Our blacksmith poet, a tall young man, about four-and-twenty years of
age, was alert and robust, with ruddy complexion, dark hair and eyes,
and aquiline nose, and an open, expressive countenance. His resemblance
to Dagobert was rendered more striking by the thick brown moustache
which he wore according to the fashion; and a sharp-pointed imperial
covered his chin. His cheeks, however, were shaven, Olive color
velveteen trousers, a blue blouse, bronzed by the forge smoke, a black
cravat, tied carelessly round his muscular neck, a cloth cap with
a narrow vizor, composed his dress. The only thing which contrasted
singularly with his working habiliments was a handsome purple flower,
with silvery pistils, which he held in his hand.
“Good-evening, mother,” said he, as he came to kiss Frances immediately.
Then, with a friendly nod, he added, “Good-evening, Mother Bunch.”
“You are very late, my child,” said Frances, approaching the little
stove on which her son’s simple meal was simmering; “I was getting very
anxious.”
“Anxious about me, or about my supper, dear mother?” said Agricola,
gayly. “The deuce! you won’t excuse me for keeping the nice little
supper waiting that you get ready for me, for fear it should be spoilt,
eh?”
So saying, the blacksmith tried to kiss his mother again.
“Have done, you naughty boy; you’ll make me upset the pan.”
“That would be a pity, mother; for it smells delightfully. Let’s see
what it is.”
“Wait half a moment.”
“I’ll swear, now, you have some of the fried potatoes and bacon I’m so
fond of.”
“Being Saturday, of course!” said Frances, in a tone of mild reproach.
“True,” rejoined Agricola, exchanging a smile of innocent cunning with
Mother Bunch; “but, talking of Saturday, mother, here are my wages.”
“Thank ye, child; put the money in the cupboard.”
“Yes, mother!”
“Oh, dear!” cried the young sempstress, just as Agricola was about
to put away the money, “what a handsome flower you have in your hand,
Agricola. I never saw a finer. In winter, too! Do look at it, Mrs.
Baudoin.”
“See there, mother,” said Agricola, taking the flower to her; “look
at it, admire it, and especially smell it. You can’t have a sweeter
perfume; a blending of vanilla and orange blossom.”
“Indeed, it does smell nice, child. Goodness! how handsome!” said
Frances, admiringly; “where did you find it?”
“Find it, my good mother!” repeated Agricola, smilingly: “do you think
folks pick up such things between the Barriere du Maine and the Rue
Brise-Miche?”
“How did you get it then?” inquired the sewing girl, sharing in
Frances’s curiosity.
“Oh! you would like to know? Well, I’ll satisfy you, and explain why
I came home so late; for something else detained me. It has been an
evening of adventures, I promise you. I was hurrying home, when I heard
a low, gentle barking at the corner of the Rue de Babylone; it was just
about dusk, and I could see a very pretty little dog, scarce bigger than
my fist, black and tan, with long, silky hair, and ears that covered its
paws.”
“Lost, poor thing, I warrant,” said Frances.
“You’ve hit it. I took up the poor thing, and it began to lick my hands.
Round its neck was a red satin ribbon, tied in a large bow; but as that
did not bear the master’s name, I looked beneath it, and saw a small
collar, made of a gold plate and small gold chains. So I took a Lucifer
match from my ‘bacco-box, and striking a light, I read, ‘FRISKY belongs
to Hon. Miss Adrienne de Cardoville, No. 7, Rue de Babylone.’”
“Why, you were just in the street,” said Mother Bunch.
“Just so. Taking the little animal under my arm, I looked about me till
I came to a long garden wall, which seemed to have no end, and found a
small door of a summer-house, belonging no doubt to the large mansion at
the other end of the park; for this garden looked just like a park. So,
looking up I saw ‘No. 7,’ newly painted over a little door with a grated
slide. I rang; and in a few minutes, spent, no doubt, in observing me
through the bars (for I am sure I saw a pair of eyes peeping through),
the gate opened. And now, you’ll not believe a word I have to say.”
“Why not, my child?”
“Because it seems like a fairy tale.”
“A fairy tale?” said Mother Bunch, as if she was really her namesake of
elfish history.
“For, all the world it does. I am quite astounded, even now, at my
adventure; it is like the remembrance of a dream.”
“Well, let us have it,” said the worthy mother, so deeply interested
that she did not perceive her son’s supper was beginning to burn.
