And turning to the thief who, seeing the five or six armed workingmen coming back, made an effort to slip away:
"Do not budge, mister! Or, if you do, I shall let Azor loose upon you." Saying which he tightened his finger again on the trigger of his pistol.
"But what is it you have in mind to do with me?" cried the thief, turning pale at the sight of three of the workingmen, who were getting their guns ready, while another, coming out of the grocery that he had just before stepped into, brought with him a poster made of brown paper on which some lettering had been freshly traced with a brush dipped in blacking.
A dismal presentiment assailed the thief. He straggled to disengage himself and cried out:
"If you charge me with theft—take me before the magistrate."
"Can not be done. The magistrate is just engaged marrying his daughter," explained father Bribri calmly. "He is now at the wedding."
"Besides, he has the toothache," added Flameche; "he is at the dentist's."
"Take the thief to the lamp-post," said a voice.
"I tell you that I demand to be taken to the magistrate!" repeated the wretch, struggling violently to free himself, and he began to shout:
"Help! Help!"
"If you can read, read this," said one of the workingmen, holding up the poster before the thief. "If you can not read, I shall read it for you:
"SHOT AS ATHIEF."
"Shot?" stammered the fellow growing livid. "Shot? Mercy! Help! Assassins! Murder! Watchmen, murder!"
"An example must be set for the likes of you, in order that they may not dishonor the Revolution!" explained father Bribri.
"Now, down on your knees, you scoundrel!" ordered a blacksmith who still had his leathern apron on. "And all of you, my friends, get your guns ready! Down onyour knees!" he repeated to the thief, throwing him down on the ground.
The wretch sank upon his knees in a state of such utter collapse and terror that, crouching upon the pavement, he could only extend his hands and mutter in an almost inaudible voice:
"Oh, mercy! Not death!"
"You fear death! Wait, I shall bandage your eyes," said the ragpicker.
And letting down his sack from his shoulders, father Bribri took a large piece of cloth out of it and threw it over the condemned man who, on his knees and gathered into a lump, was almost wholly covered therewith. Soon as that was done, the ragpicker stepped quickly back.
Three shots were fired at once.
Popular justice was done.
A few minutes later, fastened under his arms to the lamp-post, the corpse of the bandit swung to the night breeze with the poster attached to his clothes:
"Shot as a thief."
Shortly after the execution of the thief day began to dawn.
Presently the men who were stationed on the lookout at the corners of the streets in the neighborhood of the barricade, that now reached almost as high as the first story windows of the linendraper's house, were seen falling back; after firing their pieces, they cried out "To arms!"
Almost immediately after, the drums, silent until then, were heard to beat the charge, and two companies of the Municipal Guards turned in from a side street and marched resolutely upon the barricade. Instantaneously the interior of the improvised fortress was filled with defenders.
Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, George Duchene and their friends took their posts and held their guns in readiness.
Father Bribri, who was a great lover of tobacco, foreseeing that he might soon not have leisure to take his pinch of snuff, inhaled a last load out of his pouch, seized his musket and knelt down in front of a species of loophole that was contrived between several cobblestones, whileFlameche, pistol in hand, climbed up the ledges like a cat, in order to reach the summit of the barricade.
"Will you come down, you imp, and not make a target of your nose!" cried out the ragpicker, pulling Flameche by the leg. "You will be shot to dust."
"No fear, father Bribri!" replied Flameche, tugging away, and finally succeeding in slipping from the old man's grip. "This is gratis—I wish to treat myself to a first salvo, face to face—and have a good look at things."
And raising half his body above the barricade, Flameche stuck out his tongue to the Municipal Guard, which was approaching at the double quick.
Addressing the combatants who surrounded him, Monsieur Lebrenn said:
"Those soldiers are, after all, our brothers. Let us make one last attempt to avoid the effusion of blood."
"You are right—try again, Monsieur Lebrenn," came from the bare-armed blacksmith as he flipped the stock of his gun with his nail; "but it will be love's labor lost—as you will see."
The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them.
The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened.
At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant's house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behindthe blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son—who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body—standing beside him, gun in hand. George Duchene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse.
He turned and saw Pradeline. She had been running fast, as the redness of her cheeks and short breath denoted.
The defenders of the barricade had seen the young girl approach; they were surprised to see her among them. As she sought to push her way through the crowd in order to reach George, they said to her:
"Don't stay here, young woman; it is too dangerous a place."
"You here!" cried George stupefied at the sight of Pradeline.
"George, listen to me!" the girl said to him imploringly. "I went twice to your house yesterday, and failed to find you at home. I wrote to you that I would call again this morning. To keep my appointment I had to cross several barricades, and—"
"Stand back!" cried George, alarmed for her safety. "You will be shot—this is no place for you."
"George, I have come to render you a service—I—"
Pradeline could not finish her sentence. Lebrenn, who had in vain been parleying with the captain of the Municipal Guards, turned around and cried out:
"They insist upon war! Very well, war it shall be! Wait for them to open fire—then return it."
The Municipal Guard fired; the insurgents responded; soon a cloud of smoke hovered above the barricade. Shots were fired from the neighboring windows; shots came from the air-holes of the cellars; even the old grandfather of George Duchene could be seen at his attic window throwing upon the heads of the Municipal Guard, in default of better arms and ammunition, all manner of household furniture and kitchen utensils—tables, chairs, pots and pitchers; in short, everything that could go through the window was hurled down by the good old invalid of toil, as Lebrenn had justly styled him. It was an almost comic sight. The old man seemed to be moving out by the window. When his supply of projectiles was exhausted, he threw in despair even his cotton cap at the troops. He then looked around, disconsolate at finding nothing more handy to his purpose, but immediately a shout of triumph went up from his throat, and he began to tear up the roof tiles that were within reach of his hands, and to fling them one after the other down upon the soldiers.
The engagement was hotly contested. After returning the discharges of the insurgents with several rounds of shot, the Municipalists rushed intrepidly upon the barricade with felled bayonets, expecting to carry it by assault.
Several groups could be descried through the dense whitish smoke that settled and rose over the top of the barricade. In one of these groups, Marik Lebrenn, after having discharged his gun, was wielding it as a club to drivethe assailants back. His son and George, close behind him, seconded his efforts vigorously. From time to time, and without lagging in the fight, father and son cast a hurried glance at the half open blinds above their heads, and off and on these words reached their ears:
"Courage, Marik!" would come from Madam Lebrenn. "Courage, my son!"
"Courage, father!" echoed Velleda. "Courage, brother!"
A stray bullet shattered with a great clatter one of the thin slats of the lattice behind which the two heroic women were posted. The two true Gallic women, as Lebrenn called them, did not wince. They remained in their places to watch the merchant and his son.
