by Eugène Sue
No. 155 of Marat’s journal terminates its account of the execution of Capet with the following reflections:
“The head of the tyrant has just fallen under the sword of the law; that same blow has overthrown the foundation of monarchy among us. I now believe in the Republic.... Not a voice cried for grace during the execution; a profound silence reigned about the scaffold. But when the head of Capet was shown to the people, from all sides rose the cries, ‘Long live the Nation! Long live the Republic!’ The execution of Louis XVI is one of those memorable events which mark epochs in the life of nations. It will have an immense influence on the fate of the despots of Europe and on those peoples who have as yet not broken their chains.”
Robespierre, in a letter to one of his constituents (second trimester, page 3), penned the following appreciation of the consequences of the great political occurrence:
“Citizens, the tyrant is fallen under the sword of the law. This great act of justice has struck consternation to the hearts of the aristocracy, annihilated the superstition of royalty, and created the Republic. It imparts a character of grandeur to the Convention, and makes it worthy the confidence of France. The imposing and majestic attitude of the people in this solemn hour will cause the tyrants of earth more terror than even the death of their fellow. A profound silence surrounded the scaffold up to the moment the head of Louis XVI fell. That instant, the air shook with the unanimous shout of a hundred thousand citizens, ‘Long live the Republic!’ It was not the barbarous curiosity of men who came to feast their eyes on the death of a fellow-being; it was the powerful interest of a people, impassioned for liberty, and assuring itself of the fact that royalty had breathed its last.... Formerly, when a King died at Versailles, the reign of his successor was immediately ushered in to the tune of ‘The King is dead, long live the King!’ as if to make the nation understand that despotism was immortal. This time, a whole people, with a sublime instinct, acclaimed: ‘Long live the Republic,’ to teach a universe that tyranny had died with the tyrant.”
May the same lot be reserved for all the Kings.
CHAPTER XX.
MARRIAGE OF JOHN LEBRENN.
UNDER DATE OF January 26, 1793, the diary of John Lebrenn bears the record, without comment:
“To-day I espoused Charlotte Desmarais.”
Despite the circular addressed by advocate Desmarais to his colleagues in the Convention, and in which he fixed as the date for his daughter’s wedding the day of the tyrant’s death, Charlotte, without regard for her father’s very lively disappointment, and unmindful of his reiterated importunities, would not consent to be married until the 26th of January. With his habitual calculation, considering the union merely as a precaution, the lawyer had chosen Robespierre and Marat as witnesses to the ceremony; those selected by John Lebrenn were Billaud-Varenne and Legendre. The municipal officer of the Section received the vows of the young couple in his office on the evening after the Convention session of January 26. John Lebrenn had several days previously obtained from his old employer, Master Gervais, the deed of his smithy and the lease of the house. The preparations, the modest embellishments of his future home, were finished on the eve of his marriage.
After returning from the offices of the Section, the young couple received the pledges and felicitations of the witnesses, and presently were left alone with Madam Desmarais and her husband, who said to John:
“My dear son-in-law, I leave you an instant to go to look up my daughter’s dowry and present it to you.”
When Desmarais left the room, his wife addressed her daughter and new-found son:
“My children, this is the decisive instant. I would rather die than live any longer with my husband; but I tremble to think of the rage into which our resolution will throw him. Do not forsake me.”
“Dear mother,” responded Charlotte, “could you really think that of us? Is not our life bound up with yours?”
“Nevertheless, if he should oppose our separation? He would perhaps be in the right, my children?”
“Reassure yourself, dear mother,” quoth John in his turn. “In the first place, the separation will relieve Monsieur Desmarais of one fear, that of being compromised by his relationship with Monsieur Hubert, your brother; who, unfortunately, as you tell me, has refused to accept the proposal made to him in my name.”
“Alas, yes; my brother replied that he appreciated your offer, but that he considered it an act of cowardice to remain passive; he wished to retain full freedom to combat the Republic.”
“Alas,” echoed Charlotte, with a sigh, “I deplore uncle’s blindness, but I can not but pay homage to his strength of character.”
