by Eugène Sue
“Oh, monsieur! Excuse my embarrassment — I feel so dazed with joy at all I have heard — at your saying that you consent to my marrying—”
“One moment!” quickly interposed the linendraper. “One moment! Take note that, with all the good opinion I entertain for you, what I said was we might decide to accept you as our son-in-law. It was conditional. The conditions were these: first, that you were not guilty of the unworthy act of seduction, that you were charged with—”
“Monsieur, did I not swear to you?”
“You did. I believe you. I mention that first condition simply because I had it on my mind when I came in. As to the second — there is a second—”
“What is it, monsieur?” asked George with inexpressible anxiety, and beginning to apprehend he had too readily indulged in an insensate hope.
“Listen to me, Monsieur George. We have talked very little politics together. During the time that you worked at my place, our conversation always turned upon the history of our forefathers. Nevertheless, I know you entertain very liberal ideas. Let us be short about it — you are a Socialist republican.”
“I have heard you say, monsieur, that all opinion, sincerely held, was honorable.”
“And I do not take that back. I do not blame you. But between the desire to cause one’s opinion to prevail by peaceful means, and schemes to bring about its triumph by violence, by the force of arms — between the two there yawns a deep abyss. Not true, Monsieur George?”
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the young man, looking at the linendraper with surprise mingled with uneasiness.
“Now, then, never is an armed demonstration attempted single-handed. Is not that also true, Monsieur George?”
“Monsieur,” the young man answered with a feeling of increasing uneasiness, “I do not know—”
“Yes, you are bound to know that people ordinarily associate with others of their own opinion. In short, people affiliate in secret societies — and, on the day of battle, turn up boldly upon the street. Is that not true, Monsieur George?”
“I know, monsieur, that the revolution of 1830 was accomplished in that manner,” answered George in a high state of anxiety, while his heart felt more and more wrung with pain.
“Certainly,” resumed Monsieur Lebrenn, “certainly it was done in that way, and others before it; and still others in the future will take the same course. Nevertheless, as with revolutions, insurrections do not always succeed. Seeing that people who play at that game stake their heads, you will realize, Monsieur George, that my wife and I would be rather disinclined to give our daughter to a man who did not belong to himself; who, at any moment, might take up arms, and march with the secret society that he is a member of at the risk of his life, as behooves a man of honor and conviction. It is all very lofty, very heroic, I admit. The inconvenience lies in that the Chamber of Peers, failing to appreciate that sort of heroism, may send the conspirators to Mt. St. Michel, unless it order their heads cut off. Now, then, I put the question to you as a matter of conscience, Monsieur George, would it not be a sad thing for a young woman to be exposed at any time to see her husband without a head, or consigned to imprisonment for life?”
George, grief-stricken and in consternation, had turned pale. He answered Lebrenn in a depressed voice:
“Monsieur — two words—”
“Allow me, I shall be done in a second,” interposed the linendraper; and he proceeded in a grave, almost solemn voice:
“Monsieur George, I place implicit confidence in your word. I have tested you. Swear to me that you do not belong to any secret society. I will believe you, and you shall be my son-in-law — or, rather, my own son,” added Lebrenn, reaching out his hand to George, “seeing that since I became acquainted with you and learned to esteem you, I ever felt for you, I repeat it, as much interest as sympathy.”
The merchant’s praises, together with the cordiality of his manner, intensified the severity of the blow that smote the hopes of George. He, hitherto so determined and energetic, felt himself weakening. He covered his face in his hands, and could not restrain his tears.
Lebrenn contemplated him with commiseration. In a moved voice he addressed the young man:
“I am awaiting your oath, Monsieur George.”
The young man turned his head aside to wipe away his tears. He then faced the father of his beloved and said:
“I can not, monsieur, give you the oath that you request.”
“Then — your marriage to my daughter—”
“I must renounce it, monsieur,” answered George painfully.
