Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  One day, to Agricola’s great surprise, who had just read some verses to her, the sewing-girl, with smiles and blushes, timidly communicated to him also a poetic composition. Her verses wanted rhythm and harmony, perhaps; but they were simple and affecting, as a non-envenomed complaint entrusted to a friendly hearer. From that day Agricola and she held frequent consultations; they gave each other mutual encouragement: but with this exception, no one else knew anything of the girl’s poetical essays, whose mild timidity made her often pass for a person of weak intellect. This soul must have been great and beautiful, for in all her unlettered strains there was not a word of murmuring respecting her hard lot: her note was sad, but gentle — desponding, but resigned; it was especially the language of deep tenderness — of mournful sympathy — of angelic charity for all poor creatures consigned, like her, to bear the double burden of poverty and deformity. Yet she often expressed a sincere free-spoken admiration of beauty, free from all envy or bitterness; she admired beauty as she admired the sun. But, alas! many were the verses of hers that Agricola had never seen, and which he was never to see.

  The young mechanic, though not strictly handsome, had an open masculine face; was as courageous as kind; possessed a noble, glowing, generous heart, a superior mind, and a frank, pleasing gayety of spirits. The young girl, brought up with him, loved him as an unfortunate creature can love, who, dreading cruel ridicule, is obliged to hide her affection in the depths of her heart, and adopt reserve and deep dissimulation. She did not seek to combat her love; to what purpose should she do so? No one would ever know it. Her well known sisterly affection for Agricola explained the interest she took in all that concerned him; so that no one was surprised at the extreme grief of the young workwoman, when, in 1830, Agricola, after fighting intrepidly for the people’s flag, was brought bleeding home to his mother. Dagobert’s son, deceived, like others, on this point, had never suspected, and was destined never to suspect, this love for him.

  Such was the poorly-clad girl who entered the room in which Frances was preparing her son’s supper.

  “Is it you, my poor love,” said she; “I have not seen you since morning: have you been ill? Come and kiss me.”

  The young girl kissed Agricola’s mother, and replied: “I was very busy about some work, mother; I did not wish to lose a moment; I have only just finished it. I am going down to fetch some charcoal — do you want anything while I’m out?”

  “No, no, my child, thank you. But I am very uneasy. It is half-past eight, and Agricola is not come home.” Then she added, after a sigh: “He kills himself with work for me. Ah, I am very unhappy, my girl; my sight is quite going. In a quarter of an hour after I begin working, I cannot see at all — not even to sew sacks. The idea of being a burden to my son drives me distracted.”

  “Oh, don’t, ma’am, if Agricola heard you say that—”

  “I know the poor boy thinks of nothing but me, and that augments my vexation. Only I think that rather than leave me, he gives up the advantages that his fellow-workmen enjoy at Hardy’s, his good and worthy master — instead of living in this dull garret, where it is scarcely light at noon, he would enjoy, like the other workmen, at very little expense, a good light room, warm in winter, airy in summer, with a view of the garden. And he is so fond of trees! not to mention that this place is so far from his work, that it is quite a toil to him to get to it.”

  “Oh, when he embraces you he forgets his fatigue, Mrs. Baudoin,” said Mother Bunch; “besides, he knows how you cling to the house in which he was born. M. Hardy offered to settle you at Plessy with Agricola, in the building put up for the workmen.”

  “Yes, my child; but then I must give up church. I can’t do that.”

  “But — be easy, I hear him,” said the hunchback, blushing.

  A sonorous, joyous voice was heard singing on the stairs.

  “At least, I’ll not let him see that I have been crying,” said the good mother, drying her tears. “This is the only moment of rest and ease from toil he has — I must not make it sad to him.”

  CHAPTER XXIX. AGRICOLA BAUDOIN.

  OUR BLACKSMITH POET, a tall young man, about four-and-twenty years of age, was alert and robust, with ruddy complexion, dark hair and eyes, and aquiline nose, and an open, expressive countenance. His resemblance to Dagobert was rendered more striking by the thick brown moustache which he wore according to the fashion; and a sharp-pointed imperial covered his chin. His cheeks, however, were shaven, Olive color velveteen trousers, a blue blouse, bronzed by the forge smoke, a black cravat, tied carelessly round his muscular neck, a cloth cap with a narrow vizor, composed his dress. The only thing which contrasted singularly with his working habiliments was a handsome purple flower, with silvery pistils, which he held in his hand.

