“It would be the first time!”

“Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”

“We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so

well off?”

“They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a

shaft, like dogs to turn spits,” cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.

“And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,”

added another.

“Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and

dogs!” cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.

“The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to

go to mass!--it is abominable.

“And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its

abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country.”

“True? he said that in his sermon.”

“Our wives heard it.”

“Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the

country!”

“Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd in chorus.

“To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried Morok, with the voice of a

Stentor; “on to the factory!”

“Yes! to the factory! to the factory!” repeated the crowd, with furious

stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the

room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.

These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he

whispered to Morok: “It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands

of it.”

“We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these

fellows the slip on the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried aloud,

addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: “Brandy!--let

us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat.” He

threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with

several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.

“What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do jolly companions, like we are, drink

out of glasses?” So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the

neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed

it to the gigantic quarryman.

“That’s the thing!” said the latter. “Here’s in honor of the

treat!--None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the

Wolves’ teeth!”

“Here’s to your health, mates!” said Morok, distributing the bottles.

“There will be blood at the end of all this,” muttered Sleepinbuff, who,

in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal

incitements. Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting

the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M. Hardy’s

factory.

Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen

to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority),

did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along

the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism

by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with

their cries. At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster,

brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with

sticks and stones. Their heads still warmed by their recent libations

of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy. Their

countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible. This unchaining of

the worst passions seemed to forbode the most deplorable consequences.

Holding each other arm-in-arm, and walking four or five together, the

Wolves gave vent to their excitement in war-songs, which closed with the

following verse:

“Forward! full of assurance! Let us try our vigorous arms! They have

wearied out our prudence; Let us show we’ve no alarms. Sprung from a

monarch glorious,(28) To-day we’ll not grow pale, Whether we win the

fight, or fail, Whether we die, or are victorious! Children of Solomon,

mighty king, All your efforts together bring, Till in triumph we shall

sing!”

Morok and Jacques had disappeared whilst the tumultuous troop were

leaving the tavern to hasten to the factory.

(27) Let it be noted, to the working-man’s credit, that such outrageous

scenes become more and more rare as he is enlightened to the full

consciousness of his worth. Such better tendencies are to be attributed

to the just influence of an excellent tract on trades’ union written

by M. Agricole Perdignier, and published in 1841, Paris. This author, a

joiner, founded at his own expense an establishment in the Faubourg St.

Antoine, where some forty or fifty of his trade lodged, and were given,

after the day’s work, a course of geometry, etc., applied to wood

carving. We went to one of the lectures, and found as much clearness

in the professor as attention and intelligence in the audience. At ten,

after reading selections, all the lodgers retire, forced by their scanty

wages to sleep, perhaps, four in a room. M. Perdignier informed us that

study and instruction were such powerful ameliorators, that, during

six years, he had only one of his lodgers to expel. “In a few days,”

he remarked, “the bad eggs find out, this is no place for them to addle

sound ones!” We are happy to hear, reader, public homage to a learned

and upright man, devoted to his fellow-workmen.

(28) The Wolves (among others) ascribe the institution of their company

to King Solomon. See the curious work by M. Agricole Perdignier, from

which the war-song is extracted.

CHAPTER L. THE COMMON DWELLING-HOUSE

Whilst the Wolves, as we have just seen, prepared a savage attack on

the Devourers, the factory of M. Hardy had that morning a festal air,

perfectly in accordance with the serenity of the sky; for the wind was

from the north, and pretty sharp for a fine day in March. The clock had

just struck nine in the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen, separated

from the workshops by a broad path planted with trees. The rising sun

bathed in light this imposing mass of buildings, situated a league from

Paris, in a gay and salubrious locality, from which were visible the

woody and picturesque hills, that on this side overlook the great city.

Nothing could be plainer, and yet more cheerful than the aspect of the

Common Dwelling-house of the workmen. Its slanting roof of red tiles

projected over white walls, divided here and there by broad rows of

bricks, which contrasted agreeably with the green color of the blinds on

the first and second stories.

These buildings, open to the south and east, were surrounded by a large

garden of about ten acres, partly planted with trees, and partly laid

out in fruit and kitchen-garden. Before continuing this description,

which perhaps will appear a little like a fairy-tale, let us begin by

saying, that the wonders, of which we are about to present the sketch,

must not to be considered Utopian dreams; nothing, on the contrary,

could be of a more positive character, and we are able to assert, and

even to prove (what in our time is of great weight and interest),

that these wonders were the result of an excellent speculation, and

represented an investment as lucrative as it was secure. To undertake

a vast, noble, and most useful enterprise; to bestow on a considerable

number of human creatures an ideal prosperity, compared with the

frightful, almost homicidal doom, to which they are generally condemned;

to instruct them, and elevate them in their own esteem; to make them

prefer to the coarse pleasures of the tavern, or rather to the fatal

oblivion which they find there, as an escape from the consciousness

of their deplorable destiny, the pleasures, of the intellect and the

enjoyments of art; in a word, to make men moral by making them happy,

and finally, thanks to this generous example, so easy of imitation, to

take a place amongst the benefactors of humanity--and yet, at the same

time to do, as it were, without knowing it, an excellent stroke of

business--may appear fabulous. And yet this was the secret of the

wonders of which we speak.

Let us enter the interior of the factory. Ignorant of Mother Bunch’s

cruel disappearance, Agricola gave himself up to the most happy,

thoughts as he recalled Angela’s image, and, having finished dressing

with unusual care, went in search of his betrothed.

Let us say two words on the subject of the lodging, which the smith

occupied in the Common Dwelling-house, at the incredibly low rate

of seventy-five francs per annum like the other bachelors on the

establishment. This lodging, situated on the second story, was comprised

of a capital chamber and bedroom, with a southern aspect, and looking

on the garden; the pine floor was perfectly white and clean; the iron

bedstead was supplied with a good mattress and warm coverings; a gas

burner and a warm-air pipe were also introduced into the rooms, to

furnish light and heat as required; the walls were hung with pretty

fancy papering, and had curtains to match; a chest of drawers, a walnut

table, a few chairs, a small library, comprised Agricola’s furniture.

Finally, in the large and light closet, was a place for his clothes, a

dressing table, and large zinc basin, with an ample supply of water.

If we compare this agreeable, salubrious, comfortable lodging, with the

dark, icy, dilapidated garret, for which the worthy fellow paid ninety

francs at his mother’s, and to get to which he had more than a league

and a half to go every evening, we shall understand the sacrifice he

made to his affection for that excellent woman.

Agricola, after casting a last glance of tolerable satisfaction at his

looking-glass, while he combed his moustache and imperial, quitted his

chamber, to go and join Angela in the women’s workroom. The corridor,

along which he had to pass, was broad, well-lighted from above, floored

with pine, and extremely clean. Notwithstanding some seeds of discord

which had been lately sown by M. Hardy’s enemies amongst his workmen,

until now so fraternally united, joyous songs were heard in almost

all the apartments which skirted the corridor, and, as Agricola passed

before several open doors, he exchanged a cordial good-morrow with many

of his comrades. The smith hastily descended the stairs, crossed

the court yard, in which was a grass-plot planted with trees, with a

fountain in the centre, and gained the other wing of the building. There

was the workroom, in which a portion of the wives and daughters of the

associated artisans, who happened not to be employed in the factory,

occupied themselves in making up the linen. This labor, joined to the

enormous saving effected by the purchase of the materials wholesale,

reduced to an incredible extent the price of each article. After

passing through this workroom, a vast apartment looking on the garden,

well-aired in summer,(29) and well-warmed in winter, Agricola knocked at

the door of the rooms occupied by Angela’s mother.

If we say a few words with regard to this lodging, situated on the first

story, with an eastern aspect, and also looking on the garden, it is

that we may tape it as a specimen of the habitation of a family in this

association, supplied at the incredibly small price of one hundred and

twenty-five francs per annum.

A small entrance, opening on the corridor, led to a large room, on each

side of which was a smaller chamber, destined for the family, when the

boys and girls were too big to continue to sleep in the two dormitories,

arranged after the fashion of a large school, and reserved for the

children of both sexes. Every night the superintendence of these

dormitories was entrusted to a father and mother of a family, belonging

to the association. The lodging of which we speak, being, like all the

others, disencumbered of the paraphernalia of a kitchen--for the

cooking was done in common, and on a large scale, in another part of the

building--was kept extremely clean. A pretty large piece of carpet,

a comfortable arm-chair, some pretty-looking china on a stand of well

polished wood, some prints hung against the walls, a clock of gilt

bronze, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a mahogany secretary, announced

that the inhabitants of this apartment enjoyed not only the necessaries,

but some of the luxuries of life. Angela, who, from this time, might

be called Agricola’s betrothed, justified in every point the flattering

portrait which the smith had drawn of her in his interview with poor

Mother Bunch. The charming girl, seventeen years of age at most, dressed

with as much simplicity as neatness, was seated by the side of her

mother. When Agricola entered, she blushed slightly at seeing him.

“Mademoiselle,” said Agricola, “I have come to keep my promise, if your

mother has no objection.”

“Certainly, M. Agricola,” answered the mother of the young girl

cordially. “She would not go over the Common Dwelling-house with her

father, her brother, or me, because she wished to have that pleasure

with you today. It is quite right that you, who can talk so well, should

do the honors of the house to the new-comer. She has been waiting for

you an hour, and with such impatience!”

“Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola, gayly; “in thinking of

the pleasure of seeing you, I forgot the hour. That is my only excuse.”

“Oh, mother!” said the young girl, in a tone of mild reproach, and

becoming red as a cherry, “why did you say that?”

“Is it true, yes or no? I do not blame you for it; on the contrary. Go

with M. Agricola, child, and he will tell you, better than I can, what

all the workmen of the factory owe to M, Hardy.”

“M. Agricola,” said Angela, tying the ribbons of her pretty cap, “what a

pity that your good little adopted sister is not with us.”

“Mother Bunch?--yes, you are right, mademoiselle; but that is only a

pleasure put off, and the visit she paid us yesterday will not be the

last.”

Having embraced her mother, the girl took Agricola’s arm, and they went

out together.

“Dear me, M. Agricola,” said Angela; “if you knew how much I was

surprised on entering this fine house, after being accustomed to see so

much misery amongst the poor workmen in our country, and in which I too

have had my share, whilst here everybody seems happy and contented. It

is really like fairy-land; I think I am in a dream, and when I ask my

mother the explanation of these wonders, she tells me, ‘M. Agricola will

explain it all to you.’”

“Do you know why I am so happy to undertake that delightful task,

mademoiselle?” said Agricola, with an accent at once grave and tender.

“Nothing could be more in season.”

“Why so, M. Agricola?”

“Because, to show you this house, to make you acquainted with all the

resources of our association, is to be able to say to you: ‘Here, the

workman, sure of the present, sure of the future, is not, like so many

of his poor brothers, obliged to renounce the sweetest want of the

heart--the desire of choosing a companion for life--in the fear of

uniting misery to misery.”’

Angela cast down her eyes, and blushed.

“Here the workman may safely yield to the hope of knowing the sweet joys

of a family, sure of not having his heart torn hereafter by the sight

of the horrible privations of those who are dear to him; here, thanks to

order and industry, and the wise employment of the strength of all, men,

women, and children live happy and contented. In a ward, to explain all

this to you, mademoiselle,” added Agricola, smiling with a still more

tender air, “is to prove, that here we can do nothing more reasonable

than love, nothing wiser than marry.”

“M. Agricola,” answered Angela, in a slightly agitated voice, and

blushing still more as she spoke, “suppose we were to begin our walk.”

“Directly, mademoiselle,” replied the smith, pleased at the trouble

he had excited in that ingenuous soul. “But, come; we are near the

dormitory of the little girls. The chirping birds have long left their

nests. Let us go there.”

“Willingly, M. Agricola.”

The young smith and Angela soon entered a spacious dormitory, resembling

that of a first-rate boarding school. The little iron bedsteads were

arranged in symmetrical order; at each end were the beds of the two

mothers of families, who took the superintendence by turns.

“Dear me! how well it is arranged, M. Agricola, and how neat and clean!

Who is it that takes such good care of it?”

“The children themselves; we have no servants here. There is an

extraordinary emulation between these urchins--as to who shall make her

bed most neatly, and it amuses them quite as much as making a bed for

their dolls. Little girls, you know, delight in playing at keeping

house. Well, here they play at it in good earnest, and the house is

admirably kept in consequence.”