“Accordingly, Monsieur George,” resumed the merchant, “you admit that you belong to a secret society?”
The young man’s silence was his only reply.
“Well,” said the merchant, heaving a sigh of regret, and rising; “it is all ended — fortunately my daughter is a brave girl.”
“I also shall be so, monsieur.”
“Monsieur George,” continued the merchant, reaching out his hand to the young carpenter, “you are a man of honor. I need not demand of you secrecy concerning this interview. As you may judge, my inclinations were most favorable towards you. It is not my fault if my plans — I shall say more — my wishes, my warm wishes, to see my daughter and you united meet with an insuperable obstacle.”
“Never, monsieur, shall I forget the token of esteem with which you have honored me. You act with the wisdom and discretion of a father. I can not — let it cost me what grief it may — but bow respectfully to your decision. I should, I admit it, myself have forestalled this subject with you — I should have loyally apprized you of the sacred engagement that binds me to my party. I am certain I would have made the confession to you, so soon as I had recovered from the intoxication of happiness that your words threw me into. I would have had time to consider the duties imposed upon me by that unexpected happiness — this marriage. Pardon me, monsieur,” George proceeded, in a voice that trembled with anguish, “pardon me. I have no longer the right to speak of that beautiful dream. But what I shall ever remember with pride is your having said to me: ‘You can be my son.’”
“It is well, Monsieur George; I expected no less from you,” said Lebrenn, moving towards the door.
And, giving his hand once more to the young man, he added with emotion:
“Once more, adieu.”
“Adieu, monsieur,” responded George, taking the outstretched hand of the merchant. But the latter, suddenly throwing his arms around the young artisan, pressed him to his breast, crying in a voice that shook with joy, and with eyes moist with tears:
“Well done, George! Honest man! Loyal heart! I judged you rightly!”
Puzzled at these words, and at the conduct of the linendraper, George looked at him unable to utter a word. The latter whispered to him:
“Six weeks ago — Lourcine Street.”
A tremor ran over George’s frame. In alarm he exclaimed:
“Mercy, monsieur!”
“Number seventeen, fourth floor, in the rear.”
“Monsieur, I beg of you!”
“Did not a mechanic named Dupont introduce you blindfolded?”
“Monsieur, I can make no answer.”
“Five members of a secret society received you. You took the usual pledge. And you were led out again, still blindfolded. Not so?”
“Monsieur,” cried George as stupefied as he was terror-stricken at the revelation, and seeking to regain composure. “I do not understand what you are saying—”
“I was, that evening, the chairman of the committee, my brave George.”
“You, monsieur!” cried the young man still hesitating to believe Lebrenn. “You!”
“Yes, I.”
And seeing incredulity still depicted on George’s countenance, the merchant proceeded:
“Yes, I presided. And here is the proof.”
Saying which he whispered a few words in George’s ear.
Unable any longer to doubt, the young m
an cried, looking at the merchant:
“But, monsieur — the oath that you demanded of me a while ago?”
“It was a last test.”
“A test?”
“You must pardon me for it, my brave George. A father is mistrustful. Thank heaven you did not belie my expectations. You stood the test gallantly. You preferred the ruin of your dearest hopes to a lie, notwithstanding you must have felt sure that I relied upon your word with implicit confidence, whatever you may have said.”
“Monsieur,” replied George with a hesitation that deeply touched the merchant, “can I now — can I this time — can I hope — with certainty? I conjure you, speak! If you only knew what anguish I went through a while ago!”
“Upon my word as an honest man, my dear George, my daughter loves you. My wife and I consent to your marriage. And we look forward to it with delight because we see in it a future of happiness for our child. Is that plain?”
“Oh, monsieur!” cried George pressing with effusion the hand of the merchant, who said:
“As to the exact day of your marriage, my dear George, the events of yesterday — those that are in train to-day — the course that our secret society is to follow—”
“You, monsieur?” cried George with renewed amazement, and unable to avoid interrupting Lebrenn to express his astonishment, for a moment forgotten in his transport of joy; “You, monsieur, are, indeed, a member of our secret society? Indeed, I am dumbfounded!”
