by Eugène Sue
“And, then,” added Blanche, “he took us each by the hand, and, bending his fair face over us, looked at us for a long time in silence, with so much goodness — with so much goodness, that we could not withdraw our eyes from his.”
“Yes,” resumed Rose, “and his look seemed, by turns, to attract us, or to go to our hearts. At length, to our great sorrow, Gabriel quitted us, having told us that we should see him again the following night.”
“And did he make his appearance?”
“Certainly. Judge with what impatience we waited the moment of sleep, to see if our friend would return, and visit us in our slumbers.”
“Humph!” said Dagobert, scratching his forehead; “this reminds me, young ladies, that you kept on rubbing your eyes last evening, and pretending to be half asleep. I wager, it was all to send me away the sooner, and to get to your dream as fast as possible.”
“Yes, Dagobert.”
“The reason being, you could not say to me, as you would to Spoil-sport: Lie down, Dagobert! Well — so your friend Gabriel came back?”
“Yes, and this time he talked to us a great deal, and gave us, in the name of our mother, such touching, such noble counsels, that the next day, Rose and I spent our whole time in recalling every word of our guardian angel — and his face, and his look—”
“This reminds me again, young ladies, that you were whispering all along the road this morning; and that when I spoke of white, you answered black.”
“Yes, Dagobert, we were thinking of Gabriel.”
“And, ever since, we love him as well as he loves us.”
“But he is only one between both of you!”
“Was not our mother one between us?”
“And you, Dagobert — are you not also one for us both?”
“True, true! And yet, do you know, I shall finish by being jealous of that Gabriel?”
“You are our friend by day — he is our friend by night.”
“Let’s understand it clearly. If you talk of him all day, and dream of him all night, what will there remain for me?”
“There will remain for you your two orphans, whom you love so much,” said Rose.
“And who have only you left upon earth,” added Blanche, in a caressing tongue.
“Humph! humph! that’s right, coax the old man over, Nay, believe me, my children,” added the soldier, tenderly, “I am quite satisfied with my lot. I can afford to let you have your Gabriel. I felt sure that Spoil sport and myself could take our rest in quiet. After all, there is nothing so astonishing in what you tell me; your first dream struck your fancy, and you talked so much about it that you had a second; nor should I be surprised if you were to see this fine fellow a third time.”
“Oh, Dagobert! do not make a jest of it! They are only dreams, but we think our mother sends them to us. Did she not tell us that orphan children were watched over by guardian angels? Well, Gabriel is our guardian angel; he will protect us, and he will protect you also.”
“Very kind of him to think of me; but you see, my dear children, for the matter of defence, I prefer the dog; he is less fair than your angel, but he has better teeth, and that is more to be depended on.”
“How provoking you are, Dagobert — always jesting!”
“It is true; you can laugh at everything.”
“Yes, I am astonishingly gay; I laugh with my teeth shut, in the style of old Jovial. Come, children, don’t scold me: I know I am wrong. The remembrance of your dear mother is mixed with this dream, and you do well to speak of it seriously. Besides,” added he, with a grave air, “dreams will sometimes come true. In Spain, two of the Empress’s dragoons, comrades of mine, dreamt, the night before their death, that they would be poisoned by the monks — and so it happened. If you continue to dream of this fair angel Gabriel, it is — it is — why, it is, because you are amused by it; and, as you have none too many pleasures in the daytime, you may as well get an agreeable sleep at night. But, now, my children, I have also much to tell you; it will concern your mother; promise me not to be sad.”
“Be satisfied! when we think of her we are not sad, though serious.”
“That is well. For fear of grieving you, I have always delayed the moment of telling what your poor mother would have confided to you as soon as you were no longer children. But she died before she had time to do so, and that which I have to tell broke her heart — as it nearly did mine. I put off this communication as long as I could, taking for pretext that I would say nothing till we came to the field of battle where your father was made prisoner. That gave me time; but the moment is now come; I can shuffle it off no longer.”