“Oh! I understand. They turn to account their natural taste for all such

kinds of amusement.”

“That is the whole secret. You will see them everywhere usefully

occupied, and delighted at the importance of the employments given

them.”

“Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, timidly, “only compare these fine

dormitories, so warm and healthy, with the horrible icy garrets, where

children are heaped pell-mell on a wretched straw-mattress, shivering

with cold, as in the case with almost all the workmen’s families in our

country!”

“And in Paris, mademoiselle, it is even worse.”

“Oh! how kind, generous, and rich must M. Hardy be, to spend so much

money in doing good!”

“I am going to astonish you, mademoiselle!” said Agricola, with a smile;

“to astonish you so much, that perhaps you will not believe me.”

“Why so, M. Agricola?”

“There is not certainly in the world a man with a better and more

generous heart than M. Hardy; he does good for its own sake and without

thinking of his personal interest. And yet, Mdlle. Angela, were he the

most selfish and avaricious of men, he would still find it greatly to

his advantage to put us in a position to be as comfortable as we are.”

“Is it possible, M. Agricola? You tell me so, and I believe it; but if

good can so easily be done, if there is even an advantage in doing it,

why is it not more commonly attempted?”

“Ah! mademoiselle, it requires three gifts very rarely met with in the

same person--knowledge, power and will.”

“Alas! yes. Those who have the knowledge, have not the power.”

“And those who have the power, have neither the knowledge nor the will.”

“But how does M. Hardy find any advantage in the good he does for you?”

“I will explain that presently, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, what a nice, sweet smell of fruit!” said Angela, suddenly.

“Our common fruit-store is close at hand. I wager we shall find there

some of the little birds from the dormitory--not occupied in picking and

stealing, but hard at work.”

Opening a door, Agricola led Angela into a large room, furnished with

shelves, on which the winter fruits were arranged in order. A number

of children, from seven to eight years old, neatly and warmly clad,

and glowing with health, exerted themselves cheerfully, under the

superintendence of a woman, in separating and sorting the spoiled fruit.

“You see,” said Agricola, “wherever it is possible, we make use of the

children. These occupations are amusements for them, answering to the

need of movement and activity natural to their age; and, in this way, we

can employ the grown girls and the women to much better advantage.”

“True, M. Agricola; how well it is all arranged.”

“And if you saw what services the urchins in the kitchen render!

Directed by one or two women, they do the work of eight or ten

servants.”

“In fact,” said Angela, smiling, “at their age, we like so much to play

at cooking dinner. They must be delighted.”

“And, in the same way, under pretext of playing at gardening, they weed

the ground, gather the fruit and vegetables, water the flowers, roll the

paths, and so on. In a word, this army of infant-workers, who generally

remain till ten or twelve years of age without being of any service,

are here very useful. Except three hours of school, which is quite

sufficient for them, from the age of six or seven their recreations are

turned to good account, and the dear little creatures, by the saving of

full-grown arms which they effect, actually gain more than they cost;

and then, mademoiselle, do you not think there is something in the

presence of childhood thus mixed up with every labor--something mild,

pure, almost sacred, which has its influence on our words and actions,

and imposes a salutary reserve? The coarsest man will respect the

presence of children.”

“The more one reflects, the more one sees that everything here is really

designed for the happiness of all!” said Angela, in admiration.

“It has not been done without trouble. It was necessary to conquer

prejudices, and break through customs. But see, Mdlle. Angela! here we

are at the kitchen,” added the smith, smiling; “is it not as imposing as

that of a barrack or a public school?”

Indeed, the culinary department of the Common Dwelling-house was

immense. All its utensils were bright and clean; and thanks to the

marvellous and economical inventions of modern science (which are always

beyond the reach of the poorer classes, to whom they are most necessary,

because they can only be practised on a large scale), not only the fire

on the hearth, and in the stoves, was fed with half the quantity of

fuel that would have been consumed by each family individually, but the

excess of the caloric sufficed, with the aid of well-constructed tubes,

to spread a mild and equal warmth through all parts of the house. And

here also children, under the direction of two women, rendered numerous

services. Nothing could be more comic than the serious manner in which

they performed their culinary functions; it was the same with the

assistance they gave in the bakehouse, where, at an extraordinary saving

in the price (for they bought flour wholesale), they made an excellent

household bread, composed of pure wheat and rye, so preferable to

that whiter bread, which too often owes its apparent qualities to some

deleterious substance.

“Good-day, Dame Bertrand,” said Agricola, gayly, to a worthy matron, who

was gravely contemplating the slow evolution of several spits, worthy

of Gamache’s Wedding so heavily were they laden with pieces of beef,

mutton, and veal, which began to assume a fine golden brown color of the

most attractive kind; “good-day, Dame Bertrand. According to the rule,

I do not pass the threshold of the kitchen. I only wish it to be admired

by this young lady, who is a new-comer amongst us.”

“Admire, my lad, pray admire--and above all take notice, how good these

brats are, and how well they work!” So saying, the matron pointed with

the long ladle, which served her as a sceptre, to some fifteen children

of both sexes, seated round a table, and deeply absorbed in the exercise

of their functions, which consisted in peeling potatoes and picking

herbs.

“We are, I see, to have a downright Belshazzar’s feast, Dame Bertrand?”

said Agricola, laughing.

“Faith, a feast like we have always, my lad. Here is our bill of fare

for to-day. A good vegetable soup, roast beef with potatoes, salad,

fruit, cheese; and for extras, it being Sunday, some currant tarts made

by Mother Denis at the bakehouse, where the oven is heating now.”

“What you tell me, Dame Bertrand, gives me a furious appetite,” said

Agricola, gayly. “One soon knows when it is your turn in the kitchen,”

added he, with a flattering air.

“Get along, do!” said the female Soyer on service, merrily.

“What astonishes me, so much, M. Agricola,” said Angela, as they

continued their walk, “is the comparison of the insufficient,

unwholesome food of the workmen in our country, with that which is

provided here.”

“And yet we do not spend more than twenty-five sous a day, for much

better food than we should get for three francs in Paris.”

“But really it is hard to believe, M. Agricola. How is it possible?”

“It is thanks to the magic wand of M. Hardy. I will explain it all

presently.”

“Oh! how impatient I am to see M. Hardy!”

“You will soon see him--perhaps to-day; for he is expected every moment.

But here is the refectory, which you do not yet know, as your family,

like many others, prefer dining at home. See what a fine room, looking

out on the garden, just opposite the fountain!”

It was indeed a vast hall, built in the form of a gallery, with ten

windows opening on the garden. Tables, covered with shining oil-cloth,

were ranged along the walls, so that, in winter, this apartment

served in the evening, after work, as a place of meeting for those who

preferred to pass an hour together, instead of remaining alone or with

their families. Then, in this large hall, well warmed and brilliantly

lighted with gas, some read, some played cards, some talked, and some

occupied themselves with easy work.

“That is not all,” said Agricola to the young girl; “I am sure you will

like this apartment still better when I tell you, that on Thursdays

and Sundays we make a ball-room of it, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays a

concert-room.”

“Really!”

“Yes,” continued the smith, proudly, “we have amongst us musicians,

quite capable of tempting us to dance. Moreover, twice a week, nearly

all of us sing in chorus--men, women, and children. Unfortunately, this

week, some disputes that have arisen in the factory have prevented our

concerts.”

“So many voices! that must be superb.”

“It is very fine, I assure you. M. Hardy has always encouraged this

amusement amongst us, which has, he says--and he is right--so powerful

an effect on the mind and the manners. One winter, he sent for two

pupils of the celebrated Wilhelm, and, since then, our school has made

great progress. I assure you, Mdlle. Angela, that, without flattering

ourselves, there is something truly exciting in the sound of two hundred

voices, singing in chorus some hymn to Labor or Freedom. You shall hear

it, and you will, I think, acknowledge that there is something great

and elevating in the heart of man, in this fraternal harmony of voices,

blending in one grave, sonorous, imposing sound.”

“Oh! I believe it. But what happiness to inhabit here. It is a life of

joy; for labor, mixed with recreation, becomes itself a pleasure.”

“Alas! here, as everywhere, there are tears and sorrows,” replied

Agricola, sadly. “Do you see that isolated building, in a very exposed

situation?”

“Yes; what is it?”

“That is our hospital for the sick. Happily, thanks to our healthy mode

of life, it is not often full; an annual subscription enables us to have

a good doctor. Moreover, a mutual benefit society is arranged in such a

manner amongst us, that any one of us, in case of illness, receives two

thirds of what he would have gained in health.”

“How well it is all managed! And there, M. Agricola, on the other side

of the grass-plot?”

“That is the wash-house, with water laid on, cold and hot; and under

yonder shed is the drying-place: further on, you see the stables, and

the lofts and granaries for the provender of the factory horses.”

“But M. Agricola, will you tell me the secret of all these wonders?”

“In ten minutes you shall understand it all, mademoiselle.”

Unfortunately, Angela’s curiosity was for a while disappointed. The girl

was now standing with Agricola close to the iron gate, which shut in the

garden from the broad avenue that separated the factory from the Common

Dwelling-house. Suddenly, the wind brought from the distance the sound

of trumpets and military music; then was heard the gallop of two

horses, approaching rapidly, and soon after a general officer made his

appearance, mounted on a fine black charger, with a long flowing tail

and crimson housings; he wore cavalry boots and white breeches, after

the fashion of the empire; his uniform glittered with gold embroidery,

the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor was passed over his right epaulet,

with its four silver stars, and his hat had a broad gold border, and

was crowned with a white plume, the distinctive sign reserved for

the marshals of France. No warrior could have had a more martial and

chivalrous air, or have sat more proudly on his war-horse. At the moment

Marshal Simon (for it was he) arrived opposite the place where Angela

and Agricola were standing, he drew up his horse suddenly, sprang

lightly to the ground, and threw the golden reins to a servant in

livery, who followed also on horseback.

“Where shall I wait for your grace?” asked the groom.

“At the end of the avenue,” said the marshal.

And, uncovering his head respectfully, he advanced hastily with his

hat in his hand, to meet a person whom Angela and Agricola had not

previously perceived. This person soon appeared at a turn of the avenue;

he was an old man, with an energetic, intelligent countenance. He wore

a very neat blouse, and a cloth cap over his long, white hair. With his

hands in his pocket, he was quietly smoking an old meerschaum pipe.

“Good-morning, father,” said the marshal, respectfully, as he

affectionately embraced the old workman, who, having tenderly returned

the pressure, said to him: “Put on your hat, my boy. But how gay we

are!” added he, with a smile.

“I have just been to a review, father, close by; and I took the

opportunity to call on you as soon as possible.”

“But shall I then not see my granddaughters to-day, as I do every

Sunday?”

“They are coming in a carriage, father, and Dagobert accompanies them.”

“But what is the matter? you appear full of thought.”

“Indeed, father,” said the marshal, with a somewhat agitated air, “I

have serious things to talk about.”

“Come in, then,” said the old man, with some anxiety. The marshal and

his father disappeared at the turn of the avenue.

Angela had been struck with amazement at seeing this brilliant General,

who was entitled “your grace,” salute an old workman in a blouse as his

father; and, looking at Agricola with a confused air she said to him:

“What, M. Agricola! this old workman--”

“Is the father of Marshal Duke de Ligny--the friend--yes, I may say the

friend,” added Agricola, with emotion, “of my father, who for twenty

years served under him in war.’

“To be placed so high, and yet to be so respectful and tender to his

father!” said Angela. “The marshal must have a very noble heart; but why

does he let his father remain a workman?”

“Because Father Simon will not quit his trade and the factory for

anything in the world. He was born a workman, and he will die a workman,

though he is the father of a duke and marshal of France.”

(29) See Adolphe Bobierre “On Air and Health,” Paris, 1844.

CHAPTER LI. THE SECRET.

When the very natural astonishment which the arrival of Marshal Simon

had caused in Angela had passed away, Agricola said to her with a smile:

“I do not wish to take advantage of this circumstance, Mdlle. Angela,

to spare you the account of the secret, by which all the wonders of our

Common Dwelling-house are brought to pass.”

“Oh! I should not have let you forget your promise, M. Agricola,”

answered Angela, “what you have already told me interests me too much

for that.”

