Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 388
“Good evening, dear Alison ... you look alarmed.... Tell us the cause of your trouble.”
“Oh, Dame Marguerite! I have but too much reason for being alarmed, if not for myself, yet for you”; and interrupting herself she added: “First of all, and so as not to forget the circumstance, I must warn you that coming in I saw three men enveloped in cloaks who seem to be in hiding on some ambuscade. These men seem to have evil intents.”
“Agnes, our servant, also noticed them,” said Denise; “we are forewarned.”
“They are no doubt spies,” replied Marguerite. “But Marcel need not fear the consequences of being spied upon. Whatever he does is in the public interest, and none of his acts need concealment. Nevertheless, seeing that hatred now dogs his steps ... the information may be useful.”
“It is distressing to me, Dame Marguerite, to bring what may be bad news to you, who received me so kindly upon my arrival from Beauvoisis.”
“Our friend Jocelyn recommended you to us; he informed us of your misfortunes and of your tender care of that ill-starred Aveline. Our good wishes in your behalf were but natural. But what is the matter?”
“This evening I was looking out of the window of my room at the tumult of the people in the street, because you must know there is an unusual agitation this evening on the streets of Paris, when a young man all out of breath, handed me this note from Rufin the Tankard-smasher.”
Alison drew from her corsage a slip of paper which she passed to Marguerite, who nervously seizing it began to read it aloud:
“As true as Venus in her Olympian beauty....”
“Skip that, skip that, Dame Marguerite! Begin at the fourth or fifth line,” said Alison, blushing and smiling at once. “Those are but flourishes that Master Rufin amuses himself with. Lose no more time over them than I did myself.... That worthy fellow should have abstained from his roguishness when writing upon such serious subjects.”
After having run her eyes over the first lines of the epistle, during which the student displayed his amorous and mythological vein, Marguerite arrived at the essential portion of the missive:
“ ... Hurry to the house of Master Marcel; if he is not at home, tell his honored wife to have him warned not to leave the town-hall without a strong escort. I am on the track of a plot against him. So soon as I shall have positive proofs I shall go either to Master Marcel’s house, or to the town-hall to inform him of my discovery. Above all, let him be on his guard against Councilman Maillart. He has no more mortal enemy. He ought to order his arrest on the spot ... just as I would on the spot have your heart for my prison whose turnkey is the gentle bantling Cupid.”
“Skip all that also, Dame Marguerite; those are some more flourishes. There is nothing more of importance. I am not a little surprised at seeing master student mix up folly with serious matter in that manner.”
“Serious, indeed! Very serious!... This letter increases my apprehensions,” answered Marguerite, trembling; and recalling her recent conversation with the councilman’s wife, she thought to herself: “Could the councilman’s offer be a snare?... And still I can not yet accept the existence of quite so horrible a plot!”
“My God!” cried Denise bitterly, “and yet uncle, despite all our presentiments, always answers us when we mention to him our suspicions regarding Maillart: ‘He is not a bad sort of a man; only he is wholly under the influence of his wife, who is devoured with vanity. Do not judge him unjustly.’”
“Dear Alison,” rejoined Marguerite after a few moments’ reflection, “did you question the messenger who brought you the letter?”
“Indeed, madam ... I asked where he had left Master Rufin.”
“What answer did he make?”
“That the student was in a tavern near the arcade of St. Nicholas when he handed him the letter.”
As Alison was uttering the last words, two men wrapped to the eyes in cloaks entered the room. Marguerite immediately recognized her husband and Jocelyn the Champion. As they were throwing off their wraps, Marguerite cried: “At last, here you are!” and unable longer to control her emotions, she threw her arms around Marcel’s neck, while Denise gave her hand to her lover, who respectfully took it to his lips. Under his armor Jocelyn wore a black jacket, a piece of clothing that he had assumed since the day that he witnessed the execution of Mazurec the Lambkin. Sad and pale, the face of Jocelyn betokened the grief that beset his mind. After tenderly embracing Marcel, who effusively returned her caresses, Marguerite said, delivering to him Rufin the Tankard-smasher’s letter:
“My friend, take notice of what this latter contains; our good Alison just brought it to me in great haste.”