There was a moment when, after boldly struggling hand to hand with a captain, and having beaten the officer down, Lebrenn was endeavoring to regain his feet, which slipped and stumbled over the uncertain cobblestones; on the instant a soldier who had succeeded in reaching the top of the barricade, and from his elevated position towered over the merchant, raised his gun, and was on the point of transfixing the linendraper with his bayonet. George perceived the imminent danger of Velleda's father; he threw himself in front of the threatened thrust; the bayonet ran through his arm and he dropped to the ground. The soldier was about to deal the merchant's protector a second thrust when two small hands seized him by his legs, and holding him with the convulsive grip of despair, caused him to lose his balance. Head foremost the soldier rolled down the other side of the barricade.
George owed his life to Pradeline. Bold as a lioness, her hair streaming, her cheeks aflame, the girl had managed to draw near to George during the struggle. The very instant, however, after she had saved him, a rebounding bullet struck her in the breast. She fell down upon her knees and fainted—her last glances sought George.[9]
Father Bribri, seeing the young woman wounded, dropped his musket, ran to her, and raised her up. He was looking around for some safe place to lay her down when he noticed Madam Lebrenn and her daughter at the door of the shop. They had just descended from the floor above, and were busy, with the help of Gildas and Jeanike, making preparations to receive the wounded.
Gildas was beginning to accustom himself to the firing. He aided father Bribri to transport Pradeline into the rear room, where Madam Lebrenn and her daughter immediately turned their attention to her.
The ragpicker was stepping out of the shop when there came, rolling down to his feet, a frail body clad in tattered trousers and a ragged jacket, all clotted with blood.
"Oh, my poor Flameche!" cried the old man, trying to pick up the boy. "Are you wounded? It may not be dangerous—courage!"
"I am done for, father Bribri," answered the boy in a fast ebbing voice. "It is a pity—I shall not—go—angling for the red fishes in—the—pond—of—"
And he expired.
A big tear rolled down upon the scrubby beard of the ragpicker.
"Poor little devil! he was not a bad boy," father Bribri soliloquized with a sigh. "He dies as he lived—on the Paris pavement!"
Such was the short funeral oration pronounced over Flameche's body.
At the moment that the poor boy died, George's grandfather, unable any longer to restrain himself, decided, despite his feebleness, to join the fray. He hurried down to the street, and ran to the barricade. From his window, his ammunition, moveables and fixtures, being exhausted, he had had leisure to follow the vicissitudes of the conflict. He saw the little fellow fall; looked for him among the dead and the wounded; he called to him in heartrending accents.
So stubborn was the resistance offered by the defenders of the barricade that the Municipalists, after sustaining heavy losses, were compelled to beat a retreat, which they effected in good order.
The firing had ceased for several minutes when suddenly a shot was heard in the near vicinity, and, almost immediately after, the sound of horses approaching at a gallop.
Presently, on the rear side of the barricade, a colonel of dragoons hove in sight, followed by a number of horsemen, sabers in hand, like their commander, driving before them a group of insurgents who fired at intervals as they retreated on the run.
It was Colonel Plouernel. Separated from his squadronby an onrush of insurgents, he was endeavoring to cut himself a passage to the boulevard, not imagining he would find his path barred at that spot by a barricade.
The combat, suspended for a moment, broke out afresh. At first the defenders of the barricade believed that the small number of troopers was the vanguard of a regiment which meant to take them in the rear, and thus place them between two fires, by the return of the Municipalists to the assault.
The fifteen or twenty dragoons commanded by Colonel Plouernel were received with a general discharge of musketry. Several of the dragoons fell; the colonel himself was wounded. But obedient to his natural intrepidity, he drove his spurs into his horse's flanks, waved his sword and cried out:
"Dragoons! Cut down this rabble with your swords!"
The colonel's horse gave an enormous bound; it brought him to the very base of the barricade, but the animal slipped over the rolling cobblestones and fell prone.
Although wounded and pinned to the ground under his mount, the Count of Plouernel still defended himself with heroic valor. His every sword thrust found its mark. But it was all of no avail; he was about to succumb to superior numbers when, at the risk of his own life, Monsieur Lebrenn, assisted by his son and George, although the latter was wounded, threw themselves between the prostrate colonel and his exasperated assailants, and succeeded in extricating him from under his horse, and in pushing him into the shop.
"Friends! These dragoons are isolated; they are in no condition to resist us; let us disarm them; let there be no useless carnage—they are our brothers!" someone cried.
"Mercy to the soldiers—but death to their colonel!" cried the men who had just been driven to the spot before the merciless and headlong onslaught of the Count of Plouernel. "Death to the colonel!"
"Yes! Yes!" repeated several voices.
"No!" shouted back the linendraper, barring the door with his gun, while George came to his support. "No! No! No massacre after battle! No cowardice!"
"The colonel killed my brother with a pistol shot fired within an inch of his face—down there, at the corner of the street," bellowed a man with bloodshot eyes, his mouth foaming with rage, and brandishing a sword. "Death to the colonel!"
"Yes! Yes! Death!" shouted several threatening voices. "Death!"
"No! You shall not kill a wounded man! You can not mean to murder an unarmed man—a prisoner!"
"Death," shouted back an increasing number of angry voices. "Death!"
"Very well, walk in! Let us see if you will have the heart to dishonor the cause of the people with a crime."
And the merchant, although ready to offer fresh resistance to the ferocity of the angry men, left free the passage of the door which he had until then blocked.
The assailants remained motionless. Lebrenn's words had gone home.
Nevertheless, the man who desired to avenge his brother rushed forward, sword in hand, emitting a savage cry. Already his feet were on the threshold when, seizing him by the waist, George held him back, saying:
"Would you, indeed, commit murder! Oh, no, brother! You are no murderer!"
And with tears in his eyes, George Duchene embraced the man.
George's voice, his countenance, his accent and his deportment made so deep an impression upon the angry man who cried for vengeance, that he lowered his head, flung away his sword, and, dropping upon a heap of cobblestones, covered his face in his hands, murmuring between the sobs that choked him:
"My brother! My poor brother!"
The struggle was over. The merchant's son went out for tidings, and returned with the information that the King, together with the royal family, had fled; that everywhere the troops fraternized with the people; that the Chamber of Deputies was dissolved; and that a provisional government was set up at the City Hall.
The wounded, whether they belonged to the insurrectionists or to the army, were transported to the improvised hospitals that were set up in several shops, as had been done in the linendraper's. As much attention was bestowed upon the soldiers as upon those who shortly before were engaged in a deadly struggle with them. The women gathered around the wounded. If there was aught to beregretted it was the excessiveness of the zeal of the tenders of good offices.
