Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Bah! look at me!”

  “That’s what frightens me. It seems something devilish. A bottle of brandy does not even make you wink. You must have a stomach of iron and a head of marble.”

  “I have long travelled in Russia. There we drink to roast ourselves.”

  “And here to only warm. So — let’s drink — but wine.”

  “Nonsense! wine is fit for children. Brandy for men like us!”

  “Well, then, brandy; but it burns, and sets the head on fire, and then we see all the flames of hell!”

  “That’s how I like to see you, hang it!”

  “But when you told me that I was too much attached to my mistress, and that I should want energy when the occasion required, of what occasion did you speak?”

  “Let us drink!”

  “Stop a moment, comrade. I am no more of a fool than others. Your half words have taught me something.

  “Well, what?”

  “You know that I have been a workman, that I have many companions, and that, being a good fellow, I am much liked amongst them. You want me for a catspaw, to catch other chestnuts?”

  “What then?”

  “You must be some getter-up of riots — some speculator in revolts.”

  “What next?”

  “You are travelling for some anonymous society, that trades in musket shots.”

  “Are you a coward?”

  “I burned powder in July, I can tell you — make no mistakes!”

  “You would not mind burning some again?”

  “Just as well that sort of fireworks as any other. Only I find revolutions more agreeable than useful; all that I got from the barricades of the three days was burnt breeches and a lost jacket. All the cause won by me, with its ‘Forward! March!’ says.”

  “You know many of Hardy’s workmen?”

  “Oh! that’s why you have brought me down here?”

  “Yes — you will meet with many of the workmen from the factory.”

  “Men from Hardy’s take part in a row? No, no; they are too well off for that. You have been sold.”

  “You will see presently.”

  “I tell you they are well off. What have they to complain of?”

  “What of their brethren — those who have not so good a master, and die of hunger and misery, and call on them for assistance? Do you think they will remain deaf to such a summons? Hardy is only an exception. Let the people but give a good pull all together, and the exception will become the rule, and all the world be happy.”

  “What you say there is true, but it would be a devil of a pull that would make an honest man out of my old master, Baron Tripeaud, who made me what I am — an out-and-out rip.”

  “Hardy’s workmen are coming; you are their comrade, and have no interest in deceiving them. They will believe you. Join with me in persuading them—”

  “To what?”

  “To leave this factory, in which they grow effeminate and selfish, and forget their brothers.”

  “But if they leave the factory, how are they to live?”

  “We will provide for that — on the great day.”

  “And what’s to be done till then?”

  “What you have done last night — drink, laugh, sing, and, by way of work, exercise themselves privately in the use of arms.’

  “Who will bring these workmen here?”

  “Some one has already spoken to them. They have had printed papers, reproaching them with indifference to their brothers. Come, will you support me?”

  “I’ll support you — the more readily as I cannot very well support myself. I only cared for Cephyse in the world; I know that I am on a bad road; you are pushing me on further; let the ball roll! — Whether we go to the devil one way or the other is not of much consequence. Let’s drink.”

  “Drink to our next night’s fun; the last was only apprenticeship.”

  “Of what then are you made? I looked at you, and never saw you either blush or smile, or change countenance. You are like a man of iron.”

  “I am not a lad of fifteen. It would take something more to make me laugh. I shall laugh to-night.”

  “I don’t know if it’s the brandy; but, devil take me, if you don’t frighten me when you say you shall laugh tonight!”

  So saying, the young man rose, staggering; he began to be once more intoxicated.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” The host made his appearance.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s a young man below, who calls himself Olivier. He asks for M. Morok.”

  “That’s right. Let him came up.” The host went out.

  “It is one of our men, but he is alone,” said Morok, whose savage countenance expressed disappointment. “It astonishes me, for I expected a good number. Do you know him?”

  “Olivier? Yes — a fair chap, I think.”

  “We shall see him directly. Here he is.” A young man, with an open, bold, intelligent countenance, at this moment entered the room.

  “What! old Sleepinbuff!” he exclaimed, at sight of Morok’s companion.

  “Myself. I have not seen you for an age, Olivier.”