“Listen, then. M. Hardy, like a true magician, has pronounced three

cabalistic words: ASSOCIATION--COMMUNITY--FRATERNITY. We have understood

the sense of these words, and the wonders you have seen have sprung from

them, to our great advantage; and also, I repeat, to the great advantage

of M. Hardy.”

“It is that which appears so extraordinary, M. Agricola.”

“Suppose, mademoiselle, that M. Hardy, instead of being what he is, had

only been a cold-hearted speculator, looking merely to the profit, and

saying to himself: ‘To make the most of my factory, what is needed?

Good work--great economy in the raw material--full employment of the

workman’s time; in a word, cheapness of manufacture, in order to produce

cheaply--excellence of the thing produced, in order to sell dear.’”

“Truly, M. Agricola, no manufacturer could desire more.”

“Well, mademoiselle, these conditions might have been fulfilled, as they

have been, but how? Had M. Hardy only been a speculator, he might have

said: ‘At a distance from my factory, my workmen might have trouble to

get there: rising earlier, they will sleep less; it is a bad economy

to take from the sleep so necessary to those who toil. When they get

feeble, the work suffers for it; then the inclemency of the seasons

makes it worse; the workman arrives wet, trembling with cold, enervated

before he begins to work--and then, what work!’”

“It is unfortunately but too true, M. Agricola. At Lille, when I reached

the factory, wet through with a cold rain, I used sometimes to shiver

all day long at my work.”

“Therefore, Mdlle. Angela, the speculator might say: ‘To lodge

my workmen close to the door of my factory would obviate this

inconvenience. Let us make the calculation. In Paris the married workman

pays about two hundred and fifty francs a-year,(30) for one or two

wretched rooms and a closet, dark, small, unhealthy, in a narrow,

miserable street; there he lives pell-mell with his family. What ruined

constitutions are the consequence! and what sort of work can you expect

from a feverish and diseased creature? As for the single men, they pay

for a smaller, and quite as unwholesome lodging, about one hundred and

fifty francs a-year. Now, let us make the addition. I employ one hundred

and forty-six married workmen, who pay together, for their wretched

holes, thirty-six thousand five hundred francs; I employ also one

hundred and fifteen bachelors, who pay at the rate of seventeen thousand

two hundred and eighty francs; the total will amount to about fifty

thousand francs per annum, the interest on a million.”’

“Dear me, M. Agricola! what a sum to be produced by uniting all these

little rents together!”

“You see, mademoiselle, that fifty thousand francs a-year is a

millionaire’s rent. Now, what says our speculator: To induce our workmen

to leave Paris, I will offer them, enormous advantages. I will reduce

their rent one-half, and, instead of small, unwholesome rooms, they

shall have large, airy apartments, well-warmed and lighted, at a

trifling charge. Thus, one hundred and forty-six families, paying me

only one hundred and twenty-five francs a-year, and one hundred

and fifteen bachelors, seventy-five francs, I shall have a total of

twenty-six to twenty-seven thousand francs. Now, a building large enough

to hold all these people would cost me at most five hundred thousand

francs.(31) I shall then have invested my money at five per cent at the

least, and with perfect security, since the wages is a guarantee for the

payment of the rent.’”

“Ah, M. Agricola! I begin to understand how it may sometimes be

advantageous to do good, even in a pecuniary sense.”

“And I am almost certain, mademoiselle, that, in the long run, affairs

conducted with uprightness and honesty turn out well. But to return to

our speculator. ‘Here,’ will he say, ‘are my workmen, living close to

my factory, well lodged, well warmed, and arriving always fresh at

their work. That is not all; the English workman who eats good beef, and

drinks good beer, does twice as much, in the same time, as the French

workman,(32) reduced to a detestable kind of food, rather weakening than

the reverse, thanks to the poisonous adulteration of the articles he

consumes. My workmen will then labor much better, if they eat much

better. How shall I manage it without loss? Now I think of it, what

is the food in barracks, schools, even prisons? Is it not the union of

individual resources which procures an amount of comfort impossible to

realize without such an association? Now, if my two hundred and sixty

workmen, instead of cooking two hundred and sixty detestable dinners,

were to unite to prepare one good dinner for all of them, which might

be done, thanks to the savings of all sorts that would ensue, what an

advantage for me and them! Two or three women, aided by children, would

suffice to make ready the daily repasts; instead of buying wood and

charcoal in fractions,(33) and so paying for it double its value, the

association of my workmen would, upon my security (their wages would be

an efficient security for me in return), lay in their own stock of wood,

flour, butter, oil, wine, etc., all which they would procure directly

from the producers. Thus, they would pay three or four sous for a bottle

of pure wholesome wine, instead of paying twelve or fifteen sous for

poison. Every week the association would buy a whole ox, and some sheep,

and the women would make bread, as in the country. Finally, with these

resources, and order, and economy, my workmen may have wholesome,

agreeable, and sufficient food, for from twenty to twenty-five sous a

day.’”

“Ah! this explains it, M. Agricola.”

“It is not all, mademoiselle. Our cool-headed speculator would continue:

‘Here are my workmen well lodged, well warmed, well fed, with a saving

of at least half; why should they not also be warmly clad? Their health

will then have every chance of being good, and health is labor. The

association will buy wholesale, and at the manufacturing price (still

upon my security, secured to me by their wages), warm, good, strong

materials, which a portion of the workmen’s wives will be able to make

into clothes as well as any tailor. Finally, the consumption of caps and

shoes being considerable, the association will obtain them at a great

reduction in price.’ Well, Mdlle. Angela! what do you say to our

speculator?”

“I say, M. Agricola,” answered the young girl; with ingenuous

admiration, “that it is almost incredible, and yet so simple!”

“No doubt, nothing is more simple than the good and beautiful, and yet

we think of it so seldom. Observe, that our man has only been speaking

with a view to his own interest--only considering the material side of

the question--reckoning for nothing the habit of fraternity and mutual

aid, which inevitably springs from living together in common--not

reflecting that a better mode of life improves and softens the character

of man--not thinking of the support and instruction which the strong owe

to the weak--not acknowledging, in fine, that the honest, active, and

industrious man has a positive right to demand employment from

society, and wages proportionate to the wants of his condition. No,

our speculator only thinks of the gross profits; and yet, you see, he

invests his money in buildings at five per cent., and finds the greatest

advantages in the material comfort of his workmen.”

“It is true, M. Agricola.”

“And what will you say, mademoiselle, when I prove to you that our

speculator finds also a great advantage in giving to his workmen, in

addition to their regular wages, a proportionate share of his profits?”

“That appears to me more difficult to prove, M. Agricola.”

“Yet I will convince you of it in a few minutes.”

Thus conversing, Angela and Agricola had reached the garden-gate of the

Common Dwelling-house. An elderly woman, dressed plainly, but with care

and neatness, approached Agricola, and asked him: “Has M. Hardy returned

to the factory, sir?”

“No, madame; but we expect him hourly.”

“To-day, perhaps?”

“To-day or to-morrow, madame.”

“You cannot tell me at what hour he will be here?”

“I do not think it is known, madame, but the porter of the factory,

who also belongs to M. Hardy’s private house, may, perhaps, be able to

inform you.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“Quite welcome, madame.”

“M. Agricola,” said Angela, when the woman who had just questioned him

was gone, “did you remark that this lady was very pale and agitated?”

“I noticed it as you did, mademoiselle; I thought I saw tears standing

in her eyes.”

“Yes, she seemed to have been crying. Poor woman! perhaps she came to

ask assistance of M. Hardy. But what ails you, M. Agricola? You appear

quite pensive.”

Agricola had a vague presentiment that the visit of this elderly woman

with so sad a countenance, had some connection with the adventure of the

young and pretty lady, who, three days before had come all agitated and

in tears to inquire after M. Hardy, and who had learned--perhaps too

late--that she was watched and followed.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola to Angela; “but the presence

of this old lady reminded me of a circumstance, which, unfortunately, I

cannot tell you, for it is a secret that does not belong to me alone.”

“Oh! do not trouble yourself, M. Agricola,” answered the young girl,

with a smile; “I am not inquisitive, and what we were talking of before

interests me so much, that I do not wish to hear you speak of anything

else.”

“Well, then mademoiselle, I will say a few words more, and you will be

as well informed as I am of the secrets of our association.”

“I am listening, M. Agricola.”

“Let us still keep in view the speculator from mere interest. ‘Here are

my workmen, says he, ‘in the best possible condition to do a great

deal of work. Now what is to be done to obtain large profits? Produce

cheaply, and sell dear. But there will be no cheapness, without economy

in the use of the raw material, perfection of the manufacturing process,

and celerity of labor. Now, in spite of all my vigilance, how am I to

prevent my workmen from wasting the materials? How am I to induce them,

each in his own province, to seek for the most simple and least irksome

processes?”

“True, M. Agricola; how is that to be done?”

“‘And that is not all,’ says our man; ‘to sell my produce at high

prices, it should be irreproachable, excellent. My workmen do pretty

well; but that is not enough. I want them to produce masterpieces.’”

“But, M. Agricola, when they have once performed the task set them what

interest have workmen to give themselves a great deal of trouble to

produce masterpieces?”

“There it is, Mdlle. Angela; what interest have they? Therefore, our

speculator soon says to himself: ‘That my workmen may have an interest

to be economical in the use of the materials, an interest to employ

their time well, an interest to invent new and better manufacturing

processes, an interest to send out of their hands nothing but

masterpieces--I must give them an interest in the profits earned by

their economy, activity, zeal and skill. The better they manufacture,

the better I shall sell, and the larger will be their gain and mine

also.’”

“Oh! now I understand, M. Agricola.”

“And our speculator would make a good speculation. Before he was

interested, the workman said: ‘What does it matter to me, that I do more

or do better in the course of the day? What shall I gain by it? Nothing.

Well, then, little work for little wages. But now, on the contrary

(he says), I have an interest in displaying zeal and economy. All is

changed. I redouble my activity, and strive to excel the others. If a

comrade is lazy, and likely to do harm to the factory, I have the right

to say to him: ‘Mate, we all suffer more or less from your laziness, and

from the injury you are doing the common weal.’”

“And then, M. Agricola, with what ardor, courage, and hope, you must set

to work!”

“That is what our speculator counts on; and he may say to himself,

further: ‘Treasures of experience and practical wisdom are often buried

in workshops, for want of goodwill, opportunity, or encouragement.

Excellent workmen, instead of making all the improvements in their

power, follow with indifference the old jog-trot. What a pity! for an

intelligent man, occupied all his life with some special employment,

must discover, in the long run, a thousand ways of doing his work better

and quicker. I will form, therefore, a sort of consulting committee; I

will summon to it my foremen and my most skillful workmen. Our interest

is now the same. Light will necessarily spring from this centre of

practical intelligence.’ Now, the speculator is not deceived in this,

and soon struck with the incredible resources, the thousand new,

ingenious, perfect inventions suddenly revealed by his workmen, ‘Why’

he exclaims, ‘if you knew this, did you not tell it before? What for the

last ten years has cost me a hundred francs to make, would have cost

me only fifty, without reckoning an enormous saving of time.’ ‘Sir,’

answers the workman, who is not more stupid than others, ‘what interest

had I, that you should effect a saving of fifty per cent? None. But now

it is different. You give me, besides my wages, a share in your

profits; you raise me in my own esteem, by consulting my experience and

knowledge. Instead of treating me as an inferior being, you enter into

communion with me. It is my interest, it is my duty, to tell you all I

know, and to try to acquire more.’ And thus it is, Mdlle. Angela,

that the speculator can organize his establishment, so as to shame

his oppositionists, and provoke their envy. Now if, instead of a cold

hearted calculator, we tape a man who unites with the knowledge of these

facts the tender and generous sympathies of an evangelical heart, and

the elevation of a superior mind, he will extend his ardent solicitude;

not only to the material comfort, but to the moral emancipation, of

his workmen. Seeking everywhere every possible means to develop their

intelligence, to improve their hearts, and strong in the authority

acquired by his beneficence, feeling that he on whom depends the

happiness or the misery of three hundred human creatures has also the

care of souls, he will be the guide of those whom he no longer calls his

workmen, but his brothers, in a straightforward and noble path, and will

try to create in them the taste for knowledge and art, which will render

them happy and proud of a condition of life that is often accepted by

others with tears and curses of despair. Well, Mdlle. Angela, such a man

is--but, see! he could not arrive amongst us except in the middle of a

blessing. There he is--there is M. Hardy!”

“Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, deeply moved, and drying her tears; “we

should receive him with our hands clasped in gratitude.”

“Look if that mild and noble countenance is not the image of his

admirable soul!”

A carriage with post horses, in which was M. Hardy, with M. de Blessac,

the unworthy friend who was betraying him in so infamous a manner,

entered at this moment the courtyard of the factory.

A little while after, a humble hackney-coach was seen advancing also

towards the factory, from the direction of Paris. In this coach was

Rodin.

(30) The average price of a workman’s lodging, composed of two small

rooms and a closet at most, on the third or fourth story.

(31) This calculation is amply sufficient, if not excessive. A similar

building, at one league from Paris, on the side of Montrouge, with all

the necessary offices, kitchen, wash-houses, etc., with gas and water

laid on, apparatus for warming, etc., and a garden of ten acres, cost,

at the period of this narrative, hardly five hundred thousand francs.

An experienced builder less obliged us with an estimate, which confirms

what we advance. It is, therefore, evident, that, even at the same

price which workmen are in the habit of paying, it would be possible to

provide them with perfectly healthy lodgings, and yet invest one’s money

at ten per cent.

(32) The fact was proved in the works connected with the Rouen Railway.

Those French workmen who, having no families, were able to live like the

English, did at least as much work as the latter, being strengthened by

wholesome and sufficient nourishment.

(33) Buying penny-worths, like all other purchases at minute retail, are

greatly to the poor man’s disadvantage.

CHAPTER LII. REVELATIONS.

During the visit of Angela and Agricola to the Common Dwelling-house,

the band of Wolves, joined upon the road by many of the haunters

of taverns, continued to march towards the factory, which the

hackney-coach, that brought Rodin from Paris, was also fast approaching.

M. Hardy, on getting out of the carriage with his friend, M. de Blessac,

had entered the parlor of the house that he occupied next the factory.

M. Hardy was of middle size, with an elegant and slight figure, which

announced a nature essentially nervous and impressionable. His forehead

was broad and open, his complexion pale, his eyes black, full at once

of mildness and penetration, his countenance honest, intelligent, and

attractive.

One word will paint the character of M. Hardy. His mother had called him

her Sensitive Plant. His was indeed one of those fine and exquisitely

delicate organizations, which are trusting, loving, noble, generous, but

so susceptible, that the least touch makes them shrink into themselves.

If we join to this excessive sensibility a passionate love for art, a

first-rate intellect, tastes essentially refined, and then think of the

thousand deceptions, and numberless infamies of which M. Hardy must have

been the victim in his career as a manufacturer, we shall wonder how

this heart, so delicate and tender, had not been broken a thousand

times, in its incessant struggle with merciless self-interest. M. Hardy

had indeed suffered much. Forced to follow the career of productive

industry, to honor the engagements of his father, a model of uprightness

and probity, who had yet left his affairs somewhat embarrassed, in

consequence of the events of 1815, he had succeeded, by perseverance

and capacity, in attaining one of the most honorable positions in the

commercial world. But, to arrive at this point, what ignoble annoyances

had he to bear with, what perfidious opposition to combat, what hateful

rivalries to tire out!

Sensitive as he was, M. Hardy would a thousand times have fallen a

victim to his emotions of painful indignation against baseness, of

bitter disgust at dishonesty, but for the wise and firm support of his

mother. When he returned to her, after a day of painful struggles

with odious deceptions, he found himself suddenly transported into an

atmosphere of such beneficent purity, of such radiant serenity, that he

lost almost on the instant the remembrance of the base things by which

he had been so cruelly tortured during the day; the pangs of his heart

were appeased at the mere contact of her great and lofty soul; and

therefore his love for her resembled idolatry. When he lost her, he

experienced one of those calm, deep sorrows which have no end--which

become, as it were, part of life, and have even sometimes their days

of melancholy sweetness. A little while after this great misfortune, M.

Hardy became more closely connected with his workmen. He had always been

a just and good master; but, although the place that his mother left

in his heart would ever remain void, he felt as it were a redoubled

overflowing of the affections, and the more he suffered, the more he

craved to see happy faces around him. The wonderful ameliorations, which

he now produced in the physical and moral condition of all about him,

served, not to divert, but to occupy his grief. Little by little, he

withdrew from the world, and concentrated his life in three affections:

a tender and devoted friendship, which seemed to include all past

friendships--a love ardent and sincere, like a last passion--and a

paternal attachment to his workmen. His days therefore passed in the

heart of that little world, so full of respect and gratitude towards

him--a world, which he had, as it were, created after the image of his

mind, that he might find there a refuge from the painful realities he

dreaded, surrounded with good, intelligent, happy beings, capable

of responding to the noble thoughts which had become more and more

necessary to his existence. Thus, after many sorrows, M. Hardy, arrived

at the maturity of age, possessing a sincere friend, a mistress worthy

of his love, and knowing himself certain of the passionate devotion

of his workmen, had attained, at the period of this history, all the

happiness he could hope for since his mother’s death.

M. de Blessac, his bosom friend, had long been worthy of his touching

and fraternal affection; but we have seen by what diabolical means

Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had succeeded in making M. de Blessac, until

then upright and sincere, the instrument of their machinations. The two

friends, who had felt on their journey a little of the sharp influence

of the north wind, were warming themselves at a good fire lighted in M.

Hardy’s parlor.

“Oh! my dear Marcel, I begin really to get old,” said M. Hardy, with a

smile, addressing M. de Blessac; “I feel more and more the want of being

at home. To depart from my usual habits has become painful to me, and I

execrate whatever obliges me to leave this happy little spot of ground.”

“And when I think,” answered M. de Blessac, unable to forbear blushing,

“when I think, my friend, that you undertook this long journey only for

my sake!--”

“Well, my dear Marcel! have you not just accompanied me in your turn, in

an excursion which, without you, would have been as tiresome as it has

been charming?”

“What a difference, my friend! I have contracted towards you a debt that

I can never repay.”

“Nonsense, my dear Marcel! Between us, there are no distinctions of meum

and tuum. Besides, in matters of friendship, it is as sweet to give as

to receive.”

“Noble heart! noble heart!”

“Say, happy heart!--most happy, in the last affections for which it

beats.”

“And who, gracious heaven! could deserve happiness on earth, if it be

not you, my friend?”

“And to what do I owe that happiness? To the affections which I found

here, ready to sustain me, when deprived of the support of my mother,

who was all my strength, I felt myself (I confess my weakness) almost

incapable of standing up against adversity.”

“You, my friend--with so firm and resolute a character in doing

good--you, that I have seen struggle with so much energy and courage, to

secure the triumph of some great and noble idea?”

“Yes; but the farther I advance in my career, the more am I disgusted

with all base and shameful actions, and the less strength I feel to

encounter them--”

“Were it necessary, you would have the courage, my friend.”

“My dear Marcel,” replied M. Hardy, with mild and restrained emotion,

“I have often said to you: My courage was my mother. You see, my friend,

when I went to her, with my heart torn by some horrible ingratitude,

or disgusted by some base deceit, she, taking my hands between her own

venerable palms, would say to me in her grave and tender voice: ‘My dear

child, it is for the ungrateful and dishonest to suffer; let us pity the

wicked, let us forget evil, and only think of good.’--Then, my friend,

this heart, painfully contracted, expanded beneath the sacred influence

of the maternal words, and every day I gathered strength from her, to

recommence on the morrow a cruel struggle with the sad necessities of my

condition. Happily, it has pleased God, that, after losing that beloved

mother, I have been able to bind up my life with affections, deprived

of which, I confess, I should find myself feeble and disarmed for you

cannot tell, Marcel, the support, the strength that I have found in your

friendship.”

“Do not speak of me, my dear friend,” replied M. de Blessac, dissembling

his embarrassment. “Let us talk of another affection, almost as sweet

and tender as that of a mother.”

“I understand you, my good Marcel,” replied M. Hardy: “I have concealed

nothing from you since, under such serious circumstances, I had recourse

to the counsels of your friendship. Well! yes; I think that every day I

live augment my adoration for this woman, the only one that I have ever

passionately loved, the only one that I shall now ever love. And then I

must tell you, that my mother, not knowing what Margaret was to me, as

often loud in her praise, and that circumstance renders this love almost

sacred in my eyes.”

“And then there are such strange resemblances between Mme. de Noisy’s

character and yours, my friend; above all, in her worship of her

mother.”

“It is true, Marcel; that affection has often caused me both admiration

and torment. How often she has said to me, with her habitual frankness:

‘I have sacrificed all for you, but I would sacrifice you for my

mother.’”

“Thank heaven, my friend, you will never see Mme. de Noisy exposed to

that cruel choice. Her mother, you say, has long renounced her intention

of returning to America, where M. de Noisy, perfectly careless of

his wife, appears to have settled himself permanently. Thanks to the

discreet devotion of the excellent woman by whom Margaret was brought

up, your love is concealed in the deepest mystery. What could disturb it

now?”

“Nothing--oh! nothing,” cried M. Hardy. “I have almost security for its

duration.”

“What do you mean, my friend?”

“I do not know if I ought to tell you.”

“Have you ever found me indiscreet, my friend?”

“You, good Marcel! how can you suppose such a thing?” said M. Hardy, in

a tone of friendly reproach; “no! but I do not like to tell you of my

happiness, till it is complete; and I am not yet quite certain--”

A servant entered at this moment and said to M. Hardy: “Sir, there is an

old gentleman who wishes to speak to you on very pressing business.”

“So soon!” said M. Hardy, with a slight movement of impatience. “With

your permission, my friend.” Then, as M. de Blessac seemed about to

withdraw into the next room, M. Hardy added with a smile: “No, no; do

not stir. Your presence will shorten the interview.”

“But if it be a matter of business, my friend?”

“I do everything openly, as you know.” Then, addressing the servant, M.

Hardy bade him: “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”

“The postilion wishes to know if he is to wait?”

“Certainly: he will take M. de Blessac back to Paris.”

The servant withdrew, and presently returned, introducing Rodin, with

whom M. de Blessac was not acquainted, his treacherous bargain having

been negotiated through another agent.

“M. Hardy?” said Rodin, bowing respectfully to the two friends, and

looking from one to the other with an air of inquiry.

“That is my name, sir; what can I do to serve you?” answered the

manufacturer, kindly; for, at first sight of the humble and ill-dressed

old man, he expected an application for assistance.

“M. Francois Hardy,” repeated Rodin, as if he wished to make sure of the

identity of the person.

“I have had the honor to tell you that I am he.”

“I have a private communication to make to you, sir,” said Rodin.

“You may speak, sir. This gentleman is my friend,” said M. Hardy,

pointing to M. de Blessac.

“But I wish to speak to you alone, sir,” resumed Rodin.

M. de Blessac was again about to withdraw, when M. Hardy retained him

with a glance, and said to Rodin kindly, for he thought his feelings

might be hurt by asking a favor in presence of a third party: “Permit

me to inquire if it is on your account or on mine, that you wish this

interview to be secret?”

“On your account entirely, sir,” answered Rodin.

“Then, sir,” said M. Hardy, with some surprise, “you may speak out. I

have no secrets from this gentleman.”

After a moment’s silence, Rodin resumed, addressing himself to M. Hardy:

“Sir, you deserve, I know, all the good that is said of you; and you

therefore command the sympathy of every honest man.”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Now, as an honest man, I come to render you a service.”

“And this service, sir--”

“To reveal to you an infamous piece of treachery, of which you have been

the victim.”

“I think, sir, you must be deceived.”

“I have the proofs of what I assert.”

“Proofs?”

“The written proofs of the treachery that I come to reveal: I have them

here,” answered Rodin “In a word, a man whom you believed your friend,

has shamefully deceived you, sir.”

“And the name of this man?”

“M. Marcel de Blessac,” replied Rodin.

On these words, M. de Blessac started, and became pale as death. He

could hardly murmur: “Sir--”

But, without looking at his friend, or perceiving his agitation, M.

Hardy seized his hand, and exclaimed hastily: “Silence, my friend!”

