his godfather; we saved his life; we killed the rascals! I will tell you
all about it.”
“I see,” said Guillot, “things seem to be going pretty well; but what
about our friend Jacques’s brother?”
“Hush!” said Sans-Souci, putting his finger to his lips; “if you have
the misfortune to speak of him, gayety will disappear, tears will come
back, and your supper will be for the great Turk; so take my advice, and
turn your tongue over for an hour in your mouth, rather than say another
stupid word on that subject.”
“All right,” said Guillot, “I’ll chew my cud at the table before I
speak.”
Life at the farm delighted Monsieur Gerval; he drove all about the
neighborhood, admiring the charming sites and the fertile fields which
surrounded him.
“Morgué, monsieur,” said Guillot, “if you knew how pretty it all is in
summer! Bless my soul, you don’t see anything now! but if our fields are
worth more, if our farm brings in more, we owe it all to our friend
Jacques; in two years he did more and thought of more things than I
could ever do in six; he’s worth three hands all by himself. It is a
pity he’s rich now, for it robs me of a fine workman.”
“My dear Jacques,” said the old man, “you must love this country, these
fields, which have witnessed your labors, and it would be cruel in me to
take you away from here. We will settle in this neighborhood, my friend,
and I leave it to you to purchase some suitable estate here-about;
arrange it to suit yourself; I am too old to attend to business matters,
and I rely upon you to make a wise choice.”
Jacques joyfully accepted the commission entrusted to him. He already
had a plan in his head, and on the day following his arrival at the
farm, impelled by a secret hope, he went early in the morning to
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Trembling with emotion, he approached his
father’s house, that spot for which he had always sighed. His dearest
wish was to pass the rest of his life in that house, which recalled
memories which were both pleasant and painful.
When he reached the gate, he saw a placard pasted on the wall; he read:
“This house for sale or rent.”
“It’s ours!” he cried. “I am going to live again in the house where I
passed my childhood; I ran away from it at fifteen years of age, I shall
return to it at thirty; God grant that I may never leave it again!
Adeline, I am sure, will be delighted to return to it; it was here, she
told me, that she passed the happiest days of her life; even if this
place does remind her of a man she loved too well, at all events when
they lived here he was still worthy of her.”
Jacques rang at the gate; no one answered, but a neighbor advised him to
go to the notary’s, which was almost opposite. The notary was the same
man who had made the deeds for Edouard Murville four years before. The
house, having fallen into the hands of creditors, had belonged to
several owners in succession. The present owner almost never lived in it
and was very desirous to get rid of it. Jacques inquired the price and
promised to return the next day to conclude the bargain; he dared not do
it without consulting Monsieur Gerval. He hastened back to the farm, and
the old man saw by his pleased expression that he had found a house
which suited him.
“You will recognize it,” said Jacques, “for you often went there in the
old days; it is the house that belonged to my father.”
“And you didn’t conclude the bargain? Well! well! I see that I must go
myself and settle the business.”
And the next morning the old man set out in his carriage with his dear
godson. He drove to the notary’s and purchased the estate in the name of
Jacques, knowing that he did not intend to bear any other name; but
honest Gerval asked no explanation of that resolution, because he
guessed a part of Edouard’s misconduct.
“Here, my boy,” he said to Jacques, as he handed him the deed; “it is
high time that I should make you a present, to recompense you for having
given you such a wretched name. This estate is yours, and my little
Jacques is at home in the house from which his name caused him to run
away long ago.”
Jacques embraced the old man, and they returned to the farm for Adeline
and her daughter.
“Did I misjudge your heart,” Jacques asked his sister-in-law, “in
thinking that you would be glad to find yourself back in the dear old
house at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges?”
“No, my friend,” replied Adeline; “I have been too happy there not to
wish to pass the rest of my life there; happy memories will sometimes
mingle with my sad thoughts; I will banish from my mind all that he has
done elsewhere than there, and I will try to remember only the days of
his affection for me; then I shall at least be able to weep for him
without blushing.”
The Guillot family learned with delight that their friends were not to
leave the country; for the road from Villeneuve-Saint-Georges to the
farm was a pleasant walk, and they promised one another to take it often
in the fine weather.