Marcel read the letter in a low voice in the midst of the profound silence of all present, while Marguerite, his niece and Alison attentively watched his face. He remained calm throughout. He even smiled at the mythological flourishes of the student. When he had finished the letter he returned it to Alison, saying kindly:
“I thank you for your anxiety to bring me the missive, Dame Alison; our friend Rufin is wrongly alarmed.”
“Nevertheless, my friend,” put in Marguerite with intense seriousness, “what about the plot that the student mentions, and on the track of which he says he is?”
“Rufin must have exaggerated to himself the importance of some insignificant fact, my dear Marguerite.”
“But ... did you notice what he said about Maillart?”
“Last evening Maillart affectionately shook me by the hand when leaving the town-hall after a discussion in which his opinion differed from mine. ‘Men,’ said he to me, ‘may differ, but the bonds of old friendship are indissoluble,’ he added.”
Jocelyn confirmed the episode, but Marguerite insisted, the disclosures of the student having gone far to confirm her suspicions against the councilman. “Marcel,” said the alarmed wife, “Maillart’s wife was here this evening ... she came to propose a place of refuge for you in case of danger — —”
“The generous offer does not surprise me.”
“A man is to come here this midnight ... you are to follow him alone ... well wrapt in your mantle,” said Marguerite with emphasis. “Alone ... do you hear, Marcel?... and he is to conduct you to a place whence you shall be able to flee without danger.”
“This is too much kindness,” Marcel answered with a smile. “I am grateful for the offer; I do not think of fleeing, that is certain.... We never have been so near the triumph.”
“What!” cried Marguerite encouraged by new hope. “Is that true? And yet, why all this commotion.... Why this tumult in Paris ... why these alarming rumors?” And her apprehensions that for an instant had been allayed by the reassuring words of her husband, again regaining the upperhand, she proceeded sadly: “The precaution that you as well as Jocelyn took of enveloping yourselves in these cloaks, no doubt for the purpose of not being recognized on the street — all these things contribute to make me fear that you are deceiving yourself ... or that out of consideration for me, you are concealing the true state of things.”
“Aunt forgot to tell you that three men seem to have been watching our house all evening,” said Denise, and it did not escape her that Jocelyn seemed struck by the circumstance.
“And I also,” observed Alison, “noticed at entering that there seemed to be three spies near the house. Their presence is strange.”
“My friend,” said Marguerite, seeking to detect from her husband’s face whether his feeling of safety was real or assumed, “I sent you this evening a note that I wrote to you at our friend’s, Simon the Feather-dealer. I there informed you of my impressions on my personal observations, and urged you to take precautionary measures.”
“I received your letter, my dear wife,” said Marcel, tenderly taking Marguerite’s hands. “You trust me, do you not?... Very well; believe me when I assert that your fears are unfounded. Better than anybody else do I know what is going on in Paris this evening. Are our enemies active? I let them talk, certain that I shall lead my work to a happy issue, as my device proclaims. For the rest, is not my presence here the best proof of my confidence in the situation? Upon receipt of your letter I decided to leave the town-hall for a moment in order to come and calm your fears, to comfort you, and also to beg of you not to alarm yourself if it should happen that I do not return home all day to-morrow.... To-morrow grave matters will be decided. And to sum up,” Marcel proceeded, cheerfully, “as I mean to overthrow all your objections, you dear, timid soul, I shall add that it was partly due to my modesty that I enveloped myself in that cloak. I meant to reach here and return without being stopped twenty times on the street by the cheers of the people. Despite the envy and hatred of some of the bourgeois partisans of the Regent, Marcel continues to be loved by the people of Paris.”