Several soldiers of the Municipal Guard, besides an officer of dragoons who accompanied Colonel Plouernel, having been taken prisoner, they were distributed among the neighboring houses, whence they soon thereafter emerged in civilian dress, and arm in arm with their adversaries of the same morning.
Lebrenn's shop was crowded with wounded men. One of these lay upon the counter; the others on mattresses hastily spread upon the floor. The merchant and his family assisted several surgeons of the quarter. Gildas was engaged in distributing wine mixed with water to the patients, whose throats were parched with thirst. Among the latter, and lying beside each other upon the same mattress, were father Bribri and a sergeant of the Municipal Guards, an old soldier with moustaches as grey as those of the ragpicker himself.
The latter, after having pronounced Flameche's funeral oration, had been shot in the leg during the encounter with the dragoons. The sergeant, on his part, had received a wound in the loins in the course of the first attack that the barricade had to sustain.
"Zounds! How I suffer!" murmured the sergeant. "And what a thirst! My throat is on fire!"
Father Bribri overheard the words, and seeing Gildas approach holding in one hand a bottle of wine and water, and in the other a basket with glasses, called out to him as if he were at an inn:
"Waiter! This way, waiter! The old man here wants something to drink, if you please! He is thirsty!"
Surprised and touched by the civility of his companion on the mattress, the sergeant said to him:
"Thank you, my good old man; I may not decline, because I feel as if I would choke."
Upon the summons of father Bribri, Gildas filled one of the glasses in his basket. He stooped down and handed it to the soldier. The latter essayed to rise, but failed, and said as he dropped back:
"Zounds! I can not sit up. My loins are shattered."
"Wait a second, sergeant," said father Bribri; "one of my legs is disabled, but my loins and arms are still sea-worthy. I shall give you a helping hand."
The ragpicker helped the soldier to sit up, and supported him until he had emptied his glass. After that he gently helped him to lie down again.
"Thanks, and pardon the trouble, my good old man," said the Municipalist.
"At your service, sergeant."
"Tell me, old boy—"
"What is it, sergeant?"
"Doesn't it strike you that this thing is rather droll?"
"What, sergeant?"
"Well, to think that two hours ago we were trying to shoot holes through each other, and now we are exchanging courtesies."
"Don't mention it, sergeant! Shots are stupid things."
"All the more when people have no ill-will for each other—"
"Zounds! May the devil take me, sergeant, if I had any ill-will towards you! Nevertheless, for all I know, it was I who put the bullet in your loin—just as, without having the slightest ill feeling for me, you would have planted your bayonet in my bowels. Wherefore, I repeat it, it is a stupid thing for people who have no ill-will toward each other to come to blows."
"That's the truth of it."
"And, furthermore, were you particularly stuck upon Louis Philippe, sergeant?"
"I? Little did I trouble my head about him! What I was after was to obtain my furlough, so that I could go to the country and plant my cabbages. That's what I was after. And you, old boy, what were you after?"
"I am after the Republic that will guarantee work, and will furnish bread to those who need it."
"If that is so, old fellow, I am as much for the Republic as yourself, because I have a poor brother with a large family upon his hands, to whom to be out of work is like death. Ah! And was it for that that you fought, old fellow? By my honor, you were not so far out of the way. Long live the Republic!"
"And yet, it may be you, old fraud, who shot that bullet into my leg—but, at least you are not to be blamed."
"How the devil could I help it! Do we ever know why we fall into one another's hair? The old custom of obeying orders is what sets us agoing. We are ordered to fire—and we fire, without at first taking any particular aim—that's true. But the other side answers in kind. Zounds! From that minute it is each for his own skin."
"I believe you."
"And then one gets pricked, or sees a comrade fall; he grows hotter in the collar; the smell of gunpowder intoxicates you; and then you begin to bellow as if you were among deaf people—"
"Once so far, the rest comes natural, sergeant!"
"It does not matter so much, you see, my good old man, so long as you are at guns' length. But the moment you come to close quarters, to a bayonet charge, and you can see the white of each others' eyes, then the compliments exchanged are: 'Take this!' 'Take that!' and yet one feels a weakness stealing over his legs and arms."
"Quite natural, sergeant, because you think to yourself—'These are, after all, brave fellows who want the Reform, they want the Republic. Good—what harm can they do me? Besides, am I not one of the common people, like themselves? Have I not relatives and friends among the common people? I wager a hundred to one that I should be of their opinion, that I should fall in line with them, instead of charging upon them'—"
"That's so true, my old man, that I'm as much for the Republic as yourself, if it can furnish work to my poor brother."
"And that's why I repeat, sergeant, that there is nothing so stupid as for people to shoot holes into one another, without, at least, knowing the why and the wherefore."
Saying this father Bribri drew out of his pocket his oldsnuff-box of white wood, and holding it out to his companion, added:
"Will you have some, sergeant?"
"Zounds! That's not to be refused, old man; it will help to clear up my head."
"Tell me, sergeant," remarked father Bribri laughing, "have you perhaps a cold in the head? Do you know the song:
"There were six soldiers, or five,They had a cold in the head—"
"Ah, you gay old fraud!" exclaimed the Municipalist, giving his mattress-fellow a friendly tap on the shoulder and laughing heartily at the opportune refrain. He took a pinch of snuff, and after absorbing and relishing it like a connoisseur, he added:
"Zounds! This is good!"
"I'll take you into my confidence, sergeant," whispered father Bribri, taking a pinch himself, "this is my only luxury. I get it at the Civitte, nowhere else!"
"That's the very place my wife makes her purchases in."
"Oh, so, then, you are married, sergeant? The devil take it! Your poor wife must be feeling frightfully uneasy."
"Yes, she is an excellent woman. If my wound is not fatal, old man, you must come to my house and take a bowl of soup with us. Ho! Ho! We shall chat about St. Denis Street while nibbling a crust."
"You are very kind, sergeant. Neither is that to be refused. And seeing that I do not keep house, you and your wife must return the visit by coming and sharing a rabbit-stew with me on the outer boulevard."
"Agreed, old man!"
As the civilian and the Municipalist were exchanging these courtesies, Monsieur Lebrenn came out of the rear room, the door of which had been kept closed. The linendraper looked pale; there were tears in his eyes. He said to his wife, whom he found busy attending one of the wounded men:
"Will you come in a minute, my dear friend?"
Madam Lebrenn joined her husband, and the door of the rear room closed behind them. There a sad spectacle presented itself to the eyes of the merchant's wife.
