In five minutes Agricola returned; his face was pale and agitated--his
eyes glistened with tears, and his hands trembled; but his countenance
expressed extraordinary happiness and emotion. He stood at the door for
a moment, as if too much affected to accost his mother.
Frances’s sight was so bad that she did not immediately perceive the
change her son’s countenance had undergone.
“Well, my child--what is it?” she inquired.
Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more
discernment, exclaimed: “Goodness, Agricola--how pale you are! Whatever
is the matter?”
“Mother,” said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying
to the sempstress,--“mother, expect news that will astonish you; but
promise me you will be calm.”
“What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was
right--you are quite pale.”
“My kind mother!” and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her
hands in his--“you must--you do not know,--but--”
The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.
“You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. ‘What is the matter?--you
terrify me!”
“Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary,” said Agricola,
drying his eyes--“you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and
command your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much
grief.”
“What?”
“Did I not say true, when I said he would come?”
“Father!” cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and
emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its
beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and
assisted her to sit down.
Mother Bunch, till now, had stood discreetly apart, witnessing from a
distance the scene which completely engrossed Agricola and his mother.
But she now drew near timidly, thinking she might be useful; for Frances
changed color more and more.
“Come, courage, mother,” said the blacksmith; “now the shock is over,
you have only to enjoy the pleasure of seeing my father.”
“My poor man! after eighteen years’ absence. Oh, I cannot believe it,”
said Frances, bursting into tears. “Is it true? Is it, indeed, true?”
“So true, that if you will promise me to keep as calm as you can, I will
tell you when you may see him.”
“Soon--may I not?”
“Yes; soon.”
“But when will he arrive?”
“He may arrive any minute--to-morrow--perhaps to-day.”
“To-day!”
“Yes, mother! Well, I must tell you all--he has arrived.”
“He--he is--” Frances could not articulate the word.
“He was downstairs just now. Before coming up, he sent the dyer to
apprise me that I might prepare you; for my brave father feared the
surprise might hurt you.”
“Oh, heaven!”
“And now,” cried the blacksmith, in an accent of indescribable joy--“he
is there, waiting! Oh, mother! for the last ten minutes I have scarcely
been able to contain myself--my heart is bursting with joy.” And running
to the door, he threw it open.
Dagobert, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, stood on the threshold.
Instead of rushing to her husband’s arms, Frances fell on her knees
in prayer. She thanked heaven with profound gratitude for hearing her
prayers, and thus accepting her offerings. During a second, the actors
of this scene stood silent and motionless. Agricola, by a sentiment of
respect and delicacy, which struggled violently with his affection,
did not dare to fall on his father’s neck. He waited with constrained
impatience till his mother had finished her prayer.
The soldier experienced the same feeling as the blacksmith; they
understood each other. The first glance exchanged by father and son
expressed their affection--their veneration for that excellent woman,
who in the fulness of her religious fervor, forgot, perhaps, too much
the creature for the Creator.
Rose and Blanche, confused and affected, looked with interest on the
kneeling woman; while Mother Bunch, shedding in silence tears of joy
at the thought of Agricola’s happiness, withdrew into the most obscure
corner of the room, feeling that she was a stranger, and necessarily out
of place in that family meeting. Frances rose, and took a step towards
her husband, who received her in his arms. There was a moment of solemn
silence. Dagobert and Frances said not a word. Nothing could be heard
but a few sighs, mingled with sighs of joy. And, when the aged couple
looked up, their expression was calm, radiant, serene; for the full and
complete enjoyment of simple and pure sentiments never leaves behind a
feverish and violent agitation.
“My children,” said the soldier, in tones of emotion, presenting the
orphans to Frances, who, after her first agitation, had surveyed them
with astonishment, “this is my good and worthy wife; she will be to the
daughters of General Simon what I have been to them.”
“Then, madame, you will treat us as your children,” said Rose,
approaching Frances with her sister.
“The daughters of General Simon!” cried Dagobert’s wife, more and more
astonished.
“Yes, my dear Frances; I have brought them from afar not without some
difficulty; but I will tell you that by and by.”