Then, whilst his eye flashed with indignation, he turned towards Rodin,

who had not ceased to look him full in the face, and said to him, with

an air of lofty disdain: “What! do you accuse M. de Blessac?”

“Yes, I accuse him,” replied Rodin, briefly.

“Do you know him?”

“I have never seen him.”

“Of what do you accuse him? And how dare you say that he has betrayed

me?”

“Two words, if you please,” said Rodin, with an emotion which he

appeared hardly able to restrain. “If one man of honor sees another

about to be slain by an assassin, ought he not give the alarm of

murder?”

“Yes, sir; but what has that to do--”

“In my eyes, sir, certain treasons are as criminal as murders: I have

come to place myself between the assassin and his victim.”

“The assassin? the victim?” said M. Hardy more and more astonished.

“You doubtless know M. de Blessac’s writing?” said Rodin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then read this,” said Rodin, drawing from his pocket a letter, which he

handed to M. Hardy.

Casting now for the first time a glance at M. de Blessac, the

manufacturer drew back a step, terrified at the death-like paleness of

this man, who, struck dumb with shame, could not find a word to justify

himself; for he was far from possessing the audacious effrontery

necessary to carry him through his treachery.

“Marcel!” cried M. Hardy, in alarm, and deeply agitated by this

unexpected blow. “Marcel! how pale you are! you do not answer!”

“Marcel! this, then, is M. de Blessac?” cried Rodin, feigning the most

painful surprise. “Oh, sir, if I had known--”

“But don’t you hear this man, Marcel?” cried M. Hardy. “He says that you

have betrayed me infamously.” He seized the hand of M. de Blessac. That

hand was cold as ice. “Oh, God! Oh God!” said M. Hardy, drawing back in

horror: “he makes no answer!”

“Since I am in presence of M. de Blessac,” resumed Rodin, “I am forced

to ask him, if he can deny having addressed many letters to the Rue du

Milieu des Ursins, at Paris under cover of M. Rodin.”

M. de Blessac remained dumb. M. Hardy, still unwilling to believe what

he saw and heard, convulsively tore open the letter, which Rodin had

just delivered to him, and read the first few lines--interrupting the

perusal with exclamations of grief and amazement. He did not require to

finish the letter, to convince himself of the black treachery of M. de

Blessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him.

The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his first

look down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped from

his trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeeded

this moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. de

Blessac: “Wretch!” he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But,

pausing as in the act to strike: “No!” he added, with fearful calmness.

“It would be to soil my hands.”

He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose.

“It is not worth while chastising a wretch,” said M. Hardy; “But I will

press your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask a

traitor and a coward.”

“Sir!” cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; “I am at your

orders--and--”

He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door,

which opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of the

efforts of the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: “I tell you, I

must speak instantly to your master.”

On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M.

Hardy, forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all,

fell back a step, and exclaimed: “Madame Duparc! you here! What is the

matter?”

“Oh, sir! a great misfortune--”

“Margaret!” cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.

“She is gone, sir!”

“Gone!” repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt had

fallen at his feet. “Margaret gone!”

“All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!” said the

unhappy woman, in a failing voice.

“Gone! Margaret! It is not true. You deceive me,” cried M. Hardy.

Refusing to hear more, wild, despairing, he rushed out of the house,

threw himself into his carriage, to which the post-horses were still

harnessed, waiting for M. de Blessac, and said to the postilion: “To

Paris! as fast as you can go!”

As the carriage, rapid as lightning, started upon the road to Paris, the

wind brought nearer the distant sound of the war-song of the Wolves,

who were rushing towards the factory. In this impending destruction, see

Rodin’s subtle hand, administering his fatal blows to clear his way up

to the chair of St. Peter to which he aspired. His tireless, wily course

can hardly be darker shadowed by aught save that dread coming horror

the Cholera, whose aid he evoked, and whose health the Bacchanal Queen

wildly drank.

That once gay girl, and her poor famished sister; the fair patrician and

her Oriental lover; Agricola, the workman, and his veteran father; the

smiling Rose-Pompon, and the prematurely withered Jacques Rennepont;

Father d’Aigrigny, the mock priest; and Gabriel, the true disciple;

with the rest that have been named and others yet to be pictured, in the

blaze of the bolts of their life’s paths, will be seen in the third and

concluding part of this romance entitled,

“THE WANDERING JEW: REDEMPTION.”

BOOK VIII.

PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.

I. The Wandering Jew’s Chastisement II. The Descendants of

the Wandering Jew III. The Attack IV. The Wolves and the

Devourers V. The Return VI. The Go-Between VII. Another

Secret VIII. The Confession IX. Love X. The Execution XI.

The Champs-Elysees XII. Behind the Scenes XIII. Up with the

Curtain XIV. Death

PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.

CHAPTER I. THE WANDERING JEW’S CHASTISEMENT.

‘Tis night--the moon is brightly shining, the brilliant stars are

sparkling in a sky of melancholy calmness, the shrill whistlings of a

northerly wind--cold, bleak, and evil-bearing--are increasing: winding

about, and bursting into violent blasts, with their harsh and hissing

gusts, they are sweeping the heights of Montmartre. A man is standing

on the very summit of the hill; his lengthened shadow, thrown out by

the moon’s pale beams, darkens the rocky ground in the distance. The

traveller is surveying the huge city lying at his feet--the City of

Paris--from whose profundities are cast up its towers, cupolas, domes,

and steeples, in the bluish moisture of the horizon; while from the very

centre of this sea of stones is rising a luminous vapor, reddening the

starry azure of the sky above. It is the distant light of a myriad

lamps which at night, the season for pleasure, is illuminating the noisy

capital.

“No!” said the traveller, “it will not be. The Lord surely will not

suffer it. Twice is quite enough. Five centuries ago, the avenging hand

of the Almighty drove me hither from the depths of Asia. A solitary

wanderer, I left in my track more mourning, despair, disaster, and

death, than the innumerable armies of a hundred devastating conquerors

could have produced. I then entered this city, and it was decimated. Two

centuries ago that inexorable hand which led me through the world again

conducted me here; and on that occasion, as on the previous one, that

scourge, which at intervals the Almighty binds to my footsteps, ravaged

this city, attacking first my brethren, already wearied by wretchedness

and toil. My brethren! through me--the laborer of Jerusalem, cursed by

the Lord, who in my person cursed the race of laborers--a race always

suffering, always disinherited, always slaves, who like me, go on, on,

on, without rest or intermission, without recompense, or hope; until at

length, women, men, children, and old men, die under their iron yoke of

self-murder, that others in their turn then take up, borne from age to

age on their willing but aching shoulders. And here again, for the third

time, in the course of five centuries, I have arrived at the summit of

one of the hills which overlooks the city; and perhaps I bring

again with me terror, desolation, and death. And this unhappy city,

intoxicated in a whirl of joys, and nocturnal revelries, knows nothing

about it--oh! it knows not that I am at its very gate. But no! no! my

presence will not be a source of fresh calamity to it. The Lord, in

His unsearchable wisdom, has brought me hither across France, making me

avoid on my route all but the humblest villages, so that no increase

of the funeral knell has, marked my journey. And then, moreover, the

spectre has left me--that spectre, livid and green, with its deep

bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its moist and icy

hand abandoned mine--it disappeared. And yet I feel the atmosphere of

death surrounding me still. There is no cessation; the biting gusts

of this sinister wind, which envelop me in their breath, seem by their

envenomed breath to propagate the scourge. Doubtless the anger of the

Lord is appeased. Maybe, my presence here is meant only as a threat,

intending to bring those to their senses whom it ought to intimidate. It

must be so; for were it otherwise, it would, on the contrary, strike a

loud-sounding blow of greater terror, casting at once dread and death

into the very heart of the country, into the bosom of this immense city.

Oh, no! no! the Lord will have mercy; He will not condemn me to this new

affliction. Alas! in this city my brethren are more numerous and more

wretched than in any other. And must I bring death to them? No! the Lord

will have mercy; for, alas! the seven descendants of my sister are at

last all united in this city. And must I bring death to them? Death!

instead of that immediate assistance they stand so much in need of? For

that woman who, like myself, wanders from one end of the world into the

other, has gone now on her everlasting journey, after having confounded

their enemies’ plots. In vain did she foretell that great evils still

threatened those who are akin to me through my sister’s blood. The

unseen hand by which I am led, drives that woman away from me, even as

though it were a whirlwind that swept her on. In vain she entreated and

implored at the moment she was leaving those who are so dear to me.--At

least, 0 Lord, permit me to stay until I shall have finished my task!

Onward! A few days, for mercy’s sake, only a few days! Onward! I leave

these whom I am protecting on the very brink of an abyss! Onward!

Onward!! And the wandering star is launched afresh on its perpetual

course. But her voice traversed through space, calling me to the

assistance of my own! When her voice reached me I felt that the

offspring of my sister were still exposed to fearful dangers: those

dangers are still increasing. Oh, say, say, Lord! shall the descendants

of my sister escape those woes which for so many centuries have

oppressed my race? Wilt Thou pardon me in them? Wilt Thou punish me

in them? Oh! lead them, that they may obey the last wishes of their

ancestor. Guide them, that they may join their charitable hearts, their

powerful strength, their best wisdom, and their immense wealth, and work

together for the future happiness of mankind, thereby, perhaps, enabled

to ransom me from my eternal penalties. Let those divine words of

the Son of Man, ‘Love ye one another!’ be their only aim; and by the

assistance of their all-powerful words, let them contend against and

vanquish those false priests who have trampled on the precepts of love,

of peace, and hope commanded by the Saviour, setting up in their stead

the precepts of hatred, violence, and despair. Those false shepherds,

supported ay the powerful and wealthy of the world, who in all times

have been their accomplices, instead of asking here below a little

happiness for my brethren, who have been suffering and groaning for

centuries, dare to utter, in Thy name, O Lord! that the poor must always

be doomed to the tortures of this world, and that it is criminal in

Thine eyes that they should either wish for or hope a mitigation of

their sufferings on earth, because the happiness of the few and the

wretchedness of nearly all mankind is Thine almighty will. Blasphemies!

is it not the contrary of these homicidal words that is more worthy of

the name of Divine will? Hear, me, O Lord! for mercy’s sake. Snatch from

their enemies the descendants of my sister, from the artisan up to

the king’s son. Do not permit them to crush the germ of a mighty and

fruitful association, which, perhaps, under Thy protection, may take its

place among the records of the happiness of mankind. Suffer me, O Lord!

to unite those whom they are endeavoring to divide--to defend those whom

they are attacking. Suffer me to bring hope to those from whom hope has

fled, to give courage to those who are weak, to uphold those whom evil

threatens, and to sustain those who would persevere in well-doing. And

then, perhaps, their struggles, their devotedness, their virtues, this

miseries might expiate my sin. Yes, mine--misfortune, misfortune alone,

made me unjust and wicked. O Lord! since Thine almighty hand hath

brought me hither, for some end unknown to me, disarm Thyself, I implore

Thee, of Thine anger, and let not me be the instrument of Thy vengeance!

There is enough of mourning in the earth these two years past--Thy

creatures have fallen by millions in my footsteps. The world is

decimated. A veil of mourning extends from one end of the globe to the

other. I have traveled from Asia even to the Frozen Pole, and death has

followed in my wake. Dost Thou not hear, O Lord! the universal wailings

that mount up to Thee? Have mercy upon all, and upon me. One day, grant

me but a single day, that I may collect the descendants of my sister

together, and save them!” And uttering these words, the wanderer fell

upon his knees, and raised his hands to heaven in a suppliant attitude.

