by Eugène Sue
“This order for a picture,” replied Martin, “is only a pretext to renew acquaintanceship with me, and attempt to bring me over into the party of his general.”
“Painful as a meeting with Oliver will be, I almost congratulate myself on the opportunity. Who knows but I may be able to bring home the truth to him who was once my apprentice, and perhaps, thanks to my old influence over him, open his eyes to the light?”
“I would like to think, at least, that he will not show himself a monster of ingratitude toward you. I know all that he owes to your family, and above all to the devotion of your sister.”
“Oliver wrote me several times from Italy to inform me of his rapid promotion in the army. Then the correspondence gradually died out, and now for two years I have completely ceased to receive news from him. Such have been his forgetfulness and ingratitude!”
At this moment who should enter the studio but Castillon, accompanied by Duchemin, the old quartermaster of the field-artillery of the Army of the Rhine and Moselle. The latter wore the fatigue uniform of the artillery, and the straps of his rank; his left arm hung in a scarf. His face, bronzed by the sun of Egypt, was dark as an Arab’s. Unable to repress his tears of joy, Castillon fell into Lebrenn’s arms, crying “Oh! Friend John!”
“Embrace me, my old Castillon,” replied the latter, with unrestrained warmth. “I find you still as I left you, the best of men.”
Lebrenn and his former foreman continued their conversation to one side, in low tones, while Duchemin said to Martin, who was studying his face as if seeking to trace a resemblance:
“You don’t recognize me, captain?”
“It seems to me I have seen you — —” replied Martin dubiously.
“That blasted sun of Egypt has spoiled my complexion, else you’d remember Duchemin, once cannonier in the Army of the Rhine and Moselle, where we served together.”
“Aye, now I remember you, old comrade,” cried the artist, seizing the other’s hand. “And how is Carmagnole — and Reddy?” he added with a grin.
“My poor Reddy — he went the way of Double-grey,” sighed the artillerist. “He died like a brave war-horse. He received a ball in the body at the battle of Altenkirchen. As to Carmagnole, my sweetheart of a spit-fire, she split laughing, my pretty piece, while sending a triple charge of grape-shot into the Austrians. After which, widowed of my Carmagnole, I set out for the Orient.”
“And so you went through the campaign in Egypt?”
“Bad luck to it, yes! A devil of a war! And Bonaparte! — Twist his noose without drum or trumpet! To leave the army in the lurch! Name of names, what cries, what shouts there were against the ‘Little Corporal,’ when it became known he had abandoned us. Had we caught him, we’d have tied his necktie for him!”
“You left Egypt, then, after him?”
“Three days after, with a convoy of wounded men they were sending back to France. Our ship had the luck to dodge the English cruisers and disembark us at Toulon. Thence I demanded to be sent during my recovery to my old Paris, to see again my St. Antoine and the sans-culottes of ‘93. They are not very thick now, but those who are still of this world are all good and solid, witness comrade Castillon, one of the first I encountered in the suburb. He told me that he was on his way to visit you, captain, and as an old soldier of the Rhine and Moselle and a pure Jacobin, I thought I might be permitted to follow along with him.”
“You could not afford me a greater pleasure, comrade,” the painter assented, cordially. “The faithful of ‘93 are scarce in these times.”
“Monsieur Colonel Oliver asks to see you, citizen,” announced the servant.
“Let Colonel Oliver enter. You, Castillon, and you, Duchemin, are going to St. Antoine to have a talk with Santerre’s workmen?”
“To meet here again at eight this evening, and decide what we shall do, in view of developments,” added Lebrenn.
Colonel Oliver was introduced. The brilliant uniform of the dragoons besat him with natural grace; but his face was haughty, imperious and rude; every line in it denoted the arrogance of command. He did not at first recognize, or rather he paid no attention to, Lebrenn, Castillon and Duchemin; but addressed himself straightway to Martin:
“I am delighted, citizen, to take this opportunity of renewing acquaintance with an old brother in arms.”
“Citizen,” politely rejoined Martin, “I am no less happy than yourself at the circumstance that brings us together, as well as three of our old comrades of the Army of the Rhine;” and he indicated the three friends.