“First,” said the blacksmith, smiling at the curiosity he had excited,
“a young lady opened the door to me, but so lovely, so beautifully
and gracefully dressed, that you would have taken her for a beautiful
portrait of past times. Before I could say a word, she exclaimed, ‘Ah!
dear me, sir, you have brought back Frisky; how happy Miss Adrienne
will be! Come, pray come in instantly; she would so regret not having
an opportunity to thank you in person!’ And without giving me time to
reply, she beckoned me to follow her. Oh, dear mother, it is quite out
of my power to tell you, the magnificence I saw, as I passed through
a small saloon, partially lighted, and full of perfume! It would be
impossible. The young woman walked too quickly. A door opened,--Oh, such
a sight! I was so dazzled I can remember nothing but a great glare of
gold and light, crystal and flowers; and, amidst all this brilliancy,
a young lady of extreme beauty--ideal beauty; but she had red hair, or
rather hair shining like gold! Oh! it was charming to look at! I never
saw such hair before. She had black eyes, ruddy lips, and her skin
seemed white as snow. This is all I can recollect: for, as I said
before, I was so dazzled, I seemed to be looking through a veil.
‘Madame,’ said the young woman, whom I never should have taken for
a lady’s-maid, she was dressed so elegantly, ‘here is Frisky. This
gentleman found him, and brought him back.’ ‘Oh, sir,’ said the young
lady with the golden hair, in a sweet silvery voice, ‘what thanks I owe
you! I am foolishly attached to Frisky.’ Then, no doubt, concluding from
my dress that she ought to thank me in some other way than by words, she
took up a silk purse, and said to me, though I must confess with some
hesitation--‘No doubt, sir, it gave you some trouble to bring my pet
back. You have, perhaps, lost some valuable time--allow me--’ She held
forth her purse.”
“Oh, Agricola,” said Mother Bunch, sadly; “how people may be deceived!”
“Hear the end, and you will perhaps forgive the young lady. Seeing by
my looks that the offer of the purse hurt me, she took a magnificent
porcelain vase that contained this flower, and, addressing me in a tone
full of grace and kindness, that left me room to guess that she was
vexed at having wounded me, she said--‘At least, sir, you will accept
this flower.’”
“You are right, Agricola,” said the girl, smiling sadly; “an involuntary
error could not be repaired in a nicer way.
“Worthy young lady,” said Frances, wiping her eyes; “how well she
understood my Agricola!”
“Did she not, mother? But just as I was taking the flower, without
daring to raise my eyes (for, notwithstanding the young lady’s kind
manner, there was something very imposing about her) another handsome
girl, tall and dark, and dressed to the top of fashion, came in and said
to the red-haired young lady, ‘He is here, Madame.’ She immediately rose
and said to me, ‘A thousand pardons, sir. I shall never forget that I
am indebted to you for a moment of much pleasure. Pray remember, on all
occasions, my address and name--Adrienne de Cardoville.’ Thereupon she
disappeared. I could not find a word to say in reply. The same young
woman showed me to the door, and curtseyed to me very politely. And
there I stood in the Rue de Babylone, as dazzled and astonished as if I
had come out of an enchanted palace.”
“Indeed, my child, it is like a fairy tale. Is it not, my poor girl?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mother Bunch, in an absent manner that Agricola did
not observe.
“What affected me most,” rejoined Agricola, “was, that the young lady,
on seeing her little dog, did not forget me for it, as many would
have done in her place, and took no notice of it before me. That shows
delicacy and feeling, does it not? Indeed, I believe this young lady to
be so kind and generous, that I should not hesitate to have recourse to
her in any important case.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied the sempstress, more and more absent.
The poor girl suffered extremely. She felt no jealousy, no hatred,
towards this young stranger, who, from her beauty, wealth, and delicacy,
seemed to belong to a sphere too splendid and elevated to be even
within the reach of a work, girl’s vision; but, making an involuntary
comparison of this fortunate condition with her own, the poor thing had
never felt more cruelly her deformity and poverty. Yet such were the
humility and gentle resignation of this noble creature, that the only
thing which made her feel ill-disposed towards Adrienne de Cardoville
was the offer of the purse to Agricola; but then the charming way in
which the young lady had atoned for her error, affected the sempstress
deeply. Yet her heart was ready to break. She could not restrain her
tears as she contemplated the magnificent flower--so rich in color and
perfume, which, given by a charming hand, was doubtless very precious to
Agricola.
“Now, mother,” resumed the young man smilingly, and unaware of the
painful emotion of the other bystander, “you have had the cream of my
adventures first. I have told you one of the causes of my delay; and now
for the other. Just now, as I was coming in, I met the dyer at the foot
of the stairs, his arms a beautiful pea-green. Stopping me he said, with
an air full of importance, that he thought he had seen a chap sneaking
about the house like a spy, ‘Well, what is that to you, Daddy Loriot?’
said I: ‘are you afraid he will nose out the way to make the beautiful
green, with which you are dyed up to the very elbows?’”
“But who could that man be, Agricola?” said Frances.