  “Simple enough, my boy. We do not work at the same place.”

  “But you are alone!” cried Morok; and pointing to Sleepinbuff, he added: “You may speak before him — he is one of us. But why are you alone?”

  “I come alone, but in the name of my comrades.”

  “Oh!” said Morok, with a sigh of satisfaction, “they consent.”

  “They refuse — just as I do!”

  “What, the devil! they refuse? Have they no more courage than women?” cried Morok, grinding his teeth with rage.

  “Hark ye,” answered Olivier, coolly. “We have received your letters, and seen your agent. We have had proof that he is really connected with great societies, many members of which are known to us.”

  “Well! why do you hesitate?”

  “First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a movement.”

  “I tell you they are.”

  “He — tells you — they are,” said Sleepinbuff, stammering “and I (hic!) affirm it. Forward! March!”

  “That’s not enough,” replied Olivier. “Besides, we have reflected upon it. For a week the factory was divided. Even yesterday the discussion was too warm to be pleasant. But this morning Father Simon called to him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to one mind. We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall see.”

  “Is that your final word?”

  “It is our last word.”

  “Silence!” cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing himself on his tottering legs. “It is like the noise of a crowd not far off.” A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.

  “What is that?” said Olivier, in surprise.

  “Now,” replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, “I remember the host told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory. If you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy’s other workmen, as I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you, instead of against you.”

  “This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy’s workmen against the other!” cried Olivier; “you hoped that we should make common cause with these people against the factory, and that—”

  The young man had not time to finish. A terrible outburst of shouts, howls, and hisses shook the tavern. At the same instant the door was abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the chamber, exclaiming: “Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy’s factory?”

  “I do,” said Olivier.

  “Then you are lost. Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are Devourers here from M. Hardy’s, and offering them battle — unless the Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side.”

  “It was a tr
ap, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Olivier, looking at Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; “if my mates had come, we were all to be let in.”

  “I lay a trap, Olivier?” stammered Jacques Rennepont. “Never!”

  “Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!” cried the angry crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.

  “Come!” exclaimed the host. Without giving Olivier time to answer, he seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no very great height from the ground, he said to him: “Make your escape by this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time.”

  As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror:

  “Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do? A minute more, and you are lost. Do you not hear them? They have entered the yard; they are coming up.”

  Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and piercing: “Battle to the Devourers!”

  “Fly, Olivier!” cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.

  Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room, which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open with a frightful crash.

  “Here they are!” cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm. Then, running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for, with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.

  The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in the yard and on the staircase. Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them were armed with long sticks. A blaster, of Herculean strength and stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the movements. With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance, he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:

  “Where are the Devourers? — the Wolves will eat ’em up!”

  The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying: “There is no one here, my friends — no one. Look for yourselves.”

  “It is true,” said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the room; “where are they, then? We were told there were a dozen of them here. They should have marched with us against the factory, or there’d ‘a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!”

  “If they have not come,” said another, “they will come. Let’s wait.”

  “Yes, yes; we will wait for them.”

  “We will look close at each other.”

  “If the Wolves want to see the Devourers,” said Morok, “why not go and howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle.”

  “They will give you — battle,” repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.

  “Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.

  “Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!” cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced towards Morok.

  A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers?”

  “It would be the first time!”

  “Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”

  “We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so well off?”

  “They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a shaft, like dogs to turn spits,” cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.

  “And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,” added another.

  “Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and dogs!” cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.

  “The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to go to mass! — it is abominable.

  “And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country.”

  “True? he said that in his sermon.”

  “Our wives heard it.”

  “Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the country!”

  “Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd in chorus.

  “To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried Morok, with the voice of a Stentor; “on to the factory!”

  “Yes! to the factory! to the factory!” repeated the crowd, with furious stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.

  These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he whispered to Morok: “It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands of it.”

  “We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these fellows the slip on the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried aloud, addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: “Brandy! — let us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat.” He threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.

  “What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do jolly companions, like we are, drink out of glasses?” So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed it to the gigantic quarryman.

  “That’s the thing!” said the latter. “Here’s in honor of the treat! — None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the Wolves’ teeth!”