“True enough, my dear Charlotte, Monsieur Hubert is one of those adversaries whom one admires while fighting. As I have several times told your mother, I hoped that struck especially by the attitude of the people of Paris on the 21st your uncle, who is a man of sense, would recognize how vain would now be any attempt against the Republic,” observed John. “In that case, dear mother, Monsieur Desmarais, heretofore so terrified at the perils to which he believed himself exposed by his kinship with Monsieur Hubert, will no doubt see in your determination to leave him nothing but a pledge of his safety for the future, and will hardly dream of holding you back. At least, that is the way it appears to me.”
At that moment the attorney returned, holding in his hands a little inlaid casket which he held out to the young artisan with a radiant air, saying:
“My dear son-in-law, I have found in my strong-box, besides the sum I mentioned, a hundred louis, which I add to my daughter’s dower.”
But seeing John Lebrenn repulse the proffered casket, the attorney added in great surprise: “Come, take the little chest, my dear pupil. It contains, in fine good louis, the dower I promised you, to which I have just added two thousand four hundred livres. Moreover, it is understood that in recompense for the slimness of the dower Charlotte, you, and your sister will lodge and board with me, without, to put it plainly, any expense to you. We shall live as one family.”
“Citizen Desmarais,” replied John, “before accepting the dower which you offer me and of which I have no need, it is our duty, my wife’s and mine, to inform you of our plans. First of all, I shall continue in my station as an iron-worker.”
“That is admirable, my dear pupil,” exclaimed the lawyer with hastily assumed enthusiasm. “Far from blushing at your condition, far from seeing in the advantage afforded you by your marriage with my daughter an opportunity to renounce honest toil and to live in indolence, you choose to remain a workman. That is indeed admirable!”
“Citizen Desmarais, I hasten to disabuse you of a misunderstanding that exists between us. Upon mature consideration my wife and I have decided to dwell in our own house, completely separated from you.”
“What do you mean!”
“I mean, Citizen Desmarais, that my former employer has sold me his establishment. Whence it follows that my labors and the care of my forge will oblige me, as well as my wife, to live elsewhere than here with you. I have, in consequence, hired the house previously occupied by my old master, and this very night my wife and I shall take possession of our new abode. The question has been considered and settled.”
“Aye, father,” added Charlotte. “Such is, indeed, our firm resolution.”
At these words, pronounced by John Lebrenn and Charlotte in a voice that admitted of no reply, advocate Desmarais turned livid with rage and amazement. Forgetting now all his tricks of dissimulation, distracted with fear, and exasperated by what he took as an indignity on the part of his daughter and her husband, the lawyer cried to Charlotte, as he shook with anger and fright:
“Treason! Shameful treason! Heartless, unnatural daughter! This is the gratitude with which you repay my bounties to you? You would have the audacity to leave your father’s house, would you! And you — —” he added, turning tempestuously upon John Lebrenn, “and you, traitor, how dare you thus abuse my confidence, my generosity?”
“Not another word in that tone, Citizen Desmarais,” interposed John. “Do not oblige me to forget the respect I owe the father of my wife; do not oblige me to tell you for what reasons your daughter — and her mother — have resolved to fix their abode elsewhere than with you.”
“My wife! She also — would dare — —” cried the lawyer, his rage redoubling till it almost choked him.
“Yes, monsieur, I also wish to leave you,” replied Madam Desmarais. “You have treated me most cruelly, because my unhappy brother, a proscript and a fugitive, came to ask of you a few hours’ shelter. You denounced me to the commissioner of our Section, adjured him to hale me away as a prisoner. You have even gone so far as to declare to me, ‘If it were necessary, madam, in order to save my life, to send you to the scaffold — I would not hesitate an instant. Just now I must roar with the tigers; but then I should become a tiger.’”
“Hold your tongue!” shrieked the advocate, in a frenzy. “Do you wish to get my head cut off, gabbling like that before this man who perhaps awaits but the moment to settle me? Serpent that he is, whom I have warmed in my bosom!”