Pradeline lay stretched out upon a sofa. The girl was in her death agony. George Duchene, with his arm in a sling, was on his knees beside her, urging her to take some of the wine and water in a cup that he held up to her lips.
At the sight of Madam Lebrenn, the poor creature endeavored to smile. She gathered all the strength she could, and said in a faint and broken voice:
"Madam—I asked to see you—before I die—in order to tell you—the truth about George. I was an orphan; I worked at flower-making. I had suffered a good deal—underwent untold privations—but still I kept my character. I should also say, so as not to praise myself too highly, I had never been tempted," she added with a bitter sigh; and then she smiled: "I met George upon his returnfrom the army—I fell in love with him—I loved him—Oh! I loved him dearly—let that pass—he was the only one—perhaps it was because he never became my lover. I am sure I loved him more than he loved me. He was better than I—it was out of kindness that he offered to marry me. Unfortunately, a girl friend crossed my way and led me astray. She had been a working girl, like myself—and misery had driven her to sell herself! I saw her rich, well dressed—well fed—she urged me to do as she had done—my head turned—I forgot George—but not for long—but for nothing in the world would I have dared to appear before him again. Occasionally, nevertheless, I would come to this street—seeking to catch a glimpse of him. I saw him more than once at work in your shop, madam—and talking to your daughter, who seemed to me very beautiful—Oh, as beautiful as the day! A presentiment told me George was bound to fall in love with her. I watched him—more than once, recently, I saw him early in the morning at his window—looking across the street at yours. Yesterday morning I was with someone—"
A feeble blush of shame colored for an instant the pallid cheeks of the dying girl. She dropped her eyes, and presently proceeded in a voice that was fast sinking:
"There—accidentally—I learned that that person—found your daughter—very beautiful, and—knowing that that person is utterly—reckless of consequences—I feared for your daughter and for George—I tried—yesterday—to notify him—he was not at home; I wrote to him—asking to see him, without stating my reasons—This morning—I went out—without knowing—that there—were barricades—and—"
The young girl could not finish; her head fell back; mechanically she raised both her hands to the wound on her bosom, heaved a sigh of profound grief, and stammered a few unintelligible words. Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn wept in silence as they contemplated her.
"Josephine," said George, "do you suffer much?" And covering his eyes with his hands he added: "This mortal wound—was received by her in the attempt to save my life!"
"George—George," muttered the dying girl almost inaudibly, as her eyes roved aimlessly about, "George—you—do—not know—"
And she began to laugh.
That laugh of death was heartrending.
"Poor child! Come to your senses," pleaded Madam Lebrenn.
"My name is Pradeline," came deliriously from the wretched girl. "Yes—because—I always sing."
"Unhappy child!" cried Lebrenn. "Poor girl, she is delirious!"
"George," she resumed, her mind wandering, "listen to my songs—"
And in an expiring voice she improvised to her favorite melody:
"I feel th'approach of death,I'm breathing my last breath—It is my fate, and yetI grieve—to die—"
She did not complete the last line. Her arms twitched; her head drooped upon her shoulder. She was dead.
That instant, Gildas opened the door that communicated with a back staircase leading to the upper story, and said to the merchant:
"Monsieur, the colonel upstairs wishes to speak with you."
The merchant went up to his own bed chamber, where the colonel had been quartered as a measure of precaution.
The Count of Plouernel had received only two slight wounds, but was severely bruised. In order to facilitate the staunching of the blood he had taken off his uniform.
Lebrenn found his guest standing in the middle of the apartment, pale and somber.
"Monsieur," said he, "my wounds are not serious enough to prevent me from leaving the house. I shall never forget your generous conduct towards me. Your conduct was all the more noble in view of what transpired between us yesterday morning. My only wish is to be able some day to return your generosity. That, I suppose, will be difficult, monsieur, seeing my party is vanquished, and you are the vanquishers. I was blind with regard to the actual state of public sentiment. This sudden Revolution opens my eyes. I realize it—yes, the day of the people's triumph has come. We had our day, as you said to me yesterday, monsieur; your turn has come."
"I think so too, monsieur. But now, allow me to advise you. It would not be prudent for you to go out in uniform. The popular effervescence has not yet cooled down. I shallsupply you with a coat and hat, and, in the company of one of my friends, you will be able to return to your own residence without any difficulty, or running any danger."
"Monsieur! You can not mean that! To disguise myself—that would be cowardice!"
"If you please, monsieur! No exaggerated scruples! Have you not the consciousness of having fought with intrepidity to the very end?"
"Yes; but of having been disarmed—by—"
But the Count of Plouernel checked himself, and offering his hand to the merchant said:
"Pardon me, monsieur—I forgot myself; besides, I am vanquished. It shall be as you say. I shall take your advice. I shall assume the disguise without feeling that I am committing an act of cowardice. A man whose conduct is as worthy as yours must be a good judge in matters of honor."
A minute later the Count of Plouernel was in bourgeois dress, thanks to the clothes that the merchant lent him.
The Count then pointed to his battered casque which lay on top of his uniform, that had been torn in several places during the struggle, and said to Monsieur Lebrenn:
"Monsieur, I request you to keep my casque, in default of my sword, which I would have preferred to leave with you as a souvenir from a soldier whose life you generously saved—as a token of gratitude."
"I accept it, monsieur," answered the linendraper. "I shall join the casque to several other souvenirs which have come down to me from your family."
"From my family!" exclaimed the Count of Plouernel in amazement. "From my family! Do you know my family?"
"Alas, monsieur," answered the merchant in melancholy tones, "this was not the first time that, in the course of the centuries, a Neroweg of Plouernel and a Lebrenn met, arms in hand."
"What is that you say, monsieur?" asked the Count with increasing wonderment. "I pray you, explain yourself."
Two raps at the door interrupted the conversation of Monsieur Lebrenn and his guest.
"Who is there?" demanded the merchant.
"I, father."
"Walk in, my boy!"
"Father," said Sacrovir in great glee, "several friends are downstairs. They come from the City Hall. They want to see you."
"My boy," said Monsieur Lebrenn, "you are known as well as myself in the street. I wish you to escort our guest home. Take the back stairs in order to avoid going out by the shop door. Do not leave Monsieur Plouernel until he is safe at home."
"Rest assured, father. I have already crossed the barricade twice. I answer for monsieur's safety."
"Excuse me, monsieur, if I now leave you," said the merchant to the Count of Plouernel. "My friends are waiting for me."
"Adieu, monsieur," answered the Count in a voice that came from the heart. "I do not know what the future hasin store for us; mayhap we may meet again in opposite camps; but I swear to you, I shall not, henceforth, be able to look upon you as an enemy."
With these words the Count of Plouernel followed the merchant's son.
Monsieur Lebrenn, left alone in the chamber, contemplated the colonel's casque for a moment, and muttered to himself:
"Truly, there are strange fatalities in this world."
He lifted up the casque and took it into that mysterious chamber which so much excited the curiosity of Gildas.
Lebrenn then joined his friends, from whom he learned that there was no longer any doubt but that the Republic would be proclaimed by the provisional government.
After the battle, after the victory, the inauguration of the triumph, and the glorification of the ashes of the victims.
A few days after the overthrow of the throne of Louis Philippe, a large crowd gathered towards ten in the morning around the Madeleine Church, the facade of which was completely draped in black and silver. The front of the edifice bore the inscription:
THEFRENCHREPUBLIC.LIBERTY—EQUALITY—FRATERNITY.
An immense multitude crowded the boulevards, where, from the site of the Bastille clear to the square of the Madeleine, there rose two long lines of lofty funeral tripods. On that day homage was rendered to the shades of the citizens who died in February in defense of freedom. A double cordon of National Guards under the command of General Courtais, with the old republican soldier Guinard as his lieutenant, lined the road.
The multitude, grave and calm, looked conscious of itsnew sovereignty, freshly conquered with the blood of its brothers.
Presently the cannon boomed, and the patriotic hymn, the Marseillaise, was intoned. The members of the provisional government arrived. They were Citizens Dupont of L'Eure, Ledru-Rollin, Arago, Louis Blanc, Albert, Flocon, Lamartine, Cremieux, Garnier-Pages and Marast. Slowly they ascended the broad stairs of the church. Tricolor sashes fastened with a knot were the sole badges that distinguished the citizens upon whom at that juncture rested the destinies of France.
Behind them, and acclaiming the Republic and popular sovereignty, came the heads of Departments, the high magistrature in red robes, the learned corps in their official dress, the marshals, the admirals and the generals in resplendent uniform.
Passionate shouts of "Long live the Republic" broke out along the line of march of the dignitaries, most of whom, courtiers under so many regimes and now neophyte republicans, had grown grey in the service of the monarchy.
All the windows of the houses situated on Madeleine Square were choked with spectators. On the second floor of a shop occupied by one of Monsieur Lebrenn's friends Madam Lebrenn and her daughter were seen at a window. They were both clad in black. Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, as well as father Morin and his grandson George, who still wore his arm in a sling, stood behind them—all now constituting one family. On the evening before this memorableday Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn had announced to their daughter that they consented to her marriage with George. The beautiful visage of Velleda said as much. It expressed profound happiness, a happiness, however, that the character of the imposing ceremony which aroused a pious emotion in the merchant's family kept under restraint. When the procession had entered the church and the Marseillaise ceased, Monsieur Lebrenn cried out with eyes swimming in tears of joy:
"Oh! This is a great day! It sees the establishment in perpetuity of our Republic, clean of all excesses, of all proscription, of all stain! Merciful as strength and right, fraternal as its own symbol, the first thought of the Republic has been to throw down the political scaffold, the scaffold, which, had the Republic been vanquished, it would have been made to dye purple with its own purest and most glorious blood! Contemplate it—loyal and generous, the Republic summons those very magistrates and generals, until yesterday implacable enemies of the republicans, whom they smote both with the sword of the Law and the sword of the Army, to join with it in a solemn pact of oblivion, of pardon and of concord, sworn to over the ashes of the latest martyrs of our rights! Oh, it is beautiful; it is noble, thus to reach out to our foes of yesterday a friendly and unarmed hand!"
"My children," put in Madam Lebrenn, "let us hope, let us believe that the martyrs of liberty, whose ashes we to-day render homage to, may be the last victims of royalty."
"Yes! Everywhere freedom is awakening!" cried Sacrovir Lebrenn enthusiastically. "Revolution in Vienna—revolution in Milan—revolution in Berlin—every day brings the tidings that the republican ferment of France has caused all the thrones of Europe to shake! The end of monarchy has arrived!"
"One army on the Rhine, another on the frontier of Italy—both ready to march to the support of our brothers of Europe," said George Duchene. "The Republic will make the rounds of the world! From that time on—no more wars, not so Monsieur Lebrenn? Union! The fraternity of the peoples! Universal peace! Labor! Industry! Happiness for all! No more insurrections, since the peaceful struggle of universal suffrage will henceforth replace the fratricidal struggles in which so many of our brothers have perished."
"Oh!" cried Velleda Lebrenn, who had watched her betrothed with sparkling eyes as he spoke. "How happy one must feel to live in times like these! What great and noble things are we not about to witness; not so, father?"
"To doubt it, my children, would be to deny the onward march, the constant progress of humanity," answered Lebrenn. "Never yet did mankind retrogress."
"May the good God hear you, Monsieur Lebrenn," put in father Morin. "Although I am quite old, I expect to see a good part of that beautiful picture. To want more than that, one must be quite a glutton," added the old man naïvely, and casting a tender look upon the merchant's daughter. "Could I, after that, still have anything towish for, now that I know that this good and beautiful girl is to be the wife of my grandson? Is he not now a member of a family of good people? The daughter is worthy of the mother, the son is worthy of the father. Zounds! When one has seen all that, and is as old as I am, there is nothing more that the heart can wish for—one may take his leave with a contented mind."
"Take your leave, good father?" said Madam Lebrenn, taking and warming in her own one of the trembling hands of the old man. "And what about those who remain behind and love you?"
"And who will feel doubly happy," added Velleda embracing the grandfather, "if you remain to witness their happiness."
"And who desire to render homage in you, good father, and for many long years, to labor, to courage, and to a big good heart!" exclaimed Sacrovir in accents of respectful deference, while the old man, more and more moved, carried his tremulous and venerable hands to his eyes.
"Oh! Do you imagine, Monsieur Morin," asked the merchant, smiling, "that you are not our 'good grandfather' as well? Do you imagine you do not belong to us, as well as to our dear George? As if our affections were not his own, and his own ours!"
"My God! My God!" exclaimed the old man, so moved with delight that tears filled his eyes. "What can I say to all that? It is too much—too much—all I can say is thanks, and weep. George, you who can talk, speak for me, do!"
"That is easy enough for you to say, grandfather," replied George, no less moved than Monsieur Morin.
"Father!" suddenly cried Sacrovir, stepping to the window. "Look! Look!"
And he added with exaltation:
"Oh, you brave and generous people of all peoples!"
At the call of the young man all rushed to the window.