“We listen, Dagobert,” responded the two maidens, with an attentive and melancholy air.
After a moment’s silence, during which he appeared to reflect, the veteran thus addressed the young girls:
“Your father, General Simon, was the son of a workman, who remained a workman; for, notwithstanding all that the general could say or do, the old man was obstinate in not quitting his trade. He had a heart of gold and a head of iron, just like his son. You may suppose, my children, that when your father, who had enlisted as a private soldier, became a general and a count of the empire, it was not without toil or without glory.”
“A count of the Empire! what is that, Dagobert?”
“Flummery — a title, which the Emperor gave over and above the promotion, just for the sake of saying to the people, whom he loved because he was one of them: Here, children! You wish to play at nobility! You shall be nobles. You wish to play at royalty! You shall be kings. Take what you like — nothing is too good for you — enjoy yourselves!”
“Kings!” said the two girls, joining their hands in admiration.
“Kings of the first water. Oh, he was no niggard of his crowns, our Emperor! I had a bed-fellow of mine, a brave soldier, who was afterwards promoted to be king. This flattered us; for, if it was not one, it was the other. And so, at this game, your father became count; but, count or not, he was one of the best and bravest generals of the army.”
“He was handsome, was he not, Dagobert? — mother always said so.”
“Oh, yes! indeed he was — but quite another thing from your fair guardian angel. Picture to yourself a fine, dark man, who looked splendid in his full uniform, and could put fire into the soldiers’ hearts. With him to lead, we would have charged up into Heaven itself — that is, if Heaven had, permitted it,” added Dagobert, not wishing to wound in any way the religious beliefs of the orphans.
“And father was as good as he was brave, Dagobert.”
“Good, my children? Yes, I should say so! — He could bend a horse-shoe in his hand as you would bend a card, and the day he was taken prisoner he had cut down the Prussian artillerymen on their very cannon. With strength and courage like that, how could he be otherwise than good? It is then about nineteen years ago, not far from this place — on the spot I showed you before we arrived at the village — that the general, dangerously wounded, fell from his horse. I was following him at the time, and ran to his assistance. Five minutes after we were made prisoners — and by whom think you? — by a Frenchman.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes, an emigrant marquis, a colonel in the service of Russia,” answered Dagobert, with bitterness. “And so, when this marquis advanced towards us, and said to the general: ‘Surrender, sir, to a countryman!’— ‘A Frenchman, who fights against France,’ replied the general, ’is no longer my countryman; he is a traitor, and I’d never surrender to a traitor!’ And, wounded though he was, he dragged himself up to a Russian grenadier, and delivered him his sabre, saying: ‘I surrender to you my brave fellow!’ The marquis became pale with rage at it.”
The orphans looked at each other with pride, and a rich crimson mantled their cheeks, as they exclaimed: “Oh, our brave father!”
“Ah, those children,” said Dagobert, as he proudly twirled his moustache. “One sees they have soldier’s blood in their veins! Well,” he continued, “we were n
ow prisoners. The general’s last horse had been killed under him; and, to perform the journey, he mounted Jovial, who had not been wounded that day. We arrived at Warsaw, and there it was that the general first saw your mother. She was called the Pearl of Warsaw; that is saying everything. Now he, who admired all that is good and beautiful, fell in love with her almost immediately; and she loved him in return; but her parents had promised her to another — and that other was the same—”
Dagobert was unable to proceed. Rose uttered a piercing cry, and pointed in terror to the window.
CHAPTER VII. THE TRAVELER.
UPON THE CRY of the young girl, Dagobert rose abruptly.
“What is the matter, Rose?”
“There — there!” she said, pointing to the window. “I thought I saw a hand move the pelisse.”
She had not concluded these words before Dagobert rushed to the window and opened it, tearing down the mantle, which had been suspended from the fastening.
It was still dark night, and the wind was blowing hard. The soldier listened, but could hear nothing.