Suddenly, the wind howled with redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings

changed to a tempest. The Wanderer trembled, and exclaimed in a voice of

terror, “O Lord! the blast of death is howling in its rage. It appears

as though a whirlwind were lifting me up. Lord, wilt Thou not, then,

hear my prayer? The spectre! O! do I behold the spectre? Yes, there it

is; its cadaverous countenance is agitated by convulsive throes, its red

eyes are rolling in their orbits. Begone! begone! Oh! its hand--its icy

hand has seized on mine! Mercy, Lord, have mercy! ‘Onward!’ Oh, Lord!

this scourge, this terrible avenging scourge! Must I, then, again carry

it into this city, must my poor wretched brethren be the first to fall

under it--though already so miserable? Mercy, mercy! ‘Onward!’ And the

descendants of my sister--oh, pray, have mercy, mercy! ‘Onward!’ O Lord,

have pity on me! I can no longer keep my footing on the ground, the

spectre is dragging me over the brow of the hill; my course is as rapid

as the death-bearing wind that whistles in my track; I already approach

the walls of the city. Oh, mercy, Lord, mercy on the descendants of my

sister--spare them! do not compel me to be their executioner, and let

them triumph over their enemies. Onward, onward! The ground is fleeing

from under me; I am already at the city gate; oh, yet, Lord, yet there

is time; oh, have mercy on this slumbering city, that it may not even

now awaken with the lamentations of terror, of despair and death! O

Lord, I touch the threshold of the gate; verily Thou willest it so

then. ‘Tis done--Paris! the scourge is in thy bosom! oh, cursed, cursed

evermore am I. Onward! on! on!”(34)

(34) In 1346, the celebrated Black Death ravaged the earth, presenting

the same symptoms as the cholera, and the same inexplicable phenomena as

to its progress and the results in its route. In 1660 a similar epidemic

decimated the world. It is well known that when the cholera first broke

out in Paris, it had taken a wide and unaccountable leap; and, also

memorable, a north-east wind prevailed during its utmost fierceness.

CHAPTER II. THE DESCENDANTS OF THE WANDERING JEW.

That lonely wayfarer whom we have heard so plaintively urging to be

relieved of his gigantic burden of misery, spoke of “his sister’s

descendants” being of all ranks, from the working man to the king’s son.

They were seven in number, who had, in the year 1832, been led to Paris,

directly or indirectly, by a bronze medal which distinguished them from

others, bearing these words:-VICTIM of L. C. D. J. Pray for me!

-----PARIS, February the 13th, 1682.

IN PARIS, Rue St. Francois, No. 3, In a century and a half you will be.

February the 13th, 1832.

-----PRAY FOR ME!

The son of the King of Mundi had lost his father and his domains in

India by the irresistible march of the English, and was but in title

Prince Djalma. Spite of attempts to make his departure from the East

delayed until after the period when he could have obeyed his

medal’s command, he had reached France by the second month of 1832.

Nevertheless, the results of shipwreck had detained him from Paris till

after that date. A second possessor of this token had remained unaware

of its existence, only discovered by accident. But an enemy who sought

to thwart the union of these seven members, had shut her up in a

mad-house, from which she was released only after that day. Not alone

was she in imprisonment. An old Bonapartist, General Simon, Marshal of

France, and Duke de Ligny, had left a wife in Russian exile, while he

(unable to follow Napoleon to St. Helena) continued to fight the English

in India by means of Prince Djalma’s Sepoys, whom he drilled. On the

latter’s defeat, he had meant to accompany his young friend to Europe,

induced the more by finding that the latter’s mother, a Frenchwoman, had

left him such another bronze medal as he knew his wife to have had.

Unhappily, his wife had perished in Siberia, without his knowing it, any

more than he did, that she had left twin daughters, Rose and Blanche.

Fortunately for them, one who had served their father in the Grenadiers

of the Guard. Francis Baudoin, nicknamed Dagobert, undertook to fulfil

the dying mother’s wishes, inspired by the medal. Saving a check at

Leipsic, where one Morok the lion-tamer’s panther had escaped from its

cage and killed Dagobert’s horse, and a subsequent imprisonment (which

the Wandering Jew’s succoring hand had terminated) the soldier and his

orphan charges had reached Paris in safety and in time. But there, a

renewal of the foe’s attempt had gained its end. By skillful devices,

Dagobert and his son Agricola were drawn out of the way while Rose and

Blanche Simon were decoyed into a nunnery, under the eyes of Dagobert’s

wife. But she had been bound against interfering by the influence of the

Jesuit confessional. The fourth was M. Hardy, a manufacturer, and the

fifth, Jacques Rennepont, a drunken scamp of a workman, who were more

easily fended off, the latter in a sponging house, the former by

a friend’s lure. Adrienne de Cardoville, daughter of the Count of

Rennepont, who had also been Duke of Cardoville, was the lady who had

been unwarrantably placed in the lunatic asylum. The fifth, unaware

of the medal, was Gabriel, a youth, who had been brought up, though

a foundling, in Dagobert’s family, as a brother to Agricola. He had

entered holy orders, and more, was a Jesuit, in name though not in

heart. Unlike the others, his return from abroad had been smoothed. He

had signed away all his future prospects, for the benefit of the order

of Loyola, and, moreover, executed a more complete deed of transfer on

the day, the 13th of February, 1832, when he, alone of the heirs, stood

in the room of the house, No. 3, Rue St. Francois, claiming what was a

vast surprise for the Jesuits, who, a hundred and fifty years

before, had discovered that Count Marius de Rennepont had secreted a

considerable amount of his wealth, all of which had been confiscated to

them, in those painful days of dragoonings, and the revocation of the

Edict of Nantes. They had bargained for some thirty or forty millions of

francs to be theirs, by educating Gabriel into resigning his inheritance

to them, but it was two hundred and twelve millions which the Jesuit

representatives (Father d’Aigrigny and his secretary, Rodin) were amazed

to hear their nursling placed in possession of. They had the treasure

in their hands, in fact, when a woman of strangely sad beauty had

mysteriously entered the room where the will had been read, and laid

a paper before the notary. It was a codicil, duly drawn up and signed,

deferring the carrying out of the testament until the first day of June

the same year. The Jesuits fled from the house, in rage and intense

disappointment. Father d’Aigrigny was so stupor-stricken at the defeat,

that he bade his secretary at once write off to Rome that the Rennepont

inheritance had escaped them, and hopes to seize it again were utterly

at an end. Upon this, Rodin had revolted, and shown that he had

authority to command where he had, so far, most humbly obeyed. Many such

spies hang about their superior’s heels, with full powers to become the

governor in turn, at a moment’s notice. Thenceforward, he, Rodin, had

taken the business into his own hands. He had let Rose and Blanche Simon

out of the convent into their father’s arms. He had gone in person to

release Adrienne de Cardoville from the asylum. More, having led her to

sigh for Prince Djalma, he prompted the latter to burn for her.

He let not M. Hardy escape. A friend whom the latter treated as a

brother, had been shown up to him as a mere spy of the Jesuits; the

woman whom he adored, a wedded woman, alas! who had loved him in spite

of her vows, had been betrayed. Her mother had compelled her to hide her

shame in America, and, as she had often said--“Much as you are endeared

to me, I cannot waver between you and my mother!” so she had obeyed,

without one farewell word to him. Confess, Rodin was a more dextrous

man than his late master! In the pages that ensue farther proofs of his

superiority in baseness and satanic heartlessness will not be wanting.

CHAPTER III. THE ATTACK.

On M. Hardy’s learning from the confidential go-between of the lovers,

that his mistress had been taken away by her mother, he turned from

Rodin and dashed away in a post carriage. At the same moment, as loud

as the rattle of the wheels, there arose the shouts of a band of workmen

and rioters, hired by the Jesuit’s emissaries, coming to attack Hardy’s

operatives. An old grudge long existing between them and a rival

manufacturer’s--Baron Tripeaud--laborers, fanned the flames. When M.

Hardy had left the factory, Rodin, who was not prepared for this

sudden departure, returned slowly to his hackney-coach; but he stopped

suddenly, and started with pleasure and surprise, when he saw, at some

distance, Marshall Simon and his father advancing towards one of the

wings of the Common Dwelling-house; for an accidental circumstance had

so far delayed the interview of the father and son.

“Very well!” said Rodin. “Better and better! Now, only let my man have

found out and persuaded little Rose-Pompon!”

And Rodin hastened towards his hackney-coach. At this moment, the wind,

which continued to rise, brought to the ear of the Jesuit the war song

of the approaching Wolves.

The workman was in the garden. The marshal said to him, in a voice of

such deep emotion that the old man started; “Father, I am very unhappy.”

A painful expression, until then concealed, suddenly darkened the

countenance of the marshal.

“You unhappy?” cried father Simon, anxiously, as he pressed nearer to

the marshal.

“For some days, my daughters have appeared constrained in manner, and

lost in thought. During the first moments of our re-union, they were

mad with joy and happiness. Suddenly, all has changed; they are becoming

more and more sad. Yesterday, I detected tears in their eyes; then

deeply moved, I clasped them in my arms, and implored them to tell me

the cause of their sorrow. Without answering, they threw themselves on

my neck, and covered my face with their tears.”

“It is strange. To what do you attribute this alteration?”

“Sometimes, I think I have not sufficiently concealed from them the

grief occasioned me by the loss of their mother, and they are

perhaps miserable that they do not suffice for my happiness. And yet

(inexplicable as it is) they seem not only to understand, but to share

my sorrow. Yesterday, Blanche said to me: ‘How much happier still should

we be, if our mother were with us!--’”

“Sharing your sorrow, they cannot reproach you with it. There must be

some other cause for their grief.”

“Yes,” said the marshal, looking fixedly at his father; “yes--but to

penetrate this secret--it would be necessary not to leave them.”

“What do you mean?”

“First learn, father, what are the duties which would keep me here; then

you shall know those which may take me away from you, from my daughters,

and from my other child.”

“What other child?”

“The son of my old friend, the Indian Prince.”

“Djalma? Is there anything the matter with him?”

“Father, he frightens me. I told you, father, of his mad and unhappy

passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

“Does that frighten you, my son?” said the old man, looking at the

marshal with surprise. “Djalma is only eighteen, and, at that age, one

love drives away another.”

“You have no idea of the ravages which the passion has already made in

the ardent, indomitable boy; sometimes, fits of savage ferocity follow

the most painful dejection. Yesterday, I came suddenly upon him; his

eyes were bloodshot, his features contracted with rage; yielding to an

impulse of mad furry, he was piercing with his poinard a cushion of red

cloth, whilst he exclaimed, panting for breath, ‘Ha blood!--I will have

blood!’ ‘Unhappy boy!’ I said to him, ‘what means this insane passion?’

‘I’m killing the man!’ replied he, in a hollow and savage voice: it is

thus he designates his supposed rival.”

“There is indeed something terrible,” said the old man, “in such a

passion, in such a heart.”

“At other times,” resumed the marshal, “it is against Mdlle. de

Cardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself.

I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with him

from Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that he

suspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide.”

“Unfortunate boy!”

“Well, father,” said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; “it is

at the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all my

solicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them.”

“Of quitting them?”

“Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendship

or family,” said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that his

father exclaimed, with deep emotion: “What can this duty be?”

“Father,” said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtful

silence, “who made me what I am? Who gave me the ducal title, and the

marshal’s baton?”

“Napoleon.”

“For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, when

from the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.

“I cursed his weakness,” said Father Simon, sadly; “the demi-god sank

into a man.”

“But for me, father--for me, the soldier, who have always fought beside

him, or under his eye--for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank in

the army to the highest--for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marks

of affection--for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend--and

there was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him. When

he was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me that

favor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who had

robbed his son of the crown which France had given him.”

“And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing your

admiration, I understood your gratitude. The projects of exile, the

conspiracies--I approved them all--you know it.”

“Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspired

seventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father’s sword.”

“Napoleon II!” exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surprise

and extreme anxiety; “the king of Rome!”

“King? no; he is no longer king. Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.

They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightened

them. Everything frightens them. Do you know what they are doing with

the son of the Emperor?” resumed the marshal, with painful excitement.

“They are torturing him--killing him by inches!”

“Who told you this?”

“Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true. Yes; the son of the

Emperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death. With

his eyes turned towards France, he waits--he waits--and no one comes--no

one--out of all the men that his father made as great as they once were

little, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling,

till he dies.”

“But you think of him?”

“Yes; but I had first to learn--oh! there is no doubt of it, for I have

not derived all my information from the same source--I had first to

learn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; for

one day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as he

was, showed him to me in his cradle, and said: ‘My old friend, you will

be to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves our

France.’”

“Yes, I know it. Many times you have repeated those words to me, and,

like yourself, I have been moved by them.”