The funeral ceremony being over, the boulevard was now free. At the head of a long procession of workingmen, there marched four members of their class carrying on their shoulders a species of shield decked with ribbons, in the middle of which a small casket of white wood was placed. Immediately behind followed a banner bearing the inscription:
LONGLIVE THEREPUBLIC!LIBERTY—EQUALITY—FRATERNITY.ANOFFERING TO THEFATHERLAND.
The people who lined the street shouted in transports of joy:
"Long live the Republic!"
"Oh!" cried the merchant with moist eyes. "I recognize them by their conduct! It is like themselves, the proletarians—they who uttered the sublime sentiment:We gave three months of misery to the service of the Republic, they the poor workingmen in the civil service, who were the first to be struck by the commercial crisis! And yet, behold them, the first to offer to the country the little that they possess—half their morrow's bread, perhaps!"
"And these men," added Madam Lebrenn, "who set such a noble example to the rich and the happy of the land; these men who display so much abnegation, such broadness of heart, so much resignation, so much patriotism, are they not to escape from their servitude! What, are their intelligence and industry forever to remain sterile only to themselves! Is for them a family ever to be the source of worry, the present a continuous privation, the future a frightful nightmare, and property a sardonic dream! No, no, you God of Justice! These men who have triumphed with so much grandeur have at last climbed to the top of their Calvary! The day of justice has come for them also! With your father, my children, I say—this is a glorious day, a day of equity and of justice, free from all taint of vengeance!"
"And those sacred words are the symbol of the emancipation of the workers!" exclaimed Monsieur Lebrenn pointing to the inscription in front of the church:
LIBERTY—EQUALITY—FRATERNITY.
About eighteen months have elapsed since the memorable day of the imposing ceremonies described in the previous chapter, that were so rich with splendid promises to France—and all the world. It is after the lapse of that period that we are now to meet again Marik Lebrenn and his family.
The following scene was taking place in the early part of the month of September, in 1849, at the convict-prison of Rochefort.
The meal hour had sounded. The convicts were eating.
One of the galley-slaves, attired like all the others in the regulation red vest and red cap, with themanille, or iron ring fastened to a heavy chain, on his feet, sat on a stone, and was biting into a chunk of black bread.
The galley-slave was Marik Lebrenn.
He had been sentenced to hard labor by a council of war after the June insurrection of 1848.
The merchant's features preserved their usual expression of serenity and firmness. The only change in him was that his face, exposed during his arduous work to thescorching heat of the sun on the water, had acquired, one might say, the color of brick.
A guard, with sword at his side and cane in hand, after having looked over several groups of convicts, stopped, as if he were in search of someone, and then, pointing with his cane in the direction of Marik Lebrenn, called out:
"Halloa, down there—number eleven hundred and twenty!"
The merchant continued to eat his black bread with a hearty appetite and did not answer.
"Number eleven hundred and twenty!" repeated the guard in a louder voice. "Don't you hear me, scamp!"
Continued silence on the part of Lebrenn.
Grumbling and put out at being obliged to take a few more steps, the guard approached Lebrenn at a rapid pace, and touching him with the end of his cane, addressed him roughly:
"The devil! Are you deaf? Answer me, you brute!"
As Lebrenn felt himself touched by the guard's cane his face lowered, but quickly suppressing the impulse to anger and indignation, he answered calmly:
"What do you want?"
"I called you twice—eleven hundred and twenty! And you did not answer. Do you expect to escape me in that way? Look out!"
"Come, be not so brutal!" answered Lebrenn, shrugging his shoulders. "I did not answer you because I have not yet become accustomed to hearing myself called by any but my own name—and I am always forgetting that my present name iseleven hundred and twenty."
"Enough of argumentation! Step up, and come to the Commissioner of Marine."
"What for?"
"None of your business. Step up! march! quick!"
"I follow you," said Lebrenn with imperturbable calmness.
After crossing a part of the port, the guard, followed closely by the galley-slave, arrived at the door of the Commissioner in charge of the convicts.
"Will you kindly notify the Commissioner that I have brought him number eleven hundred and twenty?" said the guard to one of the keepers at the door.
A minute later the keeper returned, ordered the merchant to follow him, led him down a long corridor, and opening the door of a richly furnished room, said to Lebrenn:
"Walk in, and wait there."
"How is that?" asked the astonished merchant. "You leave me alone?"
"The Commissioner so ordered me."
"The devil!" exclaimed Lebrenn smiling. "This is a mark of confidence that flatters me greatly."
The keeper closed the door and left.
"Once more, the devil!" said Lebrenn with a broader grin as his eyes alighted upon an inviting arm-chair. "This is a good opportunity for me to enjoy a more comfortable seat than the stone benches of the prison yard."
And comfortably dropping into the soft seat he proceeded:
"No question about it, a good arm-chair is one of the comforts of life."
At that moment a side door opened and Lebrenn saw a tall man in the uniform of Brigadier General—blue coat, gold epaulettes and dark brown trousers—enter the apartment.
At the sight of the staff officer, Lebrenn was seized with surprise, sat up straight, and cried:
"Monsieur Plouernel!"
"Who did not forget the evening of February 23, 1848, monsieur," answered the General, stepping forward, and cordially extending his hand to Lebrenn. The latter took the proffered hand, and, while doing so, saw and considered the meaning of the two silver stars that ornamented the Count of Plouernel's epaulettes. With a smile of good-natured irony the merchant replied:
"You have become a General in the service of the Republic, monsieur, and I a galley-slave! You must admit, this is piquant."
The Count of Plouernel contemplated the merchant with astonishment. He had expected to see him either utterly dejected, or in a state of violent indignation. He found him calm, smiling and witty.
"Well, monsieur," proceeded Lebrenn, keeping his seat while the General, standing before him, continued to contemplate the man with increasing wonderment. "Well, monsieur, it is almost eighteen months since that evening of February 23, which it has pleased you to recall to memory! Who would then have thought that we wouldhave met again in the position in which we find ourselves to-day!"
"Such fortitude!" exclaimed the Count of Plouernel. "This is heroism!"
"Not at all, monsieur—it is simply a matter of a clean conscience, and of confidence."
"Confidence!"
"Yes. I am calm because I have faith in the cause to which I devoted my life—and because my conscience assails me with no reproaches."
"And yet—you are in this place, monsieur."
"I pity the error of my judges."
"You—the incarnation of honor, in the livery of infamy!"
"Bah! That does not affect me."
"Far from your wife, from your children!"
"They are as often here with me as I am with them. The body is chained and separated, but the spirit laughs at chains and space."
And interrupting himself, Lebrenn added:
"But, monsieur, kindly inform me by what accident I see you here. The Commissioner of the prison sent for me. Was it only to afford me the honor of receiving your visit?"