“And you would not doubt it, Dame Marguerite,” added Jocelyn, “if you had heard, as I did, the addresses delivered to-day by the trades guilds, all of which came to pledge their loyalty to Master Marcel.”
Jocelyn’s words, the cheerful and serene physiognomy of the provost and the tone of conviction that marked his words, somewhat allayed the fears of Marguerite and Denise, the latter of whom said to Marcel: “Your presence suffices to encourage us, dear uncle, just as the sight of the physician sometimes suffices to allay the pains of a patient.”
“My worthy Jocelyn,” Marcel said, cheerfully, turning to the champion, “that applies to you as much as to me ... you happy and beloved lover!”
“Dear Denise,” said the champion to the blushing maid, “the mourning for my poor brother has put off our marriage.... I do not very much regret the circumstance when I consider that in these days of turmoil I could not have devoted all my time to you. But believe Master Marcel; better days are approaching. Need I tell you that they are the subject of my ardent wishes, seeing that they will witness our union?”
“Dame Alison,” cordially put in Marcel, “since marriage is the topic of the conversation, take pity on the amorous martyrdom of poor Rufin.... He is a good and loyal heart, despite some transports of youth that earned for him the nickname of ‘Tankard-smasher.’ I feel quite sure that the wholesome influence of a kind and honorable woman like yourself would make an excellent husband of him. It would be a double pleasure to me to see you and Rufin, Denise and Jocelyn, approach the altar the same day. What say you?”
“That needs thinking over,” answered Alison, meditatively. “That needs much thinking over, Master Marcel. For the rest,” she proceeded, with a blush and a sigh, “I say neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’.... I wish to consult Dame Marguerite.”
“Rufin’s prospects are good,” rejoined the provost. “The woman who says not nay ever has a strong wish to say aye.”
“Marcel would not be so cheerful and jovial did he actually believe himself and his partisans on the eve of grave dangers,” thought Marguerite, now more and more reassured by the turn of gaiety her husband’s words had taken. “I must have attached exaggerated importance to what I heard this evening. My husband is right. Even when his popularity is strongest, calumny pursues him. Maillart may be yielding simultaneously both to envy and the more generous feelings prompted by old friendship. He may believe in the loss of popularity by Marcel and enjoy the idea, and yet wish to save him. That wicked Petronille has merely thrown poison into an offer that, in itself, is honorable. If it were otherwise, Maillart would be the vilest of men, and that I am not ready to believe. Such a degree of perversity would exceed the bounds of possibility — —”
“Denise,” said the provost, kissing his niece on the forehead, “order a lamp to be taken into my cabinet. I have some documents to finish.” Turning to his wife, whom he also kissed on the forehead: “I shall see you again before I leave,” and taking Jocelyn by the arm: “Come, we have work to attend to.”
Denise hastened to carry a lamp into Marcel’s cabinet, where she left her uncle and her lover closeted together.
CHAPTER III.
DARKENING SHADOWS.
ONCE ALONE IN his cabinet with Jocelyn, Marcel sank into profound pensiveness. The cheerful serenity that had pervaded his bearing during the conversation with his wife was now replaced by an expression of melancholic seriousness. For a few minutes he contemplated in silence his studious retreat, the witness of the meditations of his riper years. Finally, leaning over a large table that was strewn with parchments, he emitted a sigh and said to Jocelyn:
“How many nights have I not spent here, elaborating by the light of this little lamp the plans of reform that some day, hap now what hap may, will be the solid basis for the emancipation of our people, the evangelium of the rights of the citizen!... Here have been spent the happiest, the most beautiful days of my life!... What a pure joy did I not then taste!... Sustained by my ardent love for justice and right, and enlightened by the lessons of the past, I soared upward to the sublimest theories of freedom!... I then was ignorant of the deceptions, the evils, the delays, the struggles, the storms that the practice and application of truth inevitably engender!... I then saw truth in its radiant simplicity!... I did not then reckon with human passions!... But that matters not!... Truth is absolute.... Sooner or later it imposes itself upon humanity that ever is on the march, progresses and improves itself....”