Four days after their arrival, our travellers started for the new abode
in which they proposed to establish themselves. Adeline’s eyes were wet
with tears when she stood once more in that house, when she saw again
those gardens which had witnessed the first months of her married
life--such pleasant months, which passed so quickly, never to return!
Catherine took possession of the kitchen, Lucas of the garden and of the
post of concierge. Monsieur Gerval chose a room between Jacques and
Adeline, whom he liked to have near him; and little Ermance remained
with her mother, to cheer her by her prattle, to charm away her
melancholy by her caresses, and to mingle some hopes with her memories.
Sans-Souci wished to resume his labors at the farm, but Monsieur Gerval
and Jacques remonstrated.
“You saved my life,” said the old man, “and I don’t want you to leave
me.”
“You shared my trials and my adversity,” said Jacques, “and you must
share my fortune; everything is common between us.”
“Sacrebleu!” said Sans-Souci, passing his hand over his eyes, “these
people do whatever they please with me. I will stay with you, that’s all
right, but only on condition that I shall be at liberty to go to walk
when you have company, and that I shan’t sit at table with Madame
Adeline; for a man should be respectful to his superiors, and I am as
stupid as a goose in society.”
“You shall go to walk as much as you please,” said the old man; “you
shall hunt and fish, and smoke if that will give you pleasure; but you
are going to sit at table with us, because a brave man is out of place
nowhere.”
“All right, ten thousand cartridges! I see I must submit to that too.”
No more misadventures, no more storms, no more misfortunes; tranquil
days had dawned at last for the family at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.
Adeline’s unhappiness had become a gentle melancholy, which the graces
and caresses of her daughter beguiled and made endurable. Little Ermance
grew and improved; her features became sweet and attractive; her voice
was as soft as her mother’s, and her sensitive and kindly heart never
turned away the unfortunate. Jacques, proud of his niece, had lost a
little of his brusque manner since he had lived in the bosom of his
family. Sans-Souci still swore, and would have thrown himself into the
fire for any of his friends. Old Gerval was made doubly happy at the
sight of the good that he himself did, and that Jacques did. In short,
one and all enjoyed a peaceable life, and the people at the farm were
often visited by their friends from the village.
A single thing marred Sans-Souci’s happiness; it was that Jacques no
longer wore the decoration that he had won on the battle-field.
“Why don’t you wear it any more?” he would say to him, when they were
alone; “what can prevent you? Morbleu! you act like a fool with your
resolutions.”
“My brother disgraced our name.”
“Well! was it to you or your name that they gave the cross?”
“It’s out of respect for that honorable reward, that I deprive myself of
the pleasure of wearing it.”
“But when you go by the name of Jacques simply----”
“That doesn’t matter; I know none the less that Edouard was a--Why, I
tell you, that ghastly thought would make me blush for that symbol of
honor; I shall never wear it again.”
“You are wrong.”
“That may be; I am and I shall always be a man of honor; but I have no
pride left when I think of my brother’s shame.”
The tranquillity enjoyed by the family at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges was
disturbed by a melancholy event which they still believed to be far
away: honest Gerval fell sick and died, and the zealous care of all
those who surrounded him was unavailing to save him.
“My children,” he said to them in his last moments, “I am sorry to leave
you, but at all events my mind is at rest concerning your future. I
hoped to live longer among you, but fate wills otherwise and I must
submit. Think of me, but don’t weep.”
The old man left his whole fortune to Jacques and Adeline. He had thirty
thousand francs a year, a large part of which was used in assisting the
unfortunate. Old Catherine survived her master only a few months, and
those two events caused deep sadness among the occupants of Jacques’s
house for a long while.
But time is always successful in calming the bitterest regrets; it
triumphs over everything; it is the Lethe wherein the memories of our
troubles and our pleasures alike are drowned.
Years passed. Ermance was nine years old; she was Jacques’s delight, and
her mother’s consolation. In order not to part with her, they caused
teachers to come to the village to begin her education.
“Ten thousand carbines!” said Sans-Souci as he looked at the little
girl; “that little face will turn a devilish lot of heads! Wit, beauty,
charm, talent, a kind heart,--she will have everything, sacrebleu!”