"You would misjudge me, monsieur," answered the General, "were you to believe that, after owing my life to you, I could come here with no other motive than that of idle and offensive curiosity."
"I shall not do you such an injustice, monsieur. You are, I presume, on a tour of inspection?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I presume you learned I was here in prison, and you came, perhaps, to offer me your good offices?"
"Better yet, monsieur."
"Better yet? Pray, what do you mean? You seem to feel embarrassed."
"Indeed—I am; very much so—" replied the General, visibly put out of countenance by the calmness and easy manners of the galley-slave. "Revolutions often bring about bizarre situations."
"Bizarre situations?"
"Yes," replied the General; "the situation in which we two find ourselves at this moment, for instance."
"Oh, we already have exhausted the obvious bizarreness of fate, monsieur!" remarked the merchant smiling. "That, under the Republic, I, an old republican, should be found on the galley-bench, while you, a republican of recent date, should have been promoted to the rank of General—that is, no doubt, bizarre, we are agreed upon that. What else?"
"My embarrassment proceeds from another reason, monsieur."
"Which?"
"It happens—that—" answered the General, hesitatingly.
"It happens that?"
"I applied—"
"You applied—for what, monsieur?"
"And obtained—"
"A pardon for me!" cried Lebrenn. "Why, that's charming!"
And the situation brought about by the whirligig of politics was so droll that the merchant could not refrain from laughing heartily.
"Yes, monsieur," the General proceeded, "I have asked and obtained your pardon—you are free. Mine has been the honor of carrying the news to you personally."
"One word of explanation, monsieur," said the merchant in a tone of lofty seriousness. "I do not accept pardon; but, however tardy, I do accept atoning justice."
"What do you mean?"
"If, at the time of the fatal June insurrection, I had shared the views of those of my brothers who are here in prison with me, I would decline to accept a pardon. After having done like them, I would remain here as they, and with them!"
"Nevertheless, monsieur, your conviction—"
"Was iniquitous. I shall prove it to you in a few words. At the time of the June insurrection, last year, I was a captain in my legion. I responded without arms to the call issued by the National Guard. There I declared loudly, very loudly, that it was onlywithout armsthat I would march at the head of my company, my purpose being not to engage in a bloody conflict, but to endeavor to convince my brothers, that, notwithstanding they were exasperated by misery, by a deplorable misunderstanding, and above all by atrocious deceptions, they should never forget that the people's sovereignty was inviolable, andthat, so long as the power which represented the same had not been legally impeached and convicted of treason, to revolt against that power, to attack it with arms instead of overthrowing it by means of the universal suffrage, was a suicidal act, and was an impeachment of popular sovereignty itself.[10]About one-half of my company shared my views and followed my example. While other citizens were charging us with treason, bare-headed, unarmed, our hands fraternally linked, we advanced towards the first barricade in our path. The guns were raised at our approach—we were heard. Already our brothers understood that, however legitimate their grievances, an insurrection would mean the immediate triumph of the enemies of the Republic. At that juncture a hail of bullets rained down upon the barricade behind which we were parleying. Ignorant, no doubt, of this circumstance, a battalion of the line had attacked the position. Taken by surprise, the insurgents defended themselves heroically. The larger numberwere slain, a few were made prisoners. Confounded among the latter, several others of my own company and myself were seized and treated as insurgents. If I, thrown along with several friends of mine, into the underground dungeons of the Tuileries and kept there three days and nights, did not go crazy; if I preserved my reason, it was that, in the spirit, I was with my wife and children. Dragged before the military tribunal I there told the truth; they did not believe me. I was sent to this place. So you see, monsieur, it is not pardon that is granted to me, but tardy justice. Nevertheless, that does not prevent me from being grateful to you for the efforts you have put forth in my behalf. Well, then, I am free?"
"The Commissioner of Marine will be here presently; he will confirm what I have said to you. You can leave this place to-day—this hour."
"Now, monsieur, finding you so well entrenched at court—the republican court," the merchant proceeded to say,smiling, "I wish you would be kind enough to use your good offices with the Commissioner that he grant me a favor which he may be inclined to refuse."
"I am at your service, monsieur."
"You see this iron ring that I carry on my leg, and to which my chain is fastened? Now, then, I would like to be allowed to take this ring with me. I shall pay for it, of course."
"How! That ring! You would like to preserve it?"
"It is merely a collector's mania, monsieur. I already own several small historic curiosities—among others the casque which you so kindly presented to me as a souvenir. I would like to join to them the iron ring of the political galley-slave. You will understand, monsieur, that, to me and my family, the two curiosities together will mean a good deal."
"Nothing easier, I believe, monsieur, than to meet your wishes. I shall so notify the Commissioner. But allow me a question—it may be indiscreet."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"I remember that eighteen months ago—and many a time and oft have I recalled the incident—I remember that, when I asked you to keep my casque as a memento of your generous conduct towards me, you answered—"
"That that would not be the only article from your family that my collection contained; not so?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I told you the truth."
"You also told me, I believe, monsieur, that the Nerowegs of Plouernel—"
"Had several times, in the course of the ages and of events, encountered several members of my obscure slave, serf, vassal or plebeian family," the merchant put in, completing the sentence of the Count of Plouernel. "That is also true, monsieur."
"And what were the occasions? What the circumstances? How come you to be informed on events that took place so very long ago?"
"Permit me, monsieur, to keep that secret, and pardon me for having so thoughtlessly awakened in you a curiosity that I may not satisfy. Still laboring under the intoxicating influence of that day of triumphant civil war, and of the singular fatality that brought us, you and me, face to face, an allusion to the past escaped my lips. I regret it, because, I repeat—there are family remembrances that must never go outside of the domestic hearth."
"I shall not insist, monsieur," said the Count of Plouernel.
And after a moment's hesitation he added:
"I have another question, also, I presume, indiscreet—"
"I listen, monsieur."
"What do you think of seeing me serve the Republic?"
"Such a question demands a frank answer."
"I know you are incapable of making any other, monsieur."
"Well, I think you have no faith in the continuance of the Republic. Your policy is to turn to the best use you can, in the interest of your own party, the authority thatthe present government entrusts to you and many others. In short, you expect, at a given moment, to utilize your position in the army in favor of the return ofyour master, as you call, I believe, that big boy, the last of the Capets and of the Frankish Kings by the right of conquest. The government is placing in your hands weapons against the Republic. You accept them; it is all fair in war, from your viewpoint. As to me, I hate the monarchy of divine right by reason of the ills with which it has scourged my country. I have fought it with all my strength; nevertheless, never would I have served it with the intention of ruining it. Never would I have worn its livery, or its colors."