“On my word, mother, I don’t know and scarcely care; I tried to persuade
Daddy Loriot, who chatters like a magpie, to return to his cellar, since
it could signify as little to him as to me, whether a spy watched him
or not.” So saying, Agricola went and placed the little leathern sack,
containing his wages, on a shelf, in the cupboard.
As Frances put down the saucepan on the end of the table, Mother Bunch,
recovering from her reverie, filled a basin with water, and, taking
it to the blacksmith, said to him in a gentle tone-“Agricola--for your
hands.”
“Thank you, little sister. How kind you are!” Then with a most
unaffected gesture and tone, he added, “There is my fine flower for your
trouble.”
“Do you give it me?” cried the sempstress, with emotion, while a vivid
blush colored her pale and interesting face. “Do you give me this
handsome flower, which a lovely rich young lady so kindly and graciously
gave you?” And the poor thing repeated, with growing astonishment, “Do
you give it to me?”
“What the deuce should I do with it? Wear it on my heart, have it set as
a pin?” said Agricola, smiling. “It is true I was very much impressed by
the charming way in which the young lady thanked me. I am delighted to
think I found her little dog, and very happy to be able to give you this
flower, since it pleases you. You see the day has been a happy one.”
While Mother Bunch, trembling with pleasure, emotion, and surprise, took
the flower, the young blacksmith washed his hands, so black with smoke
and steel filings that the water became dark in an instant. Agricola,
pointing out this change to the sempstress, said to her in a whisper,
laughing,-“Here’s cheap ink for us paper-stainers! I finished some
verses yesterday, which I am rather satisfied with. I will read them to
you.”
With this, Agricola wiped his hands naturally on the front of his
blouse, while Mother Bunch replaced the basin on the chest of drawers,
and laid the flower against the side of it.
“Can’t you ask for a towel,” said Frances, shrugging her shoulders,
“instead of wiping your hands on your blouse?”
“After being scorched all day long at the forge, it will be all the
better for a little cooling to-night, won’t it? Am I disobedient,
mother? Scold me, then, if you dare! Come, let us see you.”
Frances made no reply; but, placing her hands on either side of her
son’s head, so beautiful in its candor, resolution and intelligence, she
surveyed him for a moment with maternal pride, and kissed him repeatedly
on the forehead.
“Come,” said she, “sit down: you stand all day at your forge, and it is
late.”
“So,--your arm-chair again!” said Agricola.--“Our usual quarrel every
evening--take it away, I shall be quite as much at ease on another.”
“No, no! You ought at least to rest after your hard toil.”
“What tyranny!” said Agricola gayly, sitting down. “Well, I preach like
a good apostle; but I am quite at ease in your arm-chair, after all.
Since I sat down on the throne in the Tuileries, I have never had a
better seat.”
Frances Baudoin, standing on one side of the table, cut a slice of bread
for her son, while Mother Bunch, on the other, filled his silver mug.
There was something affecting in the attentive eagerness of the two
excellent creatures, for him whom they loved so tenderly.
“Won’t you sup with me?” said Agricola to the girl.
“Thank you, Agricola,” replied the sempstress, looking down, “I have
only just dined.”
“Oh, I only ask you for form’s sake--you have your whims--we can never
prevail on you to eat with us--just like mother; she prefers dining all
alone; and in that way she deprives herself without my knowing it.”
“Goodness, child! It is better for my health to dine early. Well, do you
find it nice?”
“Nice!--call it excellent! Stockfish and parsnips. Oh, I am very fond of
stockfish; I should have been born a Newfoundland fisherman.”
This worthy lad, on the contrary, was but poorly refreshed, after a hard
day’s toil, with this paltry stew,--a little burnt as it had been, too,
during his story; but he knew he pleased his mother by observing the
fast without complaining. He affected to enjoy his meal; and the good
woman accordingly observed with satisfaction:
“Oh, I see you like it, my dear boy; Friday and Saturday next we’ll have
some more.”
“Thank you, mother,--only not two days together. One gets tired
of luxuries, you know! And now, let us talk of what we shall do
to-morrow--Sunday. We must be very merry, for the last few days you
seem very sad, dear mother, and I can’t make it out--I fancy you are not
satisfied with me.”
“Oh, my dear child!--you--the pattern of--”
“Well, well! Prove to me that you are happy, then, by taking a little
amusement. Perhaps you will do us the honor of accompanying us, as you
did last time,” added Agricola, bowing to Mother Bunch.
The latter blushed and looked down; her face assumed an expression of
bitter grief, and she made no reply.
“I have the prayers to attend all day, you know, my dear child,” said
Frances to her son.
“Well, in the evening, then? I don’t propose the theatre; but they say
there is a conjurer to be seen whose tricks are very amusing.
