Within one hour after the different scenes which have just been
described the most profound silence reigned in the soldier’s humble
dwelling. A flickering light, which played through two panes of glass
in a door, betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone to sleep; for
her gloomy recess, without air or light, was impenetrable to the rays
of day, except by this door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage,
connected with the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau, and a
chair, so nearly filled this chilling abode, that two persons could not
possibly be seated within it, unless one of them sat upon the side of
the bed.
The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola had given to the girl
was carefully stood up in a vessel of water, placed upon the table on a
linen cloth, diffusing its sweet odor around, and expanding its purple
calix in the very closet, whose plastered walls, gray and damp, were
feebly lighted by the rays of an attenuated candle. The sempstress, who
had taken off no part of her dress, was seated upon her bed--her looks
were downcast, and her eyes full of tears. She supported herself with
one hand resting on the bolster; and, inclining towards the door,
listened with painful eagerness, every instant hoping to hear the
footsteps of Agricola. The heart of the young sempstress beat violently;
her face, usually very pale, was now partially flushed--so exciting was
the emotion by which she was agitated. Sometimes she cast her eyes with
terror upon a letter which she held in her hand, a letter that had
been delivered by post in the course of the evening, and which had
been placed by the housekeeper (the dyer) upon the table, while she
was rendering some trivial domestic services during the recognitions of
Dagobert and his family.
After some seconds, Mother Bunch heard a door, very near her own, softly
opened.
“There he is at last!” she exclaimed, and Agricola immediately entered.
“I waited till my father went to sleep,” said the blacksmith, in a low
voice, his physiognomy evincing much more curiosity than uneasiness.
“But what is the matter, my good sister? How your countenance is
changed! You weep! What has happened? About what danger would you speak
to me?”
“Hush! Read this!” said she, her voice trembling with emotion, while she
hastily presented to him the open letter. Agricola held it towards the
light, and read what follows:
“A person who has reasons for concealing himself, but who knows the
sisterly interest you take in the welfare of Agricola Baudoin, warns
you. That young and worthy workman will probably be arrested in the
course of to-morrow.”
“I!” exclaimed Agricola, looking at Mother Bunch with an air of
stupefied amazement. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“Read on!” quickly replied the sempstress, clasping her hands.
Agricola resumed reading, scarcely believing the evidence of his
eyes:-“The song, entitled ‘Working-men Freed,’ has been declared
libellous. Numerous copies of it have been found among the papers of a
secret society, the leaders of which are about to be incarcerated, as
being concerned in the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy.”
“Alas!” said the girl, melting into tears, “now I see it all. The man
who was lurking about below, this evening, who was observed by the dyer,
was, doubtless, a spy, lying in wait for you coming home.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Agricola. “This accusation is quite ridiculous!
Do not torment yourself. I never trouble myself with politics. My verses
breathe nothing but philanthropy. Am I to blame, if they have been found
among the papers of a secret society?” Agricola disdainfully threw the
letter upon the table.
“Read! pray read!” said the other; “read on.”
“If you wish it,” said Agricola, “I will; no time is lost.”
He resumed the reading of the letter:
“A warrant is about to be issued against Agricola Baudoin. There is mo
doubt of his innocence being sooner or later made clear; but it will be
well if he screen himself for a time as much as possible from pursuit,
in order that he may escape a confinement of two or three months
previous to trial--an imprisonment which would be a terrible blow for
his mother, whose sole support he is.
“A SINCERE FRIEND, who is compelled to remain unknown.”
After a moment’s silence, the blacksmith raised his head; his
countenance resumed its serenity; and laughing, he said: “Reassure
yourself, good Mother Bunch, these jokers have made a mistake by trying
their games on me. It is plainly an attempt at making an April-fool of
me before the time.”
“Agricola, for the love of heaven!” said the girl, in a supplicating
tone; “treat not the warning thus lightly. Believe in my forebodings,
and listen to my advice.”