"Monsieur, I do not wear the livery of the Republic," answered General Plouernel warmly. "I wear the uniform of the Army."
"Come, monsieur," replied the merchant, smiling, "admit it, without reproach, that, for a soldier, what you have just said is, perhaps, a little—a littlepriestlike. But let that pass—everyone serves his cause in his own fashion. Besides, as you see, here we are, we two—you decked in the insignia of power and of force; I, a poor man, dragging a galley-slave's chain, the very same as, fifteen hundred years ago, my forefathers wore the slave's iron ring. Your party is powerful and influential. It enjoys the good wishes and would, at a pinch, enjoy the material support of the monarchists of Europe. It owns wealth; it has the clergy on its side; furthermore, the waverers, the camp-followers, the cynics, the ambitious of all previous regimes,have rallied to your side in the fear that popular sovereignty inspires them with. They proclaim aloud that, rather than democracy, they prefer the monarchy of divine right and absolute such as existed before 1789, even if it be necessary to have it supported by a permanent army of Cossacks. On the other hand, those of my party and I have implicit faith in the triumph of democracy."
The entrance of the Commissioner of Marine put an end to the conversation between the General and the merchant. The latter obtained without difficulty, thanks to the intervention of his "protector," permission to take with him his iron ring, hismanilleas the thing is called in the galleys.
That same evening Marik Lebrenn proceeded to Paris.
On the 10th of September, 1849, two days after General Plouernel brought to Marik Lebrenn his pardon and complete restitution to civic and political rights, the merchant's family was gathered in a modest apartment on the second floor of their house.
The shop had been closed two hours before. A lamp, placed upon a large round center table, lighted the several personages who sat around it.
Madam Lebrenn was busy with the mercantile books of the establishment; her daughter, dressed in mourning, gently rocked on her knees a babe asleep; while George, also in mourning, like his wife, on account of the death of his grandfather Morin a few months previous, sketched on a sheet of paper the draft of a wainscot. Immediately upon his marriage, and agreeable to the wishes of Lebrenn, George had established upon the profit-sharing principle a large joiner's shop on the ground floor of a house contiguous to that of his father-in-law.
Sacrovir Lebrenn was reading a treatise on the mechanics of cloth weaving, and from time to time inserted some notes in the margin of his book.
Jeanike was busy ironing some napkins, while Gildas, who sat before a little table with a heap of articles of linen belonging to the shop, was labeling and folding them in shape for exhibition in the show window.
Madam Lebrenn's face was pensive and sad. So also would surely have been the expression on the face of her daughter, then in the full bloom of her beauty, had she not at that moment exchanged a sweet smile with her babe, which stretched out its arms to her.
His mind drawn for a moment from his work by the gurgling laughter of the child, George turned his eyes to, and completed the group with inexpressible joy.
It was obvious that a settled grief weighed every instant, so to speak, upon this family, otherwise so tenderly and happily united. Indeed, not an hour seemed to pass without the sad thought embittering the minds of all, that the so-much-beloved, so-much-venerated head was absent from the family hearth.
During the first week of the insurrectionary month of June, 1848, Madam Lebrenn took a trip to Brittany in order to make some purchases of linen and visit several members of her family. She took her daughter and son-in-law with her. To the young couple the journey was a pleasure trip. On his part, Sacrovir had gone to Lille on a business errand for his father. He was due back in Paris before his mother's departure. Being, however, detained on the road longer than was expected, he only learned upon his return to Paris of the imprisonment of his father, who was at first sent to the dungeons of the Tuileries as an insurgent.
So soon as tidings of this shocking event reached them, Madam Lebrenn, her daughter and George returned from Brittany in all haste.
Needless to say that Monsieur Lebrenn received in his prison all the consolation that the love and devotion of his family could bestow upon him. After his sentence his wife and children wished to follow him to Rochefort, in order, at least, to live in the same city as he, and see him often. He, however, firmly opposed the plan on several grounds, both of family comfort, and interests. Moreover, the merchant's principal objection to such an inconvenient transplantation of the whole household was—and in this his otherwise good judgment this time deceived him—his positive conviction that a general amnesty would sooner or later be decreed. He caused his family to share his belief, and they, in their turn, were but too anxious to hug so bright a hope to their hearts. Thus days, and weeks and months flowed by vainly hoping, and the hope ever rising anew.
Every day the prisoner at Rochefort received a long collective letter from his wife and children; he, likewise, answered them every day. Thanks to these daily unbosomings, as much as to his own so firmly steeled character, Lebrenn had sustained without faltering the horrible ordeal from which his political enemy, the Count of Plouernel, was at last able to secure his release.
The merchant's household continued to attend to their several pursuits in silence. Presently Madam Lebrenn stopped writing for a moment and leaned her head uponher left hand, while her right remained motionless, holding the pen.
Noticing the preoccupation of his mother-in-law, George Duchene made a sign to Velleda. The two looked at Madam Lebrenn in silence. Presently her daughter said to her lovingly:
"Mother, something seems to be troubling you! What is on your mind?"
"This is the first day, children, during the last thirteen months," answered the merchant's wife, "that we have had no word from your father."
"If Monsieur Lebrenn were ill, mother," observed George, "and unable to write to us, he would have let you know through some one else, sooner than alarm you by silence. As we were saying a minute ago, it is probable his letter miscarried this time, through some accident or other."
"George is right, mother," put in the young woman, "you must not yield so readily to fears for father's safety."
"Besides, who knows," suggested Sacrovir bitterly, "the police regulations are becoming so exacting and despotic that maybe they decided to deprive father of his only consolation. The present administration of the country hates the republicans with such bitter hatred! Oh, we have relapsed into sad times."
"After imagining the future so beautiful!" exclaimed George with a sigh. "And now to see it look so black, almost desperate! There is Monsieur Lebrenn—he!—he!—sentenced to the galleys! Oh, such a sight is enough tomake one despair of the triumph of justice and right—except as an accidental and transitory incident!"
"Oh, brother, brother! I feel as if a frightful ferment of hatred and vengeance were gathering and rising in my breast!" exclaimed the merchant's son in a hollow voice. "If I could have one day—one single day—to pay back for all this—even if I were to spend the rest of my life in torment."
"Patience, brother!" answered George. "Everyone has his turn—patience!"
"Children," interposed Madam Lebrenn in a grave and melancholy voice, "you speak of justice—do not mix words of vengeance or of hatred with it. Were your father here—and he is ever with us in the spirit—he would tell you that the right does not hate—does not revenge itself. Hatred and vengeance make the head giddy. Those who persecuted your father and his party with such ferocity are a proof of what I say. Pity them—do not follow their example."