here like two lost sentinels; but we must make up our minds to
something.”
“Let us hunt for Adeline and her child,” said Jacques, in a gloomy
voice, “and forget Edouard. I am beginning to fear that the wretch--let
us look for Adeline; she will never make me blush.”
“Oh! for her I would rush into the hottest fire.”
“Poor woman! poor little Ermance! Where are they now? Perhaps her grief
at learning that her husband--oh! why did you tell her that,
Sans-Souci?”
“Don’t mention it. I would to God that you would use my tongue for a
cartridge.”
“There is no rest for me until I know what has become of them. Let us
search Paris and enquire at every house if necessary; and if we don’t
find them in this city, let us search the whole of France, towns,
hamlets, villages.”
“Corbleu! yes, we will go to the devil if necessary! But we will find
them, comrade, we will find them, I tell you that.”
Jacques and his companion took rooms at a poor inn; they were on foot
with the dawn, and scoured every quarter of the city, enquiring
everywhere for Adeline and her child; but no one could give them any
information concerning the young woman whom they sought. The sight of
unfortunate people is so common that little attention is paid to them.
However, sometimes the abode of some poor mother was pointed out to
them; they would visit her, and find that she was not the object of
their search.
On the eleventh day after their arrival in Paris, Jacques and Sans-Souci
were walking on the boulevard, always thinking of Adeline and cudgeling
their brains to divine what could have become of her.
Suddenly the people on the sidewalk pressed toward the driveway,
seemingly awaiting some curious sight.
“What is going by?” Sans-Souci asked a workman who had stopped near
him.
“It’s the chain of convicts, starting from Bicêtre to go to the galleys
at Toulon,” was the reply. “See, here, here’s the wagon coming now; we
shall see them in a minute.”
“It is hardly worth while to crowd so to see a parcel of villains,” said
Sans-Souci.
“They ask for alms on the road.”
“If they had any pluck, they would ask to be shot.--Come, Jacques, let’s
not stay here; I haven’t any pity for those fellows.”
“I want to stay,” said Jacques with emotion; “I want to see them.”
The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret
presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon
the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands,
imploring the pity of the passers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely,
and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who
tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain
with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most
effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques
an opportunity to see the poor wretch’s features; it seemed to him that
he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and
with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his buttonhole
and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast.
The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci
pulled his arm.
“Come,” he said to him; “how in the devil can you take any pleasure in
looking at those beggars?--But what’s the matter with you? Your face is
all distorted.”
“Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!”
“You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable.”
“My brother----”
“Well?”
Jacques dared not utter the fatal words; but with his hand he pointed to
the chain of convicts, who could still be seen in the distance.
“It wasn’t he, my friend, you made a mistake.”
“Ah! would to God I had! But no, it was no mistake; and the words of
that kindhearted messenger, his compassionate air as he spoke to me and
shook my hand.--There is no more doubt; I understand everything now.”
“Well! even if your brother is a miserable villain, is it your fault?
Did you fight for your country any the less, and thrash its enemies? And
have the scars vanished from your face and your breast? Ten thousand
million citadels! Who could ever blush for having known you? I will make
the man swallow ten inches of my sword!”
“Ah! my name is sullied, my friend. O father! if you knew!”
“Your father is dead; if he was alive, your glory would console him for
your brother’s shame.”
“No, Sans-Souci, consolation for such a calamity is impossible. There is
but one thing left for me to do, and that is to overtake those wretched
creatures, to find some way to approach the man whom I can no longer
call my brother, and to blow his brains out, and then do the same by
myself.”
“That’s a very pretty scheme of yours. But you won’t carry it out. You
will remember that you have a sister, for that dear Adeline loves you
like a brother; you will remember little Ermance, whom you danced on
your knees; you will not deprive those poor creatures of the last
friend who is left to them; you will forget your grief in order to allay
theirs, and with them you will feel that you have not lost
everything.--But we shall find them, comrade; we will search every
corner of the earth; how do you know that they are not at the farm now,
or in some poor cabin where they need our help? and you would leave this
world when there are unfortunate mortals here who rely upon you? No,
sacrebleu! that shall not be! You surrender, you are touched. Come,
Jacques, be brave in grief as you were under fire, and forward march!”