“I tell you again, my good girl,” replied Agricola, “that it is two
months since my song was published. It is not in any way political;
indeed, if it were, they would not have waited till now before coming
down on me.”
“But,” said the other, “you forget that new events have arisen. It is
scarcely two days since the conspiracy was discovered, in this very
neighborhood, in the Rue des Prouvaires. And,” continued she, “if the
verses, though perhaps hitherto unnoticed, have now been found in the
possession of the persons apprehended for this conspiracy, nothing more
is necessary to compromise you in the plot.”
“Compromise me!” said Agricola; “my verses! in which I only praise the
love of labor and of goodness! To arrest me for that! If so, justice
would be but a blind noodle. That she might grope her way, it would be
necessary to furnish her with a dog and a pilgrim’s staff to guide her
steps.”
“Agricola,” resumed Mother Bunch; overwhelmed with anxiety and terror on
hearing the blacksmith jest at such a moment, “I conjure you to listen
to me! No doubt you uphold in the verses the sacred love of labor; but
you do also grievously deplore and deprecate the unjust lot of the poor
laborers, devoted as they are, without hope, to all the miseries of
life; you recommend, indeed, only fraternity among men; but your good
and noble heart vents its indignation, at the same time, against the
selfish and the wicked. In fine, you fervently hasten on, with the ardor
of your wishes, the emancipation of all the artisans who, less fortunate
than you, have not generous M. Hardy for employer. Say, Agricola, in
these times of trouble, is there anything more necessary to compromise
you than that numerous copies of your song have been found in possession
of the persons who have been apprehended?”
Agricola was moved by these affectionate and judicious expressions of
an excellent creature, who reasoned from her heart; and he began to view
with more seriousness the advice which she had given him.
Perceiving that she had shaken him, the sewing-girl went on to say: “And
then, bear your fellow-workman, Remi, in recollection.”
“Remi!” said Agricola, anxiously.
“Yes,” resumed the sempstress; “a letter of his, a letter in itself
quite insignificant, was found in the house of a person arrested last
year for conspiracy; and Remi, in consequence, remained a month in
prison.”
“That is true, but the injustice of his implication was easily shown,
and he was set at liberty.”
“Yes, Agricola: but not till he had lain a month in prison; and that has
furnished the motive of the person who advised you to conceal yourself!
A month in prison! Good heavens! Agricola, think of that! and your
mother.”
These words made a powerful impression upon Agricola. He took up the
letter and again read it attentively.
“And the man who has been lurking all this evening about the house?”
proceeded she. “I constantly recall that circumstance, which cannot be
naturally accounted for. Alas! what a blow it would be for your father,
and poor mother, who is incapable of earning anything. Are you not
now their only resource? Oh! consider, then, what would become of them
without you--without your labor!”
“It would indeed be terrible,” said Agricola, impatiently casting the
letter upon the table. “What you have said concerning Remi is too true.
He was as innocent as I am: yet an error of justice, an involuntary
error though it be, is not the less cruel. But they don’t commit a man
without hearing him.”
“But they arrest him first, and hear him afterwards,” said Mother Bunch,
bitterly; “and then, after a month or two, they restore him his liberty.
And if he have a wife and children, whose only means of living is his
daily labor, what becomes of them while their only supporter is in
prison? They suffer hunger, they endure cold, and they weep!”
At these simple and pathetic words, Agricola trembled.
“A month without work,” he said, with a sad and thoughtful air. “And my
mother, and father, and the two young ladies who make part of our family
until the arrival in Paris of their father, Marshal Simon. Oh! you are
right. That thought, in spite of myself, affrights me!”
“Agricola!” exclaimed the girl impetuously; “suppose you apply to M.
Hardy; he is so good, and his character is so much esteemed and honored,
that, if he offered bail for you, perhaps they would give up their
persecution?”
“Unfortunately,” replied Agricola, “M. Hardy is absent; he is on a
journey with Marshal Simon.”
