by Eugène Sue
“After so long an absence!” said the one.
“To behold you again!” rejoined the other.
Such were the words exchanged between the blacksmith and the missionary, while they were locked in a close embrace.
Dagobert, moved and charmed by these fraternal endearments, felt his eyes become moist. There was something truly touching in the affection of the young men — in their hearts so much alike, and yet of characters and aspects so very different — for the manly countenance of Agricola contrasted strongly with the delicacy and angelic physiognomy of Gabriel.
“I was forewarned by my father of your arrival,” said the blacksmith at length. “I have been expecting to see you; and my happiness has been a hundred times the greater, because I have had all the pleasures of hoping for it.”
“And my good mother?” asked Gabriel, in affectionately grasping the hands of Dagobert. “I trust that you have found her in good health.”
“Yes, my brave boy!” replied Dagobert; “and her health will have become a hundred times better, now that we are all together. Nothing is so healthful as joy.” Then addressing himself to Agricola, who, forgetting his fear of being arrested, regarded the missionary with an expression of ineffable affection, Dagobert added:
“Let it be remembered, that, with the soft cheek of a young girl, Gabriel has the courage of a lion; I have already told with what intrepidity he saved the lives of Marshal Simon’s daughters, and tried to save mine also.”
“But, Gabriel! what has happened to your forehead?” suddenly exclaimed Agricola, who for a few seconds had been attentively examining the missionary.
Gabriel, having thrown aside his hat on entering, was now directly beneath the skylight of the garret apartment, the bright light through which shone upon his sweet, pale countenance: and the round scar, which extended from one eyebrow to the other, was therefore distinctly visible.
In the midst of the powerful and diversified emotion, and of the exciting events which so rapidly followed the shipwreck on the rocky coast near Cardoville House, Dagobert, during the short interview he then had with Gabriel, had not perceived the scar which seamed the forehead of the young missionary. Now, partaking, however, of the surprise of his son, Dagobert said:
“Aye, indeed! how came this scar upon your brow?”
“And on his hands, too; see, dear father!” exclaimed the blacksmith, with renewed surprise, while he seized one of the hands which the young priest held out towards him in order to tranquillize his fears.
“Gabriel, my brave boy, explain this to us!” added Dagobert; “who has wounded you thus?” and in his turn, taking the other hand of the missionary, he examined the scar upon it with the eye of a judge of wounds, and then added, “In Spain, one of my comrades was found and taken down alive from a cross, erected at the junction of several roads, upon which the monks had crucified, and left him to die of hunger, thirst, and agony. Ever afterwards he bore scars upon his hands, exactly similar to this upon your hand.”
“My father is right!” exclaimed Agricola. “It is evident that your hands have been pierced through! My poor brother!” and Agricola became grievously agitated.
“Do not think about it,” said Gabriel, reddening with the embarrassment of modesty. “Having gone as a missionary amongst the savages of the Rocky Mountains, they crucified me, and they had begun to scalp me, when Providence snatched me from their hands.”
“Unfortunate youth,” said Dagobert; “without arms then? You had not a sufficient escort for your protection?”
“It is not for such as me to carry arms.” said Gabriel, sweetly smiling; “and we are never accompanied by any escort.”
“Well, but your companions, those who were along with you, how came it that they did not defend you?” impetuously asked Agricola.
“I was alone, my dear brother.”
“Alone!”
“Yes, alone; without even a guide.”
“You alone! unarmed! in a barbarous country!” exclaimed Dagobert, scarcely crediting a step so unmilitary, and almost distrusting his own sense of hearing.
“It was sublime!” said the young blacksmith and poet.
“The Christian faith,” said Gabriel, with mild simplicity, “cannot be implanted by force or violence. It is only by the power of persuasion that the gospel can be spread amongst poor savages.”
“But when persuasions fail!” said Agricola.
“Why, then, dear brother, one has but to die for the belief that is in him, pitying those who have rejected it, and who have refused the blessings it offers to mankind.”
