Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Cephyse guessed the half-told meaning of Jacques, and throwing her arms around his neck, she said to him: “I take another lover? — never! I am like you, for I now first know how much I love you.”

  “But, my poor Cephyse — how will you live?”

  “Well, I shall take courage. I will go back and dwell, with my sister, as in old times; we will work together, and so earn our bread. I’ll never go out, except to visit you. In a few days your creditor will reflect, that, as you can’t pay him ten thousand francs, he may as well set you free. By that time I shall have once more acquired the habit of working. You shall see, you shall see! — and you also will again acquire this habit. We shall live poor, but content. After all, we have had plenty of amusement for six month, while so many others have never known pleasure all their lives. And believe me, my dear Jacques, when I say to you — I shall profit by this lesson. If you love me, do not feel the least uneasiness; I tell you, that I would rather die a hundred times, than have another lover.”

  “Kiss me,” said Jacques, with eyes full of tears. “I believe you — yes, I believe you — and you give me back my courage, both for now and hereafter. You are right; we must try and get to work again, or else nothing remains but Father Arsene’s bushel of charcoal; for, my girl,” added Jacques, in a low and trembling voice, “I have been like a drunken man these six months, and now I am getting sober, and see whither we are going. Our means once exhausted, I might perhaps have become a robber, and you—”

  “Oh, Jacques! don’t talk so — it is frightful,” interrupted Cephyse; “I swear to you that I will return to my sister — that I will work — that I will have courage!”

  Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intended to keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted. Misery and want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and the excuse of her worst errors. Until now, she had at least followed the instincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive. The cruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love, that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch, that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices and privations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and which the habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render still more difficult.

  Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his grief and anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive that the fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leading both him and Cephyse directly to infamy.

  One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques: “My lad, you have only five minutes left — so make haste.”

  “So, courage, my girl — courage!” said Jacques.

  “I will; you may rely upon me.”

  “Are you going upstairs again?”

  “No — oh no!” said Cephyse. “I have now a horror of this festivity.”

  “Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect us back. They will be much astonished,” continued Jacques, “but it’s all the same now.”

  “If you could only go with me to our lodging,” said Cephyse, “this man would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in that dress.”

  “Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be with us in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence. Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life. Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse — and the counsel will apply to me as well as to yourself,” continued Jacques, in a grave and feeling tone— “resume from to-day the habit of labor. It may be painful, unprofitable — never mind — do not hesitate, for too soon will the influence of this lesson be forgotten. By-and-bye it will be too late, and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures—”

  “I understand,” said Cephyse, blushing; “but I will rather die than lead such a life.”

  “And there you will do well — for in that case,” added Jacques, in a deep and hollow voice, “I will myself show you how to die.”

  “I count upon you, Jacques,” answered Cephyse, embracing her lover with excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully: “It was a kind of presentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in the midst of all our gayety — and drank to the Cholera, so that we might die together.”

  “Well! perhaps the Cholera will come,” resumed Jacques, with a gloomy air; “that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able to buy.”

  “I can only tell you one thing, Jacques, that to live and die together, you will always find me ready.”

  “Come, dry your eyes,” said he, with profound emotion. “Do not let us play the children before these men.”

  Some minutes after, the coach took the direction to Jacques’s lodging, where he was to change his clothes, before proceeding to the debtors’ prison.

  Let us repeat, with regard to the hunchback’s sister — for there are things which cannot be too often repeated — that one of the most fatal consequences of the Inorganization of Labor is the Insufficiency of Wages.

  The insufficiency of wages forces inevitably the greater number of young girls, thus badly paid, to seek their means of subsistence in connections which deprave them.

  Sometimes they receive a small allowance from their lovers, which, joined to the produce of their labor, enables them to live. Sometimes like the sempstress’s sister, they throw aside their work altogether, and take up their abode with the man of their choice, should he be able to support the expense. It is during this season of pleasure and idleness that the incurable leprosy of sloth takes lasting possession of these unfortunate creatures.

  This is the first phase of degradation that the guilty carelessness of Society imposes on an immense number of workwomen, born with instincts of modesty, and honesty, and uprightness.

  After a certain time they are deserted by their seducers — perhaps when they are mothers. Or, it may be, that foolish extravagance consigns the imprudent lover to prison, and the young girl finds herself alone, abandoned, without the means of subsistence.