After a silence of some time, Agricola, striving to surmount his fear,
added: “But no! I cannot give credence to this letter. After all, I had
rather await what may come. I’ll at least have the chance of proving my
innocence on my first examination: for indeed, my good sister, whether
it be that I am in prison or that I fly to conceal myself, my working
for my family will be equally prevented.”
“Alas! that is true,” said the poor girl; “what is to be done! Oh, what
is to be done?”
“My brave father,” said Agricola to himself, “if this misfortune happen
to-morrow, what an awakening it will be for him, who came here to sleep
so joyously!” The blacksmith buried his face in his hands.
Unhappily Mother Bunch’s fears were too well-founded, for it will be
recollected that at that epoch of the year 1832, before and after the
Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, a very great number of arrests had been
made among the working classes, in consequence of a violent reaction
against democratical ideas.
Suddenly, the girl broke the silence which had been maintained for some
seconds. A blush colored her features, which bore the impressions of an
indefinable expression of constraint, grief, and hope.
“Agricola, you are saved!”
“What say you?” he asked.
“The young lady, so beautiful, so good, who gave you this flower” (she
showed it to the blacksmith) “who has known how to make reparation with
so much delicacy for having made a painful offer, cannot but have a
generous heart. You must apply to her--”
With these words which seemed to be wrung from her by a violent effort
over herself, great tears rolled down her cheeks. For the first time in
her life she experienced a feeling of grievous jealousy. Another woman
was so happy as to have the power of coming to the relief of him whom
she idolized; while she herself, poor creature, was powerless and
wretched.
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Agricola surprised. “But what could be done
with this young lady?”
“Did she not say to you,” answered Mother Bunch, “‘Remember my name; and
in all circumstances address yourself to me?’”
“She did indeed!” replied Agricola.
“This young lady, in her exalted position, ought to have powerful
connections who will be able to protect and defend you. Go to her to
morrow morning; tell her frankly what has happened, and request her
support.”
“But tell me, my good sister, what it is you wish me to do?”
“Listen. I remember that, in former times, my father told us that he had
saved one of his friends from being put in prison, by becoming surety
for him. It will be easy for you so to convince this young lady of your
innocence, that she will be induced to become surety; and after that,
you will have nothing more to fear.”
“My poor child!” said Agricola, “to ask so great a service from a person
to whom one is almost unknown is hard.”
“Believe me, Agricola,” said the other sadly, “I would never counsel
what could possibly lower you in the eyes of any one, and above all--do
you understand?--above all, in the eyes of this young lady. I do not
propose that you should ask money from her; but only that she should
give surety for you, in order that you may have the liberty of
continuing at your employment, so that the family may not be without
resources. Believe me, Agricola, that such a request is in no respect
inconsistent with what is noble and becoming upon your part. The heart
of the young lady is generous. She will comprehend your position. The
required surety will be as nothing to her; while to you it will be
everything, and will even be the very life to those who depend upon
you.”
“You are right, my good sister,” said Agricola, with sadness and
dejection. “It is perhaps worth while to risk taking this step. If the
young lady consent to render me this service, and if giving surety will
indeed preserve me from prison, I shall be prepared for every event. But
no, no!” added he, rising, “I’d never dare to make the request to her!
What right have I to do so? What is the insignificant service that I
rendered her, when compared with that which I should solicit from her?”
“Do you imagine then, Agricola, that a generous spirit measures the
services which ought to be rendered, by those previously received? Trust
to me respecting a matter which is an affair of the heart. I am, it is
true, but a lowly creature, and ought not to compare myself with any
other person. I am nothing, and I can do nothing. Nevertheless, I am
sure--yes, Agricola, I am sure--that this young lady, who is so very far
above me, will experience the same feelings that I do in this affair;
yes, like me, she will at once comprehend that your position is a cruel
one; and she will do with joy, with happiness, with thankfulness, that
which I would do, if, alas! I could do anything more than uselessly
consume myself with regrets.”