“I am obliged to you, my son; but that is a kind of theatre.”
“Dear mother, this is unreasonable!”
“My dear child, do I ever hinder others from doing what they like?”
“True, dear mother; forgive me. Well, then, if it should be fine, we
will simply take a walk with Mother Bunch on the Boulevards. It is
nearly three months since she went out with us; and she never goes out
without us.”
“No, no; go alone, my child. Enjoy your Sunday, ‘tis little enough.”
“You know very well, Agricola,” said the sempstress, blushing up to the
eyes, “that I ought not to go out with you and your mother again.”
“Why not, madame? May I ask, without impropriety, the cause of this
refusal?” said Agricola gayly.
The poor girl smiled sadly, and replied, “Because I will not expose you
to a quarrel on my account, Agricola.”
“Forgive me,” said Agricola, in a tone of sincere grief, and he struck
his forehead vexedly.
To this Mother Bunch alluded sometimes, but very rarely, for she
observed punctilious discretion. The girl had gone out with Agricola and
his mother. Such occasions were, indeed, holidays for her. Many days and
nights had she toiled hard to procure a decent bonnet and shawl, that
she might not do discredit to her friends. The five or six days of
holidays, thus spent arm in arm with him whom she adored in secret,
formed the sum of her happy days.
Taking their last walk, a coarse, vulgar man elbowed her so rudely
that the poor girl could not refrain from a cry of terror, and the man
retorted it by saying,-“What are you rolling your hump in my way for,
stoopid?”
Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give
to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary
to avenge an insult. Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola
left his mother’s arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age,
size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge
fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face. The villain
attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the
amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of
hisses. This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with
Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel. We may
conceive the blacksmith’s regret at having thus unwittingly revived the
memory of this circumstance,--more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch
than Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her
infirmity had been the cause of that quarrel. Notwithstanding his
strength and resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and,
thinking how painful that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear
filled his eyes, and, holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly
tone, “Forgive my heedlessness! Come, kiss me.” And he gave her thin,
pale cheeks two hearty kisses.
The poor girl’s lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart
beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the
table.
“Come, you forgive me, do you not?” said Agricola.
“Yes! yes!” she said, trying to subdue her emotion; “but the
recollection of that quarrel pains me--I was so alarmed on your account;
if the crowd had sided with that man!”
“Alas!” said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl’s relief, without
knowing it, “I was never so afraid in all my life!”
“Oh, mother,” rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which
had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, “for the wife of a horse
grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage. Oh, my brave
father; I can’t believe he is really coming! The very thought turns me
topsy-turvy!”
“Heaven grant he may come,” said Frances, with a sigh.
“God grant it, mother. He will grant it, I should think. Lord knows, you
have had masses enough said for his return.”
“Agricola, my child,” said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking
her head sadly, “do not speak in that way. Besides, you are talking of
your father.”
“Well, I’m in for it this evening. ‘Tis your turn now; positively, I am
growing stupid, or going crazy. Forgive me, mother! forgive! That’s the
only word I can get out to-night. You know that, when I do let out on
certain subjects, it is because I can’t help it; for I know well the
pain it gives you.”
“You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy.”
“It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend
one’s mother; and, with respect to what I said about father’s return, I
do not see that we have any cause to doubt it.”
“But we have not heard from him for four months.”
“You know, mother, in his letter--that is, in the letter which he
dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier,
he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write);
well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that
he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us
word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive,
that I might go and meet him.”
“True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet.”
“The greater reason why we should wait patiently. But I’ll tell you
more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back
about the same time. His last letter from America makes me hope so. What
pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!”
“Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me.”
“And that day will soon come, trust me.”
“Do you remember your father, Agricola?” inquired Mother Bunch.
“To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier’s shako and
moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon
of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the
shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what
is the matter? You are weeping!”
“Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at
his age--sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think
that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another.”
“What do you mean?”
“Alas! I earn nothing now.”
“Why, what’s become of me? Isn’t there a room here for you and for him;
and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of
domestic affairs,” added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness
to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, “when he and Gabriel
come home, you won’t want to have any more masses said, and tapers
burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have
tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we
will take a nice dinner at the eating-house.”
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
“Come in,” said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the
door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the
blacksmith.
“‘Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers,” said Agricola; “come in, Daddy,
no ceremony.”
“Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should
cover missus’s floor with green.”
“So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much.”
“Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately.”
“About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what’s he to us?”
“No; I think he’s gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can’t see
him. But that’s not it--come, come quickly! It is very important,” said
the dyer, with a mysterious look; “and only concerns you.”
“Me, only?” said Agricola, with surprise. “What can it be.
“Go and see, my child,” said Frances.
“Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out.”
And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.