  Those who have still preserved courage and energy go back to their work — but the examples are very rare. The others, impelled by misery, and by habits of indolence, fall into the lowest depths.

  And yet we must pity, rather than blame them, for the first and virtual cause of their fall has been the insufficient remuneration of labor and sudden reduction of pay.

  Another deplorable consequence of this inorganization is the disgust which workmen feel for their employment, in addition to the insufficiency of their wages. And this is quite conceivable, for nothing is done to render their labor attractive, either by variety of occupations, or by honorary rewards, or by proper care, or by remuneration proportionate to the benefits which their toil provides, or by the hope of rest after long years of industry. No — the country thinks not, cares not, either for their wants or their rights.

  And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries, exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines, run every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rare practical sagacity, and render to industry — and, consequently, to their country — the most incontestable service, during a long and honorable career, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have not their limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.

  In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to that which awaits the soldier’s praiseworthy, but sterile courage — a place in an asylum for invalids? No.

  What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen to be ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, may die of want in some corner.

  Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble any of the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs, forged and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets of gold and silver, car
ved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, and set those dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.

  In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable and starving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, these workmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wonders upon their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.

  A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his high functions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibits on these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number of candidates, amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one that appeared most worthy to represent the working classes in these great industrial solemnities.

  Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the master propose for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed by his peers, as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of his profession? Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and the virtues of the workman would be stimulated by a generous and noble ambition — he would have an interest in doing well.

  Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence he displays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and the good he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowed upon him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from these rewards, which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Are generals and officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army? And when we have remunerated the captains of this great and powerful army of industry, why should we neglect the privates?

  Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consoling word from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workman wearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long and laborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, would be to him a double recompense, justly deserved. But, no! for humble labor that sustains the State, there is only forgetfulness, injustice, indifference, and disdain!

  By this neglect of the public, often aggravated by individual selfishness and ingratitude, our workmen are placed in a deplorable situation.

  Some of them, notwithstanding their incessant toil, lead a life of privations, and die before their time cursing the social system that rides over them. Others find a temporary oblivion of their ills in destructive intoxication. Others again — in great number — having no interest, no advantage, no moral or physical inducement to do more or better, confine themselves strictly to just that amount of labor which will suffice to earn their wages. Nothing attaches them to their work, because nothing elevates, honors, glorifies it in their eyes. They have no defence against the reductions of indolence; and if, by some chance, they find means of living awhile in repose, they give way by degrees to habits of laziness and debauchery, and sometimes the worst passions soil forever natures originally willing, healthy and honest — and all for want of that protecting and equitable superintendence which should have sustained, encouraged, and recompensed their first worthy and laborious tendencies.

  We now follow Mother Bunch, who after seeking for work from the person that usually employed her, went to the Rue de Babylone, to the lodge lately occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville.

  CHAPTER V. FLORINE.

  WHILE THE BACCHANAL Queen and Sleepinbuff terminated so sadly the most joyous portion of their existence, the sempstress arrived at the door of the summer-house in the Rue de Babylone.

  Before ringing she dried her tears; a new grief weighed upon her spirits. On quitting the tavern, she had gone to the house of the person who usually found her in work; but she was told that she could not have any because it could be done a third more cheaply by women in prison. Mother Bunch, rather than lose her last resource, offered to take it at the third less; but the linen had been already sent out; and the girl could not hope for employment for a fortnight to come, even if submitting to this reduction of wages. One may conceive the anguish of the poor creature; the prospect before her was to die of hunger, if she would not beg or steal. As for her visit to the lodge in the Rue de Babylone, it will be explained presently.

  She rang the bell timidly; a few minutes after, Florine opened the door to her. The waiting-maid was no longer adorned after the charming taste of Adrienne; on the contrary, she was dressed with an affectation of austere simplicity. She wore a high-necked dress of a dark color, made full enough to conceal the light elegance of her figure. Her bands of jet-black hair were hardly visible beneath the flat border of a starched white cap, very much resembling the head-dress of a nun. Yet, in spite of this unornamental costume, Florine’s pale countenance was still admirably beautiful.

  We have said that, placed by former misconduct at the mercy of Rodin and M. d’Aigrigny, Florine had served them as a spy upon her mistress, notwithstanding the marks of kindness and confidence she had received from her. Yet Florine was not entirely corrupted; and she often suffered painful, but vain, remorse at the thought of the infamous part she was thus obliged to perform.