Returning to fetch the lamp from the table, he shaded the flame with his hand, and strove to throw the light outside. Still he saw nothing. Persuaded that a gust of wind had disturbed and shaken the pelisse: and that Rose had been deceived by her own fears he again shut the window.
“Be satisfied, children! The wind is very high; it is that which lifted the corner of the pelisse.”
“Yet methought I saw plainly the fingers which had hold of it,” said Rose, still trembling.
“I was looking at Dagobert,” said Blanche, “and I saw nothing.”
“There was nothing to see, my children; the thing is clear enough. The window is at least eight feet above the ground; none but a giant could reach it without a ladder. Now, had any one used a ladder, there would not have been time to remove it; for, as soon as Rose cried out, I ran to the window, and, when I held out the light, I could see nothing.”
“I must have been deceived,” said Rose.
“You may be sure, sister, it was only the wind,” added Blanche.
“Then I beg pardon for having disturbed you, my good Dagobert.”
“Never mind!” replied the soldier musingly, “I am only sorry that Spoil sport is not come back. He would have watched the window, and that would have quite tranquillized you. But he no doubt scented the stable of his comrade, Jovial, and will have called in to bid him good-night on the road. I have half a mind to go and fetch him.”
“Oh, no, Dagobert! do not leave us alone,” cried the maidens; “we are too much afraid.”
“Well, the dog is not likely to remain away much longer, and I am sure we shall soon hear him scratching at the door, so we will continue our story,” said Dagobert, as he again seated himself near the head of the bed, but this time with his face towards the window.
“Now the general was prisoner at Warsaw,” continued he, “and in love with your mother, whom they wished to marry to another. In 1814, we learned the finish of the war, the banishment of the Emperor to the Isle of Elba, and the return of the Bourbons. In concert with the Prussians and Russians, who had brought them back, they had exiled the Emperor. Learning all this, your mother said to the general: ‘The war is finished; you are free, but your Emperor is in trouble. You owe everything to him; go and join him in his misfortunes. I know not when we shall meet again, but I shall never marry any one but you, I am yours till death!’ — Before he set out the general called me to him, and said: ‘Dagobert, remain here; Mademoiselle Eva may have need of you to fly from her family, if they should press too hard upon her; our correspondence will have to pass through your hands; at Paris, I shall see your wife and son; I will comfort them, and tell them you are my friend.’”
“Always the same,” said Rose, with emotion, as she looked affectionately at Dagobert.
“As faithful to the father and mother as to their children,” added Blanche.
“To love one was to love them all,” replied the soldier. “Well, the general joined the Emperor at Elba; I remained at Warsaw, concealed in the neighborhood of your mother’s house; I received the letters, and conveyed them to her clandestinely. In one of those letters — I feel proud to tell you of it my children — the general informed me that the Emperor himself had remembered me.”
“What, did he know you?”
“A little, I flatter myself— ‘Oh! Dagobert!’ said he to your father, who was talking to him about me; ‘a horse-grenadier of my old guard — a soldier of Egypt and Italy, battered with wounds — an old dare-devil, whom I decorated with my own hand at Wagram — I have not forgotten him!’ — I vow, children, when your mother read that to me, I cried like a fool.”
“The Emperor — what a fine golden face he has on the silver cross with the red ribbon that you would sometimes show us when we behaved well.”
“That cross — given by him — is my relic. It is there in my knapsack, with whatever we have of value — our little purse and papers. But, to return to your mother; it was a great consolation to her, when I took her letters from the general, or talked with her about him — for she suffered much — oh, so much! In vain her parents tormented and persecuted her; she always answered: ‘I will never marry any one but General Simon.’ A spirited woman, I can tell you — resigned, but wonderfully courageous. One day she received a letter from the general; he had left the Isle of Elba with the Emperor; the war had again broken out, a short campaign, but as fierce as ever, and heightened by soldiers’ devotion. In that campaign of France; my children, especially at Montmirail, your father fought like a lion, and his division followed his example it was no longer valor — it was frenzy. He told me that, in Champagne, the peasants killed so many of those Prussians, that their fields were manured with them for years. Men, women, children, all rushed upon them. Pitchforks, stones, mattocks, all served for the slaughter. It was a true wolf hunt!”