There was a period of profound silence after the reply of Gabriel, which was uttered with simple and touching pathos.
Dagobert was in his own nature too courageous not to comprehend a heroism thus calm and resigned; and the old soldier, as well as his son, now contemplated Gabriel with the most earnest feelings of mingled admiration and respect.
Gabriel, entirely free from the affection of false modesty, seemed quite unconscious of the emotions which he had excited in the breasts of his two friends; and he therefore said to Dagobert, “What ails you?”
“What ails me!” exclaimed the brave old soldier, with great emotion: “After having been for thirty years in the wars, I had imagined myself to be about as courageous as any man. And now I find I have a master! And that master is yourself!”
“I!” said Gabriel; “what do you mean? What have I done?”
“Thunder, don’t you know that the brave wounds there” (the veteran took with transport both of Gabriel’s hands), “that these wounds are as glorious — are more glorious than our — than all ours, as warriors by profession!”
“Yes! yes, my father speaks truth!” exclaimed Agricola; and he added, with enthusiasm, “Oh, for such priests! How I love them! How I venerate them! How I am elevated by their charity, their courage, their resignation!”
“I entreat you not to extol me thus,” said Gabriel with embarrassment.
“Not extol you!” replied Dagobert. “Hanged if I shouldn’t. When I have gone into the heat of action, did I rush into it alone? Was I not under the eyes of my commanding officer? Were not my comrades there along with me? In default of true courage, had I not the instinct of self preservation to spur me on, without reckoning the excitement of the shouts and tumult of battle, the smell of the gunpowder, the flourishes of the trumpets, the thundering of the cannon, the ardor of my horse, which bounded beneath me as if the devil were at his tail? Need I state that I also knew that the emperor was present, with his eye upon every one — the emperor, who, in recompense for a hole being made in my tough hide, would give me a bit of lace or a ribbon, as plaster for the wound. Thanks to all these causes, I passed for game. Fair enough! But are you not a thousand times more game than I, my brave boy; going alone, unarmed, to confront enemies a hundred times more ferocious than those whom we attacked — we, who fought in whole squadrons, supported by artillery, bomb-shells, and case-shot?”
“Excellent father!” cried Agricola, “how noble of you to render to Gabriel this justice!”
“Oh, dear brother,” said Gabriel, “his kindness to me makes him magnify what was quite natural and simple!”
“Natural!” said the veteran soldier; “yes, natural for gallants who have hearts of the true temper: but that temper is rare.”
“Oh, yes, very rare,” said Agricola; “for that kind of courage is the most admirable of all. Most bravely did you seek almost certain death, alone, bearing the cross in hand as your only weapon, to preach charity and Christian brotherhood. They seized you, tortured you; and you await death and partly endure it, without complaint, without remonstrance, without hatred, without anger, without a wish for vengeance; forgiveness issuing from your mouth, and a smile of pity beaming upon your lips; and this in the depths of forests, where no one could witness your magnanimity, — none could behold you — and without other desire, after you were rescued than modestly to conceal blessed wounds under your black robe
! My father is right, by Jove! can you still contend that you are not as brave as he?”
“And besides, too,” resumed Dagobert, “the dear boy did all that for a thankless paymaster; for it is true, Agricola, that his wounds will never change his humble black robe of a priest into the rich robe of a bishop!”
“I am not so disinterested as I may seem to be,” said Gabriel to Dagobert, smiling meekly. “If I am deemed worthy, a great recompense awaits me on high.”
“As to all that, my boy,” said Dagobert, “I do not understand it; and I will not argue about it. I maintain it, that my old cross of honor would be at least as deservedly affixed to your cassock as upon my uniform.”