“Citizen Desmarais,” replied Lebrenn, half in pity, half in disgust, “it depends upon you alone to put an end to your alarms, to the terrors by which you are assailed and of which those about you are the first victims. Cease to display in exaggerated form opinions which are at fisticuffs with your real belief. Renounce your public career. The weakness of your character, the uneasiness of your conscience, evoke fantasms before your eyes.”
“It is a plot against my life!” continued Desmarais wildly. “They want to draw upon my head the fury of the Jacobins, and have me packed off to the scaffold. They want to be rid of me so that my dutiful daughter and son-in-law may play ducks and drakes with my fortune! But the old fox knows the trap! I shall stay at the Convention. My daughter and son-in-law may take themselves off, if they so wish; but as for you, Citizeness Desmarais, you shall not leave this house. The wife, according to the law, is bound to reside at the home of her husband.”
“I will live with you no longer,” resolutely replied Madam Desmarais. “A hundred times rather die!”
“Once would suffice, worthy wife! And it would be good riddance to a most abominable burden.”
“Come, mother,” said Charlotte, wroth at her father’s brutal language. “Come. You shall not remain here another instant.”
“Your mother shall stop where she is,” cried the lawyer threateningly. “As for you, my daughter — as for you, my son-in-law — I shall denounce your execrable complot to my friends of the mad-men’s party, to Hebert, to James Roux the disfrocked priest, to Varlet. Get you hence — I drive you from my house.” Then seizing his wife by the arm, Desmarais added, “But not you. You stay!”
“You will please to allow my mother full control over her own actions, Citizen Desmarais,” said Lebrenn calmly, and mastering his indignation. “Unhand her!”
“Get out of here, scoundrel!” retorted the attorney, still holding his wife by the wrist. “Get out of here, at once!”
“For the last time, Citizen Desmarais,” quoth John Lebrenn. “Allow Madam Desmarais to follow her daughter, as is her desire. My patience is at an end, and I can not much longer tolerate the brutality I see here.”
“Would you have the boldness to raise your hand against me, wretch!” replied the advocate, foaming with rage, and roughly wrenching his wife’s arm. “Malediction on you both.”
“Aye, I shall succor your wife from your wretched treatment,” John answered; and seizing the lawyer’s wrist with his iron hand as if in a vise, he forced the attorney to release his almost fainting spouse. She, on her part, made all haste to leave the now intolerable presence of her husband, and, supported by Charlotte, disappeared into the next room.
As John left the parlor to rejoin his bride and his second mother, advocate Desmarais, hiding his face in his hands, sank into an arm-chair, crying:
“Abandoned by wife, abandoned by daughter! Henceforth I am condemned to live alone!”
CHAPTER XXI.
A LOVE FROM THE GRAVE.
HIS MARRIAGE WITH Charlotte achieved, John Lebrenn, his sister, his wife and Madam Desmarais took up their abode in the modest dwelling on Anjou Street. Here also was Lebrenn’s smithy, now for two months transformed into an armorer’s shop, for he had received an order for guns for the volunteers, and, with his companions, set about the work with a will.
On the evening of May the 30th, in the year of his marriage, Lebrenn was looking over the newspapers while he rested from the heavy labors of the day, when his wife, sad and engrossed, came to him, saying to herself:
“No — painful though the confidence be, my last talk with the poor child, and my tender attachment for Victoria, will not permit me to postpone it—” Then, aloud to her husband, she began:
“I have for long hesitated, my friend, over the communication I am about to make to you. But the interest I feel in Victoria compels me to-day to speak. Closer knowledge of your sister’s character has shown me, my friend, that you do not over-state when you say that, despite the youthful degradation she perforce underwent, her heart has remained pure. And yet I very wrongly harbored an evil thought against her. Now I have the proof of my mistake. I attributed to jealousy the change we noticed coming over her. I thought to myself that Victoria, used to concentrate upon you all her tenderness, to share your life, might feel toward me that sort of sisterly jealousy which the best and bravest of sisters feel in spite of themselves toward the wife of an idolized brother. I blush for my error, my friend, but still it was pardonable. Do you recall that shortly after our wedding we began to remark in your sister a growing sadness and taciturnity? Did she not seem by turns happy and saddened at our intimacy? Has she not appeared almost continuously under the empire of some secret brooding?”
