had again increased his fears.
The recent outbreak in the Rue des Prouvaires had caused a great number of precautionary arrests; and the discovery of numerous copies of Agricola’s song, in the possession of one of the chiefs of the disconcerted plot, was, in truth, calculated slightly to compromise the young blacksmith. His father, however, as we have already mentioned, suspected not his secret anguish. Seated by the side of his son, upon the edge of their mean little bed, the old soldier, by break of day, had dressed and shaved with military care; he now held between his hands both those of Agricola, his countenance radiant with joy, and unable to discontinue the contemplation of his boy.
“You will laugh at me, my dear boy,” said Dagobert to his son; “but I wished the night to the devil, in order that I might gaze upon you in full day, as I now see you. But all in good time; I have lost nothing. Here is another silliness of mine; it delights me to see you wear moustaches. What a splendid horse-grenadier you would have made! Tell me; have you never had a wish to be a soldier?”
“I thought of mother!”
“That’s right,” said Dagobert: “and besides, I believe, after all, look ye, that the time of the sword has gone by. We old fellows are now good for nothing, but to be put in a corner of the chimney. Like rusty old carbines, we have had our day.”
“Yes; your days of heroism and of glory,” said Agricola with excitement; and then he added, with a voice profoundly softened and agitated, “it is something good and cheering to be your son!”
“As to the good, I know nothing of that,” replied Dagobert; “but as for the cheering, it ought to be so; for I love you proudly. And I think this is but the beginning! What say you, Agricola? I am like the famished wretches who have been some days without food. It is but by little and little that they recover themselves, and can eat. Now, you may expect to be tasted, my boy, morning and evening, and devoured during the day. No, I wish not to think that — not all the day — no, that thought dazzles and perplexes me; and I am no longer myself.”
These words of Dagobert caused a painful feeling to Agricola. He believed that they sprang from a presentiment of the separation with which he was menaced.
“Well,” continued Dagobert; “you are quite happy; M. Hardy is always good to you.”
“Oh!” replied Agricola: “there is none in the world better, or more equitable and generous! If you knew what wonders he has brought about in his factory! Compared to all others, it is a paradise beside the stithies of Lucifer!”
“Indeed!” said Dagobert.
“You shall see,” resumed Agricola, “what welfare, what joy, what affection, are displayed upon the countenances of all whom he employs; who work with an ardent pleasure.
“This M. Hardy of yours must be an out-and-out magician,” said Dagobert.
“He is, father, a very great magician. He has known how to render labor pleasant and attractive. As for the pleasure, over and above good wages, he accords to us a portion of his profits according to our deserts; whence you may judge of the eagerness with which we go to work. And that is not all: he has caused large, handsome buildings to be erected, in which all his workpeople find, at less expense than elsewhere, cheerful and salubrious lodgings, in which they enjoy all the advantages of an association. But you shall see — I repeat — you shall see!”
“They have good reason to say, that Paris is the region of wonders,” observed Dagobert.
“Well, behold me here again at last, never more to quit you, nor good mother!”
“No, father, we will never separate again,” said Agricola, stifling a sigh. “My mother and I will both try to make you forget all that you have suffered.”
“Suffered!” exclaimed Dagobert, “who the deuce has suffered? Look me well in the face; and see if I have a look of suffering! Bombs and bayonets! Since I have put my foot here, I feel myself quite a young man again! You shall see me march soon: I bet that I tire you out! You must rig yourself up something extra! Lord, how they will stare at us! I wager that in beholding your black moustache and my gray one, folks will say, behold father and son! But let us settle what we are to do with the day. You will write to the father of Marshal Simon, informing him the his grand-daughters have arrived, and that it is necessary that he should hasten his return to Paris; for he has charged himself with matters which are of great importance for them. While you are writing, I will go down to say good-morning to my wife, and to the dear little ones. We will then eat a morsel. Your mother will go to mass; for I perceive that she likes to be regular at that: the good soul! no great harm, if it amuse her! and during her absence, we will make a raid together.”
“Father,” said Agricola, with embarrassment, “this morning it is out of my power to accompany you.”
“How! out of your power?” said Dagobert; “recollect this is Monday!”
“Yes, father,” said Agricola, hesitatingly; “but I have promised to attend all the morning in the workshop, to finish a job that is required in a hurry. If I fail to do so, I shall inflict some injury upon M. Hardy. But I’ll soon be at liberty.”
“That alters the case,” said Dagobert, with a sigh of regret. “I thought to make my first parade through Paris with you this m
orning; but it must be deferred in favor of your work. It is sacred: since it is that which sustains your mother. Nevertheless, it is vexatious, devilish vexatious. And yet no — I am unjust. See how quickly one gets habituated to and spoilt by happiness. I growl like a true grumbler, at a walk being put off for a few hours! I do this! I who, during eighteen years, have only hoped to see you once more, without daring to reckon very much upon it! Oh! I am but a silly old fool! Vive l’amour et cogni — I mean — my Agricola!” And, to console himself, the old soldier gayly slapped his son’s shoulder.
This seemed another omen of evil to the blacksmith; for he dreaded one moment to another lest the fears of Mother Bunch should be realized. “Now that I have recovered myself,” said Dagobert, laughing, “let us speak of business. Know you where I find the addresses of all the notaries in Paris?”
“I don’t know; but nothing is more easy than to discover it.”
“My reason is,” resumed Dagobert, “that I sent from Russia by post, and by order of the mother of the two children that I have brought here, some important papers to a Parisian notary. As it was my duty to see this notary immediately upon my arrival, I had written his name and his address in a portfolio, of which however, I have been robbed during my journey; and as I have forgotten his devil of a name, it seems to me, that if I should see it again in the list of notaries, I might recollect it.”
Two knocks at the door of the garret made Agricola start. He involuntarily thought of a warrant for his apprehension.
His father, who, at the sound of the knocking turned round his head, had not perceived his emotion, and said with a loud voice: “Come in!” The door opened. It was Gabriel. He wore a black cassock and a broad brimmed hat.
To recognize his brother by adoption, and to throw himself into his arms, were two movements performed at once by Agricola — as quick as thought.— “My brother!” exclaimed Agricola.
“Agricola!” cried Gabriel.
“Gabriel!” responded the blacksmith.
