EARLY IN THE MORNING.
All night long, Madame Gosner lay awake, thinking of what she had
suffered, and of what she had heard. She was a woman of powerful mind
and corresponding physique; all her faculties were in vigorous harmony.
In peaceful times she might have been a court dame, leading a throng of
triflers into something like intelligent pleasures—for that woman could
never have contented herself with mediocrity in anything. As it was, one
great object had occupied her for years. The wrongs of a husband, whom
she had loved with all the force and tenderness of a great soul,
occupied every idea of her life. Even when she believed him dead, this
great love clung around him as a memory, which threw her whole being
into mourning. The scrap of paper, which seemed to have come to her by a
miracle, changed all this in a moment. Her husband lived. There was
something for her to do. The sleeping energies of her nature awoke with
a rebound. She determined to save her husband, or perish in the attempt.
Save her husband, rescue him from the Bastille, with walls twenty feet
thick between him and daylight; with green mould forming itself out of
the stagnant waters, which oozed through the very stones, and clung,
like an unwholesome sweat, to the sides of his dungeon. Was it in the
power of woman to free this unhappy man from the living grave that
inclosed him?
Against all the despairing replies, which came back to her from these
questions, the indomitable spirit of the woman answered, “I will free
him,” and her action corresponded with her words. She took her only
child, gathered up the fragments of property left to them, and came into
France, her own native country, resolved on obtaining freedom for her
husband. We have seen how she succeeded. Her money was all exhausted.
She had used it unsparingly, but with no avail up to this time—nothing
that she had done could win her even access to the king. Now she was
suffering for food; want had sapped the foundations of her strength, and
the energies of her soul were giving out.
That night, when she was ready to give up all hope and die, this man,
half-demagogue, half-patriot; this singular being, who, born of the
nobility, was still the idol of the people, came suddenly into her life,
and opened a broader and more sublime road by which her object might be
obtained. From that moment, the struggling wife became, what soon was no
uncommon thing among the women of France—a patriot; more than that, love
that burned in her bosom for the one man languishing in his dungeon,
made her an enthusiast; and out of her very womanliness this wronged
being was thinking how she might become a leader of that great element
which, for a time, ruled the very mobs of Paris.
When it became day, Madame Gosner arose and dressed herself with more
than usual care. The reflections of that night had resolved themselves
into a vague plan of action. Other women suffered like herself; other
husbands and fathers lay chained, like wild beasts, in those reeking
dungeons. How narrow and selfish her efforts had hitherto been. No
wonder God had not helped her when she asked his aid only for herself
and the man she loved, forgetting thousands and thousands of sister
women who suffered with her.
But little preparation for breakfast was needed in that poor room.
Indeed, when she awoke, Madame Gosner knew that there was not a fragment
of food at her command; but she was hardly dressed when a knock came to
the door.
Madame Gosner opened the door, and found a little old woman standing on
the threshold. She had seen that genial face before, going up and down
the stair-case, but it looked peculiarly bland and kind that morning,
and the dainty cap, tied around the head with a black ribbon, betrayed
an unusual toilet before the visit was made.
“If madame will excuse the liberty, we are neighbors, only one floor
between us, and, hearing that madame had been ill, I ventured to bring
her a little breakfast, nothing worthy of notice; still if madame will
accept the basket, in which she will find a tiny bouquet of violets for
mademoiselle, whom I am happy to find sleeping so sweetly. Indeed, it is
a part of my business to make a proposal about mademoiselle, whom I have
observed to be very fond of flowers. Might I be permitted to step in and
explain myself?”
The little woman was courteously invited to take a seat, and Madame
Gosner received the basket with a glow of thanks that went to her heart
at once. In a few words she explained the object of her visit.
Had an angel dropped from Heaven with hope and succor, it would not have
been more welcome. Here was employment, hopes of food, an opening
through which this brave woman could move toward the great object of her
life, untrammeled by the wants of humanity. She considered no occupation
mean for her child which promised to secure so much, and accepted it
with ardent thankfulness, which sent Dame Doudel away supremely content.
As for Madame Gosner, she accepted this visit as a blessing from Heaven
itself. It renewed her waning strength, and helped to kindle the new
idea born to her in the night. Just as the grander design of aiding
others was formed, God has sent the food necessary to her life, and she
accepted it as a token and an encouragement.
In the basket she found a little milk, some eggs, and a sprig of green
parsley, all promised to her the night before, though Jacques scarcely
knew then how the breakfast was to be provided. With these was a loaf of
white bread, and some charcoal for cooking.
In a few minutes, Madame Gosner was on her knees, kindling the fire
with her own breath. When the charcoal ignited and began to crackle,
she went to the bed, and looked tenderly down upon her daughter, who
slept soundly. How pale and delicate she was! Not a trace of color
remained on those cheeks; and want had almost quenched it from the
exquisitely-formed mouth, in which the white gleam of her teeth was
just visible as she breathed. No wonder the mother thanked God for the
food that had been brought to her when she saw all this; but she would
not awake her child then, that delicious breakfast should give her a
surprise. It would be, indeed, the beginning of a _fete_ day with
them.
So the now hopeful woman fell to beating her eggs and chopping up her
parsley, with as little noise as possible. At length, when her omelet
was on the fire, she went to the bed and aroused Marguerite.
“Come, my daughter, breakfast is ready!”
“Breakfast!” It was a strange word in that room, where no regular meal
had been served for a month. Marguerite started up in her bed, looked
around in bewilderment, and murmured,
“Let me sleep—I was dreaming so sweetly.”
“Dreaming of what, Marguerite?”
“Oh! it is you, mother! Nothing. Only it seemed as if you and I were
eating such a delicious meal together.”
“Indeed! Such as an omelet and white bread, perhaps.”
“An omelet! Oh, yes! and—and—— Why, mamma, there is a smell of it in the
room yet. I suppose it is Monsieur Jacques who is cooking. He said
something about a _fete_ day. Why, what is that? The table out, a cloth
on; and, oh, mamma! an omelet—a real, plump omelet. Where did you get
it? and parsley. Why, mamma, darling, have you been among the fairies?”
“Our fairy was a little market woman, who came with all these things in
a basket early this morning.”
“A little market woman, how good; how strange.”
“Come, come, child, everything is ready.”
Marguerite, who had been making a hasty toilet, twisted her hair in a
coil around her head, and sat down by the table, where both mother and
daughter commenced a delicious meal, thanking God for it in their
hearts.