Jacques allowed himself to be persuaded by his comrade, who took
advantage of that circumstance to induce him to leave a city where they
had lost all hope of discovering Adeline; and they returned to the farm,
still flattering themselves that they would find the young fugitive
there.
But that last hope was soon destroyed; the sadness of the peasants left
them in no doubt. Jacques insisted upon starting off again at once in
search of Adeline and her child, and only with great difficulty did they
persuade him to remain one night at the farm. They saw that Brother
Jacques was gloomy and melancholy since he had been in Paris; but the
peasants attributed his gloom to the non-success of his search.
Sans-Souci made all their preparations for a journey which he thought
with good reason would be likely to last a long while. Louise was
greatly grieved to have her cousin go away, but she realized that he
ought not to abandon his friend. The farmer’s wife thrust a well-filled
purse into the bag of each of the travellers. It was simply their wages
for all the time that they had worked at the farm; but she dared not
offer it to them, for she knew that the method that she employed was
the best one to avoid a refusal. Kindhearted folk are always shrewd and
clever, when it is a question of doing a kind act.
At dawn Jacques was up. Sans-Souci soon joined him. He appeared with his
bag over his shoulder, and a stout staff in his hand, and said to his
comrade:
“Whenever you are ready, forward march!”
The two friends were about to start. The farmer and his family came
forward weeping, to bid them adieu. The children, who had long been
accustomed to play with Jacques’s moustaches and to roll on the grass
with Sans-Souci, clung to the legs of both travellers, and would not let
them go. Louise held a corner of her apron to her eyes, and her sighs
said much more than her words. Guillot was no less sorrowful than the
rest.
“I say! I’m going to be left alone with my wife, am I?” he said; “what a
stupid time I shall have!--Here, comrade Jacques, let me give you a
little present for your journey; it may be of some use to you; for you
don’t know where you may be.”
As he spoke, Guillot handed Jacques a pair of small pocket pistols.
“I bought them second-hand in the village not long ago, of an old
soldier; my idea was to give ’em to you on your birthday, but so long as
you’re going away, why take ’em now.”
Jacques thanked the honest farmer and accepted his present; then, after
embracing everybody, he set forth with Sans-Souci, swearing not to
return to the farm without Adeline, and to take no rest until he had
found her.
XXXII
THE GALLEY SLAVES
Jacques was not mistaken when he thought he saw his brother among the
convicts. The unhappy Edouard had undergone his punishment for the crime
which he had allowed himself to be led into committing. His sentence
condemned him to twenty years hard labor, to be branded and exposed to
public view.
Lampin, who had already been in prison for theft, was sentenced to the
galleys for life. In vain did he repeat to Edouard his lesson, and urge
him to deny everything; Edouard had not enough strength of character to
form a resolution. He contradicted himself, betrayed himself, and
allowed himself to be easily convicted of his crime. The miserable
wretch recognized his wife and child at the moment that he was branded
with the mark of infamy. He saw Adeline fall unconscious before him;
that heartrending picture was long present in his mind; the image of a
woman who adored him and whose life he had wrecked, the sight of a child
whom he condemned to the shame of not being able to mention her father
without a shudder, and the memory of the happiness he had once enjoyed
in his home,--all these overwhelmed the unhappy felon and made him feel
more keenly the horror of his situation.
Remorse gnawed at Edouard’s heart, and led him, so far as he was able,
to avoid the society of the other prisoners, who laughed at his grief
and sneered at his cowardice. A hundred times the poor wretch formed a
plan to put an end to his existence, but only in fear and trembling did
he invent methods which his weak character instantly spurned. In this
frame of mind Murville made the journey from Bicêtre to Toulon, without
observing that his brother gave alms to his companions as they passed
through Paris.
Lampin was always the same; at the galleys he retained his recklessness
and gayety; shame was to him nothing more than an empty word, and he
strove every day to lift Edouard above what he called prejudice.
The penitent culprit never receives useful advice in the society of
galley slaves. For one criminal who knows the pangs of remorse, how many
are there who become hardened in crime and take pleasure in corrupting
entirely those whom sincere repentance might have led back into the
paths of virtue!
The image of Adeline and her daughter gradually faded from Edouard’s
mind, and gave way to the schemes of which his companions talked to him
day after day. He banished a remorse which they proved to be useless, in
order to invent some plan of escape; and after six months of
imprisonment, distaste for life was replaced in his mind by an ardent
longing for liberty.
A bold scheme was formed. Even at the galleys, prisoners find a way of
establishing relations with those of their friends who are momentarily
enjoying their freedom; and these latter brave everything to serve their
comrades, because they know that they are likely at any day to demand a
similar service from them.
It was Lampin who supervised the execution of the plot. Forced to be
sober, he was in full possession of his wits. The day, the moment
arrived. A keeper, who had been bribed, left a door unlocked; the
convicts, supplied with files, removed their fetters; they assembled at
midnight, killed three watchmen, and made their way into a yard, the
wall of which was easily scaled by men accustomed to climb walls. Lampin
went up first; Edouard followed him, clinging to the chain which his
companion still had attached to his feet; several convicts had thus
passed over the wall and jumped into the ditch which was on the other
side. But musket shots were heard, the alarm was given, the garrison was
under arms, soldiers ran to the walls and fired at the prisoners.
Several fell dead, others surrendered, the revolt was put down; but it
was some time before they could ascertain the number of those who had
escaped.
Lampin and Edouard had heard the report of shots. They succeeded in
getting out of the ditch, but where should they go? How could they make
their escape quickly enough? Already soldiers were scouring the city and
the harbor; soon they would fall into their hands. Edouard was in
despair, and Lampin was cudgeling his brains, swearing that they should
not take him alive. But at that moment they heard the sound of bells on
a horse, and soon an open wagon, loaded with vegetables and driven by a
young peasant, passed them. The peasant was seated in the front of the
wagon, fast asleep, with his reins lying on the back of the horse, which
followed at a slow pace its accustomed road.
“Do as I do,” said Lampin, running after the wagon. “We are saved.”
He climbed up behind, made a great hole in the peas, cabbages and
carrots, and climbed into it, followed by Edouard, leaving hardly enough
space to give them air. The peasant turned, rubbed his eyes, and saw
nothing, for he was still half asleep; and he was preparing to snore
louder than ever, when some soldiers passed the wagon.
“Did you meet anyone, my friend?” asked the sergeant of the peasant.
“No, no, no one, messieurs, no one but donkeys, wagons and people from
our place.”
“Be on the lookout; some convicts have escaped; if you see any of them,
call for help and notice which way they go.”
The soldiers passed on. The peasant lay down again, mumbling between his
teeth:
“Oh, yes! I think I see myself watching convicts! I would much rather
dream about my dear Manette; anyway I ain’t afraid of them; those
fellows don’t amuse themselves stealing cabbages and carrots.”
“We are saved!” said Edouard to his companion, in an undertone.
“Not yet,” said Lampin; “this peasant is taking his vegetables to
market, and if he should uncover us, I don’t believe he would take us
for two bunches of onions.”
“What are we to do then?”
“Parbleu! we must take to the fields; but let’s wait until this rascal
snores well; it won’t be long, as he is thinking of his dear Manette.”
In fact, the peasant was soon sound asleep. Thereupon Lampin put one
hand out from under the vegetables, seized the rein, and pulled the
horse to the other side of the road. The beast knew but two roads, the
one to market and the one to his stable. When he was jerked violently
away from the former, he supposed that his master was going home, so he
turned back toward the village without hesitation.
“Well, we are safe now,” said Edouard, softly putting his head out from
under the vegetables which covered him, and seeing nothing but trees and
fields about him,--no houses.
“You always think that you are safe, you idiot,” said Lampin, “but we
are not out of danger yet; we have just left Toulon; this peasant is
taking us to his village, where we shall be pinched.”
“We must get out of the wagon and hide.”
“A fine thing to do! hide! Where, I should like to know? In the trees,
like parrots? We must gain ground first, and with these chains on our
feet, we shan’t go far.”
“We will file them.”
“Have we got the time? Come, let’s make a bold stroke; we are in a
sunken road, and I don’t see any houses, and--first of all, get down,
quick.”
“And then?”
“Get down, I tell you, and stop the horse quietly; meanwhile I will
begin by searching our driver.”
Edouard got down from the wagon. Lampin drew in the reins, and the horse
stopped.
“We must unharness him, and escape on him,” said Lampin; “let’s make
haste.”
As he spoke, he searched the peasant’s pockets and took possession of
his knife and a few pieces of money. Edouard, being very awkward and
unskilled in the art of unharnessing a horse, called Lampin to his
assistance. He seemed to be meditating a new plan as he looked at the
peasant’s clothes.
“I am in mortal terror that he will wake,” said Edouard.
“If he wakes, he is a dead man,” said Lampin, as he hastily alighted and
unfastened the straps that held the horse in the shafts. But the peasant
was so accustomed to the movement of the wagon that he woke a few
moments after it stopped.
“Go on, go on, I say!” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“We are lost!” whispered Edouard. Lampin did not reply, but he darted
toward the wagon, and as the hapless peasant started to rise, he buried
his knife in his breast.
The man uttered but one feeble cry. Edouard was horrorstruck.
“You wretch! what have you done?” he said with a shudder.
“What was necessary,” said Lampin; “the worst of it now is that I can’t
take his clothes, which are drenched with blood; I must be content with
the hat and the blouse.”
As he said this, the villain stripped his victim, put on his blouse, and
hastily mounted the horse; then he turned toward Edouard, who had not
yet recovered from his stupor.
“Now, my boy,” he said, “get out of it how you can.”
And he at once pricked his horse with the point of his knife, and
disappeared, leaving Edouard beside the unfortunate man whom his
companion had murdered.
XXXIII
THE WOOD-CUTTER AND THE ROBBERS
The night was drawing toward its close. Edouard was still beside the
wagon, dismayed by Lampin’s flight, and so disturbed by all that had
happened to him within a few hours that he had no idea what he had
better do.
The unfortunate peasant still breathed; from time to time he uttered
feeble groans. Edouard could not decide whether he ought to help him or
to take to flight. He wavered and hesitated and the first rays of dawn
found him in that condition. Glancing at himself, he shuddered at sight
of his coat, which at once identified him as an escaped convict; and he
trembled lest he should be taken for the murderer of the peasant. That
thought froze his blood with terror; the sight of the peasant was
horrible to him, and he walked away as rapidly as his strength
permitted, until he reached a small tract of woodland, where he hoped to
elude pursuit.
His first care was to file his fetters and throw them away; but he could
not rid himself of his costume also, and he realized that he could not
show himself without risk of being arrested. That thought drove him to
frenzy for an instant. He regretted that he had not stripped the peasant
entirely.
Day broke, and the peasants began to go to their work. Edouard plunged
into the wood, picked figs and olives and climbed into a tree to await
the return of night.
But how long that day was! and how many times did he shudder with
apprehension as he saw peasants come into the wood and sit down to rest
not far from the tree in which he was hiding! He heard them talking
about the poor wagoner’s murder.
“It was a convict who did the job,” said the peasants; “a number of them
escaped last night from the galleys at Toulon, but they’re on their
tracks, and they can’t fail to take them soon.”
Edouard realized only too well the difficulty he would have in escaping,
and he abandoned himself to despair. The night arrived at last; he
descended from his protecting tree and resumed his journey. Every time
that the faintest noise reached his ear, he stopped and buried himself
in the thickest bushes. His face and hands were torn by thorns and
brambles; but he did not feel the pain; he would have been glad to hide
in the bowels of the earth. He walked as fast as his strength permitted,
picking up fruit of which he retained some for the following day,
stopping only in the most solitary places, and hiding during the day in
the top of some densely-leaved tree.
On the fourth day, toward morning, he passed a small cottage surrounded
by a garden; he cast a glance over the wall in the hope of discovering
fruit; but what was his joy when he saw linen and clothes hanging on
lines; the idea of taking possession of them and getting rid of his
convict’s costume, at once occurred to his mind; the thought of theft no
longer frightened him; he justified it by his plight. Only a half ruined
wall, four feet high, separated him from the priceless garments; for the
first time, he did not stop to consider the danger. He climbed the wall,
took whatever he needed, and made his escape without the slightest
twinge of remorse; for what he had done seemed to him a mere trifle to
what he had seen done.
