The factory of M. Dutertre, devoted to the manufacture of locomotives
for railroads, occupied an immense site in the Faubourg St. Marceau, and
its tall brick chimneys, constantly smoking, designated it at a great
distance.
M. Dutertre and his family lived in a small house separated from the
workshops by a large garden.
At the moment we introduce the reader into this modest dwelling, an air
of festivity reigned there; every one in the house seemed to be occupied
with hospitable preparation. A young and active servant had just
finished arranging the table in the middle of the dining-room, the
window of which looked out upon the garden, and which bordered upon a
small kitchen separated from the landing-place by a glass partition,
panes set in an unpolished frame. An old cook woman went to and fro with
a bewildered air in this culinary laboratory, from which issued whiffs
of appetising odours, which sometimes pervaded the dining-room.
In the parlour, furnished with walnut covered in yellow Utrecht velvet
and curtains of white muslin, other preparations were going on. Two
vases of white porcelain, ornamenting the chimneypiece, had just been
filled with fresh flowers; between these two vases, replacing the
ornamental clock, was a miniature locomotive under a glass globe, a
veritable masterpiece of mechanism and ironmongery. On the black
pedestal of this trinket of iron, copper, and steel one could see
engraved the words:
_To M. Charles Dutertre._
_His grateful workmen._
Téniers or Gérard Dow would have made a charming picture of the family
group in this parlour.
A blind old man, with a venerable and melancholy face encircled by long
white hair falling over his shoulders, was seated in an armchair,
holding two children on his knees,--a little boy of three years old and
a little girl of five,--two angels of beauty and grace.
The little boy, dark and rosy, with great black eyes as soft as velvet,
every now and then would look at his pretty blue casimir shirt and white
trousers with the utmost satisfaction, but was most of all delighted
with his white silk stockings striped with crimson, and his black
morocco shoes with ribbon bows.
The little girl, named Madeleine for an intimate friend of the mother
who was godmother to the child, was fair and rosy, with lovely blue
eyes, and wore a pretty white dress. Her shoulders and arms were bare,
and her legs were only half covered by dainty Scotch socks. To tell how
many dimples were in those shoulders, on those arms, and in those fat
little cheeks, so red and fresh and smooth, would have required a
mother's computation, and she could only have learned by the number of
kisses she gave them.
Standing by and leaning on the back of the old blind man's chair, Madame
Dutertre was listening with a mother's interest and earnestness to the
chirping of the little warblers that the grandfather held on his knees,
talking of this and of that, in that infantine jargon which mothers know
how to translate with such rare sagacity.
Madame Sophie Dutertre was only twenty-five years old, and, although
slightly marked by smallpox, had unusually regular and beautiful
features. It would be difficult to imagine a more gracious or attractive
countenance, a more refined or agreeable smile, which was the ideal of
sweetness and amiability. Superb hair, teeth of pearl, a dazzling
complexion, and an elegant stature rendered her a charming presence
under any circumstances, and when she raised her large, bright, limpid
eyes to her husband, who was then standing on the other side of the
blind old grandfather, love and maternity gave to this tender glance an
expression at the same time pathetic and passionate, for the marriage of
Sophie and Charles Dutertre had been a marriage of love.
The only fault--if a fault could be said to pertain to Sophie
Dutertre--was, as careful and fastidious as she was about the attire of
her children, she gave very little attention to her own toilet. An
unbecoming, badly made stuff dress disparaged her elegant figure; her
little foot was by no means irreproachably shod, and her beautiful brown
hair was arranged with as little taste as care.
Frank and resolute, intelligent and kind, such was the character of M.
