by Eugène Sue
“Just as we to-day speak of French Algeria, I suppose?”
“Exactly so, grandfather.”
“Well, thanks to God, our brave Gauls did, with the help of Insurrection, get back a little into the saddle! That soothes my blood somewhat.”
“Oh, grandfather, wait, only wait!”
“Why?”
“What our fathers suffered was as nothing to what they were still to suffer.”
“Think of it! And I thought they were out of the woods. What’s it that happened to them?”
“Figure to yourself a horde of barbarians, semi-savages, named Franks. Thirteen or fourteen hundred years ago they emerged from the recesses of the forests of Germany. Genuine Cossacks they were, in their way. They fell upon the Roman armies. These, enervated by their conquest of Gaul, were rolled in the dust and driven out, and then the Frankish conquerors, in turn, took possession of our poor country. They stripped her even of her name. They called her France, after themselves, in token of possession.”
“The brigands!” cried the old man. “I like the Romans better, by my faith! At least they left us our name.”
“That’s so. Besides, the Romans were, at least, the most civilized people then living, except for the barbarity of their system of slavery. They covered Gaul with magnificent structures, and will ye nil ye, they restored to our ancestors a part of their pristine freedom. The Franks, on the contrary, were, as I said, genuine Cossacks. Under their domination the Gauls had to start all over again.”
“Good God! Good God!”
“Those hordes of Frankish bandits—”
“Call them Cossacks! Give their true name!”
“They were even worse, if possible, grandfather! Those Frankish bandits, those Cossacks, if you prefer, called their chiefs Kings. The kingly leaven perpetuated itself in our country, whence it happens that for so many years we have tasted the sweets of Kings of Frankish origin, whom the royalists call Kings by divine right.”
“Say by Cossack right! A fine present!”
“The chiefs of lower category were called dukes, and counts. Their seed likewise perpetuated itself upon our soil, whence it happens that for so long a time we have enjoyed the luxury of a nobility of Frankish origin, who treated us as a conquered race.”
“What’s that you are telling me!” ejaculated the perplexed-looking old man. “If I grasp the meaning of what you say, my boy, the Frankish bandits, those Cossacks, Kings and chieftains, once masters of Gaul, parceled out among themselves the lands that the Gauls had partly reconquered from the Romans?”
“Yes, grandfather. The Frankish Kings and seigneurs robbed the Gauls of their property, and divided among themselves the soil and the people upon it, just as a domain and its live stock are divided.”
“And our fathers, despoiled of their goods by those Cossacks—”
“Our fathers were anew reduced to slavery, as they were under the Romans, and were forced to cultivate for the benefit of the Frankish Kings and seigneurs the land that had belonged to themselves, to them the Gauls since Gaul was Gaul.”
“Accordingly, my boy, the Frankish Kings and seigneurs, after having robbed our fathers of their property, started to live on their sweat—”
“Just so, grandfather. They sold them — men, women, children, girls — in open market. If they resisted at work, their masters whipped them as recalcitrant animals are whipped, if they did not kill them in their anger, or out of pure cruelty, as often happened, just as one might kill his dog or horse. The theory was that our fathers and mothers belonged to the Frankish Kings and seigneurs neither more nor less than cattle belong to their owner. All this by virtue of the Frankish conquest of Gaul. This state of things lasted until the revolution of 1789, which you witnessed, grandfather. You will remember the enormous difference there still existed at that time between a nobleman and a workingman, between a seigneur and a peasant.”
“‘Sdeath! It was the difference between master and slave.”
“Or, if you prefer the term, between Frank and Gaul, grandfather.”
“But, my little man, how did it happen that our forefathers the Gauls allowed themselves to be martyrized in that fashion by a handful of Franks — no, Cossacks, I mean, for so many centuries?”
“Oh, grandfather! The Franks possessed the soil which they had stolen; hence they possessed the fullness thereof. Their army, a numerous body, consisted of pitiless recruits from their own country. Besides, almost exhausted by their long struggle against the Romans, a frightful affliction was furthermore in store for our fathers — the priests.”
“That’s all that was wanting to finish them up!”
“To their eternal shame, the larger portion of the Gallic bishops, immediately upon the Frankish invasion, betrayed their own country, and made common cause with the Frankish Kings and seigneurs, whom they speedily dominated through cunning and flattery, and from whom they wheedled all the lands and money possible. Accordingly, just as with the conquerors themselves, a large number of holy priests held serfs whom they either sold or exploited, and lived amidst shocking debauchery, degrading, tyrannizing and brutifying at their own sweet pleasure the Gallic masses to whom they preached resignation, and respect for, and obedience to the Franks, threatening with the devil and his horns whatever wretched being might attempt a revolt for the independence of his country from the foreign Kings and seigneurs, the only source of whose power and wealth was violence, rapine and murder.”
“I see it all! But, my little man, did our forefathers allow themselves to be shorn without kicking — all that time, from the conquest down to the Revolution, when we turned upon those Frankish Kings and seigneurs, and, along with them, their clergy, who stuck to the habit of gathering fat upon their ribs?”