“Not bad!” exclaimed the merchant smiling. “Here we have our dear George about to start all over anew with his astonishment. And why, pray, should not I also belong to your secret society? Perchance, because, without being rich, exactly, I enjoy some comfort and have a few duds to sell? What business have I, I suppose you are thinking, with a party, the aim of which is the conquest for the proletariat of political life, through universal suffrage, and of property through the organization of labor? Why, my good George, just because I have, it is my duty to assist my brothers to conquer what they have not.”
“These are generous sentiments, monsieur!” exclaimed George. “Rare, indeed, are the men who, having arrived at comfort, turn around to give a helping hand to their less fortunate brothers.”
“No, George; no. That is not so rare. When, perhaps within not many hours, you will see running to arms all the members of our society, one of the chiefs of which I have been for some time, you will find among them merchants, artists, manufacturers, literary people, lawyers, men of learning, physicians, in short — bourgeois, most of whom, like myself, live in modest comfort, all of them animated with no higher ambition than the emancipation of their brothers, the common people, and anxious to drop their guns, after the struggle, in order to return to their industrial and peaceful occupations.”
“Oh, monsieur, how surprised and happy I am at what you tell me!”
“Still surprised! Poor George! And why so? Because there are bourgeois — or, to use the full, big term, republican Socialist bourgeois? Come, now, George, speaking seriously, is not the cause of the bourgeois that of the proletariat? Is there any doubt but that I, for instance, yesterday a proletarian, whom good luck has so far favored, might, through some stroke of bad luck, become again a proletarian to-morrow; and, if not I, my son? Am not I — and my case is that of all other small traders — at the mercy of the barons of high finance, of the strong iron safes, just as our forefathers were at the mercy of the barons of the strong forts? Are not the small holders as much enslaved and plundered by the Dukes of Mortgage, by the Marquises of Usury, by the Counts of Speculation? Are we, the merchants, not daily, despite all our probity, despite all our labors, despite all our economy, despite all our intelligence — are not we, despite all that, ever on the brink of ruin through any crisis that may hap to come upon us, whenever, either through the fear, the cupidity or the whim of the satraps, it pleases those autocrats of capital to stop credit and to reject our signature, however honorable the same may be? Would we, were credit, instead of being the monopoly of the few that it is to-day, democratically organized by the state, as it ought to be, — would we be then exposed to ruin by the sudden withdrawal of capital, by usurious extortion, of discount, or as the consequence of a merciless competition? Are not we to-day, we old men, on the eve of finding ourselves in as precarious a position as was that of your grandfather, that brave invalid of toil, who, after thirty years of work and probity, would have died of want but for your devotion to him, my dear George? Have I, already once ruined like so many other merchants, the certainty that my son will always find the means of earning his daily bread, that he will not be forced to experience, like you, George, like all other proletarians, the trials of being laid-off — that homicidal manoeuvre which causes you to die a little every day for want of sufficient food? And my daughter — but no! I know her too well! She would sooner die! But how many young girls, brought up in comfort, and whose fathers were, like myself, modest merchants, have not been plunged into atrocious misery — and, not infrequently, from such misery hurled into the abyss of vice, like the wretched working girl whom you would have married! No, no, George! The intelligent bourgeois, and they are numerous, do not separate their cause from that of their brothers of the common people. Proletarians and bourgeois have for centuries fought side by side, heart by heart, in order to regain their freedom. Their blood has mingled in order to cement the holy union of the conquered against the conquerors! of the vanquished against the vanquishers! of the weak and the disinherited against force and privilege! How, then, should the interests of the bourgeois and the proletarians not be common? They have ever had the same enemy to contend with. But, enough of politics, George. Let us talk of yourself and my daughter. The commotion in Paris began last evening, it is at its height this morning. Our sections have been notified to hold themselves in readiness. We expect a call to arms from one moment to another. Are you aware of that?”