“True; for long I have noticed in Victoria a sort of capricious changefulness of spirit which contrasted strongly with her ordinary equability. Thus, after having taken upon herself the task of evening lessons for our three apprentice boys and little Oliver, the orphan lad whom we took in, who, in spite of his eighteen years, knows no more than the younger boys, my sister suddenly declared she was going to stop the lessons and leave Paris; and without a word of explanation, at that.”
“You remember, John, how bitter were her farewells at leaving us?”
“Happily, at the end of barely a week, Victoria returned, and — strange contradiction — insisted upon resuming her functions as school mistress.”
“But her sadness, her sighs, the decline of her health proved only too well the persistence of her secret anguish. I said to myself, ‘The courageous woman is fighting with all her might against her sisterly jealousy. In vain she tried to flee. Drawn again to us by her tenderness for John, she prefers to live with us and suffer.’ But no, my friend, I was in error. I am now positive of it.”
“To what cause, then, do you attribute Victoria’s deep dejection and chagrin?”
“I shall surprise you, my friend, in revealing the burden — it is love!”
Mute with astonishment, John looked at his wife at first without answering her. Then, sadly smiling, and shaking his head incredulously, he said:
“Charlotte, you mistake. Victoria has had but one love in her life. He whom she loved to distraction is dead. She will be faithful to that flame to the tomb.”
“You related to me the sad story of Victoria and Maurice, the young sergeant in the French Guards, killed by his disgraceful punishment. But, recall to mind that two or three days after our marriage, when you presented Oliver and the three apprentices, whom she wished to teach to read, to her, she suddenly shuddered, and cried as in great bewilderment— ‘Good God! Is it a vision, or is it a specter? ’Tis he, ’tis Maurice I see again!’”
“I remember the circumstance. And instantly coming to herself, Victoria told us she had had a spell of dizziness; but said no more on the subject.”
“So, not
icing her embarrassment, her downheartedness, we did not insist on knowing from her the real cause of so strange an incident; but a few days after this first meeting with Oliver, a remarkable change began to manifest itself in your sister’s manner.”
“That is all true; but what do you conclude from it?”
“I conclude, my friend, that it was in amazement at something in Oliver’s appearance that your sister uttered the wandering words which startled us. I now believe the words expressed the surprise, mingled with affright, into which she was thrown by the striking resemblance between Oliver and Sergeant Maurice. And finally, the resemblance is explained by what I have discovered; — Oliver is Maurice’s brother!”
“Strange, strange indeed!” muttered John. “But tell me, how did you come by the discovery?”
“As you know, we had to bring Oliver into the house, so as to have him close by us, as he is suffering from some languorous malady which renders him unable, despite his courage and willingness, to work in the shop. The unhappy boy, undermined by a slow fever, is in a deplorable state of weakness.”
“The physician attributes it to his rapid growth. Oliver is, in fact, hardly eighteen. He has grown fast lately; this would explain his temporary lassitude.”
“The physician, it seems to me, is deceived there. I shall tell you why, my friend. Just now, in coming from the shop, I crossed the garden. I saw Oliver seated under the yoke-elm bower, apparently sunk in mournful revery. His eye was fixed, his face bathed in tears. On seeing me he furtively tried to wipe his eyes. His features revealed mental suffering; it was easy to see that all was not physical in his malady. ‘Oliver,’ I said, seating myself close beside him, ‘the cause of your illness is not the one the doctor gives. You feel some great disappointment, you hide it from us — that is wrong. My husband cares for you like a father, why do you not confide your trouble to him?’ He seemed as much pained as surprised at my penetration; the embarrassed answers he gave were not sincere. He attributed his sorrow to the loneliness he felt in being left an orphan, without any relatives.”