Dutertre, then about twenty-eight years old. His keen eye, full of fire,
and his robust, yet slender figure announced an active, energetic
nature. A civil engineer, a man of science and study, as capable of
solving difficult problems with the pen as of handling the file and the
iron hammer; knowing how to command as well as to execute; honouring and
elevating manual labour and sometimes practising it, whether by example
or encouragement; scrupulously just; loyal and confiding almost to
temerity; paternal, firm and impartial toward his numerous workmen;
possessing an antique simplicity of manner; enthusiastic in labour, and
in love with his creatures of iron and copper and steel, his life was
divided between the three great things which constitute the happiness of
man,--love, family, and labour.
Charles Dutertre had only one sorrow, the blindness of his father, and
yet this affliction was the opportunity for such tender devotion, such
delicate and constant care, that Dutertre and his wife endeavoured to
console themselves in the thought that it enabled them to prove to the
old man their affection and fidelity. Notwithstanding the preparations
for the approaching festivity, Charles Dutertre had postponed shaving
until the next day, and his working suit which he kept on showed here
and there upon the gray cloth spots and stains and burns which gave
evidence of his contact with the forge. His forehead was high and
noble-looking, his hands, which were white and nervous, were somewhat
blackened by the smoke of the workshops. He seemed to forget, in his
laborious and untiring activity, or in the refreshing repose which
succeeded it, that personal care which some men very properly never
renounce.
Such were the persons assembled in the modest parlour of the little
home. The two children, chatting incessantly and at the same time, tried
to make themselves understood by their grandfather, who responded with
the best will in the world, and, smiling sweetly, would ask them:
"What did you say, my little Augustus, and what do you say, my little
Madeleine?"
"Will madame the interpreter have the kindness to translate this pretty
chirping into common language?" said Charles Dutertre to his wife, as he
laughed merrily.
"Why, Charles, do you not understand?"
"Not at all."
"Do you not understand the children, father?" said she to the old man.
"I thought I heard something about Sunday dress," said the old man,
smiling, "but it was so complicated that I gave up all hope of
comprehending it."
"It was something very like that,--come, come, only mothers and
grandfathers understand little children," said Sophie, triumphantly.
Then turning to the children, she said:
"My dears, did you not say to your grandfather, 'To-day is Sunday
because we have on our pretty new clothes'?"
The little blonde Madeleine opened her great blue eyes wide, and bowed
her curly head in the affirmative.
"You are the Champollion of mothers!" cried Charles Dutertre, while the
old man said to the two children:
"No, to-day is not Sunday, my children, but it is a feast-day."
Here Sophie was obliged to interfere again, and translate.
"They ask why it is a feast-day, father."
"Because we are going to have a friend visit us, and when a friend comes
to see us, it is always a feast," replied the old man, with a smile
somewhat constrained.
"Ah, we must not forget the purse," said Dutertre to his wife.
"Wait a moment," replied Sophie, gaily, to her husband, as she pointed
to a little rose-coloured box on the table, "do you think that I, any
more than you, could forget our good M. Pascal, our worthy benefactor?"
The grandfather, turning to little Madeleine, said, as he kissed her
brow:
"We are expecting M. Pascal,--you know M. Pascal."
Madeleine again opened her great blue eyes; her face took on an
expression almost of fear, and shaking her little curly head sadly, she
said:
"He is bad."
"M. Pascal?" said Sophie.
"Oh, yes, very bad!" replied the child.
"But," said the young mother, "my dear Madeleine, why do you think that
M. Pascal is bad?"
"Come, Sophie," said Charles Dutertre, smiling, "you are not going to
stop to listen to this childish talk about our worthy friend, are you?"
Strange enough, the old man's countenance at once assumed a vague
expression of disquietude, and whether he trusted the instinct and
penetration of children, or whether he was influenced by another
thought, far from making a jest of Madeleine's words, as his son did, he
leaned over the child, and said:
"Tell us, my child, why M. Pascal is bad."
The little blonde shook her head, and said, innocently:
"Don't know,--but, very sure, he is bad."
Sophie, who felt a good deal like the grandfather on the subject of the
wonderful sagacity of children, could not overcome a slight feeling of
alarm, for there are secret, mysterious relations between a mother and
the children of her blood. An indefinable presentiment, against which
Sophie struggled with all her strength, because she thought it absurd
and foolish, told her that the little girl had made no mistake in
reading the character of M. Pascal, although she had heretofore esteemed
him as the impersonation of goodness and generosity.
Charles Dutertre, never suspecting the impressions of his wife and
father, replied, smiling:
"Now it is my turn to give a lesson to this grandfather and this mother,
who pretend to understand the prattle and feeling of children so well.
Our excellent friend has a rough exterior, heavy eyebrows, and a black
beard and dark skin and unprepossessing speech; he is, in a word, a sort
of benevolent churl, but he does not deserve the name of bad, even upon
the authority of this little blonde."
At this moment the servant entered, and said to her mistress:
"Madame, Mlle. Hubert is here with her maid, and--"
"Antonine? What good fortune!" said Sophie, rising immediately, and
going to meet the young girl.
"Madame," added the servant, mysteriously, "Agatha wants to know if M.
Pascal likes his peas with sugar or bacon?"
"Charles!" called Sophie, merrily, to her husband, "this is a grave
question, what do you think of it?"
"Make one dish of peas with sugar, and the other with bacon," replied
Charles, thoughtfully.
"It takes mathematicians to solve problems," replied Sophie, then,
taking her children by the hand, she added: "I want Antonine to see how
large and pretty they are."
"But I hope you will persuade Mlle. Hubert to come in, or I must go
after her."
"I am going to take the children to their nurse, and I will return with
Antonine."
"Charles," said the old man, rising, when the young woman had
disappeared, "give me your arm, please."
"Certainly, father; but M. Pascal will arrive before long."
"And you insist upon my being present, my son?"
"You know, father, all the respect that our friend has for you, and how
glad he is to show it to you."
After a moment's silence, the old man replied:
"Do you know that, since you have dismissed your old cashier,
Marcelange, he often visits M. Pascal?"
"This is the first time I have heard it."
"Does it not seem singular to you?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Listen to me, Charles, I--"
"I beg your pardon, father," replied Dutertre, interrupting the old man,
"now I think of it, nothing is more natural; I have not seen our friend
since I sent Marcelange away; Marcelange knows of our friendship for M.
Pascal, and he perhaps has gone to see him, to beg him to intercede with
me for him."
"It can be so explained," said the old man, thoughtfully. "Yet--"
"Well, father?"
"Your little girl's impression struck me forcibly."
"Come, father," replied Dutertre, smiling, "you say that to compliment
my wife. Unfortunately, she is not present to hear you. But I will
report your gallantry to her."
"I say so, Charles," replied the old man, in a solemn tone, "because, as
childish as it may appear, your little girl's impression seems to me to
have a certain weight, and when I recall some other circumstances, and
think of the frequent interviews between Marcelange and M. Pascal, I
confess to you that I feel in spite of myself a vague distrust of your
friend."
"Oh, father, father," replied Charles Dutertre, with emotion, "of course
you do not mean it, but you distress me very much. Doubt our generous
benefactor, M. Pascal! Ah, banish your suspicions, father, for this is
the first sorrow I have felt in a long time. To suspect without proof,
to be influenced by the passing impression of a little child," added
Dutertre, with all the warmth of his natural generosity, "that is
unjust, indeed!"
"Charles!" said the old man, wounded by his son's resentment.
"Oh, pardon me, pardon me, father," cried Dutertre, taking the old man's
hands in his own, "I was too quick, forgive me; for a moment friendship
spoke louder than my respect for you."
"My poor Charles," replied the old man, affectionately, "Heaven grant
that you may be right in differing from me, and, far from complaining of
your readiness to defend a friend, I am glad of it. But I hear some one
coming,--take me back to my room."
At the moment M. Dutertre closed the door of the chamber where he had
conducted the blind man, Mlle. Hubert entered the parlour accompanied by
Madame Dutertre.