by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER IV. THE FAREWELL
The Bacchanal Queen, following the waiter, arrived at the bottom of thestaircase. A coach was standing before the door of the house. In it shesaw Sleepinbuff, with one of the men who, two hours before, had beenwaiting on the Place du Chatelet.
On the arrival of Cephyse, the man got down, and said to Jacques, as hedrew out his watch: "I give you a quarter of an hour; it is all that Ican do for you, my good fellow; after that we must start. Do not try toescape, for we'll be watching at the coach doors."
With one spring, Cephyse was in the coach. Too much overcome to speakbefore, she now exclaimed, as she took her seat by Jacques, and remarkedthe paleness of his countenance: "What is it? What do they want withyou?"
"I am arrested for debt," said Jacques, in a mournful voice.
"You!" exclaimed Cephyse, with a heart-rending sob.
"Yes, for that bill, or guarantee, they made me sign. And yet the mansaid it was only a form--the rascal!"
"But you have money in his hands; let him take that on account."
"I have not a copper; he sends me word by the bailiff, that not havingpaid the bill, I shall not have the last thousand francs."
"Then let us go to him, and entreat him to leave you at liberty. It washe who came to propose to lend you this money. I know it well, as hefirst addressed himself to me. He will have pity on you."
"Pity?--a money broker pity? No! no!"
"Is there then no hope? none?" cried Cephyse clasping her hands inanguish. "But there must be something done," she resumed. "He promisedyou!"
"You can see how he keeps his promises," answered Jacques, withbitterness. "I signed, without even knowing what I signed. The bill isover-due; everything is in order, it would be vain to resist. They havejust explained all that to me."
"But they cannot keep you long in prison. It is impossible."
"Five years, if I do not pay. As I'll never be able to do so, my fate iscertain."
"Oh! what a misfortune! and not to be able to do anything!" saidCephyse, hiding her face in her hands.
"Listen to me, Cephyse," resumed Jacques, in a voice of mournfulemotion; "since I am here, I have thought only of one thing--what is tobecome of you?"
"Never mind me!"
"Not mind you?--art mad? What will you do? The furniture of our tworooms is not worth two hundred francs. We have squandered our money sofoolishly, that we have not even paid our rent. We owe three quarters,and we must not therefore count upon the furniture. I leave you withouta coin. At least I shall be fed in prison--but how will you manage tolive?
"What is the use of grieving beforehand?"
"I ask you how you will live to-morrow?" cried Jacques.
"I will sell my costume, and some other clothes. I will send you halfthe money, and keep the rest. That will last some days."
"And afterwards?--afterwards?"
"Afterwards?--why, then--I don't know--how can I tell you!Afterwards--I'll look about me."
"Hear me, Cephyse," resumed Jacques, with bitter agony. "It is now thatI first know how mach I love you. My heart is pressed as in a vise atthe thought of leaving you and I shudder to thinly what is to become ofyou." Then--drawing his hand across his forehead, Jacques added: "Yousee we have been ruined by saying--'To-morrow will never come!'--for tomorrow has come. When I am no longer with you, and you have spent thelast penny of the money gained by the sale of your clothes--unfit forwork as you have become--what will you do next? Must I tell you what youwill do!--you will forget me and--" Then, as if he recoiled from his ownthoughts, Jacques exclaimed, with a burst of rage and despair--"GreatHeaven! if that were to happen, I should dash my brains out against thestones!"
Cephyse guessed the half-told meaning of Jacques, and throwing her armsaround his neck, she said to him: "I take another lover?--never! I amlike you, for I now first know how much I love you."
"But, my poor Cephyse--how will you live?"
"Well, I shall take courage. I will go back and dwell, with my sister,as in old times; we will work together, and so earn our bread. I'llnever go out, except to visit you. In a few days your creditor willreflect, that, as you can't pay him ten thousand francs, he may as wellset you free. By that time I shall have once more acquired the habit ofworking. You shall see, you shall see!--and you also will again acquirethis habit. We shall live poor, but content. After all, we have hadplenty of amusement for six month, while so many others have never knownpleasure all their lives. And believe me, my dear Jacques, when I sayto you--I shall profit by this lesson. If you love me, do not feel theleast uneasiness; I tell you, that I would rather die a hundred times,than have another lover."
"Kiss me," said Jacques, with eyes full of tears. "I believe you--yes,I believe you--and you give me back my courage, both for now andhereafter. You are right; we must try and get to work again, or elsenothing remains but Father Arsene's bushel of charcoal; for, my girl,"added Jacques, in a low and trembling voice, "I have been like a drunkenman these six months, and now I am getting sober, and see whither we aregoing. Our means once exhausted, I might perhaps have become a robber,and you--"
"Oh, Jacques! don't talk so--it is frightful," interrupted Cephyse; "Iswear to you that I will return to my sister--that I will work--that Iwill have courage!"
Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intendedto keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted. Miseryand want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and theexcuse of her worst errors. Until now, she had at least followed theinstincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive. Thecruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love,that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch,that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices andprivations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and whichthe habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render stillmore difficult.
Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his griefand anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive thatthe fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leadingboth him and Cephyse directly to infamy.
One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques:"My lad, you have only five minutes left--so make haste."
"So, courage, my girl--courage!" said Jacques.
"I will; you may rely upon me."