“But these recompenses are never conferred upon humble priests like Gabriel,” said Agricola, “and if you did know, dear father, how much virtue and valor is among those whom the highest orders in the priesthood insolently call the inferior clergy, — the unseen merit and the blind devotedness to be found amongst worthy, but obscure, country curates, who are inhumanly treated and subjugated to a pitiless yoke by the lordly lawnsleeves! Like us, those poor priests are worthy laborers in their vocation; and for them, also, all generous hearts ought to demand enfranchisement! Sons of common people, like ourselves, and useful as we are, justice ought to be rendered both to them and to us. Do I say right, Gabriel? You will not contradict it; for you have told me, that your ambition would have been to obtain a small country curacy; because you understand the good that you could work within it.”
“My desire is still the same,” said Gabriel sadly: “but unfortunately—” and then, as if he wished to escape from a painful thought, and to change the conversation, he, addressing himself to Dagobert, added: “Believe me: be more just than to undervalue your own courage by exalting mine. Your courage must be very great — very great; for, after a battle, the spectacle of the carnage must be truly terrible to a generous and feeling heart. We, at least, though we may be killed, do not kill.”
At these words of the missionary, the soldier drew himself up erect, looked upon Gabriel with astonishment, and said, “This is most surprising!”
“What is?” inquired Agricola.
“What Gabriel has just told us,” replied Dagobert, “brings to my mind what I experienced in warfare on the battlefield in proportion as I advanced in years. Listen, my children: more than once, on the night after a general engagement, I have been mounted as a vidette, — alone, — by night, — amid the moonlight, on the field of battle which remained in our possession, and upon which lay the bodies of seven or eight thousand of the slain, amongst whom were mingled the slaughtered remains of some of my old comrades: and then this sad scene, when the profound silence has restored me to my senses from the thirst for bloodshed and the delirious whirling of my sword (intoxicated like the rest), I have said to myself, ‘for what have these men been killed? — FOR WHAT — FOR WHAT?’ But this feeling, well understood as it was, hindered me not, on the following morning, when the trumpets again sounded the charge, from rushing once more to the slaughter. But the same thought always recurred when my arm became weary with carnage; and after wiping my sabre upon the mane of my horse, I have said to myself, ‘I have killed! — killed!! — killed!!! and, FOR WHAT!!!’”
The missionary and the blacksmith exchanged looks on hearing the old soldier give utterance to this singular retrospection of the past.
“Alas!” said Gabriel to him, “all generous hearts feel as you did during the solemn moments, when the intoxication of glory has subsided, and man is left alone to the influence of the good instincts planted in his bosom.”
“And that should prove, my brave boy,” rejoined Dagobert, “that you are greatly better than I; for those noble instincts, as you call them, have never abandoned you. * * * * But how the deuce did you escape from the claws of the infuriated savages who had already crucified you?”
At this question of Dagobert, Gabriel started and reddened so visibly, that the soldier said to him: “If you ought not or cannot answer my request, let us say no more about it.”
“I have nothing to conceal, either from you or from my brother,” replied the missionary with altered voice. “Only; it will be difficult for me to make you comprehend what I cannot comprehend myself.”
“How is that?” asked Agricola with surprise.
“Surely,” said Gabriel, reddening more deeply, “I must have been deceived by a fallacy of my senses, during that abstracted moment in which I awaited death with resignation. My enfeebled mind, in spite of me, must have been cheated by an illusion; or that, which to the present hour has remained inexplicable, would have been more slowly developed; and I should have known with greater certainty that it was the strange woman—”
Dagobert, while listening to the missionary, was perfectly amazed; for he also had vainly tried to account for the unexpected succor which had freed him and the two orphans from the prison at Leipsic.
“Of what woman do you speak?” asked Agricola.
“Of her who saved me,” was the reply.
“A woman saved you from the hands of the savages?” said Dagobert.
“Yes,” replied Gabriel, though absorbed in his reflections, “a woman, young and beautiful!”
“And who was this woman?” asked Agricola.
“I know not. When I asked her, she replied, ‘I am the sister of the distressed!’”
“And whence came she? Whither went she?” asked Dagobert, singularly interested.
“‘I go wheresoever there is suffering,’ she replied,” answered the missionary; “and she departed, going towards the north of America — towards those desolate regions in which there is eternal snow, where the nights are without end.”