Greatly surprised, Oliver held out his hand and quickly ran over to Lebrenn, crying, “Good meeting! You here? How are Madam Lebrenn and your son?”
“All the family are in good health; my son is growing up, and I hope to make a good republican out of him.”
Castillon now approached, and slapping the colonel familiarly over the shoulder, called out, “Say now, my boy — has your rank of colonel made you near-sighted?”
Oliver trembled and turned purple with rage. He looked Castillon up and down, and replied: “Who are you, sir, to permit yourself such familiarity?”
“Well, well! Forsooth, it is I, Castillon, your old foreman, who taught you how to handle a file and hammer a piece of iron, when you were our apprentice.”
“Give you good day, my dear sir, give you good day,” retorted Oliver haughtily and impatiently; and continuing his conversation with Lebrenn: “And what chance brings you to Paris? Tell me about it.”
But Castillon touched Oliver on the arm before he had time to get an answer, and said: “Say, my boy, have you truly become, to all intents and purposes, an aristocrat, since you belong to the staff of General Bonaparte, as Duchemin says, our old comrade of the Lines of Weissenburg, here, whom you don’t seem to recognize either?”
“Hush, my old fellow,” said Duchemin in Castillon’s ear, “else he will have the commandant of Paris toss me into the headquarters of police, and then we won’t be able to go to St. Antoine.”
After a moment’s silence, Colonel Oliver spoke, with difficulty holding himself in: “I would reply to Monsieur Castillon, that if I was his apprentice, it is nothing to blush for. He should understand that my age and the rank I owe to my sword render inappropriate the pleasantries permissible when I was eighteen.”
“Pardon, excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis!” rejoined Castillon, not a whit put down by Oliver’s manner. “Ah, that’s how the staff of General Bonaparte comports itself!”
“As to you, who are still in the service,” continued Colonel Oliver rudely to Duchemin, “do not forget that we put the insolent in cells, and shoot the unruly.”
“I said nothing, Colonel,” replied Duchemin quietly.
“Shut your mouth, hang-dog, and go to the devil!”
“Yes, hold your peace, old comrade, and make yourself scarce, since you have but the choice between a cell and the shooting squad,” Castillon advised Duchemin; and then he turned on Oliver: “As to me, who, as a private citizen have hanging over me the shadow of neither, nor yet the awe of gold epaulets, I tell you this, Oliver, son of the people, a poor orphan, put on your feet by the goodness of our friend John — you contemn your brothers. A soldier of the Republic, you conspire against her. You’re an ingrate and a traitor! But the day of remorse will come.”
“Do not provoke me, wretch, or — —” cried Colonel Oliver.
Castillon and Duchemin turned on their heels and went out, Martin accompanying them to the outer door, as Lebrenn had requested that he be left alone a few minutes with the colonel. The latter hung his head and maintained an embarrassed silence.
“Castillon’s reproaches seem to have made some impression on you, Oliver,” Lebrenn began, at last.
“Not at all; such insolence does not trouble me. But let us forget the wretches, and speak of you and your family, my dear Lebrenn.”
“Let us speak rather of you, Oliver; let us speak also of my sister, whose memory should be sacred to you. Her foreb
odings of your future are realized; I fear her devotion to you has gone for naught.”
“In what may my conduct justify your criticism? Has not my sword been ever at the service of the Republic?”
“At the service of your ambition! And at the present moment you seem to be in a mind to sacrifice the Republic.”
Oliver responded with a start: “I firmly believe that France has need of order, repose, stability, and a firm hand. I believe that authority should be concentrated in the greatest captain of modern times.”
“And what are your Bonaparte’s titles — for you doubtless mean him — to the government of France?”
“His victories!”
“But is not the military glory of Hoche, Marceau, Joubert, Massena, Moreau, Kleber, Augereau, Bernadotte, Desaix, equal to that of your general? And even if he were the greatest captain the world has ever seen, it does not follow that he should be given the dictatorship. A nation should never place its destinies in the hands of one man and confide to him that exorbitant power, which smites with vertigo even the hardest heads.”