“Yes,” said Jacques, “but she will never be able to mention her father.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! there are many people in the same plight; that won’t
prevent your niece from rousing passions.”
“Morbleu! those same passions are what cause most of the unhappiness of
life; I would much prefer that she should not rouse any.”
“She won’t ask your permission for that, comrade.”
Adeline was proud of her daughter, who, being blest with the most happy
disposition, also made rapid progress in everything that she was taught.
“Dear Ermance!” her mother would say as she gazed at her, “may you be
happier than your parents!”
At such times, Adeline would devote a moment’s thought to Edouard, whom
she believed to have died long since in destitution and despair. “Ah!”
she would say sometimes to Jacques, when their eyes expressed the same
thought, “if only I could think that he died repentant, I feel that I
should have some slight consolation.”
Jacques would make no reply, but he would call Ermance and take her to
Adeline, that the sight of her might dispel a painful memory. Jacques
did not know that a mother always sees in her child the image of the man
she has loved.
One lovely summer evening, Jacques was walking to and fro pensively at
the end of the garden; Ermance, not very far from her uncle, was amusing
herself by plucking flowers, and Adeline, seated a few steps away on the
turf, looked on in silence at the graceful movements of her daughter.
Suddenly Ermance, as she ran toward a clump of rose bushes, uttered a
cry of alarm and stopped abruptly. Adeline ran to her daughter; Jacques
also drew near, and they both inquired what had frightened her.
“Look, look!” replied the child, pointing to the end of the garden,
“look, it is still there; that face frightened me.”
Jacques and Adeline looked in the direction indicated by Ermance, and
saw behind the small gate covered with boards, in the same spot where
the face with moustaches had appeared long ago, a man’s face gazing into
the garden.
“What a strange coincidence!” said Adeline, looking at Jacques; “do you
remember, my friend, that at that same spot, ten years ago, you appeared
before us?”
“That is true,” said Jacques; “yes, I remember very well.”
“We must excuse Ermance’s alarm, for I remember that then you frightened
me terribly! That man seems to be in trouble; come, my daughter, let us
go and offer help to him, and don’t be afraid any more; the unfortunate
should inspire pity and not fear.”
As she spoke, Adeline and Ermance approached the gate. The features of
the man who stood on the other side seemed to become animated; he gazed
at the young woman and her daughter, then he turned his eyes upon
Jacques, passed an arm through the gate, and seemed to implore their
pity. Adeline had drawn near; she scrutinized the beggar, then uttered a
piteous cry, and returned to Jacques, pale, distressed, trembling, and
hardly able to speak.
“I don’t know whether it is a delusion,” she said, “but that man--it
seems to me--yes--look--it is he, it is----”
She could say no more. Jacques ran to the little gate, he recognized his
brother, and threw the gate open. Edouard entered the garden, clad in
rags and tatters, overdone by fatigue and suffering, and presenting a
perfect image of misery and desperation.
“Help me, save me!” he said, dragging himself toward Jacques, who
scarcely dared believe his eyes; “for God’s sake, do not turn me away!”
“Oh! let’s go away, mamma, that man frightens me!” said Ermance,
clinging to her mother. Adeline, standing as still as a statue, gazed at
Edouard, while tears flowed from her eyes and fell on the child’s face.
“Unhappy wretch,” said Jacques at last, “why have you come here? Do you
propose to pursue us everywhere? Must your infamy inevitably follow your
family and make this child blush?”
“Ah!” said Edouard, throwing himself at Jacques’s feet, “I am a
miserable wretch indeed! she even hides my child from me, she shields
her from her father’s glance!”
Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached
Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the
ground, and sobbing piteously. When she heard the unhappy man’s groans,
Ermance turned and looked at him; terror yielded to pity.
“Oh! that poor man looks very unhappy, mamma,” she said to Adeline; “he
causes me pain; let me help him to get up; I don’t feel afraid of him
any more.”
Thereupon Edouard seized his daughter’s hand and pressed it
affectionately in his, looking up at Adeline with an expression of which
she understood the meaning.
“I forgive you,” she said to him; “oh! if you had offended no one but
me! but your child, my daughter, she can never mention your name.”
Jacques checked Adeline, by putting a finger to his lips. At that moment
Sans-Souci ran toward them, and manifested great surprise at finding a
stranger in the garden.