“Well, father! suppose, informed of the sufferings of the son of

the Emperor, I had seen--with the positive certainty that I was not

deceived--a letter from a person of high rank in the court of Vienna,

offering to a man that was still faithful to the Emperor’s memory, the

means of communicating with the king of Rome, and perhaps of saving him

from his tormentors--”

“What next?” said the workman, looking fixedly at his son. “Suppose

Napoleon II. once at liberty--”

“What next?” exclaimed the marshal. Then he added, in a suppressed

voice: “Do you think, father, that France is insensible to the

humiliations she endures? Do you think that the memory of the Emperor

is extinct? No, no; it is, above all, in the days of our country’s

degredation, that she whispers that sacred name. How would it be, then,

were that name to rise glorious on the frontier, reviving in his son? Do

you not think that the heart of all France would beat for him?”

“This implies a conspiracy--against the present government--with

Napoleon II. for a watchword,” said the workman. “This is very serious.”

“I told you, father, that I was very unhappy; judge if it be not so,”

cried the marshal. “Not only I ask myself, if I ought to abandon my

children and you, to run the risk of so daring an enterprise, but I

ask myself if I am not bound to the present government, which, in

acknowledging my rank and title, if it bestowed no favor, at least did

me an act of justice. How shall I decide?--abandon all that I love, or

remain insensible to the tortures of Emperor--of that Emperor to the

son of the whom I owe everything--to whom I have sworn fidelity, both

to himself and child? Shall I lose this only opportunity, perhaps, of

saving him, or shall I conspire in his favor? Tell me, if I exaggerate

what I owe to the memory of the Emperor? Decide for me, father! During a

whole sleepless night, I strove to discover, in the midst of this chaos,

the line prescribed by honor; but I only wandered from indecision to

indecision. You alone, father--you alone, I repeat, can direct me.”

After remaining for some moments in deep thought, the old man was about

to answer, when some person, running across the little garden, opened

the door hastily, and entered the room in which were the marshal and his

father. It was Olivier, the young workman, who had been able to effect

his escape from the village in which the Wolves had assembled.

“M. Simon! M. Simon!” cried he, pale, and panting for breath. “They are

here--close at hand. They have come to attack the factory.”

“Who?” cried the old man, rising hastily.

“The Wolves, quarrymen, and stone-cutters, joined on the road by a crowd

of people from the neighborhood, and vagabonds from town. Do you not

hear them? They are shouting, ‘Death to the Devourers!’”

The clamor was indeed approaching, and grew more and more distinct.

“It is the same noise that I heard just now,” said the marshal, rising

in his turn.

“There are more than two hundred of them, M. Simon,” said Olivier; “they

are armed with clubs and stones, and unfortunately the greater part of

our workmen are in Paris. We are not above forty here in all; the women

and children are already flying to their chambers, screaming for terror.

Do you not hear them?”

The ceiling shook beneath the tread of many hasty feet.

“Will this attack be a serious one?” said the marshal to his father, who

appeared more and more dejected.

“Very serious,” said the old man; “there is nothing more fierce than

these combats between different unions; and everything has been done

lately to excite the people of the neighborhood against the factory.”

“If you are so inferior in number,” said the marshal, “you must begin by

barricading all the doors--and then--”

He was unable to conclude. A burst of ferocious cries shook the windows

of the room, and seemed so near and loud, that the marshal, his father,

and the young workman, rushed out into the little garden, which was

bounded on one side by a wall that separated it from the fields.

Suddenly whilst the shouts redoubled in violence, a shower of large

stones, intended to break the windows of the house, smashed some of the

panes on the first story, struck against the wall, and fell into the

garden, all around the marshal and his father. By a fatal chance, one

of these large stones struck the old man on the head. He staggered, bent

forward, and fell bleeding into the arms of Marshal Simon, just as arose

from without, with increased fury, the savage cries of, “Death to the

Devourers!”

CHAPTER IV. THE WOLVES AND THE DEVOURERS.

It was a frightful thing to view the approach of the lawless crowd,

whose first act of hostility had been so fatal to Marshal Simon’s

father. One wing of the Common Dwelling-house, which joined the

garden-wall on that side, was next to the fields. It was there that the

Wolves began their attack. The precipitation of their march, the halt

they had made at two public-houses on the road, their ardent impatience

for the approaching struggle, had inflamed these men to a high pitch of

savage excitement. Having discharged their first shower of stones, most

of the assailants stooped down to look for more ammunition. Some of

them, to do so with greater ease, held their bludgeons between their

teeth; others had placed them against the wall; here and there, groups

had formed tumultuously round the principal leaders of the band; the

most neatly dressed of these men wore frocks, with caps, whilst

others were almost in rags, for, as we have already said, many of the

hangers-on at the barriers, and people without any profession, had

joined the troop of the Wolves, whether welcome or not. Some hideous

women, with tattered garments, who always seem to follow in the track of

such people, accompanied them on this occasion, and, by their cries and

fury, inflamed still more the general excitement. One of them, tall,

robust, with purple complexion, blood shot eyes, and toothless jaws,

had a handkerchief over her head, from beneath which escaped her yellow,

frowsy hair. Over her ragged gown, she wore an old plaid shawl, crossed

over her bosom, and tied behind her back. This hag seemed possessed

with a demon. She had tucked up her half-torn sleeves; in one hand

she brandished a stick, in the other she grasped a huge stone; her

companions called her Ciboule (scullion).

This horrible hag exclaimed, in a hoarse voice: “I’ll bite the women of

the factory; I’ll make them bleed.”

The ferocious words were received with applause by her companions, and

with savage cries of “Ciboule forever!” which excited her to frenzy.

Amongst the other leaders, was a small, dry pale man, with the face of

a ferret, and a black beard all round the chin; he wore a scarlet Greek

cap, and beneath his long blouse, perfectly new, appeared a pair of neat

cloth trousers, strapped over thin boots. This man was evidently of a

different condition of life from that of the other persons in the troop;

it was he, in particular, who ascribed the most irritating and insulting

language to the workmen of the factory, with regard to the inhabitants

of the neighborhood. He howled a great deal, but he carried neither

stick nor stone. A full-faced, fresh-colored man, with a formidable bass

voice, like a chorister’s, asked him: “Will you not have a shot at those

impious dogs, who might bring down the Cholera on the country, as the

curate told us?”

“I will have a better shot than you,” said the little man, with a

singular, sinister smile.

“And with what, I’d like to see?”

“Probably, with this,” said the little man, stooping to pick up a

large stone; but, as he bent, a well-filled though light bag, which he

appeared to carry under his blouse, fell to the ground.

“Look, you are losing both bag and baggage,” said the other; “it does

not seem very heavy.”

“They are samples of wool,” answered the man with the ferret’s face, as

he hastily picked up the bag, and replaced it under his blouse; then he

added: “Attention! the big blaster is going to speak.”

And, in fact, he who exercised the most complete ascendency over this

irritated crowd was the terrible quarryman. His gigantic form towered

so much above the multitude, that his great head, bound in its ragged

handkerchief, and his Herculean shoulders, covered with a fallow goat

skin, were always visible above the level of that dark and swarming

crowd, only relieved here and there by a few women’s caps, like so many

white points. Seeing to what a degree of exasperation the minds of the

crowd had reached, the small number of honest, but misguided workmen,

who had allowed themselves to be drawn into this dangerous enterprise,

under the pretext of a quarrel between rival unions, now fearing for the

consequences of the struggle, tried, but too late, to abandon the main

body. Pressed close, and as it were, girt in with the more hostile

groups, dreading to pass for cowards, or to expose themselves to the bad

treatment of the majority, they were forced to wait for a more

favorable moment to effect their escape. To the savage cheers, which

had accompanied the first discharge of stones, succeeded a deep silence

commanded by the stentorian voice of the quarryman.

“The Wolves have howled,” he exclaimed; “let us wait and see how the

Devourers will answer, and when they will begin the fight.”

“We must draw them out of their factory, and fight them on neutral

ground,” said the little man with the ferret’s face, who appeared to be

the thieves’ advocate; “otherwise there would be trespass.”

“What do we care about trespass?” cried the horrible hag, Ciboule; “in

or out, I will tear the chits of the factory.”

“Yes, yes,” cried other hideous creatures, as ragged as Ciboule herself;

“we must not leave all to the men.”

“We must have our fun, too!”

“The women of the factory say that all the women of the neighborhood are

drunken drabs,” cried the little man with the ferret’s face.

“Good! we’ll pay them for it.”

“The women shall have their share.”

“That’s our business.”

“They like to sing in their Common House,” cried Ciboule; “we will make

them sing the wrong side of their mouths, in the key of ‘Oh, dear me!’”

This pleasantry was received with shouts, hootings, and furious stamping

of feet, to which the stentorian voice of the quarryman put a term by

roaring: “Silence!”

“Silence! silence!” repeated the crowd. “Hear the blaster!”

“If the Devourers are cowards enough not to dare to show themselves,

after a second volley of stones, there is a door down there which we can

break open, and we will soon hunt them from their holes.”

“It would be better to draw them out, so that none might remain in the

factory,” said the little old man with the ferret’s face, who appeared

to have some secret motive.

“A man fights where he can,” cried the quarryman, in a voice of thunder;

“all, right, if we can but once catch hold. We could fight on a sloping

roof, or on the top of a wall--couldn’t we, my Wolves?”

“Yes, yes!” cried the crowd, still more excited by those savage words;

“if they don’t come out, we will break in.”

“We will see their fine palace!”

“The pagans haven’t even a chapel,” said the bass voice. “The curate has

damned them all!”

“Why should they have a palace, and we nothing but dog-kennels?”

“Hardy’s workmen say that kennels are good enough for such as you.” said

the little man with the ferret’s face.

“Yes, yes! they said so.”

“We’ll break all their traps.”

“We’ll pull down their bazaar.”

“We’ll throw the house out of the windows.”

“When we have made the mealy-mouthed chits sing,” cried Ciboule, “we

will make them dance to the clatter of stones on their heads.”

“Come, my Wolves! attention!” cried the quarryman, still in the same

stentorian voice; “one more volley, and if the Devourers do not come

out, down with the door!”

This proposition was received with cheers of savage ardor, and the

quarryman, whose voice rose above the tumult, cried with all the

strength of his herculean lungs: “Attention, my Wolves. Make ready! all

together. Now, are you ready?”

“Yes, yes--all ready!”

“Then, present!--fire!” And, for the second time, a shower of enormous

stones poured upon that side of the Common Dwelling-house which was

turned towards the fields. A part of these projectiles broke such of the

windows as had been spared by the first volley. To the sharp smashing

and cracking of glass were joined the ferocious cries uttered in chorus

by this formidable mob, drunk with its own excesses: “Death to the

Devourers!”

Soon these outcries became perfectly frantic, when, through the broken

windows, the assailants perceived women running in terror, some with

children in their arms, and others raising their hands to heaven,

calling aloud for help; whilst a few, bolder than the rest, leaned out

of the windows, and tried to fasten the outside blinds.

“There come the ants out of their holes!” cried Ciboule, stooping to

pick up a stone. “We must have a fling at them for luck!” The stone,

hurled by the steady, masculine hand of the virago, went straight to its

mark, and struck an unfortunate woman who was trying to close one of the

shutters.

“Hit in the white!” cried the hideous creature.

“Well done, Ciboule!--you’ve rapped her coker-nut!” cried a voice.

“Ciboule forever!”

“Come out, you Devourers, if you dare!”

“They have said a hundred times, that the neighbors were too cowardly

even to come and look at their house,” squealed the little man with the

ferret’s face.

“And now they show the white feather!”

“If they will not come out,” cried the quarryman, in voice of thunder,

“let us smoke them out!”

“Yes, yes!”

“Let’s break open the door!”

“We are sure to find them!”

“Come on! come on!”

The crowd, with the quarryman at their head, and Ciboule not far from

him, brandishing a stick, advanced tumultously towards one of the great

doors. The ground shook beneath the rapid tread of the mob, which had

now ceased shouting; but the confused, and, as it were, subterraneous

noise, sounded even more ominous than those savage outcries. The Wolves

soon arrived opposite the massive oaken door. At the moment the blaster

raised a sledgehammer, the door opened suddenly. Some of the most

determined of the assailants were about to rush in at this entrance; but

the quarryman stepped back, extending his arm as if to moderate their

ardor and impose silence. Then his followers gathered round him.

The half-open door discovered a party of workmen, unfortunately by no

means numerous, but with countenances full of resolution. They had armed

themselves hastily with forks, iron bars, and clubs. Agricola, who was

their leader, held in his hand a heavy sledge-hammer. The young workman

was very pale; but the fire of his eye, his menacing look, and the

intrepid assurance of his bearing, showed that his father’s blood

boiled in his veins, and that in such a struggle he might become

fear-inspiring. Yet he succeeded in restraining himself, and challenged

the quarryman, in a firm voice: “What do you want?”