At this juncture Martin returned, and by a look inquired of his friend the result of his interview with the colonel. Lebrenn shook his head in the negative. Martin then addressed the officer:
“I would have excused myself, citizen, for my absence just now, had I not left you in the company of our comrade John. Now I am at your service. Let us discuss the battle scene you wish to give me the commission for. Some explanation will be requisite.”
“It is a brilliant charge executed by a squadron of my regiment against the Mamelukes of Hussein Bey. I can furnish you with a sketch of the field of battle made by one of my officers, and some notes I took on the feat of arms itself.”
“Any such documents would much facilitate my work, and I can, if you desire it, citizen, commence work in a month — provided,” he added with a smile, “I am not in the meantime banished or shot.”
“And why should either of those fates befall you, monsieur?”
“I am one of the Council of Five Hundred, and strongly resolved, like the majority of my colleagues, to defend the Republic and the Constitution against all factions. But the defenders of the best cause may be defeated. In that case, your general, who seems to side with the conspirators, is capable, in the event of his triumph, of transporting the republican deputies to Cayenne, or having them shot on the plain of Grenelle.”
“Monsieur, I have still to learn that the vanquisher of Lodi, Arcola, and the Pyramids is party to a conspiracy. But if he is conspiring, he has for accomplice the whole of France; and in that case the factious are those who attempt to oppose themselves to the national will.”
Just then Duresnel, the young recruit of the Parisian battalion who served under Martin at Weissenburg was introduced into the studio. The colonel brusquely saluted the newcomer together with the two who were already present and left the apartment.
Duresnel looked at John Lebrenn several seconds, and then cried out:
“Eh! If I am not mistaken, I have the pleasure of meeting, at the house of a common friend, an old comrade of the Seventh Battalion of Volunteers?”
“A comrade who was a witness to your first feat of arms, Citizen Duresnel,” rejoined Lebrenn cordially, “when after the charge of the German cuirassiers upon our battery, you and Castillon took the Grand Duke of Gerolstein prisoner.”
CHAPTER III.
CROSS PURPOSES.
THE SAME DAY as that on which occurred the scene just described, that is to say, the 17th Brumaire, year VIII (November 7, 1799), the following events took place at the home of Monsieur Hubert, banker and member of the Council of Ancients and uncle to Charlotte. This exponent of high finance had tenfold increased his fortune by his enterprises in furnishing supplies to the army, or, in other words, robbing the people and famishing the soldiers. In conference with the banker was the reverend Father Morlet; politics was on the carpet.
“My reverend sir,” asked Hubert, “will you please to tell me why the Catholic and royalist party is taking no hand in political affairs? Do you not comprehend that in supporting the dictatorship of Bonaparte you deal the last blow to the Republic?”
“And who will profit thereby? Just clarify me on that point.”
“He will, as a matter of course.”
“Bonaparte’s ambition is boundless,” returned the Jesuit. “He is not ignorant that a monarchy which owes its restoration to a Monck has no more dire need than, as soon as it no longer needs his treasons, to rid itself of the traitor. It is thus more than probable that General Bonaparte prefers the role of a Cromwell, or a Caesar. In either of these two cases we Catholics and royalists must oppose him, for he would thus put off for a long time the return of the Old Regime. But as, after all, and in spite of its improbability, there is one chance in a thousand that he may be looking out for a restoration, we maintain for the present complete neutrality.”
“Monsieur John Lebrenn asks to speak with you, sir,” announced a valet.
“John Lebrenn in Paris! — Pray Monsieur Lebrenn to wait an instant!” cried the banker to the valet, who at once left the room to execute his master’s orders.
“My dear Monsieur Hubert, I am not at all anxious for a meeting with that red-cap Jacobin, and for reasons of a particular nature,” said the Jesuit.
“Step into my cabinet. Thence you can descend by the little staircase.”
“In case of unforeseen developments, write me, or — you know — —”
“Oh, I forgot to ask you about the Count of Plouernel.”
