Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 557
“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 return from 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 yet
I 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 shall supply 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 has in 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.
CHAPTER XI.
LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!
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:
THE FRENCH REPUBLIC.
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 its new 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 memorable day 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 to wish 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:
LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!
LIBERTY — EQUALITY — FRATERNITY.
AN OFFERING TO THE FATHERLAND.
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!”