“Yes, monsieur; I have been notified.”
“This evening, or to-night, we shall have to descend into the street. My wife and daughter do not know this. Not that I mistrust them,” added the merchant with a smile, “they are true Gallic women, worthy of our mothers, the valiant women, who, with act and voice, encouraged their fathers, brothers, sons and husbands in battle. But you know our by-laws. They impose upon us absolute silence towards outsiders. George, within three days either the throne of Louis Philippe will be overthrown, or our party will have been once more vanquished. But not discouraged. To it belongs the future. At this appeal to arms, you or I, you and I, my friend, may be laid low upon the barricade.”
“Such is the chance of war, monsieur; may you be spared!”
“To inform my daughter in advance that I consent to her marriage with you, and that you love her, would be only to increase her sorrow in case you succumb in the fray.”
“It would, monsieur.”
“I, therefore, request you, George, to await the issue of this crisis before speaking to my daughter. Should I be killed, my wife will be apprised of my last wishes, that you marry Velleda.”
“Monsieur,” replied George, profoundly moved, “what I feel at this moment can not be expressed. All I can say to you is — I shall approve myself worthy of your daughter — worthy of you; I am not overcome by the magnitude of the obligation that you put me under — my heart and my life will prove equal to it, I assure you, monsieur.”
“I believe you, my brave George,” said the linendraper, affectionately pressing the young man’s hands in his own. “One word more. Have you arms?”
“I have a carbine hidden here, and fifty cartridges that I manufactured last night.”
“Should the insurrection explode this evening, a very likely occurrence, we shall barricade the street up to my house. The post is excellent. We have several stacks of arms and ample powder. I went out this morning to inspect the deposits of ammunition that it was feared the police spies had discovered. I found the rumor false. At the first commotion, return to your apartment, G
eorge. I shall communicate with you — and then, ‘sdeath! Firm on the barricades! Tell me, is your grandfather discreet?”
“I answer for him, as for myself, monsieur.”
“Is he there in the next room?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Very well, grant me the favor of allowing me to impart to him news that will give him joy.”
Monsieur Lebrenn stepped into the room of the old man, who was still smoking his pipe “like a Pacha,” as he expressed it.
“Good father,” said the linendraper to him, “your grandson has so good and so generous a heart that I give him my daughter, with whom he is crazily in love. All I ask of you is to keep the secret for a few days, after which you are entitled to the expectation of soon seeing yourself promoted to the dignity of great-grandfather. George will explain the whole thing to you. Adieu, my good old man. And you George — so long!”
Leaving George alone with his grandfather, Lebrenn proceeded to the residence of the Count of Plouernel, the colonel of dragoons who was waiting for the linendraper, to consider the purchase of a large supply of linen.
CHAPTER IV.
PRADELINE.
GONTHRAM NEROWEG, COUNT of Plouernel, occupied a cosy little house on Paradis-Poissonniere Street, built by his own grandfather. The somewhat rococo elegance of the establishment suggested it must have been constructed about the middle of the last century, and had done service as a city residence. The quarter of the Poissonnieres, or Fish-markets, as the neighborhood was called in the days of the Regency, but now almost deserted, was perfectly appropriate for those mysterious retreats that are devoted to the cult of Venus Aphrodite.
The Count of Plouernel was breakfasting tête-a-tête with a pretty girl of about twenty years — a brunette, lively and laughterful, who had been surnamed Pradeline because of her readiness, at the suppers of which she always was the soul and often the queen also, in improvising upon all imaginable subjects, ditties that the celebrated improviser, whose name she bore with a feminine termination, would surely not have cared to father, but which had at least the redeeming feature of lacking neither in point nor in mirthfulness.