  At the sight of Mother Bunch, whom she recognized — for she had told her, the day before, of Agricola’s arrest and Mdlle. de Cardoville’s madness — Florine recoiled a step, so much was she moved with pity at the appearance of the young sempstress. In fact, the idea of being thrown out of work, in the midst of so many other painful circumstances, had made a terrible impression upon the young workwoman, the traces of recent tears furrowed her cheeks — without her knowing it, her features expressed the deepest despair — and she appeared so exhausted, so weak, so overcome, that Florine offered her arm to support her, and said to her kindly: “Pray walk in and rest yourself; you are very pale, and seem to be ill and fatigued.”

  So saying, Florine led her into a small room; with fireplace and carpet, and made her sit down in a tapestried armchair by the side of a good fire. Georgette and Hebe had been dismissed, and Florine was left alone in care of the house.

  When her guest was seated, Florine said to her with an air of interest: “Will you not take anything? A little orange flower-water and sugar, warm.”

  “I thank you, mademoiselle,” said Mother Bunch, with emotion, so easily was her gratitude excited by the least mark of kindness; she felt, too, a pleasing surprise, that her poor garments had not been the cause of repugnance or disdain on the part of Florine.

  “I thank you, mademoiselle,” said she, “but I only require a little rest, for I come from a great distance. If you will permit me—”

  “Pray rest yourself as long as you like, mademoiselle; I am alone in this pavilion since the departure of my poor mistress,” — here Florine blushed and sighed;— “so, pray make yourself quite at home. Draw near the fire — you wilt be more comfortable — and, gracious! how wet your feet are! — place them upon this stool.”

  The cordial reception given by Florine, her handsome face and agreeable manners, which were not those of an ordinary waiting-maid, forcibly struck Mother Bunch, who, notwithstanding her humble condition, was peculiarly susceptible to the influence of everything graceful and delicate. Yielding, therefore, to these attractions, the young sempstress, generally so timid and sensitive, felt herself almost at her ease with Florine.

  “How obliging you are, mademoiselle!” said she in a grateful tone. “I am quite confused with your kindness.”

  “I wish I could do you some greater service than offer you a place at the fire, mademoiselle. Your appearance is so good and interesting.”

  “Oh, mademoiselle!” said the other, with simplicity, almost in spite of herself; “it does one so much good to sit by a warm fire!” Then, fearing, in her extreme delicacy, that she might be thought capable of abusing the hospitality of her entertainer, by unreasonably prolonging her visit, she added: “the motive that has brought me here is this. Yesterday, you informed me that a young workman, named Agricola Baudoin, had been arrested in this house.”

  “Alas! yes, mademoiselle. At the moment, too, when my poor mistress was about to render him assistance.”

  “I am A
gricola’s adopted sister,” resumed Mother Bunch, with a slight blush; “he wrote to me yesterday evening from prison. He begged me to tell his father to come here as soon as possible, in order to inform Mdlle. de Cardoville that he, Agricola, had important matters to communicate to her, or to any person that she might send; but that he could not venture to mention them in a letter, as he did not know if the correspondence of prisoners might not be read by the governor of the prison.”

  “What!” said Florine, with surprise; “to my mistress, M. Agricola has something of importance to communicate?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle; for, up to this time, Agricola is ignorant of the great calamity that has befallen Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

  “True; the attack was indeed so sudden,” said Florine, casting down her eyes, “that no one could have foreseen it.”

  “It must have been so,” answered Mother Bunch; “for, when Agricola saw Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time, he returned home, struck with her grace, and delicacy, and goodness.”

  “As were all who approached my mistress,” said Florine, sorrowfully.

  “This morning,” resumed the sewing-girl, “when, according to Agricola’s instructions, I wished to speak to his father on the subject, I found him already gone out, for he also is a prey to great anxieties; but my adopted brother’s letter appeared to me so pressing, and to involve something of such consequence to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had shown herself so generous towards him, that I came here immediately.”

  “Unfortunately, as you already know, my mistress is no longer here.”

  “But is there no member of her family to whom, if I could not speak myself, I might at least send word by you, that Agricola has something to communicate of importance to this young lady?”

  “It is strange!” said Florine, reflecting, and without replying. Then, turning towards the sempstress, she added: “You are quite ignorant of the nature of these revelations?”