  “Good-evening, mother,” said he, as he came to kiss Frances immediately.

  Then, with a friendly nod, he added, “Good-evening, Mother Bunch.”

  “You are very late, my child,” said Frances, approaching the little stove on which her son’s simple meal was simmering; “I was getting very anxious.”

  “Anxious about me, or about my supper, dear mother?” said Agricola, gayly. “The deuce! you won’t excuse me for keeping the nice little supper waiting that you get ready for me, for fear it should be spoilt, eh?”

  So saying, the blacksmith tried to kiss his mother again.

  “Have done, you naughty boy; you’ll make me upset the pan.”

  “That would be a pity, mother; for it smells delightfully. Let’s see what it is.”

  “Wait half a moment.”

  “I’ll swear, now, you have some of the fried potatoes and bacon I’m so fond of.”

  “Being Saturday, of course!” said Frances, in a tone of mild reproach.

  “True,” rejoined Agricola, exchanging a smile of innocent cunning with Mother Bunch; “but, talking of Saturday, mother, here are my wages.”

  “Thank ye, child; put the money in the cupboard.”

  “Yes, mother!”

  “Oh, dear!” cried the young sempstress, just as Agricola was about to put away the money, “what a handsome flower you have in your hand, Agricola. I never saw a finer. In winter, too! Do look at it, Mrs. Baudoin.”

  “See there, mother,” said Agricola, taking the flower to her; “look at it, admire it, and especially smell it. You can’t have a sweeter perfume; a blending of vanilla and orange blossom.”

  “Indeed, it does smell nice, child. Goodness! how handsome!” said Frances, admiringly; “where did you find it?”

  “Find it, my good mother!” repeated Agricola, smilingly: “do you think folks pick up such things between the Barriere du Maine and the Rue Brise-Miche?”

  “How did you get it then?” inquired the sewing girl, sharing in Frances’s curiosity.

  “Oh! you would like to know? Well, I’ll satisfy you, and explain why I came home so late; for something else detained me. It has been an evening of adventures, I promise you. I was hurrying home, when I heard a low, gentle barking at the corner of the Rue de Babylone; it was just about dusk, and I could see a very pretty little dog, scarce bigger than my fist, black and tan, with long, silky hair, and ears that covered its paws.”

  “Lost, poor thing, I warrant,” said Frances.

  “You’ve hit it. I took up the poor thing, and it began to lick my hands. Round its neck was a red satin ribbon, tied in a large bow; but as that did not bear the master’s name, I looked beneath it, and saw a small collar, made of a gold plate and small gold chains. So I took a Lucifer match from my ‘bacco-box, and striking a light, I read, ‘FRISKY belongs to Hon. Miss Adrienne de Cardoville, No. 7, Rue de Babylone.’”

  “Why, you were just in the street,” said Mother Bunch.

  “Just so. Taking the little animal under my arm, I looked about me till I came to a long garden wall, which seemed to have no end, and found a small door of a summer-house, belonging no doubt to the large mansion at the other end of the park; for this garden look
ed just like a park. So, looking up I saw ‘No. 7,’ newly painted over a little door with a grated slide. I rang; and in a few minutes, spent, no doubt, in observing me through the bars (for I am sure I saw a pair of eyes peeping through), the gate opened. And now, you’ll not believe a word I have to say.”

  “Why not, my child?”

  “Because it seems like a fairy tale.”

  “A fairy tale?” said Mother Bunch, as if she was really her namesake of elfish history.

  “For, all the world it does. I am quite astounded, even now, at my adventure; it is like the remembrance of a dream.”

  “Well, let us have it,” said the worthy mother, so deeply interested that she did not perceive her son’s supper was beginning to burn.

  “First,” said the blacksmith, smiling at the curiosity he had excited, “a young lady opened the door to me, but so lovely, so beautifully and gracefully dressed, that you would have taken her for a beautiful portrait of past times. Before I could say a word, she exclaimed, ‘Ah! dear me, sir, you have brought back Frisky; how happy Miss Adrienne will be! Come, pray come in instantly; she would so regret not having an opportunity to thank you in person!’ And without giving me time to reply, she beckoned me to follow her. Oh, dear mother, it is quite out of my power to tell you, the magnificence I saw, as I passed through a small saloon, partially lighted, and full of perfume! It would be impossible. The young woman walked too quickly. A door opened, — Oh, such a sight! I was so dazzled I can remember nothing but a great glare of gold and light, crystal and flowers; and, amidst all this brilliancy, a young lady of extreme beauty — ideal beauty; but she had red hair, or rather hair shining like gold! Oh! it was charming to look at! I never saw such hair before. She had black eyes, ruddy lips, and her skin seemed white as snow. This is all I can recollect: for, as I said before, I was so dazzled, I seemed to be looking through a veil. ‘Madame,’ said the young woman, whom I never should have taken for a lady’s-maid, she was dressed so elegantly, ‘here is Frisky. This gentleman found him, and brought him back.’ ‘Oh, sir,’ said the young lady with the golden hair, in a sweet silvery voice, ‘what thanks I owe you! I am foolishly attached to Frisky.’ Then, no doubt, concluding from my dress that she ought to thank me in some other way than by words, she took up a silk purse, and said to me, though I must confess with some hesitation— ‘No doubt, sir, it gave you some trouble to bring my pet back. You have, perhaps, lost some valuable time — allow me—’ She held forth her purse.”

  “Oh, Agricola,” said Mother Bunch, sadly; “how people may be deceived!”

  “Hear the end, and you will perhaps forgive the young lady. Seeing by my looks that the offer of the purse hurt me, she took a magnificent porcelain vase that contained this flower, and, addressing me in a tone full of grace and kindness, that left me room to guess that she was vexed at having wounded me, she said— ‘At least, sir, you will accept this flower.’”

  “You are right, Agricola,” said the girl, smiling sadly; “an involuntary error could not be repaired in a nicer way.

  “Worthy young lady,” said Frances, wiping her eyes; “how well she understood my Agricola!”

  “Did she not, mother? But just as I was taking the flower, without daring to raise my eyes (for, notwithstanding the young lady’s kind manner, there was something very imposing about her) another handsome girl, tall and dark, and dressed to the top of fashion, came in and said to the red-haired young lady, ‘He is here, Madame.’ She immediately rose and said to me, ‘A thousand pardons, sir. I shall never forget that I am indebted to you for a moment of much pleasure. Pray remember, on all occasions, my address and name — Adrienne de Cardoville.’ Thereupon she disappeared. I could not find a word to say in reply. The same young woman showed me to the door, and curtseyed to me very politely. And there I stood in the Rue de Babylone, as dazzled and astonished as if I had come out of an enchanted palace.”

  “Indeed, my child, it is like a fairy tale. Is it not, my poor girl?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mother Bunch, in an absent manner that Agricola did not observe.

  “What affected me most,” rejoined Agricola, “was, that the young lady, on seeing her little dog, did not forget me for it, as many would have done in her place, and took no notice of it before me. That shows delicacy and feeling, does it not? Indeed, I believe this young lady to be so kind and generous, that I should not hesitate to have recourse to her in any important case.”

  “Yes, you are right,” replied the sempstress, more and more absent.

  The poor girl suffered extremely. She felt no jealousy, no hatred, towards this young stranger, who, from her beauty, wealth, and delicacy, seemed to belong to a sphere too splendid and elevated to be even within the reach of a work, girl’s vision; but, making an involuntary comparison of this fortunate condition with her own, the poor thing had never felt more cruelly her deformity and poverty. Yet such were the humility and gentle resignation of this noble creature, that the only thing which made her feel ill-disposed towards Adrienne de Cardoville was the offer of the purse to Agricola; but then the charming way in which the young lady had atoned for her error, affected the sempstress deeply. Yet her heart was ready to break. She could not restrain her tears as she contemplated the magnificent flower — so rich in color and perfume, which, given by a charming hand, was doubtless very precious to Agricola.

  “Now, mother,” resumed the young man smilingly, and unaware of the painful emotion of the other bystander, “you have had the cream of my adventures first. I have told you one of the causes of my delay; and now for the other. Just now, as I was coming in, I met the dyer at the foot of the stairs, his arms a beautiful pea-green. Stopping me he said, with an air full of importance, that he thought he had seen a chap sneaking about the house like a spy, ‘Well, what is that to you, Daddy Loriot?’ said I: ‘are you afraid he will nose out the way to make the beautiful green, with which you are dyed up to the very elbows?’”

  “But who could that man be, Agricola?” said Frances.

  “On my word, mother, I don’t know and scarcely care; I tried to persuade Daddy Loriot, who chatters like a magpie, to return to his cellar, since it could signify as little to him as to me, whether a spy watched him or not.” So saying, Agricola went and placed the little leathern sack, containing his wages, on a shelf, in the cupboard.

  As Frances put down the saucepan on the end of the table, Mother Bunch, recovering from her reverie, filled a basin with water, and, taking it to the blacksmith, said to him in a gentle tone-”Agricola — for your hands.”

  “Thank you, little sister. How kind you are!” Then with a most unaffected gesture and tone, he added, “There is my fine flower for your trouble.”

  “Do you give it me?” cried the sempstress, with emotion, while a vivid blush colored her pale and interesting face. “Do you give me this handsome flower, which a lovely rich young lady so kindly and graciously gave you?” And the poor thing repeated, with growing astonishment, “Do you give it to me?”

  “What the deuce should I do with it? Wear it on my heart, have it set as a pin?” said Agricola, smiling. “It is true I was very much impressed by the charming way in which the young lady thanked me. I am delighted to think I found her little dog, and very happy to be able to give you this flower, since it pleases you. You see the day has been a happy one.”

  While Mother Bunch, trembling with pleasure, emotion, and surprise, took the flower, the young blacksmith washed his hands, so black with smoke and steel filings that the water became dark in an instant. Agricola, pointing out this change to the sempstress, said to her in a whisper, laughing,-”Here’s cheap ink for us paper-stainers! I finished some verses yesterday, which I am rather satisfied with. I will read them to you.”

  With this, Agricola wiped his hands naturally on the front of his blouse, while Mother Bunch replaced the basin on the chest of drawers, and laid the flower against the side of it.

  “Can’t you ask for a towel,” said Frances, shrugg
ing her shoulders, “instead of wiping your hands on your blouse?”

  “After being scorched all day long at the forge, it will be all the better for a little cooling to-night, won’t it? Am I disobedient, mother? Scold me, then, if you dare! Come, let us see you.”

  Frances made no reply; but, placing her hands on either side of her son’s head, so beautiful in its candor, resolution and intelligence, she surveyed him for a moment with maternal pride, and kissed him repeatedly on the forehead.

  “Come,” said she, “sit down: you stand all day at your forge, and it is late.”

  “So, — your arm-chair again!” said Agricola.— “Our usual quarrel every evening — take it away, I shall be quite as much at ease on another.”

  “No, no! You ought at least to rest after your hard toil.”

  “What tyranny!” said Agricola gayly, sitting down. “Well, I preach like a good apostle; but I am quite at ease in your arm-chair, after all. Since I sat down on the throne in the Tuileries, I have never had a better seat.”

  Frances Baudoin, standing on one side of the table, cut a slice of bread for her son, while Mother Bunch, on the other, filled his silver mug. There was something affecting in the attentive eagerness of the two excellent creatures, for him whom they loved so tenderly.

  “Won’t you sup with me?” said Agricola to the girl.

  “Thank you, Agricola,” replied the sempstress, looking down, “I have only just dined.”

  “Oh, I only ask you for form’s sake — you have your whims — we can never prevail on you to eat with us — just like mother; she prefers dining all alone; and in that way she deprives herself without my knowing it.”

  “Goodness, child! It is better for my health to dine early. Well, do you find it nice?”

  “Nice! — call it excellent! Stockfish and parsnips. Oh, I am very fond of stockfish; I should have been born a Newfoundland fisherman.”