Having reached a dense wood, he removed his accusing costume and donned
the clothes which he had stolen. Thereupon, being a little more at ease
in his mind, and thinking that he must already be very far from Toulon,
he set forth again, determined to ask hospitality for the night of some
peasant, and hoping that they would give him a crust of bread, which
seemed to him a priceless treasure capable of restoring his strength. As
he did not choose, however, to take the risk of entering a village,
where he feared to meet gendarmes who were in pursuit of him, he decided
to knock at the door of an isolated cabin, surrounded by dense woods.
A peasant answered his knock and asked him what he could do for him.
“A great deal,” said Edouard; “I am an unfortunate man, worn out with
fatigue and hunger; allow me to pass the night in your house, and you
will save my life.”
“It’s a fact,” said the peasant, scrutinizing him with attention, “you
seem very tired and very sick. But who are you? For a body must know who
he takes in.”
“I am--I am an unfortunate deserter; I trust my secret to you; don’t
betray me!”
“A deserter--the devil! It isn’t right to desert! But I’m not capable of
betraying you; come, come in, and you can tell me why you deserted.”
Edouard entered the cabin, conscious of a keen sense of delight in being
once more under a roof.
“Look you,” said the peasant, “I’ll give you half of what I have got and
that won’t be very good; but you hadn’t ought to be hard to suit. I’m a
poor wood-cutter; I ain’t rich, I live from day to day, but I am glad to
share my supper and my bed with you. I’ve got some bread and some cheese
and the remains of a bottle of wine, and we’ll finish it. My bed ain’t
bad; it’s the best thing in my house, and I’ll bet you won’t wake up.
Come, my friend, tell me your adventures. I have been in the army
myself; yes, I used to be a soldier, and I flatter myself that I didn’t
desert; I’d like to know what reason you had for doing such a miserable
thing as that.”
Edouard invented a fable, which he told the wood-cutter, who listened
with attention.
The strangeness of Edouard’s story, the improbability of his adventures,
his embarrassment when his host asked him for details concerning his
regiment and the place where they had been in garrison, all tended to
arouse the wood-cutter’s suspicions, and he began to fear that he had
been duped by some vagabond.
However, as he owned nothing that was likely to tempt cupidity, the
peasant shared his supper with Edouard none the less; then he invited
him to undress and go to bed. Edouard accepted this invitation with a
good heart; he had taken off his jacket and was about to remove his
waistcoat, when a sudden reflection stopped him, and he stood before the
wood-cutter, speechless with confusion.
“Well, have you got over wanting to go to bed?” said the peasant,
noticing Edouard’s sudden terror.
“I beg pardon; I am going--I am going to lie down.”
“It seems to me that you started to undress yourself, and now you stand
there as if you didn’t know what to do.”
“Oh! the fact is, I thought better of it; it will be wiser for me to
stay dressed, so that I can get ready quicker to go away in the
morning.”
“As you please! suit yourself.”
Edouard threw himself on the bed, and the wood-cutter did the same; but
not with the purpose of going to sleep; he was secretly anxious, for he
was afraid that he had offered shelter to a scoundrel, and he was trying
to think how he could set his doubts at rest.
The miserable wretch, who was overdone with fatigue, and who had not
slept on so soft a couch for a weary while, soon yielded to the sleep
that took possession of him. The wood-cutter, who had pretended to do
the same, rose softly as soon as he was certain that the stranger whom
he had made welcome was asleep.
He left the room, and struck a light in a small cave. He lighted a lamp,
took his gun, and noiselessly returned to the small room where Edouard
lay. The unhappy man’s sleep was disturbed and restless; he struggled
and twisted violently on his couch, and broken sentences escaped from
his lips; the wood-cutter listened and distinctly heard these words:
“On the road--in the middle of the night--he was murdered--take off
these irons, relieve me of these chains which prevent me from escaping.”