“He is,” replied the Jesuit, “at Vienna, with his wife, who has just presented him with a son, according to what the Count’s brother, the Bishop in partibus, whom you know, has just written me.”
“And your god-son, little Rodin?”
“He is growing up under the eye of the Lord. He is in Rome, attending the seminary of our Society.”
The financier conducted Father Morlet to the door of the cabinet, and then rang for the valet to show in Monsieur Lebrenn at once.
“What can be the motive of my nephew’s coming now to Paris?” pondered Hubert. “I hope he bears no bad news from my poor sister. Her last letters foreshadowed nothing untoward. Ah, here he is. Welcome, my dear nephew,” he cried as he held out his hand, “welcome! And first of all put me at ease about my sister and niece. Are they well?”
“Charlotte and her mother are in perfect health,” answered Lebrenn. “They charged me to visit you and tell you so, and I have made it a point to deliver the message the very day of my arrival. We are living happily in the peaceful town of Vannes, and still occupied in our cloth trade.”
“From which I conclude that you no longer trouble yourself with politics. I congratulate you upon your wisdom, my dear nephew. The Republic is a chimera, as I said long ago. Look at it to-day, as good as dead, and to-morrow it will have heaved its last sigh. You come just in time to attend the funeral. May it never rise from its ashes.”
“The Republic is like Lazarus in the Scriptures. It may be wrapped in its shroud, it will burst the stones of its sepulture. But let us leave politics aside; we are not agreed on the matter, and never will be. I am asked by my wife and her mother to inquire of you after the health of my father-in-law, your colleague in the Council of Ancients, of whom we have no news.”
“My brother-in-law is still the same, dragging his miserable life from apostasy to apostasy, tormented by the fear of death.”
“What an existence!”
“He is, indeed, the most cowardly of men, and at the same time the most talkative and vain of lawyers. Then, his position of Representative of the people in the Convention, and now as deputy in the Council of Ancients, flatters his vanity, and furnishes him with the opportunity to give a loose to his voluble oratory. So, tossed back and forth between his vanity, which impels him toward the hazards of political life, just now so tempestuous, and his cowardice, which makes him tremble each day lest he receive the reward of his aposta
sies, the miserable fellow’s life is kept, as the Catholics say, in perpetual hell.”
“Monsieur Desmarais!” announced the valet.
The lawyer, barely across the threshold, stopped stock still, as surprised as put out of sorts by the unexpected presence of his son-in-law; for a moment he was unable to utter a word, and Hubert said to him sardonically:
“How, brother! Is it so that you greet your son-in-law after so many years’ separation?”
“Monsieur Lebrenn should know,” at length replied the lawyer, regaining his self-assurance, “that a deep gulf separates honest men from the Jacobins of ‘93, the Septembrists, Terrorists, Communists, and other Socialists.”
“Citizen Desmarais, we have known each other a long time,” retorted Lebrenn. “You are the father of my dear wife, to whom my life owes its happiness. Whatever may be your words or your conduct toward me, there are limits which I shall never exceed in my treatment of you. You inspire me neither with anger nor hatred, but with a profound pity, for you are unhappy.”
“What insolence! To hear such words issue from the lips of my daughter’s husband, and be unable to punish him for them!”
“My pity for you is very natural,” continued Lebrenn. “I pity your condition because you must feel a cruel chagrin at being separated from your wife and daughter.”
“Scurrilous fellow!” bellowed the attorney, unable to contain himself. “It is you who came to sow trouble and discord between the members of my family and me.”
“Citizen Desmarais, you are arrived at the decline of life; your solitude weighs upon you. You regret, you regret each day anew the sweets of the domestic hearth; our home is and always will be open to you. Renounce your life in politics, the incessant source of your anguish and your alarms, because of your lack of steadfastness. Return to your wife and daughter; they will forget the past. But when fear has its clutch upon you, you are like a person out of his mind; though you may be in perfect safety, yet you will perish anyhow. So then, when you please, Citizen Desmarais, you will find a place at our fireside. You will enjoy with us an existence as peaceful and happy as your present one is tortured.”