"Are you going upstairs again?"
"No--oh no!" said Cephyse. "I have now a horror of this festivity."
"Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect usback. They will be much astonished," continued Jacques, "but it's allthe same now."
"If you could only go with me to our lodging," said Cephyse, "thisman would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in thatdress."
"Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be withus in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence.Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life.Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse--and the counsel will apply tome as well as to yourself," continued Jacques, in a grave and feelingtone--"resume from to-day the habit of labor. It may be painful,unprofitable--never mind--do not hesitate, for too soon will theinfluence of this lesson be forgotten. By-and-bye it will be too late,and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures--"
"I understand," said Cephyse, blushing; "but I will rather die than leadsuch a life."
"And there you will do well--for in that case," added Jacques, in a deepand hollow voice, "I will myself show you how to die."
"I count upon you, Jacques," answered Cephyse, embracing her loverwith excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully: "It was a kind ofpresentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in themidst of all our gayety--and drank to the Cholera, so that we might dietogether."
"Well! perhaps the Cholera will come," resumed Jacques, with a gloomyair; "that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able
tobuy."
"I can only tell you one thing, Jacques, that to live and die together,you will always find me ready."
"Come, dry your eyes," said he, with profound emotion. "Do not let usplay the children before these men."
Some minutes after, the coach took the direction to Jacques's lodging,where he was to change his clothes, before proceeding to the debtors'prison.
Let us repeat, with regard to the hunchback's sister--for there arethings which cannot be too often repeated--that one of the most fatalconsequences of the Inorganization of Labor is the Insufficiency ofWages.
The insufficiency of wages forces inevitably the greater number ofyoung girls, thus badly paid, to seek their means of subsistence inconnections which deprave them.
Sometimes they receive a small allowance from their lovers, which,joined to the produce of their labor, enables them to live. Sometimeslike the sempstress's sister, they throw aside their work altogether,and take up their abode with the man of their choice, should he beable to support the expense. It is during this season of pleasure andidleness that the incurable leprosy of sloth takes lasting possession ofthese unfortunate creatures.
This is the first phase of degradation that the guilty carelessness ofSociety imposes on an immense number of workwomen, born with instinctsof modesty, and honesty, and uprightness.
After a certain time they are deserted by their seducers--perhaps whenthey are mothers. Or, it may be, that foolish extravagance consignsthe imprudent lover to prison, and the young girl finds herself alone,abandoned, without the means of subsistence.
Those who have still preserved courage and energy go back to theirwork--but the examples are very rare. The others, impelled by misery,and by habits of indolence, fall into the lowest depths.
And yet we must pity, rather than blame them, for the first and virtualcause of their fall has been the insufficient remuneration of labor andsudden reduction of pay.
Another deplorable consequence of this inorganization is thedisgust which workmen feel for their employment, in addition to theinsufficiency of their wages. And this is quite conceivable, fornothing is done to render their labor attractive, either by varietyof occupations, or by honorary rewards, or by proper care, or byremuneration proportionate to the benefits which their toil provides, orby the hope of rest after long years of industry. No--the country thinksnot, cares not, either for their wants or their rights.
And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries,exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines,run every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rarepractical sagacity, and render to industry--and, consequently, to theircountry--the most incontestable service, during a long and honorablecareer, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have nottheir limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.
In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to thatwhich awaits the soldier's praiseworthy, but sterile courage--a place inan asylum for invalids? No.
What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen tobe ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, maydie of want in some corner.
Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble anyof the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs,forged and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets ofgold and silver, carved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, andset those dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.
In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable andstarving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, theseworkmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wondersupon their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.
A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his highfunctions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibitson these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number ofcandidates, amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one thatappeared most worthy to represent the working classes in these greatindustrial solemnities.
Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the masterpropose for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed byhis peers, as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of hisprofession? Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and thevirtues of the workman would be stimulated by a generous and nobleambition--he would have an interest in doing well.
Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence hedisplays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and thegood he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowedupon him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from theserewards, which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Aregenerals and officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army?And when we have remunerated the captains of this great and powerfularmy of industry, why should we neglect the privates?
Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consolingword from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workmanwearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long andlaborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, wouldbe to him a double recompense, justly deserved. But, no! for humblelabor that sustains the State, there is only forgetfulness, injustice,indifference, and disdain!
By this neglect of the public, often aggravated by individualselfishness and ingratitude, our workmen are placed in a deplorablesituation.
Some of them, notwithstanding their incessant toil, lead a life ofprivations, and die before their time cursing the social system thatrides over them. Others find a temporary oblivion of their ills indestructive intoxication. Others again--in great number--having nointerest, no advantage, no moral or physical inducement to do more orbetter, confine themselves strictly to just that amount of labor whichwill suffice to earn their wages. Nothing attaches them to their work,because nothing elevates, honors, glorifies it in their eyes. They haveno defence against the reductions of indolence; and if, by some chance,they find means of living awhile in repose, they give way by degrees tohabits of laziness and debauchery, and sometimes the worst passions soilforever natures originally willing, healthy and honest--and all forwant of that protecting and equitable superintendence which should havesustained, encouraged, and recompensed their first worthy and laborioustendencies.
We now follow Mother Bunch, who after seeking for work from the personthat usually employed her, went to the Rue de Babylone, to the lodgelately occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville.