“A fight!” thundered the blaster.

“Yes, yes! a fight!” repeated the crowd.

“Silence, my Wolves!” cried the quarryman, as he turned round, and

stretched forth his large hand towards the multitude. Then addressing

Agricola, he said: “The Wolves have come to ask for a fight.”

“With whom?”

“With the Devourers.”

“There are no Devourers here,” replied Agricola; “we are only peaceable

workmen. So begone.”

“Well! here are the Wolves, that will eat your quiet workmen.”

“The Wolves will eat no one here,” said Agricola, looking full at the

quarryman, who approached him with a threatening air; “they can only

frighten little children.”

“Oh! you think so,” said the quarryman, with a savage sneer. Then

raising his weapon, he shook it in Agricola’s face, exclaiming: “Is that

any laughing matter?

“Is that?” answered Agricola, with a rapid movement, parrying the stone

sledge with his own hammer.

“Iron against iron--hammer against hammer--that suits me,” said the

quarryman.

“It does not matter what suits you,” answered Agricola, hardly able to

restrain himself. “You have broken our windows, frightened our women,

and wounded--perhaps killed--the oldest workman in the factory, who at

this moment lies bleeding in the arms of his son.” Here Agricola’s voice

trembled in spite of himself. “It is, I think, enough.”

“No; the Wolves are hungry for more,” answered the blaster; “you must

come out (cowards that you are!), and fight us on the plain.”

“Yes! yes! battle!--let them come out!” cried the crowd, howling,

hissing, waving their sticks and pushing further into the small space

which separated them from the door.

“We will have no battle,” answered Agricola: “we will not leave our

home; but if you have the misfortune to pass this,” said Agricola,

throwing his cap upon the threshold, and setting his foot on it with an

intrepid air, “if you pass this, you attack us in our own house, and you

will be answerable for all that may happen.”

“There or elsewhere we will have the fight! the Wolves must eat the

Devourers. Now for the attack!” cried the fierce quarryman, raising his

hammer to strike Agricola.

But the latter, throwing himself on one side by a sudden leap, avoided

the blow, and struck with his hammer full at the chest of the quarryman,

who staggered for a moment, but instantly recovering his legs, rushed

furiously on Agricola, crying: “Follow me, Wolves!”

CHAPTER V. THE RETURN.

As soon as the combat had begun between Agricola and the blaster,

the general fight became terrible, ardent, implacable. A flood of

assailants, following the quarryman’s steps, rushed into the house

with irresistible fury; others, unable to force their way through this

dreadful crowd, where the more impetuous squeezed, stifled, and crushed

these who were less so, went round in another direction, broke through

some lattice work, and thus placed the people of the factory, as it

were, between two fires. Some resisted courageously; others, seeing

Ciboule, followed by some of her horrible companions, and by several

of the most ill-looking ruffians, hastily enter that part of the

Common-Dwelling house in which the women had taken refuge, hurried in

pursuit of this band; but some of the hag’s companions, having faced

about, and vigorously defended the entrance of the staircase against the

workmen, Ciboule, with three or four like herself, and about the same

number of no less ignoble men, rushed through the rooms, with the

intention of robbing or destroying all that came in their way. A door,

which at first resisted their efforts, was soon broken through;

Ciboule rushed into the apartment with a stick in her hand, her hair

dishevelled, furious, and, as it were, maddened with the noise and

tumult. A beautiful young girl (it was Angela), who appeared anxious

to defend the entrance to a second chamber, threw herself on her knees,

pale and supplicating, and raising her clasped hands, exclaimed: “Do not

hurt my mother!”

“I’ll serve you out first, and your mother afterwards,” replied the

horrible woman, throwing herself on the poor girl, and endeavoring to

tear her face with her nails, whilst the rest of the ruffianly

band broke the glass and the clock with their sticks, and possessed

themselves of some articles of wearing apparel.

Angela, struggling with Ciboule, uttered loud cries of distress, and

still attempted to guard the room in which her mother had taken refuge;

whilst the latter, leaning from the window, called Agricola to their

assistance. The smith was now engaged with the huge blaster. In a close

struggle, their hammers had become useless, and with bloodshot eyes

and clinched teeth, chest to chest, and limbs twined together like two

serpents, they made the most violent efforts to overthrow each other.

Agricola, bent forward, held under his right arm the left leg of the

quarryman, which he had seized in parrying a violent kick; but such was

the Herculean strength of the leader of the Wolves, that he remained

firm as a tower, though resting only on one leg. With the hand that

was still free (for the other was gripped by Agricola as in a vise),

he endeavored with violent blows to break the jaws of the smith, who,

leaning his head forward, pressed his forehead hard against the breast

of his adversary.

“The Wolf will break the Devourer’s teeth, and he shall devour no more,”

said the quarryman.

“You are no true Wolf,” answered the smith, redoubling his efforts; “the

true Wolves are honest fellows, and do not come ten against one.”

“True or false, I will break your teeth.”

“And I your paw,” said the smith, giving so violent a wrench to the leg

of the quarryman, that the latter uttered a cry of acute pain, and,

with the rage of a wild beast, butting suddenly forward with his head,

succeeded in biting Agricola in the side of the neck.

The pang of this bite forced Agricola to make a movement, which enabled

the quarryman to disengage his leg. Then, with a superhuman effort, he

threw himself with his whole weight on Agricola, and brought him to the

ground, falling himself upon him.

At this juncture, Angela’s mother, leaning from one of the windows of

the Common Dwelling-house, exclaimed in a heart-rending voice: “Help,

Agricola!--they are killing my child!”

“Let me go--and on, my honor--I will fight you tomorrow, or when you

will,” said Agricola, panting for breath.

“No warmed-up food for me; I eat all hot,” answered the quarryman,

seizing the smith by the throat, whilst he tried to place one of his

knees upon his chest.

“Help!--they are killing my child!” cried Angela’s mother, in a voice of

despair.

“Mercy! I ask mercy! Let me go!”’ said Agricola, making the most violent

efforts to escape.

“I am too hungry,” answered the quarryman.

Exasperated by the terror which Angela’s danger occasioned him, Agricola

redoubled his efforts, when the quarryman suddenly felt his thigh seized

by the sharp teeth of a dog, and at the same instant received from a

vigorous hand three or four heavy blows with a stick upon his head. He

relaxed his grasp, and fell stunned upon his hand and knee, whilst he

mechanically raised his other arm to parry the blows, which ceased as

soon as Agricola was delivered.

“Father, you have saved me!” cried the smith, springing up. “If only I

am in time to rescue Angela!”

“Run!--never mind me!” answered Dagobert; and Agricola rushed into the

house.

Dogabert, accompanied by Spoil-sport, had come, as we have already said,

to bring Marshal Simon’s daughters to their grandfather. Arriving in the

midst of the tumult, the soldier had collected a few workmen to defend

the entrance of the chamber, to which the marshal’s father had been

carried in a dying state. It was from this post that the soldier had

seen Agricola’s danger. Soon after, the rush of the conflict separated

Dagobert from the quarryman, who remained for some moments insensible.

Arrived in two bounds at the Common Dwelling-house, Agricola succeeded

in forcing his way through the men who defended the staircase, and

rushed into the corridor that led to Angela’s chamber. At the moment he

reached it, the unfortunate girl was mechanically guarding her face with

both hands against Ciboule, who, furious as the hyena over its prey, was

trying to scratch and disfigure her.

To spring upon the horrible hag, seize her by her yellow hair with

irresistible hand, drag her backwards, and then with one cuff, stretch

her full length upon the ground, was for Agricola an achievement

as rapid as thought. Furious with rage, Ciboule rose again almost

instantly; but at this moment, several workmen, who had followed close

upon Agricola, were able to attack with advantage, and whilst the smith

lifted the fainting form of Angela, and carried her into the next room,

Ciboule and her band were driven from that part of the house.

After the first fire of the assault, the small number of real Wolves,

who, as Agricola said, were in the main honest fellows, but had the

weakness to let themselves be drawn into this enterprise, under the

pretext of a quarrel between rival unions, seeing the excesses committed

by the rabble who accompanied them, turned suddenly round, and ranged

themselves on the side of the Devourers.

“There are no longer here either Wolves or Devourers,” said one of

the most determined Wolves to Olivier, with whom he had been fighting

roughly and fairly; “there are none here but honest workmen, who must

unite to drive out a set of scoundrels, that have come only to break and

pillage.”

“Yes,” added another; “it was against our will that they began by

breaking your windows.”

“The big blaster did it all,” said another; “the true Wolves wash their

hands of him. We shall soon settle his account.”

“We may fight every day--but we ought to esteem each other.” (35)

This defection of a portion of the assailants (unfortunately but a

small portion) gave new spirit to the workmen of the factory, and all

together, Wolves and Devourers, though very inferior in number,

opposed themselves to the band of vagabonds, who were proceeding to new

excesses. Some of these wretches, still further excited by the little

man with the ferret’s face, a secret emissary of Baron Tripeaud,

now rushed in a mass towards the workshops of M. Hardy. Then began

a lamentable devastation. These people, seized with the mania of

destruction, broke without remorse machines of the greatest value, and

most delicate construction; half manufactured articles were pitilessly

destroyed; a savage emulation seemed to inspire these barbarians,

and those workshops, so lately the model of order and well-regulated

economy, were soon nothing but a wreck; the courts were strewed with

fragments of all kinds of wares, which were thrown from the windows with

ferocious outcries, or savage bursts of laughter. Then, still thanks to

the incitements of the little man with the ferret’s face, the books

of M. Hardy, archives of commercial industry, so indispensable to the

trader, were scattered to the wind, torn, trampled under foot, in a sort

of infernal dance, composed of all that was most impure in this assembly

of low, filthy, and ragged men and women, who held each other by the

hand, and whirled round and round with horrible clamor. Strange and

painful contrasts! At the height of the stunning noise of these horrid

deeds of tumult and devastation, a scene of imposing and mournful calm

was taking place in the chamber of Marshal Simon’s father, the door of

which was guarded by a few devoted men. The old workman was stretched

on his bed, with a bandage across his blood stained white hair. His

countenance was livid, his breathing oppressed, his look fixed and

glazed.

Marshal Simon, standing at the head of the bed, bending over his father,

watched in despairing anguish the least sign of consciousness on the

part of the dying man, near whom was a physician, with his finger on

the failing pulse. Rose and Blanche, brought hither by Dagobert, were

kneeling beside the bed, their hands clasped, and their eyes bathed in

tears; a little further, half hidden in the shadows of the room, for

the hours had passed quickly, and the night was at hand, stood Dagobert

himself, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and his features

painfully contracted. A profound and solemn silence reigned in this

chamber, only interrupted by the broken sobs of Rose and Blanche, or by

Father Simon’s hard breathing. The eyes of the marshal were dry, gloomy,

and full of fire. He only withdrew them from his father’s face, to

interrogate the physician by a look. There are strange coincidences in

life. That physician was Dr. Baleinier. The asylum of the doctor being

close to the barrier that was nearest to the factory, and his fame being

widely spread in the neighborhood, they had run to fetch him on the

first call for medical assistance.

Suddenly, Dr. Baleinier made a movement; the marshal, who had not taken

his eyes off him, exclaimed: “Is there any hope?”

“At least, my lord duke, the pulse revives a little.”

“He is saved!” said the marshal.

“Do not cherish false hopes, my lord duke,” answered the doctor,

gravely: “the pulse revives, owing to the powerful applications to the

feet, but I know not what will be the issue of the crisis.”

“Father! father! do you hear me?” cried the marshal, seeing the old man

slightly move his head, and feebly raise his eyelids. He soon opened his

eyes, and this time their intelligence had returned.

“Father! you live--you know me!” cried the marshal, giddy with joy and

hope.

“Pierre! are you there?” said the old man, in a weak voice. “Your

hand--give--it--” and he made a feeble movement.

“Here, father!” cried the marshal, as he pressed the hands of the old

man in his own.

Then, yielding to an impulse of delight, he bent over his father,

covered his hands, face, and hair with kisses, and repeated: “He lives!

kind heaven, he lives! he is saved!”