In spite of herself, she pronounced the last words with an expression
so heart-breaking--there was something so moving in the comparison which
this unfortunate creature, obscure and disdained, infirm and miserable,
made of herself with Adrienne de Cardoville, the very type of
resplendent youth, beauty, and opulence--that Agricola was moved even to
tears; and, holding out one of his hands to the speaker, he said to her,
tenderly, “How very good you are; how full of nobleness, good feeling,
and delicacy!”
“Unhappily,” said the weeping girl, “I can do nothing more than advise.”
“And your counsels shall be followed out, my sister dear. They are those
of a soul the most elevated I have ever known. Yes, you have won me over
into making this experiment, by persuading me that the heart of Miss de
Cardoville is perhaps equal in value to your own!”
At this charming and sincere assimilation of herself to Miss Adrienne,
the sempstress forgot almost everything she had suffered, so exquisitely
sweet and consoling were her emotions. If some poor creatures, fatally
devoted to sufferings, experience griefs of which the world knows
naught, they sometimes, too, are cheered by humble and timid joys, of
which the world is equally ignorant. The least word of true tenderness
and affection, which elevates them in their own estimation, is ineffably
blissful for these unfortunate beings, habitually consigned, not only to
hardships and to disdain, but even to desolating doubts, and distrust of
themselves.
“Then it is agreed that you will go, to-morrow morning to this young
lady’s house?” exclaimed Mother Bunch, trembling with a new-born hope.
“And,” she quickly added, “at break of day I’ll go down to watch at the
street-door, to see if there be anything suspicious, and to apprise you
of what I perceive.”
“Good, excellent girl!” exclaimed Agricola, with increasing emotion.
“It will be necessary to endeavor to set off before the wakening of
your father,” said the hunchback. “The quarter in which the young lady
dwells, is so deserted, that the mere going there will almost serve for
your present concealment.”
“I think I hear the voice of my father,” said Agricola suddenly.
In truth, the little apartment was so near Agricola’s garret, that he
and the sempstress, listening, heard Dagobert say in the dark:
“Agricola, is it thus that you sleep, my boy? Why, my first sleep is
over; and my tongue itches deucedly.”
“Go quick, Agricola!” said Mother Bunch; “your absence would disquiet
him. On no account go out to-morrow morning, before I inform you whether
or not I shall have seen anything suspicious.”
“Why, Agricola, you are not here?” resumed Dagobert, in a louder voice.
“Here I am, father,” said the smith, while going out of the sempstress’s
apartment, and entering the garret, to his father.
“I have been to fasten the shutter of a loft that the wind agitated,
lest its noise should disturb you.”
“Thanks, my boy; but it is not noise that wakes me,” said Dagobert,
gayly; “it is an appetite, quite furious, for a chat with you. Oh, my
dear boy, it is the hungering of a proud old man of a father, who has
not seen his son for eighteen years.”
“Shall I light a candle, father?”
“No, no; that would be luxurious; let us chat in the dark. It will be a
new pleasure for me to see you to-morrow morning at daybreak. It will be
like seeing you for the first time twice.” The door of Agricola’s garret
being now closed, Mother Bunch heard nothing more.
The poor girl, without undressing, threw herself upon the bed, and
closed not an eye during the night, painfully awaiting the appearance of
day, in order that she might watch over the safety of Agricola. However,
in spite of her vivid anxieties for the morrow, she sometimes allowed
herself to sink into the reveries of a bitter melancholy. She compared
the conversation she had just had in the silence of night, with the man
whom she secretly adored, with what that conversation might have been,
had she possessed some share of charms and beauty--had she been loved as
she loved, with a chaste and devoted flame! But soon sinking into belief
that she should never know the ravishing sweets of a mutual passion, she
found consolation in the hope of being useful to Agricola. At the dawn
of day, she rose softly, and descended the staircase with little noise,
in order to see if anything menaced Agricola from without.