The veins swelled on the soldier’s forehead, and his cheeks flushed as he spoke, for this popular heroism recalled to his memory the sublime enthusiasm of the wars of the republic — those armed risings of a whole people, from which dated the first steps of his military career, as the triumphs of the Empire were the last days of his service.
The orphans, too, daughters of a soldier and a brave woman, did not shrink from the rough energy of these words, but felt their cheeks glow, and their hearts beat tumultuously.
“How happy we are to be the children of so brave a father!” cried Blanche.
“It is a happiness and an honor too, my children — for the evening of the battle of Montmirail, the Emperor, to the joy of the whole army, made your father Duke of Ligny and Marshal of France.”
“Marshal of France!” said Rose in astonishment, without understanding the exact meaning of the words.
“Duke of Ligny!” added Blanche with equal surprise.
“Yes; Peter Simon, the son of a workman, became duke and marshal — there is nothing higher except a king!” resumed Dagobert, proudly. “That’s how the Emperor treated the sons of the people, and, therefore, the people were devoted to him. It was all very fine to tell them ‘Your Emperor makes you food for cannon.’ ‘Stuff!’ replied the people, who are no fools, ‘another would make us food for misery. We prefer the cannon, with the chance of becoming captain or colonel, marshal, king — or invalid; that’s better than to perish with hunger, cold, and age, on straw in a garret, after toiling forty years for others.’”
“Even in France — even in Paris, that beautiful city — do you mean to say there are poor people who die of hunger and misery, Dagobert?”
“Even in Paris? Yes, my children; therefore, I come back to the point, the cannon is better. With it, one has the chance of becoming, like your father, duke and marshal: when I say duke and marshal, I am partly right and partly wrong, for the title and the rank were not recognized in the end; because, after Montmirail, came a day of gloom, a day of great mourning, when, as the general has told me, old soldiers like
myself wept — yes, wept! — on the evening of a battle. That day, my children, was Waterloo!”
There was in these simple words of Dagobert an expression of such deep sorrow, that it thrilled the hearts of the orphans.
“Alas!” resumed the soldier, with a sigh, “there are days which seem to have a curse on them. That same day, at Waterloo, the general fell, covered with wounds, at the head of a division of the Guards. When he was nearly cured, which was not for a long time, he solicited permission to go to St. Helena — another island at the far end of the world, to which the English had carried the Emperor, to torture him at their leisure; for if he was very fortunate in the first instance, he had to go through a deal of hard rubs at last, my poor children.”
“If you talk in that way, you will make us cry, Dagobert.”
“There is cause enough for it — the Emperor suffered so much! He bled cruelly at the heart believe me. Unfortunately, the general was not with him at St. Helena; he would have been one more to console him; but they would not allow him to go. Then, exasperated, like so many others, against the Bourbons, the general engaged in a conspiracy to recall the son of the Emperor. He relied especially on one regiment, nearly all composed of his old soldiers, and he went down to a place in Picardy, where they were then in garrison; but the conspiracy had already been divulged. Arrested the moment of his arrival, the general was taken before the colonel of the regiment. And this colonel,” said the soldier, after a brief pause, “who do you think it was again? Bah! it would be too long to tell you all, and would only make you more sad; but it was a man whom your father had many reasons to hate. When he found himself face to face with him, he said: ‘if you are not a coward, you will give me one hour’s liberty, and we will fight to the death; I hate you for this, I despise you for that’ — and so on. The colonel accepted the challenge, and gave your father his liberty till the morrow. The duel was a desperate one; the colonel was left for dead on the spot.”
“Merciful heaven!”