“What do you want of us?” said Jacques; “why do you come upon us so
suddenly? what has happened?”
“Faith! comrade, I came to tell you that some gendarmes are searching
the village; they are looking for a vagabond whom they recognized only a
league from here, and they propose to search this house soon. I confess
that I told them that it wouldn’t be any use, but sacrebleu! I didn’t
know that----”
“Hush! hold your tongue,” said Jacques, “and don’t say a word about what
you see here. Go back to the house with the child and my sister.--Go,
have no fear, I will answer for everything.--Sans-Souci, take my sister
to the house; and above all, the most absolute silence.”
Sans-Souci promised, and walked a few steps away, tremendously surprised
by all that he saw. Adeline was terrified by the risks that Edouard ran,
but he himself implored her to abandon him to his unhappy fate. He
pressed her hand to his heart, kissed his daughter’s hand, and turned
away from them, while, at a sign from his comrade, Sans-Souci led
Adeline and Ermance toward the house.
“They have gone and we are alone,” said Jacques to his brother, when
Adeline was out of sight; “are you the man they are looking for?”
“Yes; a little way from here, in a wine shop I had entered to ask for
help, a man who used to be a keeper at the galleys at Toulon, happened
to be drinking at a table; he examined me closely, and I went out,
afraid of being recognized; but I see now that it was too late; my fate
is sealed; but I am less unhappy than I was; I have seen my daughter, my
wife has forgiven me, and you--oh! I entreat you, brother, forgive me
too!”
“Yes,” said Jacques, “I will forgive you; but you must--wretched man! do
you know what the punishment is that awaits you? You must die upon the
scaffold; and the scandal of your infamous death will make our shame
eternal! Will you never have the courage to do anything but commit
crimes? will you never be able to do what the honor of your wife and
your child has made it your duty to do for a long while? You shudder,
weak man! you await the executioner; remember that you cannot avoid
falling into the hands of the law again! Great God! and you are not
weary of a life dragged out in infamy and misery!”
“I understand you,” said Edouard; “be sure that death will be a blessing
to me; but before going down into the grave, I wanted to let you know
that I repent; now give me the means of escaping my punishment; I will
hesitate no longer.”
Jacques motioned to Edouard to wait for him; he hurried to his study,
took his pistols and returned to the garden. He saw his brother kneeling
beside the small barred gate. He handed him the weapons with a firm hand
and Edouard took them.
“Now,” said Jacques, “come, unhappy man! let us embrace for the last
time. Your brother pardons your crimes, and he will come every day to
pray to Heaven on your grave.”
Edouard threw himself into his brother’s arms; they embraced a long
while; but at last, Edouard walked a few steps away, a report rang
out,--the miserable wretch had ceased to live.
Jacques went to his brother’s body, and summoning all his courage,
although his tears fell rapidly, he hastily dug a grave at the foot of a
willow tree near the little gate. Sans-Souci arrived and surprised his
comrade in that melancholy occupation.
“Help me,” said Jacques, “it’s my brother.”
Sans-Souci tried to send his friend away and to perform that painful
task alone; but Jacques would not consent; he was determined to pay the
last duties to his brother. And not until the earth had concealed him
from his sight did he consent to return to Adeline.
“Well,” she said, “what has become of him?”
“Have no further fear for him,” said Jacques; “he has escaped; and I
give you my word that the law can never lay hold of him now.”
Adeline had faith in Jacques’s promise and looked on without
apprehension when the gendarmes, a few hours later, searched the house,
where of course they did not find Edouard.
After some time, Adeline noticed with surprise a tombstone which Jacques
had caused to be erected under the willow at the end of the garden.
“For whom is this stone?” she asked him.
“For my unhappy brother,” Jacques replied.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes, he is no more; I am absolutely certain of it.”
“Alas! in what part of the earth did he end his days?”
“He is there,” said Jacques at last, pointing to the end of the garden,
at the foot of the willow.
Adeline shuddered and dared to ask no more; but every day she took her
daughter to pray over the poor beggar’s grave, and Ermance never knew
that she was praying for her father.
And it was at the foot of the willow that Jacques buried his cross
also.