“Poor little things! One would take them for two angels, exactly
alike!” said Frances, contemplating the orphans with as much interest as
admiration.
“Now--for us,” cried Dagobert, turning to his son.
“At last,” rejoined the latter.
We must renounce all attempts to describe the wild joy of Dagobert
and his son, and the crushing grip of their hands, which Dagobert
interrupted only to look in Agricola’s face; while he rested his hands
on the young blacksmith’s broad shoulders that he might see to more
advantage his frank masculine countenance, and robust frame. Then he
shook his hand again, exclaiming, “He’s a fine fellow--well built--what
a good-hearted look he has!”
From a corner of the room Mother Bunch enjoyed Agricola’s happiness; but
she feared that her presence, till then unheeded, would be an intrusion.
She wished to withdraw unnoticed, but could not do so. Dagobert and his
son were between her and the door; and she stood unable to take her eyes
from the charming faces of Rose and Blanche. She had never seen anything
so winsome; and the extraordinary resemblance of the sisters increased
her surprise. Then, their humble mourning revealing that they were poor,
Mother Bunch involuntarily felt more sympathy towards them.
“Dear children! They are cold; their little hands are frozen, and,
unfortunately, the fire is out,” said Frances, She tried to warm the
orphans’ hands in hers, while Dagobert and his son gave themselves up to
the feelings of affection, so long restrained.
As soon as Frances said that the fire was out, Mother Bunch hastened to
make herself useful, as an excuse for her presence; and, going to the
cupboard, where the charcoal and wood were kept, she took some small
pieces, and, kneeling before the stove, succeeded, by the aid of a few
embers that remained, in relighting the fire, which soon began to draw
and blaze. Filling a coffee-pot with water, she placed it on the stove,
presuming that the orphans required some warm drink. The sempstress did
all this with so much dexterity and so little noise--she was naturally
so forgotten amidst the emotions of the scene--that Frances, entirely
occupied with Rose and Blanche, only perceived the fire when she felt
its warmth diffusing round, and heard the boiling water singing in the
coffee-pot. This phenomenon--fire rekindling of itself--did not astonish
Dagobert’s wife then, so wholly was she taken up in devising how she
could lodge the maidens; for Dagobert as we have seen, had not given her
notice of their arrival.
Suddenly a loud bark was heard three or four times at the door.
“Hallo! there’s Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert, letting in his dog; “he
wants to come in to brush acquaintance with the family too.”
The dog came in with a bound, and in a second was quite at home. After
having rubbed Dagobert’s hand with his muzzle, he went in turns to greet
Rose and Blanche, and also Frances and Agricola; but seeing that they
took but little notice of him, he perceived Mother Bunch, who stood
apart, in an obscure corner of the room, and carrying out the popular
saying, “the friends of our friends are our friends,” he went and licked
the hands of the young workwoman, who was just then forgotten by all. By
a singular impulse, this action affected the girl to tears; she patted
her long, thin, white hand several times on the head of the intelligent
dog. Then, finding that she could be no longer useful (for she had done
all the little services she deemed in her power), she took the handsome
flower Agricola had given her, opened the door gently, and went away
so discreetly that no one noticed her departure. After this exchange
of mutual affection, Dagobert, his wife, and son, began to think of the
realities of life.
“Poor Frances,” said the soldier, glancing at Rose and Blanche, “you did
not expect such a pretty surprise!”
“I am only sorry, my friend,” replied Frances, “that the daughters of
General Simon will not have a better lodging than this poor room; for
with Agricola’s garret--”
“It composes our mansion,” interrupted Dagobert; “there are handsomer,
it must be confessed. But be at ease; these young ladies are drilled
into not being hard to suit on that score. To-morrow, I and my boy will
go arm and arm, and I’ll answer for it he won’t walk the more upright
and straight of the two, and find out General Simon’s father, at M.
Hardy’s factory, to talk about business.”
“To-morrow,” said Agricola to Dagobert, “you will not find at the
factory either M. Hardy or Marshall Simon’s father.”
“What is that you say, my lad?” cried Dagobert, hastily, “the Marshal!”