“It is not likely that everything went on without numerous revolts on the part of the serfs against the Kings, the seigneurs and the priests. But, grandfather, I have told you the little that I know, and even that little I learned only while carpentering in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn, the linendraper opposite us.”
“How did it happen, my boy?”
“While I was at work, Monsieur Lebrenn, who is the best man I know, used to chat with me. He would talk about the history of our fathers, of which I knew as little as you. Once my curiosity was pricked — and it was not slight—”
“I can well imagine that.”
“I put a thousand questions to Monsieur Lebrenn, all the while hammering and joining. He answered me with truly paternal kindness. In that way I came to know the little that I have told you. But,” added George with a sigh that he was unable to suppress, “my job being done, the history lessons were interrupted. Accordingly, I have told you all I know, grandfather.”
“So, then, the linendraper who lives opposite is as learned as all that?”
“He is as learned as he is a true patriot. He is an old Gaul, as he loves to style himself. And sometimes,” added George, unable to avoid blushing slightly, “I heard him say to his daughter, as he proudly embraced her on account of some clever answer or other that she made, ‘Oh, as to you — you are a true Gallic girl!’”
At this moment father Morin and George heard someone rapping at the door of the first chamber.
“Walk in!” cried George.
Someone stepped into the front room that connected with the one occupied by the old man.
“Who is there?” George asked.
“I — Lebrenn,” answered a voice.
“What! The worthy linendraper that we have been speaking about? The old Gaul?” whispered the venerable grandfather. “Go quick and see what he wants, my boy, and shut the door after you.”
As much embarrassed as surprised at this visit, George stepped out of his grandfather’s room, and found himself facing Marik Lebrenn.
CHAPTER III.
MARIK LEBRENN.
MARIK LEBRENN WAS a man of about fifty years of age, although looking rather younger. His high stature; his nervy, muscular neck, arms and should
ers; the proud and resolute carriage of his head; his open and strikingly strong countenance; his sea-blue eyes with their firm and penetrating glance; his thick, heavy and light auburn hair, slightly streaked with grey and starting rather low upon a forehead that seemed to partake of the hardness of marble; — all these features betrayed the characteristic type of the Breton race, among which the Gallic tongue and blood have pre-eminently preserved themselves unalloyed down to our own days. Upon the ruddy and thick lips of Monsieur Lebrenn sat a perpetual smile that one time betokened kindheartedness, other times bore the impress of that wit and satire, which our old books term salty, when they describe the racy jokes, or the old Gallic character, that ever is inclined to teasing. I shall close the description of the merchant, by clothing him in a large olive overcoat and trousers of a grey material.
Astonished, almost speechless at the unexpected visit, George Duchene waited in silence for Lebrenn to speak. The latter said:
“Monsieur George, about six months ago you were assigned by your employer to attend to some repairs in my shop. I was very much pleased with your intelligence and skill.”
“You proved as much to me, monsieur, by your kindness.”
“You were entitled to it. I noticed that you were industrious, and anxious to learn. I was aware, besides, as all our neighbors are, of your worthy conduct towards your grandfather, who occupies these lodgings for the last fifteen years.”
“Monsieur,” remarked George, not a little embarrassed by these praises, “my conduct—”
“Is perfectly simple, is it not? Very well. Your job in my shop kept you three months. Very well pleased with our relations to each other, I said to you, and did so in all frankness: ‘Monsieur George, we are neighbors; call and see me, either Sundays, or any other day after your work hours; I shall be pleased, very pleased.’”
“Indeed, monsieur, you said so.”
“And yet, Monsieur George, you never set your foot in my house.”
“I beg you, monsieur, do not attribute my reserve to either ingratitude or forgetfulness.”
“What, then, should I attribute it to?”
“Monsieur—”
“Come, Monsieur George, be frank — you love my daughter.”
The young man trembled from head to foot. His color left his cheeks, paleness and blushes alternated with each other. Finally he answered Lebrenn with a tremulous and moved voice:
“It is true, monsieur. I love mademoiselle, your daughter.”
“So that, your work in my shop being done, you did not return to my house out of fear that your love might carry you away?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And you never mentioned your love to anyone, even to my daughter?”
“Never, monsieur.”
“I knew it. But why did you refuse to place confidence in me, Monsieur George?”
“Monsieur,” answered the embarrassed young man, “I — did — not dare—”
“Why not! Perchance because I am what is called a bourgeois — a rich man compared to you, who live from day to day by the wages that you earn?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
After a moment’s silence the merchant proceeded:
“Permit me, Monsieur George, to put a question to you. You may answer it, if you think proper.”
“I listen, monsieur.”
“About fifteen months ago, shortly after your discharge from the army, you expected to marry?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“A young flower girl, an orphan named Josephine Eloi?”
“Yes, monsieur; it is all so.”
“Will you tell me the reason why the marriage did not take place?”
The young man colored; an expression of pain contracted his countenance; he hesitated to answer.
Lebrenn watched him attentively. Pained and surprised at George’s silence, he could not withhold a bitter and severe cry:
“I see — seduction, then abandonment and oblivion. Your embarrassment proclaims it all but too loudly.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” George quickly answered. “My embarrassment and emotion are caused by cruel recollections. I shall tell you what happened. I never lie—”
“I know you do not, Monsieur George.”