“As in Siberia,” said Dagobert, who had become very thoughtful.
“But,” resumed Agricola, addressing himself to Gabriel, who seemed also to have become more and more absorbed, “in what manner or by what means did this woman come to your assistance?”
The missionary was about to reply to the last question, when there was heard a gentle tap at the door of the garret apartment, which renewed the fears that Agricola had forgotten since the arrival of his adopted brother. “Agricola,” said a sweet voice outside the door, “I wish to speak with you as soon as possible.”
The blacksmith recognized Mother Bunch’s voice, and opened the door. But the young sempstress, instead of entering, drew back into the dark passage, and said, with a voice of anxiety: “Agricola, it is an hour since broad day, and you have not yet departed! How imprudent! I have been watching below, in the street, until now, and have seen nothing alarming; but they may come any instant to arrest you. Hasten, I conjure you, your departure for the abode of Miss de Cardoville. Not a minute should be lost.”
“Had it not been for the arrival of Gabriel, I should have been gone. But I could not resist the happiness of remaining some little time with him.”
“Gabriel here!” said Mother Bunch, with sweet surprise; for, as has been stated, she had been brought up with him and Agricola.
“Yes,” answered Agricola, “for half an hour he has been with my father and me.”
“What happiness I shall have in seeing him again,” said the sewing-girl. “He doubtless came upstairs while I had gone for a brief space to your mother, to ask if I could be useful in any way on account of the young ladies; but they have been so fatigued that they still sleep. Your mother has requested me to give you this letter for your father. She has just received it.”
“Thanks.”
“Well,” resumed Mother Bunch, “now that you have seen Gabriel, do not delay long. Think what a blow it would be for your father, if they came to arrest you in his very presence mon Dieu!”
“You are right,” said Agricola; “it is indispensable that I should depart — while near Gabriel in spite of my anxiety, my fears were forgotten.”
“Go quickly, then; and if Miss de Cardoville should grant this favor, perhaps in a couple of hours you will return, quite at ease both a
s to yourself and us.”
“True! a very few minutes more; and I’ll come down.”
“I return to watch at the door. If I perceive anything. I’ll come up again to apprise you. But pray, do not delay.”
“Be easy, good sister.” Mother Bunch hurriedly descended the staircase, to resume her watch at the street door, and Agricola re-entered his garret. “Dear father,” he said to Dagobert, “my mother has just received this letter, and she requests you to read it.”
“Very well; read it for me, my boy.” And Agricola read as follows:
“MADAME. — I understand that your husband has been charged by General Simon with an affair of very great importance. Will you, as soon as your husband arrives in Paris, request him to come to my office at Chartres without a moment’s delay. I am instructed to deliver to himself, and to no other person, some documents indispensable to the interests of General Simon.
“DURAND, Notary at Chartres.”
Dagobert looked at his son with astonishment, and said to him, “Who can have told this gentleman already of my arrival in Paris?”
“Perhaps, father,” said Agricola, “this is the notary to whom you transmitted some papers, and whose address you have lost.”
“But his name was not Durand; and I distinctly recollect that his address was Paris, not Chartres. And, besides,” said the soldier, thoughtfully, “if he has some important documents, why didn’t he transmit them to me?”
“It seems to me that you ought not to neglect going to him as soon as possible,” said Agricola, secretly rejoiced that this circumstance would withdraw his father for about two days, during which time his (Agricola’s) fate would be decided in one way or other.
“Your counsel is good,” replied his father.
“This thwarts your intentions in some degree?” asked Gabriel.
“Rather, my lads; for I counted upon passing the day with you. However, ‘duty before everything.’ Having come happily from Siberia to Paris, it is not for me to fear a journey from Paris to Chartres, when it is required on an affair of importance. In twice twenty-four hours I shall be back again. But the deuce take me if I expected to leave Paris for Chartres to-day. Luckily, I leave Rose and Blanche with my good wife; and Gabriel, their angel, as they call him, will be here to keep them company.”