“To be sure; since 1830, General Simon’s friends have secured him the
title and rank which the emperor gave him at the battle of Ligny.”
“Indeed!” cried Dagobert, with emotion, “but that ought not to surprise
me; for, after all, it is just; and when the emperor said a thing, the
least they can do is to let it abide. But it goes all the same to my
heart; it makes me jump again.”
Addressing the sisters, he said: “Do you hear that, my children? You
arrive in Paris the daughters of a Duke and Marshal of France. One
would hardly think it, indeed, to see you in this room, my poor little
duchesses! But patience; all will go well. Ah, father Simon must have
been very glad to hear that his son was restored to his rank! eh, my
lad?”
“He told us he would renounce all kinds of ranks and titles to see his
son again; for it was during the general’s absence that his friends
obtained this act of justice. But they expect Marshal Simon every
moment, for the last letter from India announced his departure.”
At these words Rose and Blanche looked at each other; and their eyes
filled with tears.
“Heaven be praised! These children rely on his return; but why shall we
not find M. Hardy and father Simon at the factory to-morrow?”
“Ten days ago, they went to examine and study an English mill
established in the south; but we expect them back every day.”
“The deuce! that’s vexing; I relied on seeing the general’s father, to
talk over some important matters with him. At any rate, they know where
to write to him. So to-morrow you will let him know, my lad, that his
granddaughters are arrived. In the mean time, children,” added the
soldier, to Rose and Blanche, “my good wife will give you her bed and
you must put up with the chances of war. Poor things! they will not be
worse off here than they were on the journey.”
“You know we shall always be well off with you and madame,” said Rose.
“Besides, we only think of the pleasure of being at length in Paris,
since here we are to find our father,” added Blanche.
“That hope gives you patience, I know,” said Dagobert, “but no matter!
After all you have heard about it, you ought to be finely surprised, my
children. As yet, you have not found it the golden city of your dreams,
by any means. But, patience, patience; you’ll find Paris not so bad as
it looks.”
“Besides,” said Agricola, “I am sure the arrival of Marshal Simon in
Paris will change it for you into a golden city.”
“You are right, Agricola,” said Rose, with a smile, “you have, indeed,
guessed us.”
“What! do you know my name?”
“Certainly, Agricola, we often talked about you with Dagobert; and
latterly, too, with Gabriel,” added Blanche.
“Gabriel!” cried Agricola and his mother, at the same time.
“Yes,” replied Dagobert, making a sign of intelligence to the orphans,
“we have lots to tell you for a fortnight to come; and among other
things, how we chanced to meet with Gabriel. All I can now say is that,
in his way, he is quite as good as my boy (I shall never be tired of
saying ‘my boy’); and they ought to love each other like brothers. Oh,
my brave, brave wife!” said Dagobert, with emotion, “you did a good
thing, poor as you were, taking the unfortunate child--and bringing him
up with your own.”
“Don’t talk so much about it, my dear; it was such a simple thing.”
“You are right; but I’ll make you amends for it by and by. ‘Tis down to
your account; in the mean time, you will be sure to see him to-morrow
morning.”
“My dear brother arrived too!” cried the blacksmith; “who’ll say, after
this, that there are not days set apart for happiness? How came you to
meet him, father?”
“I’ll tell you all, by and by, about when and how we met Gabriel; for
if you expect to sleep, you are mistaken. You’ll give me half your room,
and a fine chat we’ll have. Spoil-sport will stay outside of this door;
he is accustomed to sleep at the children’s door.”
“Dear me, love, I think of nothing. But, at such a moment, if you and
the young ladies wish to sup, Agricola will fetch something from the
cook-shop.”
“What do you say, children?”
“No, thank you, Dagobert, we are not hungry; we are too happy.”
“You will take a little wine and water, sweetened, nice and hot, to warm
you a little, my dear young ladies,” said Frances; “unfortunately, I
have nothing else to offer you.”
“You are right, Frances; the dear children are tired, and want to go to
bed; while they do so, I’ll go to my boy’s room, and, before Rose and
Blanche are awake, I will come down and converse with you, just to give
Agricola a respite.”
A knock was now heard at the door.
“It is good Mother Bunch come to see if we want her,” said Agricola.
“But I think she was here when my husband came in,” added Frances.
“Right, mother; and the good girl left lest she should be an intruder:
she is so thoughtful. But no--no--it is not she who knocks so loud.”
“Go and see who it is, then, Agricola.”
Before the blacksmith could reach the door, a man decently dressed, with
a respectable air, entered the room, and glanced rapidly round, looking
for a moment at Rose and Blanche.
“Allow me to observe, sir,” said Agricola, “that after knocking, you
might have waited till the door was opened, before you entered. Pray,
what is your business?”
“Pray excuse me, sir,” said the man, very politely, and speaking slowly,
perhaps to prolong his stay in the room: “I beg a thousand pardons--I
regret my intrusion--I am ashamed--”
“Well, you ought to be, sir,” said Agricola, with impatience, “what do
you want?”
“Pray, sir, does not Miss Soliveau, a deformed needlewoman, live here?”
“No, sir; upstairs,” said Agricola.
“Really, sir,” cried the polite man, with low bows, “I am quite abroad
at my blunder: I thought this was the room of that young person. I
brought her proposals for work from a very respectable party.”
“It is very late, sir,” said Agricola, with surprise. “But that young
person is as one of our family. Call to-morrow; you cannot see her to
night; she is gone to bed.”
“Then, sir, I again beg you to excuse--”
“Enough, sir,” said Agricola, taking a step towards the door.
“I hope, madame and the young ladies, as well as this gent, will be
assured that--”
“If you go on much longer making excuses, sir, you will have to excuse
the length of your excuses; and it is time this came to an end!”
Rose and Blanche smiled at these words of Agricola; while Dagobert
rubbed his moustache with pride.
“What wit the boy has!” said he aside to his wife. “But that does not
astonish you--you are used to it.”
During this speech, the ceremonious person withdrew, having again
directed a long inquiring glance to the sisters, and to Agricola and
Dagobert.
In a few minutes after, Frances having spread a mattress on the ground
for herself, and put the whitest sheets on her bed for the orphans,
assisted them to undress with maternal solicitude, Dagobert and Agricola
having previously withdrawn to their garret. Just as the blacksmith,
who preceded his father with a light, passed before the door of Mother
Bunch’s room, the latter, half concealed in the shade, said to him
rapidly, in a low tone:
“Agricola, great danger threatens you: I must speak to you.”
These words were uttered in so hasty and low a voice that Dagobert did
not hear them; but as Agricola stopped suddenly, with a start, the old
soldier said to him,
“Well, boy, what is it?”
“Nothing, father,” said the blacksmith, turning round; “I feared I did
not light you well.”
“Oh, stand at ease about that; I have the legs and eyes of fifteen to
night;” and the soldier, not noticing his son’s surprise, went into the
little room where they were both to pass the night.
On leaving the house, after his inquiries about Mother Bunch, the
over polite Paul Pry slunk along to the end of Brise-Miche Street. He
advanced towards a hackney-coach drawn up on the Cloitre Saint-Merry
Square.
In this carriage lounged Rodin, wrapped in a cloak.
“Well?” said he, in an inquiring tone.
“The two girls and the man with gray moustache went directly to Frances
Baudoin’s; by listening at the door, I learnt that the sisters will
sleep with her, in that room, to-night; the old man with gray moustache
will share the young blacksmith’s room.”
“Very well,” said Rodin.
“I did not dare insist on seeing the deformed workwoman this evening
on the subject of the Bacchanal Queen; I intend returning to-morrow, to
learn the effect of the letter she must have received this evening by
the post about the young blacksmith.”
“Do not fail! And now you will call, for me, on Frances Baudoin’s
confessor, late as it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him
at Rue du Milieu des Ursins--he must not lose a moment. Do you come with
him. Should I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will tell him it
is on a matter of great moment.”
“All shall be faithfully executed,” said the ceremonious man, cringing
to Rodin, as the coach drove quickly away.