“Josephine dwelt in the same house with my employer. In that way I became acquainted with her. She was very pretty, and, although illiterate, highly gifted. I knew she was inured to work and poverty. I believed her wise. A bachelor’s life weighed upon me. I also thought of my grandfather. A wife would have assisted me in taking better care of him. I proposed marriage to Josephine. She seemed delighted, and she herself named the date of our wedding. They lied to you, monsieur, who spoke of seduction and abandonment!”
“I believe you,” said Lebrenn, cordially extending his hand to the young man. “I am happy to be able to believe you. But how did your marriage fall through?”
“A week before the day for our wedding Josephine disappeared, leaving a letter for me saying that all was broken off. I subsequently learned that, yielding to the evil advice of one of her girl friends, a lost woman, she followed her example. Having lived in misery all her life, enduring grievous privations despite her long hours, twelve and fifteen of work a day, Josephine recoiled before the life that I offered her — a life of toil and poverty like her own.”
“And like so many others,” interjected Lebrenn, “she succumbed to the temptations of a less toilsome life. Oh! Poverty! Poverty!”
“I have never seen Josephine again, monsieur. She is now, I am told, a coryphee in one of the public dancing halls. She dropped her old name for one that I do not know, coined according to her habit of improvising upon all manner of subjects some of the wildest of songs. In short, she is lost forever. And yet, the girl had excellent qualities of heart. You now understand, monsieur, the cause of the sad emotion that came over me when you mentioned Josephine’s name a minute ago.”
“Your emotion testifies in favor of your heart, Monsieur George. You have been calumniated. I doubted the truth of what I was told; I am now certain. Let us say no more upon that subject. I now wish to tell you what happened at my house three days ago. I was, in the evening, in my wife’s room, together with my daughter. The girl had sat silent and meditative for a while. Suddenly, taking my hand and her mother’s, she said to us: ‘I have a secret to confide to you. I have long put off speaking, because I have long been reflecting, lest I speak hastily. I love Monsieur George Duchene’—”
“Great God! monsieur,” cried George, clasping his hands, and seized with inexpressible ecstasy. “Is it possible! Mademoiselle, your daughter!”
“That was the language of my daughter to us,” proceeded Lebrenn with deliberation. “‘I am pleased, my child, at your frankness,’ I answered her; ‘but how came this love about?’ ‘First, father, through learning of George’s conduct towards his grandfather; then through hearing you often praise his character, his industrious habits, and his efforts to cultivate his mind. Finally, he won his way to my heart with his gentle and refined manners, with his frankness, and his conversation, as I heard him talk with you. I never said to him a word that could make him suspect my sentiments for him. On his part, he never dropped his extreme reserve towards me. I would be happy were he to share the sentiments I entertain for him, and if you, father and mother, think such a marriage proper. If you think otherwise I shall respect your wishes, knowing that you respect my freedom. If I can not marry Monsieur George I shall remain single. You have often told me, father, that I had a will of my own. You will not doubt my resolution. If this marriage be out of the question, you will not find me either sulky or dejected. Your affection will console me. Ever happy, as in the past, I shall ever care for you, for mother and for brother. I have told you the truth. Now, I wish you to decide. I shall wait.’”
George listened to Lebrenn with ever increasing astonishment. He could not believe his own ears. Finally he cried in broken accents:
“Monsieur, is this
a dream?”
“Not in the least. My daughter never was more wide awake, I assure you. I know the openness of her nature, also her firmness. Both my wife and I are certain of that — if this union can not be effected, Velleda’s affection for us will not change, but neither will she marry anyone else. Now, then, seeing it is quite natural that a young and handsome girl of eighteen should marry, and seeing, furthermore, that Velleda’s choice is worthy of herself and us, my wife and I, after mature reflection, might gladly decide to accept you as our son-in-law.”
Impossible to describe the look of glad surprise, of intoxication, that was stamped upon George’s features at these words of the merchant’s. He remained mute, he seemed stupefied.
“Come, Monsieur George,” the linendraper proceeded with a smile, “what is there so very extraordinary, so incredible, in what I have been telling you? For three whole months you were at work in my shop. I already knew that, in order to insure your grandfather’s existence, you turned soldier. Your rank of under-officer, besides two wounds, proves that you served with honor. During your three months with me I was able — my eyes are sufficiently keen — to gauge your worth in point of heart, intelligence and skill at your trade. Delighted with our acquaintance, I invited you to call upon us. Your reserve in this instance is an additional proof of the delicacy of your character. On top of all that, my daughter loves you and you love her. You are twenty-seven years old, she eighteen. She is a charming being; you a handsome fellow. You are poor; I have enough for two. You are a mechanic, so was my father. What in the devil’s name is there to amaze you so much? You look as if you had been treated to a fairy tale.”
These kind words failed to put an end to George’s stupor. He really believed himself treading on enchanted ground, as the merchant had indicated. With moist eyes and a throbbing heart the young man could barely mutter: