by Eugène Sue
“And will approve our wish to support ourselves, as if we were alone in the world.”
On these words of her sister, Rose started. A cloud of sadness, almost of alarm, passed over her charming countenance, as she exclaimed: “Oh, sister, what a horrible idea!”
“What is the matter? your look frightens me.”
“At the moment I heard you say, that our father would approve our wish to support ourselves, as if we were alone in the world — a frightful thought struck me — I know not why — but feel how my heart beats — just as if some misfortune were about to happen us.”
“It is true; your poor heart beats violently. But what was this thought? You alarm me.”
“When we were prisoners, they did not at least separate us, and, besides, the prison was a kind of shelter—”
“A sad one, though shared with you.”
“But if, when arrived here, any accident had parted us from Dagobert — if we had been left alone, without help, in this great town?”
“Oh, sister! do not speak of that. It would indeed be terrible. What would become of us, kind heaven?”
This cruel thought made the girls remain for a moment speechless with emotion. Their sweet faces, which had just before glowed with a noble hope, grew pale and sad. After a pretty long silence, Rose uplifted her eyes, now filled with tears, “Why does this thought,” she said, trembling, “affect us so deeply, sister? My heart sinks within me, as if it were really to happen to us.”
“I feel as frightened as you yourself. Alas! were we both to be lost in this immense city, what would become of us?”
“Do not let us give way to such ideas, Blanche! Are we not here in Dagobert’s house, in the midst of good people?”
“And yet, sister,” said Rose, with a pensive air, “it is perhaps good for us to have had this thought.”
“Why so?”
“Because we shall now find this poor lodging all the better, as it affords a shelter from all our fears. And when, thanks to our labor, we are no longer a burden to any one, what more can we need until the arrival of our father?”
“We shall want for nothing — there you are right — but still, why did this thought occur to us, and why does it weigh so heavily on our minds?”
“Yes, indeed — why? Are we not here in the midst of friends that love us? How could we suppose that we should ever be left alone in Paris? It is impossible that such a misfortune should happen to us — is it not, my dear sister?”
“Impossible!” said Rose, shuddering. “If the day before we reached that village in Germany, where poor Jovial was killed, any one had said to us: ‘To-morrow, you will be in prison’ — we should have answered as now: ‘It is impossible. Is not Dagobert here to protect us; what have we to fear?’ And yet, sister, the day after we were in prison at Leipsic.”
“Oh! do not speak thus, my dear sister! It frightens me.”
By a sympathetic impulse, the orphans took one another by the hand, while they pressed close together, and looked around with involuntary fear. The sensation they felt was in fact deep, strange, inexplicable, and yet lowering — one of those dark presentiments which come over us, in spite of ourselves — those fatal gleams of prescience, which throw a lurid light on the mysterious profundities of the future.
Unaccountable glimpses of divination! often no sooner perceived than forgotten — but, when justified by the event, appearing with all the attributes of an awful fatality!
The daughters of Marshal Simon were still absorbed in the mournful reverie which these singular thoughts had awakened, when Dagobert’s wife, returning from her son’s chamber, entered the room with a painfully agitated countenance.
CHAPTER XLVII. THE LETTER.
FRANCES’ AGITATION WAS so perceptible that Rose could not help exclaiming: “Good gracious, what is the matter?”
“Alas, my dear young ladies! I can no longer conceal it from you,” said Frances, bursting into tears. “Since yesterday I have not seen him. I expected my son to supper as usual, and he never came; but I would not let you see how much I suffered. I continued to expect him, minute after minute; for ten years he has never gone up to bed without coming to kiss me; so I spent a good part of the night close to the door, listening if I could hear his step. But he did not come; and, at last, about three o’clock in the morning, I threw myself down upon the mattress. I have just been to see (for I still had a faint hope), if my son had come in this morning—”
“Well, madame!”
“There is no sign of him!” said the poor mother, drying her eyes.
Rose and Blanche looked at each other with emotion; the same thought filled the minds of both; if Agricola should not return, how would this family live? would they not, in such an event, become doubly burdensome?
“But, perhaps, madame,” said Blanche, “M. Agricola remained too late at his work to return home last night.”
“Oh! no, no! he would have returned in the middle of the night, because he knew what uneasiness he would cause me by stopping out. Alas! some misfortune must have happened to him! Perhaps he has been injured at the forge, he is so persevering at his work. Oh, my poor boy! and, as if I did not feel enough anxiety about him, I am also uneasy about the poor young woman who lives upstairs.”
“Why so, madame?”
“When I left my son’s room, I went into hers, to tell her my grief, for she is almost a daughter to me; but I did not find her in the little closet where she lives, and the bed had not even been slept in. Where can she have gone so early — she, that never goes out?”
Rose and Blanche looked at each other with fresh uneasiness, for they counted much upon Mother Bunch to help them in the resolution they had taken. Fortunately, both they and Frances were soon to be satisfied on this head, for they heard two low knocks at the door, and the sempstress’s voice, saying: “Can I come in, Mrs. Baudoin?”
By a spontaneous impulse, Rose and Blanche ran to the door, and opened it to the young girl. Sleet and snow had been falling incessantly since the evening before; the gingham dress of the young sempstress, her scanty cotton shawl, and the black net cap, which, leaving uncovered two thick bands of chestnut hair, encircled her pale and interesting countenance, were all dripping wet; the cold had given a livid appearance to her thin, white hands; it was only in the fire of her blue eyes, generally so soft and timid, that one perceived the extraordinary energy which this frail and fearful creature had gathered from the emergency of the occasion.
“Dear me! where do you come from, my good Mother Bunch?” said Frances. “Just now, in going to see if my son had returned, I opened your door, and was quite astonished to find you gone out so early.”
“I bring you news of Agricola.”
“Of my son!” cried Frances, trembling all over. “What has happened to him? Did you see him? — Did you speak to him? — Where is he?”
“I did not see him, but I know where he is.” Then, perceiving that Frances grew very pale, the girl added: “He is well; he is in no danger.”
“Blessed be God, who has pity on a poor sinner! — who yesterday restored me my husband, and to-day, after a night of cruel anguish, assures me of the safety of my child!” So saying, Frances knelt down upon the floor, and crossed herself with fervor.
During the moment of silence, caused by this pious action, Rose and Blanche approached Mother Bunch, and said to her in a low voice, with an expression of touching interest: “How wet you are! you must be very cold. Take care you do not get ill. We did not venture to ask Madame Frances to light the fire in the stove, but now we will do so.”
Surprised and affected by the kindness of Marshal Simon’s daughters, the hunchback, who was more sensible than others to the least mark of kindness, answered them with a look of ineffable gratitude: “I am much obliged to you, young ladies; but I am accustomed to the cold, and am moreover so anxious that I do not feel it.”
“And my son?” said Frances, rising after she had remained some moments on her knees; “why did
he stay out all night? And could you tell me where to find him, my good girl? Will he soon come? why is he so long?”
“I assure you, Agricola is well; but I must inform you, that for some time—”
“Well?”
“You must have courage, mother.”
“Oh! the blood runs cold in my veins. What has happened? why shall I not see him?”
“Alas, he is arrested.”
“Arrested!” cried Rose and Blanche, with affright.
“Father! Thy will be done!” said Frances; “but it is a great misfortune. Arrested! for what? He is so good and honest, that there must be some mistake.”
“The day before yesterday,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I received an anonymous letter, by which I was informed that Agricola might be arrested at any moment, on account of his song. We agreed together that he should go to the rich young lady in the Rue de Babylone, who had offered him her services, and ask her to procure bail for him; to prevent his going to prison. Yesterday morning he set out to go to the young lady’s.”
“And neither of you told me anything of all this — why did you hide it from me?”
“That we might not make you uneasy, mother; for, counting on the generosity of that young lady, I expected Agricola back every moment. When he did not come yesterday evening. I said to myself: ‘Perhaps the necessary formalities with regard to the bail have detained him.’ But the time passed on, and he did not make his appearance. So, I watched all night, expecting him.”
“So you did not go to bed either, my good girl?”
“No, I was too uneasy. This morning, not being able to conquer my fears, I went out before dawn. I remembered the address of the young lady in the Rue de Babylone, and I ran thither.”
“Oh, well!” said Frances, with anxiety; “you were in the right. According to what my son told us, that young lady appeared very good and generous.”
Mother Bunch shook her head sorrowfully; a tear glittered in her eyes, as she continued: “It was still dark when I arrived at the Rue de Babylone; I waited till daylight was come.”
“Poor child! you, who are so weak and timid,” said Frances, with deep feeling, “to go so far, and in this dreadful weather! — Oh, you have been a real daughter to me!”
“Has not Agricola been like a brother to me!” said Mother Bunch, softly, with a slight blush.
“When it was daylight,” she resumed: “I ventured to ring at the door of the little summer-house; a charming young girl, but with a sad, pale countenance, opened the door to me. ‘I come in the name of an unfortunate mother in despair,’ said I to her immediately, for I was so poorly dressed that I feared to be sent away as a beggar; but seeing, on the contrary, that the young girl listened to me with kindness, I asked her if, the day before, a young workman had not come to solicit a great favor of her mistress. ‘Alas! yes,’ answered the young girl; ‘my mistress was going to interest herself for him, and, hearing that he was in danger of being arrested, she concealed him here; unfortunately, his retreat was discovered, and yesterday afternoon, at four o’clock, he was arrested and taken to prison.’”
Though the orphans took no part in this melancholy conversation, the sorrow and anxiety depicted in their countenances, showed how much they felt for the sufferings of Dagobert’s wife.
“But the young lady?” cried Frances. “You should have tried to see her, my good Mother Bunch, and begged her not to abandon my son. She is so rich that she must have influence, and her protection might save us from great calamities.”
“Alas!” said Mother Bunch, with bitter grief, “we must renounce this last hope.”
“Why?” said Frances. “If this young lady is so good, she will have pity upon us, when she knows that my son is the only support of a whole family, and that for him to go to prison is worse than for another, because it will reduce us all to the greatest misery.”
“But this young lady,” replied the girl, “according to what I learned from her weeping maid, was taken last evening to a lunatic asylum: it appears she is mad.”
“Mad! Oh! it is horrible for her, and for us also — for now there is no hope. What will become of us without my son? Oh, merciful heaven!” The unfortunate woman hid her face in her hands.
A profound silence followed this heart-rending outburst. Rose and Blanche exchanged mournful glances, for they perceived that their presence augmented the weighty embarrassments of this family. Mother Bunch, worn out with fatigue, a prey to painful emotions, and trembling with cold in her wet clothes, sank exhausted on a chair, and reflected on their desperate position.
That position was indeed a cruel one!
Often, in times of political disturbances, or of agitation amongst the laboring classes, caused by want of work, or by the unjust reduction of wages (the result of the powerful coalition of the capitalists) — often are whole families reduced, by a measure of preventive imprisonment, to as deplorable a position as that of Dagobert’s household by Agricola’s arrest — an arrest, which, as will afterwards appear, was entirely owing to Rodin’s arts.
Now, with regard to this “precautionary imprisonment,” of which the victims are almost always honest and industrious mechanics, driven to the necessity of combining together by the In organization of Labor and the Insufficiency of Wages, it is painful to see the law, which ought to be equal for all, refuse to strikers what it grants to masters — because the latter can dispose of a certain sum of money. Thus, under many circumstances, the rich man, by giving bail, can escape the annoyance and inconveniences of a preventive incarceration; he deposits a sum of money, pledges his word to appear on a certain day, and goes back to his pleasures, his occupations, and the sweet delights of his family. Nothing can be better; an accused person is innocent till he is proved guilty; we cannot be too much impressed with that indulgent maxim. It is well for the rich man that he can avail himself of the mercy of the law. But how is it with the poor?
Not only has he no bail to give, for his whole capital consists of his daily labor; but it is upon him chiefly that the rigors of preventive measures must fall with a terrible and fatal force.
For the rich man, imprisonment is merely the privation of ease and comfort, tedious hours, and the pain of separation from his family — distresses not unworthy of interest, for all suffering deserves pity, and the tears of the rich man separated from his children are as bitter as those of the poor. But the absence of the rich man does not condemn his family to hunger and cold, and the incurable maladies caused by exhaustion and misery.
For the workman, on the contrary, imprisonment means want, misery, sometimes death, to those most dear to him. Possessing nothing, he is unable to find bail, and he goes to prison. But if he have, as it often happens, an old, infirm father or mother, a sick wife, or children in the cradle? What will become of this unfortunate family? They could hardly manage to live from day to day upon the wages of this man, wages almost always insufficient, and suddenly this only resource will be wanting for three or four months together.
What will this family do? To whom will they have recourse?
What will become of these infirm old men, these sickly wives, these little children, unable to gain their daily bread? If they chance to have a little linen and a few spare clothes, these will be carried to the pawnbroker’s, and thus they will exist for a week or so — but afterwards?
And if winter adds the rigors of the season to this frightful and inevitable misery?
Then will the imprisoned artisan see in his mind’s eyes, during the long and sleepless nights, those who are dear to him, wan, gaunt, haggard, exhausted, stretched almost naked upon filthy straw, or huddled close together to warm their frozen limbs. And, should he afterwards be acquitted, it is ruin and desolation that he finds on his return to his poor dwelling.
And then, after that long cessation from labor, he will find it difficult to return to his old employers. How many days will be lost in seeking for work! and a day without employment is a day without bread!
; Let us repeat our opinion, that if, under various circumstances, the law did not afford to the rich the facility of giving bail, we could only lament over all such victims of individual and inevitable misfortune. But since the law does provide the means of setting provisionally at liberty those who possess a certain sum of money, why should it deprive of this advantage those very persons, for whom liberty is indeed indispensable, as it involves the existence of themselves and families?
Is there any remedy for this deplorable state of things? We believe there is.
The law has fixed the minimum of bail at five hundred francs. Now five hundred francs represent, upon the average, six months’ labor of an industrious workman.
If he have a wife and two children (which is also about the average), it is evidently quite impossible for him to have saved any such sum.
So, to ask of such a man five hundred francs, to enable him to continue to support his family, is in fact to put him beyond the pale of the law, though, more than any one else, he requires its protection, because of the disastrous consequences which his imprisonment entails upon others.
Would it not be equitable and humane, a noble and salutary example, to accept, in every case where bail is allowed (and where the good character of the accused could be honorably established), moral guarantees, in the absence of material ones, from those who have no capital but their labor and their integrity — to accept the word of an honest man to appear upon the day of trial? Would it not be great and moral, in these days to raise the value of the lighted word, and exalt man in his own eyes, by showing him that his promise was held to be sufficient security?
Will you so degrade the dignity of man, as to treat this proposition as an impossible and Utopian dream? We ask, how many prisoners of war have ever broken their parole, and if officers and soldiers are not brothers of the workingman?
Without exaggerating the virtue of promise-keeping in the honest and laborious poor, we feel certain, that an engagement taken by the accused to appear on the day of trial would be always fulfilled, not only with fidelity, but with the warmest gratitude — for his family would not have suffered by his absence, thanks to the indulgence of the law.