Jocelyn listened to Marcel in mute reverence. He now beheld that illustrious man wrapt with pensive brow in ever deeper meditation. A few instants later, Marcel stepped towards an oaken trunk that age had blackened. He opened it, took out several rolls of parchment, lay them on the table, pushed a stool near and sat down to write. His virile and characterful face betrayed by degrees increasing sadness, and, to Jocelyn’s surprise several tears dropped from the provost’s eyes upon the lines that he was writing. Tears from so great a man, from a man of such energy, endowed with ancient stoicism, profoundly impressed the champion. Jocelyn’s heart ached, and he began to suspect Marcel’s motives for the affectation of safety that he had shortly before displayed before his family. Jocelyn saw him dry his tears and seal the parchment with black wax, using for that purpose the impress of a large gold ring that he wore on his finger, after which, placing the scroll together with the others that he had taken from the trunk, he made one package of all, sealed them together and replaced them in the trunk. He then locked it, and giving the key to Jocelyn, said to him deliberately:
“Keep this key safe.... I charge you to deliver it to my wife and to tell her, in case certain events should happen, that she will find in that trunk, together with my testament and some other papers that it is well to keep, a letter for herself ... written by me this evening ... written for my beloved Marguerite....”
“Master Marcel,” Jocelyn answered, a cold shudder running over his frame, “these are lugubrious preparations.”
“Lugubrious?... no ... but prudent.... I have fulfilled my sacred duty.... I now find myself in a singular frame of mind.... The latest happenings, those of to-day, cast over my mind, not any doubt upon the decision I should take, but considerable uncertainty on the head of the means to be adopted. Never yet have I been so in need of a clearness of judgment as now, when I must take some supreme and irrevocable step. I imagine that by talking over the general condition of things, these will stand out more clearly before me. Thought expressed in words becomes preciser, while mute it often fades from one thing to another and is lost to the goal in mind. Therefore, listen to me, and if in the rough sketch that I shall present any omission should strike you, any point should seem obscure, tell me so.... It is a friendly duty that I now conjure you to fulfill.”
“I listen, Master Marcel.”
“Upon your return from Clermont — pardon that I open the wound of your private sorrow — I also wept over the death of your unfortunate brother — upon your return from Clermont, you informed me of the massacre of the Jacques. The following day we learned that the Captal of Buch and the Count of Foix exterminated at Meaux another considerable troop of revolted peasants. Finally, recovering from the stupor into which these formidable insurrections had struck it, the nobility gathered its forces and running over the country it put a mass of serfs, men, women and children, to frightful tortures and to death, whether these sympathized with the Jacquerie or not, and set their villages on fire. That settled, at least for a long time to come, all thought of an alliance between the townsfolks and the country people. The destruction of the Jacquerie reduces the bourgeoisie to its own forces in its struggle against the Regent. The bourgeoisie has, thereupon, no choice but either to accept the unequal fight or deliver itself to Charles the Wicked, and instead of dictating terms to him, accept those that he may choose to dictate to us.”
“That was the calculation of the blood-thirsty knave. He said so explicitly to me at Clermont.”
“Nevertheless, by massacring the Jacques, skillful politician though Charles the Wicked be, he deprived himself of powerful auxiliaries against the Regent, whose forces are far superior to those of his own. He may fail in his calculations.”
“The scoundrelly prince! Had he followed your generous advice, his own hands, re-inforced by thousands of armed peasants and thousands of bourgeois, would by now have crushed the royal troops. And profiting by the general enthusiasm of the people, who are as exasperated at the English as at the seigneurs, Charles the Wicked would now be chasing the foreigners from our soil and would ascend the throne in the midst of the acclamations of a people whom he would govern placing before them the example of submission to the national assembly.”