  “Here’s to your health, mates!” said Morok, distributing the bottles.

  “There will be blood at the end of all this,” muttered Sleepinbuff, who, in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal incitements. Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M. Hardy’s factory.

  Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority), did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with their cries. At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster, brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with sticks and stones. Their heads still warmed by their recent libations of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy. Their countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible. This unchaining of the worst passions seemed to forbode the most deplorable consequences. Holding each other arm-in-arm, and walking four or five together, the Wolves gave vent to their excitement in war-songs, which closed with the following verse:

  “Forward! full of assurance! Let us try our vigorous arms! They have wearied out our prudence; Let us show we’ve no alarms. Sprung from a monarch glorious,(28) To-day we’ll not grow pale, Whether we win the fight, or fail, Whether we die, or are victorious! Children of Solomon, mighty king, All your efforts together bring, Till in triumph we shall sing!”

  Morok and Jacques had disappeared whilst the tumultuous troop were leaving the tavern to hasten to the factory.

  (27) Let it be noted, to the working-man’s credit, that such outrageous scenes become more and more rare as he is enlightened to the full consciousness of his worth. Such better tendencies are to be attributed to the just influence of an excellent tract on trades’ union written by M. Agricole Perdignier, and published in 1841, Paris. This author, a joiner, founded at his own expense an establishment in the Faubourg St. Ant
oine, where some forty or fifty of his trade lodged, and were given, after the day’s work, a course of geometry, etc., applied to wood carving. We went to one of the lectures, and found as much clearness in the professor as attention and intelligence in the audience. At ten, after reading selections, all the lodgers retire, forced by their scanty wages to sleep, perhaps, four in a room. M. Perdignier informed us that study and instruction were such powerful ameliorators, that, during six years, he had only one of his lodgers to expel. “In a few days,” he remarked, “the bad eggs find out, this is no place for them to addle sound ones!” We are happy to hear, reader, public homage to a learned and upright man, devoted to his fellow-workmen.

  (28) The Wolves (among others) ascribe the institution of their company to King Solomon. See the curious work by M. Agricole Perdignier, from which the war-song is extracted.

  CHAPTER L. THE COMMON DWELLING-HOUSE

  WHILST THE WOLVES, as we have just seen, prepared a savage attack on the Devourers, the factory of M. Hardy had that morning a festal air, perfectly in accordance with the serenity of the sky; for the wind was from the north, and pretty sharp for a fine day in March. The clock had just struck nine in the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen, separated from the workshops by a broad path planted with trees. The rising sun bathed in light this imposing mass of buildings, situated a league from Paris, in a gay and salubrious locality, from which were visible the woody and picturesque hills, that on this side overlook the great city. Nothing could be plainer, and yet more cheerful than the aspect of the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen. Its slanting roof of red tiles projected over white walls, divided here and there by broad rows of bricks, which contrasted agreeably with the green color of the blinds on the first and second stories.

  These buildings, open to the south and east, were surrounded by a large garden of about ten acres, partly planted with trees, and partly laid out in fruit and kitchen-garden. Before continuing this description, which perhaps will appear a little like a fairy-tale, let us begin by saying, that the wonders, of which we are about to present the sketch, must not to be considered Utopian dreams; nothing, on the contrary, could be of a more positive character, and we are able to assert, and even to prove (what in our time is of great weight and interest), that these wonders were the result of an excellent speculation, and represented an investment as lucrative as it was secure. To undertake a vast, noble, and most useful enterprise; to bestow on a considerable number of human creatures an ideal prosperity, compared with the frightful, almost homicidal doom, to which they are generally condemned; to instruct them, and elevate them in their own esteem; to make them prefer to the coarse pleasures of the tavern, or rather to the fatal oblivion which they find there, as an escape from the consciousness of their deplorable destiny, the pleasures, of the intellect and the enjoyments of art; in a word, to make men moral by making them happy, and finally, thanks to this generous example, so easy of imitation, to take a place amongst the benefactors of humanity — and yet, at the same time to do, as it were, without knowing it, an excellent stroke of business — may appear fabulous. And yet this was the secret of the wonders of which we speak.